Finally, we finished sorting out the rooms on the first floor and moved on to the second. Honestly, I couldn’t tell much difference after all the cleaning. Everything still looked just as gloomy and grim, and the empty display cases, sideboards, and bookcases stared out at the shadows with dull glass, making it feel like the place had been ransacked.
The faded silk wallpaper we’d patched up was already peeling off in tatters again, and within an hour of dusting, there was a fresh thick layer settling on everything. The air, stale and unmoving, still pressed down on your chest like a weight. The bare, dull floors looked battered and scuffed now that the rugs were gone. Most of them had to be binned—they were cursed. They’d grab your ankles, suck you in to the knee like some swamp, or stick your boots down like they were glued. Tonks, Lupin, and Fletcher got the worst of it.
After that rug nearly swallowed Fletcher whole and tried to strangle him to death, he flat refused to go in rooms alone and would only carry stuff from bags dumped out back.
Two weeks before the end of the holidays, the Hogwarts letters arrived. We were all gathered in the big sitting room on the second floor. While Mum was scolding the twins over their low marks, praising Ginny, and skimming through the school supply lists, a small badge slipped out of my envelope and landed in my palm. Truth be told, with everything else going on, I’d completely forgotten this was even a possibility.
“Oh my God! I’ve been made Prefect!” Hermione squealed from behind me, and I turned around. “Ron! You too!” she gasped, spotting the shiny badge in my hand. She gave me a quick hug and spun toward Ginny. “Look, it’s the same one! Ron and I are both Prefects!”
“What’s that now…?” Mum blinked up from the list, distracted, and I silently held up the badge.
“Oh… no… it can’t be… You’re not— Oh, Ronnie,” she breathed. Mum took a few tentative steps toward me, her eyes lighting up before she rushed over and pulled me into a tight hug. “I can’t believe it—another Prefect in the family,” she beamed, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron as she stepped back to admire me. “A proper family tradition now. Oh, your father will be thrilled… I’m going downstairs to bake a cake—we’ll celebrate tonight.”
She kissed me again, hugged a flushed and glowing Hermione, then bustled out of the room.
“Remus! Did you hear? Ron’s been made a Prefect! Tonks, our Ron’s a Prefect now! Can you believe it? Oh, love, let me help you up the stairs—” Her excited voice floated up from the ground floor before it was drowned out by a fresh howl from old Mrs Black. Ginny grimaced and quickly shut the door.
“Well done, Ronnikins. D’you mind if we skip the kissing and curtsying bit?” George said with a smirk. The twins had been pulling faces the whole time Mum was fussing over me—pretending to gag and miming throwing up. Honestly, they were even worse when Percy got made Prefect, and just the same when they found out he’d be teaching.
“Could you, just for once in your lives, try being happy for me? I mean, we are brothers,” I muttered, annoyed. Hermione and Ginny exchanged wary looks, clearly bracing themselves to step in—but luckily the brewing row was cut short when Harry burst into the room. Judging by the smile on his face, he’d just come down from chatting with Sirius.
“What’d I miss?” he asked, glancing around at everyone’s expressions.
“Oh, nothing much. Just our Ronniekins here getting made a Prefect,” Fred piped up before I could say anything.
“Yes, Harry, look—I got one too!” Hermione beamed, showing off her badge. “I’m going to owl my parents—they’re Muggles, but they’ll understand what it means.”
“Sure, Hermione, go ahead,” Harry said, but the cheerful grin faded from his face. “Congratulations.”
“I’m so happy for you, big brother,” Ginny said sweetly, kissing me on the cheek despite the twins' loud snorting. “Congrats to you too, Hermione. I think I’ll write to Percy and Charlie before Mum beats me to it. I’ll help her with the cake too.” She gave us a bright smile and floated out after Hermione.
“Well, we’ll leave you to it, then,” Fred and George said with mock disappointment. “Don’t want to hog the room when half the house’ll be turning up soon to congratulate our shining star.”
They ducked out, still sniggering, and left Harry and me in awkward silence.
“Erm… congrats, Ron,” Harry mumbled, his voice flat, smile forced.
“Thanks,” I said, just as stiffly.
The silence dragged, and thankfully Mum returned, giving Harry the perfect excuse to leg it.
“Ron, love, I’ve been thinking,” she said excitedly, rushing back in. “You’re due a gift for this. We gave Percy an owl… what would you like? A new cloak? A pet rat? You loved Scabbers, didn’t you? What would make you happy, sweetheart?”
“Definitely not a rat,” I shuddered. “Can I have a proper wizard watch, like Dad’s? I’ve wanted one for ages.”
“But darling,” Mum hesitated, “those are usually given for coming of age. It’s tradition.”
“Then give it to me for that,” I grinned. “Who knows, maybe by then I’ll be Head Boy.”
Apparently, that wasn’t the best joke. Mum suddenly burst into tears again, pressing her face into my shoulder—well, as far as she could reach—and sobbing about how fast I was growing up.
“You know, Mum,” I said, putting on a cheerful tone to distract her, “I’m thinking of trying out for Keeper this year. I’ve already got a broom, but I’ll need a proper Quidditch kit. So maybe save the gift till school starts? Just… if it’s not too much, I’d like a new one. Not something handed down from Charlie or the twins. If that’s alright, I mean.” I gave her a hopeful little smile.
“Of course, Ron,” Mum brightened at once, wiping her tears with determination. “You’ll have the best Quidditch kit there is. Promise.” Then, hearing footsteps in the corridor, she suddenly remembered her errands and bustled off downstairs, back to her usual chaos — baking a cake and getting the feast ready.
I was left standing in the middle of the empty room like a right statue. And inside… it felt just as empty. My thoughts weren’t exactly cheerful, and none of my conclusions came as a shock. Maybe it’s because I’m not really Ron Weasley — not completely. It’s like my whole life, and everyone around me, are sort of… not quite real. As if we’re all actors in some play.
I’ve got loving parents, sure — but they don’t really see me. They just want me alive and well, because the family is like one big body, and I’m part of it, even if I’m just the pinky toe. They’re proud of me, sure, but only because they imagine my every success is for the family name — to make the Weasleys shine. That’s how they’ve lived their whole lives, and it’s all they know.
The twins never believed in me. Never took me seriously. They weren’t happy about my success — not even a little. To them, I’ll always be “Ronniekins,” the daft little brother, and no badge is going to change that.
Except maybe Ginny… My little sister. Sweet, naive Ginny who sees me as a noble prince out of one of her stories. Because every proper princess needs a fearless knight.
Bill will probably smile that smug smile of his and hand me a royal-sounding compliment. He thinks — and he’s not the only one — that I’m always trying to catch up to him out of jealousy. Like I could ever compare to the “great hope of the Weasley line.” And he’ll make sure I know it, in that infuriatingly patronising way he has.
Charlie, at least, will be genuinely pleased. But he’ll also gently hint that trying to keep up with Bill is pointless — better to enjoy life and look for the good bits in whatever hand you’re dealt. And he’ll even go out of his way to list them for me, to make it sound like a win. I reckon he feels a bit second-best himself — the “spare son” in Bill’s shadow. Works just as hard, gets half the credit. So maybe he’s trying to cheer me up because he sees the same thing in me.
Percy — now, he’ll probably be the most excited out of all of them. He’ll say this brings us even closer. He’ll project all his own thoughts onto me — his ambitions, his hunger for recognition, the dream of climbing the ranks. I get it, in a way. When you’re clever and ambitious, but stuck living in Bill’s shadow… when your accomplishments only matter to you, and they’re never enough…
Everyone’ll have their opinion about me getting made Prefect. But none of them actually know who I am. They only see what they want to see. Each of them needs their own version of Ron — someone who fits their expectations. So there’s loads of versions of me floating around, like mirrors showing their own dreams and hang-ups.
Do I even want this badge? What do I want? What do I feel?
Honestly… no one really cares. Not about the real me. I’ve got people all around me — family, friends — and still, I feel completely alone.
Well… not completely. I’ve got my anchor. My own bit of magic — Luna. That brilliant, mad girl is the only one who actually sees the real me. The me even I don’t fully understand yet. When I’m with her, I don’t have to pretend to be someone else.
And I’ve got a real friend, too…
A girl. Smart, kind, loyal. But sometimes… I think she resents that I grew up with magic. That I know things she’s only just discovering now. I think deep down she doesn’t believe I deserve it. She would’ve done more with it — used it better. So she always chooses Harry. Always will. He’s easier. He doesn’t challenge her brilliance. She can protect him, guide him, never feel threatened. Even now, with the badge she’s wanted her whole life, I know she hoped the other one would go to him. She wanted it to be Harry.
And then there’s my best mate. The one I’ve shared years of laughs and danger with. But even he couldn’t just be happy for me, not when I finally beat him at something. I was fine as the forgettable best friend, the one who makes him look better. But the moment I stepped out of that role — bam, teenage drama. I don’t even think he realises it. Maybe I wouldn’t either, if I were really fifteen…
But the weird thing is… I don’t care anymore. It’s like I’ve landed in a story, and I’m living as a character. And there’s only one person here who feels real. When I’m with her, I feel like I exist too.
The silence was deafening — thick with all these thoughts. Then I heard noise downstairs and decided to leg it up to the roof before the whole house came stampeding in to congratulate me, as the twins had so charmingly put it.
I crept across the third-floor corridor — Sirius’s territory — and paused when I heard voices behind a door.
“…I just thought maybe I’d be chosen as Prefect,” came a voice I recognised. “Not that I wanted it, exactly… but am I really less suited than Ron? Why him? Why not me?”
“I reckon you’d have made a good Prefect, Prongs,” came Sirius’s reply. “Moony and Lily were brilliant at it — you would’ve been just as good. But James and I, we never wanted that gig. We liked mischief too much. Prefects’ve got to care about rules… can you imagine us handing out detentions?” He gave a short, barking laugh. “Still, always good to have someone around who can cover for you when things go pear-shaped,” he added playfully, before drifting into stories of their school-day antics.
I gave a dry snort and moved on — the roof and an hour of quiet were still waiting, at least until Mum tracked me down.
We didn’t get much time to chat during the day — we were all back to cleaning duty. But that evening, there was a feast waiting for us. Draped above the dinner table, already laden with snacks and pies, was a bright scarlet banner that read:
CONGRATULATIONS TO OUR NEW PREFECTS — RON AND HERMIONE!
Had Mum’s and Ginny’s handiwork written all over it.
That evening, the twins had plenty of chances to roll their eyes and pull faces.
Loads of new people turned up — it was the first time I saw that massive bloke Kingsley, all towering and dark, and a tiny, sharp-eyed woman called Hestia, along with a couple of others I’d only glimpsed at the Ministry. And every single one of them got the same treatment from Mum: beaming with pride, she’d launch straight into how her Ron had been made Prefect — and Hermione too, of course.
Later, Dad and Bill arrived from work and congratulated us as well. Exactly how I’d expected.
Once everyone had been brought up to speed on why we were gathered and the "ceremony" bit was over, the party relaxed. People split off into little groups, chatting and picking at the food. It was loud, cheerful, and all over the place — by halfway through, most had forgotten what we were even celebrating.
The twins were whispering with Mundungus Fletcher. Hermione had cornered Sirius and was going on about elf rights, using Lupin as an example, rambling about werewolf segregation, and trying to recruit that soft-spoken werewolf to her side so he could help sway Sirius.
The grown-ups were deep in serious talk. Tonks was doing her usual antics to entertain the room, drawing laughter from her little audience.
“Why didn’t Dumbledore make Potter Prefect?” Kingsley asked in a lowered voice. I pretended not to hear, kept my face blank and continued pouring myself a glass of juice. “Harry’s crucial to the cause now, with You-Know-Who back. Giving him the badge might’ve boosted his confidence — got him used to responsibility. He’s got a big role to play…”
“I reckon Dumbledore had his reasons,” Moody grunted, eyeing me suspiciously when he caught me listening in. I gave a loud, obvious snort and smirked right at Kingsley, grabbed my drink and plate, and wandered off to sit with Ginny and the others.
Still, half the crowd didn’t seem bothered by who got what badge. A few drinks in, and they were all laughing, trading stories about why they had never been Prefects.
All in all, it was a good evening. We ended the night full, tired, and surprisingly content.
Just before bed, Harry came up to me, clearly a bit embarrassed.
“Sorry, Ron,” he said, not afraid to admit it out loud. “I didn’t expect it, but I am happy for you. You’ll make a brilliant Prefect. It just… stung, I guess. You two got the badges, and I felt like the odd one out. Dumbledore’s always been good to me, but it didn’t even cross his mind to pick me. I kept thinking — why not me?”
“You know what, Harry,” I said with a proper grin, “I think you forgot one thing. The Quidditch team doesn’t have a captain yet. And I’m pretty sure that’ll be you. If not this year, then next. And if you had been made Prefect too, how would you juggle both?”
“Seriously, Ron?” Harry’s face lit up. “You really think I’ve got a shot?”
“I hope you do,” I nodded. “And if not, well — lucky you. No yelling at first years or writing up detentions.”
We both chuckled, thinking about Oliver Wood and his manic shouting fits. The tension faded, and just like that, all was well again.
Still, I ended up cracking.
The next day, we were put to work cleaning the drawing room — the same one with the locket. I’d spotted it ages ago, but left it be. After that chat with Dad, I didn’t dare take it until it was officially tossed out. No mucking about with cursed magic — I didn’t need that kind of debt.
At first, it was business as usual. Scrub this, polish that. Then Sirius walked in.
Since Harry had arrived, he hadn’t been drinking quite so much — though he still always smelled a bit boozy. But today, even sober, he was in a right foul mood. I reckon the idea of us all leaving soon was getting to him. Everyone would be off, and he’d be left behind in this crypt with only a half-mad house-elf for company.
“Sirius, would you mind going through the cupboards?” Mum asked. “We need to clean the shelves after, and maybe there’s something useful in there for you.”
“There’s nothing worth keeping, Molly,” he snapped, and started sweeping everything off the shelves into one bag, then another, not even looking at the stuff.
“I’ll take it,” I offered quickly, grabbing a sack and dragging it off toward the door.
“I’ll help,” Harry piped up, snatching the second one — clearly hoping to dodge more scrubbing. Together, we lugged them downstairs.
“Harry, I’m gonna come back in a bit,” I said as we headed back. “Want to grab a snack. Lunch is ages off. Wanna come?”
“Nah, I’ll take another bag down. If I hang about, they’ll have me washing the windows,” he grinned and hurried off.
I waited until I heard the door upstairs slam, then legged it out the back. I ripped open one of the sacks, dug through it, and stuffed a few things into my pockets. Then I darted back inside and slipped into the downstairs loo.
“Kreacher,” I called softly.
With a loud crack, the ancient elf appeared in front of me.
“What does the filthy blood-traitor brat want from noble Kreacher?” he croaked, tugging at his grimy pillowcase. “Disgrace to the House of Black — making a proud elf serve scum—”
“I’ve got something for you,” I interrupted, ignoring the rant. “I couldn’t grab much, but your mistress’s brooch, your master’s Order, and the signet ring — they’re too valuable to let Fletcher nick. Take them. Hide them.”
I handed over the trinkets. He stared at them, stunned.
“Why?” he asked, blinking in disbelief. Anger, disgust, and confusion twisted across his crumpled face in the strangest way.
“Because Walburga was my grandmother. And I reckon someone might want to know who their ancestors were, one day. Keep these for the next heir. There’s a bag of photos under my bed — stuff I managed to save. Take that too. I’d stash everything under the floorboards if I were you. Just pull one up, hide the lot, and put it back. With your magic, it’ll be quick. Just pick out the best stuff, so no one notices.”
“The filthy traitor thinks old Kreacher’s going to be grateful?” the little git sneered. “Thinks he’s the equal of a noble House?” He gave a nasty sniff. “But Kreacher will take the advice,” he added, and vanished with a crack.
I had to sling the locket around my neck — there was nowhere else to hide it. I shoved it in my pocket at first, but didn’t even make it back to my room or my enchanted bag — Mum intercepted me and shoved me onto another task. So I slipped it over my neck, quick and quiet, before it could fall out.
Of course, I’d already had a look at it in the bathroom. The thing was stronger than the other Horcruxes — it didn’t give off obvious dark energy, but it definitely messed with your head. I had to keep a constant mental shield up to keep the pressure off. The strain made me snappier, more irritable. Maybe that’s why I snapped.
Once we finished that room, Mum sent me, Harry, and Black up to tackle the attic.
Mostly, it was just boxes up there. Normally they wouldn’t have bothered dragging me in for this — I’d usually just be scrubbing something. But time was short, and Moody was insisting the place be cleared of anything dark before we went back to Hogwarts — said it was a security risk. No one would be around to deal with it later. So Mum and the rest stayed working on the bedrooms while we got shoved off with Sirius.
Predictably, Black started wrecking things again without even looking at them. He’d dump boxes onto the floor in a heap, chuck anything cursed or suspicious into bags, and burn or banish the rest. Harry followed his lead, calm as ever.
I got a massive cardboard box, and the second I opened it, I just froze — completely mesmerised. It was full of Christmas ornaments. But proper magical ones.
There was a glittering glass bauble showing a snow-covered cottage, smoke curling from the chimney, a candle flickering in the window.
A lantern that cast two shadows holding hands — lovers dancing, drawing close and then parting, but never letting go. Fat snowflakes drifted down over them.
Kids unwrapping presents under a glowing tree, showing them off to a smiling old gran in a rocking chair by the fire, who nodded as she knitted something colourful. The children beamed with delight.
The front carriage of the Hogwarts Express, complete with a serious-looking conductor poking his head out the window and yanking the cord. You couldn’t hear the whistle, but a plume of white smoke poured from the stack, swirling mysteriously before clearing… then starting all over again.
A little girl in white. Her dress and face weren’t painted — just a delicate porcelain silhouette. She twirled gracefully under silent music only she could hear, snowflakes spinning around her. And for a second, I could swear she was Luna. Just like that night on the balcony at the Yule Ball… snowflakes on her hair…
“Oy!” came Sirius’s voice, sharp and sudden above me, making me flinch. He was holding up a toy train carriage.
“I remember this. I once smashed one of the cars — the Slytherin one, if I’m not mistaken.”
He rummaged carelessly through the box, glass jingling pitifully, and pulled out a blue carriage, then a yellow one. The children in the windows smiled and waved.
“Mum gave me twenty lashes for that one,” he said grimly, staring down at the ornament. His face was getting darker by the second. “See this? Every car’s got the family crest on it.” He pointed to the emblem. “Pureblood pride. But now? I can do whatever I like.”
Then, suddenly, he hurled it at the wall. It shattered. He let out a barking laugh and threw the next one. And when his hand reached for the bauble with the dancer—
That was it.
I shoved past him and bolted down the stairs.
To hell with this place. I wasn’t staying here a second longer.
2025-03-27 07:15:23 +0000 UTC
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Life is Good
Demons of NC
Elden Ring: My Ending
2025-03-25 21:30:55 +0000 UTC
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Even in a fair one-on-one duel, the follower of the Godskin cult had no real chance of defeating Millicent. Their strength was roughly equal, with a slight edge leaning toward the red-haired warrior.
But once Thops appeared, the situation changed completely.
The strange bald man didn’t just assist from a distance—flinging glittering arcs of magic from his staff and pulling aggro like a pro—but also fearlessly closed the gap himself, striking with a sword in the other hand.
Millicent had never fought alongside a full-on battlemage before, so she had only the vaguest idea of how they actually fought. And yet—even she, a battle-hardened warrior raised in the wastes of Caelid—at some point found herself thinking:
He might be a little unhinged…?
Thops couldn’t boast the kind of overwhelming magical nukes others had, nor did his physical strength break any records—but he made up for it entirely with sheer skill and, more importantly, aggression. He never stopped pressing the attack.
And there was… something else.
If the cultist tried to retreat from the wild-eyed battlemage swinging his sword, he was immediately met with a ranged attack to the face.
And if the cultist tried the opposite—rushing in for a fast strike—he would quickly realize:
There was just no point.
Then Millicent saw it again.
The rolls!
Not quite as flawless, not as elegant or polished—but the battlemage rolled, and just like a certain well-known Tarnished, attacks phased right through him, defeating the enemy not only physically, but psychologically.
And with Millicent holding her ground the entire time, the outcome of the fight had been sealed the moment Thops arrived.
“Praise the Sun!!!”
Standing triumphantly over the fallen corpse of the cultist—now burning in black, unnatural flame—Thops shouted, arms raised skyward.
Had she not already known where that cry came from, Millicent might have been deeply concerned. But…
Upon hearing the familiar exclamation, the red-haired warrior simply smiled, flicking the blood from her blade.
“You helped me greatly. Thank you, brave warrior! Please, if you ever need assistance, come find me—I’ll be there. It’s the least I can do.”
“There’s no need,” Thops replied sternly. “The moment I felt the Sun, I knew I had to intervene!”
The shirtless man once again raised his arms toward the sky.
Millicent blinked, glancing downward. Somewhere deep in her mind, she really did feel a strange connection to this battlemage. Konstantin had poured no small amount of power into her, hoping only to ease her burden a little—but this outcome? He definitely hadn’t seen it coming.
Millicent hesitantly tightened her grip on her prosthetic.
“Those… rolls of yours…”
“A dog once told me it was impossible to learn them,” Thops said gravely, clenching a fist. “But I continued to believe in the Sun’s blessing. Every day, I fought—offering my victories to the Sun—and one day… I felt it!”
The battlemage executed a roll. At first glance, it looked ordinary. But as Millicent squinted at it, focusing on the strange energy stirring within her… she could tell. That was no ordinary roll.
“I-I see… You mentioned a ‘dog’…”
The battlemage flinched, slapping his forehead and flashing a sheepish smile.
“Forgive me… Perhaps it is the Sun’s will, but I’ve somehow started seeing turtles as dogs. I’m terribly sorry…”
He paused.
“…Not just turtles, really. But mostly turtles…”
Millicent still had no idea what he was talking about.
“…I think I understand… maybe…”
Seeing her reaction, Thops grew even more awkward. Unlike Konstantin, he couldn’t quite boast the same level of thick skin—at least, not yet.
“Master said if this kept up, he’d run out of celestial dew, so he sent me away…”
Turtle… Master? Millicent blinked.
Truly, the Lands Between was a strange place.
The dead dancers paid no mind to the fact that the cultist controlling them had perished. They simply kept dancing their endless, ritualistic waltz. Neither Millicent nor Thops disturbed them.
After a brief exploration of the village, and finding nothing of real value, the warrior and battlemage prepared to part ways.
“I must keep fighting!” Thops declared. “If you see Konstantin, please give him my thanks. If he hadn’t inspired me and told me of the Sun, I think… I might’ve died in the Academy, weak and spent, never achieving my dream. Ha! But now I’m full of strength and hope! I owe him everything!”
Millicent smiled softly and nodded.
She shared a similar sentiment. The sense of duty and gratitude she held toward that man…
There was no point in dwelling on it again. It wasn’t just gratitude anymore. Not even close. What she felt now ran far deeper—but unfortunately, she had no way to express it. The rot never left her body, not even for a moment. Even Konstantin’s vast power had only barely managed to suppress it.
She hoped—hoped that someone like the Tarnished, whose strength defied reason, could cure her too… but for now, it remained a distant, idealized dream, no matter what Konstantin said.
After living her entire life with the rot spreading inside her, whispering of a fate worse than death, it was hard to be optimistic.
Millicent let out a long sigh, her eyes following the slowly disappearing figure of the bald battlemage.
She was just about to turn away when she suddenly froze, a warm pulse stirring inside her like a ripple across water. Before she could even process the sensation, she turned—and her eyes flew wide.
After all, it wasn’t every day you saw an enormous ancient dragon flying straight at you.
Nearly dropping her sword, she prepared to give her final stand, knowing full well she couldn’t outrun something like that—but then the warmth surged again, this time stronger.
‘Konstantin?’ the thought crossed her mind like a whisper.
Since when had his power begun to feel so… strange?
Her guess turned out to be right.
The massive dragon didn’t attack. It froze midair, clearly controlling its vast size through some unnatural force. And from its head—ignoring the ridiculous height—Konstantin calmly leapt down, slamming into the ground and leaving a crater.
“I’ve finished the other quests.”
Millicent nearly choked on the cloud of dust that followed, staring at him with the wide eyes of an abandoned kitten—or rather, one that had just been found again.
“Y-you… finished the other quests?..”
Konstantin stepped close, attuning himself to the casual energy flowing within her, silently confirming she was okay. At the edge of his mind, he thought he sensed something else, but quickly dismissed it.
“Not all of them, but their time hasn’t come yet,” he murmured, thoughtful. “Have you gotten used to your arm a bit? Are you ready to keep going?”
Millicent felt like she was melting under the golden gaze full of calm curiosity and care. Her thoughts scrambled, barely holding together.
“I… y-yes…”
She could swear he felt different than the last time they met—which was… definitely just recently. And maybe… he was taller now? Definitely taller.
What the hell kind of quests had he been running?..
But the slightly impatient man didn’t give her time to spiral further. Without warning, he swept the startled red-haired waifu into his arms, then looked up to the sky—where the dragoness stared back at him, calm as ever.
Konstantin paused, then stretched his shoulders. Casual energy burst from his body, morphing before their eyes into two massive wings(1), which he used to effortlessly take flight toward the waiting dragon.
The Mountaintops of the Giants awaited.
Melina, watching from the sidelines, stared pensively at the dragon fading into the distance… and then just as pensively down at—
Underwear(2) in her hands.
That madwoman—the companion of the dead—had tried to sneakily shove it onto her Chosen One before leaving, dropping it by the dragon’s corpse. Melina didn’t even want to know what the lunatic was trying to say with that gesture. She was so stunned by it that all she managed to do was snatch the garment up and vanish in an unknown direction.
Thankfully, it seemed like the Tarnished hadn’t noticed. Or, which Melina was endlessly grateful for, he’d pretended not to notice.
Her Chosen One was far too busy with important… quests to be distracted by the underwear of a madwoman! A truly, genuinely unhinged woman!
Melina had never seen anyone who inhaled death-saturated air with such delight.
And not just any cursed air—energy born from the corpse of her own brother!
Melina scowled and snorted, flinging the cursed thing far away. Even touching the underwear had made the Finger Maiden feel defiled.
Never. She would never speak of this shame again.
If her Chosen One had noticed her actions and simply chose not to acknowledge them…
…And there was always the possibility that that nosy witch had been secretly watching as usual…
Whether she wanted to or not, the girl began darting glances around, nervous.
“No, please…”
Melina nearly covered her face with her hands—then remembered what those hands had just been touching.
Somewhere across the village, where undead dancers had been performing an endless ritual for untold years, a faint, spectral scream echoed.
Konstantin’s request had been fulfilled: Greyoll had brought them to the Mountaintops of the Giants—the snow-covered region far to the north of the Lands Between. A place many seemed to have forgotten… though that wasn’t exactly true.
Life still lingered here.
“You may call upon me at any time, my king,” the great dragoness said flatly.
“I will,” Kosta nodded, equally flat in tone. Then, after a pause, glanced at Millicent—who had to crane her neck just to see Greyoll’s face. “Thank you.”
Kosta knew how much Greyoll despised the Scarlet Rot… and yet, she’d said nothing, simply giving Millicent and Kosta a lift without complaint.
The dragoness understood his gratitude, shaking her head slightly.
“I was wrong. She is not the source of the rot. I apologize.”
Suddenly, Greyoll loomed over poor Millicent, who had to tip her head back as far as she could just to meet the dragon’s gaze.
She hadn’t stopped looking like a rescued kitten since the ride. Strangely enough, even the dragoness seemed to sense that—and gently pulled the squeaking, proud red-haired warrior against her, patting her head. Like a stern, but suddenly regretful mother realizing she’d gone too far.
“Poor child…”
Kosta gave a solemn nod, fully sharing in the tragedy of the waifu’s fate.
Millicent’s questline—despite being half-finished—was still one of the saddest and most unfair in the game.
She had no choice but to surrender to the firm embrace of the ancient dragon in human form.
“I have a request, my king,” Greyoll suddenly said, turning to Konstantin.
“A request?”
“The Shadow Realm.”
The short reply was enough for him.
“You want me to summon you for the fight against Bayle(3)?” Konstantin raised an eyebrow.
Greyoll nodded, offering a smile.
Millicent swallowed nervously as the dragoness’s features shifted, becoming unmistakably more draconic.
Konstantin shrugged. He didn’t really care about the specifics of her desire—not yet, anyway. His inner lore scholar wasn’t strong enough for that level of theorycrafting. Not until someone gave him full freedom.
“Alright.”
He didn’t intend to waste much time on that particular DLC. He had… a plan for how he wanted to approach it. And the great dragon wouldn’t interfere with that.
But to make that plan work, he needed to level up a bit more.
Soon, the now-satisfied dragoness took to the skies and left them.
“She’s gone…” Millicent sighed in relief, feeling like she might not have survived another round of those overwhelmingly emotional hugs.
Sure, she was happy the strange dragoness had become unexpectedly friendly, but…
Better friendly at a distance. That way, the proud red-haired warrior could keep her cool.
“Where are we headed next, Konstantin?”
“Aren’t you cold?”
The question caught her off guard.
“Thanks to your warmth… I don’t feel the cold.”
And that was the truth. The energy burning inside her thanks to him had an oddly pleasant side effect.
“Good.” The Tarnished smiled.
Kosta paused for a moment, thoughtful.
“We need to find a certain fort. Its lord has a medallion that’ll let us reach the Haligtree quickly.”
He glanced around, the trident of the now-stolen corpse of the Lord of Blood forming in his hand.
“But first, we’ll need to stop by a few places. The Bloody Finger should be somewhere in this region, yeah?”
He hadn’t seen the guy among the army gathered against him, which meant either the message hadn’t reached him—or he had declined. Either way, Kosta had business with him. And more importantly, he knew how to find him quickly.
He looked at the trident.
“…”
“You don’t want me to toss this piece of metal into the Forge of the Giants, do you?.. What do you think would happen to it? Maybe I should try breaking it myself.”
His hands lit up with an all-consuming crimson flame.
He could locate the casual himself—he just didn’t want to waste the time.
And, judging by the sudden tension in the trident, it could feel how serious he was.
“…tch…”
Kosta’s diplomacy skills had come a long way since arriving in the Lands Between.
“There are a few places…” Millicent murmured uncertainly.
Melina appeared beside them, more serious than ever.
“Farming!”
And you couldn’t exactly say that the Flase Maiden was wrong.
Okina, the Bloody Finger.
Once a swordsman from a distant continent, he had come to the Lands Between with a single purpose: to hone his blade to perfection.
There had been a time when his name was spoken far and wide. A madman, consumed by bloodlust. The one they called the Demonic Swordsman. One of the greatest swordmasters the world had ever seen.
Mogh had reached Okina first, offering him a place in his service. Ever-hungry for greater heights of swordsmanship, Okina had accepted—embracing the gift of the Formless Mother, bending the power of blood to his will and becoming stronger than ever before.
Which made it all the stranger that he had not joined the Lord of Blood’s army.
And the reason was simple:
The swordsman had hidden. He chose to wait out the storm.
Okina, mad and bloodthirsty though he was, had not lost all reason. He had fought in the festival against Radahn—he’d seen what the Tarnished was capable of.
The Tarnished had emerged victorious alone… and only grown stronger since.
The Bloody Finger knew that neither his lord nor the followers he’d gathered would be enough. Fools who could not recognize their place in the world were doomed. And Okina saw no reason to warn them or stand in their way.
His homeland had taught him that lesson well.
Still… there were things even a mad swordsman couldn’t foresee.
Like the fact that he possessed something the madman now approaching wanted to borrow.
“I wonder… would this count as an invasion?”
The voice nearly made Okina jump—but he kept himself still through sheer willpower.
Some might say the Lands Between were desolate, but true silence? True emptiness? That could only be found atop the Mountaintops of the Giants. To encounter anything sentient here was rare.
Or rather—a nightmare.
He had made his home in a ruined temple, grown used to the silence, broken only by the occasional storm. For a swordsman deep in contemplation, it had been near-perfect.
“Have you come to kill me, Konstantin of the Tarnished?” he asked, voice ice-cold as he reached for his blade.
Yes, he had fled. A coward's act. But he had fled to survive. And now that death was certain—he would not kneel.
“I’ve long since stopped caring about the joys of being overleveled,” Konstantin muttered. “I want your sword. Just for a while.”
To say Okina was surprised was an understatement. He glanced down at his katana, confused why the Tarnished would even want it.
“I can’t give you Rivers of Blood unless you master it. You can take it from my corpse, Tarnished.”
“Who said I haven’t mastered it?”
That line, delivered so casually, shook Okina more than any blade. He stared at the fire crackling within the temple. The brewing storm could strike at any moment.
“If you can impress me,” he said slowly, “then the Rivers of Blood are yours. But if your skill falls short—then kill me. I could not bear the shame.”
Under the mask, the swordsman grinned manically, picturing his bloody corpse collapse, staining the snow crimson.
To die by the hand of one of the Lands Between’s strongest… wasn’t such a bad death.
Kosta gave the swordsman a strange look and shrugged.
He didn’t need to show him true parries. That wasn’t necessary.
Without a fight, he took the cursed blade—blessed by unholy blood—into his hand. Listening to its weight, its balance, its presence, Konstantin felt it could handle as much, if not more, power than the club Melina had once gifted him.
He sighed, still mourning the loss of the waifu’s broken gift.
As if he’d done it tens of thousands of times before, the man began to swing the blade. Answering his call, the sword shimmered with bloody light, its edge cutting through the air with deadly grace.
To any outsider, it was nothing—just a few idle swings. But to Okina?
It was everything.
Okina saw perfection. The very thing he had pursued all his life. Something beyond mastery. A graceful, blood-soaked dance—possible only for one who had bonded with blood, who had felt it, hated it, loved it.
In short… a casual player who mained bleed builds.
The Bloody Finger fell to his knees, tears welling in his eyes.
One of the reasons he’d once bowed to Mogh was his technique—his mastery of blood, his divine finesse. A demigod blessed by an Outer God.
But now… Mogh’s greatness seemed trivial. Almost laughable.
Okina removed his mask, head bowed, wiping his tears.
“My lord… I’m so sorry for my blindness…”
Millicent and Melina, watching from a distance, exchanged baffled glances, both staring at Konstantin—who was staring blankly back at the swordsman now kneeling before him.
“Okay, look, I’ll admit I used Rivers of Blood a lot, but this is a bit much…”
“How may I atone?”
Konstantin raised an eyebrow.
“Praise the Sun. That’ll do. I’ll try not to break the thing, but if I do—I’ll pay you in runes.”
And with that, he turned from the kneeling swordsman and walked back to his waifu, calling upon the Torrent once more, already forgetting about Okina entirely.
He still had business to finish before Ranni completed her questline.
Their journey pressed on—inevitably drawing closer to its destined conclusion.
“You lowborn scum… haven’t you gotten a bit too full of yourself?..”
Morgott still felt a little awkward. Technically speaking, he was a hostage. A willing one, sure—free to move about the area as he pleased—but still, a hostage.
Not that it bothered the demigod much.
He’d gotten a chance to see just how much Stormveil Castle had changed. Met a ridiculous number of sentient beings. And, for the first time in what felt like an eternity… he felt something close to—
Freedom.
With a few caveats, anyway.
The tailor Boc spinning all around him froze, his tear-filled eyes locking on the demigod.
“Is it because I’m ugly?!”
Morgott blinked in pure confusion.
“I… what… Never mind,” the demigod sighed. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Taking measurements! By the way, you’re not going to grow anymore, right? That’s important!”
Morgott looked even more lost.
“No… Why are you asking? What do you need my measurements for?”
“His Majesty didn’t warn me he was going to grow! Now I ask everyone! Your clothes are disgraceful,” Boc snorted. “What kind of proud demigod wears rags like those?!”
“…W-what?!”
What was wrong with his outfit?! Sure, it was old, maybe a little torn—but so what?
Who even cared?!
And since when did this rootless Tarnished have the right to be called His Majesty?! He hadn’t even earned that title! Not yet!
“I’ll make you something worthy!” Boc assured him. “U-unless you think I’m too ugly to…”
What does that have to do with anything?! Morgott clutched his horned head mentally.
He didn’t care about appearances. His own mother had called him a cursed freak!
Honestly, the demigod was more surprised he wasn’t being tightly restricted. The Tarnished had defeated him, yes, but hadn’t actually caused any lasting damage. The Omen King had recovered quickly enough that—if he wanted to—he could level Stormveil Castle to dust, along with everyone inside.
Of course, there was a good chance the Tarnished had been watching the Castle the entire time and would show up the second he acted out, but even so…
Who cared if it was reckless? Who cared if he could’ve attacked long ago?
They were still enemies, and—
And…
Were they even still enemies at all?
“Damn it…” Morgott muttered, lifting his gaze toward the clear sky—where the Sun now shone brighter than ever.
He felt like he could reach up and touch it.
It really did feel like a trap.
And judging by how things were going… he really would have to attend his sister’s ceremony.
The fallen Omen King caught the scent of fresh seafood on the breeze. Blinking in surprise, he turned and wandered toward it at a leisurely pace.
It had been ages since he’d had a proper feast—probably not since before the Shattering—and along the way, maybe he’d learn a few things. The warrior woman managing the Castle now was surprisingly open, unafraid and unprejudiced toward him. In a way, it was…
Refreshing.
…she reminded him of someone.
(1) Ash of War: Crucible: Wings.
(2) No, I didn’t lose my mind more than usual by randomly inserting Fia’s questionable(?) underwear into the plot. It’s a real cut item that used to exist in the game but was removed. Modders later found it in the game files and could re-enable it via cheats. Ref: https://youtu.be/watch?v=cU8uzqRWYJo
(3) As you might guess, a boss from the DLC—said to be the oldest and most devious of all dragons. Once challenged Placidusax, but ultimately lost and disappeared into the jagged mountains of the Shadow Realm.
2025-03-25 21:20:10 +0000 UTC
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“From the dusty mesa
Her looming shadow grows
Hidden in the branches of the poison creosote
She twines her spines up slowly
Towards the boiling sun
And when I touched her skin
My fingers ran with blood.”
I hummed the tune in my head, watching the scorching California sun finally start to sink below the dusty wasteland. All day it had been busy as hell—handing out skin cancer, melting parked cars, and peeling paint across every corner of Night City. But now it could rest. For folks like me, though, sunset was the start of the real work. Time for the dark shit to begin.
I stood on the porch of an abandoned farmhouse, finishing a cigarette.
“We’re in position, V,” came Panam’s voice over comms. “We can be at your location in three minutes, give or take twenty seconds.”
“Got it,” I replied. “I doubt it’ll be necessary, but good to have backup. Might want to prep your liver while you wait. We’ll be done around one, then club time.”
“Hold you to that. Gotta wash off the K. clusterfuck with something strong. I mean, I already blew off some steam right after, but that kinda shit calls for an epic bender.”
“Agreed.”
Once she cut the line, I stepped back inside. The place looked like a sci-fi horror film set now. In the middle of the large room, a pale body lay strapped to a medical gurney, hooked up to a dozen devices. The gear came courtesy of a ripperdoc from Watson named Charles Bucks. He’s the one who checked over the body yesterday and prepped it for the transplant. Naturally, he didn’t know my name or what exactly I was planning. But Bucks didn’t give a shit—as long as you paid well, he’d work with scavs.
Becca had even gotten secondhand implants from him back in the day. Not like we needed to cheap out on chrome anymore.
Bucks had done more than just run diagnostics and fix some minor stuff. He’d dropped our “patient” into a deep coma—total vegetable mode. Personality, memory—scrubbed clean. Just a blank slate. He also performed some cosmetic work. I didn’t bother making the guy look like Silverhand. Let Johnny do that himself if he feels like it. For now, the face was wiped and reshaped into a generic look: young, average, unremarkable.
Vitals were steady. Everything was in place for some good ol’ cyber-necromancy. All that was left was the client.
Overhead, a few camera lights blinked—Lucy was watching the room remotely. Becca was posted just behind the wall. We even dragged in an auto-turret, tucked behind a fake panel. And Panam and Falco were waiting a few seconds away in case things went sideways.
So yeah, I looked alone—but that was an illusion.
“Incoming,” came the ping over an encrypted channel.
Perfect.
A minute later, Lucy chimed in:
“They’re here. Unmarked car. Two people.”
So Kerry Eurodyne did decide to bring backup. Good. I was half-worried he’d roll up alone in a sports car and get jacked by some fucking Scavs on the way. Couldn’t have them walking off with my million.
I switched to the external cam. A gray SUV barreled toward the house, kicking up a cloud of dust. The driver was familiar—big Black dude, solid frame, implants well-hidden but I knew the chrome ran deep. Name was Els. I’d hired him and Miriam Levy once, back in the day.
The SUV stopped about ten meters from the house. Els stepped out first, scanning the area like he expected a ghost to pop out. Sorry, choom—not yet. The only ghost here is still sitting quietly in the chip.
The ex-cop was dressed in light gray slacks, a white shirt, and a shoulder harness holding two chunky revolvers. All he needed was a brown trench coat to complete the ‘90s detective look. Old habits die hard, I guess.
Kerry stumbled out of the car with a bit of a wobble. Drunk? Maybe. Don’t care. What mattered was the case in his right hand—probably stuffed with eddies and credchips. The budget for our cyber-horror show.
“Come in,” I said through the rooftop speaker, voice disguised with metallic filters. I also turned on the radio in the main room to drown out Becca shifting and swearing at her muted game console in the next room.
The rockstar and his bodyguard stepped into the main room, sunlight slanting behind them, stirring up swirls of dust.
“Cozy place you got here,” Els muttered, subtly keeping himself between Kerry and any potential threats.
I was in different gear than last time we met, and there are enough creepy mask-wearing assholes in this city that I doubt he recognized me.
“I…” Kerry started to say something but trailed off.
His eyes locked on the body. Judging by how wide they got, he was seeing a ghost after all.
“Gimme two minutes to clear the house, then you do whatever the fuck you want,” Els said.
“Not happening,” I cut in. “There’s security posted inside. You don’t need to meet them.”
“Nah, nah, brother,” Els shook his head. “That’s my client. I’m responsible for his safety. So—”
“Wait in the car,” Kerry cut him off, eyes still glued to the body.
“Yes, Mister Eurodyne. Sure thing. I won’t check the house. I’m leaving you alone with this completely not-suspicious masked guy and his probable army of armed psychos…”
“Fuck off already!” Kerry waved him off.
Els sighed and stepped back outside. Kerry still hadn’t moved closer.
“So… is he already, y’know… in there?” Kerry asked, nervous as hell.
Looked like he’d been drinking, but too on edge to actually be drunk.
“Not yet,” I replied. “Step closer, Mr. Eurodyne. I’d like to see my payment and get started. I’ve got a full night ahead.”
“Gonna raise Elvis next?” Kerry joked weakly, placing the case on a nearby table. “Had to sign one dumbass contract, but I pulled the cash together quick.”
Dumbass contract? Boo-fucking-hoo. I had to drop bodies by the dozen for that kind of money.
I popped the case, gave it a quick once-over, grabbed a stack of bills. All good. And honestly, I didn’t think Kerry was dumb or greedy enough to risk screwing me on this.
“Excellent. Pleasure doing business. We can begin.”
“You need anything from me?” he asked, voice shaky.
“Only a sacrificial goat.”
“A goat? Wait, what—oh. Joke. Fuck. Haven’t been this nervous since my first gig.”
“Relax, Mr. Eurodyne.”
I began calibrating the gear. Mostly just checking vitals on the donor body while letting the tension marinate a little. Gotta keep the act going. No fun if resurrection's too easy.
Sent a tiny jolt into the muscles. The body twitched.
“Fuck! Is that supposed to happen?!” Kerry jumped.
“All within parameters.”
Alright. Enough theater.
Time for the implant. I grabbed the chip case.
My brain had finally adjusted to the new response time, motor control was back. Good. I’d need it.
The container clicked open, releasing a puff of cold mist into the warm evening air. Fast but careful, I grabbed the chip with gloved fingers of my cyberlimb and slotted it into the specialized port on the body. This particular implant had boosted data transfer speeds.
One second, two, ten, twenty… Nothing seemed to be happening.
“He’s… not moving,” Kerry said, a bit indignant.
“Correct. The chip’s uploading an entire lifetime into the brain. Even with tech where it is now, it takes time. But check this out. These are the brainwaves. A minute ago this was a flatline. Now the readings are changing every second and... see that?”
I pointed at the body, and Kerry looked again, now visibly anxious.
“His eyelids are twitching,” he said. “Like he’s dreaming.”
“Maybe he is. Maybe he’s seeing one dream. Or all of them.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead.”
Kerry pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a gold-plated lighter.
“You know... when someone important dies, it’s hard to really believe it. You keep trying to convince yourself it’s over. That you’re never gonna see them again. But with Johnny... it never worked. Deep down I always felt like one day, he’d come back. In some insane, fucked-up way. And here we are. Jesus.”
He went quiet while the radio blasted some trendy track:
We like to watch
We like to taste
We like to fuck
And we like pain
Pain, pain, pain, pain!
Something people liked to flail to at that club I owned. Kerry clearly wasn’t a fan.
“Can we put something else on? Don’t want him waking up to this shit.”
“What then? Latest Kerry Eurodyne album?” I asked, voice still filtered and metallic.
“No. Something old. Something he’ll recognize.”
“No prob. You’re the one footing the bill.”
Didn’t take long to queue up a mix of appropriate tracks. First one to play: Chippin’ In.
I glanced at one of the scanner monitors. Brain activity in the donor body was spiking. Did the music help? Probably just the chip hitting full speed. New neural links were firing like fireworks. Tech winning over death—happening right before our eyes. Fittingly ironic that Arasaka’s blasphemous little miracle would first be used by one of their biggest enemies.
I remembered from my first life how even just downloading a picture could take ages. Card modems, dial-up, constant disconnects… prehistoric bullshit. And now, in mere minutes, a whole human personality was being shoved into someone’s head.
Still had to wait, though.
Outside, it had gone fully dark, and Kerry had smoked half the damn pack. According to some academic estimates, the human brain holds about a million gigs of memory. This chip’s port could push up to 17 terabits per second. So if you did the dirty math, the transfer should take around eight minutes. Realistically, with all the variables, it clocked in at just over thirty.
Funny enough, that’s about the same amount of time I needed to absorb someone’s memories when I used to “feed.”
Finally, I got the signal: brain activity stabilized, port disengaged. Upload complete. I quickly and smoothly pulled out the chip, returned it to its cooling case.
The body stirred—not some twitchy reflex, but the slow return of someone waking up.
“He’s awake?” Kerry asked, voice shaking.
“Yeah,” I said, and followed it up with the line I had to say: “Wake the fuck up, Samurai. We have a city to burn.”
Johnny slowly opened his eyes, first looking at me, then at Kerry.
“Fuck me, time really beat the shit outta you,” he said, sitting up and pulling off the monitoring leads. “But props to your ripper. Not bad.”
“Asshole was an asshole then, still is now,” Kerry sighed.
Then the no-longer-dead rocker turned to me.
“You’re the dickhead from Cyberspace, huh?”
“I’m the dickhead who’s about to grab his eddies and bounce.”
“You paid him?!” Johnny shot Kerry a look full of disbelief and annoyance. “Kerry, you dumb fuck. You got scammed. He needed the chip anyway—even without me in it.”
“No scam,” I cut in. “Service was offered. Service delivered. Be grateful you woke up in a healthy body in a safe place.”
“How much did he take you for?”
“I don’t care,” Kerry waved him off. “You… This is insane.”
“Maybe ask me a question or two?” Johnny snorted, swiping Kerry’s smokes. “Might be I’m some fried-out junkie he dressed up for the gig. Or lemme shred on a guitar, I’ll prove it.”
“Different face, different voice, but I can see it’s you. Let’s get outta here.”
“Let me smoke first… fuck, I missed this.”
Yeah. Unlike me, Johnny didn’t get bored in cyber-afterlife. Shit was busy. Even managed to meet my future girl.
“There’s clothes your size over there,” I pointed. “On the house.”
At least I’m not that much of a corpo scumbag.
Then I got serious.
“Not sure what your next move is. Maybe you’re planning to blow up their new tower—”
“They built another tower?!”
“Back in ‘70,” Kerry replied. “You’ve missed a lot.”
“So just know,” I continued, “the longer they think you’re dead, the more breathing room you’ve got.”
“And the easier it’ll be to cover your tracks,” Johnny said.
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive. Like Adam Smith said—rational self-interest leads to collective good.”
“No fuckin’ way,” Johnny laughed, pulling on a black shirt. “You hear that, Kerry? This guy’s got an education and a stick up his ass about it.”
“Two educations, actually,” I added, counting my past life. “But I just saw that quote online.”
“Can we just go already?” Kerry whined. “I haven’t seen you in… fuckin’ ages.”
“Fifty-four years,” Johnny muttered, fastening his belt. “Yeah. That’s a long-ass time. What’d it cost to bring me back?”
“Million,” I said.
“Well shit, either inflation’s gone nuclear or Kerry sold a kidney.”
“Nah,” Kerry grinned. “Turns out I’m commercially successful now. Long story. Let’s go.”
“So not a kidney—just your soul. Whatever. I’m sober and that needs fixing. And you—” Johnny turned to me as he reached the door. “I’d say thanks, but you can cry yourself to sleep on that million.”
“Trust me. I will. Take care, try not to die too soon—either of you.”
I killed the music. A few moments later, I heard a car engine fade into the night. Job’s done. Chip’s freed. Kerry’s bank account emptied. Nobody died, except for one dumb mugger who was probably already on death’s door.
“So? What do you think?” I asked Lucy.
“You did it! Holy shit. Hope we can brag about this someday. A lotta people kill in Night City. But bringing someone back after half a century? Not even this insane place’s seen that.”
“Alright. Time to celebrate.”
“I like the attitude, but I dug something up while you were busy reviving a legend. Might need to check it out tomorrow.”
“What is it?”
“Remember the signals from that data center? I found the apartment they came from. Rented place in Heywood.”
“Perfect. I’ll swing by on my way.”
“Dammit, I should’ve waited to tell you. It’s already hard enough dragging your ass out to relax. Ease up, V.”
“Ten-minute stop, tops. Just copying the drive. Then I’m all yours. Assuming Arasaka hasn’t blown the place up or sealed it off. Don’t worry. I’ll be quick. Panam still needs time to pack the gear here.”
I wasn’t worried about running into anyone. The chip was going to Panam for safekeeping. And I had my little badge from Michiko. Basically, I was carrying out her orders.
Hard to ask for a better safety net than that.
After picking up Becca, I headed out toward T-Bug’s last resting place. On the way, we made a quick stop at a hardware store and picked up some hazmat masks.
“There might be a corpse in the apartment we’re going to,” I explained. “And it might’ve been there a while.”
“Dead bodies don’t scare me. It’s all good—but the masks are a smart call. So who bit it?”
“An old friend of Jackie’s. One of those people who ran straight toward their death. Even my meddling couldn’t stop it. She got taken out by a net attack.”
“Ah... Fuck. That sucks. Poor big guy. And hey, don’t beat yourself up, choom,” Becca said, slapping my leg. “You tried—that already makes you better than most. Usually in this shithole, nobody gives a damn. Falco’s always bitching about it. But this time I agree with him. Friends matter.”
“Yeah. They do.”
We reached a drab high-rise. I scoped out the area for any signs of surveillance—looked clean. We made our way up to the third floor. The door was locked tight, but I didn’t spot any alarms or trackers—not even with my special toolkit.
“All clear, no active systems,” Lucy pinged in. “Weird. Maybe the corps got here first?”
“Doubt it,” I whispered as Becca worked the lock. “If they had, they’d’ve left surveillance. Always do.”
The moment the door creaked open, we slipped on the masks. Yeah, the body was definitely still inside—and had been for a while. I pulled my pistol just in case, but my Kiroshi Oracle wasn’t picking up any threats. Just a couple of dead cameras.
“Alright,” I said through the mask. “I’ll copy everything off her rig, wipe the data, and we’re out.”
“Fuck yeah!” Becca nodded. “I want tequila, not eau de corpse.”
I stepped into the main room and flipped the lights on. I expected to find a decomposing body slumped in a netrunner chair, but... nothing. Chair was empty. Huh.
Above it hung a big poster of a seaside villa. In the lower left corner, someone had written the word “Dream” in marker. Yeah. That didn’t pan out.
Weird. Maybe Bug had another setup—like a bath or immersion tank in the place. And if the body’s in the tub? Yeah, that’s exactly what I didn’t wanna see right now. Knew too well how fast they turned into sludge in that kind of heat.
“Yo, choom?” Becca called from the kitchen. “Get over here.”
I followed her voice.
Bug’s body was there—sprawled on the floor in a dried-up pool of... yeah, didn’t want to look too close. But one thing hit me right away. Becca said it out loud.
“Uh, V? I ain’t no cop, but that don’t look like a netrunner hit. Pretty sure someone cut her fucking head off.”
2025-03-25 21:15:52 +0000 UTC
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What can I say about the trip to the target zone? Absolute garbage. Flying on that rustbucket of a chopper sucked ass. After two hours of rotor noise and collective silence, we landed at another rinky-dink airport that looked like it had been abandoned by civilization sometime in the '70s. Then we switched to a small plane that matched the setting perfectly. Don’t ask me the model—I’m pretty sure dinosaurs built it. And the smell in that thing? A brutal mix of sweat, unwashed rags, and some kind of “air freshener” that had to be older than sin itself. Possibly made from sin.
It was so nose-melting that I clipped my helmet filters back on just to survive. Breathing through them wasn’t ideal, but anyone who's ever worn a gas mask will tell you—it beats huffing prehistoric BO. I think even the vampire scrunched in disgust behind their helmets. The only one unaffected, of course, was Yuriko, who marched up to the cockpit with Punisher like she was about to casually fix a broken turbine mid-flight. Girl can pilot, too. I swear, she’s a walking multi-tool with a death glare.
But if it had just been the stench and the charming post-apocalyptic aesthetic, I could’ve endured. Problem was, the damn plane rattled, creaked, and groaned nonstop. I’m not a religious man—not really. Even with the whole rebirth thing, the supernatural circus of this world, and knowing a woman possessed by an actual demon. I believe, sure. If there’s a Hell Lord, logic says there’s gotta be some sort of counterpart. But praying? Not my thing.
Unless I think I’m about to die. Which I did. Frequently. Every ominous clang, every groan of stressed metal, had my heart plummeting into my boots, cold sweat trickling down my back, and me reflexively switching between mentally invoking the local Goddess and the Emperor. Sometimes both, in stereo.
Worth noting: everyone was tense. Even Sabretooth was throwing suspicious side-eyes toward whatever hellish squeal came next. The only one completely unbothered? Deadpool. Wanda had adapted, slumped across a barely-passable seat, snoring. How she slept through it, I’ll never know. Probably some mutant version of “sleep like the dead.”
Anyway, I hated flying. Hated it so much that, once we landed, I turned to Yuriko and flat-out said I was not flying back on that deathtrap—even if it meant torching the thing myself. She raised a brow, thought for a second, then gave me the smallest nod.
“Yessss!” Deadpool fist-pumped. “We’re hitchhiking back superhero-style! Plan: everyone hides in the bushes, and Salamander jumps out to flag a ride! When you get one, you wave us in! Sure, the driver won’t be thrilled, but, like, who cares? I’ll bring beer and pizza!”
Punisher shook her head. The vampires sighed in perfect sync. Sabretooth muttered, “I already regret this.” And me? I was grinning ear to ear under my helmet. Say what you will, Pool might be nuts, but she’s got a good vibe. Honestly, I don't get why everyone reacts so harshly—her jokes are funny.
Next came a bumpy ride in a cramped van to some half-deserted property with a big ol' barn. Vampires, Pool, and Punisher hopped out there. Yuriko, Victoria, and I drove on to the weapons test site. The barn was buzzing with vamp signatures—at least thirty, maybe more. I mentioned it to the girls. Oyama just nodded. Creed shrugged and said, “That’s the plan. Bloodsuckers are our stormtroopers.”
Cool by me. If the fang squad wants to play cannon fodder instead of mutants? No complaints here. Just as long as Deadpool doesn’t get eaten. When I said that out loud, Sabretooth murmured, with a trace of hope in her voice, “If only.”
We hit the testing site—some dusty canyon—unloaded a stash of weapons, set up recording gear, and got to work. The machine guns? Chef’s kiss. Once demonized, they basically turned into high-speed grenade launchers. That triple-barrel rotary cannon—I forgot the model—would’ve made even Doomguy cry tears of joy.
Then came the “Vampir” RPG, straight outta Soviet hell.
Let’s just say we ended the test by flipping our car back onto its wheels and noping the hell out. I was fine, thanks to my powers—shielded me from the sonic blast and only yeeted me a dozen meters across the desert. Like a tumbleweed. A very pissed-off, armored tumbleweed.
The girls? Not so lucky. If they weren’t regenerators, they’d probably be deaf. Blood from the ears, a broken arm for Creed—which she just snapped back into place with a wince and waved off my apologies. “That’s what tests are for. Next time, we won’t be idiots,” she said, patting my shoulder with her good arm. Yuriko just nodded and started the engine like she hadn’t almost eaten a warhead.
We made it to the temporary base without incident. No choppers, no jets, no nosy patrols. Bless this desolate wasteland. Either we weren’t noticed, nobody gave a damn, or someone’s planning to investigate that boom later.
By the time we rolled up, it was nearly morning. The op itself was scheduled for after sunset, so Yuriko ordered me to bed.
Daytime sleep? Not a fan. Head was heavy, mood was worse. I rolled into the briefing with a grumpy scowl—not that anyone could see it under the helmet.
The plan was simple: some “friendly assets” would cut off all comms to the base, wired and wireless. Vampire squads would surround the perimeter to catch any runners. Our team would kick down the front door. Literally.
Center of the base had a bunker entrance to the underground facility. My job? Melt the doors open—either with thermite or good ol’ plasma cutting. Sabretooth voted for the latter: “No, fuuuck that, Yuriko. He’ll burn straight through three floors, and there’s mutants down there.”
Once inside, we head to a control room on the second sub-level—where the cameras and partial base schematics are stored. Those, we download and wipe. Then, using the maps and real-time surveillance, we locate the captive mutants, break them out, and bounce. The base staff? Left to the fangs. Literally. The vamps get to do with them as they please.
At that part, Sabretooth shot me a worried look. I just shrugged. I wasn’t about to start moralizing over soldiers who “were just following orders,” not when those orders involved this kind of shit. No battlefield, no combat stress, just calmly maintaining a prison for innocent people. Screw that.
So yeah. No tattered-shirt heroics. No beating my chest yelling “save them all.” Sorry, Vic. Not happening.
We entered the base territory without much trouble. I mean, sure, the guards in the towers—and probably their surveillance systems—spotted the vampires tearing through the darkness at ridiculous speed pretty quick. Sirens started wailing, spotlights swung around like frantic drunks trying to catch shadows, and then came the crack of rifle fire. A few seconds later, the heavy chatter of machine guns kicked in…
But the bloodsuckers didn’t give a single shit about all that lead flying around. A few bullets might knock one off her feet, but three to five seconds later? Boom, she’s back up and sprinting toward the base like a feral goth track star.
“Uhhh…” I muttered, watching the chaos through my night-vision. “Sensei? Remind me again why we were needed? These red-eyed ladies seem to be doing just fine on their own.”
“Let’s move,” Yuriko replied instead of answering, pushing up from the ground and starting toward the gates at a casual jog.
Punisher and Sabretooth followed suit, then me, and finally Wanda fell in behind. The vamps were already vaulting the fence like Olympic gymnasts on crack. Judging by the sudden silence from the turret guns, the vanguard had already cleared a path.
“We’re needed, Salamander,” came the calm voice of Punisher as we ran. “Because if this little uppity nest pulled this off on their own, the other vampires—the aristocrats—would just wipe them off the map.”
She paused, focusing on the run, and Wanda took over like a relay baton.
“Top-level vamp ladies like things quiet. They’ve got blood to spare, and most of the old fangs don’t even feel the thirst anymore. Their herd dies off from age, not bites. And since those old hags spent their centuries stacking political and financial clout, they don’t want anything messing with their comfy status quo. They run conglomerates, corporations, even a few micro-nations. Revolution? Not on their to-do list.”
“Wait—people actually know about them?” I was honestly floored.
“Well, not everyone...” Deadpool said with a grin, placing a casual hand on my shoulder as Victoria and Yuriko slipped through the now-open gates. “But folks who know their way around the darker corners of this world? Yeah, we’re in the loop. Lucky you, you roll with professionals.”
“Zip it, lovebirds,” grunted the redhead with the skull print. “We’re moving.”
And so we did. Pool kept chirping the whole way in with a bright, “You did notice how well we click, right?” while swinging her guns around like she was at a damn parade, not even pretending to duck. Punisher, sighing, kept low and moved in short bursts after the other mutants heading toward the bunker entrance.
I figured I should probably follow the military vet’s lead—no need to waste energy shielding from random bullets. And I’d really prefer not to test what a direct RPG hit would do to my mighty chest. Shit was popping off deeper in the base, and one stray shot could ruin my whole aesthetic. The vampires? They were using shock batons, tranquilizers, even bondage gear—because apparently, "non-lethal takedown" now means "Fifty Shades of Nightstalker."
“Anyway,” Wanda kept chatting as bullets zipped somewhere overhead, “you’ve got aristos living large and peaceful, and then nests like this—small, scrappy, not part of the inner circle. They stay quiet, don’t cause waves, and the big girls ignore them. But our little op here guarantees this nest a tidy supply of blood-bags—er, rations—with none of the usual heat.”
“OW—you bitch…”
Deadpool spun around, having just taken a bullet to the shoulder. She raised her other hand and casually fired a shot into the shadows.
“Eat lead, asshole. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a conversation with a gentleman?”
I darted in, grabbed her by the waist, and dragged her behind a sandbag nest some poor bastard soldier had left behind.
“It’s fine, Sal,” she said, waving it off like a scraped knee while jamming her fingers into the wound. “Oof—flattened on the bone.”
“Pool, please,” I muttered, unclipping my helmet and popping it off, leaving just the thin undersuit mask. Dumb move, maybe, but hey—my powers can handle it. “Can you not be a bullet antenna for once? It actually sucks seeing you hurt.”
She stared at me for a few seconds, then casually popped the bullet out and flicked it aside. Her eyes softened, and she nodded. Then, with a mischievous little grin, she tugged up both our masks just enough to press her lips to mine.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” came the furious voice of Punisher right next to us. “What’s next, you gonna fuck him right here?”
“Jealousy’s not a good look on you,” Deadpool giggled, then leaned in and whispered in my ear, her fingers stroking my cheek—still slick with her blood, ew—“This is way better than a romantic date.”
We reached the objective fast. A few narrow spots in the corridors put us in a literal bullet storm. The vamps couldn’t push through—too much lead flying around—but I grabbed a pair of riot shields, amped them up with demon juice, and charged the front lines. Behind my DIY fortress wall, our stormtroopers piled in.
The control room was decked out: massive monitors showing feeds from every corner of the base, desks full of computers, and a few poor techies tied up and unarmed.
I checked the base schematics. Four more levels down. Two of them were labs—human experimentation, mutant tinkering, the whole mad science buffet. Third was holding cells—test subjects, more labs. The last level was small: storage, utility rooms, and… a morgue.
Experiments. Mutants. Military. Something inside me clenched. My heart skipped a beat.
I looked over at the labeled monitor sections. Giant display, full grid. My blood was roaring in my ears. I did not want to see what I might find—but I stepped forward anyway, legs suddenly heavy, like walking through syrup.
Four bodies. Uncovered. Cold metal slabs. All of them bore signs of autopsy. Two adult women… and two little girls. One with jet-black hair. The other…
Flaming red.
Just like—
“Sandy…” I whispered under my breath, trembling. The name cracked out of me like glass breaking. The memory of that sweet kid I’d tried to bury deep came flooding back. Bitter, sharp, and raw.
The girl turned her head toward the camera, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
A heartbeat later, my chest felt like it was going to explode. My pulse thundered in the silence, pounding against my ribs with enough force to crack them. Her death-filmed eyes stared straight at me—again. Cold. Indifferent.
"You’re late, fake hero," a soft, distant voice pierced the blood-drum roar in my ears. "Again. How many more little girls have to die before you start showing up on time?"
"I…" My eyes burned. My mouth dried out. A lump the size of a fist wedged in my throat. My heartbeat stuttered into chaos, but her voice, that dead girl’s voice, was impossibly clear.
"Late," she said, flat and final. "Maybe try hurrying, before my friends end up on the tables next to me?"
I snapped my gaze to the other camera feeds in a panic—soldiers, lab techs in white coats, frantically hauling out the few remaining prisoners. I darted my eyes back to the morgue feed. The girl was lying still again. Eyes closed.
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.
"Late… late…"
"Salamander?" Wanda’s voice cut through the phantom stillness behind me.
"I was late again…" I whispered. They're killing kids. Again. Those fuckers.”
"Sal, are you okay?"
But the drums in my ears had changed their rhythm. No longer panic.
Rage.
The Flame inside me, snarling louder and louder, poured fuel on the inferno growing behind my ribs. The air around me shimmered.
"But no more…"
The horror and helplessness were gone, burned away by fire and hate. The Flame howled in my veins, and I heard nothing but its madness.
"They won't kill any more children," I growled under my breath, my voice catching on something strange in my throat—teeth? Talking was getting… difficult.
I turned toward the others, and my lips—dry and cracked like the desert outside—peeled back into a vicious smile.
Around me stood people. Humans… and not so much. My gaze swept over the vampires, frozen mid-motion, all staring at me.
Their faces were hidden behind cloth masks, but I could feel it.
Fear.
Deadpool’s face was unreadable, but her stance screamed surprise. Punisher was tense, ready to strike. Victoria’s eyes were narrowed, focused. Yuriko… Yuriko was interested. Curious. Almost… eager?
Hope she doesn’t end up disappointed, I thought, sharing a crooked grin with the Flame, which cackled inside my bones.
“We need to hurry,” I said aloud, though I barely recognized my own voice. It scraped the air like a rusted blade against glass, hissed like an old, busted speaker. But whatever.
I turned and walked out of the control room.
Someone asked a question behind me—I didn’t hear it. The drums in my head were screaming.
The vamps were bogged down again in another corridor. Not my problem. No time. I pushed forward, noting how the bloodsuckers instinctively parted to let me through.
I reached for my Colt. It was already transformed—like everything I wore now. The grip felt odd in my hand—my claws had torn through my gloves and were getting in the way—but I could manage.
I stepped out into the hail of gunfire, lifted my arm… and aimed.
“Crush the vermin,” I snarled, pulling the trigger. The barrel of the Anaconda belched a twisted solar flare. I barely understood the growl-screech-hiss that escaped my own throat.
“Annihilate the enemy,” I said, firing again. The shot exploded in the ranks of the defenders like a bomb, hurling bodies like ragdolls.
“In the name of the Emperor, I bring death!”
My claws scraped against the metal floor with each step. My boots were torn. Good. Easier to run that way.
Gotta hurry…
2025-03-25 21:11:26 +0000 UTC
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22/03/25 - Saturday
Demons of NC
Elden Ring: My Ending
Life is Good
24/03/25 - Monday
Castling the Long Way
Mad Tiger
The story is ending, and I didn’t want to leave things on a cliffhanger after a week of sporadic updates, so here are the last 3 chapters.
2025-03-25 06:23:04 +0000 UTC
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TN: Formatting’s fucked. For some reason, Patreon bolds everything and removes italics. There’s a PDF attached below if you prefer that.
Gaara and Naruto stared at each other with open suspicion. Meanwhile, I sat between them, flicking my ears, trying to figure out how to handle this situation.
“Namaiki-chan,” Naruto crouched down to get a better look at me, apparently deciding to ignore Gaara for now. “Where’d you run off to? Were you mad or something? We were gonna open a can of food for you…”
I turned my head away with a sigh, then casually strolled closer to Gaara, plopped down on my haunches, and gave him my best Puss-in-Boots eyes—the classic "pick me up" request. If he was gonna start swinging those hands around, better that he be holding me, not sending sand flying.
Gaara blinked at me like I’d just asked him to explain quantum mechanics.
Ugh. Do I have to teach this kid everything?
“Namaiki-chan wants you to hold him,” Naruto prompted.
I nodded and put my paws together like a little prairie dog. Please, kind sir, grant me the honor of being carried! For extra persuasion, I turned on my turbo purr.
“Go on,” Naruto encouraged. “Just so you know, Namaiki-chan’s kinda heavy.”
Gaara hesitated for a second, then finally crouched down and lifted me into his arms. Ah, there we go! Hands occupied, good vantage point secured. The boys lapsed into silence, while I purred wisely, waiting for them to make the next move.
“So, his name is Namaiki-chan?” Gaara finally asked, glancing down at me. “That means… ‘impudent’?”
“Uhh… well…” Naruto scratched the back of his head. “He’s got a lot of names. Namaiki’s just one of ‘em. Sometimes we call him ‘Tora,’ or ‘Choko,’ or ‘Neko-san.’”
“So he’s not your cat?” Gaara pressed.
“He lives with me and Sasuke. Sasuke’s my teammate, and we both kinda see Namaiki-chan as ours,” Naruto explained awkwardly. “But he also crashes at other people’s places. And we know he’s got other ‘owners.’ I guess he just picks who he likes. He’s picky as hell about people, though—he won’t let just anyone hold him. If Namaiki-chan lets you pick him up… it means you’re a good person.”
A warm glow of pride filled my chest. That’s right, peasants. Appreciate my selective favoritism.
Gaara’s fingers twitched slightly in my fur, and he gave me another searching look. “So what’s he doing here?” He was getting chatty. See? Purring works wonders.
“Namaiki-chan decided to tag along for the exam,” Naruto answered, stepping closer to scratch behind my ear. “He’s super smart, super brave, and an awesome friend…”
“I’m telling you, shinobi-sama! That ‘cat’ is a demon! Kobiki’s still having a breakdown! That thing devoured a quarter of a whole pig carcass! It held us hostage in the kitchen! You need to do something about it before it’s too late!”
Uh-oh.
Heavy footsteps approached, accompanied by an increasingly frantic voice echoing down the hallway.
Naruto’s instincts kicked in fast—he yanked Gaara and me into a cramped alcove behind a column just as a chunin in a green vest passed by, followed closely by Kuchi-san, the one cook I thought had at least a little common sense.
“...The hell?” Gaara muttered, frowning at Naruto.
“Take a wild guess who they’re talking about?” Naruto hissed, barely containing a snicker. “And here we are—holding Namaiki-chan, red-handed! We’d be so busted.”
Gaara shot me a skeptical look. I responded with my best offended noble expression and gave an indignant huff.
The two boys slowly slid down the wall into sitting positions. Since Gaara had that massive sand gourd strapped to his back, he naturally ended up a bit farther forward, making it easy for me to study their faces.
“So, a quarter of a whole pig, huh, Namaiki-chan?” Naruto grinned, waggling his eyebrows at me. “No wonder you didn’t want canned food, you little glutton.”
LIES! I yowled indignantly. It wasn’t a quarter! Maybe half a kilo at most! The real crooks are those greedy humans, hoarding all the good cuts for themselves!
Naruto chuckled and ruffled my fur, and I purred, drowning out the lingering sounds of the hunt for my alleged crime spree. Honestly, the way they were carrying on, you’d think I had single-handedly dragged off an entire hog. If I had done something that cool, I’d at least expect applause!
Greedy humans! Hoarding all the prime cuts and acting like I was the problem! My dad used to say something from an old movie about shady accounting: “Two tape recorders, two cameras, three jackets, and a gold cigarette case.” No idea why I thought of that now.
Eventually, the noise died down, and I quieted my purring to listen.
“So… you…” Naruto hesitated.
“Why…?” Gaara started at the same time, turning slightly toward him.
A long, awkward pause.
“You go first,” I told Gaara, tapping his shoulder with a paw.
Whether he understood me or just took the hint, he finally spoke. “Why did that man say… demon?”
“Because he’s an idiot,” Naruto muttered bitterly. “People like that—they’re the real monsters. They don’t understand anything. They just hate and throw names around.”
He instinctively pressed a hand to his stomach, clutching the stained fabric covered in my artwork, as if trying to figure out where exactly the Kyubi was sealed inside him.
Gaara’s eyes narrowed. “Like you’d know anything about that.”
Naruto met his gaze, unflinching. “I think I do,” he said calmly. “There’s a real monster inside me.”
The weight of that sentence was utterly ruined by the loudest, most pitiful stomach growl I’d ever heard.
The acoustics of our little hiding spot magnified the sound until it practically howled.
“…Your monster sounds hungry,” I observed.
Naruto flushed beet red, while Gaara blinked at him in mild surprise.
“We, uh… haven’t eaten yet,” Naruto admitted, rubbing the back of his head. “Our sensei always shows up late, and, well… I went looking for Namaiki-chan first…”
I sighed. My god. These children.
And Kakashi! What a nightmare of a babysitter! The kids had fought their way through the Forest of Death, then sat through boring speeches, and now they were just waiting around, wasting away from hunger?! They hadn’t even touched my emergency stash of canned food—probably saving it for later since they had no clue how long they’d be stuck here.
I could cry from the sheer tragedy of it all.
With a decisive hop, I leapt from Gaara’s lap, padded a few steps toward the open area, then turned back and gave them a meaningful look.
Both boys exchanged glances and got up to follow.
We made our way to the kitchen.
And oh, oh, was I right.
The air was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of simmering meat. Those sneaky bastards were cooking up something good for themselves while tossing the kids nothing but spicy rice!
I locked eyes with Naruto and crouched down, tail swishing. It was the same signal we used back when we stole from Old Man Sarutobi’s pantry.
Come on, kid. You were trained for this.
Naruto hesitated… then grinned. He nudged Gaara with his elbow. “I think Namaiki-chan wants revenge against those lying cooks. That sound about right?”
I nodded solemnly. Damn right.
With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Naruto formed a hand seal—Henge no Jutsu!—and transformed into a smaller version of Nekomata-sama, only with my fur pattern and signature markings.
Gaara just stared.
Okay, yeah. To be fair, this was probably the weirdest thing he’d seen all day. Maybe in his life.
But this was no time for hesitation.
I shot Gaara a look and gave the kitchen door a quick scratch. He got the message and pulled it open.
“Mee-aaat!” our monster roared in a deep, guttural voice.
Something clattered to the ground in the kitchen. Pretty sure someone just fainted.
Then—poof!
A second later, Naruto, now back to his usual self, shot out of the kitchen, clutching a giant pot in his hands.
“RUN!” he shouted.
And so, naturally, Gaara and I ran after him. Because what else were we supposed to do? Everybody’s running, so I’m running too!
From the outside, I’m sure it was a glorious sight—two ninja and a cat bolting through the halls with a stolen pot of food. But thankfully, nobody saw us until Naruto kicked open a random door and barreled inside.
The people inside immediately jumped into defensive stances.
Oh.
Sasuke and Sakura.
For a moment, all five of us just froze, staring at each other.
“Naruto?” Sakura was the first to break the silence. “You moron! Why the hell would you barge in like that?!” Then she noticed Gaara and hesitated. “Uh… Who’s that?”
“Uh, this is…” Naruto put the pot down, gave Sakura a sheepish grin, then scratched the back of his head. “This is my new friend… Uh… wait, I don’t actually know your name.” He turned to Gaara. “Oops! I forgot to introduce myself too! I’m Uzumaki Naruto. And these two are Sasuke and Sakura.”
“Gaara,” came the quiet reply.
Sasuke gave me a pointed look, clearly asking if this guy could be trusted.
I nodded and rubbed against Gaara’s legs for good measure. Don’t make me regret this, Red.
“You’re from Suna?” Sakura asked, glancing at the forehead protector attached to Gaara’s belt.
“Relax, Sakura,” Sasuke smirked. “We passed the Forest of Death. While we’re in this tower, there’s a ceasefire between teams from every village—at least until the next stage starts in three days. Just don’t go running your mouth about jutsu.” Then his eyes flicked to the pot Naruto had placed on the floor. “More importantly… what’s in there?”
“FOOD!” Naruto beamed as he dramatically lifted the lid.
Inside were steaming chunks of meat, freshly boiled to perfection.
“Whoa! That’s a lot!” Sakura gasped. “And it’s all meat?!”
Naruto puffed out his chest with pride and rubbed his nose smugly.
“Damn, but we don’t have any bowls…” Sakura groaned.
Sasuke raised an eyebrow. “Are you a ninja or not?”
He casually approached the pot and wove a series of hand signs. “Use Shadow Utensils—eat, and they’ll disappear when you’re done. No washing up required. Just don’t mess up the chakra flow.”
And just like that, he scooped some meat into a shadow bowl using shadow chopsticks.
This little schemer!
“Sasuke, you genius!” Naruto grinned and copied him. Then he noticed Sakura still blushing and, without a word, handed her his bowl before making three more—for himself, Gaara, and me.
“Wait a sec, let the broth cool a bit, Namaiki-chan,” he said, carefully pouring some soup and meat into a shallow, wide dish he’d shaped just for me.
“Gaara, you wanna serve yourself, or should I do it?” Naruto asked once my share was settled.
“I’m not hungry,” Gaara tried to decline.
Naruto squinted at him, clearly unconvinced. Then his expression turned sly.
“Y’know,” he said in a totally-not-suspicious tone, “they say food tastes twice as good when you share it with friends. You have to at least try it.”
Gaara, caught completely off guard, hesitated… then gave a tiny, confused nod.
Naruto grinned and promptly ladled some broth and meat into a bowl for him.
Ah, delicious! If I may add—food that’s been honestly earned stolen always tastes twice as good, warming both the stomach and the soul!
(1) The quote is from Leonid Gaidai's comedy film "Ivan Vasilyevich Changes Profession". Considered a Soviet Classic. Here is the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3xVdxDWFWU
The quoted scene is at 1.21.17
2025-03-25 06:22:49 +0000 UTC
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TN: Formatting’s fucked. For some reason, Patreon bolds everything and removes italics. There’s a PDF attached below if you prefer that.
Chapter 69
I was tearing through the Forest of Death like a bat outta hell, spooking the local wildlife left and right. Sorry, critters—urgent business! Gaara’s floating eyeball trailed after me, doing its best to keep up. Cool jutsu, sure—great for the desert, where you can see everything to the horizon, or inside tight spaces. But in a place like this? Not ideal. There’s a tree every two feet, giant spiders hiding in ambush, and every bush and beast is screaming on chakra sensors. You don’t just need eyes here—you need a nose, a tail, and divine luck.
I caught scent of a few chakra signatures coming in hot and bolted into the underbrush. A squad of ANBU zipped past, masks and all, moving like silent ghosts. Uh-huh. Good thing my scent markers are cat-grade permanent. I always know my way around. So me and the eyeball took a detour around what I guessed was a recon team.
I had this gnawing feeling it was all because of Sarutobi. The preliminary matches were supposed to start soon, and according to the anime, the Hokage himself was supposed to show up at the tower for a speech and to cheer on the genin. Big morale boost, right? Fighting with the Third Hokage watching? Talk about pressure.
But he hadn’t shown up.
And considering we’ve also got Kushina-san and Orochimaru sneaking around the Forest of Death doing who-knows-what, well, let’s just say my inner math nerd was sketching a very suspicious equation.
When I finally reached the area that reeked of Kushina’s chakra and had leftover chakra residue hanging in the air like fog, I found… a perfectly empty clearing. No signs of a fight. No scorched trees, no craters, not even trampled grass—though to be fair, the moss in the Forest of Death is weirdly “magical,” always healing itself and slowly absorbing chakra. A literal leech carpet. Ugh.
So I had to pull out my best bloodhound impression and put to use everything Kuramaru and Akamaru ever tried to teach me. The trick is to visualize each scent trail as the person or animal that left it. Kuramaru was a beast at this. He could tell what color boots someone wore based on how the leather smelled—treated differently depending on if it was tanned hide, canvas, or that weird ninja rubber. Once you’ve got your mental picture, you “rewind” the trail in your mind. Figure out where they stopped, what they did. If they marked territory or… well, took a nature break, that helps too.
The clearing was a mess of overlapping trails, but I relaxed, sniffed, and started piecing it together like the good little algebra cat I am. Gaara’s eyeball hovered next to me, also scanning the place.
I circled three times, trying to make sense of it all… and got nothing. The trails made no sense. ANBU going in circles, scattered formations. All of them freaked out.
From what I could tell, our wrinkly cherub of a Hokage had been just strolling through the woods. Laid-back pace. Ahead of him were guards sweeping the path, clearing critters and plants. Two escorts close by, and ANBU all over the trees like spooky fruit.
And then? Poof. He just… vanished. No scorch marks, no teleportation flash. Not even a broken twig. Like he got erased from reality.
They’d clearly searched this area from top to bottom and found squat. I wondered how it happened. Did he glow and fade out? Did he dissolve into sparkles? Was it a "pull-the-tablecloth" trick and nobody noticed Granny with the saw under the table? And now I’m picturing Kushina-san in a Vegas magician outfit—sparkly bikini, feather boa, sawing the Hokage in half… Okay, focus, Tora! You're spiraling.
Whatever it was, it felt like a high-level space-time jutsu. But there were no clues left—no telling who did it or where they went. The ANBU must’ve figured he could’ve been warped out against his will, maybe even not far, so they were combing the area like mad. I could still smell Kushina, but her trail came after the others. Like she showed up late to the party. Maybe she’s the one who lost track of him?
What if she and Orochimaru were lying in wait with some classic cartoon ambush—cut down a sapling, set it to spring, jump out yelling “Your wallet or your life!”—okay, wow. I really am losing it.
Focus, Tora.
Kushina did something here. Her chakra is all over the place.
Gaara’s eyeball floated over, giving me a hard look. I shook my head. If I had shoulders, I’d shrug. What’d we expect? That a couple of ninjas who could each be Kage-level would leave behind an obvious footprint? Please. Hiruzen might be a dried-up raisin, but he’s sharp. The kind of guy you try to bite and break your teeth on.
I just hope Kushina-san’s okay. In the anime, she wasn’t even around—but if this is the timeline where she’s back, then we really need her. Orochimaru? Man, that guy fought three Kage—including two zombies—and still lost both his arms. I used to kinda cheer when he got wrecked. Now he’s on our side? No thanks, let’s keep his limbs intact.
Suddenly, a low rumble echoed from the direction of the tower. Trees trembled, birds exploded into the air, and my fur puffed up like I’d licked an outlet.
Gaara’s sand eye crumbled into dust and scattered on the breeze.
Uh-oh.
Either he lost focus, chakra ran out, or something bad just happened.
I gotta get back to the tower. Now.
I… I’m gonna lose weight from the stress. I swear, I just dropped two pounds in sheer panic.
WHAT. THE. HELL. HAPPENED HERE?!
I leave for one hour and this place goes full disaster movie. The walls—how?! They’re thick enough to stop a bijuu blast! And now there’s… slime?? Everywhere?! Did we get invaded by aliens?!
And that massive hole—oh god. That hole’s exactly where I came out earlier.
“Naruto! Sasuke! Gaara!”
Nothing but rocks and slime. No scents. Their scents were gone.
Someone scooped me up and hugged me tight. That’s when I realized I was shaking. Ino.
“Shhh… Tora-chan,” she whispered, her voice cracking with sobs. I turned and saw Sakura too, all dusty and smeared with pale-gray grime, eyes puffy and red from crying.
“What happened?!” I tried to wriggle free. I had to find my boys.
“Tora-chan, they’re gone,” Ino whispered into my fur, breaking into tears again.
“Gone?!” The dust and gunk in the air made it impossible to smell anything. My heart dropped like a rock, but… I still hoped. Maybe this was all part of some plan…
“Some kind of huge snakes attacked the tower,” Sakura sniffled. “I overheard someone say it happened because the structure’s perimeter was breached. The worst hit was this room. One of the chunin said someone forced open the wall vent. They couldn’t find the boys under the wreckage. Most likely, they… they…”
“Got swallowed by the snake,” Ino finished for her.
“But they’re shinobi,” she added quickly. “Sasuke and Naruto are strong. They’ll survive… for a while. The exam proctors drove the snake off, and they’re rebuilding the barrier now. They’ll go after it.”
Right. Of course. Just part of the plan. Everything’s fine. In the anime, Naruto got swallowed by a snake too—Orochimaru’s snake. This is just a rerun with a twist.
Now I just need to cheer up the girls.
“I’m sorry, Ino. Sakura…”
I was staring blankly at what looked like a tiny, pale-blue Naruto being carried by Kakashi. Two more shinobi followed behind, carrying… bodies.
Sasuke and Gaara’s.
Dead bodies.
Naruto looked especially awful—blue-lipped, clothes soaked in slime, his jacket covered in my pawprint designs, all twisted and torn like he’d been chewed on and spit out.
“We got to the snake’s stomach too late,” a man in green muttered quietly. I recognized him—Might Guy, the Brow Sensei. He was holding Sasuke.
“The digestive acid was extremely toxic,” he added grimly.
Then Sand ninja came running over.
“Gaara!” Temari gasped.
Gaara looked especially creepy—his cracked, dried sand coating made him look like a broken doll.
“Oh god, what is that?!” one of the chunin shouted, as Gaara’s body began to crumble, sand shedding like ash.
“Here too!” Guy said, setting Sasuke gently down.
“What’s going on?” the man with the curtain-mask came over and reached for Gaara, only to recoil—his hand had sunk into soft, collapsing mush, and the stench of decay hit like a sledgehammer.
“It’s the snake’s stomach acid. It’s corrosive,” Kakashi said flatly, laying Naruto down. “Damn it. There won’t be much left to bury if this keeps up… We need containment. Tenzo!”
An ANBU stepped forward, forming seals, and wood sprang from his fingers—three small coffins made of dark, polished bark that gently wrapped around the deteriorating bodies. Even names appeared on top. I didn’t want to read them.
No one spoke.
The girls sobbed quietly. I was frozen, clinging to Ino with claws buried in her coat. Her salty tears kept dripping onto my nose.
“I’m taking Gaara,” the masked man said, pulling out a scroll. In silence, he sealed one of the wooden coffins.
“Due to these unforeseen circumstances,” coughed someone behind the crowd, “the Chuunin Exams are canceled. We’ll investigate the death of the genin thoroughly. Everyone is to return to Konoha under ANBU escort. Security measures will be enforced.”
Ino never let go of me. She cried the whole way back.
The guys walked beside us in silence, heads down. Choji sniffled now and then. Akamaru whimpered softly.
But… they don’t really believe it, right? That my boys are really…
This isn’t real, right?
This has to be part of the plan.
Right?
Right?!
Chapter 70
“How are you holding up, Tora-chan?” Hinata scratched behind my ear and curled up beside me on the bed like a sleepy cinnamon roll wrapped around a depressed furball.
“Not great,” I sighed. It came out soft and pitiful. I was really falling apart.
Why couldn’t I have just stayed put in that damned forest? Things might’ve turned out so differently.
“Are you hungry?” Hinata asked. “I bought your favorite canned food.”
I shook my head. Lately, I didn’t even want to look at food. It had been four weeks since that thing in the Forest of Death. Four. Weeks. At first, I’d been hopeful—maybe even expected them to pop back up somehow—but the last three days? Full-blown despair.
I still couldn’t believe it actually happened. They smelled like themselves, sure, but that’s because they were wearing the same clothes. Clothes can be swapped.
And the snakes? Definitely summons from Orochimaru. But what threw me off was that the jounin had killed the snakes, cut them open, and retrieved the bodies.
I’d seen giant snakes in the Forest before—maybe not that big, but definitely giant. And the way the bodies were quickly sealed away and disposed of? Super shady. Felt like someone didn’t want them examined.
And I always thought when a jinchuuriki died, the bijuu was released. But no—turns out if the host dies fast and unexpectedly, the tailed beast dies with them and only reappears years later like some kind of natural disaster respawn timer.
You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve overheard… My hidey-holes in the Hokage Residence came in real handy.
For two weeks, Konoha was in a complete panic. Everything was being managed by the two Elders—Gramps and Granny—trying to calm things down and keep the politics from exploding. Envoys from the Sand were darting around like caffeinated weasels.
But in the end, every investigation hit a wall. Official word was that it was “an unfortunate accident.”
Konoha gave the Sand some dusty old scroll as a formal apology for Gaara.
Apparently the Elders didn’t really care. They muttered that the Fourth Kazekage had wanted to get rid of the “village weapon” he couldn’t control and was probably relieved it happened.
But when it came to Naruto—the jinchuuriki of the Nine-Tails—and Sasuke—the Last Uchiha—you bet they were singing a different tune. There’d been plans for those two.
Kakashi’s official guess? The boys (plus Kazekage Jr., who no one knew why he was even in that room) got knocked out cold by debris when the wall collapsed from the snake attack. Swallowed unconscious. Never had a chance to fight or escape. Digestion did the rest.
The Third Hokage? Still missing. Not dead. Missing. No clues, no witnesses, no trail.
Because the exams had so many foreign guests, and someone might spill the news that the Hokage was MIA, they started the process of picking a new one fast.
They named Jiraiya the Fifth, but he declined and said he’d bring back someone “better.”
Honestly, I’d been praying that meant Kushina-san, but nope. Five days ago, Tsunade returned to Konoha. Yesterday, she had her inauguration.
I snuck in to say hi and had a chat with Tonton, but the pig didn’t have much intel. Just babbled about all their sketchy tavern-hopping lately and how Lady Senju kept gambling away their savings and ditching towns before the debts hit. He didn’t even know why they left Konoha in the first place.
The more time passed, the worse my panic got. What if my boys and Kushina-san really were…?
“Hinata! Tora-chan!”
A knock. Neji poked his head into the room, looking way more ruffled than usual.
“Nii-san? What’s going on?” Hinata sat up fast.
“Orders from the Fifth Hokage! I’ve been assigned to lead a mission.”
“To us?” Hinata blinked. I did too.
“Yes. Me, you, Shikamaru, Ino, Choji, Kiba. Our mission is to locate and escort Lady Shijimi’s cat, Tora-san, to the daimyo’s palace in Himachi.”
“…What?” Hinata and I said in unison.
But right in that second—my heart started to pound with hope again!
The mission got classified as C-rank, but we didn’t leave Konoha as just six genin, a dog, and a cat—oh no. We had a babysitter: one ANBU tailing us in secret. And I knew exactly who it was under that mask—Hatake Kakashi himself.
No one escapes my scent tracking.
It wasn’t a super far mission—Himachi’s just about 100 kilometers out, still within the Fire Country—but still. You don’t just send all the heirs to the major clans out on a stroll without backup.
Neji let it slip when we met up with Sakura: the escort job was just a cover.
Apparently, the daimyo wanted to “evaluate” potential clan heads. Rumor had it the Fire Lord was looking to expand his elite personal guard—the Twelve Guardian Ninja—and might offer some of us a contract.
Everyone exchanged glances but didn’t say much.
They looked just like me—scared to hope, but still hoping anyway.
Back when we gathered at Sasuke’s apartment, Shikamaru had tried comforting Ino and Hinata. He even said, “This whole thing smells way too convenient. They shut it down too fast, like they were afraid of starting a war or scandal.”
One of his strongest arguments? Me.
They believed in me a little too much. Maybe because I never gave up waiting.
Maybe they were just like me—clinging to any scrap of a chance.
Patience is the first lesson of a true shinobi.
So yeah, I waited. I waited three and a half weeks, holding on to that little flicker of “maybe.”
They took turns carrying me, though sometimes I jogged alongside Akamaru for a bit. By sunset, we reached the daimyo’s palace.
Neji flashed the mission scroll and showed them Yours Truly. A random court official met us at the gate and led us in.
“Tora-chan!!”
Lady Shijimi came flying into the hallway like a cruise missile of motherly affection.
“My owner!” I launched into her arms like a majestic, furry cannonball—almost knocked Kiba flat.
I almost cried. I definitely purred like a chainsaw. She scratched, she cuddled, she kissed my nose—pure bliss.
But most importantly?
She smelled like Naruto.
Like Sasuke.
Like Gaara.
And Kushina.
Alive.
Okay. Now I’m hungry.
“You’ve gotten so skinny!” she cooed, like she’d read my mind. “My poor baby, my precious tiger-kitty! Tora-chan! I’ve got chicken! Tofu! And smoked eel, just for you!”
Neji was mostly right about the Twelve Guardian Ninja thing.
After I stuffed myself like a Thanksgiving turkey, and everyone else got a solid meal too, we were brought before the daimyo himself.
I did my usual palace routine: climbed into his lap, made myself at home, and wiped my fur all over his royal robes while he chatted with Neji, Shikamaru, and the others.
Turns out they were recruiting three new guardians, ages matching our own.
It’s a real contract—service from three to ten years. He promised to send Hokage-sama a formal invitation letter.
“And in the meantime,” said Lord Minoruhi with a kind smile, “I thought you might enjoy meeting a few of the younger guardian shinobi already in service. See how it all works.”
Naturally, I followed them—straight to the palace’s old gazebo I remembered from when I was just a kitten. This was the same spot I once pounced onto Daishiki’s face… Ah, good times. Feels like a hundred years ago, not just a little over two.
“These are some of our youngest Guardian Shinobi,” the attending official introduced three masked figures who stepped into the gazebo. Their masks were similar to Kakashi’s, they wore Leaf headbands, standard uniforms, and white triangular hip sashes marked with the Fire Country symbol. “I’ll leave you to it—they’ll show you around and answer any questions.”
The official bowed out, leaving us alone.
Akamaru gave a bark at Kiba. Ino and Hinata squealed.
And then… Naruto, Sasuke, and Gaara pulled off their masks.
“Guys! Tora-chan!”
The girls launched themselves into hugs. The guys kept it cool, of course.
Me? I’m a cat. I get a pass for going full emotional meltdown mode.
I missed them so much. I’d been waiting! I hadn’t slept right in weeks, eavesdropping under doors, pacing, worrying, barely eating… You monsters!
“Sorry, Tora-chan!” Naruto scratched me behind the ears, peering into my eyes. “Everything just started happening so fast.”
“All right, spill it,” Kiba demanded.
Akamaru barked in agreement. I nodded, and Naruto quickly flashed through a string of hand signs. Green sealing marks crawled over the gazebo walls.
“It’s a soundproof barrier,” he explained, as the group let out a collective “whoa.”
Neji activated his Byakugan, gave the perimeter a once-over, and nodded.
“Not bad at all, Naruto.”
“It all started on the autumn equinox festival, back in September…” Sasuke began.
And then Sasuke laid it all out—the truth about his clan’s massacre and the mass genjutsu that both Akamaru and I had already confirmed.
“We—me, Naruto, Kiba, Shikamaru, and Choji—were best friends since our first year at the Academy. But everyone forgot.”
“Asuma-sensei was part of it?!” Shikamaru blurted out, stunned. “I mean… I remember the whole ‘Guardian Shinobi Rebellion’ thing in September, and it was weird my dad didn’t send a team to investigate. That was kind of off.”
“Asuma, like everyone else, forgot,” Sasuke said. “No one really knew. Everyone got caught in it. The Sarutobi used the Uchiha clan’s ambition, manipulated them… and then erased them. And the evidence. Right now, only three people know the truth. And none of them want to change anything. The world keeps spinning, and this kind of genjutsu? A simple ‘kai’ won’t break it.”
He caught Ino’s intense look and added, “From what I understand, trying to interfere using Yamanaka-style mental techniques could actually end very badly. So—what’s done is done. We’re focused on the now.”
“What happened in the Forest of Death, then?” Neji asked.
“We faked our deaths,” Sasuke said after a pause. “Left behind our clothes and personal items. It was our way of shedding the past and starting over.”
He glanced down. “There are still some things we can’t talk about…”
“What matters is that you’re alive,” Hinata whispered, her cheeks going pink. “We thought you were…”
“Yeah. We’re alive,” Naruto grinned, hugging me tight.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you give a cat a heart attack and then make it all better with cuddles.
Chapter 71
I was sitting proudly on Lord Minoruhi’s desk, ears perked, soaking in a very private conversation between my human—currently fanning himself like a bored noble—and an older man in a blindingly colorful kimono collection who’d shown up with Orochimaru. This old guy wasn’t just some random senior citizen with a fashion problem—he was the ruler of the Land of Rice Fields, the country just north of the Land of Fire. The valley river called “The End,” where Sasuke and Naruto famously had their dramatic anime deathmatch, just so happened to be the border.
“The Land of Rice Fields is prepared to become a province under the Fire Country,” the old man confirmed with a sly grin. “Honestly, not much changes for us—if anything, our rice export tax will go down. Plus, we’ve already got a standing garrison managed by Orochimaru-dono.”
“A mutually beneficial arrangement, no doubt,” said Minoruhi. “I take it you’d like to stay on as provincial governor? And I’d need to formally recognize… let’s say… the Oto garrison, which Konoha’s intel believes is, let’s be real, a newly forming hidden village.”
“I’ve no heirs to worry about,” the old guy creaked. Though to me, he didn’t feel that old. His chakra flow was strong—definitely not shinobi-tier, but robust enough to suggest he was spry beneath all the grandpa cosplay.
“It’s smarter to ally than to clash. The times are… turbulent,” Orochimaru added with his signature silk-and-snake charm.
Now, if Gaara and Shisui weren’t chilling up in the rafters and if my human wasn’t wearing enough defensive fuinjutsu to light up a bingo book, I might’ve mistaken this for a veiled threat. But as it stood? Just ominous suggestion. The political scene really was heating up lately. The Land of Hot Springs, for example, had recently disbanded their hidden village, turned themselves into a “neutral tourist hub,” and stopped trying to keep up military spending. Tiny nations just couldn’t afford real garrisons—and let’s face it, a couple squads of low-level ninja weren’t stopping any of the Big Five or rogue super-nukes.
But call it a “provincial garrison” under a major country? Boom. Legit. Plus, those garrisons could send their recruits to Konoha’s Academy for training upgrades from proper jonin-sensei.
…Man, when did I start getting good at politics?
“I’ll give provisional approval,” Minoruhi nodded. “But it’ll still need to pass through the jonin council. My staff will draft a formal treaty.”
The future governor of Konoha’s 12th province took his leave. Orochimaru slithered off with him. Minoruhi set aside his fan, sighed, and scratched me behind the ears.
“I hope that was the right call, Tora-chan…”
I gave a sage nod and hopped into his lap with a purr. Optimal petting position achieved.
“…This wing’s got a couple of baths, that’s the dining hall—and sometimes doubles as a meeting and training room—and those three rooms at the back are free,” Naruto explained, proudly giving the newcomers a tour of the Guardian Shinobi residence.
Shikamaru, Choji, and Neji had accepted Lord Minoruhi’s invitation. I personally ran back to Konoha to fetch them—had to stay in the loop, after all.
Kiba had been invited too, but his mom Tsume-chan put her foot down. Said they needed to stay with the pups. Both he and Akamaru promised they’d train night and day until the gang was back in the Leaf. Respect.
“I’m so glad you guys are here now!” Naruto beamed wide enough to split his face. “Seriously, it’s awesome. So many new jutsu to learn! Kushina-sensei said jonin from your clans will be invited here from time to time, so you’ll still get top-tier training. And we’re learning etiquette, diplomatic stuff, advanced strategies—it’s not like Iruka-sensei’s endless droning back in the Academy. Plus, we’ve already been sent on a few missions with Kuroumi and Akai.” (That’d be Sasuke and Gaara’s new code names, respectively. Naruto went by “Kin” now.)
“Guardian Shinobi training’s been around forever,” Neji noted. “An elder from my clan trained under the daimyo too—learned not just combat, but economics, politics, and leadership. But the tradition stopped generations ago… I don’t even know why.”
Almost two months had passed since I came back to the palace.
Kushina-san was now officially the mentor for Naruto, Gaara, and Karin—the girl from the Grass Country. Karin hadn’t joined the Guardian Shinobi, but she was studying under the palace’s medical-nin and learning fuinjutsu from Kushina. We’d become friends—she’s a good kid. Orphaned. Her mom died after a long illness, and Karin had been going on missions with adults since she was like, nine. She had some rare chakra-based healing technique that kicked in when she was in pain. The absolute psychos from her village used to bite her to suck out her chakra for healing. I saw her once in the bath—poor girl’s body was covered in old bite scars.
But apparently, once she learns to fully control her chakra, she might be able to heal all of it.
Kushina still hadn’t worked up the courage to tell Naruto she’s his mom. Ninja brain-melt. “Who am I now?” “How can I just drop that on him?” “Things are stable right now—I don’t want to ruin it.” I try to talk her into it daily. Sometimes I just whack her with a paw until she promises she’ll tell him soon.
At least she talks to me about everything.
Turns out they handed Uchiha Obito—the same one who used to help Minato—over to Orochimaru to win him over. But Kushina had sealed him up in some clever way to keep him from acting out.
The sannin might’ve gained a Sharingan and the ability to finally live out all his creepy science-fantasy dreams, but he was now firmly on our side—because the key to unsealing Obito was in Kushina’s hands. Classic hostage insurance. She said Orochimaru still had a grudge against Konoha, and as a former Hokage, she couldn’t let anything happen to the village.
And from a few things she let slip, I pieced together that old man Hiruzen… yeah. Pretty sure he ended up on Orochimaru’s dissection table. Creepy snake bastard probably got real hands-on.
Shisui was still working as a Guardian Shinobi, now going by “Sho.” Itachi, meanwhile, had way bigger fish to fry. He was infiltrating the Akatsuki. But when they captured Obito, he also learned something huge—on the night the Uchiha clan “died,” most of the women and kids weren’t killed. Obito had sealed them away somehow. He wiped their memories and later dropped them off on an isolated island way down south. So yeah, the Uchiha bloodline survived.
Maybe Obito had plans to rebuild the clan… who knows? But Shisui told me that soon, we might see a “Great Uchiha Migration.” Or maybe not. That’s their business. Maybe they’ll even strike a deal with Nekomata-sama—after all, Sharingan’s a valuable asset, and right now they’ve got zero protection. No one knows they exist—not even Kushina. That info? Straight from Shisui.
I’m that kind of cat who knows way too many secrets, yep. And yet I still nearly die of curiosity on the regular. That saying about curiosity killing the cat? Totally checks out. But let’s be honest—life’s a lot more fun and exciting this way.
“Kushina-sensei, you wanted to see me?” Naruto rubbed the back of his head, looking sheepish. “The crew from Konoha just showed up, so I was giving them a tour and, uh… then we kinda lost track of time chatting…”
“Oh! Tora-chan? You’re here too?”
I gave a dignified nod and stared straight at Kushina-san.
Do it already, oh mighty Bloody Habanero. Just tell him!
“Naruto…” Kushina wrung her hands and stepped up until she was nearly nose-to-nose with her son. “I’m… your mom.”
“…What?” Naruto blinked at her, completely stunned.
I slapped a paw to my face. Seriously? That’s how you drop the bomb? Like a straight-up military briefing?
And the best part? Both of them—both Uzumakis—turned and looked at me, like I was supposed to help them navigate this disaster. Typical. Can’t do anything around here without the cat.
“It’s true?” Naruto said quickly, then turned to her. “Come on, tell me properly!”
Kushina coughed awkwardly. “Shisui and I… didn’t tell you and Sasuke everything,” she began. “A year ago, when it all happened… I was the Nine-Tails’ jinchuriki. And I was also the Fifth Hokage. I hadn’t held the title long—just long enough to have the Third removed.”
“Shikamaru told us our intel was incomplete,” Naruto said, suddenly serious. “No one really knows why the Sarutobi clan made that move. If the Uchiha were being used, then maybe it wasn’t them running the village after all. We figured it might be the Senju pulling the strings—that their clan survived somehow. But… it was you. You, Uzumaki Kushina.”
“They used to call me ‘Red Hot Blooded Habanero,’” she muttered. “The Nine-Tails’ jinchuriki. They wanted to get rid of me and create a new jinchuriki—using my son. Normally, when you rip a Tailed Beast out of someone, they die. But I survived. Thanks to Tora-san… and Shisui. I couldn’t tell you earlier. Too much unrest. A jinchuriki has to learn to stabilize the Tailed Beast’s chakra. Besides… I wasn’t sure I’d survive. I didn’t want to give my son hope, only to hurt him again by dying a second time.”
“I—what?” Naruto’s voice broke as he threw his arms around her. “Don’t say that… Mom… You’re my mom. You’re alive. Really alive. I always looked at you with Gaara and Karin and thought… I was jealous, y’know? It felt like you were their mom. So kind and caring and… you really used to be called Bloody Habanero?” he added with a teary chuckle.
“Try cussing in front of her and you’ll find out why,” I muttered, my throat dry. For real though, what were they waiting for? Look at him now, waterworks in full swing—and Kushina too! Great. Now am I supposed to cry with them?
“Mama,” my little Chickpea finally pulled back. “Can you… can you adopt Gaara too? He’s a good guy. He’s like a brother to me. And maybe Karin too? She’s not that annoying. And she’s Uzumaki, right?”
“Of course, sweetheart,” Kushina laughed softly, hugging him tight again. “You have such a big heart… just like your father.”
“…Who was he?” Naruto asked, quietly.
“Minato Namikaze. The Fourth Hokage. He died protecting the Land of Fire when you were still a baby.”
I padded a few slow circles on Gaara’s still-skinny chest before curling up. Just listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. No sand cocoon this time—just a bed. A real one. He still had nightmares sometimes. That’s why I usually slept with him.
And you know what? I finally get that weird little house-elf from those old cartoons(1) I used to watch before—the one who said “happiness is when everyone’s home.(2)”
It’s true.
The shinobi world isn’t exactly peaceful or safe or, y’know, not a hot mess—but it teaches you to appreciate the little moments. The quiet ones. The precious ones.
And if something bad does happen again… well, they’ve got me.
And I’m awesome.
— THE END —
TN: That’s it—that’s the end of the story. Thank you all for reading! And special thanks again to Кицунэ Миято for the story and for the permission to translate it.
(1) The proper translation would be: “Now I perfectly understand the brownie Kuzya(2) from the cartoons of my childhood, who said that happiness is when everyone’s home”.
(2) The quote is from "Domovenok Kuzya" (Brownie Kuzya). A four-part series of Soviet puppet animated films about a brownie (house-elf) named Kuzya, based on the fairy tales of Tatyana Aleksandrova and scripts by Marina Vishnevetskaya and Valentin Berestov
2025-03-25 06:18:06 +0000 UTC
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I stumbled out of the fireplace in the living room, completely dishevelled, and found myself under the startled gaze of Charlie and Bill, who were in the middle of having a coffee.
“Er… Ron, something happen?” Charlie asked carefully, putting down his book and eyeing my dazed expression and the wand clenched in my hand.
“You look like someone just hexed the life outta you,” Bill snarked, though his sharp gaze ran over me, checking for injuries. Once he saw there was nothing obvious, he relaxed, gave his Prophet a shake, and disappeared back behind it like I didn’t even exist.
“Ron…” Charlie began, just as I slipped my wand back into its sheath. But then Mum bustled into the room.
“Oh, you’re back, love,” she smiled, heading towards the boys’ chairs, casting me a fond glance while wiping her hands on her apron. “Where’s Arthur? Go on, dear, wash up — dinner’ll be in about forty minutes,” she chattered, whisking away their empty mugs as she went, and vanished as quickly as she’d appeared. I could hear her voice behind the door, Ginny laughing, the twins shouting over each other — a whole other world I suddenly felt completely cut off from. But oddly enough, I calmed down. The panic ebbed away. That familiar hum of everyday life and the warmth of our bright little sitting room — it wasn’t like the gloom of that corridor in a dark wizard’s house, standing next to a murderer, even if the murderer was your father.
“Charlie… can I talk to you? Alone. And not in here,” I said, stepping quickly away from the fireplace — Arthur could’ve stepped through it any moment.
“Of course, Ron,” Charlie said at once, getting up. “Come on, we’ll go out into the garden. No one’ll bother us there.”
Bill just gave a mocking snort at our little secret chat and glanced up from the paper with a smirk, but said nothing. Charlie and I slipped out of the room in silence and headed to the far end of the garden, to the old bench beneath the apple tree.
“I need to tell you something, Charlie. Honestly, it’s better if you don’t know, but… I’m scared Dad’s going to wipe my memory,” I admitted awkwardly, still trying to find the right words. Charlie waited without interrupting, his face unreadable.
“Dad would never do that, Ron,” he said with a frown. “That’s mad talk — where’d you get that idea?”
“Yesterday I’d have said the same thing,” I gave a bitter laugh, running my hands through my hair. “But after what I heard today, I don’t know what to think anymore. It felt like he wasn’t even Dad — more like a stranger. A Death Eater using Polyjuice or something. You grow up thinking your dad’s just this soft-spoken bloke working in an office, and then you find out he’s a professional killer. He said things to that old hag on the portrait… Terrible things, Charlie. He laughed about it. Bragged. Listed the names of people he’s killed like he was chatting about the weather.”
I fell silent, the memory of that conversation hitting me all over again. I rubbed at my face like I could scrub it out of my head. And when I looked up at Charlie… he didn’t look shocked. Not one bit. In fact, the understanding, gentle look in his eyes — that same warm expression Dad always wore — made it clear.
He knew.
“I’m sorry, Ron,” he said simply. “It won’t be easy to live with now. You never should’ve overheard something you weren’t ready to hear. But now you have, and you’ll just have to carry it.”
“Oh, brilliant,” I snapped, my voice sharp. “So who else knows, then?” Realising that kind, dependable Charlie might’ve known — might’ve even helped — pushed me over the edge.
“All the younger ones didn’t,” Charlie sighed. “But only because we didn’t need your help. Bill and I handled it.”
“So Mum knew too?” I asked, stunned, picturing our sweet, bubbly Molly who screamed at spiders and wouldn’t harm a fly.
“Of course she did,” Charlie suddenly straightened, his tone going firm — like he was done tiptoeing around me. “Not only did she know, Ron, she agreed with him. You think if someone came for one of her children, she’d fend them off with a knitting needle instead of cursing them six ways to Sunday? Our mum’s from a powerful old family too. She was raised the same way Arthur was — same as the Malfoys, the Blacks, the Notts, or any other pureblood family. And you’d have been raised the same, if we hadn’t lost everything. You don’t have to accept it, Ron — but try to understand it. What happened needed to happen. Your problem is, you think like a Muggle.”
“Well, excuse me,” I bit out, sarcastic. “It’s just a bit hard to wrap my head around, alright? It’s like being dropped into some twisted medieval nightmare. Dark Lords, blood feuds, genocide... I’m not exactly thrilled about the idea of killing people to solve problems.”
“Listen, Ron,” Charlie said tiredly, closing his eyes for a moment before looking at me again, calm and clear. “Muggles have police. They’ve got courts. They’ve got God to judge and punish wrongdoers. But we’re wizards. We’ve got magic, and in our world, power rules — magical strength, money, and influence. Their laws and morals don’t work here. Or they don’t work well enough. Take this for example — you can be totally right and still get killed in a duel because the man who wronged you is stronger. Or you can take it to the Wizengamot and watch him walk free thanks to his connections and gold. You know how many Death Eaters from old families walked free after the first war? They got off right there in the courtroom. Declared innocent, so they could go right back out and sneer in the faces of the people whose loved ones they’d murdered.”
“But what about the courts, the Ministry, the Wizengamot?” I asked, still trying to make sense of it all.
“They don’t work, Ron. Not really. The Ministry and Wizengamot exist to protect the Statute — that’s all. But there are things you can’t just forgive, and the only way to balance them is with blood. A family — a House — isn’t just parents and kids under one roof. It’s one body, one will, one bloodline and magic. If a regular wizard is attacked, his family can choose whether or not to step in. But a House? A House must defend its own, guilty or not, ready to kill or die for them. One wound on one member is a wound on all. One insult to one is an insult to all. And it doesn’t matter if the person’s alive or dead — the House will answer for every loss, and repay every debt. That’s how the line continues.”
He paused, looking at me with something like pride.
“Long, long ago, two magical people met so that, thousands of years later, a wizard named Ron Weasley could be born. That’s the golden chain — the legacy. You’ve added your own link to it now, Ron. And every link needs to be strong — strong enough to hold up the rest of the chain, because the other end is your ancestors. And when that chain was broken — when most of the links were shattered — only one remained. Our father. The only surviving link, by pure luck. Now we’re just stray links hanging in the dark, cut off from everything before us. The only way to forge a new chain is through vengeance. Blood. If we don’t… the chain ends. The whole line is gone. All our ancestors — their lives, their deaths, their accomplishments — wiped out like they never existed.”
“But were all those deaths really necessary?” I asked at last, giving in a little under his words. As much as his passion stirred something in me, I couldn’t fully accept it. I was just glad I hadn’t had to take part in any of it myself.
“You think Dad’s a cold-blooded, cynical killer?” Charlie said gently. “He’s not, Ron. Only those directly responsible for the destruction of our family were punished—the ones who took part in the attack, who set foot on our land with murder in mind. Blood revenge isn’t about wiping out an entire family, like what was done to us. Only eight people were involved in the attacks that destroyed both our Houses. Their guilt was proven, beyond question. The ones who called us blood traitors were sentenced and the sentence carried out. It was their blood, and theirs alone, that washed away the mark they branded us with. No one else — none of their families — were touched. Our vengeance is done, our ancestors avenged, and now House Weasley can rise again, clean, with no debts of blood. You might not agree, but I swear to you — Dad had every reason to feel joy today. He’s finally free.”
“I still struggle with it, Charlie,” I admitted after a pause. “You — you’re still my kind, understanding brother, but now you’ve taken part in something brutal. And Dad — the gentle bloke who wouldn’t hurt a fly — turns out to be capable of cold, calculated killing.”
“Put yourself in his shoes for a minute, Ron,” Charlie said quietly. “You come home… and it’s all gone. The house, your huge extended family you only just saw at Christmas in Mum and Dad’s place — the noise, the joy, the presents, the laughter. And now? You’re alone in the world. Just because some wanted to steal your family’s land, and others thought it right to wipe you all out. Imagine coming back to the Burrow and finding it levelled. No Mum, no Dad, no Ginny, no us. And not even bodies left behind to bury. No graves to bring your kids to someday, so they know they once had grandparents, uncles, aunts — people who loved them.
“Not a single item from your mum to pass down to your child — just your stories, telling them that this wonderful, kind woman once lived. How long do you think your kid will remember her, Ron? As long as you do. But when you're gone, that memory goes with you. Without photos, heirlooms, stories told by others who knew her — we’d all just be names your children heard once and never thought about again.
“They won’t grow up in a family home, surrounded by things lovingly handed down by their ancestors — things made to be passed on with memory. We had some brilliant forebears, Ron — inventors, treasure hunters, alchemists, beast tamers, explorers. We never knew them, and now we never will. That’s what Mum and Dad went through — losing everything and having to start again. I respect them for trying to save what little was left, for bringing honour back to the name Weasley. And I’m glad it’s done. The debts are paid. We’re free.”
We sat there on the old bench in silence. The picture Charlie painted wasn’t exactly cheerful. But it made sense. Maybe that’s why old wizarding families banged on about ancestry all the time — not because they were snobs, but because it was about memory. About not forgetting who came before.
“And you know, Ron,” Charlie added, as if he’d read my thoughts, “we’re wizards. Our connection to the past isn’t just some poetic turn of phrase. Even Muggles believe their dead relatives look down on them — they think of them, remember them, feel them in some way. But we? We can actually see our ancestors. Feel their presence.”
“How?” I asked, blinking, suddenly remembering Harry’s story about the Mirror of Erised — how he’d seen his whole family, a massive lineage he never knew.
“There are special days, old ones, when we honour the dead,” Charlie said with a soft, almost dreamy smile that made him look just like Dad. “On those nights, the veil between our world and the next thins. You can talk to your ancestors, bring them offerings, thank them, ask their advice — even receive guidance. Though in Britain, these rites have fallen out of fashion, and blood magic’s heavily restricted. But sometimes, to summon a specific person, you need a drop of your own blood. That’s enough to get the Ministry breathing down your neck. Still… I saw them, Ron. I was seven. And when I realised all those people were my family… I felt their strength. Their support. I knew then I’d do anything to honour them. They didn’t deserve to be forgotten, even if I’d never met them. So — are we done here?” he asked, snapping out of it and getting up. “I’ll tell Dad to leave you be. Spare you the explanation,” he added as we started walking back. “And, Ron — Arthur is still the same loving father who put us all ahead of himself. He and Mum made sacrifices that went far beyond second-hand robes and hand-me-down books — and they deserve our respect. You might not understand that fully yet — you’re too young. But your children and grandchildren will. They’ll understand what it means to be part of a House. To be connected. I hope learning what Dad is capable of with his enemies won’t ruin your bond with him.”
I didn’t get it all. Not really. But I stopped flinching whenever I saw Dad. His sad little smile no longer reminded me of the cruel laugh I’d overheard. And who was I, really, to judge him? I’d never lost like he had. Never grown up in his world. My world — my everything — was my family. Not perfect, not broken — just mine. And maybe I wasn’t ready to kill for them… but I was ready to protect them, in whatever way I could. Could I live peacefully, knowing the people who murdered my family were walking around free and unpunished? I didn’t know. And I hoped to Merlin I’d never find out.
Arthur Weasley, to me, was still a kind, loving father. That’s all I’d ever seen of him. So I gave him a not-quite-genuine smile across the table, caught the flash of relief in his eyes, and we never spoke of it again.
The next few days were spent scrubbing the Black house top to bottom — mostly sorting out the bedrooms. I reckon Dumbledore asked Arthur, and Dad owed him too much to say no.
For me, the whole job was torture. Not just because of the dull, endless work, but because every time I moved down the corridor, the old hag’s portrait would yank open her curtains and start shrieking. Full-on wailing, swearing, hurling curses like mad. Seemed like Walburga had properly lost the plot after her little chat with Dad — not that she could tell anyone about it. So she raged. Dad, meanwhile, acted like nothing had ever happened. Like that whole conversation was just something I imagined.
But what really wore me down wasn’t the cleaning — it was being in someone else’s house, having to touch things that didn’t belong to me.
This house was dying. I could feel it. Like some ancient man on his deathbed, leaking the last of his life into everything around him. It felt cursed — like one of those altar stones that poisons the land when the bloodline dies.
Worst of all was Black himself. Spent most of his time upstairs, off his face drunk. When he did come down, he’d pick up right where his mum left off, shouting and swearing. They traded curses and insults until she passed out in her frame, and he’d lash out at her portrait — punching and kicking the frame like a lunatic, skin flayed off his knuckles, like he thought he could knock her right out of the painting and strangle her.
But the most disturbing bit? When he’d silence her with a charm and then calmly tell her, almost gleefully, about the bonfire he’d made in her bedroom. What he'd tossed on the flames this time.
Yeah. Black was burning through the family library, carting off whole crates of books and magical portraits to the fire. It never went out — burned day and night. No wonder the books weren’t even mentioned in canon. That madman would dump more booze on the flames from the family cellar, laughing like a maniac, then roast sausages and toast marshmallows over it. That was his favourite pastime. The twins, of course, were only too happy to join in just to get out of actual work.
I kept hoping Dumbledore would show up and put a stop to it, but he never did — not once. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already taken the books he wanted and couldn’t care less about the rest. Then again, most of those tomes were blood-protected — only Blacks could touch them. In anyone else’s hands, they were useless.
The worst part? The portraits. Screaming. Begging. Burning. I’d slam the door, cover my ears, choking on dust and mildew, and wish someone would do something horrific to that nutter upstairs. Whatever was going on in this house, it wasn’t cleaning — it was a bloody purge. Just like Dad had said, Black was wiping out the memory of his ancestors. Plates, silverware, heirlooms — tossed into sacks, dragged out back, destroyed.
What had his family done to him that he hated them this much? I don’t know. Maybe he was just barking mad, and being trapped in this place only made it worse. Me, I couldn’t help but see it like poking a dying homeless man with a stick. Yeah, maybe he stinks and rants, but he's still a human being. Let him go with dignity. But no one asked my opinion.
Still, I finally understood why Dad made such a fuss about us not taking anything from this place. Blood vengeance — at least the magical kind — had to be clean. No profit, no loot. Dad was dead serious about honour.
The house really pressed in on you. Like someone had papered prison walls with cheery floral wallpaper, but you could still feel the stone underneath. The whole place was gloomy — even the furniture felt like it might bite. I’d never seen such weird bugs in England. Even a dead plant in a pot might jab you with thorns or snap at your hand. And as for the rats, spiders, doxies, booklice, and living mould — the twins were thrilled with their haul.
By the time Harry and Hermione showed up, I was barely holding it together. All of us — except Percy, who was back prepping for the new term — had moved into Grimmauld Place. I flat-out refused, of course, but Mum and Dad insisted. Said the Burrow didn’t have any proper protections, and with You-Know-Who rising again, I could be a target — kidnapped as a way to get to Harry. Plus, Harry kept writing, desperate to be collected so he could actually talk to people. They’d already shoved a second bed into my room for him.
The whole house was now under the Fidelius Charm, with Dumbledore as Secret-Keeper. We weren’t allowed to leave. Not unless an approved adult brought us back every single time. Too risky.
Moody absolutely forbade anyone opening the windows. He didn’t live with us, but popped by nearly every day, clearing out cursed creatures, hexes, and the odd lurking beast — like the Boggart in the wardrobe. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d last much longer. If the pressure kept building, I was going to snap — or end up like Black, completely off my rocker. Between Moody, Black, and a parade of people I couldn’t stand, I was going spare.
Mundungus Fletcher stinking of booze, Lupin — who visited nearly every day and mostly just came for a meal, far as I could tell. A bunch of creepy, dodgy types from Knockturn Alley. Tonks — loud, clumsy, and constantly pulling pranks at dinner that only she found funny. The doors never stopped slamming, the portrait never shut up, and I felt like I was slowly losing my mind. Like I’d been chucked in Azkaban.
Lying there at night on a damp mattress, breathing in stale, mouldy air that not even spells could clear, I’d think about the Burrow. The wide fields. The breeze bringing in the scent of flowers. The fresh, dewy mornings. And when it got too bad, I’d sneak up to the roof.
On Saturday, Hermione arrived — Dad went to get her. She clocked how strung out I was right away, and honestly, she didn’t look too comfortable herself. The first day went okay. She talked loads about her summer, fired off a million questions, and kept me distracted. But the second day… that’s when she saw the last of the Black family library going up in flames. Her expression — that shock — it stuck. And whenever she saw Black after that, she flinched like she wanted to claw his face off. Must’ve been that she arrived later in canon and missed all this. Because now? She wasn’t quite so fond of Sirius.
She didn’t say anything — not out loud. We were guests, after all. But then she saw how he treated Kreacher…
I thought she was going to deck him. He’d just yelled at the poor elf — proper bellowed — then kicked him hard to get him out of the way. Kreacher tumbled down the stairs, squealing, then disappeared into a room, mumbling and clutching his backside.
Hermione was livid. It became our favourite topic during quiet moments while scrubbing another cursed drawer. But Sirius? He didn’t even notice.
Later, when Harry arrived, Hermione gave him an earful about his godfather. But he didn’t really take it to heart—and soon enough, he started defending Sirius, going on with some teary story about how his poor godfather had been bullied by his evil relatives as a kid.
Potter barely did any cleaning compared to the rest of us, but he was always hanging about with Padfoot upstairs, where I refused to go on principle. Didn’t fancy seeing Black’s mug. The two of them would bag up stuff from the rooms we hadn’t sorted yet, chatting away about the good old days—reminiscing about James and their so-called heroic Marauder years. Unlike me, Harry was genuinely in awe of Sirius. Thought he was some brave ex-Auror and all-round legend.
To be fair, Lupin had had a word with him and Sirius toned it down a bit, stopped sharing anything too dodgy. But it was a bit late by then. Harry had already heard about the time they strung Snape up by his ankles, and the rest of the nasty tricks they’d pulled to humiliate him. I wasn’t worried about Harry—he’s no gossip and knows how to keep things quiet. But if Dumbledore ever tells Snape to start training him, and Snape sees those memories? Merlin help us.
Harry, though, was chuffed. Unlike Hermione and me, he was loving Grimmauld Place. After all that time alone on Privet Drive, he thought it was brilliant living with his godfather, listening to wild tales, and having people coming and going all the time. Anything was better than the silence of that Muggle prison.
Then came the morning of the thirteenth of August—and with it, an unbelievable headline: eighteen Death Eaters had attempted a breakout from Azkaban. Since Black’s escape, security had been ramped up, mainly by throwing in more Dementors. The mass escape had been stopped, just, but the panic made things chaotic, and all the prisoners on the lower level got the Kiss. Every last one of them. The Prophet included names and those ghastly magical mugshots with them baring their teeth like mad dogs.
The Order called an emergency meeting straight away, but Mum locked us in the bedroom, so we had no idea who’d turned up or how many of them there were. Harry was fuming—proper sulking—and nearly kicked off a tantrum, especially when Sirius backed him up. When he wanted something, Harry was quick to trot out his “Boy Who Lived” title, or remind everyone he’d faced down Quirrell, or saved Sirius. But this time, it didn’t work.
He and Hermione spent a couple of hours griping about it while the meeting dragged on, tossing around wild theories. Meanwhile, I was staring at the moving photo of Bellatrix Black, thinking maybe I should have asked Snape exactly how he planned to help Bill find the Horcrux. After all the revenge drama, Sirius’ off-his-nut behaviour, and being locked up in this cursed house, the suspicion that had popped up in my head didn’t seem all that far-fetched anymore.
2025-03-25 06:06:28 +0000 UTC
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TN: Formatting’s fucked. For some reason, Patreon bolds everything and removes italics. There’s a PDF attached below if you prefer that.
As soon as I got back to the school, I went looking for Yuriko. Found her exactly where I expected—second floor library. She hadn’t changed a bit. Same cold expression, same frosty stare peeking out over the book she was reading. Although, I could’ve sworn there was the tiniest glimmer of amusement in her eyes... but with Yuriko, being sure of that kind of thing was basically impossible.
"Sensei, did I imagine it, or were you actually smiling in the car when that crowd tried to rip me apart for souvenirs?"
"You imagined it," she confirmed without even flinching. Her expression didn’t warm by a single degree, no sign of awkwardness, not even a twitch of her eyebrow. Still, something deep down told me she was absolutely full of shit.
"Thought so," I muttered with a smirk. That earned me a slightly raised brow—which could’ve meant anything from "Interesting" to "Why the hell are you still talking to me?"
"So what’s this mission we’ve got over the weekend?"
She studied me in silence for a few seconds, then nodded toward the balcony door.
"Rescue," she said once we stepped outside. "Another facility. Similar to the one where we first met. I’ve got coordinates. We’re flying out this weekend. Pack your desert-camo gear."
A quiet pause followed while I frantically tried to recall canon details and figure out what the hell kind of facility she meant.
"Everything’s cleared with Erika and Charlene. It’ll be you, me, Creed, and a couple of mercs. You know one of them. You’ll want to get acquainted with the other. We’ll rendezvous with the main team on-site. Sunday night, we breach their defenses, extract the mutants, and bounce. The mercs will handle cleanup. Cameras and comms’ll be down. We grab every drive and recording we find—those files’ll be useful down the line."
The "cleanup" part didn’t sit right with me, and she clearly saw it on my face. Her hand came down lightly on my shoulder, and her eyes locked onto mine. For once, that chilly distance wasn’t all-consuming. Beneath it, I could feel something steadier—firmness, understanding, even a trace of sympathy.
"You chose this path. Walk it. Think, doubt, adjust as needed. But don’t freeze in the middle of the road. That’s how you end up nowhere—just a statue of your own indecision. The road you’re on, Tobias, is paved with hard choices. With nightmares that’ll keep you awake. With blood. And with grateful tears. If you don’t cling to illusions, you won’t end up broken by reality."
"...I think I get it, Sensei."
The corners of her mouth ticked up—just barely—and her hand tightened on my shoulder in what I’d learned to recognize as her version of encouragement.
"I hope you do."
Understanding, I thought as I headed back to my room, doesn’t mean peace. I just wanted a shower. Maybe rinse away the heavy thoughts. The upcoming op would probably involve killing again. More decisions. More names to add to my internal graveyard.
After showering, I had to do two unpleasant things: cancel dates with Sinclair and Deadpool. First one was fine—Wolfsbane grumbled, sure, but she’d seen my training regimen, she knew what Oyama was like. She made me promise to take her to the movies next week, wished me luck, and went on her way.
Calling Wanda… was weirder. She wasn’t mad I canceled. If anything, she sounded happy about it. The whole conversation was rushed, weirdly cheerful. She ended with, "Okay, babe! Gotta prep for the weekend!"
Either I’m an idiot, or I know damn well who one of those mercs is gonna be. If I’m right… if I’m right, then I’m already scared. Sabretooth’s not gonna enjoy Deadpool’s circus act one damn bit.
Then again, they’re both professionals. They won’t ruin the mission. It’s after that I need to worry. Still, I feel better imagining Creed and Wilson pounding each other into paste while Oyama sits on a rock, munching popcorn like it’s a documentary. Actually… might wanna bring some popcorn packets. I can cook it with my powers. Could be funny.
The morning had been delightful for the elderly Fräulein. A perfect cup of coffee, and a lovely article in the Daily Bugle had her in an excellent mood.
The young woman seated quietly across from her respectfully said nothing, knowing better than to disturb her—especially since calling their superior merely "respected" didn't quite do her justice. Revered was probably closer to the truth.
"Well," the aristocrat said with a warm smile, gently setting the paper down. "What do you think of Salamander, my dear?"
"I liked him," came the serious reply from Liza—the same Liza who’d sparred with Tobias just yesterday. "Smart, strong, grounded. And his views are in the right place."
"Wonderful, Liza. Just wonderful." The older woman’s expression sharpened slightly. "Now listen closely. That boy is of great value to the Organization. I want his worldview, his values, and his instincts to stay intact. That is your minimum duty as his teammate." Her eyes bore into Liza’s. "The fact that you like him will only make your job easier. Stay close. Say the right things. Be the friend he leans on. If things get more personal…" She smiled with a wicked little curl to her lip. "Think of it as your bonus."
Liza held her gaze steady, though her ears turned slightly pink. The older woman just chuckled softly.
"What’s rare, Liza, is that this boy already thinks the right way—and without any real guidance from us." She tapped the paper lightly. "A united, powerful Humanity… that’s not just a dream. That’s the goal. Every branch of our Organization works toward that. Every one of us is a cog in a machine designed to bring humans together, to make us one people. The road is long, and yes, full of sacrifices—but the end? The end will be worth it. You were the top of your class, known for your focus and your gift for making people trust you. I know you’re young, and youth craves glory and action. But I’m asking you now, with all seriousness: take this task to heart."
"Go on, Liza," the older woman dismissed her with a small nod once the younger officer had agreed. She watched the girl’s retreating back for a moment, then let the kindly, understanding-aunt expression fall away from her face like a dropped mask.
People were a complicated tool, as her nephew had rightly put it—most useful in the hands of a skilled craftsman. And like any tool, they needed care to stay effective. That’s what these little chats were for: to reinforce their value, to inspire, to make them feel seen… and, ultimately, to deepen their loyalty.
Liza was dependable. Steady. Unlike Betty, who’d softened after years of family life and motherhood, this blue-eyed girl was still sharp-edged and efficient. And the environment she’d be operating in wouldn’t be doing her any favors when it came to mellowing out.
Young, but not naive. Idealistic, but not blindly fanatical. She’d make a fine piece in the game—one of many—to gently, subtly steer her nephew toward the Organization’s goals. Through casual jokes, whispered encouragements, little speeches full of fire and hope. The woman hadn’t decided yet what exact role Tobias might one day play, but she wasn’t about to let his potential go to waste. Especially not if it meant one day having to face him as an enemy.
And it wasn’t even about his power. Blood still meant something to her. If the time came, of course, she’d pull the trigger herself—but if there was a chance her nephew could remain on their side, why not take it?
So yes, the recruitment effort was now official. Ever since the boy had shown what he was capable of—and with S.H.I.E.L.D. sniffing around—no one was surprised the Organization had entered the ring.
But no brainwashing. No threats. No childish coercion. People forced into service were garbage: mindless meat puppets you could throw at a wall once and never use again. Real value came from those who gave everything willingly, with purpose—striving toward the same goals as their leaders.
"Let’s hope the slit-eyed one doesn’t screw it up," the woman murmured with a grim smile. "Sweet little Toby should go ballistic when he finds out sweet Auntie Sam and the Pentagon are busy housebreaking little girls." She chuckled dryly. "And we’ll clean it up so thoroughly that no one will even think of mutants or Salamander. The boy needs a clean public image, and X could be a useful boost for him later."
Around midday Saturday—right on schedule for deployment—Creed arrived. Sabretooth wore the same resting-bitch-face she always did, that eternal Logan-and-I-are-surrounded-by-idiots expression.
We met in the garage. Yuriko and I had just arrived, and she was hauling a fairly large suitcase, which she wordlessly tossed in the trunk. I was actually damn happy to see Victoria, and even happier when she smiled at me. Creed didn’t hold back—she pulled me into a crushing hug that made me grunt like a deflating tire.
"You’ve grown. Even look healthier," she said, holding me at arm’s length and giving me a good once-over. Then her gaze shifted to Yuriko, and she gave a surprisingly civil nod. "Hey, Yuriko."
"Victoria," my Sensei responded with her usual level of warmth—meaning almost none. "Right on time. Ready?"
"Mhm."
We were on the road for about an hour, heading away from New York. Creed perked me up with the news that Toad’s girl was pregnant and they were moving to the school permanently. "The bastard’s ecstatic. Keeps raiding baby stores like he’s on a mission from God. 'We’ve already got a whole room filled with baby gear, man!' You guys lose all sense sometimes."
I asked about her own love life, and she just snorted like I’d cracked a bad joke. Classic Creed. Yuriko, naturally, remained silent the entire drive, calmly handling the wheel like we were out for groceries instead of en route to a black ops mutant extraction.
"So, where are we going, Sensei?" I asked, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. Creed let out a low chuckle, amused by my tone.
"There’s a helicopter waiting. We’ll meet the rest of the team at the landing pad."
Ah, right. Getting flight clearance over the city’s a pain in the ass.
"Why are we flying out so early if the op’s scheduled for tomorrow night?" Creed asked, sounding more curious than usual—which for her was practically giddy.
"Desert terrain," Yuriko replied. "We’ll test how Tobias’s ability interacts with heavier weaponry. Since we’re heading that way anyway. McCoy sent the recording equipment."
So that’s what the suitcase was for. Of course. And as for the weapons...
"They’re already there."
The conversation petered out. Neither of them were big on talking. I, meanwhile, spent the rest of the ride mentally cycling through who we might meet at the pad—and what exactly those weapon tests would entail. Yuriko hadn’t mentioned them. Not that I asked. I’d gotten used to her brand of minimal communication. She told me what she deemed important. Lately, though... I’d noticed she was saying more than usual. Huh.
The road finally brought us to a small airfield—probably private. By then I’d already masked up and pulled on my hood.
The chopper was compact. From outside, I could see silhouettes already seated. Creed and I headed toward the passenger doors while Oyama made a detour to the admin building with a dry "Be right back." Honestly, with her poker face, I had to get her to say "I’ll be back" one of these days. Especially knowing about her adamantium skeleton. It would be too perfect.
Creed opened the hatch and hissed.
Yeah, no kidding. There was hissing coming from inside. From several people, harmonized as if in choir. And then a voice I knew very, very well—and was actually thrilled to hear—spoke up. Deadpool. Lately, she’d become a lot more than just some crazy merc with a mouth. Hard not to care about someone who literally reattached your mom’s arm, y’know?
"Whoa, easy! You girls hiss like my frying pan. Are we related?"
As Creed climbed inside and took her seat, the voice went on:
"Well, if it isn’t Sabre-Bitch herself! Been a hot minute! How’s your brooding beefcake of a brother?"
Then it was my turn to board. And I’ll be honest—I kinda didn’t wanna. The crew inside was... eclectic. Deadpool, some redheaded woman in her thirties with the kind of scowl that said she’d punched people for less than a sneeze... and two figures dressed head to toe in black, faces hidden behind fully-tinted motorcycle helmets.
Why did I immediately think vampires?
Well, one, because the getup practically screamed it. And two, their thermal signatures were way colder than normal. One of them was clearly a kid.
“Hey everyone,” I greeted the group as I climbed aboard, timed perfectly with Victoria’s low, barely-audible grumbling at Deadpool. I think I caught something like “you again,” but the rest sounded like mumbled cursing… or maybe I just misheard—Sabretooth usually didn’t bother with actual profanity, just radiated it by sheer presence.
“Yo, Salamander!” Wanda chirped from her seat between the redhead and a very unimpressed-looking Victoria. “Ready for a thrilling weekend full of adrenaline, blood, and violence?”
“Good to see you, Pool,” I said honestly, then gave the rest of the crew a quick glance. “Ladies, good afternoon. Salamander, at your service.”
Silence.
Creed was eyeing the two helmeted figures with barely concealed suspicion, flaring her nostrils dramatically before wrinkling her nose in distaste. Wanda looked like she was about five seconds from napping. The redhead gave me a quick glance—and wow, was she related to Logan and Victoria? Because she had that same signature "ugh, a talking turd" look down to a science.
Strangely enough, the first to speak was the smallest of the vampires.
“I’m Lily-Rose, and this is Marishka,” said the child-sized figure, nodding toward her more grown-up companion. “Nice to meet you in person, Salamander.” Her voice was soaked in mischief. “You never wrote back, you know. I waited. Shattered my delicate little heart into a thousand bloody pieces.”
“Hm…” was all Victoria said, shooting me a sideways glance. Deadpool scratched the back of her head like she was trying to hide a grin. The redhead? Still pretending the window was more interesting than us. But I could tell her ears were locked in on every word.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I replied. “I figured I’d keep my blood to myself for a bit. Also, my mom doesn’t like me sneaking out at night. But hey, I do know a guy—crazy regen, rugged good looks, charismatic as hell, noble five-o’clock shadow. Want me to hook you up?”
Hey, she shouldn’t have been eyeballing Yuriko like that. Call it… academic jealousy. Totally normal.
Across from me, Creed broke into a predatory grin, showing off her slightly-too-large canines. Looked like Big Sis Sabretooth was enjoying the idea of her little bro picking up some fanged admirers.
“Oh yes, please,” Lily giggled, whipping out a pink flip phone with a bunny charm dangling off it. “Regen boys are a rare species. And if he’s hot? Even better.”
Before I could blink, Victoria had already started dictating Logan’s number. Damn. That joke escalated quickly. But whatever—Sabretooth wasn’t about to rat me out, and worst-case scenario, I could always crash at one of Magneto’s hideouts. Heh.
“You two are like the ultimate matchmakers!” Wanda laughed from her seat. “Hey, Punisher Princess, maybe Hairball and SuperDong can find you someone too!”
That got a snort from the redhead. Victoria coughed delicately, smoothing her immaculate hair—which, for the record, she now styles herself. I, meanwhile, choked out, “Super what?!”
“Oh, Salamander, you should see what people are posting about you and your… little sidekick.” Wanda leaned in with mock-conspiracy. “They say that codpiece of yours isn’t for protection—it’s for public safety. If it weren’t there, sweet law-abiding girls would be turning criminal just to get arrested by you.”
Victoria howled, tilting her head back and laughing from her chest. Even the Punisher cracked a grin—actually a nice one, if I’m being fair. The vampire girls joined in too: the little one giggled like a bell, and the taller one let out a stifled laugh-cough under her helmet. And me? I laughed right along with them. Gotta admit, it was hilarious. Locker-room-level banter, but hey—when in mutant merc company, right?
Our little moment was cut short when Yuriko slammed the chopper door and started flicking switches like a seasoned pilot. Looks like it was go time.
Shame we weren’t flying an invisible jet, but with this many outsiders on board, the X-Men weren’t exactly advertising their ride.
2025-03-25 06:03:24 +0000 UTC
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TN: Formatting’s fucked. For some reason, Patreon bolds everything and removes italics. There’s a PDF attached below if you prefer that.
As she prepared to lie with Godwyn to birth the Rune that would be bestowed upon a new Lord and usher in a new Age for the Lands Between, Fia never imagined that the dream she had pursued for so long… would come true, but with such drastic changes.
“You entered the Deathdream on your own will…” Fia murmured, glancing around.
The space around them shimmered and warped, the world appearing like a reflection of itself—both familiar and not. Even their perception felt off, as if…
Well, they were dreaming.
Their bodies were asleep in death beside the corpse, but their consciousness was very much awake. The Deathbed Companion possessed many talents far beyond the reach of most living beings, and even she hadn’t expected that a warrior and sorcerer as powerful as the Tarnished—blessed by the Sun, no less—would also be capable of something this… specific.
“Someone once told me I spent more time in the Hunter’s Dream (1) than I ever did outside,” Kosta remarked flatly, unfazed by the strange landscape.
After all, the Hunter’s Dream was home to one of the few waifus in that game—causing many poor fans to linger much longer than they needed to. When a game’s waifu count is tragically low, you learn to treasure the few you get.
Bloodborne’s mechanics had revealed themselves to him on a whole different level.
He squinted warily. “...Just as long as I don’t suddenly grow tentacles.”
Strange as it sounded, there were some mechanics he’d really rather avoid.
Fia blinked at his quiet muttering, but—luckily or not—she would never get the chance to puzzle it out. The one who guarded the Deathdream of the first slain demigod had no intention of ignoring intruders.
Red lightning tore through the illusory realm. Four massive dragon wings spread wide, unleashing gales of wind that twisted the already unstable space even further.
Whether this was a dream, a spirit world, some form of projection, or something else entirely didn’t matter.
What mattered was that Kosta now had a worthy foe—and another chance to rewrite a waifu’s ending.
Reused asset or not, this was a good one.
If Gwyn saw a dragon that could wield lightning this skillfully, he might not have survived the excitement.
Long since stripped of sanity, the ancient dragon remembered only his purpose: to guard his friend. His soul remained steadfast in its duty, bound to it no matter how much time had passed.
…Maybe it could’ve been a brilliant questline, if it had ever been properly developed.
Kosta clicked his tongue.
Fia had already suspected how her path might end. She knew the Prince of Death’s guardian wouldn’t let her go without a fight, but she still reached out to all the dead energy lingering in this dream-space.
The gentle prince had no objections to someone claiming all that power.
…Of course he didn’t. He was, you know, dead. And unlike most undead in the Lands Between, properly, certifiably dead.
Konstantin calmly stared down the furious lizard, bowing deeply.
Even if the game had let this storyline rot on the cutting room floor, here and now, he could show his respect to a being who had sacrificed so much for a friend.
He raised his eyes to the red lightning-riddled sky and extended his hand, calling forth a bolt of golden lightning—just like the dragon’s.
Honestly, he probably didn’t even need a weapon. It’d just break anyway. Magic was plenty. But Kosta still wasn’t a full-blown casual. Not yet. Besides, this was different.
This was a lightning duel between two seasoned casuals.
He glanced back at the Deathbed Companion. “Stay behind me.”
“Be careful, my Sun…”
Kosta didn’t answer. He simply stepped forward.
In a way, Fia’s words had been ironic. The moment he crossed an invisible boundary, the red lightning—once roaming aimlessly through the realm—awoke.
Fia knew how strong her Sun was. In some ways, she was one of the few who truly understood just what kind of monster he was—so far removed from mere mortals or even Tarnished that comparison felt meaningless.
The issue wasn’t just that he didn’t count as human anymore. It was that his very nature operated on a different level. Something not of this world.
And still, it was one thing to know your Sun could explode and annihilate everything in sight… and another to see a glimpse of that explosion in person.
As if the lightning itself had gained awareness, it surged toward him, slipping through his body and dissolving without ever touching him.
If Melina had been nearby, she might’ve noticed something else—Kosta was dodging far less often. He seemed to be changing his entire combat style, adjusting to something new.
Preparing for something.
Evading the storm of red bolts, the Tarnished suddenly lunged forward, hurling his own lightning with such force that the dream-realm itself trembled.
The blast was so intense that Fia flinched, then clapped her hands over her ears. The thunder that followed echoed through the space like a divine roar. The anguished cry of the ancient dragon’s soul sounded quiet and gentle by comparison.
And that… was just the beginning.
Then came the second bolt. The third. The fourth…
She had been ready to die the moment she entered the Deathdream, to birth the Rune at the cost of her life. But she hadn’t been ready for this—for someone to start unraveling the dream itself.
The dragon’s howls, touched by conceptual death, grew louder. The space around them dissolved into a storm of crimson-gold lightning.
“…They’re getting a bit carried away.”
Fia glanced in surprise at the towering, horned woman in a white dress now calmly standing beside her.
“How did you even get in here?”
The great dragoness looked her in the eye, entirely unfazed.
“I hugged you very tightly.”
Fia’s mouth fell slightly open as she imagined what their bodies must look like right now… in the real world.
The great dragoness quickly forgot the madwoman intent on birthing a key to rewrite the laws of the Lands Between inside her own body, and focused instead on the battle.
She had been rotting alive for centuries, longing only for release from her suffering. Then someone appeared—someone who, perhaps even to his own surprise, managed to help her.
Under normal circumstances, she might have bowed her head to the future Lord and his Outer God. But she quickly realized there was no point in doing so.
The Tarnished had his own vision of the future, and she was not part of it.
That didn’t mean she wouldn’t help him. Her duty as a great dragoness was far too deeply rooted to ignore. Still, her true aid would likely only come after the Tarnished claimed the throne and solidified faith in his chosen Outer God.
There were still plenty of her kin across the Lands Between, and they were not going to go quietly. She could help deal with them. No—she would help.
Becoming Lord and establishing a new Order, a new Age… that would only be the first step. The Lands Between still harbored countless other problems that even if the man split himself into dozens of pieces, he couldn’t solve alone.
“Praise the Sun,” she murmured, lifting her gaze to the twisted black sky.
It seemed to her that rays of sunlight pierced the thick clouds, filling her chest with warmth—an unfamiliar sensation. Hope. That maybe, just maybe, not everything was lost.
At some point, the battle between the Tarnished and the maddened ancient dragon took a strange turn. Their exchange of lightning began to resemble a contest more than a duel.
A casual lightning dance.
The half-lost soul of Fortissax could feel defeat creeping closer. Yet somehow, the dread gave way to thrill.
Konstantin wasn’t trying to overpower his opponent with brute strength. He was calculating—like always.
“Spearthrow.”
Step back.
“Flame breath.”
Dodge.
“Combo.”
Dodge, dodge, dodge...
No matter how Fortissax mixed up his attacks, no matter how unpredictable his patterns, no matter how the entire dreamscape flooded with bolts of red lightning—he was an open book to Kosta.
An overleveled casual hardcore player, making no effort to hide it but never mocking the fallen beast either, let the dragon show his full power before the end.
And the lightning Kosta hurled back in return?
Well, the dragon had decent lightning resistance, after all.
Besides, this wasn’t even the real world. This fight was less a battle and more a clash of intentions—a duel of souls.
But even that had limits.
He’s tiring, Kosta noted as he observed the dream-arena, which now barely held together. The red lightning had almost vanished. The dragon himself, who had once charged so fiercely, slowed down. His movements, once sharp and relentless, had grown sluggish.
Kosta didn’t want to drain him completely. A dragon so loyal to his friend deserved to fall with wings held high.
Apparently, Fortissax sensed that. The battle ceased.
Tarnished and ancient dragon stood facing each other, motionless. Crimson-gold sparks still crackled beneath their feet.
“I hope someday I can free your souls,” Kosta said evenly.
He knew he couldn’t restore the natural cycle of death and rebirth overnight. That would take research, deep dives into lore, and a serious understanding of mechanics he still hadn’t unlocked.
But eventually, the ending he envisioned would come to pass.
Maybe their first real fight in centuries stirred something in the mind of the once-mighty dragon. For a moment, it seemed as if Fortissax understood. He threw back his head and howled—louder than ever—then…
…lifted his claws to the Sun.
Clearly, the bond between their souls had formed.
Kosta nearly teared up, raising his hands to the sky alongside his new friend.
“Marika’s tits…”
Latenna, who normally preferred silent observation, couldn’t handle the pure wholesomeness and vanished into the depths of the spirit bell.
“Praise the Sun, my friend…” Kosta whispered, extending a hand.
He could feel it—Fia had already finished forming the new key that would rewrite reality. There was nothing left to worry about.
This time, he didn’t hold back. The bolt of casual lightning in his hand grew larger and larger by the second, quickly eclipsing even him in size.
In moments, the golden spear—woven from countless tiny bolts and crackling with energy that warped the very dream around it—towered over even the ancient dragon.
Fortissax, not to be outdone, raised his claws(2) and conjured two massive tridents of lightning to match.
In the next instant, both the Tarnished and the dragon let loose their thunder.
The dreamspace, already held together by hope and a prayer, stood no chance.
“...”
Melina had never struggled to find him, thanks to her connection with the Torrent. Lately, she’d even started to think the warmth of the ring was enough to guide her to him, even without that bond. But that wasn’t the point.
What mattered… was what she found.
There, curled against the long-dead corpse of an ancient dragon, the man lay asleep—peacefully—snuggled up with two women. One of them, due to her sheer size, was basically using him as a pillow. The other was… the Tarnished with perhaps the most questionable inclinations she’d ever seen.
A sleepy smile spread across Konstantin’s face, as if he were dreaming of something blissful.
“...”
Melina exhaled slowly and closed her eye, noting with surprise that the miasma in the air had weakened. The curse in this area had lifted. The air was cleaner.
It made a bit more sense now. Her Tarnished was, thankfully, still clothed.
Sensing something, Konstantin opened his eyes and found her standing there, as unreadable as ever.
“The Lord of Blood’s body has disappeared,” Melina said quietly. “Konstantin… who would take my brother’s corpse? May I know?”
He was still her brother, after all, no matter how complicated her feelings. She didn’t care much for what happened to him, but the least she could do was find out where he went.
From the man’s actions, she quickly realized he’d wanted the Lord of Blood’s body to be stolen.
Kosta, now sensing the presence of a new Great Rune within himself, simply shrugged.
“The evil little boy doesn’t sleep.
Somehow, that sounded even more ominous to Melina than fighting the Elden Beast and the Greater Will combined
“The evil little bo—”
She cut herself off as she saw her Tarnished sigh with deep, world-weary exhaustion.
The kind of sigh only a true scholar of fragmented, contradictory lore could make.
Scholarly love through scholarly hate—he’d felt it in its entirety.
The real battle was still ahead.
The Deathbed Companion stirred slightly, her eyes fluttering open at the sense that something strange was happening.
Then she quietly shut them again, pretending to sleep.
For some reason, that just felt like the smartest thing to do.
The Lands Between were an insanely dangerous place. Without some measure of power, simply traveling across them would be a death sentence for the vast majority of beings.
It hadn’t taken Millicent long to fully regain her skills. Traveling with Konstantin, she had been given the chance to fight, yes—but always under his watchful eye, never truly at risk. But only in a real battle—just like any proud hardcore player who rejected spirits and summons—could she truly come into her own.
It took just a few… well, maybe a bit more… okay, a bit of time for her to adjust to her new arm completely. In a way, it felt even more like her own than the original. It made her stronger.
But that didn’t save her from facing a truly dangerous enemy.
Dominula, the Windmill Village, perched in the north of the Altus Plateau. Who would’ve thought her journey would lead her to such a bizarre place?
A field blanketed in flowers and filled with corpses of dancing women. They celebrated an endless, demented festival—and judging by the flayed, skinless human remains hanging like decorations, it was all part of some terrible, never-ending ritual.
At the peak of the village waited a being, watching the eternal celebration: a Godskin Apostle.
When she engaged him in battle(3), Millicent quickly realized she’d overestimated herself—especially once the vaguely human creature stretched like a serpent and began manipulating that eerie, unnatural black flame.
The peaceful field had lulled her. She’d forgotten that it wasn’t just the Starry Wastes that crawled with grotesque horrors.
She could still win. But doing so would mean tapping into the warmth Konstantin had given her. She craved risk—but risking a relapse into rot, and failing to reach her true end, wasn’t worth it.
Just as she was preparing to retreat, the Apostle closing in—
A barrage of glittering arcs slammed into the monster, forcing it to shift focus.
Bald. Bare-chested, muscles coiled tight across his torso. A sword in one hand and a sorcerer’s staff in the other. He radiated the aura of a veteran battle-mage who had walked the long, punishing road of both hardcore and casual.
“I sensed the blessing of the Sun nearby,” the man said sternly. “So I came to help!”
The shirtless mage raised his hands to the sky. A small orb formed above his head—once shining with starlight, now glowing golden, like a miniature sun.
It was none other than Sorcerer Thops.
Millicent blinked in surprise, immediately recognizing… that signature style.
It seemed there were far more followers of the Sun than she’d ever realized.
(1) The Hunter’s Dream — the Bloodborne equivalent of the Roundtable Hold, serving as a hub area.
(2) While it may sound a little ridiculous to those unfamiliar with the game, this is in fact a real attack. Example: https://youtu.be/zcCxY8_l_s0?t=152
(3) During her questline, the player can summon Millicent in the village for the fight against the Godskin Apostle.
2025-03-25 05:59:56 +0000 UTC
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Night was already creeping in, and every damn movement still made my brain go, “Why the fuck was that so fast?”
While waiting for Becca, I skimmed the theory behind the procedure they'd done to me. Neocortex—the “new” cortex. Just 2–4 millimeters thick, but responsible for the big stuff: sensory input, motor control, conscious thought, and speech. Basically, what makes a human a human. But below that lies the old brain—the unconscious, the autopilot, the lizard shit keeping your guts in check. Thing is, evolution never really streamlined the link between those two layers. That’s where the delay comes in—between thinking and doing. The operation tweaked that pathway, cut out some middlemen.
“Sounds mega-dry,” Becca summed up while we sat in a rented Thorton. “But lemme guess: you’re faster now and a little buggy?”
“Yup.”
“Hold up…”
She tossed an open pack of gum onto the dash—neon pink and green with bubble graphics and little skulls.
“Who grabs it first, wins. Go?”
Reflex test? Sure, why not.
On the first go, I beat Becca easily… but missed the damn thing and knocked it onto the floor.
“Again!” she barked, diving to grab the pack.
Second time, same story, except this round I managed to catch it between two fingers before it fell.
We did it eight more times. Every time, same result: body’s faster, but accuracy’s shot to hell. Swiped the gum, smacked the dash, dropped it—whatever.
“All right. Let’s hit the first spot,” I said, glancing over my shoulder.
Under a green tarp in the backseat was a pile of weapons.
“Let me guess—you brought the grenade launcher?”
I meant the M-32 auto 40mm we looted off the Brazilians.
“Well, duh. You said to pack heavy. Why’re you laughing?!”
“It’s like I just dropped into a movie.”
“What movie?!”
“Take your pick,” I chuckled. “You didn’t happen to bring a flamethrower too, did you?”
“…Maybe. So what?”
“Okay. Let’s roll.”
We had six private datacenters to check across the city. Small-time ops under gang or crooked cop protection.
First, we stopped by a clothing market so I could ditch my flashy corp-style threads. Picked up some godawful synthetics Becca picked out—a green tee with red splatter patterns, a blue puffy jacket that reeked like a chemical spill, matching sneakers, and neon green shades. I looked like a low-level netrunner chasing delusions of grandeur. My twitchy post-op movements? Easy to mistake for someone tweaking off a fresh batch of street sludge. And Becca beside me? Perfect partner in crime. We looked like two chaos junkies out for kicks.
Disguise? Check.
Security at the first center—a pair of Valentinos—let us through for 400 eddies. Honestly? Cheap as hell.
Inside was a tight room humming with ancient servers. Half that shit probably ran just to heat the dust in the air. I jacked into one system, scanning for suspicious activity during the Konpeki hit. Took about fifteen minutes. Nada.
Threw in some fake, harmless programs just for show, then moved on.
Second datacenter? No trouble. Except for Becca wanting to eat some abandoned pizza.
“We’ve got eddies. We can order a whole damn pizza truck.”
“Yeah, but look at it… it’s right here! Looking at me…”
“As long as it doesn’t start talking to you,” I smirked. “Just give it to some hobos. We’ll get fresh. With crunchy grasshoppers on top.”
But the third place? Yeah, that one smelled like trouble.
Old industrial building in Northside. Real shithole. Well past midnight by the time we got there. Two Maelstrom newbies stood at the door—guy with just a couple red optic mods, and a girl with a knockoff Cyclops-style face visor.
“Private party tonight,” the guy slurred, stepping in our way. “Fuck off, plebs.”
Wrong move.
“Who the fuck you calling a pleb, dickhead?!” Becca flared up instantly, gun drawn before they even processed what was happening. “I’ll punch you a new pair of eyes right in that chrome skull!”
The Maelstrom kids froze. Newbies, no doubt—probably hadn’t fried their brains on enough synth yet. Caught between fight-or-flight and realizing they were already staring down a gun barrel. Aggression? Maybe not the best move here. Peace, love, and bubblegum?
I wasn’t too worried about the front-door duo. What had me more on edge was who might be inside. I spotted a silhouette moving toward the entrance—saw it through the wall with optics. No weapons. Not a gango. Just a greasy-looking blonde with a pretty-boy face I instantly didn’t trust.
“Easy, now,” he told the red-eyed fucks. “We’re leaving. No reason to pick fights. Go on—scram.”
They looked at him. Then at Becca. Then wordlessly slinked off toward a nearby van. Weird. He paid them off? Even so, Maelstrom ain’t exactly known for good behavior. And yet, not a peep of protest.
Another chromehead followed the blondie out—this one better modded. Walked right past us toward the van.
“Sorry about that,” said the blonde with a smile I wanted to punch. “You all right, choom?”
“I’m good.”
His glassy blue eyes scanned me like a fucking virus. I had to resist reaching for my piece.
“Movements are desynced. What’d you get installed? Ah, shit, sorry. Bit forward for strangers. Here—”
He handed me a slick little card, which I accepted with my cyberarm.
“If you’re ever in the mood for something… special, give me a ring. Ciao.”
And with another too-wide grin, he turned and strolled off to the van. I scanned him—nothing popped. Still, something felt off. Had we met?
I glanced down at the card. Surrounded by snakes, butterflies, and bloody claws, it read:
“Peter Riviera’s Sensory Illusion. Braindances for the bold. The most extreme experiences.”
Ah. One of those black braindance sickos. That’s who he reminded me of—Jimmy Kurosaki, may he rot. Makes sense Maelstrom gave him so much leash. They love that twisted shit. He’s probably under protection from one of their top psychos.
Alright. No shootout—I'll take that as a win. At first, I was gonna toss the card, but then thought, fuck it, might as well scan it. If that “Sensory Illusion” joint is under the Red-Eyes, it might come up in some future job. Kidnappings for black braindance recordings or whatever. “Sensual Illusion,” my ass. Who comes up with this shit?
We spent about twenty minutes combing through the third datacenter. Nothing. Not even a trace of what Riviera was doing there. Cleaned up well, even if he didn’t look like a seasoned netrunner.
The fourth spot was in the basement of a Chinese food joint. Place was so smoky the walls were practically stained yellow. Despite the late hour, seven or so people were still working. Every now and then, a fat woman came down from upstairs to peddle her dumplings.
“You need energy for your brain to work!” she declared, waving a chopstick around. “You need strength! Take the good gyoza. Fatty! Little broken, but I give you discount!”
The netrunners bought them quick—probably just to shut her up so they could focus. Toward the end of the scan, four Tyger Claws walked in. I reached for my piece, but they didn’t give a single shit about us. Grabbed some scrawny dude with twitchy eyes. Becca looked like she was about to jump in, but I put a hand on her shoulder.
“Not our problem.”
“No shootouts tonight?” she asked, visibly disappointed.
“Night’s not over. Or morning, I guess,” I muttered, as yelling in Japanese came from outside.
Sounded like the runner they nabbed tried to hack a Tyger-owned node. Real dumbass move. Yak security’s better than most give them credit for.
Our patience paid off—maybe it was the discounted dumplings. I found a hidden, masked software module embedded in a router’s service firmware. And it had been active the night Konpeki went to shit. T-Bug’s work? Possibly. Whoever coded it had serious chops—most corp runners wouldn’t even notice it. But what really bugged me was that I found it in deleted files. If Bug got fried during the raid, who came back to wipe the logs? The center’s owner? Could be.
When we left the dumpling dungeon, I called Lucy.
“Hey. When you were working inside Konpeki’s net, did you notice any other runners poking around?”
“I did. Yeah. But by the time I noticed, I had bigger shit to deal with.”
Right. Like playing suicide-by-corp-sweep for my so-called rescue.
“They got in clean. We’d already disabled the gatekeeper runner. They didn’t try to jump me.”
“Luce… when you say ‘they,’ you mean it literally? Or are you just using plural?”
She paused. Five seconds of silence while I stared out at city lights through the windshield. Becca was quietly humming some random tune.
“I think I noticed something, but I wouldn’t bet eddies on it. Everything was going to hell, V. We opened a door into guarded corp territory. I’m not shocked someone else slipped in. They didn’t bother us, and back then, I didn’t give a damn about the rest.”
“No blame,” I said. “Just trying to figure out what really went down that night. The little shit that might matter.”
Could DeShawn have hired another runner after bot thing flaked out? Maybe they had another bot, like ours. Pretty sure we didn’t grab all the toys outta that Militech convoy. Would be nice to hear it firsthand from those who were there. But Jackie and his partner still hadn’t resurfaced. I’d hoped they’d reach out to me or Vik. So far, nothing. And that silence? It was starting to piss me off.
“All right, let’s move,” I said to Becca.
The fifth place was out on the edge of the city, Sixth Street turf. Looked like an ordinary house but rigged up like a server bunker, with a homemade relay tower slapped onto the neighboring building. The place was buzzing—bunch of young Sixth Streeters busy pushing propaganda for Peralez. They were hijacking broadcasts, splicing their candidate’s mug into random vids, and cheering like mad every time something landed. No fear of Tyger Claws here—no corp channel was gonna bother retaliating, and crossing Sixth Street on their own turf? Yeah, that’s asking for a closed-casket.
While waiting our turn, I noticed we had company. Four guys in a piss-yellow Archer Hellhound loitered nearby, stealing glances at us and our ride just a little too obviously.
“You see that car?” I whispered to Becca. “Don’t stare too hard.”
“That busted junker? Yeah. What about it, choom?”
“Looks like we might finally get that shootout.”
“Fuck yeah.”
When it was my turn, I dug through deleted files again—there was something fishy, but not enough to say for sure. Either someone scrubbed the logs better here, or the campaign traffic just drowned it out. Those kids were dumping gigabytes of homemade Peralez vids every minute.
“All right, we’re bouncing,” I muttered, then pinged Lucy. “We’ve got a probable tail. Can you cover us?”
“Where to?”
“Back to our tub or your chair. Just need some net overwatch.”
Once we stepped out and got in the car, the Hellhound followed after a short pause. Subtlety clearly wasn’t their strong suit. Sloppy work.
“Where to, choom?” Becca asked. “We could dip into North. I know a badass little alley out there.”
“Sounds good,” I said, adjusting my vest so it wouldn’t show.
“Luce, we only got one car tailing us?” I asked. “What’s their ICE look like?”
“One car. Their ICE is trash. If they’re working for anyone, it’s recon, not hitters.”
“Perfect. We’ll lure ‘em into a quiet corner and ask real nicely what they want.”
Becca gunned it, pulling ahead just a bit before diving between a row of rusted-out shipping containers and onto the lot of some abandoned factory. A couple windows still had light, though. Not a surprise—probably squatters or lowlifes. Even Night City’s dead zones cling to life thanks to scavengers and parasites.
She killed the engine, grabbed her assault rifle, and hopped out. I followed, locking the ride behind us.
“This way,” she said, tugging my sleeve.
We ducked behind a concrete road barrier, long-abandoned and covered in graffiti. Glass shards crunched underfoot. I pulled out my Yukimura smart pistol—needed that extra auto-aim right now. My left hand raised a micro-cam just over the top.
Yup. There they were.
Their car stopped about ten meters from ours. All four stepped out—a Black guy, a Latino, and two white dudes. Cheap synth threads, hands too close to their guns. No heavy cyberware flagged on the scan. Whoever sent them clearly had no idea who they were fucking with.
One of the four pulled out some kind of tool—looked like he was about to jimmy the car open.
"We jumping 'em?" Becca whispered right into my ear, close enough to tickle.
"Yeah. Just make sure we take one alive. And try not to hit the flamethrower on the back seat."
"Go time!"
Becca shot up like someone had installed a spring in her spine along with her bone reinforcement. She moved in short, precise bursts. The poor bastards didn’t stand a chance—they did pretty much everything wrong.
First, they froze for half a second, which was long enough for one of them to catch three rounds to the dome. Not ideal. Then the other three bolted in the same direction—straight back to their ride—without even trying to use ours for cover.
They fired back too, technically. Sprayed rounds in whatever direction like bugs scattering when the kitchen light flips on. No plan, no aim. Pure panic.
I aimed for the leg of the one furthest left and squeezed the trigger.
The smart rounds danced through the air, weaving a path before tearing through the blue-and-white track pants just above the knee. The guy staggered but didn’t drop. Needed a little extra.
Three more rounds did the trick. He finally hit the ground. Becca had already handled the rest.
I tossed a quick amnesia his way, then rushed him before it wore off to disarm the punk. No problem pulling that off. Didn't look like he’d bleed out either. Good—we could have a chat.
"Who you working for?" I asked, leveling two pistols at him—mine and his ex-Lexington.
"Shit, fuck! That hurts!" he whined, writhing on the pavement—but he was quick to realize a hole in his leg wasn’t his biggest issue right now. "Workin'? Me? Hell no, choom! You got the wrong guy. Shit… I need a ripper, man."
"Then why were you tailing us?"
"Tailing? Nah, man! We just… saw your girl and thought we’d, like, invite her to a party…"
"Aww, how sweet," Becca giggled. "Well, that party was lit. I had a blast. Next time, bring more friends."
"Right. Sure," I nodded. "And cracking open our car? That was to leave a party flyer and a love letter. Guns out just for self-defense in the big bad city. Checks out."
"Yeah, yeah!" the guy agreed, nodding frantically.
"They weren’t sent by anyone," Lucy chimmed in over comms.
So just a plain ol’ attempted mugging. Guess I did a decent job looking like a street rat after all—even pulled in some actual vultures.
"Get the fuck outta here," Becca said generously, nodding down the street. "Shooting unarmed dudes is boring."
"Wait," I said with a crooked grin. "One more question."
"Fine, fine—just hurry up. My leg’s fucked."
"What kind of music do you listen to?"
"Huh? Music?" he blinked.
"Let me be more specific. Ever heard of a band called Samurai?"
"Uh… yeah. Old chrome. Still plays on the radio sometimes."
"And? You like 'em?"
He squinted at me, probably pegging me for some psycho fan and decided to play along.
"Yeah! Totally! Love 'em. Big fan!"
"Then lucky you," I said, jabbing a tranq into his neck. "You're about to help bring the legend back."
Good hit. Despite my still-wonky motor control, the Dynalar-Kandachi arm did the job. He went down fast.
Just then, a worn but still somewhat decent-looking chick leaned out of one of the lit windows and asked in a thick accent:
"You takin’ the bodies?"
Scavs.
"Just one," I said. "We’ll load him up and bounce."
"Cool. We’ll crawl out later so your girl doesn’t twitchy-trigger us. She shoots real good."
"Thanks, and that’s not even—" Becca started, but the chick was already gone.
Weird night. First we part ways peacefully with the Red-Eyes, now this. Is it possible we already shot the dumbest and most aggressive of the city’s scum over the last few months?
Nah. No way. Just lucky tonight.
Alright. Time to bag Johnny's future meat suit and get the hell out. Plenty more to do.
2025-03-25 05:48:10 +0000 UTC
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Bad news: Internet is still shit.
Good news: Moving to a new place by the end of the month and I've got a workaround for the shitty connection until then (I hope).
Discord Readers you can read the chapters here if you want.
2025-03-22 06:24:16 +0000 UTC
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Apologies for pdfs, got no proper internet so I am uploading from my phone.
2025-03-19 02:47:35 +0000 UTC
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Demons of NC
Life is Good
Elden Ring: My Ending
2025-03-16 09:25:25 +0000 UTC
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Watching Master Smith Hewg at work had been fascinating from the start, yet even after weeks, months, a year—perhaps longer—it never truly lost its allure. The old smith was an artist; there was simply no other way to describe the weapons he crafted for the Tarnished.
Drawing raw material from smithing stones, Hewg transformed even the most ordinary metal into blades capable of withstanding blows and sorceries from the strongest beings in the Lands Between. The weapons given to Tarnished were mere blanks, rough forms intended to be reforged into something greater. It was an incredible and unique process—one that, for some unknown reason, was slowly driving the blacksmith insane.
"You need to rest, Master Hewg," Roderika said softly.
"Yes, yes, just a moment…"
But no matter how much she pleaded, he never stopped. Lately, the master smith had spent less and less time resting, devoting more and more of his effort to a single blade—one that had once belonged to a certain Tarnished. Although, at this point, there was probably nothing left of what Konstantin had originally given him except for its outer shape.
"You said the madman was still growing, didn’t you?" Hewg muttered. "I have to account for that…"
Roderika bit her lip. "Master, please… take a break."
"Just… a little longer…"
But the ringing of metal never stopped. The old smith kept hammering relentlessly, obsessively. Roderika hated watching the man who had given her purpose slowly lose his own sanity. And she couldn’t do a thing about it.
Should she ask Konstantin for help? She didn’t know if he could, but she also couldn’t ask anyone else. Lately, the Roundtable Hold felt emptier than ever. If before, she could at least catch glimpses of Nepheli, D, Rogier, Diallos, and even their leader, Gideon Ofnir, now… even the solitary deathbed companion, who never left her room, was gone.
Unfortunately, Roderika didn’t fully understand that the final phases of all the quests had begun. She couldn’t even go to the old maidens for help—they were too busy grooming the Two Fingers, paying attention to nothing else.
Frustrated, she scoured the entire Hold, at one point stumbling upon a sealed projection of something terrifying—but she didn't dare speak to it. Eventually, it got so bad she even considered talking to Alberich, who, incidentally, was a hostile spirit(1) lurking in the lower levels of the Hold.
For the first time, Roderika seriously thought about leaving the Roundtable Hold to search for help. But she was afraid to leave the old smith alone. Something told her he wouldn’t stop until he finished what he had started.
Sighing, she turned toward the exit.
"I’ll wait a little longer," she decided.
She knew Hewg didn’t have all the smithing stones he needed, and Konstantin probably knew it too, meaning he would likely visit again soon. If he didn’t, she’d have no choice but to find help herself; she owed Master Hewg too much to simply stand by and do nothing.
And yet… where was everyone? Didn’t anyone need their spirits strengthened anymore? She’d even offer a discount! After all, she had been given a purpose, hadn’t she?
…Hadn’t she?
Roderika nearly sniffled, realizing for the first time how it felt to struggle finding work in your chosen field.
Panic. Melina never expected to feel panic after the battle, when her chosen Tarnished finally stepped through the gates of the capital. Originally, Lyndell was supposed to be the place where she would part ways with him. But those thoughts were long gone. Now, her mind was occupied with something else entirely.
Too lost in nostalgia, gazing at the once-glorious city where she had wandered countless times as a child, she failed to notice that the Tarnished was searching for something. And searching relentlessly.
He scaled heights, studied the massive corpse of the petrified ancient dragon(2), and even created several projections, sending them out to various points in the city. So it was no surprise that eventually, he found the right trail. One leading to the long-abandoned catacombs.
Lyndell was an ancient city. Only Queen Marika herself knew how many old ruins and hidden passages lay beneath it.
Back in its prime, the Erdtree Sentinels ensured no one could wander into the places too dangerous for ordinary people.
But now?
There was no one left to enforce the rules.
Most of the seals had broken.
The illusions had faded.
The Sentinels were gone.
And the wards had failed.
The moment Melina realized where Konstantin was headed, she abandoned all attempts to avoid speaking with him. Of course, neither she nor even the witch was pleased that he had recklessly thrown himself into battle, gotten stabbed and burned—and hadn’t even warned them beforehand. But the place he was heading to now? That changed everything.
Melina pressed her lips together. She had every right to sulk like a proper, self-respecting spectral maiden of unknown age. But that would have to wait.
"You know where you’re going, don’t you, Konstantin?"
Her voice was steady, controlled—but Kosta still heard the fear beneath it. He glanced at her skeptically, making her shrink back. His gaze was too intense.
"I trust you, but… chaos—" (TN)
Melina, glaring at him, didn’t expect him to use her own tactic against her—didn’t expect him to look at her that way—didn’t expect to suddenly feel like she wanted to sink into the ground…
…well, even deeper underground…
"…Sorry."
She wasn’t used to obeying anyone. Listening? Sure. But submitting? No. Blind faith in anyone but the Goddess and her own mother was completely foreign to her. She was forgotten, stripped of her status, denied the title of demigod—but she was still one of the first daughters of the Queen.
And yet, the longer she spent with him, the more she felt like there was a greater will overshadowing her own. She could have seen it as suffocating. But… it was more like a hand keeping her from stepping off a cliff. Which, in fairness, didn’t change much.
"I was convinced this was just a game mechanic," Kosta muttered, studying the massive doors.
The space around them felt unstable. The doors themselves were so wildly different from the rest of the catacombs, as if they had never belonged in this place. Charred flesh clung to the walls, leaving little room for interpretation.
Melina didn’t understand his words—but she was getting better at understanding his intent. After all, they had come so far together.
"We don’t know when exactly this passage appeared," she admitted. "We tried to destroy it, Konstantin(3)..."
But they couldn’t. Even with the Goddess’s power, they couldn’t. Because what was inside… wouldn’t let them.
Kosta placed his hand on the doors.
Hot, he noted.
They didn’t budge. And he knew why.
The Three Fingers were the ultimate tryhards, rejecting clothing as a concept(4). And, well… that was fair.
His clothes vanished, as expected. Kosta touched the doors again.
This time—
They opened.
There was no need to describe the expression on Melina’s face when she realized what the Frenzied Flame required to let them inside. Unfortunately, she wasn’t given time to fully process it before she was forced into action.
“Konstantin, please…”
The man turned around, surprised to find his waifu pressing against his back, pulling him away.
“I saw how much you enjoyed that bath,” Melina said calmly. “If this is truly your will, then I can…”
“There’s no need for dramatics,” Kosta replied, completely unfazed.
“…Huh?”
Reluctantly peeling the determined waifu off himself, he let a fresh set of clothes materialize on his body as if they had never disappeared in the first place.
In his hand, Mog’s trident appeared—the sturdiest piece of metal he had on him at the moment. He couldn’t exactly leave it lying around on the battlefield, could he?
The persistent whisper in his mind shifted, its tone turning sweeter, more feminine. But a true waifu enthusiast would never be swayed so easily.
‘Just because you can be a woman doesn’t make you an instant waifu. Get yourself a proper quest and some actual backstory, then we’ll talk.’
‘…Tch!’
Ignoring the infernal grumble of frustration, Kosta strode toward the Three Fingers, who eagerly awaited another Tarnished bitter enough to embrace the world’s misery.
Unfortunately for them, a true waifu enthusiast, in a world where waifus must survive and absolutely will not be left in suffering, could never be bitter by default.
Melina was about to follow him, but suddenly, she had to shield her single open eye as a blinding light erupted from the darkness.
And then came the scream.
A wretched, soul-piercing, utterly monstrous sound, so terrible it bypassed physical perception entirely. Melina clutched her ears despite knowing it was pointless—this was no ordinary scream. It was as if the very fabric of existence itself was shrieking in horror, resisting with all its might.
But no force of will in the Lands Between was stronger than that of a Soulslike player and a waifu protector.
The wail faded. The light dimmed. Trembling, Melina lowered her cursed eye, unable to close it, and hurried toward the darkness, where she soon found the Tarnished, calmly seated next to the lifeless husk of the Three Fingers.
Now, even if he wanted to, he could never accept the Frenzied Flame.
“Are you satisfied now?”
Melina was grateful the witch wasn’t here to witness this—she didn’t want her to see how her legs buckled, how she foolishly sank to her knees, or how tears welled up in her eyes.
Who could have guessed her chosen Tarnished would descend to the Three Fingers solely to destroy them—for her sake?
Konstantin, watching his seemingly content waifu, smiled just as contentedly himself. But his gaze soon shifted elsewhere.
Found it.
A fresh influx of runes, including a Great Rune, gave him another stat boost. Creating multiple projections at once was now even easier.
He hadn’t planned on starting Dung Eater’s quest, but ending it the way he saw fit?
Yes. Absolutely.
So focused was he on his projections that he barely noticed when Melina quietly snuck up behind him, pressing her weight against his back. Without a word, the False Finger Maiden kissed him. Then again. And again. Not wanting to let go, completely forgetting where they were—or whose corpse they were next to.
The Frenzied Flame had never been defiled quite like this before.
Before long, they set off toward the one who had surely grown impatient waiting for them—Morgott, the Omen King.
Blackguard Big Boggart had no issue with seeing Konstantin again—after all, the Tarnished had praised his cooking highly. But that didn’t mean he wanted the lunatic to just appear beside him like some omnipresent phantom.
Unfortunately, that’s exactly what happened.
Boggart, busy tending to his fire and making sure his crabs were cooked to perfection, caught a glimpse of something materializing next to him. At first, he ignored it. Then…
“The smell is dulled, but still delicious.”
“By Marika’s tits!!!”
The completely neutral comment from the projection sent the ex-prisoner into a full-blown panic, nearly overturning his culinary masterpiece.
Kosta gave him a strange look.
“You forgot me already?”
“K-Konstantin of the Tarnished!” Boggart blurted out. “By the gods, could you not appear out of nowhere like that?!”
“I don’t devote as much attention to side quests as I do to the main ones,” the man stated, utterly unbothered.
Boggart opened his mouth to argue, but the words never left his throat. Not because he was afraid of getting his skull caved in by a madman with a club, but because…
The lunatic Tarnished was smiling.
What’s wrong with him?
Boggart remembered their last meeting well. He remembered how this madman looked at him—as if he were nothing. Like a piece of disposable meat, something to be tossed aside the moment he became inconvenient.
That look was gone now. The change was hard to describe, but…
The Tarnished seemed more alive. More human, in a way. Though Boggart still wouldn’t call him a person, not after all the rumors he’d heard.
“Here for food, Your Majesty?” Boggart asked, returning to his seat and removing his helmet.
Judging by what he’d heard, it was probably about time to start addressing the lunatic like that. If not now, then soon.
“Konstantin. Kosta is fine,” the man grumbled. “Yes. But also for something else.”
In the end, both the shrimp and the crab ended up tasting bland to the projection, leaving him mildly displeased. But seeing Boggart practically beaming with pride, Kosta decided to keep this to himself.
Their meal didn’t last long.
“Thanks.”
“Ha! Glad you liked it, Your Majesty!” Boggart laughed. “So, what else brings you to me?”
He never got an answer.
The moment the words left his mouth, the projection of Konstantin was suddenly in front of him, grabbing his shoulder.
Before he could react, a surge of grace engulfed them, teleporting them to an unknown location.
But Boggart quickly realized exactly where they were.
A familiar, rancid stench filled his nose, making him recoil in disgust. Horror seized him.
“W-where did you take me?!”
He nearly shrieked, scrambling behind the unshaken projection of the Tarnished. He knew this place. He knew this place. There was no mistaking the filth-stained walls of this putrid cell. The decay, the agony—so intense that even an ordinary man would hear the distant wails of tormented souls.
The souls of those who had suffered at the hands of the wretch inside.
A grotesque figure sat in the corner, repeatedly slamming its head against the wall, muttering incomprehensible gibberish.
“I wanted to show you that you don’t have to be afraid anymore(5),” the projection said calmly, stepping toward the Dung Eater.
The cursed fiend took notice but didn’t react—until Kosta got close.
Then, suddenly, he twisted his head toward him and screeched.
“I am the Dung Ea—”
Or at least, he tried to.
Boom!
Boggart collapsed onto the floor, staring in shock at the crumpled corpse of the Dung Eater. His head had exploded—splattered across the cell walls like an overripe melon.
“W-wha… y-you…”
Kosta looked down at his fist, now glowing with golden light, before turning his gaze to the ex-prisoner.
“Praise the Sun.”
“…What?!”
“Praise the Sun.”
Kosta raised his arms skyward, his stare demanding obedience. Trembling, Boggart hesitantly raised his hands in the same gesture.
“I-I praise the Sun! I do! Is that right?!”
Konstantin lowered his arms, unsatisfied with the lack of conviction in Boggart’s eyes. He sighed, sitting beside him.
“Maybe I need a different approach.”
Boggart gulped.
He had a very bad feeling about this.
(TN) The original uses the word “chaos” (“хаос”). It is not “The Flame of Frenzy”. Frenzied Flame is officially translated as: “Яростное Пламя”
(1) Alberich the Furious—an aggressive phantom, a scythe-wielding sorcerer you can fight in the Roundtable Hold.
(2) In the game, the required location can be found in a well beneath the corpse of the petrified dragon.
(3) This is just speculation: the game doesn’t mention whether the Goddess’s bloodline ever did anything about the “pig” beneath the capital or when exactly he even appeared, so let’s chalk it up to creative interpretation. Pretty sure I mentioned at the start that this was an AU?
(4) This isn’t just another clothing joke… well, not entirely: the doors do only open if the player undresses. Otherwise, you can’t interact with them at all.
(5) During the course of his questline, the Dung Eater kills Boggart.
2025-03-16 09:24:09 +0000 UTC
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PDF, just in case.
2025-03-16 09:15:46 +0000 UTC
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I paced the apartment while Lucy sat in silence, staring at the table in the dim light.
"Well?"
"I'm thinking about where to start," she said. "Where do you think I was born?"
"Hm… no solid info on that."
"Take a guess. You were trained in counterintel, right? Try profiling me. Analyze what you know, and I’ll tell you how close you are."
She stood up slowly, moving to the bar counter, where she grabbed a dark green bottle of absinthe. Poured herself a glass, added some ice, but didn’t drink. Looked like she was saving it for after the story—to dull the sting.
"Alright," I said, piecing it together. "Let’s say you were born in Japan. Grew up in some slums, maybe near one of those toxic rivers—like Takemura’s story. Tough, joyless childhood. Lived on the streets. Then, someone picked you up as a promising candidate, but instead of military training, they tossed you into that hellhole of a research facility. Close?"
Lucy shook her head and poured herself more absinthe.
"Aim for the sun, hit the moon," she muttered.
"Alright. Maybe profiling isn’t my strongest skill. Where did I fuck up?"
"Not Japan. Warsaw. And not the slums. Far from it. My family had a villa. Winter garden. A pool under a glass dome."
"Shit. Didn’t see that one coming." I smirked. "I stuck you in the slums, but your childhood was fancier than mine. In both of my lives."
"Yeah. There was plenty of luxury," she said, leaning on the counter. "Christmas flights to Tokyo, vacations across Europe, private schools. I remember all of it, V. That life. It’s still in my head, all bright and jumbled, like a dream. Sometimes, when I’m freezing under a bridge, I wonder if I just made it all up. Some street rat pretending to be a princess.
"But no. It was real."
"I see. And your parents? Celebrities? Private netrunners? Or…"
I let the last part hang, but she understood.
"Or. My father was a corpo. He commanded Arasaka’s garrison in Poland."
"And what happened to him? Internal investigation? Corporate purge? Power struggle?"
That would explain her whole attitude toward Arasaka. Maybe her father’s enemies were still after her.
"You’re picking logical options, V," she said, finally sipping her drink. "But the world? It lost its mind a long time ago.
"He was doing great. At least, last I heard. Even got some fucking medal a couple years back. Some kind of honorary recognition for the Fourth Corpo War or whatever."
"Wait," I frowned, rubbing my chin. "Then how the hell—"
"He locked me in that facility himself!" she snapped, her eyes meeting mine. "Sent me there so I wouldn’t ‘wander the streets’ and ruin his reputation. When he realized he was losing control of me, he decided to just get rid of me."
Damn.
Father-daughter conflicts were practically a curse in Japan.
Wouldn’t be surprised if backstabbing your own kid was a corporate promotion requirement in Arasaka.
"And he’s the one who chased you all over Europe," I guessed.
"Yeah. Probably figured killing me would clean the stain off his perfect record."
Makes sense now.
At first, I thought Lucy must’ve taken out someone high-profile during her escape or pissed off the project leads.
Turns out, it was worse.
"When I was seven…" Lucy started, then hesitated, gathering herself.
"Take your time," I said. "It’s in the past."
"It started with curiosity," she continued. "You know how it is when you first start exploring the Net. Snooping. Peeking at private messages. I managed to hack my dad’s personal terminal.
"He had a journal. Photos. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands.
"He wasn’t just some corporate soldier, V.
"Prisoners. Interrogations. ‘Filtering operations.’
"Stuff he did with his own hands.
"And he didn’t keep it for work.
"He collected it. Like a fucking hunting trophy. You get it? Like mounting a deer’s head on a wall."
"That’s when the two of you fell out?"
"Yeah. Should’ve just pretended I didn’t see anything. But I was a kid. I ran to him, crying, screaming, asking why.
"He just stared at me. Didn’t say a word.
"And it was like… like a mask slipped off.
"All the care, all the warmth—gone.
"He wasn’t even angry.
"He just… stopped pretending.
"Looked at me like I was some annoying fucking insect."
I didn’t know what was in those photos.
Maybe her dad was a legit sadist.
Maybe it was just regular corpo-military operations.
Either way, she saw it too early.
And maybe he overplayed the whole loving father act. Built an illusion too perfect—one that shattered all at once.
Kids of antivaxxers suffer.
So do kids of Arasaka officers.
Now, at least, I got why she was so well-trained as a netrunner.
Her foundation had been laid long before that research center.
Lucy took another slow sip of her drink. Savoring it. Using it to distract herself.
I stepped closer.
"Listen. You were afraid of him before. That’s normal. And now I get why you want to run as far away as possible.
"But here’s the thing… I can protect you now. Protect us."
"V, I—"
"You don’t trust me yet," I said calmly. "Still hesitant. Still scared. That fear’s buried too deep.
"But let’s think rationally—your father’s a big deal in Europe. But Night City? This place has its own power structure. He can’t just waltz in and order people to burn resources tracking you down."
I wondered if Michiko had known about all this when she talked to me.
Probably.
"We’ve already pulled off the impossible. Abernathy. Konpeki.
"We barely made it, yeah. But the hardest part’s over.
"The ladder to the top is right there.
"And if not a ladder… then at least a rope." I smirked.
"What are you getting at?"
"The biochip."
"Oh, that," she muttered, her voice already slurring slightly. She dropped her empty glass on the counter. "Your holy grail. Yorinobu’s stolen little toy. What’s your plan? Sell it for a few mil? Ten? Twenty? Sure, money’s great—I’ve figured that out by now. But money doesn’t stop power, V. It won’t stop us from getting crushed."
"I know that. Otherwise, Kaoru Fujioka wouldn’t have been so easy to erase."
I leaned against the wall.
"I’m not selling it.
"I need it for something else."
"Oh, mysterious plans," she chuckled, pouring another drink. "And you’re actually gonna tell me this time?"
"You know what?" I grabbed her wrist, taking the glass away. "Yeah. I will.
"Hold your horses," I smirked. "This is something you’ll wanna hear sober."
"Alright, fine. Surprise me."
I took a sip myself—strong shit.
Then, pacing the room like a lecturer, I began:
"Since the dawn of time, it’s always been the same battle—man against the system. And almost every time, the individual or small groups lost to the collective.
"Cyberware changed the rules a little. You can mod yourself, perfect your skills, buy combat drones. Take out whole gangs alone.
"But corps? You still lose to them. Even Bartmoss lost—though he went out in a blaze of glory.
"But the world keeps changing...
"New tech means new battlefields.
"And this little thing?" I pointed at the chip’s container.
"It’s about to change the game again."
"You rehearse that speech?" Lucy snorted.
“A whole lot of fuck-all minutes.”
“And about as many answers. Is there just an engram on this thing?”
"Not just any engram. A next-gen engram, and not just anyone’s—Johnny Silverhand’s."
"Cool. Think it’s got some unreleased tracks?"
"Don’t give a shit about the music. Johnny’s my key. You’ve heard of Alt Cunningham, right?"
"Of course. Fought the corps, lost. Another genius chewed up and spat out by the machine."
"Lost?" I smirked. "Not exactly. And this chip—it’s the way to reach her."
"Alt’s alive?" For the first time, Lucy actually sounded surprised.
"Yes and no. Her body’s long gone, but her mind made it out. She became an engram, broke through the Blackwall."
"You sound too fucking sure about this. Where’d you get your intel?"
"Some from stolen files, some from the other side. Put the pieces together, and suddenly the whole picture came into focus. The one the corps don’t want anyone seeing. Alt’s out there. Netwatch and Arasaka are both trying to wipe her out, but they can’t. This chip is my way of making contact. My way of making a deal."
"The more you talk, the more this sounds like some batshit conspiracy theory. You telling me Misty’s prophet guy was right?"
"Gary? Half-right. I know what Alt wants. I want to cut a deal—get my hands on Blackwall tech. She built Soulkiller, the program Arasaka uses to rip engrams from people’s minds. But I don’t want to sell it or make copies of people. I want to integrate an empty biochip into my own brain, merge it into a stable system."
"Like extra storage?"
"Among other things. This chip can hold an entire human personality. Imagine what else it could store—programs, subroutines, analytical systems. The processing power alone would be insane. I could build and adapt scripts and viruses in seconds, predict enemy moves, stay ahead of them before they even realize they’ve lost. Hell, I might not even need to fight anymore."
I let that sink in, watching Lucy’s eyes clear despite the alcohol.
"If anyone else told me this, I’d tell them to fuck off or get a prescription for sedatives," she said, voice steady. "But you took out Abernathy, walked out of Konpeki alive. So tell me straight, V—are you sure this is possible? Sure it won’t kill you?"
"Absolutely. Back on the lookout, you told me I was building an empire. You weren’t wrong. Power, strength, safety. But what if I don’t need to lead a corpo to get all that?" I tapped my temple. "What if my empire fits entirely inside here? An internal empire."
Lucy exhaled slowly, watching me. "And where do we start?"
"I’m diving into the Net soon. Deep dive. Need you covering me in the real world."
"Got it. When?"
"This morning. I’m ready now."
"Figures. And here I was looking forward to getting drunk." There was no real disappointment in her voice. Looked like my plan impressed her more than it scared her.
"One last thing," I said, stepping closer. "Let’s make sure this shit doesn’t happen again. I’m not trying to control you, but when we follow my plan, we stick to it. You wouldn’t grab the wheel from Falco. You wouldn’t tell Becca how to mod her rifle. Planning’s my job."
"Alright, alright, I get it—"
"Do you?" I caught her chin, tilting her face up. "Say it."
"Yeah. Yeah," she muttered, not exactly thrilled but giving me what I wanted.
"Good."
I sealed the deal with a long kiss. For just a moment, that emptiness inside—the one gnawing at me since Konpeki—was gone. It was just me, Lucy, and the dimly lit room around us.
By dawn, we started prepping for my dive. Nerves were still raw after Konpeki, but I didn’t expect trouble with Alt. She wanted Mikoshi. I wanted the biochip and everything it could give me. No conflict of interest.
We set up everything at home, spent hours going over safety measures.
"I’ll be monitoring your vitals," Lucy promised. "Try not to get yourself fried in there."
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, adjusting the chair.
She injected me with a heat-resistant booster while I moved to the chip’s container, smirking.
"Something funny?"
"Just thinking. When we first met, we had this whole dynamic—street thief and corpo suit. But turns out you were the one born into the high life. Villa. Pool."
"That was a long time ago, V," she said, a bitter edge in her voice. "That girl’s gone. She froze to death in some abandoned squat. I had to become someone else to survive."
"Well, now your survival’s in my hands too. You can relax a little."
I popped the lid off the container.
"Just make sure you come back first," she muttered. "Then you can brag all you want."
"Don’t worry. Here we go."
I pulled the chip from cold storage and slotted it.
‘Hello, Johnny.’
Nothing happened. No sudden surge, no glitches. The chip wasn’t treating me like an empty slate waiting for overwrite. At least I didn’t have Dex standing over me, waiting to put a bullet in my skull.
Settling into the chair, I waved to Lucy before diving in.
At first, the usual—darkness, flickering lights of cyberspace, the weightless sensation of slipping past the real world. I landed in our small, private digital safehouse.
"Everything okay?" Lucy’s voice echoed in from the real world.
"Yeah. Feels normal. Chip’s stable. Not trying to kill me."
I ran a scan on my connected devices. There it was—the chip. Small, unassuming, but inside? A fucking mountain of data. Now I just had to figure out how to interact with it safely. With my defenses, it shouldn’t be an issue.
Ten minutes passed in the real world—felt like much longer in the Net—before I got a response. Data started flowing, first in fragments, disjointed and chaotic. Concerts, booze, bar fights. Noise, bright lights, raw emotions. It felt like getting slammed with a heavy, unfiltered black-market braindance.
Then, the biochip fully woke up. Its signal stabilized, clear and uninterrupted.
Focusing on the data stream, I felt myself pulled into a small subspace, a simulated environment. Blue light flickered as lines of code reshaped themselves into something recognizable—a recreation of an old Arasaka Tower floor, complete with a Japanese-style garden at its center.
Time to see what’s on the other side.
"Fuck, I need a smoke…" a disembodied voice grumbled. "Shit, I’d kill for a pack right now."
The scattered signals from the chip began to take shape, forming a figure that just about everyone in Night City would recognize—the ghost of a dead rocker. Or at least, his phantom-like manifestation in the Net.
Glowing red points flickered in the digital darkness, tracing out a shape.
"Hey, you awake in there?" I asked. "Can you understand me?"
"Who the fuck are you? Who sent you?!" Johnny’s voice snapped back, laced with hostility.
His emotional state was far from stable, though I couldn’t exactly blame him. Early resurrection doesn’t do wonders for the psyche. Took me months after coming back to even start feeling human again.
"The name’s V. Currently unemployed. We’re in Cyberspace right now. What’s the last thing you remember?"
"Arasaka Tower. Wait—no. Fucking Saburo was there too. We’re in the Net?"
"That’s right. Physically, we’re in my apartment. I jacked in to talk to you. I need to meet with Alt. Think we might be able to help each other."
"That so? Hate to break it to you, choom, but I must’ve lost her number somewhere between getting fried and winding up here."
"That’s not a problem," I smirked. "See, Johnny—you are the number.
"Time to call the other side of the Blackwall."
2025-03-16 09:05:30 +0000 UTC
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Mad Tiger
Castling the Long Way
2025-03-15 05:06:08 +0000 UTC
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The Second Task took place on Saturday, right after breakfast. By half-past eight, the castle was buzzing as students, full and content, streamed toward the lake in eager anticipation of the next spectacle. The day was perfect—crisp, cold, but not windy—ideal for standing outside without freezing into a solid block of ice.
And honestly? Thank Merlin for McGonagall. She pulled us aside before breakfast to warn us about Hermione. Otherwise, Harry was this close to tearing up the entire castle looking for her. Never thought I’d say this, but I hadn’t expected that level of consideration from McGonagall.
Afterwards, I caught up with Luna at the gates, and Hagrid decided to tag along, so we all blended into the crowd heading to the shore.
It didn’t take long to realise that, even if I hadn’t read the books, today’s event wasn’t going to be much of a spectacle. They’d dragged the stands over from the First Task, and now they sat awkwardly on the otherwise bare beach, looking like something a storm had dumped there by accident. No enchanted screens for a live feed like in the Quidditch World Cup—just us, staring at a perfectly still lake, hoping something interesting would happen. Might as well just announce the winner over dinner and save everyone the trouble.
At exactly nine, the champions emerged from the tent, were given their instructions, and—boom—they were off.
Krum, predictably, didn’t waste a second. The whistle barely echoed before he ripped off his cloak and dove straight in. When he resurfaced, he was… well, half a shark.
It was a weird sight. His entire head was a massive shark’s snout, but the rest of him was still fully human—like he’d slapped on an oversized mask that stretched down to his shoulders.
Didn’t seem to bother him, though. His dorsal fin sliced through the surface before vanishing into the depths like he’d never been there at all.
Fleur hesitated, shivering, taking two small steps toward the water, clearly rethinking this whole plan. That was enough to have every bloke in the stands immediately glued to her.
No one even cared what Diggory was up to anymore.
But he didn’t let himself be ignored for long. He walked up beside Fleur, took her hand, smiled, and murmured something to her. She smiled back, warm and soft.
On the judges’ platform, Dumbledore was practically beaming, drumming his fingers on the railing with a pleased, dreamy expression—as if this was exactly the kind of inter-school unity he’d been hoping for.
Madame Maxime, however, looked less than thrilled. She clearly wasn’t a fan of her star pupil getting chummy with the competition.
Our pair quickly cast Bubble-Head Charms, and with one last look at each other, disappeared beneath the surface.
And then… time dragged.
At first, everyone kept their eyes glued to the lake, but then the sun slipped out from behind the clouds, and the glare off the water was blinding. Trying to watch was physically painful, so most gave up and turned to chatting instead.
Some of the girls cooed over how adorable the Fleur-Diggory moment had been. Others huffed about how shameless she was. Meanwhile, the lads loudly debated Krum’s halfway transformation, but mostly? They were discussing the obvious—every visible detail of Fleur’s swimsuit.
I, however, was listening to Luna.
She and Hagrid were listing all the creatures that lived in the Black Lake, having a proper discussion about how the giant squid and the local ecosystem might be affected by today’s events.
Krum was the first to resurface, about twenty-five to thirty minutes later, dragging Hermione up with him. She looked like a proper drowned corpse, still knocked out under the sleeping enchantment.
The stands erupted into deafening cheers—less for Krum’s victory and more because finally, something was happening.
Fifteen minutes later, Diggory followed, hauling some bloke—his best mate, I think.
That got another wave of applause, especially from our side of the stands, which, to be fair, made up most of the crowd. The noise was deafening.
Fleur, however, was taking forever. Over an hour had passed, and people were freezing, even with Warming Charms. The judges were exchanging increasingly concerned looks.
And then, finally, she burst out of the water, clutching a small girl to her chest.
The kid—about seven—had pale blonde hair stuck to her face in messy, greyish strands, streaks of red running down her cheeks. Her skin was so deathly pale she looked dead.
Fleur, of course, made the whole thing ten times worse by sobbing and clinging to the little body, smearing even more blood across her skin.
The crowd, initially cheering, quickly fell silent, save for Fleur’s frantic cries in French and the occasional muffled sob.
Dumbledore and Madame Maxime were already moving toward them, while Madam Pomfrey and a very anxious Diggory rushed from the medical tent.
The victims were whisked away, leaving the crowd in a tense, uneasy silence.
To make things worse, the merpeople had drifted closer to shore—pale greenish-grey things, looking more like bloated drowned corpses than anything else. Their eerie faces staring up at us didn’t help the atmosphere.
For the first time since the Tournament started, it really hit people—this wasn’t just a fun little competition.
People died in these things.
Five minutes later, Dumbledore returned to calm everyone down. The little girl—Fleur’s sister—was perfectly fine, just asleep. Fleur, though, hadn’t been so lucky. Grindylows attacked her, leaving her pretty banged up, including a nasty scratch and a broken ankle. The blood on her sister had actually come from her.
Eventually, the judges reached their verdict.
Krum lost a few points for not fully transforming but gained some for finishing on time. Diggory came in second. Fleur placed third—she might’ve botched the timing, but she had saved her hostage.
With that, the champions were congratulated, and we were all dismissed—until the end of June.
And that was that.
On the way back to the castle, Seamus was still raging about the Grindylows.
“Bloody monsters! Breaking a girl’s ankle! I’d rip off every single one of their gross little fingers myself!”
“But it was their territory,” Luna piped up, giving him a steady, unblinking stare. “They were only defending themselves the way they knew how. If you barge into someone’s home without an invitation, you should expect a hostile welcome.”
“Err…” Seamus looked completely thrown and turned to Dean, who seemed just as lost.
I just buried my grin in my scarf—Luna was brilliant.
But the real irritation started after the Task.
Alongside the usual gossip, the Daily Prophet decided to stir the pot by dedicating their next issue to the champions—particularly their love lives.
Skeeter went to town.
The whole Fleur-Diggory thing? She gushed about it. But when it came to Hermione?
She torched her.
The article practically screamed about how Krum had been whispering sweet nothings in her ear, heavily implying that she’d dosed him with a Love Potion.
Hermione, to her credit, handled it well—stony-faced, unimpressed, throwing out sarcastic little glances when people expected a reaction.
But Harry and I knew her.
We knew how much she hated being the centre of attention.
And being dragged into some ridiculous love scandal?
That had to be killing her inside.
It never turned into full-on bullying—Harry and I made sure of that—but not a single day went by without some Slytherin bringing it up. Even Krum’s fangirls weren’t letting it drop, finally finding the perfect excuse for why their idol had taken an interest in an ‘ordinary, plain’ girl like Hermione.
Skeeter, of course, had tried sniffing around Harry for a follow-up article, but it looked like Dumbledore had shut her down. She could write whatever rubbish she wanted about him, but on Hogwarts grounds, he was the law. If she pushed too far, he could just ban her entirely and demand the Prophet send someone else. So, while there were still occasional bits about Harry in the paper, they were small, petty, and filled with such blatant nonsense that even housewives with nothing better to do wouldn’t believe them. Harry, for his part, never even bothered to read them.
When Skeeter’s articles started making our lives miserable, I didn’t bother trying to catch her myself. And I didn’t drag Hermione into it either—she had enough on her plate. Instead, I just handed her dirty little secret straight to Snape.
A week later? The articles stopped.
Whatever he had demanded from her in exchange for his silence, I didn’t know—and, frankly, I didn’t want to. But I hoped it would keep her quiet for a long time.
My gut started screaming at me halfway through March, during Potions.
It was near the end of the lesson when the classroom door slammed open, and in barged Karkaroff.
The man didn’t even look at us—he just marched straight up to Snape, who looked both annoyed and unimpressed.
Karkaroff was acting weird. Really weird. Like he was high on something. His voice was too loud, his eyes were wild, and he was practically vibrating with nerves.
He insisted on talking to Snape immediately, shoving him towards the ingredients storeroom, completely ignoring the fact that there was still a class in session.
Snape, of course, was having none of it, snapping at him to wait until after the lesson. But Karkaroff wouldn’t back down—he trailed behind Snape the entire time, step for step, muttering urgently under his breath.
The rest of us kept shooting each other puzzled glances as we hurriedly bottled up our potions, but no one dared say anything.
Snape ended up kicking us out before the bell even rang.
My friends, naturally, loved a good mystery, but after a few minutes of discussion, they decided that Karkaroff had probably just been pranked. Poisoned sweets or a tampered drink—stuff like that happened all the time at Hogwarts.
I, however, knew better.
There was no way someone had slipped the headmaster of Durmstrang a joke potion.
I knew from the books that Karkaroff’s Dark Mark must’ve darkened—which meant the Dark Lord was close to returning. His spirit might not have fully regained a body yet, but he’d already taken on some kind of form.
Looked like Crouch had actually managed to shake off the curse and find Voldemort. And as for Bertha—judging by the articles in The Prophet, she still hadn’t turned up and had now been officially listed as missing.
But then—how the hell had Crouch known where to find Voldemort’s spirit?
Wormtail had spied on us, and then the rats must've pointed him in the right direction.
But Crouch?
How had he figured it out?
That question would not leave my head.
And then, one night, it hit me.
Everything clicked into place so fast that I jerked upright in bed, groaning.
Merlin’s beard, I am a bloody idiot.
A complete and utter idiot.
And a gullible one at that.
I had warned Snape about Crouch at the start of the year. But Snape didn’t talk to me about Harry being in danger until December.
Why the delay?
Whether I was right or wrong, the threat to Harry hadn’t changed.
Which meant something had happened in December—something big enough that it forced them to take action.
Snape wasn’t the type to drag his feet. And neither was Dumbledore.
So what changed?
Crouch—or someone else—had finally infiltrated Hogwarts.
Snape must’ve seen them on the map.
And now?
Now Karkaroff had proof that the Dark Lord’s return was imminent.
Which meant Crouch had succeeded. Voldemort was back.
And if Voldemort was back, then Crouch’s next move would be to get to Moody—to set the next part of the plan in motion.
To take Harry.
Snape had warned me for a reason.
Moody, as a teacher, had access to every single student in the school. He could take the form of anyone close to Harry.
Harry was safe inside Hogwarts.
But outside…
That was why Snape had warned me. I was closer to Harry. I knew who he spent time with.
Bloody hell, Snape was a right bastard.
The clock read 4 AM when I sprinted to the dungeons under Harry’s cloak, shoved it into my pocket, and started pounding on Snape’s door.
Despite the ridiculous hour, the door flew open almost immediately, and I was yanked inside.
Snape was already fully dressed in his teaching robes, like he hadn’t even slept. He didn’t look remotely surprised to see me.
“Ten points from Gryffindor, Weasley,” he sneered, shoving me into a chair. “For appalling nerve. I don’t recall giving you permission to show up whenever you please.”
“What can I say, sir?” I shot back, grinning just to piss him off. “I had a sudden urge, and I couldn’t wait till morning.”
“Talk,” he ordered, flicking his cloak behind him as he sat across from me. “Then leave.”
“What, not even offering me tea?” I drawled. “You’ve picked up so much from Dumbledore. Bit of tea, some biscuits—get the naive fool to spill his secrets over a friendly chat—”
“Weasley,” Snape warned, eyes narrowing.
“So Crouch got in after all,” I cut him off. “When were you planning on telling me? Sir?” I added mockingly.
I expected him to snap.
Instead, he… relaxed.
Not much. Just enough.
“It’s not my fault it took you this long to figure it out,” he said smoothly, rubbing his temple like I was giving him a headache. “As you know, there are certain things I cannot say outright. But rest assured, Dumbledore has it under control.”
“So why is he dragging his feet?” I asked, my own temper cooling. “Why not arrest Crouch on the spot and throw him in Azkaban?”
“Because the Headmaster believes it is imperative to understand why Crouch is here. And to catch him in the act,” Snape said, locking eyes with me.
"I already told you why," I muttered, irritation creeping into my voice. "The Dark Lord needs Potter’s blood for the ritual. He’s planning to resurrect himself using a potion—bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy. If he gets Harry’s blood, he’ll finally be able to kill him. And Dumbledore’s letting him do it, because he wants Voldemort to come back. You can’t kill a spirit, but a body? That’s another story. It’s in Dumbledore’s best interest for the Dark Lord to regain a physical form—so he’s stalling for time."
"What absolute nonsense," Snape scoffed, though his expression quickly turned serious. "And where exactly did you learn about Dark potions of that level?.."
"I already told you that too," I snapped. "Listen to me—Dark Lord’s spirit can take control of anyone. And this time, he won’t be so reckless and overconfident, like he was with Quirrell. He could be anyone—and no one would even know. He could take over some Ministry official and pull off a quiet coup before anyone even realises what’s happened. Dumbledore needs Dark Lord to have his own body—not to possess someone else. Because if he does, then what? Who’s going to believe that some high-ranking Ministry worker is actually Dark Lord in disguise? As far as the world is concerned, he’s already dead. And I hate knowing that one of his followers is right here, walking the halls with my friends and family."
"You never cease to amaze me, Weasley," Snape said after a long pause, his voice unusually serious. "The world ought to count itself lucky that the Dark Lord was not born in your image. I fear even the best defences would be useless against a mind like yours." He exhaled slowly. "I will… consider how best to relay your concerns to the Headmaster. In the meantime, I promise that I will personally ensure the safety of you and your loved ones. That is the most I can do."
"That’s enough, sir," I said, standing as he led me to the door, his expression unreadable. And, for the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe. Moody was being watched. Now, all I had to do was stay away from him.
The storm hit in April, right over the Easter holidays.
For months, we’d been buried under schoolwork, cramming for exams. Flitwick had me swamped with individual lessons, and every professor seemed to think we had nothing better to do than churn out essays like our lives depended on it. My weekends were just as packed—sometimes I walked Luna to Hogsmeade, other times I tagged along with Harry and Hermione for a sweets run.
Everything else? Took a back seat.
And then—I ran into Percy.
We hadn’t really spoken in ages. Between his workload and his obsession with his career, I didn’t want to force conversation. We had our routine—I’d drop off some sweets once a week, and in return, he’d pass me a few of Mum’s pies. Dumbledore had the Floo open for an hour on Saturdays so teachers could contact their families, and Percy used it to check in with Mum. I’d even spoken to her a couple of times myself.
But sitting around chatting?
Didn’t happen.
He looked rough, though. He’d lost weight, was obviously stressed, and I was pretty sure he and Penelope had broken up. On top of that, his owl, Hermes, had disappeared—flown off with a letter and never come back. I’d overheard Hagrid mentioning that a rogue predator had been snatching up school owls until he finally shot it down. Looked like Hermes had been one of the unlucky ones.
So, yeah. Percy wasn’t in great shape.
I was on my way back from lunch when I spotted him, levitating a mountain of scrolls. Just as I was about to call out, a first-year zoomed past, making Percy lose concentration. The entire stack of parchment collapsed—scrolls flying everywhere.
"Hey, Percy. Need a hand?" I offered, crouching down before a swarm of chattering second-years could trample everything. "Probably quicker without magic."
"If you’re not in a hurry," Percy replied, eyeing me strangely for a moment before giving a tired smile. "Thanks. I’ve got to drop these off with Professor Moody."
I did not like the sound of that.
"Not in a rush," I said quickly, grabbing half the scrolls. No way in hell was I letting him go into that office alone. "By the way, Ginny’s miffed you don’t make time for her on Saturdays anymore."
"Hardly got a moment to breathe, let alone socialise," he sighed, adjusting his grip on the stack. His voice was slightly muffled behind the paper. "With all these foreign students, the teachers are pulling double shifts for security. Even I’ve been roped in—patrolling, grading, setting exam questions—"
"And how did they survive without you all these years?" I snorted, but then fumbled a scroll, forcing me to bend down and scramble for it before I lost the rest.
"Well, you can’t hold a ghost accountable for mistakes," Percy said dryly. Then, glancing up, he nudged a door open with his hip.
To my surprise, it swung open without resistance.
Most classrooms were warded to keep students from poking around unsupervised—but Moody? Mr. Constant Vigilance himself?
Hadn’t locked his door?
Something felt off.
"Just leave them on the desk," Percy sighed, relieved to finally dump the weight. I followed suit, then took a glance around.
No sign of Moody.
"Tea?" Percy asked, rubbing his arms.
"Yeah, sure," I grinned, ready to bolt from the creepy atmosphere. I turned towards the door—
"Imperio."
Everything stopped.
Like the world had gone still—like I had sunk into the softest, calmest silence I’d ever known.
Percy stepped in front of me, and when I met his eyes, a warm, almost euphoric feeling washed over me.
My idol. My mentor.
I would do anything for him.
Anything he asked.
I wanted to.
"Listen carefully, Ron," he said, his voice cold and precise. "You’re going to find Potter and suggest a trip to Hogsmeade. On the way, you’ll convince him to visit the Burrow—just for a few hours. Tell him our mother is worried sick and desperate to see him. Lie if you have to—say you begged me to Side-Along Apparate you both there.
"You must persuade him. Do you understand?"
The words rolled through my skull, sending waves of warmth through my body, suffocating any trace of resistance.
Yes. Of course. I understand.
"Yeah, Percy, I got it," I grinned. "Don't worry, I'll sort everything."
"I’ll be waiting for you in an hour by the stile, past the village. Walk down the High Street and turn right just after Dervish & Banges—don't discuss this with anyone."
"See you in an hour, Percy," I beamed, hurrying towards the door, feeling lighter than I had in ages—like every problem I’d ever had had just melted away.
But the second I stepped outside, I nearly crashed into Moody.
"Weasley?" He scowled. "What the hell were you doing in my office?"
"I asked him to help me, Professor," Percy cut in smoothly, stepping forward. "Flitwick asked me to deliver some paperwork to you. Ron, weren’t you in a hurry?" His tone was light, but the pressure in my mind tightened—a silent command to leave. But I couldn’t abandon my idol to a murderer.
"I’ll wait for you, Percy," I forced out, barely managing to stay upright. "I need to talk to you. It’s important."
It felt like my mind was splitting in two.
One half demanded I stay, to protect Percy from whatever danger Moody posed. The other screamed at me to obey, to run and complete my task. Euphoria turned to pain—a thick, suffocating fog clouded my thoughts, accompanied by an urgent, whispering pressure.
But I dug my heels in.
Protecting Percy came first—I still had time to carry out my orders.
As soon as my warring thoughts settled, the fog lifted just enough for me to act.
Slowly, carefully, I reached for my wand.
"Weasley, get out. Now." Moody’s real eye narrowed, while his magical one whirled wildly in its socket. But then—he shifted focus.
"Professor Weasley," Moody said, his voice rough but level. "I need to speak with you. About the schedule."
"Of course," Percy nodded, then turned his gaze on me, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "Ron, leave. I won’t be long. You’re being ridiculous."
He stepped closer and gripped my shoulder—hard—forcing me towards the door. But I shook my head, refusing to budge.
"Oh, sod this," Moody growled—and his wand snapped up.
A blue bolt of Stupefy shot towards Percy.
But I was watching that bastard.
I threw myself in front of Percy, shouting my spell—
—and just as my vision went black, I saw a dark figure in the doorway—
—and a red streak of light flying straight for Percy.
2025-03-15 05:01:49 +0000 UTC
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We made it to the tower.
I managed to stir up some ambushes and trigger a few traps along the way, keeping the enemy busy while having my own fun messing with the other "kids." Meanwhile, my sneaky little team slipped right through and made it inside—along with me, of course. They were greeted, escorted to a room where they were supposed to open their scroll, and before I knew it, the doors had shut behind them.
I got distracted by all the new scents. The tower was massive, multi-leveled, and full of hidden passageways, and I was too busy taking in my surroundings to squeeze in before the doors closed.
I had a rough idea of what would happen next—at least, according to the anime. The bigger mystery was what exactly the kids were supposed to do while waiting around for the rest of the teams. The second phase of the exam in this deathtrap forest was scheduled to last five days, and we had finished in one and a half. With nothing to do, Naruto and Sasuke might start pestering me about Kushina, so for now, I was officially Mister Very Busy Cat.
My main concern? Finding a way out if things went sideways. I needed to scout who had already arrived, track down Ino and Hinata’s teams, and see if they needed a top-tier, feline guide through the local flora and fauna. Plus, whatever Kushina and Orochimaru were plotting had my fur on edge. It had only been a week since we met with Itachi and Shisui—had they managed to connect with Kushina and Orochimaru yet? Did Shisui know what they were up to? Or were he and Itachi on a separate mission? What conclusions would Sasuke and Naruto come to? Was there any way to set things back on their original track?
So. Many. Questions.
And absolutely no answers.
I sighed, shaking myself out of it. My action plan was clear: scout the area, find the kitchen (priorities!), refuel, rest, map the tower’s entry and exit points, gather intel, and if necessary, venture back into the forest to assist anyone who needed my majestic expertise. Also, checking out the competition wouldn’t hurt.
The tower was circular, five stories tall, and had a bizarre layout—one I hadn’t paid close attention to before. Last time I was here, it housed that thing, that creepy statue that sucked the Nine-Tails out of Kushina. Thinking about it sent a shiver down my spine. If they took days to extract Gaara’s One-Tail in the anime, it might’ve taken just as long for Kushina, unless all those Uchiha had sped up the process. There were at least fifty of them in that clearing back then—maybe they took shifts.
The very thought made my fur stand on end.
Poor Kushina. To go through that kind of hell… Maybe everyone assumed she had just gone to the capital, only to be ambushed. Maybe her guards had been slaughtered. Maybe there had been traitors among them—Uchiha traitors.
Shisui and I only put the pieces together at the very end, when the daimyo’s palace fell. Even now, I could still smell the blood, the sickening chakra of a tailed beast—
Wait.
That wasn’t just a memory.
I actually smelled it.
My ears flattened as my heartbeat picked up. The scent was coming from a door left slightly ajar on the second floor. Cautiously, I crept toward it and peeked through the crack.
A flash of red hair.
I froze.
Gaara.
How the hell did I forget about him? He was a participant in this exam, too. And he was a jinchuriki. Just like Naruto.
I forced myself to breathe.
Okay. Okay. He’s still in his murdery phase, right? He killed people, but… did he ever hurt animals? I didn’t recall. Did I really want Naruto and Gaara to fight?
The door suddenly slid open so fast it slammed against the wall with a bang. I jumped, fur puffing up as my spine arched instinctively.
"It’s just a pussycat," (1) a female voice noted. Then, more gently, "Don’t touch it, Gaara. It might belong to someone, and that could cause trouble."
Feeling emboldened by her words, I strolled into the room—only to nearly jump again when the sand at the doorway slithered back toward that weird gourd-thing strapped to Gaara’s back.
So that’s how the door had opened. Not with hands—with sand.
Trying to look casual, I crouched and pounced at the moving sand, pretending to hunt it. The sand stilled. I glanced up and finally took in the rest of the room.
In the far corner sat a guy dressed in black. His face—oh lord, his face. It was so terrifyingly ugly that I nearly pissed myself then and there. He wore a hat with little ear flaps, but with his frown and dark paint streaks, he looked like Batman if the Joker had done his makeup.
Oh, right. Gaara’s brother.
And across from him, leaning against the opposite wall, was their sister, the blonde one—Temari.
Gaara himself sat directly across from the door, staring at me with those eerie, unreadable eyes.
"That’s definitely a tomcat, Temari,"(1) the creepy one chuckled. "Look at the way his—"
I glared at him, with all the scorn I could muster. Projecting the look of a cat who had seen peak stupidity and had zero tolerance for it.
The sand twitched again.
I didn’t miss a beat. I pounced on it, playing along with the whole hunter act, but eventually, it all slithered back into Gaara’s gourd. He was still staring at me, watching every move I made.
I had no clue what he was thinking.
But oddly, I didn’t feel threatened.
Unlike his brother, who was radiating irritation, discomfort, and maybe even a little fear, Gaara was… calm. Completely, utterly calm.
That made me braver.
I decided I was going in.
I padded forward, stopping at his feet. He didn’t react.
I purred. Nothing.
I placed one paw on his knee and gave him my best big, innocent kitty eyes.
Still nothing.
I put my other paw up, kneading gently at his leg to loosen it so I could climb onto his lap.
No response.
"Come on, dude, just let me up already," I grumbled, tail flicking.
For the first time, something shifted on his otherwise blank face. His gaze flickered toward Temari.
"I think the cat wants to sit on you," she coughed awkwardly.
I gave a slow, victorious nod. Gaara’s eyes widened slightly.
...Maybe nodding hadn’t been the best move.
"This is a weird animal," Batman muttered. "We should kick it out."
"Yeah, Gaara… Animals don’t usually approach you…" Temari agreed warily, eyeing me like I was insane.
I scoffed. Please. Yeah, sure, his chakra was a little unsettling, but I’d survived the Nine-Tails extraction. I’d walked through the mark of the Cat King himself, Nekomata-sama. What’s a little One-Tail aura gonna do?
Gaara, still silent, finally extended his legs.
I flicked my tail high, shot a smug look at Temari just to mess with her, and hopped onto my rightful throne—his lap.
Up close, he looked even younger than I expected. How old was he? He seemed so small and scrawny, all sharp bones and zero meat. A red chick, not a red panda.
I grabbed his wrist with both paws, yanked it toward me, and rubbed my face against it. Damn it, kid, do I have to spell it out for you? This is how you pet a cat!
After a pause, his fingers—hesitant and stiff—grazed my fur.
Finally.
I must’ve dozed off, lulled by the warmth and the slow, tentative strokes of a kid who had no idea what he was doing.
I woke to the smell of food—and something else.
Lazily stretching, I dangled over Gaara’s bony knees. Seriously, this kid was so thin.
When I looked up, Gaara was still petting me, his touch careful but oddly soothing.
Across the room, Batman was glaring at me like I was the embodiment of all his fears and hatred. His lips curled slightly, making his already terrifying, paint-smeared face even worse.
"Your dinner," rumbled a deep voice.
I had already caught the scent before he arrived—a tall guy, crouching down to set a tray on the floor. There were four deep bowls filled with rice and something that smelled suspiciously like curry.
A very spicy, very not-cat-friendly curry.
The guy had a white cloth draped over half his face, and on his visible cheek, two red triangular marks—almost like Kiba’s, but mirrored. Guess he got bored and decided to even them out.
I jumped down from Gaara’s lap and settled by the tray, sniffing the air again just to be sure.
Yeah. Curry.
Disgusting.
"That’s our food, stay out of it!" growled Batman.
I fixed him with my signature unimpressed glare, flicked my tail, and turned away with a huff.
There was a faint rustle of sand—Gaara had already pulled his bowl closer, chopsticks at the ready. The rest of the team relaxed and started eating.
My own stomach grumbled.
Alright. Kitchen scouting just became priority number one.
I didn’t expect my gracious presence to cause mass panic in the tower’s kitchen.
"Are you sure that’s just a regular cat, Kuchi-san?" one of the chefs asked, gripping a cleaver like his life depended on it. "I’m telling you, in the Forest of Death, you can run into a tiny squirrel that’ll scare off giant centipedes. No way a normal cat would just waltz in here! The only registered animal in this exam is a ninja dog, and this sure as hell isn’t an Inuzuka hound!"
"Maybe it belongs to one of the exam proctors?" Kuchi-san mused. "Maybe they brought it along for company. Here, kitty-kitty-kitty~."
Yeah. No.
I took matters into my own paws.
With a single leap, I landed squarely on the cutting table—right next to a half-butchered pig carcass—grabbed myself a prime cut, and bolted.
"HEY! HE STOLE THE MEAT!" screeched the guy with the cleaver. He raised his weapon, actually ready to swing at me.
I turned. Locked eyes with him.
And let out a slow, guttural, unholy growl.
Chakra flared through my fur, my claws flexed, and I arched my back, channeling the wrath of a thousand demonic spirits.
Kuchi-san went pale.
"Put the cleaver down, Kobiki," he whispered. "You were right. That’s not a normal cat. Look at that glare—like a demon. Who knows what it’ll do?"
The two chefs stepped back, hands nowhere near anything sharp.
"Easy there, kitty," one of them murmured. "You don’t mess with us, we don’t mess with you."
Satisfied, I chomped down on my hard-earned prize right there on the table, devouring it while they watched in stunned silence.
Then, with my tail held high, I strutted out of the kitchen like the untouchable king I was.
Fear me, humans.
And keep feeding me.
Nyahaha.
After some exploring, I came to a frustrating conclusion—this tower wasn’t exactly open access. Getting in was hard. Getting out? Even harder.
So much for meeting up with Ino and Hinata’s teams.
Then again, I had found something way more interesting.
Gaara.
In the anime, he had been completely unhinged. He killed people. He fought Naruto. He tried to destroy Konoha.
But later? He changed.
Was it possible that, just like Sasuke, his mind had been tampered with? Some kind of pre-set conditioning?
Without Nekomata-sama, I couldn’t pull an Itachi-style memory fix… but it was worth considering.
I perched on a ledge overlooking the main hall. This is where the fights would happen later.
"Another team is approaching," came a voice from the speakers.
Below, a mechanical door slid open, letting in a trio of guys in straw hats.
…And I had no idea who they were.
Huh.
I watched as a chunin proctor greeted them and led them further inside.
Had they always been part of this exam? Or was something off?
I was still contemplating that mystery when a very familiar scent reached me.
"There you are," came Gaara’s quiet voice from behind.
I turned.
And immediately froze.
Because standing right next to him—staring at me with wide, shining eyes—was none other than Naruto.
"NAMAIKI-CHAN!" he practically yelled.
Oh.
Oh no.
I didn’t even need to come up with an elaborate plan. The universe had simply decided, "Surprise, cat! Figure it out yourself!"
Now what?!
(1) Russian has gendered nouns and in this case the more accurate translation would be: "It is just a ‘female cat’” (my tr: “It is just a pussycat”) & “That’s definitely definitely a ‘male cat’, Temari” (my tr: "That’s definitely a tomcat, Temari,").
2025-03-15 04:57:53 +0000 UTC
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Demons of NC
Life is Good
Elden Ring: My Ending
2025-03-14 05:42:14 +0000 UTC
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The issue of the Tarnished’s clothing had now become a pressing matter for not just one but two women.
The first had managed to find the Tarnished and bring him to Stormveil Castle, then sought out fabric worthy of demigods and even Goddess Marika—but she hadn’t accounted for the fact that an ordinary needle wouldn’t be able to handle such a special material.
By some miracle and through titanic effort, Boc had managed to stitch together something resembling clothing for His Majesty, but…
The King went and grew! Just like that—he grew! His Majesty wasn’t a child, so why had he suddenly shot up in size?! Or… was there something they didn’t know?
Fortunately, Boc was prevented from sinking entirely into despair.
“Where did you get that?”
“…”
Ranni’s projection ignored Melina’s question and silently handed the golden needle to a stunned Boc.
A needle of pure gold, glowing with the power of the Erdtree. Something so valuable that many lords would have sent their most loyal servants to die for it.
At least, before the Shattering.
The demi-human had no idea who was standing before him, but judging by Lady Melina’s silent frustration, it was someone important.
“I have gathered many things over the years,” the demigoddess said neutrally, folding her hands. “Is that really so surprising?”
A flicker of surprise crossed Ranni’s spectral face, as if she couldn’t believe Melina had spent all this time wandering around with her faithful companion, only ever looking for her future Lord.
Surely, she wasn’t that crazy, right?
Melina, recognizing the implication instantly, pursed her lips slightly in annoyance.
She was just doing her job!
“You should be busy right now. What are you doing here?”
“The tailor you chose is competent, but he lacks the proper tools. I can’t stand watching the future king walk around in rags unworthy of him.”
“I already accomplished the impossible,” Melina replied coldly.
And the Outer Gods only knew how much effort she had put into getting her chosen one to accept clothing at all! This was, quite possibly, the greatest achievement she was proud of!
She heard the criticism in Ranni’s words and was about to retort, but…
Boc, realizing that the two ladies were about to start an argument—possibly not their first—decided to shift attention onto himself and play his trump card.
“You’re arguing because I’m ugly, aren’t you?!”
The two women, just about ready to launch into a heated ‘discussion’, froze and stared at Boc in confusion.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he trembled.
His Majesty would have to call him the most beautiful being in the Lands Between later—to repay him for the sacrifice he was about to make!
Meanwhile, one of the greatest battles since the Shattering was about to begin…
Unlike the carefully orchestrated “festival” that had attempted to take down Radahn, the march against Kosta had no meticulous countdown or scripted event triggers.
At some point, the battle simply began.
A storm of arrows and spells mixed into a lethal cascade, surging toward the half-naked man at terrifying speed.
Seeing the incoming barrage, Kosta pulled a massive shield out of nowhere.
“Are you sure you don’t need help?”
The worried albinauric couldn’t maintain her composure anymore, not when they were so close to their goal.
It wasn’t about how strong Kosta was. The issue was that they could simply overwhelm him with sheer numbers.
The unshaken man didn’t answer.
A golden glow erupted from his hands, flooding the shield, which immediately began to crack under the weight of sheer casual energy.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BOOM!
Arrows the size of ballista bolts and spells capable of shattering stone walls rained down on the spot where a single Tarnished stood, carving craters into the earth. Dust rose into the air.
Of course, no one expected this to kill one of the strongest beings in the Lands Between.
But at the very least, they had hoped to leave a scratch. To force him to use so much energy that he wouldn’t have enough left for a proper fight…
That would have been enough.
“No.”
The Blood Lord… or whatever he was at this point… frowned, tightening his grip on his trident.
Even with all the preparation, they had still underestimated their opponent.
Slowly, the dust settled, revealing the unshaken, completely unscathed, half-naked madman—holding a shield covered in golden fractures.
The moment he lowered it, the shield shattered into pieces, unable to withstand such massive amounts casual energy.
…perhaps, once upon a time, that shield had belonged to a hardcore purist, faithful to the ideals of difficulty…
Kosta surveyed the crowd, then pulled a staff from nowhere, gripping it in both hands before slamming it into the ground.
A massive, glowing casual seal formed beneath him.
The cursed son of the Goddess had more than enough time, opportunity and talent to study magic.
So it took him only a glance to understand what the Tarnished was about to do.
“Meteorite of Astel!”
“Fall back!” Mohg’s voice thundered across the battlefield as he slammed his bloodied trident into the ground.
Those who could fly took to the skies. Erdtree Guardians and mounted knights urged their steeds in every direction. Spirits faded into intangibility. The Tarnished were carried off by their attendants, whisked away to safety.
Unfortunately, not everyone was so lucky.
Above Kosta, high in the sky, golden voids tore open into the abyss.
From within, meteors hurtled downward at blinding speed.
For a moment, it seemed as if the entire Altus Plateau had been swallowed by casual light. Explosions roared across the land, shaking those who—just moments ago—had no idea that a casual hardcore player was being hunted.
…or perhaps it was the other way around.
‘I’ve seen Meteorite of Astel before, but one this powerful…’ Morgott shook his head.
He couldn’t believe that not too long ago, the Tarnished and his projection had fought on equal footing.
…or, well, almost equal footing…
…well, at the very least, the gap between them hadn’t been this massive…
The Omen King’s projection scowled.
They had reacted far too late to the emergence of this monster, and now they were paying the price.
A significant portion of the army—once powerful and confident—was simply gone.
The once-pristine golden fields, bathed in eternal autumn, were now soaked in blood and littered with countless shattered bodies.
Survival in an incorporeal state was out of the question. The golden energy that had flooded the land burned away everything, including the spirits who hadn’t managed to escape.
The few who had survived—miraculously—now moaned and gasped on the bloodstained ground.
Among their desperate cries, prayers to the Erdtree and Goddess Marika could be heard.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, only the weaker portion of the army had suffered.
They wouldn’t have been able to touch Kosta anyway.
“Marvelous, simply marvelous, my dear Tarnished!”
Mohg’s laughter rang across the battlefield.
To some, it would have sounded chilling and oppressive.
His trident gleamed with blood-red light, and beneath the true Mohg, a crimson sigil pulsed ominously.
His projection was melting into a pool of blood, slowly seeping back into him—restoring his full strength.
From the very beginning, the Blood Lord had planned a harvest.
Though he hadn’t expected the Tarnished to wipe out so many with his first attack, it was still within acceptable limits.
For the first time, Kosta saw someone steal runes from the enemies he had slain.
It was… interesting.
It seemed like Mohg knew of some unusual farming techniques.
‘Not surprising at all,’ Konstantin thought. ‘His location is literally a cradle of rune farming(1)…’
“Behold, foul Tarnished soul!”
A completely unscathed Varre, somehow untouched by the devastation, emerged as if this were some rehearsed scene.
…For some reason, Kosta could vividly picture Varre standing in front of a mirror, practicing his speech and fine-tuning his dramatic intonations…
“…With your actions, you have aided Lord Mohg the Radiant, the Blood Lord!.. Oh, I see you’re calm now, but don’t think your calm will last! Our Lord—”
“…Are you ever going to shut up?”
Knight Bernahl’s irritated shout cut through the air, making Varre flinch as if he had been slapped.
The man in white had hoped that the miserable, maidenless knight would get crushed by a meteorite.
But apparently, he’d gotten lucky.
The scattered Tarnished began to return. The airborne creatures froze in midair, encircling Kosta, while the riders, as if they had never left, closed in, forming a tightening ring around him.
Not that this fazed the main contender for the throne in the slightest.
His concern lay elsewhere:
“Why did you join them, Bernahl?”
Kosta’s gaze met the old Tarnished’s. To be honest, he didn’t want to fight the man who had once taught countless players some of their most valuable techniques.
“I couldn’t refuse such an offer,” Bernahl lowered his head slightly, almost apologetically.
He, unable to flee like the others, understood why he had been spared.
“I would have loved to cross blades with you in a fair duel, Konstantin, even if it meant losing instantly. But your very existence threatens my goal. The strong kill the weak; the weak unite and kill the strong. Surely you know this, Tarnished?”
Konstantin raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t want to go for the basic ending. Who said I was going to obey the Greater Will? Your waifu threw herself into the flame(2), and I completely understand your grief, Bernahl. The deaths of the few beautiful things in this world will not be forgotten.”
Kosta’s eyes burned with the light of a waifu fan—the brightest light he had ever shown.
Bernahl, clearly not expecting that kind of response, froze, scratching his helmet.
“My… waifu? You know about my servant?!”
A moment of clarity washed over the Tarnished’s mind. The light of waifus, stronger than any sorcery, seeped into his thoughts.
“Enough talking!”
The Blood Lord’s roar echoed across the battlefield.
It seemed Mohg had taken offense at how the Tarnished had completely ignored his dramatic transformation.
Which was a shame—because there was a lot to look at. Black wings had sprouted from the demigod’s back, his body pulsed with blood-red energy, and even his horns seemed to have grown longer!
“…Did you just skip straight to phase two?” Konstantin muttered in surprise.
Apparently, yes.
Having gathered enough casual energy, Mohg, recognizing Kosta’s strength, had decided to go all in from the start:
“Hear me! On my count! Trēs!”
Blood-red energy surged into the sky.
Konstantin felt a foreign casual force wrap around him.
The now-familiar energy, inaccessible even to demigods—one capable of suppressing the Sun burning within him—was the clearest sign yet of an actual blessing from the Formless Mother(3).
Kosta’s mood improved even further.
‘I wonder if she’ll have her own questline…’
If not in the game, then at least here.
His inner lore scholar was dying to learn what the game had never told.
Though, first… he had to finish the main quests.
And now that he thought about it, there weren’t that many left.
A cracked great club materialized in his hand.
Konstantin wasn’t the only one who had realized the scale of Mohg’s power.
Morgott’s projection, observing from the sidelines, gritted his teeth—fighting the urge to join Konstantin and beat the absolute crap out of every single traitor.
All of them!
And then, out of the Tarnished himself!
‘Traitors… Nothing but traitors all around me!’
Having closed the distance, the Erdtree Guardians launched their assault.
Konstantin, glancing behind him, suddenly pulled out a whistle and summoned Torrent, who snorted in irritation.
The spectral steed—having received a nice buff—immediately showed that his leveling hadn’t been for nothing: a powerful kick from his hooves sent not just one Guardian flying, but also his mount.
Jumping several meters into the air, Torrent, satisfied with his contribution, disappeared—allowing Kosta to land directly on another Guardian, knocking him clean off his horse.
Not giving his opponent a chance, Kosta raised his club.
WHAM!
Konstantin landed just beyond his now-defeated enemy.
The Guardian’s horse, letting out a sorrowful huff, approached him and began nuzzling against him.
The scene sparked… certain memories.
“…No true parries until the time is right,” Kosta declared sternly, swatting the horse away.
It could mourn its rider after the battle.
If there was even anything left of the Guardian by then.
There was a very real chance his body wouldn’t survive what was about to happen.
“…Duo!..”
Konstantin felt the foreign power tightening around him, as if trying to crush him.
Mohg’s next roar served as a command.
Dragons opened their maws, unleashing torrents of fire.
The undead survivors from the Tarnished’s last attack charged forward, completely unbothered by the fact that dragon fire would consume them just as readily.
Visibility dropped to near zero.
A sea of flame swallowed the battlefield, painting the sky red.
The screams of burning undead filled the air as they hurled themselves through the inferno toward the Tarnished.
Somewhere in the blazing storm, the dead bird screeched.
The battlefield—where an army led by a demigod faced off against a single casual-hardcore player—would never be the same again.
And Kosta’s next move only solidified that fact.
“…Marika’s tits…” Bernahl muttered, scratching his helmet.
His thoughts, suddenly cleared by Konstantin’s words, told him that, perhaps, it would be wiser to leave these allies behind and just… observe.
For some reason, he didn’t resist that feeling.
And just like that, he silently vanished.
In the chaos of battle, the disappearance of a single Tarnished wouldn’t change much.
And it was, without a doubt, the right decision.
Pillars of blood-black fire erupted into the sky.
Morgott was not easily frightened.
Angered? Absolutely.
But not frightened.
In his long life, he had seen horrors beyond what even the worst monsters in the Lands Between could imagine.
And there were many of them—this was a Soulslike, after all!
Yet, even he felt a chill run through his projection.
Somewhere, at the edge of his consciousness, he felt the heat of the rising flames—flames unlike anything the Lands Between had ever witnessed.
As if alive, the fire latched onto the dragons’ breath, devouring it, before turning on the rulers of the skies themselves.
A wail of agony echoed across the Altus Plateau as the oversized lizards struggled in vain to rid themselves of the monstrous flames.
The undead were slightly more fortunate:
They were incinerated before they even realized what was happening.
But no one had time to process any of it.
“…Ūnus!..”
Konstantin’s blood-black flames… vanished.
The man, still engulfed in fire, stared at his hands in surprise.
He could feel it—reality itself had constricted around him, sealing all his power deep within.
There was no exaggeration in saying that the demigod, having consumed the blood of a third of the army, had surpassed even the Godskin Duo.
Kosta was definitely enjoying this upgraded version of the boss(4).
‘Now it’s the Tarnisheds’ turn,’ Morgott narrowed his eyes.
There were no more than two dozen of them left—perhaps even fewer—but each had survived countless battles.
Failures, stripped of grace, yet given the chance to become a Lord.
Some had spent their eternity studying magic.
Some had chosen the path of the warrior.
Some had gone even further, mastering both in different forms and variations.
Every Tarnished was unique, and though they didn’t possess the raw destructive power of dragons, they had been forged for one singular purpose—to hunt down the very beings they were never meant to defeat.
After all, each of them had once been given the chance to become a Lord.
Now, with the Kosta’s primary strength restricted, that chance had only grown.
Or so they thought.
Countless blades surrounded the charred man, who—despite everything—still wore the same simple cloth around his waist.
In an instant, they struck.
Piercing through vital organs.
Tearing his body apart, flooding it from the inside of the wounds with their own casual strength.
Golden-tinged blood poured from the man’s wounds, and those who had dared to get close felt an instinctive, primal shiver.
It was too familiar.
Too much like Grace.
Dense, foreign, as if it had come from some distant cosmos—existing on a different plane of reality.
The golden glow in the man’s eyes began to dim, revealing dull, gray irises as life drained from them.
Even his great club slipped from his grasp.
For a moment, there was nothing but suffocating silence.
‘Defeated?’
In one form or another, the thought passed through the minds of all who witnessed the scene.
The terrifyingly fast and agile Tarnished had finally made a mistake.
It was hard to believe, but their strategy had been far more intricate than anyone had expected.
They had exhausted him.
Restrained him.
Drowned him in dragonfire.
Surely, that was enough to force an error.
‘No, this isn’t right…’
Morgott couldn’t believe it had been this simple.
It couldn’t have been this…
Well, not simple, but…
Something whispered to him that this wasn’t how things ended.
Not in their world.
“Well, well, little lamb… how did it come to this?”
Judging by his tone, Varre had a very different opinion.
Stepping forward, the man in white, now standing beside his Lord, walked toward the dying figure without hesitation.
“He might still—”
Varre waved off the words of some lowly Tarnished with irritation, stopping directly in front of the burned, bloodied madman.
“You’ve been eating well, little lamb,” Varre grinned widely. “But even a starving wretch, when fed to the brim, remains a starving wretch.”
Reaching out, he barely managed to pat the Tarnished’s face—almost like a scolding parent disciplining an unruly child.
He had dreamed of this moment ever since he first saw that filthy Tarnished shatter his beautiful white mask!
A pathetic madman who couldn’t tell friend from foe.
Unfortunately, the lunatic’s progress had been so relentless that Varre had never gotten the chance to punish the wretched fool himself.
Fortunately, their wise Lord had seen the problem as well.
Varre’s smug grin froze in place.
The Tarnished’s eyes.
The man’s gray eyes, which had seemed lifeless just moments ago, suddenly lowered—locking directly onto Varre’s.
“Huh?”
That was the first and last thought he managed before a fist came flying at his face.
The unexpected punch sent him soaring, the remnants of his once-pristine white mask shattering like it had never existed.
With that single strike, a surge of energy flooded Konstantin’s body. His eyes blazed with renewed light, and his scorched skin began to heal.
If Sekiro had taught him that he could parry the air itself, then Bloodborne…
It had taught him that lost health could be regained—if one was aggressive enough.
A faint aura of energy coated Konstantin’s body. Ignoring his wounds, he lunged at the now-screaming Tarnished, snatching up the gift from his waifu in the process.
He had barely used the great club so far, and that needed to change.
In the next moments Morgott had witnessed a massacre.
A brutal, merciless slaughter—devoid of beauty, grace (or even rolling).
A wild beast, paying no heed to its own wounds, trampling over more than a dozen battle-hardened warriors and sorcerers as the few who remained watched in stunned horror.
Whether he liked it or not, the demigod saw something in the Tarnished’s form—something that reminded him of the first Elden Lord.
And he felt something strange.
Something unnatural.
Something deeply, crushingly unsettling.
With every bone-shattering swing of the club, Konstantin’s burned body healed more and more, until—barely a few minutes later—he was almost completely unscathed.
Even the force restricting his power had begun to weaken, allowing a fraction of his casual strength to spill into the world.
And when the last Tarnished fell…
"Nihil! Nihil! Nihil!!!"
Mohg’s final trump card came into play.
The veins in Konstantin’s body burst open, sending blood spraying as an unnatural force tried to tear him apart from within.
But the man, as if completely unbothered, pressed forward—marching directly toward Mohg.
And when he reached him…
He swung his club with everything he had.
The impact shattered the weapon, sending golden shards flying in all directions.
The massive demigod was launched several meters backward, tumbling across the ground.
His trident—his sacred weapon—remained lying at the Tarnished’s feet.
And Konstantin had absolutely no reservations about picking it up.
"You...!"
Drenched in blood, Konstantin first glanced at the weapon—then at its owner.
“…No bleed resistance, if I remember correctly(5)…”
With an effortless motion, he twirled the trident like he’d been using it for years—before raising it high and piercing the very air itself.
Mohg’s eyes widened in terror as his own blood—blood he could not control—began gushing from his body.
He, the one blessed by the Formless Mother, the Lord of Blood himself—
Was bleeding out.
At a pace so absurdly fast that the mere thought of how this would be remembered in history filled him with sheer dread.
The spirits would never let this be forgotten.
The Lord of Blood died of blood loss.
No.
Not like this.
Never!
“S—Stop… My sweet M-Miquella, he—”
Konstantin raised the trident again—and once more, pierced the air.
"Kkh—a…!"
More blood erupted from Mohg’s body.
“S-Stop…!”
The unshaken Tarnished barely spared the demigod a glance before repeating the attack, driving the trident through space itself once again.
A mere minute ago, the once-mighty son of the Goddess had been at his absolute peak.
Now, he lay collapsed in a pool of his own blood, staring blankly at the sky with dimming eyes.
“…Miquella…”
Konstantin, realizing that one more strike would finish off the demigod for good, discarded the trident like trash.
He didn’t even bother acknowledging the voice calling him out from the weapon.
“…Honestly, I have mixed feelings about this,” Kosta admitted.
“On one hand, you were the victim of a evil little boy, which is arguably a fate worse than any death—even the most gruesome one.
On the other hand…
Even without his influence, you did enough on your own that trying to talk things out with you would have been utterly pointless.”
He looked around.
The restrictions on his body had lifted, restoring his casual prowess to its full extent.
No, more than that—
He could feel it.
A massive influx of runes, flowing into him from the countless fallen enemies.
His body felt lighter than ever—overflowing with power.
Of course, at his current level of overleveling, this didn’t really change much in the grand scheme of things.
“…Miquella… ah, Miquella…”
Kosta raised an eyebrow at Mohg’s pitiful state.
After some thought, he decided not to dispel the demigod’s delusions.
It was better for a casual blood-loss abuser to die thinking of his brother with unnatural warmth and affection…
…rather than spend his last moments consumed by horror, disgust, and hatred.
Soulslikes already had more than enough suffering for everyone.
A mundane sword materialized in Konstantin’s hand—one so completely worthless that, by the Outer Gods, it would break after a single hit.
Originally, he had anticipated a one-on-one duel with Mohg.
But the demigod decided to surprise him—throwing an entire army at him while severely restricting his power, even at the cost of his own mobility.
For such a generous gift, Konstantin figured he owed at least some respect to the casual blood-loss abuser, now dying to blood loss.
“You’ll die by the sword, not by bleeding out,” Konstantin said quietly, raising the golden-cracked hunk of metal above his head.
In Mohg’s dimming eyes, for just a moment—
A flicker of gratitude.
Then, as the blade pierced his chest—
It disappeared.
Together with a massive surge of runes—
And yet another Great Rune—
Another child of the Goddess had fallen for good.
It should have been a glorious victory.
But…
“…You could have warned me, Konstantin…”
The Tarnished blinked in surprise.
For the first time, there was not just disapproval, but actual anger in the albinauric’s voice.
As if that wasn’t enough, Kosta turned—
Only to find Melina and Ranni standing before him.
Their stares made him feel like something inside him had died.
Several times.
“… … …”
“… … …”
“… … …”
The gazes of the waifus promised to haunt his nightmares.
Kosta barely managed to squeeze out:
“…I broke your gift, Meli-Meli…”
But unfortunately, Melina wasn’t even remotely moved by his confession.
In fact, she didn’t even react—
She just kept looking.
Konstantin’s mouth opened slightly, but the words never came.
The feeling of victory vanished completely.
Morgott, watching from the sidelines, hurriedly dispelled his illusion, feeling, for the first time in centuries, a very real fear for his own soul.
The foolish Tarnished had dug his own grave.
Now, he would have to lie in it.
Meanwhile, poor Sellen—who was, at that moment, being mercilessly cuddled by a dreaming Rennala—stared in shock at a tiny version of the Tarnished…
…curled up in a corner, rocking back and forth.
Whatever had happened…
Had definitely been brutal.
(1) A high-level farming zone—Mohg’s domain is crawling with enemies that drop a significant number of runes. There are more than a few methods to efficiently farm in this area, but one of the easiest and most popular is right by the Site of Grace. Here, players can repeatedly kill an unfortunate bird alongside a small group of albinaurics who wandered into the wrong neighborhood.
Truly, the cradle of farming.
(2) There’s a mention that Bernahl chose to serve a blasphemous Lord specifically to defy the Greater Will, which had decreed that his servant be sacrificed in the flame.
It’s likely this was meant to be part of an actual questline, but—like an ocean of other cut content—all that remains are scraps.
(3) The Formless Mother—presumably an Outer God who actively meddles in the Lands Between.
Mohg received his power over blood from her.
It’s likely that this Outer God was supposed to have a major questline, but—like so many other stories and characters—was left behind, reduced to little more than fragments.
Sure, those scraps can be pieced together into something coherent if you really try, but at that point, you might as well sit down and write your own original novel from scratch—there’s just that little information available.
The poor lore enthusiasts are left with scraps of scraps.
(4) In-game, Mohg doesn’t actually restrict the player’s abilities.
The only thing he does is drain HP while restoring his own.
For the sake of the fanfic, this power has been slightly reworked.
(5) The Lord of Blood actually doesn’t have any resistance to bleed.
Which is… weird, but… fine. ಠ_ಠ
2025-03-14 05:41:11 +0000 UTC
View Post
Exams. So much weight in that word, so much suffering woven into the heart of every student.
But screw it—praise be to Tzeentch—I did it! I walked out of my last exam for the day in a state of euphoria. Who would've thought I'd ever feel this hyped? It wasn’t even about passing the exams, really—it was the sheer anticipation of free time and all the ways I planned to fill it. Hell, I didn’t get half this rush on my first night patrolling, but today? Today, I closed out all my math subjects and physics. Absolutely glorious.
Back in the day, I did consider trying to weasel out of school, going full, “We don’t have time for games! We need to fight!”—but I was, figuratively, told to fuck right off by literally everyone. Magneto, Xavier, hell, even moms Judy and Betty got in on it. Not that I was really mad about it.
I mean, they had a point—education is kinda important if I don’t plan on being a full-time brawler or retiring as a househusband. Who knows? Maybe one day, I’ll say “screw this superhero gig” and apply for a job at Oscorp. Sure, Harry could probably get me in through nepotism, no doubt, but the thought of working there without even finishing high school? That’s just embarrassing. Better suck it up and push through. Otherwise, my only option would be moving to Canada and chopping wood for a living. College, though? That can wait—18, maybe 20 sounds like a good time for that.
Halfway to the training halls, I stopped. Weird feeling. Like someone called me. I glanced around—empty hallway. Not a soul in sight. Strange. I don’t even know how to describe it—like a silent shout in a familiar voice. I stood there, confused as hell, until I felt something stir inside me. The Flame. For real, sometimes it feels like that thing is alive. And honestly? I’m almost certain it’s got some kind of primitive intelligence or emotional response. Happens way too often that I feel it growling in sync with my bad moods. Like an aggressive little cheer squad—Blood for the Blood God, huh?
Anyway, I had a hunch—this was Blaze reaching out. Or at least hinting that we needed to talk. I wasn’t sure how, but Ghost Riders had something like this in the original lore, right? Some kinda mark? And honestly, it was about time—I had way too many questions piling up about the Flame. Plus, I really needed to know how the hell she managed to bypass my defensive abilities. Only problem? We forgot to exchange numbers. Yeah. Real smart.
Guess that meant I needed Yuriko.
Sensei greeted me with her trademark deadpan expression, lazily smacking a shinai against her palm. But her brow did quirk slightly when I walked up instead of heading straight to the locker room.
“Sensei, good afternoon,” I said, not expecting a reply. If I was lucky, I’d get a nod. And only if she was feeling chatty. “I need to head into the city. Gotta meet up with that flaming skeleton on a bike.”
She crossed her arms under her chest, giving me a look that was both expectant and just a little amused.
“I need to talk to her—you get it,” I added, throwing in a dash of irritation. Oh yeah, I caught her ‘recurring’ joke about ‘ladies,’ I just didn’t find it that funny. I rolled my eyes dramatically to drive the point home. “I’ll make up for the missed training. Learning more about the Flame could be useful.”
A few seconds of silence. A nod. The shinai went back to the rack, and the corner of Oyama’s lips twitched.
“I’ll drive.”
And, as always, the woman of few words marched toward the exit.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Logan checking out Yuriko as she walked off. He noticed me watching. I smirked. Wagged a finger. Tsk, tsk, tsk, my guy.
Logan pulled his classic “I am so fucking done with you people” face. I fake-snorted in response. Of all people, my dear Sensei couldn’t care less about Wolverine’s rugged charm. Too boring for her. Heh. Though, to be fair, they did have some similarities.
Oh, and speaking of Logan’s problems—Jubilee had definitely seen that little exchange. I was calling it now: within the next few hours, rumors were gonna fly about two mutant men locked in a fierce battle for the heart of one enigmatic Japanese woman. One was a seasoned warrior, the other a brash young upstart. The sheer pain on Logan’s face when he hears about it? Priceless. Yuriko, though? She wouldn’t even react. At most, a hmm. More likely, she’d just give the gossipers a blank stare and move on.
We sat in the car. Yuriko started the engine, leaned back while the car warmed up, then gave me a sidelong look, one brow slightly raised.
“A cafe’s probably best,” I mused. “She’ll find me on her own… I hope.”
She lifted her other brow. I just shrugged. Hell, I could be wrong. But I’d rather be overprepared than underprepared. Last thing I needed was Blaze showing up at the school and causing a diplomatic incident with the mutant population. I could’ve warned everyone ahead of time, but honestly? It was just easier handling this with Sensei. She was strict, sure, but over time, we’d… I dunno. Gotten closer? She trusted my judgment. Treated me more like an adult than most.
The drive was quiet. City streets rolled by under the afternoon sun. Hopefully, the day would stay calm—no fights, no disasters, no unexpected bullshit. Just a chat with the Ghost Rider, then a trip to meet the special forces. Oh yeah, I brought my suit for that. It was chilling in the trunk in its little suitcase.
About halfway there, I felt that pull again. Stronger this time. Clearer.
Yuriko picked a pretty low-key cafe. Not surprising—mid-afternoon, barely any customers. We ordered tea. I got a cheesecake. Oyama, meanwhile, scrutinized the menu like it had personally insulted her, then just shook her head in disapproval.
The waitress? Oh boy. She could’ve been Yuriko’s long-lost sister. The sheer level of not giving a fuck radiating off her was palpable. No wonder this place wasn’t popular.
Halfway through my decidedly mediocre cheesecake, the Flame inside me flared again—so strong this time that I felt the direction Blaze was coming from. A couple of minutes later, the cafe door swung open.
And there she was. Same leather jacket. Same confident stride as she headed straight for us.
“You mind if I sit?” she asked. Except the way she said it, there wasn’t really a question there.
"Good afternoon, Miss Blaze, of course, have a seat," I offered her a polite smile. When you're dealing with supernatural somethings, politeness is key. Oyama, meanwhile, gave the biker lady a slightly intrigued look before giving a nod. Damn, Yuriko being the picture of friendliness? Now that’s rare.
"This is Yuriko Oyama, my Mentor," I introduced the Japanese woman.
"Pleasure to meet you," Joan Blaze nodded, surprisingly friendly for someone with a permanent case of resting bitch face. "I don’t mean to be rude," she glanced at me, then back at Yuriko, "but we need to have a... personal conversation. Would you min—"
Oyama didn’t even let her finish. She just got up and moved to the next table, face still set in her usual I-don’t-give-a-shit neutrality.
"...I hope she’s not...?" Joan gestured vaguely, obviously thrown off by how fast Oyama had noped out.
"Nah, nah!! She’s always like that," I chuckled, half-closing my eyes. "I genuinely can’t think of anything that could offend her." I paused, then shrugged. "But I can guarantee that if she was offended, she wouldn’t have left. Miss Blaze, I’m actually really glad to see you—I’ve been wanting to talk to you too."
"Just Joan, kid," she snorted. "I’ve been doing some digging, and turns out, we’re not exactly strangers. We’ve got a... "—Blaze hesitated, like she was trying to find the right words— "a shared trait." She gave a wry, humorless smile, like she was apologizing in advance.
"Uh-huh... Yeah, I kinda noticed that," I said, immediately wary. I mean, the shared trait was obvious, but what the hell did she mean by not exactly strangers? "And what do you mean by that?"
"We’re family—distantly, sure, but family. Seventh-degree cousins or whatever. Your mother, Judy? We share a great-grandmother," she explained. Seeing my face twist in pure disbelief, Joan let out a dry laugh—one that carried zero joy. "Don’t look at me like that—I didn’t binge-watch too many telenovelas. I was just gathering info on you. Turns out, we’re distant relatives. And given what you showed me, plus those... visions..."
She trailed off as the waitress—Miss Personality Vacuum—walked up to our table. I ordered another tea. Blaze got coffee and an omelet before our server vanished again, exuding pure I-hate-this-job energy.
"Haven’t had anything since morning," Joan explained, for whatever reason. "Anyway, Tobias, start from the top. What’s going on?" She locked eyes with me, her face serious as hell. "I really don’t understand what’s happening, and I’m hoping you can clear some things up."
"Miss—uh, Joan. Which beginning? When I got my powers?"
"Yeah, kid. Your powers, that military cu…—Stryker, right? I’m guessing she’s some kind of psycho who—well, you know," she rubbed her temples, wincing. "You said you were a mutant, but, Toby, you’re wrong. That fire—you were covered in it when we rode into the city. I know that fire way too well, and it’s definitely not a mutation. Take this seriously, and tell me, in detail, how you got those powers. Trust me, the price for them is very high, no matter what you think..."
...Huuuuh??
Wait.
Ohhh, I see what’s happening. Blaze thinks I made a deal with him. The classic, goat-legged, trident-wielding, deal-making motherfucker.
Shit.
Alright. Time to play dumb. I gotta act like I have no clue where her powers come from.
So, I told the truth—just the version of it I’d say if I genuinely didn’t know Blaze’s backstory. I gave her a rundown: I gained a power that absorbs energy, got captured, ended up in a lab where my abilities evolved. Mutants confirmed I was one of them (they did run tests, after all). And finally, I mentioned that I only got the Flame after that ride on the Harley, adding that it acted weird as hell and that I needed her insight.
Blaze sat in thoughtful silence for a while.
That’s when our food arrived. She started eating in a weirdly absentminded way. The omelet looked like absolute garbage. Jesus. This cafe was a dump. How the hell was it still in business? Did the owner just not care about profit? Even the tea had a weird dusty aftertaste.
"This food is trash," Joan muttered, echoing my exact thoughts. "Alright, Toby, I’ve got a few more questions—answer honestly, okay?"
I nodded, signaling my full cooperation.
"You said your powers manifested when you realized you loved your classmate?" Blaze’s face was the picture of skepticism.
"Probably. Mutations often trigger from something important, something that causes strong emotions. Not always," I emphasized, "but often, yeah. And back then, my powers were barely noticeable—I didn’t even realize I had them for a few days. But on that day? I felt weird. And there’s a gap in my memory—like, a few missing hours. Sometimes, mutants get a feeling before their powers activate. One of my teachers, for example, had growing discomfort in his eyes—then pain. And, well, turns out his mutation was eye-related. But again, that’s not always the case. Sometimes powers just flip on," I added, thinking of Rogue.
"Okay, this is important," Joan leaned in, suddenly tense. "Did you ever—even jokingly—say that you’d sell your soul for her to love you back? To anyone? Friend, stranger—anyone?"
Her expression was dead serious.
I made a show of thinking hard.
"Uhh... Nope. We literally started dating the next day," I smirked, throwing a teasing look at her. "You sure you haven’t been binging telenovelas?"
"What? Oh—no, no! I mean, yeah, I have watched them, but that’s not—ugh," Joan muttered, clearly lost in thought again. "Okay, and you’re saying this Flame—it only appeared after our ride?"
"Yeah. Before that, I could manipulate energy, but it wasn’t... sentient."
Blaze pinched the bridge of her nose, then took a sip of coffee.
And immediately grimaced.
With pure, undisguised disgust, she stared at the cup. Then at me.
But this time, it wasn’t just disgust—it was betrayal.
"This is some bullshit," she muttered. "And this coffee tastes like ass. What the hell were you two even doing in a dump like this?!"
"Well, we were expecting you. I could feel you… calling me? Looking for me? I’m not really sure," I shrugged, a little uncertain. "So, we picked the most unpopular spot we knew. As you can see, we’ve got the place all to ourselves."
"Huh. You could feel it..." Joan leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling like she was contemplating life’s mistakes. Then she glanced back at me, eyes full of skepticism. "Alright, next question—who’s the guy who looks like a sketch in pencil?"
"No idea," I admitted honestly. "I’ve seen him in my dreams. One time, he showed me an image of you riding your bike, but through your face, I could see a burning skull."
Joan’s expression darkened.
"Why did you say those words to the colonel and that psycho right before you killed them?" Her voice was sharp, but a second later, she softened a bit. "Don’t get me wrong—I’m not judging. Hell, I probably would’ve finished them off myself. But why those words, specifically?"
That… was a good question.
Did I think it sounded badass? Was I just quoting something from a movie or a comic?
"Probably because they felt right?" I mused. "That woman… she tortured a lot of people like me. And the guy… twenty-nine murders."
"Twenty-two murders," Joan corrected. Then she gave me a long, suspicious look.
And that’s when I realized my fuck-up.
I bit my tongue.
At the time, only nineteen were confirmed. The other three had just come to light recently—I’d seen it on the news. And as for the remaining ones… those might never be discovered.
But I knew all twenty-nine.
I remembered them too well.
"Where’d you get twenty-nine from?" Joan asked, voice steady but eyes sharp.
"Slip of the tongue," I shrugged as casually as I could. "I read about the nineteen in the papers, must’ve mixed up the numbers." I even threw in my most innocent, honest-looking smile.
Didn’t work.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Yuriko—who’d been shamelessly eavesdropping with her enhanced hearing—visibly grimace.
"Are you sure, kid?" Joan’s voice was quiet but pointed. "This is serious. I won’t push, but don’t lie to me. I want to help you, believe that. This Flame of yours—it’s not just some cool power-up. It’s not a weapon you can just throw around when you pull the trigger. It’s worse. Much worse."
I hesitated.
On one hand, I knew I wasn’t a Ghost Rider—not exactly. I’d stolen a sample of her power, the Hellfire, and now I could generate it myself. And it wasn’t like regular energy—not like electricity or heat. It was… something else. And yeah, I definitely needed Joan’s advice on handling it.
But should I tell her everything?
Tell her I saw Cletus Kasady killing people? That the "gift" I got came from the Sketched Man? That I was now terrified of using it?
No.
No fucking way.
There were too many people around me who’d taken lives. What would they think if they knew I could see their personal graveyards?
And Logan? Jesus, Logan probably had a cemetery in his past. If I ever saw that? I’d lose my goddamn mind.
"I can’t tell you that," I admitted, my voice firm. "But it has nothing to do with the Flame."
I cursed my own loose tongue, but I wasn’t about to keep lying. I met her gaze head-on.
"There are some things I just don’t want to talk about with anyone."
Joan held my stare for a few seconds, her face unreadable.
For a moment, I thought she was about to tear me a new one.
But then, after an internal struggle, she let out a deep sigh and leaned back.
"Alright. Your call…" she muttered. Another pause. She stared down at her half-finished coffee, looking like she was debating whether it was worth the risk. Then she firmly shoved the cup away.
"Okay, then—let’s talk about what you feel when you use the Flame."
2025-03-14 05:39:07 +0000 UTC
View Post
INTERLUDE: Kiwi
“…More horrifying details are emerging about last night’s tragedy at Konpeki Plaza,” droned Arif Iqbal, his well-groomed face twisted into a mask of concern. “The fires have been extinguished, but the search for bodies continues. So far, the confirmed casualties include one hundred and forty-eight Arasaka hotel and security personnel, along with thirty-five guests. Netwatch agents report that the cyberattack on Konpeki was likely executed using a rogue AI, which was directly connected to the hotel’s subnet. Yorinobu Arasaka held another press conference just an hour ago and…”
Kiwi listened to the report in a daze. The words barely registered, slipping past her mind like buzzing flies. She sat at a small cafe near the bus depot, staring blankly at the smoldering cigarette in the rusted ashtray before her. Outside, the city sagged into a restless Friday evening.
A message snapped her out of her trance. Lucy.
"Can’t make it. Problems."
So much for talking before the long road ahead. Reading the message, Kiwi felt a brief flicker of disappointment. Not because she wouldn’t get to say goodbye to her friend. She just hated wasted time—missed two buses already waiting for this meet-up. All she wanted was to get the hell out of this city, where no one was waiting for her anymore.
But in Mexico? Someone was.
Anthony Satoshi. Not exactly legal, but supposedly a damn good ripper. A man who liked to experiment with biotech. Kiwi had already been to three others like him. Each visit was like a round of Russian Roulette. Three times now, she’d walked away with a neutral result—alive, but still no solution. Her body kept falling apart.
She had nearly thirty minutes before the next bus. Figured she’d try her luck, firing off a reply to Lucy:
"Problems? If you need help, I still need money."
The response came fast.
"No. Not an option."
‘Worth a shot,’ Kiwi thought.
Not that she expected Lucy to want to work with her again after everything, but Kiwi’s sense of shame had been dead longer than her immune system. Guilt and regret were luxuries people like her couldn’t afford.
Besides, she had warned her protege, hadn’t she? Told Lucy ages ago not to trust anyone in Night City. Including her.
She hadn’t lied.
Kiwi clung to that thought as an excuse for her betrayal.
And yet, Lucy still trusted her. Still fell for it. But in the end? Walked away clean.
Faraday was the one who drowned in that filthy, murky water. Lucy? She was doing better than before. New crew, new job—probably Arasaka money rolling in. Even the Brazilian agents got picked off, and they were damn good.
For a moment, Kiwi had thought they were the same. Two stray cats surviving in the big, ugly city. And sure, that was technically true. But between them lay an uncrossable gap. Youth. Strength. Beauty. Potential.
Two strays.
But one was a purebred kitten, and the other was a mangy old alley cat, coughing up blood, wasting away from disease.
The kind no decent owner would ever take in.
“Looking a little down, sweetheart.”
The voice yanked Kiwi from her thoughts. Some young prick had slid into the seat across from her.
And prick was the perfect word for him.
A smug, smarmy face with sharp gray eyes, a slicked-back haircut, and a grin that made her want to punch him on instinct.
“I don’t buy drugs or sex,” she said flatly, shifting her shoulders.
Pain flared up her spine. Her discs were shot, but swapping them out wasn’t an option. Too much rejection risk. Too much inflammation.
“I’m not selling,” the guy said, flashing a row of perfect white teeth. “But I do give out freebies sometimes.”
The way he talked, the way he carried himself—Kiwi had seen guys like him before. Reminded her of the young prostitutes she used to work with, the ones who were always trouble. Either they’d rob a drunk client, blow someone else’s cash on drugs, or bite a john’s dick off while high as fuck.
“What do you want?” she asked, unimpressed. “And don’t say to get to know me.”
“Wrong again.” He smirked. “We already know each other. Sort of. I know you, at least. You just don’t know me yet.”
Her gut told her this wasn’t just some junkie looking to sell her something.
A courier? Maybe. But he didn’t look like much. More street meat than gangster. Smooth skin, soft lips, slightly glazed-over eyes—high on something chemical.
“But don’t worry,” he grinned, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. “You’ll know me real well soon enough.”
“Then let’s cut to the chase.” Kiwi pulled a cigarette from her pack, subtly glancing around the cafe.
A couple cops had been here earlier, but they’d already fucked off.
‘Great,’ she thought. Not that she was really worried.
The kid put her on edge, but she’d seen worse.
“So, business then?” The guy chuckled. “See, I like to take my time. Draw it out. Anticipation is half the fun, you know? For people with imagination, anyway. And I’ve got plenty of that. But sometimes… other people don’t like waiting.” He giggled, a sharp, nasty sound.
The vibes went from ‘off’ to ‘fuck no’.
Kiwi could smell the malice on him. People like her learned that scent early—had to, if they wanted to survive.
And sometimes, it didn’t matter. Sometimes, there wasn’t a choice.
The last time she’d felt this way was with a client—the one who broke her face and shattered her jaw.
Her hand drifted under her coat, resting lightly on her pistol.
Not that she was fast anymore. But it made her feel better.
“Who sent you?”
“You don’t know him,” the guy waved a hand. “Hardly anyone does. And that’s exactly how it should be.”
A quick scan showed he wasn’t packing serious chrome. But that didn’t mean he was alone.
Kiwi kept scanning.
Fat Chinese guy behind the counter. Three sleepy workers slumped over a few tables. A drunk ex-corp in a ragged suit, probably weeks away from joining Night City’s homeless population.
Nothing jumped out at her.
But outside?
A red van sat parked near the cafe.
Dark tinted windows.
That, she didn’t like.
“What do you want?”
“Information. Impressions. Feelings.” He dragged the word out, savoring it. “You know a girl. Lucyna. And she got real cozy with an old friend of ours. He usually looks like this…”
A file dropped into Kiwi’s inbox. Not a photo—something closer to a synthesized image.
Damn good, too.
She didn’t recognize the guy. But she knew who it was supposed to be.
Lucy’s new pet.
“I saw him once,” she admitted, but something twisted in her gut.
A bad feeling.
What if this was a test?
A trap from the psycho who once threatened to shove her into a microwave?
Kiwi’s instincts screamed at her to back off.
“I know you don’t know him well,” the guy said smoothly. “That’s why you’ll be talking about Lucy. I’ll pay.”
Kiwi flinched.
Her drug-fucked brain kicked into overdrive.
Should she take the deal? The extra eddies would help.
But what if this was a setup? A trick?
“No.”
She finally spoke, voice firm. “I’m done with this shit. Done with this city. My bus leaves in twenty minutes.”
“I don’t take no for an answer,” the prick grinned, teeth flashing like a predator’s. “You’ll talk, old hag.”
Kiwi tried to stand up fast, but the bastard grabbed her by the shoulder. She never put much faith in her physical strength. Didn’t expect help from anyone, either. The only thing she could rely on was her scripts.
Short circuit. Optic reboot.
The guy twitched, his sleazy grin still plastered on his face, but his grip loosened. Kiwi tore herself free. Ignoring the uninterested cafe patrons, she bolted for the exit, firing off a message to her ex-protege as she ran.
"Some asshole's asking about you. Trying to delta."
The reply came quick. Kiwi had already put about forty meters between her and the cafe, slipping out the back exit to stay clear of the van.
"What does he look like? You okay?"
Kiwi ducked through an alley, emerging onto the next street.
"Looks like a tweaked-out rentboy. Blond. Creepy as fuck, but no combat chrome. Says he’s interested in your new friend."
"Got it. Are you safe?"
Kiwi glanced around. No one in sight. But something felt off. Too quiet for this part of Night City.
"Not sure," she typed back. "I just wanna get the fuck outta here, Lucy. Can you help?"
This time, the response took ten full seconds.
Tall, heavy buildings loomed over her from both sides, like they were closing in. Kiwi squeezed her eyes shut. Sometimes, she got minor hallucinations. Glitches. Bugs from old chrome.
When she opened them again, Lucy’s message was waiting:
"Sorry. There’s nothing I can do for you."
Kiwi let out a hoarse laugh, muttering under her breath.
"Guess you did learn, you little idiot."
Not that she felt particularly optimistic about Lucy’s newfound wisdom.
Fine. She’d get out of this herself.
Kiwi picked up her pace, already feeling the tightness in her chest.
A turn.
Then past some rusted-out, abandoned cars and—
She should’ve stepped out onto a wide, crowded street.
Instead, a wall of nothing loomed ahead.
Pitch-black. No sky, no road. Just pure void stretching from the cracked asphalt up into infinity.
"Just another hallucination," Kiwi told herself, blinking hard.
But the abyss didn’t budge.
"Sorry, hag. Nothing anyone can do for you now," came the bastard’s voice from behind her.
Kiwi spun, gun raised.
No one there.
"People like you always have the same look in their eyes," his voice drifted from nowhere and everywhere at once. "Dull. Lifeless. Like they’ve seen the worst this city has to offer and stopped caring. That’s a challenge to me, Kiwi. See, I wanna light those eyes up again. Make you feel something. Make you believe…"
Now his voice was right behind her.
"…that the worst is yet to come."
Kiwi whirled around, pulling the trigger.
The bullet vanished into the void. The shot’s echo was swallowed whole.
Then—
The blackness burst into color, shifting into a massive screen.
On that screen, she saw herself.
Sitting at the cafe.
Eyes half-lidded.
Rapid blinks.
And across from her? That same fucking guy.
"What the hell…?" She forced the words out, swallowing back the fear rising in her throat.
"Reality," his voice purred. The man on the screen winked at her. "You’re still sitting right there. Never ran any scripts. Never ran at all. Never warned Lucy. Everything you just experienced? A lie. A little braindance of my own design, made just for you."
"But… how…?"
"You wanna know the details?" he chuckled. "How I pulled it off? The technical side of things? I’d be happy to explain. Hell, I’ll show you what my art can do."
The blonde on-screen flicked his wrist.
Two figures emerged behind him.
Maelstromers.
Low-level initiates, judging by the lack of chrome.
"Take her," he ordered. "Disarm her. Cut her deck. She’ll be out cold for a few hours. Strip her, change her clothes, and dump her in Room Six. Should be empty."
The Maelstromers moved in, not giving a single shit about the cafe’s other patrons.
They yanked Kiwi from her seat.
"Get ready, sweetheart," the voice purred inside her head. "You’re about to take a trip down the rabbit hole."
Three minutes later—real minutes, not virtual—Kevin Upton stormed into the cafe, shotgun raised.
The exhausted workers barely reacted.
The drunk ex-corp scrambled under a table.
The chubby Chinese cafe owner just sighed.
"Kevin, what the fuck are you doing?"
"Me?!" Kevin barked, scanning the room like a madman. "I was working in my damn shop, and I see through the window—two cyberfreaks bagging a lady in here! Thought you were getting robbed again!"
Everyone just stared at him.
"You drunk, Kevin?" the owner asked.
"Fuck yeah, I’m drunk!" Kevin shouted. "It’s Friday fucking night! But when’s that ever stopped me?! Check the cameras! Red coat, woman sitting right there!"
"Yeah, yeah," the owner muttered, pulling up the feed. "Just put the fucking gun down. Here, look… Yeah. That lady was here. But she left on her own."
Kevin peered at the tablet.
Sure enough, the recording showed a woman in a dark red coat.
Sitting alone.
Then getting up.
And walking out.
No abduction.
No cyberfreaks.
Nothing.
"Well, fuck me," Kevin muttered.
"Go see a doc, choom," the owner sighed. "Seriously."
The darkness around me was almost calming, though that disgusting, hollow feeling still clung to me. It had faded a little, but I’d need a hormone shot later. Maybe the meds would stabilize my fucked-up psyche again. Too much on my plate right now, though.
I lay on the bed, most of the lights off. Lucy sat at the table, scanning data on the shards from the gear she’d used to dive into Konpeki. We’d both been to Vik. Physically, we were fine.
"Remember what we agreed on when we first started working together?" I asked. Didn’t wait for her to answer. "I handle the planning."
"We did follow your plan," she replied, still focused on the shards. "Then everything went to shit."
"When I told you to bail, you should’ve bailed."
"I was trying to get you out. I almost did."
"Almost," I nodded, pushing myself up from the bed. "And because of that, I almost died getting you out instead."
"You could’ve left, and I—"
"—would be dead," I cut in, voice cold. "Don’t argue. We both know that’s true. You were cut off in the subnet, no combat programs, with a shitload of enemies on your tail. You’re good. That’s why you got away—unlike T-Bug. But how long would you have lasted? An hour? Half?"
"I tried…" Lucy started, setting down the shards, but her voice wavered. "You were pinned down too. Without me—"
"We would’ve handled it!" I snapped, standing up. "We had the bot with camo. I was gonna load it with grenades and send it straight to the guards at the parking post. I could’ve reprogrammed the turrets, too. I had it all mapped out. I had a plan.
"You helped—sure. But if you’d just listened and left, there wouldn’t have been so much risk in the first place."
A few seconds of silence. Not just awkward—heavy.
"I couldn’t leave you behind," Lucy finally said. "I love you."
Ah. So she was going straight for the trump card.
Fine. I had something to say too.
"You wouldn’t have been leaving me behind!" I threw my hands up, pacing. "It’s called role distribution! The most rational move! You wanted to play hero? Congrats! That meant I had to play hero too! And now we both got our asses kicked for nothing! That’s a shit trend, Lucy. Don’t do that again!"
Silence again.
I paced back and forth, feeling my pulse hammering in my skull.
This time, Lucy didn’t argue.
She just sat at the table, staring at her own reflection in the dead screen of her laptop.
"You owe me," I said finally. "Not for saving you—I’d have done that anyway. But because this whole mess was your mistake."
"What do you want?" she asked dully. "Want me to pay a fine?"
"In a way."
I crossed my arms.
"Start by telling me everything. Your past. Why they were after you in Europe for so long. Why you had to run all the way here. And why the fuck you’re planning to run even farther now."
"That’s…"
"And don’t you fucking say it’s none of my business!" I snapped. "If your past catches up to you, it catches up to me too. I need to know what we’re dealing with.
"Then I can make a plan.
"Yeah, I get it—old wounds, trauma, all that shit. I sympathize. But this isn’t about feelings. This is about our survival. If you pull another stunt trying to take all the heat yourself, it’s gonna end badly for both of us.
"So sit down and tell me everything—now."
Lucy hesitated. Then, quietly:
"Alright… I’ll try."
"Try," I smirked. "And if you can’t? Try again. And again. And again."
2025-03-14 05:34:59 +0000 UTC
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Mad Tiger
Castling the Long Way
2025-03-13 04:39:00 +0000 UTC
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On Christmas morning, the Great Hall was buzzing—the upper years were more lively than usual, and the overlapping chatter made it sound like someone had let a hive of overexcited bees loose. Students were unusually energetic, caught up in last-minute discussions about the Yule Ball—those who had dates were smug about it, while the unlucky ones looked on with thinly veiled jealousy. Personally? I didn’t think all the fuss was worth it.
Harry, though, looked seriously tense, his face set in a deep frown. It had finally sunk in that after tonight, he and Cho would be an official couple. The thought had been plaguing him since last night. Now, he had a real girlfriend, which meant taking her out, talking to her, spending time together—all of that. And it scared the life out of him. He was already regretting asking her out—his imagination hadn’t stretched much further than knowing the waltz and saying hello. On the other hand, the vague but exciting images in his head hadn’t disappeared, promising something—something he couldn’t quite grasp yet, but that sent a thrill through his blood. So now he looked properly stunned, especially when he and Cho made awkward eye contact over breakfast. I struggled not to laugh. Was I ever that much of an idiot? Probably. Most lads our age were.
We spent the morning opening presents, then had an all-out snowball fight after lunch, playing until sunset. Around five, though, the girls all mysteriously disappeared, giggling nervously as they rushed back to the castle to start getting ready.
“What could possibly take that long?” Dean muttered, watching Lavender hurry off with the others. “The ball’s hours away.”
“You wouldn’t get it, mate,” Seamus said, patting his shoulder in mock sympathy—before stuffing a snowball down the back of his shirt. Dean yelled and took off after him, and just like that, the battle resumed. We didn’t think about the girls or their strange rituals again until we finally made our way back inside around seven—just as Hagrid was stepping out, dressed to impress.
We fell into step with him, the others rushing ahead while I hung back slightly.
“Hagrid,” I said after a bit of small talk, dropping my voice into something more serious. “Listen. Don’t mention to Madame Maxime that you know she’s half-giant. If she’s keeping it quiet, there’s a reason.”
Hagrid looked baffled. “Why not? What’s so bad about it? My dad always said we should never be ashamed of where we come from.”
“In France, half-blood giants can’t hold powerful positions,” I explained. “She’s headmistress, which means she has to keep it quiet. Let her pretend she just had a dodgy reaction to too much Skele-Gro as a kid. And you… maybe don’t go shouting about your mum either. You know how people feel about giants. Let them think you just got cursed or drank too much Growth Potion as a baby. Trust me—it’ll make life easier.”
Hagrid hesitated. “Er… well, alright,” he mumbled, but then immediately spotted Madame Maxime and bolted after her, forgetting everything. I smirked to myself and headed into the castle.
“Bloody hell, Ron,” Seamus whistled when I walked back into the dorm, fully dressed. “You look like you belong on the cover of Witch Weekly.”
“Obviously,” I smirked, straightening my shoulders before heading for the door.
“Oi, where are you off to?” Dean called after me. “Aren’t we all going down together?”
“Can’t,” I shouted over my shoulder. “Need to check on Ginny first, then I’m off to meet Luna in the Ravenclaw common room. Forgot already?”
“Oh—right,” Dean smacked his forehead. “See you in the Hall then.”
For the record, Dean looked sharp in his black silk robes—he could’ve walked straight into Men in Black if he had a pair of sunglasses. Neville had gone for dark blue, which suited him surprisingly well, and Seamus—predictably—wore green, though a brighter shade than Harry’s and in a different cut. Honestly? The lads cleaned up well. And for once, I didn’t feel like I was getting left behind.
Seeing Ginny stopped me dead in my tracks. She looked brilliant—bright, lively, beautiful. Not a kid anymore, but a proper young woman. It was hard to believe that just last night, she’d been sobbing into my shoulder in an empty dorm. I’d expected her to squeal when she saw the dress, maybe jump up and down like she had when I got her that owl for her birthday. Instead, she froze. Her face went pale—even her freckles seemed to vanish. Then she burst into tears and threw her arms around me.
I had to haul her back into the dorm and spend a good while calming her down, practically rocking her like a kid. Not exactly the reaction I’d expected. She cried for ages, letting out every frustration she’d apparently been bottling up—one random complaint after another. The family’s bloody poverty, her nose not being as cute as Lavender’s, hating her ginger hair, wishing it were dark and curly like Angelina’s. Then she somehow circled back to Harry—not inviting her to the ball, picking Cho instead, because obviously, Harry didn’t fancy redheads. Took forever to get her to stop.
And now? You’d never know. She was glowing. And Addington was right—the dress suited her perfectly. She looked like a princess, and she knew it. Neville? Poor bloke practically vibrated when he saw her. I handed him a sip of calming draught to stop him stammering himself into oblivion. I’d been saving the little bottle for Harry—who’d been doing my head in with his nerves all morning—but, honestly? Tonight wasn’t about Harry. Tonight was mine. Luna was waiting.
And Merlin’s beard—when I saw her, I froze. She wasn’t a snowflake. She was Winter itself. She stepped forward in tiny, delicate movements, like a breath of crisp air—like frost curling over a windowpane. I had no idea how she’d done it—maybe it was charms, maybe something else—but her loose hair, her pale lashes and brows, all of it shimmered as if dusted with silver frost. I never knew white had so many shades. Her skin, pale but not ghostly. Her soft curls, glowing without fading into the background. It was like sunlight shining through a crystal—catching, bending, shifting, making it impossible to look away. She looked like she was made of ice and light, and I literally couldn’t stop staring.
“Well?” she asked softly, giving me a small smile.
I barely managed to croak out, “You look unreal.”
I offered my hand.
“Shall we, Luna?”
She beamed at me, eyes bright with trust, slipping her hand into mine.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said.
The colour of her dress made her grey-blue eyes seem deeper, and the lace trim had taken on a steely tint.
“Padma wanted to put black makeup on me,” she added thoughtfully. “Said my lashes were too white. Called me silly when I refused.”
She tilted her head.
“But really, Ron—can a snowflake have black eyelashes?”
“She just doesn’t know anything snowflakes, Luna,” I said, slowly making my way down the stairs without taking my eyes off her. “Don’t let it bother you. You look amazing—you’ll be a proper magical snowflake at this ball.”
“She was only upset because I refused,” Luna murmured, clearly troubled. “And I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. Things always seem to get awkward with me. I don’t explain things as well as you do, and people misunderstand me.”
“Forget about it, Luna,” I said, smiling as I took a few more steps down, bringing my eyes level with hers. “Let’s just go and have fun with everyone.”
She hesitated for a second before brightening up, letting me guide her down the pine-decorated staircase.
The entrance to the Great Hall was packed. The usual sea of black Hogwarts robes had been replaced with a dazzling spectrum of colours, making it look as though there were twice as many people as usual.
Harry and Cho made a striking pair, and her black dress embroidered with green in an elegant Asian style suited her perfectly. No denying it—she was gorgeous.
No one from our group even recognised Hermione at first, not until she spoke to Lavender. Well—except me, but only because I’d known where to look. For the first time—probably for all of us lads—Hermione didn’t look like “one of the boys,” but an actual girl. And a very attractive one at that. In that dress, it was impossible not to notice the graceful, feminine figure she usually hid under her school robes. Krum certainly had, judging by the way he was sneaking admiring glances at his date.
Diggory had invited Fleur, and now he stood proudly beside her, watching as she charmed every bloke within a three-metre radius without even trying. She was practically glowing, and the effect was so strong that the Hogwarts girls around her exchanged irritated, knowing glances. Within minutes, the only people still standing near her were single lads and Diggory’s growing fan club.
The twins, as expected, had outdone themselves—both had asked Angelina, and now they were making a spectacle of it, soaking in the impressed whistles and shouts of approval. I was half-expecting them to spot me and crack some humiliating joke at my expense, but for once, they just stared at me in open-mouthed shock, glanced at each other, and said nothing. Even Malfoy, slicked back and brooding in black velvet and silver, wrinkled his nose when he saw me before quickly turning away to focus on his date—a pretty girl in pink.
Ginny, standing beside broad-shouldered Neville, looked like a delicate woodland sprite with a mischievous glint in her eye. Even the fact that Harry couldn’t take his eyes off Cho didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest.
Walking into the Great Hall with everyone else, for the first time in my years at Hogwarts, I felt a kind of calm satisfaction—like everything inside me finally matched what was on the outside.
People say clothes don’t matter, and sure, they’re not everything. But in a school full of rich kids, it was hard to ignore how much they did. No matter how smart you were, if you weren’t dressed the part, you’d always catch the occasional sneer or condescending glance, even from people who weren’t half as good as you.
But tonight?
Tonight, I felt on par—an equal.
A custom-made suit, not something off a bargain rack or even from Madam Malkin’s, but tailored for me. Gliding effortlessly across the dance floor with my stunning partner, drawing eyes as we moved. The intrigued glances from girls, the subtle, jealous ones from other blokes—I loved it. Every second of it stroked my ego in ways I hadn’t realised I’d been missing.
The evening was brilliant. After dinner and the formal dances, the live orchestra gave way to a more modern band, and the atmosphere became more relaxed. Luna was invited to dance a few times by some Durmstrang lads, and as her official date, I allowed it—but not without keeping a sharp eye on where exactly their hands were. Later, she danced with Dean and Seamus, whom I actually trusted, which meant I could loosen up a bit. I even had a few dances myself—one with Ginny, and, to my surprise, one with Hermione.
Holding her warm, trembling body in my arms felt strange—new, unexpected—but she danced beautifully, responding to every movement with an easy grace. Still, I was relieved when the song ended, and I could hand her back to Krum, who was watching us with barely concealed jealousy. And honestly? She seemed just as relieved as I was. With Krum, she was at ease, chatting and laughing in a way I hadn’t seen her do with anyone else—certainly not with any of us.
Even Percy surprised me. He was going for it with the French girls. Either the mulled mead had worked its magic, or he’d simply been helpless against all the beauty surrounding him tonight—because Fleur wasn’t the only Beauxbatons student turning heads.
Not that I’d talked to Percy much in the past month. With the tournament keeping the professors busy, he barely had any free time. And on weekends, he usually disappeared into Hogsmeade to meet up with Penelope. She worked as a secretary in the Ministry’s archives, and since they didn’t get to see each other often, he was serious about their relationship.
By the time the ball ended near midnight, I walked Luna back to the entrance of the Ravenclaw common room, kissed her cool hands, thanked her, and turned to leave. The night had been brilliant—but it left behind an odd, lonely aftertaste.
I needed a drink.
The twins could get their hands on anything if you had the gold, and I figured I could find them in their usual hideout.
But just as I turned down the right corridor, I heard soft laughter and muffled sounds ahead. I stopped instantly, backed up, and took another path.
Fred and George were both snogging Angelina.
Not one of them.
Both.
Whispering Merlin-knows-what in her ear, making her giggle, while the other stole another kiss from her lips. Only a madman would interrupt that scene.
So, I left them to it.
Everyone was at it tonight.
Even Hagrid had found a corner of the winter garden to snog Madame Maxime, murmuring something passionate while she responded in breathy French. They looked like two enormous bears trying to wrestle each other into submission. Harry and I barely managed to slip away before they noticed us.
Doubt Hagrid was actually getting anywhere with her tonight, but at least he was heading in the right direction. I just hoped Skeeter wouldn’t dedicate her next column to their “blossoming romance” and ruin it before it even began.
The next morning, we threw ourselves into schoolwork right after breakfast. I had a backlog of individual assessments for Flitwick to catch up on, and the rest of the professors hadn’t held back on holiday assignments either.
To everyone’s relief, Hermione was back to normal, meaning we could all finally put last night’s awkwardness behind us. Chatting easily, handing her scrolls and dictionaries like usual, I found myself thinking—how often do we see our friends only as we want them to be? As long as it’s comfortable for us?
Neither Harry nor I had ever needed Hermione to be beautiful or dazzling. We needed her to be Hermione—dependable, familiar, always there. And maybe that wasn’t fair to her, maybe that wasn’t right—but it’s how things were.
Before I could think too much about it, though, Harry pulled me into conversation, and I let myself get lost in the work.
The holidays ended, and school routine resumed. That’s why it was especially odd when Snape, passing by, slapped me with detention just for dropping a library book. Harry fumed about it all the way to Charms, but I knew something bigger was going on—Snape wouldn’t bother unless he had a reason.
For the rest of the day, I felt off, grinning at my friends in all the wrong moments while they assumed I was sulking about detention.
“Sir, did something happen? Have you caught Crouch?” I bombarded him with questions the moment I stepped into his office, shifting anxiously while he locked the door.
“Calm yourself, Weasley, and sit down,” he said irritably. “You’re making my head spin.”
I plopped into a chair, my eyes locked on him as he poured me a cup of tea—never a good sign.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Weasley, stop staring before you burn a hole through me,” he smirked, sipping his own tea. “I assure you, nothing terrible has happened. Everyone’s alive.”
“What about Crouch?” I blurted.
“Leave Crouch alone,” he snapped, frowning. “I called you here for another reason.”
He let the silence drag, watching as I practically squirmed in my chair, before finally speaking.
“Your visions about Potter being forced into the Tournament seemed like complete nonsense to me. Luckily, they didn’t come true. But you did correctly predict the champions—before we even knew who was coming from the foreign delegations. That, I must admit, bothers me. I don’t like unexplained variables.”
I nodded. He could think whatever he wanted, as long as he kept watching our backs.
“To my surprise, the Headmaster shares some of your concerns. I can’t say much, but the current situation in the country is… tense, if you know what signs to look for. The Dark Lord’s supporters have become active again. You don’t need the details, but Dumbledore has anticipated a difficult year for Potter—so much so that he brought in an ex-Auror for extra protection. Moody is the best at detecting Dark magic.”
He paused, swirling his tea. “That said, Dumbledore’s concerns are nowhere near as dramatic as your wild theories.”
“This isn’t just some theory,” I snapped, frustrated that he was dragging things out instead of just saying it.
“Don’t interrupt me, Weasley,” he warned, eyes narrowing. “Now. If we assume you were right, and someone was attempting to push Potter into the Tournament, then that means the threat to him hasn’t gone away. The school is filled with new people, and it’s difficult to detect someone using Polyjuice. Worse still, anyone in the castle could simply be put under the Imperius Curse thanks to Moody. That paranoiac insisted on getting clearance for those lessons, so now anyone can be put under Imperius in Defence Against the Dark Arts.”
He sat forward, his face serious now. “I have a task for you.”
I tensed. “I’ll do whatever I can.”
“I have no doubt,” he muttered, and for a brief second, I thought I saw something like guilt in his expression. Like he owed me something. But then it was gone, and I figured I must’ve imagined it.
“You need to drill it into Potter’s thick skull never to agree to Side-Along Apparition with anyone outside of school grounds,” Snape said.
I blinked. That was it?
Snape smirked at my reaction. “Expecting something more heroic, were you?”
“To be honest? Yeah.”
“Well, it’s not that simple.” He set his cup down. “Hogsmeade and its surroundings fall under Hogwarts’ protective barriers—otherwise, we wouldn’t allow students to go there unsupervised. No one can Apparate within the school. But in Hogsmeade? Perfectly possible. Except for one detail—Side-Along Apparition with a Hogwarts student underage won’t work unless the student gives their consent. This prevents kidnappings. It’s part of the school’s standard security.”
He watched my face carefully before continuing.
“Additionally, all Unforgivable Curses cast on Hogwarts grounds—or within the protected area—are tracked. If anyone put Potter under Imperius, an alert would immediately register at the Auror Office, pinpointing the exact coordinates. However, an impostor could simply take on the appearance of someone he trusts—a friend, a relative—and convince him to give permission for Apparition. That wouldn’t set off any alarms.”
I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. “You think someone might try to kidnap Harry?”
“I’m saying it’s a possibility,” Snape corrected, lips curling slightly. “And since I have neither the time nor the patience to follow him around like a lost Hippogriff, you will make sure he understands the danger.”
“This order… is it from Dumbledore?” I asked, seizing the chance to change the subject.
“No,” Snape admitted after a pause. “The Headmaster believes the real threat to Potter is inside the castle. But the information you gave me—though questionable—isn’t something I’m willing to ignore. So, Weasley, you understand your task. Now, I won’t keep you any longer.”
I stayed in my seat. “The danger—is it Karkaroff? Dumbledore suspects him because of his Death Eater past? Is that why he brought Moody in? To catch him again?”
Snape’s face darkened. “I am not discussing the Headmaster’s suspicions with you, Weasley. Where exactly did you get that idea?” Then he sneered. “Another vision, was it?”
“Harry’s been writing to Black,” I answered bluntly.
His expression twisted in immediate disgust. “I’ve said all I need to say, Weasley,” he snapped. “You’re dismissed. Your detention is over. Unless you’d like to spend the evening gutting toads?”
I took the hint and bolted.
The next month flew by without incident. I sat Harry down for a serious talk before he went to Hogsmeade with Cho. He was confused but got the message. Everything seemed fine, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
There was something unspoken in my conversation with Snape—something I’d missed. Like he’d held something back.
But with the Second Task approaching, the whole castle was caught up in the anticipation, and soon, so was I.
2025-03-13 04:37:58 +0000 UTC
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"Tora-san!" I was scooped up into familiar arms and pulled close.
A scent I knew wrapped around me, warm and comforting. Slim fingers combed through my fur, sending a shiver of pleasure all the way to the tip of my tail. For a few glorious minutes, I completely lost touch with reality, purring uncontrollably. My nose even started running from sheer happiness, and—oh crap—was I drooling? Like Akamaru when I wave a treat in front of his face?
"Missed me?" She held me up and looked into my eyes.
While she had me suspended, I took the chance to really look at her. Kushina was dressed in deep green—a short kimono with wide sleeves over what looked like a long skirt with slits. Her face was noticeably thinner than I remembered, and there was a new crease between her brows. Her signature red hair was shorter now, falling just past her chest, and a dark green headscarf covered the crown of her head.
"Wow, you've grown, little guy!" she said, smiling warmly.
Well, duh! I turned two a month and a half ago! Practically a grown cat now!
Kushina-san gave me another affectionate stroke before finally setting me down.
"Good evening, kids," said the long-haired man who had entered with her.
He had dark circles under his eyes—so deep a shade of blue-violet that from a distance, you might think he’d been in a fistfight. The moment I saw him, I knew. That was him. The infamous Orochimaru. The same guy Shisui had mentioned. The one who was supposedly helping.
Weirdly, he wasn’t wearing that ridiculous purple rope-bow from the anime. Instead, he was dressed in tall black ninja boots, dark gray pants, and a light-colored shirt with a sash tied over it. Underneath, I could see a mesh undershirt peeking out from the neckline.
"Uh… hello?" Sakura managed to get out, while Naruto blurted out:
"Who are you guys? Are you ANBU? And why’s that girl from Hidden Grass with you? And how do you know Tora-san?"
"We were planning to spend the night here at this Uzumaki shelter in the Forest of Death," Kushina answered, studying Naruto closely. "We weren’t expecting to find you here. Our apologies. Would you mind if we stayed?"
Sasuke and Naruto exchanged a look. Even if they wanted to refuse, there wasn’t much they could do against a full-grown shinobi. Especially when I had just made it embarrassingly clear how much I adored this woman.
I sniffed at Orochimaru. He smelled faintly of herbs, but barely at all—I wouldn’t have caught his scent from more than ten meters away. That was concerning. So, to be safe, I rubbed all over his legs, making sure to mark him properly.
"There’s plenty of room," Sasuke said carefully, doing his best to keep his usual air of superiority intact. "We were planning to rest for a few hours before continuing the Chunin Exams. What village are you from? Neither of you are wearing headbands."
"Don’t worry, we’re from the Hidden Leaf," Kushina smiled. "As for this girl—her name is Karin. We found her not far from here. She’s an Uzumaki like me, and she has nowhere else to go. I decided to take her with me."
"You’re from the Uzumaki clan?" Sasuke asked sharply, gripping Naruto’s shoulder. Naruto’s eyes went wide as he darted glances between Kushina and the little redhead, the same girl our team had saved earlier.
"Yes," Kushina nodded. "We didn’t expect to run into anyone here. But I imagine he gave you a hint?" She gestured toward me.
Orochimaru tilted his head, eyeing me with… interest. I really hoped it wasn’t the scientific kind.
"Fascinating cat," he murmured before strolling past Sasuke and settling at the table. He patted his knee, and, intrigued, I hopped up to join him. My guys visibly relaxed a fraction.
"Are you heading to Konoha?" Sakura asked hesitantly. "Or… are you exam proctors?"
"Sorry, but we can’t tell you that," Kushina replied smoothly, flashing a disarming smile.
"Uh… well, there’s still some canned food left," Naruto offered. "Do you guys want some?"
"That would be very kind of you," Kushina said, her smile softening. "What’s your name, young man?"
Naruto hesitated before answering, "Uzumaki Naruto." His voice was barely above a whisper.
Something was off. Kushina was acting weird—like she didn’t know him. Or was she pretending not to know him? Was she struggling with how to tell him the truth? Was she testing him? Did she not expect to see him here at all?
"Oh, Uzumaki Naruto," Orochimaru mused, drawing out the name like he was rolling it over in his mind. "Really now? I thought the great Uzumaki clan had all but disappeared, and yet here we are—two in one night."
Naruto stiffened and hurried off to grab the food. When he returned with the cans, he practically hovered around Kushina. It was painful to watch.
"You’re a good boy, Uzumaki Naruto," Kushina said, reaching out with a trembling hand to stroke his hair. Orochimaru let out a sharp click of his tongue and sent her a look.
Okay, seriously, what the hell was going on?!
Naruto turned bright red at her touch, looking utterly bewildered. Kushina hesitated, casting another glance at Orochimaru. The whole exchange reeked of something being off.
Too many people. Too many secrets. Too much unspoken tension.
Sakura. Karin. And Orochimaru—how much did he know? Had he been out of the loop too long? Did he not know that Naruto was Kushina’s son? Or were they both afraid Naruto would accidentally blurt something out?
Damn these shinobi and their never-ending schemes and secrecy!
If this were just normal life, Kushina would have thrown her arms around him and said, "I’m your mom, Naruto!" And he’d cry, "I always knew!" And then there’d be hugs and happy tears and—
But no. Nope. Humans love making everything stupidly complicated.
Alright, alright, calm down. Calm down, Tora. I couldn’t interfere. But damn, did I want to.
If Naruto let something slip, if the wrong person put two and two together… Whatever Kushina and Orochimaru were up to, it could all go completely to hell.
I clenched my jaw. This isn’t over.
After finishing their meal, Kushina, Orochimaru, and Karin didn’t stay. They patched up Karin’s cuts and bruises, then took off, saying they didn’t want to impose.
Right before leaving, Kushina turned back to Naruto, gave him a long look, and said softly, "Good luck on your exams."
Sakura took first watch, staying in the main room while Naruto and Sasuke lay down. But instead of sleeping, they whispered to each other in hushed voices.
I kept up the act of sleeping, but my ears stayed perked, catching every word.
"This is weird, Naruto," Sasuke murmured. I felt them looking at me. "Tora-chan clearly knew that woman. And she knew our cat too. Before they walked in, I was going to tell you—if Tora knew about this shelter and used it when the genjutsu was active, then someone from the Uzumaki clan must have been with him, since we confirmed only an Uzumaki could open that door. You get what that means?"
"What?" Naruto whispered back.
"It means that woman was here during whatever really happened that night. She might even remember what happened to my clan—what they were trying to cover up. And you—" Sasuke hesitated. "You and her… are from the same clan."
"She might be my family?" Naruto’s voice wavered. "She might know… what happened to me? I—I think I remembered something when she touched my head. It felt… good. She didn’t even tell me her name. But if she knew me, why did she ask my name?"
"I don’t know," Sasuke muttered. "But I really don’t like this."
By morning, I needed an excuse to avoid answering questions—and, more importantly, to sneak out for some recon—so I begged Naruto, who was on third watch, to let me outside.
The moment my paws hit the damp forest floor, I caught Kushina-san’s scent and took off toward her. She wasn’t too far, maybe eight hundred meters from our hideout, near a cave formed beneath the massive roots of the local trees. Looked like she was on watch too. There was also some kind of faint green outline shimmering around the area—probably a detection barrier, maybe even a full-on defensive one.
"Tora-san?" She turned at my plaintive meow, forming a quick sequence of hand seals. A small gap appeared in the barrier, just big enough for me to slip through. I didn’t hesitate.
"Kushina-san!" I bolted straight into her lap.
"Sorry, Tora-san," she murmured, offering me a sad smile as she stroked my fur. "I know you want to ask why things turned out this way with Naruto… but it’s not time yet. There are things I have to finish before I can hold my boy again. I wanted to see him before… " She exhaled, long and weary. "But I never expected we’d even get a few words. If everything goes well, I’ll have all the time in the world with him. And if not… then it’s better for him not to grieve over a mother he barely had."
She scratched me behind the ear.
I bit her hand.
"Don’t you dare die."
"Tora-chan… are you crying?" She wiped my eyes and placed a gentle kiss on my nose. "Don’t be sad. Don’t worry about me. Even without the Nine-Tails, I’d like to think I’m worth something. I am the princess of the Uzumaki clan, after all. And Uzumaki never give up." She smiled, but I could tell—I could tell—she was barely holding it together. "Now go, before I start crying too. Take care of my boy. And his friend—Sasuke. Promise me?"
I exhaled heavily and gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"I’m counting on you, Kushina-san." I nuzzled her cheek one last time and sprinted back toward the shelter where my kids were waiting.
My heart clenched with fear.
Kushina-san was definitely about to do something reckless and dangerous.
But I always keep my promises.
After all, I am the Mad Tiger of the Red Hot-Blooded Habanero!
2025-03-13 04:33:35 +0000 UTC
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Demons of NC
Life is Good
Reminder: Chapter 56 got flagged and hidden by Patreon. Next time, I'll try to err on the side of caution and censor things a bit more, but if you want to read full versions, they are on Discord. (I'll mention in chapter, if I do censor things)
Elden Ring: My Ending
2025-03-12 11:54:09 +0000 UTC
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Stormveil Castle had changed even more since his last visit. The reused asset of Maliketh had helped resolve the curse problem, allowing the castle’s servants to start proper rebuilding without the fear that everything would just collapse again. Moreover, the sun had risen above the castle for the first time in ages, transforming its entire atmosphere with its mere presence.
Kosta even thought he saw occasional smiles appearing on the lifeless faces of the living dead.
That was inspiring in its own way.
However, his mood was somewhat dampened by the sudden appearance of Boc.
“Your Majesty!” the demi-human desperately cried out. “You’ve grown! The clothes I've prepared won’t fit anymore! How could this happen—I worked so hard!”
Before Kosta could respond, the deeply wounded Boc ran off, shouting something about his own ugliness and short-sightedness.
Watching Boc disappear into the distance, Kosta blinked.
Edgar sighed tiredly, trying to appear as dignified as possible.
“Welcome back, my lord.”
“Have you grafted someone else’s legs onto yourself, Lord Konstantin?” Gostoc asked curiously, snickering unpleasantly. “You finally figured it out!”
“You were about to go guard the gate,” Edgar reminded him, casually but firmly.
“And not greet our lord?!”
“You've greeted him. Now you can go.”
Gostoc was about to reply, but the booming laughter of Nepheli approaching them distracted him. Muttering irritably, the gatekeeper quickly left.
Konstantin noticed how all the castle servants immediately straightened their postures as soon as Nepheli passed by—even the undead! Clearly, she was far more successful at managing things compared to Kosta. Or, rather, she was actually managing them. Kenneth, shuffling behind Nepheli with slouched shoulders, made that particularly obvious.
“Lord Konstantin! When did you become so tall? Have you forgotten all about your tailor?”
Kosta blinked again.
Nepheli's laughter grew even louder.
Unlike the others, Irina couldn’t see his changes, but she could certainly feel them—she openly began to explore the equally surprised Tarnished with her hands, right in front of everyone.
“Aren’t you worried you'll become too large, Konstantin?”
There was genuine concern in the waifu’s voice. Edgar coughed awkwardly.
“I hope not,” he replied curtly, looking down at Irina’s blindfold. “I'm close to my goal now. I'll be able to help you soon.”
He was almost certain his idea would work. In the worst-case scenario, he'd just try something else.
Healing the Great dragoness was beneficial not only to her; the Tarnished was gaining valuable experience.
Irina’s mouth opened slightly in surprise before forming into a warm smile.
“I'll be waiting.”
He didn’t really need a bath—he could change his clothes at will, and all the blood and wounds had disappeared by the time he arrived at the castle. Yet this didn’t reassure his false Finger Maiden at all.
As he relaxed in the hot water, he suddenly realized this was the first proper hot bath he’d taken since arriving in the Lands Between.
Thinking it over, he realized that before this, he'd at most washed his face in random bodies of water along his journey, never particularly worrying about his comfort. It was as if his mind ignored mundane matters entirely, focused solely on his goals.
Konstantin leaned against the bath’s edge, pondering why Meli-Meli had immediately fled as soon as he started getting into the bath. She was somewhere nearby, yet clearly hiding, unwilling to show herself.
Hadn't she been completely indifferent to his nakedness during their first encounter?
Still, he strongly desired to visit merchant Kale again and pour his heart out a bit. He felt like he had a lot to talk about.
“Can't roll, can't dodge, can't block, summons won't help, glitches don't work, there are no guides, no new game plus—I don’t like these kinds of challenges…”
Melina, unexpectedly hearing genuine despair in her champion’s voice, sighed. Though inwardly admitting that a man who was too cold and rational wasn't necessarily a good thing.
Had Ranni been there with her now, remembering her father, she undoubtedly would've agreed.
Unfortunately, Ranni was currently occupied elsewhere.
Konstantin’s rest didn’t last long. Soon enough, he headed toward the astrologers.
Kosta’s presence or absence didn't particularly affect the Academy. Although the casuals had acknowledged the man’s casual superiority and submitted to him, this submission was purely formal: everyone just continued with their own research.
Unlike Stormveil Castle, which changed daily, the astrologers who still retained their sanity simply noted to themselves that they had a new lord, and if some strange, possibly half-naked man appeared at the Academy, they shouldn't attack him—in fact, they should greet him.
Fortunately, Kosta didn't have to fight his way through the entire location again.
“Recently, the queen has been feeling better,” the Carian knight shared. “We’re grateful you've decided to visit the queen, Lord Konstantin.”
The Red Wolf howled in agreement, although his howl sounded more like the whining of a beaten dog hiding behind the knight. The giant, overgrown wolf cowering behind a comparatively small knight looked rather comical from an outsider’s perspective.
He might think of himself as Radagon’s proud Red Wolf, guardian of Rennala of the Full Moon herself—but a hit to the face was still a hit to the face.
The Tarnished didn’t know what to reply to Moongrum, nor did he see any point in it. He simply nodded, heading straight toward the former boss arena.
Truthfully, due to his altered perception, Kosta no longer saw the queen as a boss at all. Rennala had never truly been a boss for the Tarnished—just a traumatized woman and, incidentally, the traumatized mother of one of the best waifus.
The queen was entirely alone, holding the amber egg, now devoid of the Great Rune. None of those she called her daughters were present.
“You came…”
Rennala didn’t even lift her eyes toward the man, continuing to gently stroke the egg. Kosta had the impression she'd been doing this most of the day, if not the entire day.
“I was wrong to take the chest,” Konstantin admitted, sitting down directly opposite her.
She no longer seemed that tall to him. In fact, the woman was now not much taller than the Tarnished himself.
Rennala raised her misty eyes toward him.
“Where did my sweetings run off to?”
“They’re hiding,” he answered calmly.
The woman’s gaze became slightly clearer, surprise showing on her face.
“Why?”
“Perhaps they’re feeling shy.”
Rennala dropped her astonished gaze back down to the amber egg, stroking it again.
“Isn’t being reborn better than the coldness of the grave?”
“I'll try to restore the normal respawn, but it might take some time,” Konstantin stated casually.
As practice had shown, he was more than capable of studying unfamiliar mechanics. He simply needed time.
Not allowing the woman to sink further into her maddening thoughts, the Tarnished retrieved the chest from his mysterious inventory. After the chest, the key followed.
Perhaps this was not just the key to the chest and to one of the best waifu’s rings, but also the key to the queen’s troubled mind.
“The key… my little Ranni…”
The queen’s reaction turned out to be far stronger than he'd expected: tears filled her eyes as she trembled, clutching the amber egg tighter.
‘No. She really is a boss, the most terrifying and dangerous one…’
Seeing the mother of a waifu—and, to some, a superior waifu herself—in tears, Konstantin felt like he'd simultaneously lost his concentration meter and had his poise shattered.
The cheat-level attacks had reached new heights. Konstantin had thought the Baleful Shadow was a dangerous enemy. How terribly mistaken he was.
Still, the key fit perfectly. Of course it did. The chest opened, revealing an old ring decorated with the image of the moon. Its owner probably never truly believed the moment would come when it’d be needed, yet hadn’t thrown it away.
Konstantin gently took the ring and, right before the queen’s eyes, began sharing his warmth with it, turning it into an enchanted object.
Apparently, all that experience hugging Fia had benefits beyond just… psychological ones.
The Tarnished intended to create similar rings for all his waifus later on, probably after completing his main quests.
“Has Knight Diallos appeared at the Academy lately? He was looking for his servant.”
Seeing how much more coherent Rennala had become as she gazed at the ring, Kosta felt it was an ideal moment to get answers to his questions.
He doubted that the queen was as ignorant or helpless as the Academy’s astrologers thought. Broken and driven insane by grief—yes—but it seemed she still had a chance for recovery.
“A knight seeking his servant…” Rennala whispered softly.
Konstantin didn’t rush her, calmly continuing his enchantment. Thanks to his practice embracing Fia, he’d learned this process wasn't exactly quick. So he was patient.
Certainly, the Tarnished was in a hurry. Probably more than anyone else in the Lands Between. Yet he still knew the importance of pauses, however rare.
“…A maiden…” she finally whispered, uncertain. “...Yes, I remember…”
She sounded as if she herself couldn’t believe she remembered something.
As he’d suspected, the astrologers had indeed saved Diallos’s maiden. Back then, when Konstantin had casually issued the vague order—even though he'd barely been able to clearly formulate his thoughts—the last thing he’d expected was for Diallos’s maiden to survive. In the original questline, she was dead from the start.
This explained why Diallos had never appeared at Volcano Manor.
Currently, nobody knew exactly where Diallos and his rescued maiden had ended up. However, given the strange quirks of fate—or whatever stood in for fate here—Kosta suspected they’d cross paths again soon.
Afterall, Jarburg was just in need of a potter(214). Perhaps he'd have to visit that settlement later, just in case.
Konstantin sighed deeply.
The list of places he needed to visit before and after completing the main quests was constantly growing.
“…I see. Thank you,” the Tarnished nodded gratefully. “I have another favor to ask.”
“You wish to be reborn?”
Rennala asked this almost instinctively.
“No,” Kosta replied calmly. “It's about someone else.”
He saw the queen’s vague confusion, and gently added, “It's about Sellen.”
“The sorceress Sellen. Do you remember her?”
The queen tilted her head slightly. From Rennala’s expression, Konstantin quickly realized she had no idea who he was talking about.
Where the exiled sorceress saw enemies everywhere among the Carian lineage, the queen herself had long since forgotten that one of the Academy’s most talented—and perhaps dangerous—sorceresses had grown right under her nose.
Sellen would’ve probably been a bit offended if she'd heard that.
“I think it’s best to show you,” Kosta frowned and disappeared.
Rennala stared blankly at the spot where Konstantin had just stood.
“You left again, my chi—”
Her voice cut off. Before her once more stood the ever-unflappable Tarnished—but this time, he was accompanied by a very much flappable Sellen, who was looking around in horror.
“W-where have you taken me, Konstantin?!”
Any trace of mischief or playfulness had vanished from her voice.
And the moment she spotted the Queen sitting across from her, towering over her by several heads, Sellen felt her Primeval stone drop straight into her boots.
“Q-Queen… What are you scheming, Konstantin?!”
Her glare was filled with barely concealed fury.
Rennala, on the other hand, unlike the exiled witch, did not see an enemy in Sellen(215).
“I did promise I’d try to help you with your problem,” Kosta said, as composed as ever.
“T-that’s not how this works!!!”
It seemed like Sellen was moments away from screaming in frustration.
She had not been prepared for a meeting with Rennala. Not like this.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” Kosta shrugged.
“What the hell, I could have waited!”
Desperation flickered in Sellen’s voice. All this time, she had dreamed of seizing power—imagined for years how she would one day meet the Queen on her own terms and take what she believed was rightfully hers.
And now…
Her dream had just… happened?
The Carian lineage had long since lost its power—along with any authority it once held.
If not for those foolish restrictions, Sellen would never have wanted to become Rector in the first place. But they had banned Primeval magic. Considered it too dangerous. Fools, who had turned two respected primeval sorcerers—and her—into exiles!
Rennala gazed at the tense sorceress from head to toe in quiet surprise.
Konstantin could tell she did remember her. There was recognition in the Queen’s eyes.
But something was missing.
It wasn’t just that this wasn’t Sellen’s original body. After all, they were nearly identical in appearance. So it had to be something else.
“Put on your crown,” Kosta suddenly realized.
Sellen stared at him, wide-eyed.
But his unexpectedly firm, no-nonsense tone made her obey.
A crown materialized in her hands, and, hesitantly, she placed it on her head.
The moment she donned her crown(216), Rennala’s eyes cleared, and without warning, she pulled the startled woman into a motherly embrace.
“Little one, you wished to return to my arms?”
Sellen stared up at the Queen in horror, even through her crown.
Rennala may have looked delicate despite her size, but her grip was so firm that Sellen’s bones might just…
Crunch a little.
“Konstantin… W-what’s happening?!”
“A reconciliation. Under my supervision,” Kosta replied, unbothered.
He understood that the real problem was with Sellen.
Perhaps, once, Rennala had held negative feelings toward the sorceress—deservedly so, given what the witch had been up to—but…
That time was long past.
And Konstantin wanted Sellen to understand that.
For a few more moments, Sellen struggled—already considering using magic to put an end to this whole situation.
But then, she suddenly froze.
And, just as unexpectedly, she went limp—allowing herself to sink into the Queen’s embrace.
As if she had never truly seen the state Rennala was in.
She knew the Queen was unwell. How could she not?
But knowing it from a distance and experiencing it firsthand were two entirely different things.
Being held in the arms of a sick, abandoned woman…
Even if she broke free now, even if she displayed her power, she wouldn’t feel a fraction of the satisfaction she had imagined.
She wasn’t even sure Rennala would resist.
What kind of victory would that be?
It wasn’t fair. It was just… unfair.
“…What the hell…” Sellen muttered, dazed. “You could have told me earlier…”
She trailed off the moment she saw Kosta looking like a kicked dog. His usual composure was completely gone.
“…I’m already tearing myself apart trying to keep up with everything… No one balanced these quests for time…”
He couldn’t account for everything, damn it! He didn’t have save files to retry this stuff!
Guilt hit Sellen like a well-aimed Comet Azur.
And along with it—discomfort.
Because she was being squeezed again.
This time, for real.
Tightly.
She met the Queen’s gaze once more—now stern.
“The sun tries so hard…” Rennala murmured gently, like a mother. “Sweet one, don’t be so harsh on him…”
“I-I’m sorry…” Sellen croaked.
Of all the people Konstantin had expected to get support from, his waifu’s mother was not one of them.
Melina, watching from the sidelines, suddenly felt a spark of inspiration.
It seemed she had found a real ally. Someone who could do something.
Yes. An experienced—albeit somewhat mad—Queen, a Rector of the Academy, and most importantly, a mother…
Someone who knew exactly how to handle unruly elements.
Perfect.
“I need to go,” Konstantin stood up.
Sellen’s eyes filled with silent pleading as she reached out for salvation.
But Kosta simply shook his head.
He stretched out a hand, and in a golden shimmer, a miniature copy of himself formed—similar to the ones Sellen created.
Unbothered, the tiny illusion of Konstantin leapt onto Sellen’s crown, settling on it like a king on his throne.
It was a known fact: the smaller the enemy, the stronger they were. Not an absolute rule, but still a critical one in Soulslikes.
He would go to any length to protect his waifus.
And soon he’d have to prove it, as an entire army awaited him in the capital.
An army of bosses and mini-bosses, the likes of which no Soulslike mod(217) had ever seen before. The kind of thing that even an overleveled Konstantin wouldn’t have dared to dream of—not even in his happiest dreams.
“Your journey ends here, Tarnished…” Morgott whispered, disappointed.
He had observed everything from afar. The path to the capital was blocked by an entire army—varied, powerful, and terrifying. The strongest army the Lands Between had seen since the Shattering.
After all, not everyone was thrilled at the idea of someone powerful enough to trample across the Lands Between, collect Great Runes from helpless demigods, and then casually move on—only to eventually become king and impose their own order. The only thing that had stopped everyone before was fear of the Tarnished’s strength, be they a proud dragon or even his own brother.
But now, everything had changed.
Morgott had not expected Mohg, of all people, to be one of those leading the army.
‘So even he feared him,’ the Omen King grimaced.
What’s more, he had gone as far as to bring his own projection into battle, putting them both at even greater risk(218)!
It sickened Morgott to watch so many once-mighty, once-proud beings so easily take the path of frightened mutts.
Erdtree Guardians, Draconic Tree Sentinels, that damn Deathbird (how had they even negotiated with it? It was just a mindless beast!), bastards, knights, dragons, perfumers, trolls, spirits, and even common Tarnished.
All of them had gathered to stop a single opponent.
Morgott had to admit to himself—he respected and openly feared this insane Tarnished. Even now, seeing this entire army before him, the madman was grinning so widely it was as if they had come not to kill him but to celebrate his birthday!
The Tarnished was dead serious, no doubt about it. He wasn’t underestimating the problem in the slightest. And that only made the man happier.
‘Truly, a madman…’
The demigod’s projection, observing the upcoming battle, turned its gaze toward the figure who’d stepped forward—a miserable wretch whom Mohg had graciously permitted to speak. Despite the insult Omen King suffered from that insolent creature earlier.
Varre, who still hadn’t found a replacement for his white mask, continued to wear it cracked—as if deliberately reminding himself who’d caused it.
“Foul Tarnished, we meet again,” Varre bowed. “I must admit, since our last meeting, you’ve managed to look slightly less like a beggar. Just slightly. Did you actually take a bath?”
Kosta froze for a moment.
For all his arrogance, the one who had once mocked Tarnished as maidenless had a certain level of perception.
“Yeah, I did.”
Now it was Varre who froze, stunned by the blunt admission.
“You know what? Forget it,” the man in white waved dismissively. “You’re finished either way. Or do you think you can possib—”
“Are you gonna keep talking or what?”
Knight Bernahl, until recently a servant of Volcano Manor, had regretted agreeing to this mess from the very start. Varre’s chatter only made things worse.
Would he ever shut up?!
The crowd began to stir with murmurs, growls, and shrill cries of agreement.
Morgott nodded grimly.
‘At this rate, they’re going to gang up and beat the crap out of this insolent wretch instead of Konstantin…’
Varre’s eyes widened at the mob, and he forced a crooked grin.
“And yet…”
“He’s right, Varre. You’ve said enough.”
A giant figure, covered from head to toe in scales, stepped forward—so monstrous in appearance that he hardly resembled a man anymore. Whatever bravado Varre had left completely evaporated.
After all, this was his lord.
Or at least his projection, but that hardly changed anything.
Damn these asset reuses—who could even tell the difference?
“M-My lord…” Varre fell to one knee. “I am terribly sorry…”
“Out of my sight before my mercy runs out,” the demigod waved him off dismissively with his trident.
“At once!”
Varre instantly disappeared, unwilling to provoke the Lord of Blood any further.
Mohg took a step forward, confronting Konstantin.
“I had thought to wait for you in our kingdom, knowing full well that you would come…”
“I planned to unlock the DLC right after the Mountaintops of the Giants,” Konstantin replied, perfectly calm.
Mohg faltered slightly at the man’s utterly unbothered tone.
“…But you turned out to be a far more terrifying opponent than I ever could have imagined, Tarnished. All of us gathered here today have come to pay tribute to your strength.”
Once more Konstantin glanced over the crowd. Dozens—no, hundreds of enemies, all united against him. Had this been any other situation, he’d be staring at enough boss-health bars to cover multiple screens.
Mohg spread his arms wide, and the crowd erupted into cheers, roars, shrieks, and otherworldly howls.
Morgott scoffed in disdain.
Konstantin took another sweeping glance at the army before him. Dozens, maybe even hundreds of different foes, all preparing to swarm him at once. In another situation, the sheer number of boss health bars on his screen would have taken up multiple monitors.
Beyond them, looming over the battlefield, was the capital of Leyndell.
Of course, he could just bypass this entire horde. He could flee, ignore them, or find another way around. But…
Where’s the fun in that?
His clothing vanished, leaving only a loincloth. In his hand appeared a cracked great club.
“I wonder… did some evil little boy have a hand in all this?” A sudden thought crossed Kosta’s mind.
After all, he had to admit—this sudden alliance of so many different factions against him was surprising.
If that was the case, he’d have to thank Miquella for the favor.
But first…
He had to clear a small challenge.
2025-03-12 11:52:19 +0000 UTC
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