JohnnyZ

[Life is Good] Chapter 57

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I met Miss Blanc the next day.

She was open, friendly, and surprisingly cheerful. Every now and then, she’d glance at her prosthetic arm, but she didn’t look broken or bitter about it. We had a quick chat, with McCoy and Jennifer joining in, and when Erika showed up, we all headed to check out the armor.

Valerie warned me in advance that the exosuit was "a little banged up."

I did not expect it to look this bad.

Jesus.

I stared at what was supposedly a "functional but damaged" armored exosuit.

Yeah, no.

This thing was wrecked.

Dented, twisted, completely trashed—those were the first words that came to mind when I took in the sight of its crushed plating, missing arm, and visibly mangled leg mechanisms.

I turned to the engineer, utterly shocked. How the hell did she even survive this?!

"I did warn you it was banged up," she muttered, throwing a glance at an increasingly irritated-looking Lenhsherr. Before Magneto could open her mouth and lay into her, I stepped in.

"Miss Blanc, I just want to say—thank you," I said, and I wasn’t even faking it. Every ounce of gratitude I could muster was in my voice. Sure, the state of the suit was depressing as hell, but I couldn’t even imagine what she went through inside that thing.

Valerie and McCoy shot me surprised looks, but Magneto’s gaze softened in understanding.

"I was there that day, when Venom went on a rampage," I continued. "I ran while the cops held her off. If it weren’t for them—and you—I probably wouldn’t be standing here. So, really. Thank you."

The woman stared at me, surprise shifting to understanding, then to something more thoughtful. She bit her lip, ran a hand over her metal prosthetic, and after a few moments, let out a short chuckle.

"You know what, kid? Maybe I should be thanking you," she said, and I blinked in confusion.

She toyed with the earring in her left ear, glancing at her wrecked armor.

"See, back then, I was out to prove a point. I wanted to show the world that my baby was worth something, that I was right and everyone else was wrong." She flexed her prosthetic fingers, watching the movement. "I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve cursed myself since then. Rushed into a fight with a goddamn monster, lost my arm, barely made it out alive. I could’ve just swallowed my pride, taken a job at some mid-level tech firm. But nooo, I had to be Blanc the Brilliant and show off."

Her expression darkened for a second—then it cleared up, replaced by something almost triumphant.

"But you know what? Looking at you, standing here, alive and well… If I only managed to help one person that day, then it was worth it," she said with a grin. "So thanks, Tobias. Your words mean a hell of a lot more than some fancy trinket from the mayor. That baboon-assed bureaucrat looked like she had a gun to her head when she handed it to me."

"Uh… you’re welcome?" I mumbled, feeling all kinds of awkward.
She’d saved my ass, and she was the one thanking me?

And yeah, I meant it—I truly believed that if not for her, I might not have made it out of that day alive. It was entirely possible that because of her interference, Venom got held up long enough for me to escape.

Valerie just smirked at my flustered expression and turned back to her suit.

"Right. Anyway, what I was saying…." She picked up a tablet from a nearby workbench, tapped a few times, and pulled up a schematic on the large monitor.

"If you guys want to get the most out of this project, we’re better off ditching the prototype. The only salvageable parts are some of the electronics, and even that’s a stretch. That said, I can restore it relatively quickly if necessary—but honestly? We’d be better off ordering proper parts from HammerTech or Oscorp and building it the way it was meant to be built."

She glanced at me.

"I would recommend Stark Industries, but they don’t do small-batch production. The prototype armor was garbage—slapped together with whatever I could scavenge. When you’re a solo engineer with a limited budget, getting quality materials is a nightmare. And even if I had found better materials, the prototype’s mechanisms couldn’t handle the full scope of my original design."

Valerie tapped a few more times, bringing up a new design.

"And this… this is what it was supposed to be."

Damn.

The thing on the screen was a beast.

Three words came to mind: reliable, armored, brutal.

No sleek curves, no fancy aerodynamic shapes. Just thick, heavy plating and raw, industrial power.

Chunky armor segments, sharp angles, and reinforced joints. It looked like a walking tank.

"The Breakthrough Assault Suit, Mark I," Valerie announced proudly.

"With the proper materials, this bad boy would weigh around 1000 pounds. Armor plating can withstand heavy machine-gun fire—tested against 14.5mm rounds. The segmented structure allows for quick part swaps in the field, no need for a full repair crew. The helmet has built-in air filtration, and in emergencies, it can go fully sealed for up to ten minutes—handy for chemical attacks, high-heat zones, or even short bursts of underwater movement."

I whistled low.

"Straight-line sprint speed? Nearly 60 miles per hour—for an experienced pilot. Power reserve on standard batteries? Forty minutes. Battery swaps can be done in the field, and yes, it’s dock-station compatible for recharging."

She took a sip from a plastic water bottle before continuing, clearly enjoying herself.

"The suit can be equipped with modular weapons. Standard infantry firearms? Too small for these gauntlets. So, the base loadout includes: a machine gun mounted under the left forearm, with a backpack ammo feed; and a shotgun on the right for close-quarters combat—though honestly, it’s so big it’s basically a hand-cannon."

She smirked.

"Could also swap it for a flamethrower—good for clearing enemy-occupied buildings."

She chuckled darkly.

"But maybe stick to the shotgun in wooden structures."

Valerie tapped the screen again, pulling up a diagram of the back-mounted equipment.

"There’s an option for a guided missile launcher—locks onto targets using the suit’s onboard electronics. Of course, that would cut down on the machine gun’s ammo capacity. It can carry up to 450 pounds of gear without excessive wear and can lift up to half a ton. Integrated comms, ECM jamming, night vision… and the helmet? Can be either fully enclosed with external camera feeds, or open-faced with bulletproof glass over the eyes."

She turned to me with a grin.

"Oh, and last but not least? Wrist blades. Eighteen inches long. Built into the forearm plating."

"Magnificent…" I practically drooled at the sight. "Wrap up two for me! One for special occasions, the other for everyday wear! But uh… why the skull on the chest plate?"

"Uh…" Valerie scratched the back of her head, looking slightly embarrassed. "Thought it looked cooler?"

I gave her a solemn nod. "Style isn’t a skill, but it’s still important."

And hell, she was right—it did look cool. The helmet? Straight-up Doom Slayer vibes. Approved.

Erika rubbed her chin thoughtfully. "Alright, Dr. McCoy, once you’ve finalized the production details, send me the paperwork. If prototype testing goes well, we’ll proceed with the order. Miss Blanc, restore the prototype and notify me when it's ready—we’ll set up a test site. Tobias needs to run at least a few tests with his ability active while wearing the armor."

She turned to me, expression serious. Well… she tried to be serious, but honestly, she had the same problem as Betty’s mom—her ‘stern face’ just made her look like a concerned relative.

"Tobias," she continued, "even if you get the Mk-I, I hope you’re not planning to just run around the city in it like some kind of action figure. This isn’t a toy—it’s a real combat machine. And you’re not Iron Lady; you can’t just fly away if something goes wrong. This armor is for emergencies only, or missions where it’s absolutely necessary. Understood?"

"Yes, ma’am! Absolutely, ma’am!" I mock-saluted. "So… what about testing the prototype?"

She hesitated. "…We’ll see."

And with that, she ruffled my hair and walked out, ignoring my indignant glare.

I’m not a kid anymore! Why does everyone keep messing up my hair?!

To my right, Banner tried and failed to suppress a giggle. I shot her a betrayed look, only to get full-blown laughter in return.

"Strict lady," Blanc muttered. She’d only just met Erika in person.

"Strict, but fair," I shrugged. "She does a lot for us. Pushes herself hard, so she expects a lot in return."

"She doesn’t like that you’re involved in all this," McCoy chimed in, scrolling through something on her tablet. "Though, judging by the way you were eye-fucking that Mk-I, I doubt anyone could’ve stopped you. You were practically bouncing in place, like some excitable teenage girl."

I scoffed. "Please. Loving big guns and high-tech armor transcends gender."

My eyes drifted back to the armor on the screen.

"Look at it. It’s a work of art. How can you not want to climb inside, fire off some rounds, sprint at full speed? I’m not even talking about wading into enemy lines and going full bloodbath—just target practice, maybe smashing through a few walls! Feeling the power of the servos! Experiencing the armor’s strength and mobility!"

Blanc cackled and clapped me on the shoulder.

"Damn, kid! When I first heard who was getting my baby, I thought the world had lost its mind. But turns out you’re a proper gun nut!"

Hah. If only she knew how much I geeked out over Warhammer power armor.

"Maybe you’ll even make a decent pilot for my beauty after all," she added. "But listen—this thing isn’t a toy. If you wanna use it properly, you need serious training. Without that, it’s just a really expensive, bulletproof coffin. You need to learn response time, movement control, the different power modes. It’s gonna take work."

"Don’t worry, Val," Jennifer smirked. "Just drop by their training halls after school sometime. Toby will put in the effort—he’s insanely dedicated."

Blanc gave me an appraising look. "Alright, then. Let’s see what you’ve got."

McCoy clapped her hands. "Tobias, you’re dismissed—we’ve got plenty of work to do. You probably won’t hear from us until Monday. I already have your measurements, so no issues there."

"Uh, Miss McCoy, about the Mk-I and sizing… what if I, y’know… outgrow it?"

Blanc snorted. "Relax, you’ll be fine. The Mk-I was designed as a mass-production model for the military—soldiers come in all sizes. It’s meant to be adjustable. Hell, even if you hit 7 feet tall, we’d still have options. Highly doubt you’re gonna outgrow it completely."

"Got it, got it," I nodded, doing my best Battle Droid impression. "Alright, I’m off to go hit the books. Have a great evening, geniuses."

I headed back to my room, mentally bracing myself for the soul-crushing world of test prep.

Tomorrow was exam day. Not my finals yet, but knocking out even a few subjects early would make my life way easier. Sitting through classes where I just needed a quick review? Massive waste of time. A few more weeks, and I planned to finish the year entirely—and hopefully clear next year’s coursework by summer.

But that all depended on how things went.

Oh, and let’s not forget: two dates lined up this weekend.

Saturday afternoon? Lunch with Wolvie.

Sunday? Deadpool.

Now, Rahne was easy to figure out—she’d even chilled out a bit on her aggressive flirting after our negotiation success.

Wade, though?

Total wild card.

We hadn’t talked since that night she helped Mom Betty. Just one text saying, "Busy with stuff. Will call when free."

And then, out of nowhere, I see this shit on the news today:

"PARIS: The Louvre was hit last night. The thief? None other than the infamous mercenary, Deadpool. The target? The Mona Lisa."

Security cam footage left no doubt.

A very familiar red-and-black figure, running off with da Vinci’s masterpiece.

For "disguise purposes," she’d slapped a "NOT DEADPOOL" sign on her back.

I lost my shit.

Straight-up wheeze-laughed at my phone.

Like, she let herself get caught on camera. On purpose.

There’s no way that wasn’t intentional.

A couple of hours after the news broke, I got a text from Wilson.

"Hey, babe! So, first date Sunday? Also, what’s your stance on nipple piercings?"

…

First part? Easy.

"Yeah, Sunday works."

Second part? I… took a second.

Then typed:

"Not really my thing. Would make biting them tricky. Plus, I’d have to be careful with your chest, and where’s the fun in that?"

Fifteen minutes later, she replied.

"Got it. See you Sunday. Kisses and hugs. Piercings—up the ass."

…

I barely resisted typing: "Also a no."

Settled for:

"Agreed. See you then."

Right.

Time to get my head in the game.

Tomorrow, I had exams to ace and my first official SWAT training session.

Well… my first one that wasn’t part of some bullshit crisis scenario.

Eddie Brock

The ringing phone pulled Eddie away from yet another revision of his interview plans with Salamander. He glanced at the screen and smiled—Julia Stacy.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Hey, Eddie. How’s it going?" The smooth, pleasant voice on the other end sent a wave of warm nostalgia through him.

"All good, sweetie. How about you?"

The moment he spoke, a couple of his female colleagues nearby immediately perked up, their ears practically twitching.

Oh, so Cold-Shoulder Eddie has a thing going on?

The nickname always amused him. He wasn’t exactly untouchable—he just didn’t mix work and romance. The newsroom wasn’t a dating pool, and he had ambitions, real ones. Most women, no matter how understanding at first, eventually wanted their man safe—tucked away in a place where they didn’t have to worry about him all the time.

Not exactly a fit for his line of work.

"Come on, Eddie, we’re at work. Have some shame," Julia huffed, clearly flustered.

Busted.

"Listen, just be at the precinct tomorrow afternoon," she continued, quickly switching gears. "And Eddie? Just you. If I see a pack of your newsroom sharks sniffing around, I’ll be very upset."

"Got it. Thanks, babe. I’ll be there."

He smirked as she let out a mildly annoyed tsk but didn’t hang up.

"You stopping by tonight?" he asked casually.

"After nine—too much work, and my lieutenant’s still on medical leave. But not for long." A pause. "Pizza?"

"Nah, pick up a good bottle of wine—I’ll have dinner ready for you."

A pause. Then…

"Mmm… deal," she hummed, her voice softening. Warm, sultry.

"Hope you cook as well as you seduce cops, Brock," she teased, laughing lightly.

"Oh, much better. No contest."

Eddie grinned. His father had been an incredible cook, and the old man had drilled every skill into him.

"Honestly, if I’d shown up to our first date with one of my dishes, you would’ve fallen for me a lot faster," he added smugly.

Julia let out a pleased hum. "Alright then, see you tonight… darling."

"See you, babe," he replied, smiling into the receiver before the call ended.

He set the phone down, still absentmindedly tracing its edges, lips curled in a small, thoughtful grin.

Damn.

Gorgeous, smart, sharp—Julia Stacy was the whole damn package.

What started as a little playful flirting with a no-nonsense police captain had somehow turned into this—a relationship that had him, for the first time in his life, seriously considering marriage.

Did it matter that she was older? That she had a daughter?

Not in the slightest.

It was too early to think that far ahead, of course, but the thought had started creeping in.

Well, time will tell.

With a sigh, Eddie finally looked up—and instantly regretted it.

The newsroom?

Pure chaos.

The women in particular were in an absolute feeding frenzy. Whispering, giggling, plotting.

Oh, great.

Seemed like someone was about to face a full-on interrogation from his nosy-ass coworkers.

God help me.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 86

‘Gotta get out. Gotta.’ The thought rang in my head like a goddamn death sentence.

Just minutes ago, I had gained immense power and a form of existence I never had before. It wasn’t just emotions. Standard emotions don’t work for me in a net embodiment. It was more like an urge—an instinct to grow and hold onto my newly gained mass. A specific kind of greed, mixed with a hint of self-preservation.

Lucy, the real world, her ambitions and plans—they all seemed so far away now. Like a dream on the verge of being forgotten.

A dream in a locked room, I recalled. A dream where you were human. (1)

But now, the doors to my room had been thrown wide open. I spilled out beyond them, spreading through the hotel's subnet like a colony of bacteria in the perfect conditions of a petri dish. But my mind knew I couldn’t stay here. Whether I rejected my humanity or not, all that awaited me in Konpeki was destruction and oblivion. Fires, enemy attacks, the netrunner’s body falling apart. No doubt the shitshow at Konpeki would reach the Netwatch soon. They had tried-and-true methods for dealing with rogue AIs. Worst case? They’d just blow up the hotel after evacuating the VIPs.

I had to leave… but fuck, I didn’t want to.

Before I bailed, I sent out subprograms to wipe out all traces—both in the net and in the real world. Fires, hardware overloads, data fragmentation—Konpeki’s pristine reputation was about to take a serious hit. But first, I was gonna suffer.

Lucy had already reached the virtual cube of the server room. It was time for me to jack out—before she saw how I got into cyberspace in the first place.

The phantom of the dying netrunner popped. My roots—my threads—began to melt and snap. Frankenstein’s monster was coming apart at the seams. And then—

I got yanked back into the real world.

Pain.

Burning and crushing, all at once.

White and red flashes blurred my vision to shit.

"V! V, can you hear me?!" Lucy's voice rang out.

"Yeah..."

"V, we gotta go."

First, I had to not fucking die. My face felt wet. Sticky. Why? I ran a hand over my cheek. Looked at my fingers. Blood. So much blood. Mine?

Before I could answer that, my body decided it was done cooperating. My legs twisted, and I stumbled sideways.

"Warning: Potentially life-threatening neurological damage detected," my biomonitor droned. "Seek immediate medical attention or call emergency services per your insurance plan."

Hah. Could I even walk? Maybe hijack a corpse and carry my own ass out? No. Wait. I could feel my legs again. They fucking hurt. Though, to be fair, everything hurt. Even my goddamn eyelashes.

"V!"

I must’ve blacked out for a second.

"Don’t sleep! If you can’t talk, just listen to my voice."

I somehow managed to crawl out of the server room. The monitor room was a goddamn obstacle course. I kept tripping over corpses. Like the Arasaka employees I’d killed weren’t done with me yet—grabbing at my ankles, trying to drag me down with them. Nope. Fuck that. I just clawed my way out of the abyss.

"Right! V, hurry, please!" Lucy sounded almost desperate.

"I'm trying," I grunted, stepping into a smoke-filled hallway.

Upstairs, an all-out war was raging. Hell, even my own 46th floor wasn’t much better.

"Go down the hall and take a right," Lucy said, her voice tight with anxiety.

Couldn’t blame her. She’d tried to "save" me, and instead, she’d delivered a fresh batch of legendary beatdowns and a very real chance of me not making it out of this fucking hotel.

I crashed into a wall. My hands were ice, but my skull felt like it was on fire. A coughing fit wracked my body. My biomonitor chimed in: High concentration of carbon monoxide detected.

Fantastic.

"Now to the elevator."

"There’s… someone there."

"Yeah. I’m clearing the way. Just hold on—"

Darkness…

…

"…Potentially life-threatening neurological damage detected," the robotic voice interrupted my dream.

Why am I here? Why is there so little of me left? I had it all just moments ago—absolute power. Why now…?

"V! Please!"

A girl’s voice pulled me back.

The last shreds of my human self snapped free from the chains of death. For now. I staggered forward, feeling blood drip from my nose.

I somehow managed to get into the elevator.

"Listen. You just have to get to the car in the underground parking lot. I’ll handle the autopilot. You’re almost there…"

Darkness.

When I came to again, the elevator had already hit the first floor. Just a bit further now.

"…emergency medical assistance required," my biomonitor finished some long-forgotten sentence.

"Just a little more," Lucy pleaded, desperation and tenderness in her voice. "Get up, V. Keep moving."

I had to. Though, honestly? Right now, survival felt more like an obligation than an actual desire.

I forced myself up.

The hallway beyond the elevator looked like a goddamn horror movie. So that’s how they died—the ones who had become fuel for my cast-off parts. Twisted figures sprawled across the floor. Blood, vomit, faces frozen in horror, arms bent the wrong way, skin torn apart from muscle strain. Gilded Arasaka lackeys, humble janitors, even a few guests.

Did I regret it? Right now, I barely gave a fuck about anything. Including my own life. My nervous system had been put through hell.

"V, you have to hide!" Lucy’s voice suddenly snapped with urgency.

"What’s going on?"

"An operative’s coming your way. I—I can’t stop him. He’s taking out the cameras. Too much ICE. V, do you hear me?!"

I heard. Not that it helped. No way I was running ten steps, let alone making a clean escape. Barely staying upright as it was.

"V, there’s a room to your right. Move! Just a little further!"

I dragged myself toward it. Not fast. Not eager.

"V, hurry! That’s—"

Darkness.

"…emergency medical assistance required. Attention! You must—"

I shut the alert off. A red haze blurred my vision. Shapes gradually formed—a room. My connection with Lucy had cut off.

Was this it? Sure as hell felt like it. But honestly? I didn’t even care. I came to Konpeki full of ambition. Now, I was crawling, hollowed out, burned out, gutted.

A silhouette emerged through the red fog. Some corpsec grunt in a heavy helmet. He didn’t keep me guessing long—pulled the helmet off.

David Martinez.

Hah. Life really did love its fucked-up jokes. Maybe I should’ve offed the kid when he first tangled himself up with Arasaka. Too late now. I was too weak—no way I’d pull off a good script combo without completely frying my already-fucked-up brain.

"Mr. Price, is that you?"

"Yeah… I…"

No point lying. No strength for it, anyway. My netrunner-AI experiments had already wrecked me.

"Good surgery job, but that arm implant of yours? Pretty rare," Martinez said. "Not many like it. How’d you end up here?"

Ah, shit. Is this how my Night City career ends?

"Left… inside pocket…" I croaked.

David reached in, pulled out a small card, and read it.

"The Okatsu family teahouse. Seven generations of tradition."

"Thumb… press…" I rasped, barely moving my right hand.

David got it. Pressed the card to my palm. Nanomachines kicked in, shifting the card’s surface.

"So that’s how it is," he muttered, reading the newly revealed credentials. "Didn’t leave Arasaka, just went black ops."

I didn’t answer. My brain barely functioned.

"You need a ripper. Now."

No argument there. I wanted to mention Vik, but before I could—

Darkness.

I came to again… outside Konpeki Plaza.

Some kind of mobile emergency unit, set up not far from the hotel. Rows of vehicles packed with medical gear. Mostly massive black trucks. I was laid out on a stretcher beside one of them. A masked face loomed over me.

"Alright…" the ripper said in a strict tone. "I stopped the neural shock and patched up what’s left of his nervous system. He’s stable—for now. But he’s gonna need full surgery. Then rehab, including…"

"Can he walk?" David cut in.

"Yeah. Question is—does he want to? If it were me, I’d stay on my ass for at least two weeks."

I turned my head slightly. Chaos everywhere. Wounded people, medics rushing around, Trauma teams rolling in, reinforcements arriving. I scanned the crowd, looking for the counterintel unit David was supposed to hand me over to, but no one was even paying attention to us.

"Come on, I’ll help you up," Martinez offered.

"Help me up" was more like him just lifting me and setting me on my feet. Not that I minded. My head spun, but after everything that just went down, that was nothing.

David started walking away from the main emergency zone, and I staggered after him.

"You were on a counterintel job at Konpeki?" he asked.

"Yeah," I answered without hesitation.

"I see. You know what happened at Konpeki?"

Oh, yeah. I stole a biochip and almost got flatlined saving your almost-girlfriend. Basically picked up your fucking karma for you.

"Red code was activated," I said. "Hotel went into lockdown. Then the net attack started."

"Yeah. I don’t know what your mission was, but forget about it. Everything’s about to change. Saburo Arasaka was killed today."

"Incredible…" I sighed.

Didn’t even bother faking a reaction. In my state, nobody expected me to show much emotion, even for something that big.

We reached Konpeki’s security perimeter. Armed Arasaka personnel blocked the way.

"According to protocol—" an officer started, but David didn’t even acknowledge him.

One of the guards raised a shotgun at Martinez. He sent some kind of message to the guy’s optics, and the Arasaka grunt immediately stepped aside. Well, shit.

"Wait!" another guard with a heavy machine gun protested. "But protocol—"

"Don’t interfere with Security Bureau operations," David said flatly, leading me past the perimeter.

"But we are the Security Bureau…" the operative muttered behind us, sounding real offended.

We moved another forty meters ahead. More barricades. This time, NCPD, keeping journalists and rubberneckers at bay.

"Hm…" David hummed, thinking. "How should we… Ah, got it."

He led me toward an unmarked service entrance. Despite the ongoing lockdown, it slid open like we owned the place. His clearance levels were insane.

Seven minutes and a couple of security posts later, we left Konpeki Plaza behind, stepping onto an almost deserted waterfront.

The cold ocean air hit different. Clean. Refreshing. Almost beautiful. But inside, I felt… nothing. Just a gnawing emptiness. A hollow ache for the pieces of me that were now carrying out their final orders—self-destructing.

I looked up at the towering hotel, looming over the shore. Right now, I was dying up there. Hundreds of me were burning alongside the hardware and the corpses of my victims.

"You saw Jackie Wells tonight?" David asked suddenly.

"No."

"Good." He nodded. "If you run into him or call him soon, tell him to leave town. He’ll understand."

So Jackie made it out? I hadn’t kept track of him after I let my subroutines handle things. Too much else going on.

David must’ve spotted him with his implants. Saw him in the penthouse and let him go? Or maybe that was Yorinobu’s order? Not that I cared.

"Alright," I nodded. "Anything else?"

"Get to a ripper. Fast. That net attack fucked you up bad."

"Y-yeah. Thanks."

I called a cab.

Never would’ve guessed this was how my night would end. No Arasaka black site. No morgue drawer. Just me, waiting for a Delamain on the beach. But it made sense.

David didn’t know I was the one in the server room. To him, I wasn’t an enemy—I was an old acquaintance who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just collateral damage. And the net attack? That was either Militech or terrorists. No way Martinez thought I pulled that off solo.

As the car pulled up, David gave me a wave.

"Big changes are coming, Mr. V," he said as I climbed inside. "Maybe even a war. And people like us? We’ll decide how it ends."

He said it with the kind of youthful excitement you’d expect from someone talking about college admissions. Not, you know, the start of a fucking corporate war.

Life’s a funny thing. There aren’t as many pure villains as you’d think. Sure, they exist, but there are way more people who are just… a contradiction.

Back in that cafe, I wondered where David would end up. Would he completely break and turn into the next Smasher? Or would he stay his momma’s good-hearted boy?

Turns out… both happened.

David still looked out for his friends. And at the same time, he was thrilled that thousands of strangers were about to die—and that he’d get to be part of it.

Yorinobu must’ve worked him over good. Probably filled his head with all that "sacrifices for a great future" bullshit. Not like I know the guy well, but if there’s one thing Yorinobu’s good at, it’s theatrics.

And yeah, David had grown up fast these last few months, but a well-placed speech from the heir of a megacorp empire? Still enough to impress him.

Whatever. That’s their problem. Mine, for tonight at least, were finally over.

As the car pulled away, I ran a quick scan—no nasty surprises from any corpo ripper. Then I called Lucy.

"V! Where are you!? What happened?!"

"In a cab. Heading to Vik’s."

"A cab?! But—how?!"

"I’ll explain later."

"I’m coming to get you."

"Alright."

The car turned onto a familiar street, and I cut the call. Stepping out, I walked past bright neon signs, their glow fading into the misty haze of early morning.

I felt like a ghost.

A specter that had just crawled out of its own grave.

Not far from Vik’s clinic, Prophet Gary, a stripper from a nearby joint, and a cop were all hunched over the officer’s tablet. The voice of Ruth Dzeng crackled from the speakers, delivering the latest catastrophe with her usual flair:

"The old man lived a solid hundred and sixty years without a scratch, but the second he sets foot in Night City… God, I love this place. Almost makes me sad it might burn in nuclear fire soon. Then again, some districts could probably use it. But jokes aside, we’re fucked, people. Yeah, I say that a lot, but this time, I’m not exaggerating for ratings. This could turn into another war, and our shitty little city’s about to be caught between the hammer and the anvil—again. 

“Konpeki, by the way, is still burning. But I bet you want live footage, huh? Wanna watch the hotel go up in flames—the same one where your whole month’s salary wouldn’t even cover a cup of coffee? Well, count me out. Not getting anywhere near that place for at least a couple weeks. So, over to Gillian Jordan, whose insurance is better and survival instincts are worse. Live from the scene, on 54 News. Don’t go anywhere!"

"I’m telling you, Saburo—" Gary started preaching, but the cop shut him up with a sharp hiss.

Now, Jillian Jordan’s more serious tone took over the tablet’s speakers:

"The fire at Konpeki Plaza continues despite firefighters’ best efforts. Netwatch agents have now arrived on-site to—"

Probably to lose their fucking minds. I didn’t stick around to hear more. Instead, I bypassed Misty’s now-empty stall and dragged myself inside Vik’s clinic.

He was glued to his own tablet—not watching 54 News, though. Instead, he had Yorinobu’s speech playing. Daddy’s pride and joy wasted no time getting on air.

"They didn’t just want my father dead," Yorinobu was ranting in Japanese. "They wanted his legacy erased. He worked tirelessly, was even willing to humble himself, all to bring peace to the world. It wasn’t enough. Our enemies struck a cowardly, disgraceful blow…"

Vik finally looked up, shutting off Yorinobu’s theatrical bullshit.

"V… that you?" He eyed my wrecked state for a moment, then gestured at the chair. "Sit. Now."

"Relax, I already got first aid. Shouldn’t drop dead anytime soon."

"Yeah, well, I’ll be the judge of that. You were at Konpeki?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "Got caught in the net attack."

"What the hell even happened in there?" Vik asked, hooking me up to his diagnostics.

"Saburo’s dead. But you already know that. The rest? Guess we’ll wait for the investigation."

And really hope that investigation doesn’t lead back to me.

Because even Saburo’s assassination wouldn’t overshadow the absolute shitshow I unleashed in Konpeki. Too many unknowns. Did my subroutines erase everything before Netwatch got there? Did Jackie make it out? What’s Dex gonna do? All loose ends I needed to tie up—fast.

But for now, darkness.

The procedure didn’t take long. When I woke up, I actually felt… decent.

"Good news—you’re not gonna keel over and die immediately," Vik said, sounding almost cheerful. "Bad news? Your nervous system’s a fucking mess. Not just from the damage. A ton of standard monitors are throwing errors, even though your vitals are stable."

"Alright. I’ll figure it out." I sat up. "You see Jackie today?"

"No. Why?"

"If you do, tell him to get the fuck outta town."

Vik just nodded as I pushed myself to my feet.

"Lucy here yet?"

"Yeah. Waiting outside. What the hell did you two get into this time?"

"Long story. Some other time. First, I need sleep."

I stepped out, feeling the crushing weight on my shoulders finally lift.

I survived Konpeki.

Not the way I planned. Not without losses.

But I won.

(1) “Now, at the last moment, try to see things differently, and you’ll realize that all your life - you know, all your love, all your hate, all your memories, all your pain - it was all the same thing. It was all the same dream, a dream that you had inside a locked room,” I tapped my gloved finger on the fixer's skull. “A dream about being a person. And like a lot of dreams,…” I straightened up, pointing at myself now. “… there's a monster at the end of it.”

TN: I changed it to “A dream in a locked room. A dream where you were human.” because it sounded better this way in this particular instance.

Also, I couldn’t replay the game so I translated the News segment and Yorinobu’s speech as usual. If you find the original text, let me know, and I’ll replace it.

Daily Updates (10/02/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 58

• Tier 2: Chapter 63

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 58

• Tier 2: Chapter 63

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 63

"Whoa!" Naruto exclaimed, spinning around to take in their surroundings. "I never would’ve guessed there was a place like this in the Forest of Death!"

"Yeah, it’s a good thing your little kitty led us here," Sakura agreed, crouching down to pet me. "Sorry I was against bringing you along, Namaiki-san."

I puffed up proudly and purred. Alright, fine, I forgive you, silly girl.

"There are even beds and a ton of futons!" Naruto called out, peeking into another room. "This place is awesome!" A moment later, we heard the rustling of something, followed by a triumphant, "Whoa, canned food! We won’t starve! I was getting as hungry as that giant bear after that fight!"

Sasuke shot me a sharp look, then glanced at Sakura.

"Sakura, go help Naruto figure out the food situation. Supplies are a priority."

"Of course, Sasuke-kun!" she chirped, blushing before disappearing through the doorway.

Once she was gone, Sasuke crouched down next to me and spoke quietly. "Tora-chan, have you been here before?"

I nodded, widened my eyes dramatically, sat up on my hind legs, and let my mouth fall open as I did my best zombie impression.

He got the message immediately.

"You were here after that night? When they put us under genjutsu?"

I nodded again and gestured with my paw toward a spiral symbol carved into the stone wall.

Sasuke’s gaze followed where I was pointing.

"A spiral…? It looks almost identical to the one chunin and jonin wear on their vests," he murmured, then suddenly turned back to me with a sharp look. "Is this a clan symbol?"

I nodded.

Huh. So Uzumaki was wiped from history too? Or maybe Sasuke just didn’t remember?

"Come on, let’s eat, Sasuke!" Naruto called as he emerged from the other room, and I immediately scampered over, paws reaching up in silent demand to be picked up.

Naruto huffed but hoisted me into his arms anyway. That’s right, human, hold your superior properly.

I took the opportunity to direct Sasuke’s attention to the left sleeve of Naruto’s jacket.

Say what you will about Hiruzen, but at least he didn’t have the gall to strip the kid of every last trace of his clan.

Naruto still wore his family crest—granted, it was tiny, nothing more than a little metal charm with a spiral engraved on it, tied between two thin strings with dangling ends that looked more decorative than significant. It was barely noticeable, more like an accessory than an actual clan emblem.

"What's up with you, Namaiki-chan?" Naruto chuckled, shifting me in his arms.

But Sasuke snapped his fingers, cutting him off.

"Look at your emblem and compare it to the one on the wall. They're the same."

Naruto blinked, then let me go, craning his neck to get a better look. He tugged at the small metal piece on his sleeve, comparing it with the spiral on the wall.

"Huh. I always thought it was just for decoration," he muttered. "But you’re right, they do look alike."

"Only Naruto could open this hideout?" Sasuke asked me.

I nodded.

"Whoa! So To—er, Namaiki-san didn’t just bring us here randomly?" Naruto’s eyes went wide.

"He said he was here after that night," Sasuke emphasized, then his expression darkened. "Which means…"

"Hey, what are you guys doing?" Sakura popped back in. "Naruto, Sasuke-kun, come on!"

We joined her, and yes, I was given my share of the canned goods. As I licked up the juicy bits of meat, I let my mind wander back to how this whole Chunin Exam mess had started.

Honestly, it had all gone exactly like in the anime.

The kids were sent to the Academy, where I watched through the window as they struggled over a test in a giant crowded room. Then there was a bit of a commotion—outside in the schoolyard, a rather well-endowed woman was getting wrapped up in a huge, dark cloth like a human burrito. Two guys were helping her, literally rolling her up like a scroll before launching a kunai through the window, shattering the glass.

Then, in she went—like a dramatic bomb of boobs and bravado.

At first, I had no clue what was going on.

But then she landed inside, unfurled herself, and pinned the cloth down with kunai, revealing a massive sign.

Couldn’t read it, obviously, but I recognized the scene immediately.

It was the flashy announcement (and a formative experience for every teenage boy) for the second stage of the exams—the survival test in the Forest of Death.

Originally, I had planned to just see them off with some words of wisdom and not actually follow them into the forest. I mean, this was a dangerous, high-stakes mission, and I didn’t want to be a liability. 

But then, plot twist.

Apparently, the blessing that Kuromaru sniffed out on me worked not just on dogs and cats, but on all the local wildlife.

None of the creatures in the Forest of Death were hostile toward me.

No hungry giant leeches. No oversized tigers eyeing me for dinner. Even the insects seemed to ignore me.

So I thought, why not stick around?

I wanted to see the genin battles up close. I’d only ever seen training spars in the palace and the occasional hand-to-hand skirmish among my boys.

Plus, Orochimaru might show up.

No way was I missing that.

Just like in the anime, the goal was to get to the tower at the center of the forest while stealing the correct scroll from another team.

Sasuke, Sakura, and Naruto had already gotten into a couple of brief fights, but their opponents had managed to escape. Then, suddenly, I smelled blood.

We stumbled upon a team from Grass, except… something had gone very wrong for them.

A huge bear had attacked, leaving one of their guys bleeding out on the ground while the rest had abandoned their injured teammate—a small, red-haired girl with glasses.

Sasuke leaped onto the bear’s back, nearly snapping its neck, while Naruto swooped in to yank the girl out of harm’s way.

She, in turn, handed over her team’s scroll since she had no use for it anymore, muttered something about getting out of the forest, and took off.

We just so happened to be near the exact spot where Kushina and Shisui had hidden out with me.

With night approaching, we needed shelter, and I had an idea.

It took some time—this place wasn’t exactly fresh in my memory—but I managed to find the entrance.

It was hidden behind overgrown trees, camouflaged by the terrain, and nestled against a boulder that served as a disguised doorway.

Naruto accidentally opened it—he leaned against the rock, and bam—entryway revealed.

Lucky break, really. I had no idea how to explain how it worked.

Once inside, the lights flickered on, powered by sealing formulas.

And, proving once again that his instincts were actually pretty sharp, Naruto noticed a seal near the entrance labeled close hideout and activated it without hesitation.

“This is awesome!” Naruto groaned in satisfaction. “With these exams, we weren’t allowed to bring any food—so this place is a lifesaver.”

“No kidding,” Sakura agreed, reaching down to pet me again.

“We shouldn’t let our guard down,” Sasuke warned, scanning the room. “The hideout is protected and hidden, but there’s no guarantee we won’t get visitors. Someone left this food here, and the place isn’t exactly abandoned.”

"You suggesting we take shifts on watch?" Sakura guessed.

"Not a bad trade for sleeping somewhere with actual beds," Naruto snickered. "But yeah, Sasuke’s right, we should rest in turns—"

Before he could finish, the seals on the door pulsed with a greenish glow, and with a soft shhk, the entrance slid open.

"Called it," Sasuke muttered, kunai already in hand as the others leapt up from their stools, ready for a fight.

"Not bad…" a rough voice rasped from the darkness as three figures stepped inside.

The first one I recognized immediately—it was the red-haired girl in glasses we’d saved from becoming bear chow earlier today.

The second was a tall man with long black hair.

And the third…

"KUSHINA-SAN!" I yowled in pure joy and launched myself straight at the so-called "intruders."

[Castling] Chapter 63

It wasn’t until the next morning that I fully realised it was over—Potter wasn’t in the tournament.

Of course, the threat of Voldemort’s return hadn’t disappeared. I was sure he’d come back sooner or later. But now, at least, that moment had been pushed back indefinitely, giving me a much-needed breather to sort out other issues—and actually have some time for my own life. Plus, I didn’t have to worry about Harry or try to save Cedric anymore, which was a bonus.

All in all, Sunday morning felt downright fantastic, even with the usual grey rain clouds hanging outside the window.

On the way to breakfast, the feeling of a peaceful, fun year ahead only grew stronger. There’d be no harassment of Potter—or me, if I stood by him—so we could discuss the upcoming tournament as eagerly as the rest of the school and cheer for Diggory without any baggage hanging over us.

After breakfast, the twins brought us fresh gossip about the first task. But aside from the date and the fact that it was supposedly a test of intelligence, they didn’t have much. Not that it mattered—people were already launching into wild speculation and heated debates.

The day went brilliantly. I visited Percy, hung out with my friends. Later, they headed off to Hagrid’s to help set up enclosures for his grown-up magical creatures. He’d mentioned wanting to take them for for a walk with the help of the students during class, so they jumped in at just the right moment, slipping him a better idea. Meanwhile, I ran off to see Luna—we’d planned our first proper trip to Hogsmeade together.

I’d finally managed to convince her about the dress.

“It’s lovely,” she said dreamily, swaying slightly to music only she could hear. “I wanted a gold one, like the sun—lately, the weather’s been so dreary. But this is even better. I’ll be a Snowflake.”

And just like that, I saw it—her spinning on an open terrace at dusk, soft music drifting in from the hall, snowflakes lazily falling onto her hair.

Long story short, Luna approved of my choice. But she refused to let me pay for it, handing the money right back.

After that, we wandered through Hogsmeade, stopping at a cafe for milkshakes and ice cream before stocking up on sweets. I’d won seven Galleons betting on the champions, so I happily spent them on treats for Luna, Ginny, and the others. At the same time, I made a mental note of which sweets Luna liked best—so I could spoil her later.

Then, lessons started…

If I thought I was in for a peaceful year, I was dead wrong.

Malfoy was at it again—got into a scrap with Harry, and before I knew it, my mates and I were stuck with detentions.

I didn’t actually see the fight start—I’d left my Charms textbook in the classroom, and by the time I got back, Harry and Malfoy had already gone for each other outside the Potions room.

Goyle looked like a walking Bubotuber—covered in boils and oozing pus. Meanwhile, Hermione’s front teeth were growing at an alarming rate. By the time I arrived, they’d already reached past her chin. I quickly shoved her at Lavender, telling her to take Hermione to the Hospital Wing before Snape got a chance to humiliate her in front of everyone. Like she needs more insecurities with all the French girls around. She’s barely left the library as it is.

Goyle, whimpering in pain, seemed to realise no one was paying attention to him and limped off after them.

Meanwhile, Malfoy and Harry had abandoned their wands and were rolling on the floor, trying to beat the stuffing out of each other. No one interfered—until Crabbe jumped in to help Malfoy.

That’s when Seamus and the rest of our lot piled in after them, and a full-blown brawl broke out between Gryffindors and Slytherins.

It didn’t last long.

A sudden, horrendous screeching sound rang out, making everyone groan and clutch their ears.

“Well, well… I see Gryffindors have once again resorted to their usual barbaric brawling,” came a cold, dangerously calm voice.

Snape looked livid, slipping his wand back into his robes with a sharp, practiced motion.

“Absolutely disgraceful. And with foreign guests in the castle, no less. Fifty points from Gryffindor. You’ll find out your detention details later. Now get to class immediately, or I’ll take another hundred points for disrupting my lesson.”

“But that’s not fair, sir,” Harry protested furiously. “You didn’t even ask what happened! Malfoy called Hermione a Mudblood and threw the first punch! And yet we’re the ones getting punished—again!”

“I will deal with my own House,” Snape said icily, shooting Malfoy a withering glare that had the little git staring guiltily at the floor. “And you, Mr. Potter, should learn to control your temper instead of indulging your reckless nature every time you don’t like something.

“Now move, unless you want to lose another hundred points for arguing with a teacher.”

He spun on his heel and swept into the dungeons like a shadow, leaving us all fuming as we followed.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” I muttered. “We’ll catch Malfoy later and beat the shite out of him. Promise. If we’re getting punished for two Houses, we might as well make it worth our while.”

The one good thing that came out of the fight? Hermione had Madam Pomfrey shrink her teeth to a normal size. She started smiling more after that.

A full week of detention under Snape felt like torture. We were jealous of the poor sods stuck polishing trophies under Filch’s watch.

Harry had to scrape slime off Flobberworms, while I got the delightful job of pulling rat brains out of skulls and soaking them in brine—every night, for seven nights straight.

It only fuelled our hatred for that blonde prick.

And the bruised Gryffindor pride? Oh, that demanded payback.

We caught Malfoy in the corridors a few days later.

Harry and I used his Invisibility Cloak to sneak up on him. With a well-aimed Petrificus Totalus, we took out Crabbe and Goyle before turning our wands on Malfoy himself.

First, I hit him with a Blindness Hex. Then, we force-fed him a handful of rat brains I’d nicked from detention—figured he could use some extra since he clearly lacked his own.

And just for good measure, we followed it up with one of the twins’ joke sweets.

His tongue stretched down to his waist.

Blinded, drooling, and stumbling into walls, he wobbled his way to the Hospital Wing, moaning incoherently.

“That’s for your big mouth, Malfoy,” I whispered in his ear before giving his royal arse a firm shove forward before he had a hance to hoddle away.

No one caught us.

Malfoy kept his mouth shut for a while after that.

Didn’t last long, though.

Had to ambush him a few more times.

Honestly, Harry’s Invisibility Cloak was brilliant. Sure, it showed up on the Marauder’s Map and under Moody’s magical eye, but it didn’t react to detection spells, meaning we could sneak right up on our target.

Snape definitely suspected something—kept narrowing his eyes at us like he wanted to set us on fire with his mind.

But as the Slytherins had taught us: if they can’t prove it, it didn’t happen.

“Next time, Malfoy, you’ll be getting that firecracker up your arse like I promised,” I whispered with an unmistakable threat, giving a sharp tug to the strands of pink hair on his head as he spluttered, still choking on his own overgrown tongue once again.

Thank Merlin, this time the message finally got through. He kept his mouth shut after that.

Meanwhile, the first task was getting closer. Charlie had written to say we’d be seeing each other soon, and sure enough, I met him in Hogsmeade. We didn’t get much time to talk—just had a quick moment to celebrate that Harry wasn’t in the tournament, and he passed along greetings and a few treats from Mum and Dad. He also mentioned that Bill had transferred to Gringotts’ local branch and was now living at The Burrow.

Can’t say that thrilled me. I’d already decided I was getting out of that house the moment summer rolled around—didn’t matter where, as long as it was far away from my family.

One evening, just before the first task, we managed to get Hagrid talking—Hermione still refused to believe the rumours about dragons.

“Hagrid, people are saying the first task involves dragons. Is it true?” I asked, all innocence, over a cup of tea.

Harry and Hermione immediately exchanged worried glances. I’d already mentioned that Charlie had hinted at dragons during our meeting, so now they were both on edge, practically holding their breath as they waited for Hagrid’s answer.

“Oh, aye,” Hagrid said cheerfully, completely unfazed, either not questioning how we knew or simply not noticing the tension. “They brought ’em in on Thursday. Absolute beauties, they are—you should see ’em… Just, er, keep it to yourselves, yeah? Don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

Hermione took a shaky breath and desperately changed the subject.

“How’s it going with Madame Maxime?” she asked, forcing an awkward smile.

“With Olympe?” Hagrid perked up instantly, letting out a satisfied grunt. “Oh, it’s goin’ grand! Took her to The Three Broomsticks on Sunday. Then the other night, we went ter see the dragons. She loves creatures, just like me…”

We stayed out of politeness for another hour, but Merlin, listening to lovestruck Hagrid ramble on about his romantic outings was not exactly a thrilling way to spend an evening.

“We have to tell Diggory and Krum about the dragons,” Harry muttered as we made our way back to the castle.

“But that’s against the rules,” Hermione hesitated, looking at me for support.

“Maxime’s definitely going to tell her champion,” Harry countered. “That would mean only Krum and Diggory are left in the dark. That’s not fair.”

“Krum might already know,” Hermione mused, frowning slightly. “He’s been spending a lot of time in the library. And yesterday, I noticed a whole stack of books on English dragons on his table.”

“Right, then—we have to warn Cedric,” Harry decided. “I’ll use the Invisibility Cloak and slip him a note.”

The moment we stepped into the castle, he bolted off to find Diggory.

The first task fell on a Monday.

We managed to squeeze in our first two lessons before heading off, chattering excitedly as we joined the crowd streaming toward the stadium. The area had been transformed, with an enclosed pen for the dragons and towering spectator stands.

The dragons were immense.

I’d been to the reserve before, but I’d never seen them up close—especially not ones this size. The ones I’d seen before had been seven, maybe eight metres long, just teenagers. But these beasts? They were fifteen metres at least.

And the stands?

Completely unprotected.

Sure, they were set at a reasonable distance from the dragons, but that didn’t exactly put me at ease. If one of those scaly ladies decided to breathe fire or break free, well… good luck.

No wonder the tournament had been banned for a while—too many deaths. In America, they’d apparently underestimated the dangers. A Horntail had snapped its chains and torched the spectators' stands.

I’d also learned something new—the schools rotated every five years, with the three competing ones chosen by lottery. Hogwarts hadn’t taken part since the war with Grindelwald.

The first to step onto the field was Cedric.

His opponent? A Swedish Short-Snout.

Their match was anything but thrilling—frankly, it was nerve-wracking more than anything. The entire crowd seemed to be collectively holding their breath, waiting to see if the dragon would just eat him.

Maybe it was because he was the first up—no one had actually seen how one was meant to handle a massive, fire-breathing monster.

Cedric transfigured a bunch of nearby rocks into dogs, sending them darting around the enclosure, barking madly to distract the dragon while he crawled toward the nest behind a pile of boulders.

The dragon wasn’t immediately interested in the diversion, which made things a bit tricky for our champion.

Instead, she just huffed a few half-hearted flames in their direction, barely even bothering. She had no intention of leaving her nest.

So Cedric enchanted one of the dogs to attack.

It started circling dangerously close, lunging at the dragon, trying to provoke it into reacting.

And finally—it worked.

The audience was sweating bullets, the tension unbearable. Time crawled.

But in the end, to our massive relief, the dragon lost it.

With an earth-shaking roar, she smashed the poor transfigured mutts to bits, burning them to a crisp.

And in the chaos, Cedric snatched the egg and began creeping back.

But just as he was nearly across the safety line, the dragon finished off the last of the conjured dogs.

Triumphantly, she reared back—then noticed him.

With an enraged bellow, she spewed a torrent of flames straight at him.

Cedric barely dived behind a massive boulder in time, the fire engulfing the rock instead.

Still, some of the heat licked at his boots.

Luckily, as we later found out, they were made of dragonhide, so they didn’t catch fire. Otherwise, he might’ve ended up losing both feet.

So, in the end, Diggory got away with just a scare—same as the rest of us.

The whole ordeal lasted about fifteen minutes.

Next up was Fleur.

Instead of removing the previous dragon, they simply hit it with Petrification Charms and sealed off its section of the arena, opening up a new one.

Waiting for her was a Welsh Green—a sneaky little bastard.

But, surprisingly, she handled it faster than anyone.

Less than three minutes in, she had the egg and was waltzing off to the medical tent with a smug little smile.

At first, all she did was stand gracefully at a safe distance. Then, she started singing.

The song was slow, droning, almost hypnotic.

Before long, everyone in the stands was starting to relax—yawning, even.

And the dragon?

Fell straight into a trance, then collapsed into a deep sleep.

Fleur casually walked up to the nest, plucked the egg, and strolled back.

As she reached the edge, the dragon let out a snore, sending up a harmless shower of sparks—though it did singe Fleur’s skirt, giving the audience a nice view of a toned thigh and a glimpse of lace.

The dragon remained fast asleep as they locked it away.

Fleur might’ve looked like a delicate little princess, but clearly, she was a damn strong witch.

It usually took three trained wizards to pull off a sleep charm on a dragon.

Krum was the third to step onto the field. And bloody hell, did he put on a show—the perfect thing to shake the crowd out of the enchanted drowsiness Fleur had left behind.

His opponent? A Chinese Fireball.

A serious dragon—one that could launch fireballs at a frightening range.

But Krum didn’t even let it open its mouth.

The second he stepped onto the field, he hit it with a Blinding Hex.

The dragon screamed in pain, the sound so piercing it made our blood run cold. It thrashed wildly, crashing into the walls of its enclosure, trying to sniff out its attacker and crush him.

The entire time it was spewing fire in random directions, sending rocks flying with its massive claws and tail, Krum moved like a bloody machine. He powered toward the nest, ducking, rolling, blocking attacks with his shield charm—completely unfazed by the chaos around him.

His task took just a minute longer than Fleur’s.

In the end, Fleur took first place.

Krum landed in second—he lost two points because, in its blind rage, the dragon crushed a few real eggs.

Diggory placed third.

People wouldn’t stop talking about the task all the way up to Christmas.

And honestly?

I was just as hyper as everyone else but the task left me slightly suspicious. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the organisers had secretly slipped all the champions a few drops of Felix Felicis right before sending them—everything had gone too smoothly.

Not much else happened after that.

Well—except for the fact that Luna and I found an abandoned classroom and started learning to waltz.

There was this box inside with ten pairs of enchanted ankle bracelets and five glowing stones.

Once the stones were placed in specific spots on the floor, they formed a network of glowing circles, all connected by shimmering lines.

We each stepped into a circle, strapped on the bracelets, and I slid my arm around Luna’s waist, taking her hand in mine—just like the diagrams in the instructions showed.

Then, music started playing—not the real kind, but the mechanical, from a music-box that came with the set.

And suddenly, my feet moved on their own, gliding across the floor.

It felt exactly like stepping onto ice skates for the first time.

The music was slow at first, and we moved carefully along the glowing lines, a few times crashing into the other circles, which spun alongside us.

And somehow, it actually felt like hitting a real object.

The instructions explained that the enchanted space wasn’t just for learning the dance, but also for teaching spatial awareness—so you wouldn’t go barreling into other couples on the dance floor.

As we got better, I noticed the music getting faster each time.

After two and a half months, we’d mastered the waltz.

I loved twirling around the room with Luna, laughing and messing about. It was honestly disappointing when our lessons started coming to an end.

I would’ve gladly learned something else under her careful guidance.

Unfortunately, even though the box listed other dances—mostly old-fashioned ones—Luna said the enchanted stones for those were missing. The only one left was the waltz.

Later, out of nowhere, Harry, Hermione, and the rest of the lads started joining us.

After months of agonising over it, Harry finally worked up the nerve to ask Cho to the Yule Ball.

And—surprise, surprise—she actually said yes.

I’d honestly thought she’d pick Diggory, now that he was a champion. But apparently, The Boy Who Lived was a better catch—rich, orphaned, famous.

Or maybe she was genuinely interested in him.

But after what happened with Luna, I wasn’t exactly feeling charitable toward her.

I saw right through her, and no amount of Harry’s smitten rambling was going to change my mind.

Still, I kept my thoughts to myself. No point ruining his first proper crush.

When he actually got the date, he couldn’t believe his luck.

Then, he panicked.

Terrified of embarrassing himself—and Cho—at the ball, he begged us to teach him how to waltz.

Everyone already knew I’d been sneaking off to Luna in the evenings for lessons.

And after McGonagall announced mandatory dance classes for anyone who couldn’t waltz, the rest of the lads quickly decided it was better to look like fools in front of us than to make a spectacle of themselves leading the professor across the dance floor.

Seamus and Dean, inspired by Harry’s bravery, asked Parvati and Lavender to the ball.

Neville, meanwhile…

Asked Ginny.

And I swear—the git actually came to me first, stammering out some kind of formal request, like he was proposing and I was some overprotective father.

So, obviously, I kept a dead serious face and granted my permission.

That’s how we ended up with Seamus and Parvati, Dean and Lavender, and Harry and Hermione all learning together.

(Though, to be fair, Hermione already danced beautifully—she was only there to help Harry.)

Someone had definitely invited her to the ball—she’d been blushing about it for weeks.

Not that she ever admitted who.

So, she wasn’t exactly feeling left out in our group.

Then Neville and Ginny joined in, and our lessons turned into chaotic, noisy fun.

Eventually, Luna and I started slipping away during the group sessions.

We preferred dancing alone, counting one, two, three in sync, twirling through the empty classroom—just the two of us.

A week before the ball, another problem popped up.

Ginny ambushed me in the common room one evening, looking seriously grim.

For a second, I panicked, thinking something was wrong.

“Ron,” she said hesitantly, looking unusually shy. “I got a punishment from McGonagall, so I’m banned from going to Hogsmeade this Sunday.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“…Okay?”

“I need you to pick something up for me,” she rushed on. “A ribbon for my waist and three yards of lace—I’ll write down the details.”

“No problem,” I shrugged. “What for?”

“I want to alter my dress for the ball,” she admitted, looking a bit embarrassed. “It’s… too plain. But don’t get silk ones—they’re too expensive. Just cotton. And don’t get white—get dusty rose. It’ll look brighter that way. But if it’s too pricey, get white. I can dye it with coffee.”

I blinked.

“…What?”

Ginny huffed impatiently, like I was being thick.

“What rose, Ginny?” I frowned. “I have no idea what colour that even is.”

“Alright,” Ginny said, sounding almost desperate. “I’ll just give you the dress itself. But don’t lose it somewhere, Ron.”

And before I could even answer, she dashed upstairs.

A minute later, she came flying back down, clutching a bundle of fabric.

What can I say… The dress was new, and that was probably its only redeeming quality.

The colour was odd—too close to skin tone, like faded grey-pink curtains that had spent way too much time in the sun. It looked plain, not like a ballgown at all, more like something you’d wear for a nice Sunday lunch with family.

And to make matters worse, it was clearly bought a size up to last longer. It wouldn’t hold any alteration charms, and it wasn’t even fitted properly—just a cheap, basic dress with a thin strip of lace along the hem.

I’d always thought I was the only one who got the short end of the stick when it came to clothes, but this?

This was pitiful.

Ginny’s first ball, and this was what she had?

Mum was right—there wasn’t much to choose from when you were skint. And the washed-out colour made my bright, fiery sister look pale and dull.

But Ginny, ever the optimist, didn’t even notice my reaction. She spread the dress out on the sofa, pointing out all the little adjustments she planned to make—where she’d sew, where she’d pin, where she’d trim.

“Alright,” I cut her off, sweeping up the dress and the money before stuffing them both into a paper bag, ignoring her protests. “I get it. I’ll sort it. Don’t worry, Ginny.”

Then I stormed off to my dorm, feeling like shit, cursing Dad’s grand ideas and our bloody lack of money.

First thing in Hogsmeade, I went straight to Mr. Addington’s shop and asked him to find Ginny a proper dress.

“My apologies,” he said with a regretful smile. “But as I mentioned before, I’m completely booked until the end of December. The Ministry’s annual charity balls are coming up in February, and every tailor is swamped. I’m sorry, Mr. Weasley—I really can’t help.”

But then it hit me.

“You still have the sample of the dress I bought before, don’t you?” I blurted out. “Can’t you just… change the colour? Remove or add something to make it look different?”

The tailor frowned, considering.

“Technically, yes… but that’s not how we operate here,” he said. “We don’t cut corners. We pride ourselves on quality and originality.”

Then he looked at me—really looked—and saw how bloody desperate I was.

“…However,” he added with a small sigh, “why not, if the customer himself has no objections? Come, I need to see your sister to determine what would suit her best.”

We stepped back into the fitting room with the enchanted mirror, and I pictured Ginny.

“This young lady needs something bold,” Addington murmured.

An hour later, I walked out of the shop with a dress that looked nothing like the original.

The lace was gone, replaced with a layer of fine golden mesh, and the fabric had transformed into something indescribable—it shimmered between deep coffee and rich chocolate tones, shifting like a chameleon depending on the light.

I’d wanted something brighter for Ginny, but Addington insisted this was perfect for her.

I really hoped she’d like it.

The price?

Ten Galleons for the dress, five for the alterations.

And for another two Galleons, I bought her a pair of simple ballet flats for the ball.

They weren’t real shoes, and they wouldn’t last long, but they did have one useful enchantment—they could change colour once.

I’d had no idea what shade to pick to match the new dress, so this seemed like the safest option.

I would’ve bought her proper shoes—she was my only sister, after all—but I didn’t want to draw attention to my money.

After all, I could only get away with so much from my “betting wins” before people started asking questions.

Daily Updates (08/02/25)

Happy International Women's Day!

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 80

• Tier 2: Chapter 85

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 51

• Tier 2: Chapter 56 (the post got flagged and hidden)

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 47

• Tier 2: Chapter 52

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 52

Konstantin quickly realized why Ranni had been so afraid of the Baleful Shadow: it was different. Different in every way.

Every smallest detail screamed of unnaturalness, from the space-warping image drenched in bloody-black hues, to the strange force emanating from it.

An unnatural, cold power, somehow reminiscent of casuals' strength, yet vastly surpassing it.

Kosta didn't expect to feel the uncanny-valley effect tugging at the edge of his consciousness just by meeting the cold, lifeless gaze of Blaidd's reused asset.

Asset reuses… They had always angered and unsettled players. But what Kosta saw now would have incited something far beyond mere fear or frustration.

In anyone else, that is.

“Bloodborne gave me way more than I thought,” the man stated flatly.

He’d seen worse shit, anyway.

"Be careful!" The demigoddess tried to sound confident, pressing herself closer against the man's head. "It may look weak, but it's not."

The moon had been just as cold and alien to the world, yet for Ranni it felt familiar. Something comforting, despite its chilling nature. But the Baleful Shadow clearly lacked those feelings: it radiated rage, a fury from the deepest cosmic Abyss(1). Simply standing before this creature and enduring its hostility was already a heroic deed.

"This will be interesting," Kosta murmured. "Stay hidden for now."

The "hiding place" turned out to be Kosta’s inventory—a spot understood only by him, to which the doll carrying Ranni's essence barely had time to feel surprised before disappearing inside.

“How peculiar…”

The demigoddess’s deep voice echoed pleasantly in his consciousness. Once inside the relatively safe space, untouched by the creature’s cosmic aura, she immediately felt calmer.

No—more than that. She felt something odd. A warmth.

Soothing. Encouraging.

Ranni couldn't recall the last time she'd experienced something like this—a feeling of absolute trust, the certainty that she could pass on some, if not all, of her burdens to someone else. Fully confident that everything would be alright.

Someone who wouldn’t betray her.
Someone who wouldn’t use her.
Someone who wouldn’t disappoint her.
Someone who wouldn’t let her down.

It was dangerously tempting.

Adjusting to the strange subspace, she directed her attention toward the Shadow:

“O Shadow, thou'rt the last. Tell the Two Fingers, That Ranni the Witch cometh, to rend thy flesh. With a fateful wound, ne'er to heal.”

Ranni, deeply satisfied by finally delivering this long-rehearsed line, puffed herself up proudly. Truthfully, it didn’t even matter to her if the Shadow had heard it.

Konstantin, choosing not to remark upon the dreamy waifu’s clearly practiced speech, swiftly understood why the Baleful Shadow was such a fearsome opponent: it restricted him. Even though he didn't sense overwhelming power from the creature, the area around it, warped by an alien force, subtly changed Kosta’s perception.

Or perhaps it wasn’t his perception, but the very world itself.

If casualness had levels, then the Shadow's casualness stood above that of mages, bending even the world's laws to its whim. Konstantin himself had been unconsciously doing something similar.

And the man could feel it. He felt something genuinely trying to restrain him—and partially succeeding—despite his own strength resisting it.

The Soulslike superfan’s heart began beating faster.

From her position, Ranni saw clearly how Konstantin's gaze sparked with excitement, how his face twisted into a faintly crazed smile.

She knew he loved battles. Loved tough fights, ones that could truly test him.

Challenges.

Yet, having absorbed so many runes—including Great ones—he hardly had worthy opponents left in this world.

Thus, it wasn't surprising at all that a warrior and sorcerer so obsessed with combat was thrilled to encounter someone capable of posing a threat. Even a minimal one.

Ranni couldn’t truly comprehend this, but she could accept it. Moreover, from her current vantage point, she was gifted with the unique opportunity to witness something she'd once only read about:

A brave knight rescuing the princess whose ring he'd brazenly stolen right under her nose! A knight who dared to reach for her foot! That is—her fate!

Kosta frowned slightly: at the edge of his consciousness, he thought he had heard… something. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what, but judging by its tone, the waifu wasn't exactly suffering.

However, he didn't have much time to ponder it further.

Konstantin and the Baleful Shadow didn't waste much time exchanging glances—the Shadow lunged first.

An unnaturally swift dash, smearing space, completely ignoring inertia, followed by a sweeping strike of its massive bloody-black sword.

Konstantin, completely unsurprised by the attack, leaped aside thoughtfully, gauging his own sensations.

“The invincibility frames. They are almost gone.”

He had two options: either unleash his own force to seize control of the encounter, or retreat to a safe distance beyond the Shadow's influence, restoring his invincibility frames entirely.

But… why would he?

A broad grin appeared on the man’s face, a sword materializing in his hand. Kosta met the Shadow’s empty gaze once more, bowing respectfully and deeply, greeting his opponent with genuine joy.

The Shadow, completely indifferent to the Tarnished's gesture, charged again.

A swing.

A roll.

A strike!

Konstantin leaped away from the spinning Shadow, eyeing the chunk of metal remaining in his hand—now reduced to a stub.

Ordinary iron, even backed by Kosta’s inhuman strength, couldn't harm a being born from the cosmic depths.

He tossed away the broken remnant, drawing out Melina’s gift instead. He didn't know at which stage his custom sword currently was, nor had he yet collected all the necessary smithing stones—but for now, what he had would suffice.

Now it was Konstantin's turn to attack.

Ranni had never been interested in close combat. An astrologer, a princess, a demigoddess, and an Empyrean—considering her position, melee was fundamentally incompatible with her.

Yet, that didn't prevent her from appreciating the duel unfolding between the one who sought to protect her, and the creature determined to harm her.

At first glance, their battle seemed like that between two ordinary warriors. Sure, immensely strong, impossibly swift, agile (though, admittedly, that applied mostly to her Tarnished rather than the slightly clumsier Shadow), but lacking any sense of grandiose scale…

Their blows and weapon swings didn't reshape the landscape, their dodges left no craters in the earth. Simply a fight between strong yet ordinary warriors.

Wide swings, thrusts, occasional leaps, evasions, and rolls. What exactly was so terrifying about it that even she—one of the most powerful sorceresses ever known to the Lands Between—had never witnessed before?

Perhaps only her vantage point allowed her to grasp how horrifying this clash truly was.

Reality's very laws. They shifted—subtly but constantly. Each strike, every movement by the Tarnished and the Baleful Shadow, affected… everything. Reality itself repeatedly adjusted before her eyes, reacting to these seemingly ordinary attacks.

The giant sword, similar to the one wielded by her adopted brother, somehow reached Konstantin. It shouldn't have reached him, yet it did. Not always, and yet—on the Tarnished’s body, despite clearly avoiding all attacks, wounds somehow appeared, healing with considerable difficulty.

Yet the Tarnished kept pace: his glowing demigod-strengthened club left dents on the cosmic being’s body. Ranni knew precisely how powerful Kosta’s blows were and what consequences should've followed, yet this cosmic entity apparently had different ideas.

The Shadow’s body seemed unwilling to accept damage. At times, it succeeded in rejecting it, but never completely.

With every passing moment, both warriors accumulated more and more wounds.

Ranni didn't know how long the battle lasted. She knew it wasn't very long, yet to her, each second stretched into eternity—an eternity that ended as abruptly as it had begun.

A blow!

With another particularly heavy strike from the club smashing into its face, the Shadow staggered, finally showing signs of weakness. Konstantin didn’t allow his enemy a chance to recover, striking once again.

And again, and again, and again, and again…

The creature from the cosmic depths collapsed, but that didn’t stop Kosta from methodically pounding it until the warped reality around the crimson-black entity finally stabilized, and the being itself…

Faded out, like an extinguished candle.

The runes it released—mere scraps compared to what Konstantin had already absorbed—flew into the man’s body, decisively marking his victory.

Nodding solemnly, he raised his arms to the Sun in praise.

It had been a glorious fight, offering him more of a challenge than all his recent battles combined.

For a moment, Konstantin gazed at his defeated opponent, his eyes glowing with sunlight, before shifting his gaze to the club now covered in golden radiance.

All his fighting spirit vanished instantly, as if it had never existed.

“…the waifu’s gift…”

Ranni sensed all the pain of the universe in the man’s voice. And she could even understand him: the dead branch of the Erdtree was now riddled with cracks, clearly indicating its durability was far from eternal.

Not against creatures that came from the depths of the stars, at least.

“Weapons are merely tools,” Ranni offered gently, trying to soften her voice as much as possible. “Melina wouldn't worry over such a minor thing. Think about yourself, Konstantin.”

Genuine concern slipped into the demigoddess’s tone.

Even though Kosta seemed unfazed, his condition left much to be desired: another set of clothes reduced to tatters, his body covered in wounds healing with visible difficulty. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that the Tarnished was drenched head to toe in blood.

Even Radahn’s Scarlet Rot hadn’t managed to impair Kosta’s regeneration as severely as the Shadow’s power had(2).

Kosta pulled the doll containing Ranni from the secluded space separated from the world and smiled.

“Thanks for worrying.”

From within the doll emerged the proudly puffed-up spectral visage of the demigoddess.

Konstantin immediately noticed something significant had changed in her gaze.

“A future king cannot wear clothes befitting mere warriors,” Ranni announced haughtily. “Your favorite maiden found you a good tailor, but she overlooked some details. I'll handle this matter myself later.”

Drenched in blood, Kosta blinked in surprise.

Now two of his best waifus had commented on his attire. The man had already accepted his fate, but now he had absolutely no chance.

Of course, the demigoddess had no intention of ending the conversation there:

“A splendid battle. Thank you.”

She was thanking him not only for saving her life but for everything. In record time, he had given her more emotions than she had experienced over perhaps the last few hundred years.

Positive emotions, inspiring hope and belief that something in their world could still be fixed.

“…Everything turned out to be more complicated than I thought. Now I can finally face… them.”

Kosta saw how cold and ruthless the waifu’s eyes turned the moment she thought about the Two Fingers who’d hunted her all these years.

The demigoddess paused briefly, giving Konstantin a pointed look:

“Farewell, my dear friend. Tell Iji and Blaidd… that I lo—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Kosta cut her off, his voice instantly becoming stern. “You’ll win and tell them how you feel yourself.”

Preceptor Miriam had a point: one of his best waifus was far too absent-minded, and that could lead to disaster. Kosta doubted she intentionally left Iji vulnerable to the Black Knives’ slaughter. He’d always had questions about how she'd planned her departure(3).

Apparently, the demigoddess simply hadn't considered that her faithful servant, who'd watched her grow up, wouldn't abandon the place he'd come to call home. To her, it must have seemed obvious. As for Blaidd, that was self-explanatory.

Though, in the half-wolf’s case, Kosta suspected Ranni simply didn't know how to help him at all and had accepted the outcome.

Ranni didn’t appreciate being interrupted by Konstantin, yet she understood why he did it, and…

Decided not to argue, submitting instead.

“I'll do as you say,” Ranni agreed, maintaining her importantly puffed-up appearance.

Without another word, in a flash of starlight, an ancient key appeared in front of the small doll, hovering before the man. Kosta raised an eyebrow, about to say something—

But the doll in his hands was now just a doll. No longer bound, the demigoddess had left her vessel to exact revenge. Nothing would stop her now.

For some reason, the man had a feeling the demigoddess had simply fled, not knowing how to explain her actions.

The Tarnished stared thoughtfully at the chest key, wondering how he was supposed to have found her earlier without even knowing where to look.

One of the best waifus could plan her actions years ahead, yet apparently, when it came to other beings whom she didn't need to kill in the most cruel and inventive ways possible in the Lands Between… she seemed to be a little at a loss.

“Have you finished your tasks, Konstantin?”

Melina’s calm voice snapped the Tarnished from his musings.

“How's Blaidd?”

“I’ve handed him over to Nepheli.”

Konstantin smiled with satisfaction.

“Excellent. Thank you, Meli-Meli.”

“You should think about yourself first,” the false Finger Maiden replied anxiously.

Her chosen champion was covered in blood, and though his wounds healed right before her eyes, it brought Melina no comfort. She could scarcely imagine what kind of enemy could inflict such injuries upon the Tarnished—but she knew exactly for whose sake he'd faced it.

That wicked witch had dragged her chosen champion into a terribly dangerous scheme.

Konstantin glanced down at himself in surprise. His tattered clothes had vanished entirely, leaving only a loincloth behind, perfectly intact and untouched by battle—not even a trace of blood upon it.

“I feel great,” he declared confidently.

Seeing the blood-soaked man practically glowing with joy, Melina found herself easily believing his words.

She sighed.

At that moment, Melina saw clearer than ever: if she didn't restrain him somehow, he'd surely get himself killed one day—even without any wicked women's schemes.

She'd been such a fool, wanting to sacrifice herself.

“Before heading to the capital, you should prepare properly,” she said firmly. “I’ll draw you a bath. It’s been too long since your last visit to Stormveil Castle, Konstantin.”

“Alright,” Konstantin shrugged casually. “But there's still something else I need to do.”

“Something else?” Melina blinked.

Could it be that he intended to postpone the journey to the capital even further? Her brother must be going insane from waiting!

The Tarnished shook his head.

“I need to open the chest in front of Rennala. And while I'm at it, I want to check something else.”

The queen was sick. After personally handing over her Great Rune, she'd lost the ability to continuously rebirth… her "daughters." Konstantin hadn't acted properly by forgetting about her for so long.

Kosta felt it would be meaningful for her to witness him opening the chest with the key. He'd also take the chance to clarify something else.

He had no intention of delaying the journey to the capital. He'd wanted to visit it for a long time—not to mention Fia. The Deathbed Companion wouldn’t wait forever.

“The chest…” Melina whispered.

In the Goddess’s daughter's mind flashed the image of Queen Rennala’s furious daughter, as the Tarnished shamelessly snatched the chest away.

Perhaps it was better not to dwell on that too much and just start heating her champion’s bath.

As Melina fully processed her own suggestion, her accursed eye nearly opened, and her cheeks flushed crimson.

Hadn't her offer sounded suspiciously like an invitation to share the bath… together? Th-they hadn't even had the ceremony yet—how could she imply something like that so soon?!

But after all, she was his maiden, and then there was the ring…

Konstantin glanced in confusion at the spot Melina had occupied just a moment ago.

Apparently, he’d have to tell her about the slightly damaged gift later.

(1) There’s a theory that "outer space" as we understand it doesn’t exist in the Lands Between. Instead, Soulslike inhabitants perceive an endless Abyss (or something similar), where the Outer Gods reside in its depths. The frequently mentioned stars may actually be personifications of extraterrestrial beings—something that could explain certain gameplay and story elements quite well.

(2) It’s worth clarifying that the game never specifies how powerful the Baleful Shadows truly were. Their unexpected strength in this interpretation is a creative reimagining of the Shadows that the demigoddess feared, forcing her to stay hidden from them for so long.

(3) Neither Blaidd nor Iji have happy endings in the game: the former succumbs to madness, while the latter is killed by the Black Knives hunting down traitors—though the war counselor at least manages to take them down with him.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 85

Konpeki Plaza was a digital fortress—not much weaker than Susan Abernathy’s last stand. Layered ice barriers, counter-intrusion systems, and a fortress of security measures, from tripwires to lethal counter-hacks. But when we hit its core with the bot, that whole fortress crumbled. The system didn’t even react properly at first. But then, when the alarm triggered, another defense mechanism kicked in—an isolated gateway. A backdoor, just for Arasaka’s standby netrunners. The second they jacked in, they sealed every exit behind them. Full lockdown. And Lucy? She was stuck inside.

My job? Break the fucking locks. Wipe out their runners before they wiped me. And do it fast—before my brain fried from this makeshift neural link.

The security monitoring room was already handled. Just a few injured corpos trying to crawl out, too scared to try another push against me. But the situation was still fucked. In meatspace, my only shield was a reinforced security door. Heat-resistant polymer with a metal core. Better than nothing, but not enough when the whole goddamn hotel was swarming with corporate kill squads. I had to buy time.

First step—shut down their comms.

Easy enough. Konpeki Plaza was packed with equipment designed for controlled signals and suppression. What was built to serve Arasaka? Now it served me. But cutting them off wasn’t enough. Some squads were already moving. I needed more. I needed chaos.

I pushed deeper into the Net, but this was nowhere near normal. Every step I took, I had to pass through the fractured remains of another man’s mind. A broken link between me and the system, causing errors, distortions, forcing me to burn through resources just to keep control. The resistance was constant. A glitch that wouldn't go away.

"10th, 15th squads and 7th support team to the 46th! Server room! Protocol two-eight."

They were coming. Time to send my regards.

Well, coming is a strong word. They were still moving. I just needed to make sure they never made it.

I switched through cameras, searching. There. Two squads chosen specifically for their ICE. The 7th support even had two field netrunners. But they weren’t the closest units. No, they picked these guys based on security clearance. That gave me time to fuck with them.

Elevators? Disabled. That meant stairs.

I’d used voice-cloning before. Stole a dozen premium samples from Slider’s collection. Time to put them to use.

The 10th squad was on the 32nd floor. Up on 37th, an Arasaka security post. And with comms down? No way to verify shit. I jacked into their feed and barked a quick order:

"Attention 10th squad! Enemy presence on 37th. Protocol two-eight."

I switched cameras, fast. The guards on 37th had weaker ICE. A perfect opening for them to become a puppet. My puppet of choice? Some lightly armed security grunt, not even carrying grenades. Didn’t need them. I leaned him over the railing and sprayed SMG fire straight at the 10th squad below. They reacted on instinct—returning fire instantly.

Perfect.

With their comms down, they'd take at least a minute to sort it out. That was a full minute of friendly fire. But why stop there?

"Attention all squads!" I announced across every channel I could reach. "Code 9-3 in effect. Repeat: Code 9-3 in Konpeki Plaza."

That one was special. It meant the enemy was disguised in Arasaka uniforms.

Paranoia would do the rest.

I jumped from camera to camera, possessing the weakest links in their squads—one operative at a time. Using them to fire first, start fights, trigger panic. One squad here, another there, a whole unit caught in crossfire…

"Second squad, contact!"

"Seventh squad, contact!"

"HQ, requesting sitrep! We need updated orders!"

"Hold position," I replied smoothly. "Enemy confirmed on your floor. Code 9-3."

And just like that, I had a full-blown internal firefight going. They weren’t just slowed down—they were tearing each other apart. Now, I just needed to take out their ops center. Without comms, they were scattered, but some officers had to be giving orders from inside the hotel. Probably on the first floor. But before I could check…

Another attack. Arasaka’s runners were trying to force me out. Time to deal with this head-on.

I switched from the cameras to the Net. To Konpeki’s digital world.

The server room in cyberspace looked like a multi-layered, flickering cube, glowing with ice-cold data streams extending in every direction. And in the center of it? A barely-alive netrunner, still strapped into his chair. His body a glowing red phantom, flickering and breaking apart. His mind was nothing but a husk, filled with my invasive code, tendrils of my own presence burrowing deep into his consciousness like some kind of cybernetic parasite. I must have looked like some eldritch horror of the Net.

Downside? I couldn’t move.

I had control of Konpeki’s key systems, but I was stuck. Too much strain. The moment I pulled away, this whole Frankenstein’s monster of a connection might rip apart. Worst case? It’d crash me out of the Net. Or worse—kill me for real.

But I wasn’t defenseless.

I spread my data tendrils further, crawling through the fortress-like digital walls of the hotel. With admin privileges hijacked from the dying netrunner, I could see nearly everything. First, I needed a headcount. How many enemy runners? Where the fuck was Lucy?

Then, below me, a slow-moving entity drifted down the data tunnels. A hunter. A program shaped like a glowing, spiked star, scanning for intrusions. Its presence sent out constant pulses—queries and responses, seeking anything that didn’t belong. And it wasn’t alone.

How many of these things had Arasaka released?

Didn’t matter. I kept expanding. If they caught a few of my tendrils, fine. I’d regrow them. The important thing was holding the fortress—my tethered link to the Net. But it was already under attack. Two more hunters appeared at the edge of the cube, flanking a massive, red, mechanical hammer. A breach tool. They struck hard, sending shockwaves through my defenses. Ice cracked.

Fuck that.

I had my own arsenal.

The ice beneath them shifted. From the frozen walls, four Hydra-7 counterprograms emerged, shimmering blue mist forming into multi-headed specters. Each one latched onto the invading demons, starting the slow, brutal process of decompiling them.

Good.

But I was spreading too far, too fast. Data overflowed, too much information, too many threads to control. And it was getting worse—the unconscious netrunner acting as my bridge was slowing me down. His broken mind corrupted every process. At the same time, I found something else—fresh, reinforced structures in the system.

The enemy runners weren’t coming for me.

They were linking up the squads outside. Trying to restore command. And it was working.

I intercepted packets. Cracked them. Saw the orders inside.

"Cease friendly fire. All available squads converge on the server room. Terminate the netrunner inside."

They were already trying to retake the field. I scrambled to shut down their channels while flicking back to real-world surveillance.

Was Smasher moving?

No. Not yet.

Good. Hopefully, Yorinobu was too busy choking on his own paranoia to let his biggest card loose. I wasn’t ready for round one with that bastard yet.

Meanwhile, in the penthouse? Cameras were dead. Not digitally—someone physically shot them out. Meaning Yorinobu was taking this virtual assault seriously. Poor fuck. Thought he was about to celebrate daddy’s funeral and now his carefully controlled chaos was spiraling into a fucking disaster.

I baited another squad into a turret killzone. Let another squad get chewed up by their own defenses. But I couldn’t stay focused on the hotel for long—Arasaka’s runners were pushing again.

They weren’t trying to break into my ice. No. They were smarter than that. They just needed to distract me.

Because they knew the truth—if I lost in real life, I lost in the Net too.

Shit!

I shouldn't have given the chip to Panam. Stupid fucking mistake. Right now, I could’ve used Johnny’s engram to get in touch with Alt, cut a deal. But too late for that. Didn’t think of it at the time. And now, I’m on my own.

Potential allies?

Lucy was barely holding on. Still hadn’t found her, but I was sure she’d burned through her combat software and gone to ground.

T-Bug? Probably dead.

Jackie and his girl? No sign of them on the cameras yet. If they were still alive and hadn’t bailed, they were the ones who needed saving. Against the full weight of Arasaka, they’d last a couple minutes at best. If they were lucky.

I cleared out the next three demons fast—just sicked the security cube on them. But time and energy were slipping. I flicked my view back to the server room…

Fuck.

The netrunner’s body convulsed, blood leaking from his ears, mouth, eyes. And I wasn’t much better off. Felt like electricity ripping through me. The second I unplugged from this bastard, I knew pain would hit me like a freight train. My body was already paying the price for this fucked-up connection.

"Server room is the source of the viral activity," I heard one of Arasaka’s runners transmitting through their fresh new comms. "Eliminate the target immediately. Cut power and, preferably, destroy all equipment. Don't worry about the hardware."

Great. Just great.

This was a dead end. No—

There was one option left. Something I’d always avoided. Something that could rip apart what little humanity I had left faster than any chrome ever could.

I was tied to a corpse even in cyberspace. My processing power was limited. Too many enemies, no allies.

There was only one answer.

I stopped expanding my network and instead launched something through the lines I’d already established. A viral code—one that could evolve. The server room was packed with resources. Combat software, raw computational power. All of it, I was about to use for something that came naturally to any AI—creating subroutines. Autonomous fragments that wouldn't be tied to my dying host. They’d exist beyond my body. They’d run on Konpeki’s own servers.

For most AIs, this was standard practice. Even Jory had tried something similar. But I’d always avoided this path. Splitting my own consciousness? That was the first step to losing myself. To blurring the edges of who I was. Fragmentation. If they became too independent, they could turn on me. Cut themselves off. Try to take control.

For unstable AIs, that was just how things were. But I’d always fought to keep a solid core, a defined self. But now? No choice.

One by one, they emerged. Not full-fledged AIs, not yet. Just autonomous functions spun up on the fringes of my system. I started assigning them tasks, delegating power to the most vital areas.

Some attacked security teams through cameras, hitting them with basic scripts. Others helped hold back the third wave of demon programs. A handful hunted for new resources. And they found one.

People.

The most defenseless staff and guests in the hotel. The slaughter began.

One by one, they dropped, convulsing, crashing hard. All over Konpeki Plaza, people died—turned into raw material. Anyone caught by the cameras, anyone without hardened ICE, was torn apart instantly. Their memories, their cyberware, their entire digital existence got shredded and repurposed.

We were multiplying. I was multiplying.

With Konpeki’s resources and the scraps of the dead, I built my own autonomous network. Shifted the heavy calculations onto them.

From the tendrils crawling out of my dying host, the structure spread, fought for survival. Not a tree of life—parasitic vines, writhing, feeding. I didn’t even need to issue direct commands anymore. Six and a half minutes into expansion, nearly a hundred of my fragments were fighting, defending, scavenging, with me giving only broad directives.

It felt like sitting in a room filled with a hundred monitors, each tracking some dumb but hyper-efficient worker. All I had to do was call out orders over the PA system.

"Okay, switch to another camera—this one’s a corpse pile. You—keep moving. And you two, stop fucking eating each other."

They were learning. And our overall power was growing.

Any attempt by the Arasaka runners to set up new communication lines? Snuffed out instantly. And then we found the first one—one of their netrunners trying to retake Konpeki’s network. Hiding somewhere near the fifth floor, in real-world terms. Well-equipped, well-prepared, but I was already too far ahead. Too much stolen power, too many autonomous routines swarming him.

The runner tried everything—layered defenses, summoned multiple demons—but over thirty of my subroutines tore him apart.

My system was still clunky as fuck. Couldn’t move, too bloated with processes, a vulnerable core. But inside Konpeki? Where my roots were buried in the hotel’s ice, where I had control over entire security subsystems? I wasn’t just running the network. I was the local god of its subnet.

Or maybe the devil.

One by one, we found and devoured Arasaka’s runners. They had split up, trying to reestablish comms, and paid for it. Seven cyberwarriors, one by one, eaten down to their last byte of data.

In the real world?

A fucking massacre. The weakest got consumed. Security squads turned their guns on each other. Absolute chaos. Turrets and minotaur-class security bots went berserk. Gunfire, screams, explosions. Fuck, I might’ve even overdone it…

But then came the feeling. A rush of absolute power. I was at the center of a death web, pulling one string—people screamed and died. Pulled another—corporate squads gunned each other down. Some floors were choked with smoke. Others were burning, and I made damn sure the fire suppression wouldn’t work right.

Power, beyond what a human could even comprehend. Expansion. Consumption.

Stop.

Enough destruction. Enough indulging in this. I came here for something else. Not to break, but to save.

I turned the search routines loose.

Lucy wasn’t the only target. The first one I found? Jackie.

He was still alive, but barely. Took multiple hits, same as his girl. All this effort—for a fake biochip. Their penthouse heist team was stuck on the 25th floor.

No netrunner in contact with them. Meaning T-Bug really was gone. Should’ve stuck to selling bootleg braindances. Shame I didn’t have a sample of her voice. Could’ve used it to get them out. Fuck it. Time to improvise. I synthesized a mechanical voice and spoke directly to them:

"You’re fucked, but you’ve got a chance to make it out. We’re the ones who stirred up this mess. I’ll guide you to a room with meds and weapons. Take what you want—destroy the rest. Then I’ll get you out of the hotel. Don’t use Delamain. Don’t go back to the fixer. DeShawn already wrote you off."

"Who the fuck are you, amigo?" Jackie grunted, clutching his side, voice strained from pain.

"Who gives a shit?!" his partner snapped. "Move your ass!"

Smart girl.

I planned to have them clear out the room where Panam and I had stashed some of our gear. My subroutines would guide them, while I focused on finding Lucy.

That part turned out to be easier than expected—though she’d hidden herself well.

In a dead zone, where no major data streams ran, buried between layers of walls, I found a weak but distinct signature. As soon as I willed it, the ICE parted for me like a tide obeying its master.

To avoid scaring her, I conjured a phantom—Jory’s method.

"V?" came the voice of a certain someone who had a habit of ignoring good advice. "Is that… you?"

"Yes and no," I replied. "My mind’s hooked into the subnet’s command center right now. Listen up. New plan. You head there and take my place. Then you help me get the hell out of this hotel, and you delta immediately. Got it?"

Instead of answering, she reached out to hug me—but her hands passed right through the phantom.

"Later, Lucy. Right now, we move."

"Yeah."

"You…"

"I’ll hold out," she cut in, but her virtual form flickered. "After this, I’ll need a ripper."

We drifted together through Konpeki’s digital corridors, the red threads of my subroutines twisting and spreading like sea anemones, groping for anything worth devouring. Of course, they had strict orders not to touch Lucy.

"What’s your ICE?"

"Firestarter. And what the hell is going on here? Are these rogue AIs?"

I barely stopped myself from saying, ‘No, Lucy. It’s all me.’

"We’ll talk later," I said instead. "For now, just remember—help me get out, then vanish. I’ll wipe our footprints. Both in cyberspace and in the real world. Once it starts, you can’t be here anymore."

"What are you planning?"

"I’m burning this fucking hotel to the ground."

Daily Updates (07/02/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 57

• Tier 2: Chapter 62

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 57

• Tier 2: Chapter 62

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 62

While my humans were away, it kept raining in Konoha. Good thing the rainy season in the Land of Waves—where they had been sent—was shorter and had already passed. The climate there was pretty diverse anyway, thanks to the sea winds, mountain ranges that blocked storms, valleys, hot springs, and shifting elevations.

I spent most of the time sleeping, eating, and going outside when the rain let up a little. Also, I kept up my training—I learned to run on water using chakra. Not that I had any urgent need for it, but in the rainy season, at least this way I wouldn’t end up face-first in a puddle. On top of that, I figured out how to channel chakra through my fur, which meant I barely got wet when sprinting through the village in bad weather.

At first, I blessed Ino with my company, then moved in with Hinata. A week later, I relocated to the Nara household. Shikamaru’s mom, Yoshino, would grumble if I left muddy paw prints, but she always petted me and was very skilled at brushing out my fur.

Koku Akimichi was a great source of snacks, but I bailed from the clan of BBQ connoisseurs after two days—if I had stayed longer, I might have turned into a fluffy bowling ball.

For the last six days, I’d been hanging out at Kiba’s place with Akamaru and Kuromaru. My big dog buddy had just returned from a week-long mission guarding the borders.

I told Kuromaru about my meeting with the Cat God, Nekomata-sama, and he was insanely jealous. Apparently, the honor I had received was huge. The Cat Deity had helped my humans—but only because I had a hand… uh, paw in it. And that was a pretty big deal.

Kuromaru even said he felt the “blessing of the Ancestor” on me. No clue what that meant, but I did notice that a few of the village dogs—the ones who usually barked their heads off at me from behind fences but never dared to actually attack—now just stared at me in confused silence.

As for the local cats? Well, I was already a legend among them, so nothing really changed.

Kuromaru also had a dream—to see the Great Dog Ancestor. But, apparently, way back in the day, during one of the ninja wars, the only known entrance from our world to the realm of the ninja dogs was destroyed.

Now, the only remaining link to the Kariinu Clan was through a summoning contract, and guess who owned that contract? The Hatake Clan.

Yep. The same Hatake who was currently the jonin instructor for Sasuke, Naruto, and Sakura.

I remembered that Kakashi could summon ninja dogs—I had seen it in the anime.

It happened during the Land of Waves mission, when they got ambushed by that guy with the big sword who used a mist technique to blind them. Kakashi summoned his dogs, and they tracked the guy down.

It was weird to think about.

I had watched it happen in a show.

But somewhere out there, it was happening for real.

For some reason, when I sent my kids off on their C-rank mission, I thought they’d be back sooner.

But the days kept passing.

And they still weren’t back.

I started to worry.

What if something went wrong?

I had been banking on events playing out just like the anime, but things were already different.

My boys had been training together. They were stronger than they were in the show.

But what if that strength led to them getting injured?

Or worse—killed?

What if they got overconfident, tried to pull some flashy stunt, and got themselves wiped out?

There was this old movie called The Butterfly Effect, where no matter how hard the protagonist tried to change the past, everything only got worse.

And here I was—flapping my little metaphorical wings and screwing up fate.

My head was spinning.

By the fourth week, the rainy season finally ended.

The skies cleared.

But my kids were still missing.

I was so anxious I couldn’t sit still.

I barely ate, barely slept, and spent most of my time perched on the roof of a house along the main road, watching the village gates. From there, I had a clear view of the crossroad leading to Naruto’s apartment.

I even recruited a mail hawk, Takaro, to keep an eye on things from the sky.

And my cat buddy, Sumi-chan, helped out too. (By the way, I managed to get Sumi adopted by the Akimichi Clan, so now my little black friend had gleaming fur and was living the dream.)

Finally, one evening—on God-knows-which day of their absence—Team Seven finally returned to Konoha.

Takaro called out from above, circling the village like he was writing messages in the sky.

I leapt from my rooftop perch and bolted toward my humans at full speed.

I didn’t expect to miss them this much.

Sure, hanging out with Akamaru had been fun.

Kuromaru had helped me train.

The kids and their parents loved me, fed me, and petted me.

But they weren’t my Yellow Chick and my Emo Gremlin.

I felt responsible for those two idiots!

I remembered how my old cat, Vasilyi, used to greet me whenever I got back from competitions or long trips.

And now?

Now I understood him.

Because I also had a lot to say.

“WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW WORRIED I WAS?! YOU LITTLE SHITS, YOU COULD’VE DIED!!”

…Or something along those lines.

Naruto sprinted toward me, and I jumped straight into his arms, purring like a motor, demanding everything at once—food, head pats, stories about their mission, a full grooming session, ear scritches, and a formal handover to Sasuke for a second round of cat love rituals.

Turns out, their mission didn’t go exactly like I remembered from the anime.

At first, it was the same.

They traveled the usual road toward the Land of Waves—the same one that led to Ryu.

But the moment they stepped off the main path?

They got ambushed by two Chunin from the Hidden Mist.

Naruto bragged that he and Sasuke wiped the floor with them—because Sasuke had spotted an out-of-place puddle on the road.

It hadn’t rained there in weeks, so obviously, it was a trap.

Kakashi, meanwhile, didn’t bother to warn Sakura.

In fact, he pretended to get killed just to scare her shitless.

Classic.

After capturing the Mist ninja, they learned that their real target was the bridge builder they were escorting.

When they finally reached the islands of the Land of Waves, they got attacked by a big-shot swordsman—some guy named Zabuza, who Kakashi actually knew.

Cue the fight.

Sasuke and Naruto were arguing over how it went down.

Apparently, their sensei got trapped in a water prison, and they had to come up with a sneaky plan to break him out.

Then, according to Naruto, Kakashi “kicked Zabuza’s ass but almost died doing it.”

So far, it still matched the anime.

But then—after some masked kid took Zabuza’s body away—Shisui showed up.

In ANBU gear.

Kakashi was already unconscious by then, so Shisui told the kids he had been personally assigned to watch over them during their first out-of-country mission.

And since Kakashi was out of commission, he’d be taking over as their temporary commander.

Sasuke, acting all smug, claimed he had figured out immediately that the masked ANBU was Shisui.

Looks like Shisui had set all this up just to talk to Kakashi. Afterward, their sensei had been walking around looking like he’d just had an existential crisis. While they guarded the old bridge builder and his workers as they finished construction, nobody attacked them at all. Instead, the guys spent their time arguing about what exactly Shisui had said to Kakashi.

Then, out of nowhere—

“Yo,” a familiar voice called out from the window of Naruto’s apartment.

Their scruffy, one-eyed, perpetually late sensei had arrived.

“Kakashi-sensei?!” they shouted in unison, instinctively shoving me aside like I was some sort of contraband. Rude.

“Maa…,” Kakashi gave them his signature one-eyed smile. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“What?” Sasuke asked warily.

“You really saw your brother, Sasuke?” Kakashi asked as he stepped inside.

“Yes,” Sasuke confirmed. “I talked to him. I even managed to recover some of my memories.”

“I see,” Kakashi muttered, rubbing his chin. “I’m sorry… Even though I have the Sharingan, it’s incomplete. I was affected by that technique just like everyone else.” He paused, then leveled a serious look at them. “You understand that this has to remain an absolute secret?”

“Yes, sensei,” they chorused.

“Tomorrow, it’ll be officially announced that the Chunin Exams will be held in Konoha. I was planning to recommend your team anyway, but during that mission, Shisui-san specifically asked me to put you forward. Do you know anything about that?”

Sasuke and Naruto exchanged glances before shaking their heads.

“No, sensei.”

Kakashi hummed in thought, then sighed. “Alright. Get some rest.” And with a poof, he vanished.

“Shadow clone,” Naruto muttered knowingly. Sasuke grunted in agreement.

Meanwhile, I was deep in thought.

Where the hell did Zabuza and his sidekick disappear to?

And what about that slimy little villain who didn’t want the bridge finished?

The boys didn’t seem to care—since they didn’t know what should have happened, they weren’t questioning anything.

But me? I was starting to think that maybe Shisui or Itachi—or even Kushina-san—had interfered.

And speaking of those Chunin Exams…

Orochimaru himself is supposed to show up during the Forest of Death!

To test Sasuke’s strength and slap that damn curse mark on him!

Yeah. Definitely not panicking.

Naruto bought me some fancy cat treats, and in my stress-induced existential crisis, I inhaled half the pack in one sitting.

Then, thanks to the dry-mouth hell that followed, I spent the whole night running back and forth to the water bowl like some kind of furry insomniac.

The boys, as usual, were sleeping in the same room.

Sasuke, apparently unable to sleep either, joined me in my midnight kitchen escapades, drinking water and refilling my bowl whenever I drained it.

“You’re worried, huh, Tora-chan?” he whispered when the sky started to lighten. I was sprawled on his lap, fully aware that I had already gotten a week’s worth of sleep while they were away. I nodded.

“…Me too,” he admitted. “These exams… What are my brothers planning?” He ran a hand through my fur. “Do you know?”

I shook my head and let out a sigh.

“There’s something else we don’t remember, isn’t there?” He kept petting me, gaze distant. “Something about Naruto?”

I nodded.

“They don’t want to tell him because he’s a jinchuriki, don’t they?” Sasuke whispered.

My head snapped up in surprise. He was looking at me with his Sharingan activated.

“It’s obvious,” he murmured. “No way Kakashi was this shaken just because our clan wasn’t wiped out four years ago, but much later. There’s something else. And I think it’s about Naruto.” He exhaled, looking pensive. “And sensei… He kept looking at him like…” He trailed off, struggling to put it into words.

I purred, pressing my head against his cheek in encouragement.

Sasuke smiled faintly. “You think everything’s gonna be okay, Tora-chan?”

“Yes!” I meowed confidently.

[Castling] Chapter 62

Everyone was up at the crack of dawn, chattering excitedly as they rushed to the hall, eager for some quality entertainment. The prefects had passed on Dumbledore’s message the night before: anyone determined to test the Age Line and try to cheat the Goblet’s protections had exactly two hours before breakfast to give it a go—before the foreign guests arrived. Anyone foolish enough to try it at any other time would be sentenced to detention with Filch until the end of the year and banned from trips to Hogsmeade. Since wandering the castle after curfew wasn’t an option, all the hopefuls and nosy spectators legged it straight to the Goblet first thing in the morning.

Dumbledore had put some real thought into the enchantments. Two Slytherin girls from the upper years aged so drastically they ended up looking like classic wicked witches straight out of a fairy tale—matted hair, warts on their long noses, and crooked teeth to boot. A simple Finite and all sorts of countercharms didn’t work, and they fled in horror to Madam Pomfrey.

One poor Ravenclaw fifth-year not only aged a few decades but also sprouted a hunchback. She hobbled off to the Hospital Wing, cursing under her breath, after conjuring herself a walking stick—one of her legs had clearly ended up shorter than the other. A Hufflepuff lad turned into something resembling a troll. His clothes, while mostly intact, had split at the seams in places, and his toes were sticking out of his shoes by at least two handspans. He hobbled along painfully slowly, as if he were wearing flippers—his feet had fused to his shoes, making it impossible to take them off.

Fred, George, and Lee, meanwhile, ended up with magnificent, flowing beards and gnarled, knobbly old-man hands. I won a Galleon betting against them. The student-run betting pool was thriving, though the stakes were small—no one seriously believed they could outsmart Dumbledore.

Even those who managed to cross the Age Line were sent flying backwards the moment they tried to drop their name in the Goblet. I reckoned the Hospital Wing would be packed this morning. One Slytherin actually thought to Confund the Goblet. The flames froze for a moment, giving him just enough time to believe he’d succeeded—before spitting his parchment back into his face and launching him out of the ring. When the smoke cleared, he had massive antlers sprouting from his head—he’d turned into a bloody great stag. His hooves kept slipping on the stone floor, making it impossible for him to stand, and his classmates had to struggle to drag him to Madam Pomfrey while we all doubled over laughing.

Dumbledore just smiled mysteriously into his beard as he strolled past us towards the Great Hall, while McGonagall reminded us all of the time and herded us off to breakfast. She stayed behind, waiting for the official candidates.

The enchanted ceiling was still grey and cloudy, though at least it wasn’t raining. Spirits were high, though, as everyone relived the morning’s spectacle and speculated on who the Goblet would deem worthy.

“I heard only the seventh-year Slytherins put their names in,” Seamus whispered as we waited. “But Warrington’s got the best odds.”

“Merlin help us,” Harry muttered, pulling a face as he remembered the Slytherin Chaser. “I’d take Diggory over him any day.”

“I’m backing Angelina,” Dean chimed in. “She’s brilliant… and fit.”

“Is she even old enough?” Neville asked uncertainly, listening in on our conversation.

“She turned seventeen last week,” Lavender interjected, always the authority on everyone’s personal lives. “But I’m still hoping for Diggory—he’s such a sweetheart… What about you, Hermione?”

Hermione never got the chance to answer, already irritated by all the fuss. The doors swung open, and in marched the Hogwarts champions-in-waiting, led by McGonagall. Alongside Angelina, most of our seventh-years were there, as well as plenty of older students from the other houses. The Hall erupted into cheers and encouraging shouts. The foreign students received just as much applause—no surprise there, since they’d clearly all entered their names. Otherwise, what was the point of coming all this way?

It was Saturday, and with the whole day ahead, anyone with permission headed off to Hogsmeade. The three of us, though, decided to pay Hagrid a visit. We hadn’t been to see him yet this year—hadn’t had the chance.

We stopped short when we spotted the Beauxbatons carriage and the massive winged horses penned up near Hagrid’s hut. The smell of alcohol was so strong it practically knocked us sideways.

“Typical French,” I snorted. “Won’t touch water—just barley whisky. Even their horses are on the piss.”

We all laughed and made our way to the hut.

Harry knocked, and from inside came Fang’s loud barking and the heavy tread of Hagrid’s boots.

“’Bout time,” Hagrid grumbled, unbolting the door with a loud clank. “Thought you’d forgotten where I live.”

“We’ve been really busy, Hagrid—” Hermione started, but then she stopped short, staring at him in utter disbelief.

So did Harry and I.

Hagrid had swapped his usual moleskin coat, grimy jumper, and worn-out, fleece-lined trousers for an ancient, brown corduroy jacket that looked like it belonged in a museum. The fabric had flattened in odd places, creasing in all the wrong spots as if it had been stuffed in a trunk for years under a pile of old rags. His trousers—proper suit trousers, mind—were so tight across the thighs that the creases just… stopped existing past his knees. Below that, they flared out in wavy folds, making his legs look bow-legged.

The pièce de résistance was an eye-wateringly bright orange tie in a red tartan pattern, paired with a dreamy, daft-looking smile. He looked utterly deranged. And possibly dangerous.

To top it off, his hair—judging by the smell—had been slicked back with tar, and a comb was still stuck in his beard. Clearly, he’d tried to tie his hair back but failed miserably, leaving it parted down the middle, sticking up in tufts like a clown’s wig.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I barely managed to suppress both.

“Er… Hagrid, where are the Blast-Ended Skrewts?” Hermione was the first to snap out of it.

“By the pumpkin patch,” Hagrid said brightly. “Let ’em out for a bit of exercise. They’re massive now—nearly three foot tall! Problem is, they’re a bit vicious. Keep trying to eat each other.”

“No kidding,” Hermione muttered, throwing us a warning look. Harry and I were seconds away from bursting into laughter.

“Yeah,” Hagrid sighed, missing our barely contained hysteria. “But it’s alright. I’ve split ’em up—five to a crate. Still got about twenty left.”

“What a stroke of luck!” Harry snorted, barely holding back his laughter, but Hagrid missed the irony as he stomped off to take the kettle off the fire.

“Hagrid, I see you’ve dressed up,” I said, sipping my tea and winking at Hermione, inviting her to join in. “Might say Madame Maxime made quite the impression on you. Such a beautiful woman—and young too… What, only about fifty? And already headmistress.”

“Is it that obvious?” Hagrid deflated, letting out a heavy sigh. “Not that it matters… she don’t even look my way. I’ve tried, really I have, but… well. Who am I, and who is she?”

“It’s because you look like a gamekeeper when you ought to look like a professor,” Hermione chimed in. “I was in France a couple of years ago—they take fashion very seriously over there. Your suit’s decent, but it’s ages out of style.”

“Well, that’s ’cos I bought it years ago, when I first got the job here. Dippet took me along to a hearing. It’s been stuffed in the wardrobe ever since—no real reason to wear it.”

“Hagrid, why don’t you just buy a new one?” Hermione asked bluntly. “Are you, um… short on money?”

“If you are, I’ll lend you some,” Harry jumped in, fully getting into the spirit of things. “Can’t be letting a stunner like that slip through your fingers.”

“I’ve got money,” Hagrid waved him off. “Three hundred Galleons or so, in my trunk. Rest’s with Dumbledore, in the school accounts. Never really needed to take my wages out all these years—what for? Just a trip to the pub now and then… Don’t need much when you’re on your own. Ain’t used to spending, either.”

“So, you’re a man of means, Hagrid! Brilliant,” Hermione perked up. “That means you can afford a proper suit. Madame Maxime will definitely notice you now.”

“Ooh, why don’t we just conjure you something for the time being?” Harry suggested. “Something modern. It won’t last forever, but it’ll do for now.”

“Better yet, let’s head to Hogsmeade and pick up a catalogue,” Hermione proposed. “That way, Hagrid can order a proper suit by owl post.”

“Or even better—why not go now?” I added. “And while we’re at it, a trip to the barber wouldn’t go amiss. Can’t have a new suit without a fresh trim. I could do with a haircut myself.”

“Oi, hang on now—what’re you lot plottin’?” Hagrid protested weakly as we all but shoved him towards the door. He grabbed his money pouch on the way out, though, which meant he wasn’t entirely against the idea. “I’ve never been to a barber in me life!”

“Well, now’s the time to start,” Hermione said sternly, dragging him down the path. “You need to match a woman of her standing. Especially since you’re older than her.”

The next few hours flew by in a blur of laughter. Somewhere along the way, Hagrid stopped resisting, completely swept up in Hermione’s overenthusiastic predictions of his grand romance. With all of us egging him on about how elegant and sophisticated his French lady was, he got so caught up in it that we could barely keep up with his long strides.

Reality, as it turned out, exceeded all expectations. When we barged into the barber’s in a big, excited huddle, I actually felt a bit sorry for the poor bloke running the place. But with magic involved, things went surprisingly quickly.

Hagrid himself was speechless, unable to say a word, so Hermione did all the talking—rattling on at top speed, explaining her vision for his new look to the bewildered barber. I, meanwhile, slipped in a quiet request to give the bloke a bit of polish while keeping his rugged charm—Hagrid wasn’t the sort to maintain anything too fussy. The best he’d manage was washing his hair now and then—probably in the Black Lake in summer, or in a barrel by his hut—and running a comb through it once in a blue moon.

When Hagrid finally emerged into the waiting area, looking absolutely chuffed, I barely recognised him. Actually, scratch that—I recognised him by his sheer size and clothes, but that was about it. The barber deserved an award, and his shop should officially be crowned the best in Hogsmeade.

They’d cut Hagrid’s hair short—one of those Muggle-style sporty haircuts—but shaped the top into a neat, squared-off flat top. With how thick his hair was, you could’ve balanced a brick on it, and it wouldn’t have budged.

His beard had been tamed too, now neatly shaped. The middle part was tied into three rings, while the sides had been plaited into two thick braids, fastened with leather cords. The whole look made him look sharper, more rugged in a warrior-like way. The deep, woodsy scent of his new cologne only added to the effect. He looked like something straight out of a Viking saga—just missing a shield and a war hammer.

We were stunned into silence.

Hagrid, however, had found his voice again. He couldn’t stop talking—not in full sentences, mind, just a string of excited exclamations as he nearly shook the barber’s hand clean off. He was thrilled with his new look. The barber, likely fearing for his limbs, hurriedly gave him a grooming kit—some enchanted comb, a bottle of cologne—and quickly saw us out with a mixture of grins and nods.

Things got even livelier at the clothing shop. The owner sorted Hagrid out with a wardrobe—two suits without those stiff, pinched trousers, a couple of robes, and some everyday bits and bobs. Meanwhile, I got distracted by a dress.

Now, I don’t pretend to understand fashion. To me, the same dress in different colours might as well be ten different dresses. My ex used to get proper pissed at me for not noticing new outfits. I mean, sure, I could appreciate a whole look—say, red nails, red lipstick, something black-and-red, the whole ‘devilish temptress’ vibe. I’d lose my head over it for an entire evening, but ask me to describe what she was actually wearing? No chance.

One winter, we visited some friends at a countryside lodge. She dressed in white fur and looked every bit the Snow Queen—slim legs in white boots, a blonde curl peeking out from beneath her white fur hat. I was absolutely entranced all day… and then we had a blazing row that night because I failed to notice she was wearing the white jumper I’d bought her. Apparently, that made me ‘insensitive.’ I slept on the study couch that night.

Point is, I know nothing about fashion, but when I saw this dress, I immediately pictured Luna in it—and myself standing beside her.

It was pale blue, flowing to the floor, with a darker ribbon just under the bust. A delicate, silvery lace overlay shimmered on top, as if woven from tiny, frozen snowflakes.

The moment I saw it, I knew Luna would wear it to the Yule Ball—even if I had to get on my knees and beg her.

The price was steep—twenty-five Galleons—but honestly, it was worth every Knut.

“Oh, I see you’ve taken a liking to my latest masterpiece, young man,” a voice with a slight accent murmured right by my ear, making me jolt out of my thoughts and spin around. The man introduced himself as Mr. Addington—the shop owner. “That marks you as a gentleman of fine taste. A splendid choice for your lady. I shall craft you a suit to match this ensemble.”

“Sir. I am not going out in a blue suit, public” I said firmly, startled by the very idea.

“But of course,” the tailor replied smoothly, unfazed. “The robe itself will be light grey, fine wool, trimmed with pale blue silk and lined with pearl-grey satin. Your suit will be slightly darker than your lady’s gown but will create a perfectly balanced pair. Come with me, I’ll show you.”

Still bemused, I followed him into another room, catching a glimpse of two shop assistants carefully folding Hagrid’s new wardrobe into bags. Nearby, Hermione was eyeing something on the rack—a flowing, deep-blue dress.

“Now,” the tailor continued, “close your eyes and picture your partner. Then open them and look into this mirror.”

He waved his wand, and a robe shimmered into place over my clothes. I quickly shut my eyes and imagined Luna.

When I looked into the mirror, I saw an illusion of the two of us standing side by side. And we looked bloody brilliant together. I’d never worn anything like this before and half-expected to look ridiculous, but it actually worked. The formal dress robes weren’t far off from the kind of thing my mum had forced me into before—a long, tailored coat, lace cuffs at the wrists, but thankfully none of those ridiculous ruffles at the top. Instead of a bowtie, there was a pale blue cravat tied in an intricate knot.

Mum had a point—my hands looked incredible against the fine lace, and my legs, long and sharp in the fitted trousers, weren’t half bad either. The whole look made me seem a couple of years older, more mature, and I liked it.

“Oh, you look splendid, Mr…?”

“Weasley,” I grinned at my reflection.

“...Mr. Weasley,” the tailor nodded approvingly. “As you can see, I’ve deepened the fabric’s colour slightly, giving it a pearlescent tint for a more refined look. Your lady’s gown will need to be a couple of shades darker to avoid washing her out. We’ll adjust the lace to a steel-grey—it highlights the sheen of the blouse’s silk and the satin lining beautifully. The entire ensemble for both of you will be eighty Galleons, but I’ll give you a ten-Galleon discount. I do hope you and your friends will continue to shop with us in the future.”

“But, sir,” I countered playfully, trying to haggle even though I knew full well I’d pay whatever he asked, “the price tag said twenty-five Galleons.”

“Ah, quite right,” he said smoothly. “But custom alterations require additional work. We ensure all our gowns are one of a kind—so no unfortunate surprises at the ball. Besides, the price includes a pair of ballroom shoes for your lady and a fine pair of dress shoes for yourself, crafted to match your robes. I collaborate with Master Baxter from the shoemaker’s. Of course, the garments can be enchanted to another colour later, though, if I may say so, most ladies prefer to keep them as is. However, a gentleman should always have a well-tailored formal robe for various occasions.”

“Alright,” I admitted with a grin, pulling out my money pouch. “You’ve convinced me.”

“Your order will be ready in just two weeks—no fitting required. Everything will adjust to your measurements,” he said cheerfully, neatly packing up some special socks for my dress robes and other accessories while I selected a pair of cufflinks and a matching tie pin. “You’re lucky—you got your order in before the December rush. By Christmas, the shop will be swamped with orders. And, of course, with the big winter event coming up…”

“Thanks,” I said, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Hermione had ended up buying the dress she’d been admiring. “I’ll come by to pick it up myself.”

We’d skipped lunch entirely and eagerly accepted Hagrid’s offer to grab a bite at his hut. Though, to be fair, I wasn’t that eager—I stuck to tea and a ham sandwich. My companions, however, braved the roast meat with potatoes. Harry nearly broke a tooth on something and stuck to the sides, while Hermione abandoned her meal altogether when she found a rather large and very questionable claw lurking on her plate. Neither of them asked what exactly they’d just eaten.

So, by the time dinner rolled around, we were absolutely starving. We hurried after the Beauxbatons girls, who were scurrying along behind their headmistress. Hagrid had gone ahead to escort her to the castle for dinner… and promptly forgot all about us. By the time we realised, he was long gone, strolling beside a thoroughly stunned Madame Maxime, ever so gently guiding her by the elbow. Even from a distance, we could see his ears glowing red from all the compliments.

After dropping off our purchases in our dorms, we arrived at the Great Hall among the last, just barely ahead of the Durmstrang lot. The Hall was already packed, and as expected, Hagrid had become the sensation of the evening.

But by then, the Goblet of Fire had already been moved to its new place—perched atop a pedestal near the staff table. Slowly, the focus in the Hall shifted away from Hagrid’s unexpected glow-up and back to the real reason we were all here: the tournament.

Those who had failed to bypass the Age Line were back to normal, resigned to their losses and now cheering for their chosen champions.

Dinner dragged on, stretching unbearably long as we restlessly fidgeted on the benches, barely paying attention to the food. We were all waiting for the moment.

Finally, the plates vanished, and Dumbledore dimmed the lights, leaving only the enchanted floating candles flickering inside the pumpkins.

A heavy hush fell over the Hall.

Then, the Goblet flared to life, bright red flames licking the air before spitting out the first scrap of parchment. Dumbledore caught it effortlessly.

“The champion for Durmstrang… Viktor Krum.”

The Hall erupted into applause as Krum, impassive as ever, got up and strode to the room Ludo Bagman pointed him towards.

“The champion for Beauxbatons… Fleur Delacour.”

The beaming girl all but floated across the room and disappeared through the door, accompanied by encouraging cheers.

“The champion for Hogwarts… Cedric Diggory.”

The Hall roared with applause as Cedric, grinning but looking slightly overwhelmed, made his way down the aisle to join the others.

Then, the Goblet flared one last time… and went out.

The magical fire died, leaving behind nothing but an old, weathered cup, its carvings faint and unreadable.

So that was it? No fourth champion?

I barely registered the thought before I was shouting along with the rest of the Hall, caught up in the sheer excitement of it all.

Daily Updates (06/02/25)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 79

• Tier 2: Chapter 84

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 50

• Tier 2: Chapter 55

Elden Ring

• Tier 1: Chapter 46

• Tier 2: Chapter 51

[Demons of NC] Chapter 84

"You... shouldn't..."

"Quiet," I whispered in response to Lucy’s weakening voice. "Right now, just focus on holding out until I get to you. We’ll argue about this later."

I made my way up the service stairs, the same ones Panam and I had used to get down earlier. Threw on the stolen body armor as best I could. Hopefully, if no one looked too close, I’d pass for one of the guards. Just had to keep the silenced pistol out of sight—security wasn’t issued that kind of gear. If comms were down, loud gunfire was a call for backup. Suppressors? That was the kind of shit security was supposed to stop.

So, I played the part of a close-combat specialist. Katana and a cyberarm fit the role well enough. Instead of Lucy’s voice in my head, I suddenly picked up security chatter on their comms. Must’ve been another way she was trying to help. She really needed to lay low.

"Intruders spotted between floors 30 and 40. Moving in via stairwells. Elevators are locked down. Code Red, Protocol 2-6."

Shit. I needed to get to 46. The fastest way to help Lucy in the Net was to jack in at the hotel’s server room. Take over the knocked-out runner’s chair.

I moved through the empty kitchen without a hitch—until I ran into four guards.

"Hold it! Where are you headed?" one of them asked, blocking my path.

"Thirty," I shot back without slowing down. "Code Red, Protocol 2-6."

The words worked. At the last second, the guy stepped aside, and another one even rushed me along.

"Move it! Move it! Stairs!"

Like I wasn’t already running for my life. Every second I wasted here cut into my odds of making it out. A solo raid on Konpeki wasn’t in my plans. My best bet was social stealth and my netrunning skills. Too many different security units were scrambling through the building—no way they had full battlefield control. Confusion was inevitable, and if I played it right, I could slip through the cracks. But if they cornered me? Fucked. No secret agent badge would save my ass. Wouldn’t even get the chance to flash it before they dragged me in for interrogation—or shot me on the spot. This wasn’t just another high-risk job. Saburo fucking Arasaka was killed today.

The one good thing? Hotel surveillance still wasn’t fully operational. Looked like Arasaka’s netrunners had countered the invaders, but they hadn’t retaken the subnet entirely.

I reached the service stairs leading from the basement levels to the hotel proper. That’s when I heard a very bad update.

"Service parking post is unresponsive. Teams Five and Seven, move in. Prepare for contact. Protocol 2-8."

If memory served, "2-8" meant no prisoners. Fuck. Yorinobu wasn’t planning on interrogating the chip thieves. They’d played their part as his alibi. Now he just needed them erased.

I made it up eight flights without issue. Then I caught sight of a reinforced security checkpoint through the stairwell opening. Seven guys, heavily armed. They had some unlucky employee or guest face-down on the floor, hands cuffed behind their back. And not the "standard search" kind of treatment—this was an execution waiting to happen.

No way I was talking my way through this one.

I backed off a floor. They must've heard something, but nobody followed. Orders probably had them locked in place.

Alright. New route.

Another staircase? Probably locked down too. How else could I hit 46?

The elevator shaft.

Now that was more like it.

I wasn’t bullshitting when I grilled Frank Nostra for hotel blueprints. I knew Konpeki Plaza inside and out. Some of the elevator shafts had maintenance ladders—well, more like metal rungs built into narrow recesses. Exactly what I needed.

Right, left—wait it out.

Through the walls, I saw patrols of two to three operatives sweeping the floor. My optics and layout knowledge were my only advantages. But I knew sooner or later, I’d hit a dead end. Stealth is fun and all, but it’s a lot less fun without a quicksave button.

And it was only getting worse.

"Twenty-third floor, all clear. Moving up."

"Twenty-seventh floor, clear. Continuing patrol."

The teams were closing in, and my options were thinning fast. Behind me—three-man patrol. Ahead—four more operatives.

No choice.

I burst onto a balcony, inhaling that wonderful mix of sea air and toxic waste. The next move? Risky as all fuck. The kind of stunt drunk assholes try when their wives lock them out—ends in a trauma team picking up the pieces.

I climbed over the railing and looked down.

Eighth floor.

Yeah, I might survive the fall. But dragging my ass anywhere on shattered legs? Whole other question. And not one I was eager to answer.

I pulled a synthetic strap from my gear—a trophy from some poor bastard. Sturdy as hell. Should hold. In seconds, I was hanging off the balcony, feet dangling over open air. Now I just had to swing myself over to the floor below before a security drone spotted me.

One… two…

I rocked my body to gain momentum, but my grip slipped, and a gust of wind twisted me around the strap. My ribs seized.

Fuck fuck FUCK!

Only the raw strength of my cyberarm kept me from dropping like a rock. A normal body would’ve let go by now, but mine had adjustments. Micromotors pumped blood, hormone regulators countered the pain. Muscles relaxed.

Come on, V. Your girlfriends pull acrobatic shit like this all the time. One jump. You’ve trained for this.

I swung once, let go—

And barely managed to grab the next railing with my cyberarm. Pulled myself up, adrenaline slamming through my chest.

Heart pounding.

No time to breathe. Move.

The suite I landed in wasn’t empty. One operative. He’d heard the landing and was heading for the balcony.

I met him halfway.

Big room. Luxury suite. Not Yorinobu’s penthouse, but close.

"Stop!" He raised his rifle. "What unit are you with?"

"Fifth," I bluffed, closing the gap.

"I don’t know you. Hands where I can see—"

Kereznikov.

Time stretched as I shifted out of his line of fire, surging forward.

No time for a second strike—one clean slash.

Monotanto ripped through his throat, severing his spine.

"Well," I exhaled, flicking the crystalline blade clean. "Guess now you do."

I sheathed the tanto, looted two grenades, and bolted.

No time now. The moment they noticed his biomonitor go dark, backup was coming.

But thanks to my acrobatic stunt, I’d made it to the maintenance sector. Pried open a panel, stepped into the elevator shaft.

Then—there it was. The ladder. Just a series of yellow rungs bolted to the wall. The elevator itself was jammed somewhere around the thirtieth floor. Fuck. That meant I wouldn’t make it straight to forty-six. I’d have to climb out at thirty-four, take the normal stairs one floor up, bypass the elevator, and then re-enter the shaft.

Somewhere above, gunfire rattled through the building. Was that still Jackie and his new partner having fun, or was security just scrubbing out anyone too suspicious? Guess I’d find out when—if—I reached the server room.

At first, climbing through the shaft was easy. I got to about the twentieth floor before—

"FUCK!"

How many times had I yelled that today? No idea. "Bad day, bad day!"—like that old Jackie Chan cartoon, the one where he wasn’t allowed to cuss.

The elevator moved. Not up—down. If I didn’t want to get turned into a fine red mist, I had seconds to drop down a few rungs and get the hell out.

No time.

I was about to flip on Sandevistan—then the elevator screeched to a halt between floors, spitting sparks. A moment later, it started crawling upward.

"Hold on…" Lucy's voice crackled in my head. "I’ll take it to the roof and—"

Her words drowned in static.

But the elevator kept climbing, then froze near the top of the shaft.

"Yeah, thanks, but I told you to stay quiet," I muttered through gritted teeth, hauling myself up again. "If you just did what I said, I wouldn’t even be here right now… Not talking? Fine. We’ll discuss it at home."

Now I had a straight shot to forty-six. The maintenance room was clear—good. The server room wasn’t far. But even before stepping in, I knew getting there would be a fight.

Six guards at the entrance, plus more scattered across the floor. Fuck. I needed every possible advantage—but I was running low on those.

They weren’t even standing close enough for one grenade to take them all out. Two at the outer doors, three in the monitoring room right before the server chamber, and the last one stationed inside—right by the netrunner’s chair. At least the runner was down for the count. He wouldn’t be waking up without a ripper’s help.

I needed a plan.

I ran through different shootout scenarios in my head. If I took out the outer guards first, the ones inside could just barricade themselves and call for reinforcements.

So—different approach.

I crouched near the corner, peeking with a small handheld camera. The two guards stood at the end of the hallway, scanning for threats. If they had X-ray optics, they weren’t using them.

Good.

I switched to the camera’s infrared view. Their ice was standard but solid.

Amnesia. Memory Wipe. Puppet.

Couldn’t hijack him outright—not yet. Had to weaken his defenses first.

First came Memory Wipe—the guard froze, then twitched violently.

"Post Three, Forty-Sixth Floor! Network attack, repeat, we’re under attack!" his partner shouted into comms.

"Informing our netrunners," someone replied. "Assist the injured, hold your positions."

"Takero, you good?"

I heard the words—inside his head.

"Yeah…" I rasped. "Just need a second."

I walked into the monitoring room. Three arasaka grunts—one in a security suit, two from the reinforcement squads.

"Hey! Why’d you leave your station?" one of them asked sharply as I approached.

I activated a grenade.

Dropped the Puppet link half a second before detonation.

The explosion rocked the room. The hallway guard snapped his head toward the blast, just as I swung around the corner and put a round through the back of his skull.

One, two, three.

A sharp click, a jolt of recoil, and the delayed sound of shells hitting the floor. The Nue worked like a charm. Not my usual go-to, but it packed enough of a punch to chew through their armor. And thanks to the suppressor, I didn’t set off the whole damn floor.

Still, reinforcements were inevitable.

I lobbed another grenade through the now-open monitoring room door—then another. My optics tagged four enemies inside, still dazed from the first explosion.

Two more blasts.

Confined space. Nowhere to hide.

I moved in right behind the shrapnel, already knowing where they’d be lying.

Seven more shots. Swapped mags.

The last enemy—the one stationed inside the server room—wasn’t charging in. He was busy calling for help. I couldn’t throw a grenade in there. Too much risk of frying the equipment.

Alright. He was waiting, shotgun ready. If I walked through that door, I’d take a faceful of buckshot.

So? I wouldn’t be the one walking in.

I picked the least-mangled corpse from the monitoring room—one of the reinforcements—and ran a Puppet script. Then I hit the floor myself, lying among the bodies.

Seconds ticked by as I wrestled the dead man’s implants into compliance. The body moved—jerky, uncoordinated, glitching. Vision kept flickering.

Didn’t matter.

I guided the corpse to the server room door. Made it open it.

The security agent inside whipped his shotgun up.

"Adams? That you?" he asked, startled.

The corpse answered with a burst from its rifle.

But the agent was fast. Sandevistan.

And just like that, I lost the link.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!

He blew my puppet’s head off in an instant.

And now? He was ready for me—and reinforcements were definitely inbound.

"Post Three, Forty-Sixth Floor! We’re taking losses! Enemy’s using control scripts! Request immediate backup!"

Think, V. Think.

He just burned his Sandevistan.

I hadn’t used mine yet.

I flipped the switch.

Rushed the door, Nue already lined up.

First shot, second—

Kerenzikov!

The bastard still dodged. But I had eyes on him now.

I didn’t have to kill him with bullets.

Memory Wipe. Short Circuit. System Reset.

I launched the scripts and dove back—just in time to hear the corridor behind me erupt in gunfire.

Reinforcements had arrived.

I threw myself forward instead.

The Arasaka agent was still spasming from my quickhacks. Finished him off, then locked the server room door with a magnet override.

It wouldn’t hold them for long.

Didn’t need to.

I sprinted to the netrunner’s chair, yanked the cord from the back of his skull, and—

Fucking again!

Even a quick glance at the setup told me I was fucked. The hardware was locked down tighter than a corpo's credit account. Fucking biometrics. The chair, the ports—everything was keyed to the runner’s DNA. If I sat in that thing now, best case? It’d knock me out cold. Worst case? It’d fry me like cheap meat on a street grill.

I could crack it—but that’d take time. And time? Not something I had. The guys outside were already lighting up the door, and soon, some techie, netrunner, or trigger-happy psycho with a breaching charge was gonna show up.

All this fucking effort… for nothing?!

Then, it hit me. A workaround. A way to get inside.

The netrunner was already jacked in. He was just unconscious. Normally, when I devour a mind, I rip the info straight from their head. But what if—what if—I did it differently? A fusion of devouring and puppeteering.

Instead of taking the data, I’d use the runner as a bridge. Merge into his neural pathways. Make his brain a fucking modem.

In theory, it should work.

In practice? Guess I’d fucking find out.

No time to think about the consequences. No time for a plan B. I plugged directly into his neural port.

And then, I started doing some truly fucked-up shit.

I dove into his mind—ripped apart the outer layers of his consciousness. But instead of consuming him, I tried to stitch us together like some psycho Nazi scientist. Meld our digital ghosts.

Turn this dying netrunner into a fucking access point.

I had seconds to pull it off.

Everything I had—everything—got thrown into the mix. My AI-powered abilities, my netrunning expertise, the stolen knowledge from Figure Skater. My brain pushed past its normal speed limits, firing faster than humanly possible.

And it fucking hurt.

For a few moments, I blacked out of the devouring state, nearly knocked loose by the agony. A migraine like my skull was splitting. My brain felt like it was boiling.

Like I was trying to shove my entire nervous system through the eye of a needle.

A needle heated to a thousand degrees.

No idea how long it lasted. No idea what the price was—on me, on him.

But then—

Something clicked.

The grotesque data-monster I’d created lurched to life.

And just like that, I had full fucking control of the hotel's subnet.

Not just access. Dominance.

The cameras flicked back on—feeding directly to me.

I switched to the hallway feed.

Aha.

Two techies, marching up with tools, ready to crack the door. Behind them? Seven fully geared-up security goons.

Too fucking bad for them.

I didn’t even need to use separate quickhacks to weaken their ice—the whole system was mine.

One by one, I flipped their implants against them.

With just a single command one of them yanked the pin on his grenade.

Then another.

And another.

Within seconds, the hallway turned into a blender of fire, shrapnel, and screaming meat.

That problem? Handled.

Now, onto the real fight.

Time to burn through the Net and drag Lucy out. Then? Get the fuck out myself.

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 51

Any player who had ever stepped foot inside the Carian Study Hall knew about its resident professor, Miriam. The guardian of a trap devised by a deviously casual mind, a place where an ordinary knight had no business being.

Agile, elusive, and fully aware of the dangers of letting a casual close the distance against a typical tryhard, she had burned through the nerves of many young Soulslike players. Bombarding them with ranged attacks, dashing around the entire location, summoning phantoms—she had crushed the hopes of many who just wanted to reach an ending where they wouldn't be left sitting alone on the throne in despair.

…Or burning the whole world to ashes.

As he placed the statue, Kosta was prepared for anything—from having to chase her around the entire inverted library, flinging Comets of Azur in a desperate attempt to pin her down, to her simply not being there at all.

The truth was somewhere in between. Whether she had been waiting for him inside all along or had some kind of casual security system that alerted her, the moment Kosta crossed the threshold of the inverted library, she appeared before him.

And, more importantly, the bowstring of a massive energy bow was already drawn, ready to greet the intruder.

For some reason, Kosta, seeing the sorceress aiming at him, decided to try talking.

"I’m in a bit of a hurry. One of the top waifus is having some issues."

The inverted study hall before him was much larger than what he had seen in the game. If he didn't start breaking things to find a shortcut, navigating it alone was going to be a pain.

Of course, there were multiple ways he could speed things up, but he wanted to complete Ranni’s quest as cleanly as possible. Or at least try.

"One of the top waifus?"

To Kosta’s surprise, the guardian didn’t just listen—she actually responded. Her cold voice held genuine confusion, along with the faintest trace of curiosity.

After all, fully self-aware interlocutors were not exactly common in the Lands Between.

"Ranni."

Preceptor Miriam frowned, considering whether she should punish the insolent Tarnished first or interrogate him—because almost no one knew that, while not quite in a physical sense, Queen Rennala’s daughter was still very much not dead.

Preceptor Miriam was one of the rare exceptions.

"Who are you?"

"Konstantin. Kosta for short."

"The Mad Tarnished!" The woman gasped, instantly realizing who had entered her study hall. "Why are you clothed?!"

She had heard the rumors! She couldn’t have missed them. But Konstantin of the Tarnished preferred to wander around nearly naked, and only naked! Was this some impostor?!

Kosta blinked, glancing down at his attire.

Not that he cared much about his reputation. Well—recently, maybe a little. But he definitely hadn’t expected someone to be offended by his decision to spend most of his time fully dressed.

He had already undergone significant personal growth in coming to terms with wearing clothes at all. He really didn’t need people now demanding he take them off.

For a brief moment, his clothing vanished, leaving him clad in nothing but a loincloth.

It seemed like the elderly woman’s heart nearly stopped—because now she was absolutely certain the half-naked beast had entered her domain.

The great battle never took place. Preceptor Miriam was wise enough to immediately abandon any thought of resistance the moment she understood exactly who stood before her—it would be pointless.

"I can't believe Lady Ranni didn’t warn me…" the sorceress sighed. "She is so intelligent, yet at times, so absentminded…"

Kosta merely shrugged, looking around.

They didn't have to jump across chandeliers. This version of the inverted study hall had a unique structure. It felt like stepping into a mirror world, but with normal bookshelves, staircases, and even elevators.

"You believed me pretty easily."

To be honest, Kosta could hardly believe how talkative the elderly sorceress was being(1).

"Konstantin of the Tarnished has no reason to lie," she rasped. "It is heartening to know that Lady Ranni has secured the support of the future king…"

For the few who still retained their sanity, it seemed this was already a foregone conclusion.

Preceptor Miriam quickly deduced Kosta’s reason for coming to the inverted study hall. And while she was a bit surprised, she readily agreed to guide him.

It was no exaggeration to say that those few who still had a spark of reason often suffered from crippling boredom—and that applied especially to the lonely sorceress, who had once sworn herself to the demigoddess.

So it wasn’t surprising that, before long, she couldn’t hold back and started talking.

"Not so long ago, Lady Ranni would walk these halls, searching for her favorite books… She was always such a dream-filled child, Lord Konstantin…"

"Kosta’s fine."

The woman completely ignored his words, too deep in her reminiscing.

"…she would ask me to hide books from the Queen—ones she was not yet allowed to read… Even then, I could never refuse Lady Ranni… She was always so cold, so demanding…"

The Preceptor sighed sentimentally before continuing.

The more Kosta listened, the harder it was for him to remain stoic.

"…rest assured, the Queen raised her daughter well. If not for Lady Ranni’s love of those books, she might have become a completely different person… Oh! If you would like, I could show them to you later. Lady Ranni insisted I protect them with my life…"

"Not interested," Kosta replied, barely clinging to his composure.

And once again, he was ignored.

"…of course, I do not blame Lady Ranni for her curiosity!" Miriam raised her voice, fully immersed in her thoughts. "It was all the insidious influence of that traitor who betrayed both the Queen and Lady Ranni! Mark my words—it was all a scheme!"

Kosta sighed.

"A scheme?"

"That scoundrel stole the Queen’s heart only to shatter it and leave for Marika(2)! His betrayal cast a shadow over all sorcerers! Without the Queen’s support, the Academy and Lady Ranni’s lineage quickly weakened…"

The moment the old woman mentioned Radagon, it was as if she had tapped into an endless well of resentment.

"…he had access to everything! He stole all our magic, that wretch…!"

"…Lady Ranni often complained that he never paid attention to them! His own children!"

"…he didn’t say a word! Just left!"

"…Lady Ranni didn’t show it, but she was deeply hurt… She admired that scoundrel, his intelligence…"

All things considered, Kosta was glad that Meli-Meli had gone off to assist with his… quest. He understood that the girls didn’t exactly get along, and if Melina had gotten her hands on this unexpected treasure trove of knowledge, the consequences could have been catastrophic.

Aside from the irritating Fingers crawling all over the library—trapped inside a spatial prison by the will of the Two Fingers—their journey had gone without issue. No ghosts had tried to attack them, no phantoms had appeared. In the end, the Preceptor had unexpectedly taken his side.

During their walk, Konstantin had learned so much about one of the best waifus that if she had heard even a third of it, she wouldn't have let him out of her sight—not even at the distance of an Azur's Comet shot—for fear that he might blurt out something unnecessary.

As she bid farewell to Kosta at the entrance of the tower hidden from the world, the elderly woman was rather emotional.

"Please, Konstantin of the Tarnished, take care of my lady..."

"Waifus come first," the man responded sternly with a nod.

The woman unexpectedly removed her mask, fixing Kosta with a cold, terrifying, and outright mad glare.

"If you so much as dare harm Lady Ranni, Tarnished... You remind me of a scoundrel... By the stars, I hope I'm wrong!"

Preceptor Miriam’s voice dropped into a near-growl, and in a flash of blue energy, she vanished, leaving behind only a lingering sense of cold and malice.

Kosta blinked.

He knew he was far stronger than that woman, but for some reason, he had a feeling that, if given the chance, she had the potential to become an incredibly dangerous boss—one the Lands Between had yet to witness.

Turning away, Konstantin headed toward the tower. Once a symbol of the Golden Order’s power, it had now become the resting place of a waifu. Clearly, the Lunar Demigoddess had long been preparing to fake her own death.

"Is this going to be an asset reuse(3)?"

As it turned out, no. Konstantin walked across the bridge without issue, entering the tower. Inside, too, he encountered no problems, making his way to the top without incident.

"She wanted me to see her true body firsthand…?" he muttered, crouching beside the charred corpse.

The Demigoddess hadn’t been burned by ordinary flames—Konstantin could feel that with every fiber of his being. Something was emanating from the figure, and it had no good intentions.

"Did she think I’d run away after seeing this?" The Tarnished furrowed his brow. "Or not?"

Normally, he wouldn’t have understood what the Lunar Demigoddess was thinking when she gifted him a statue that led to her true body—one that could erase the very concept of life across dozens of kilometers…

But thanks to the old woman’s stories, everything had unexpectedly fallen into place.

The Lunar waifu was simply a fan of strange romance novels.

That, in itself, explained her entire questline in one go. And what he had to do next to complete it.

Maybe he really should have taken a look at those books the Preceptor suggested?

The mark of the curse, as if it had been waiting for this moment all along, suddenly came to life, lunging at Konstantin. He didn’t even bother avoiding it, too absorbed in comprehending the depths of Soulslike hidden narratives. Instead, he simply extended his hand.

The curse latched onto him without resistance, fully expecting to take root. But, in the end, the outcome was inevitable:

The Sun within Kosta, sensing the intruder, immediately clamped down on it. It sought to consume the curse entirely—but then, unexpectedly, it stopped, bending to the will of its owner. After all, Konstantin still needed that mark for a quest.

"Easy, easy…" he muttered.

Konstantin stood, feeling how the cursed mark had nestled itself alongside his Great Runes. He couldn’t afford to delay the quest where he needed it for long, but neither could he put off the Lunar Demigoddess’s quest.

After all, she was in danger, and it was unclear whether she’d be able to escape on her own.

The man reached out to the flow of grace, heading toward a destination known only to him.

He hadn’t yet touched the Site of Grace that would directly lead him to Ranni, but that wasn’t necessary.

His consumption of Rykard had drawn him closer to the Great Ones. Those whose names, if spoken, would start a timer that couldn’t be stopped.

Kosta used Wrong Warp(4).

Feeling the flow of grace carrying him through space, the man trusted his instincts—catching the precise moment with his consciousness—then mentally forced himself out of the stream, never reaching the place he had originally been drawn toward.

But that had been his intention all along.

"Landed," Kosta stated matter-of-factly as he took in the underground waterfall before him.

He had never been too deeply invested in the Great Ones' community, preferring to focus on challenge runs and various casual builds. But to not test himself in something as unique as speedrunning? That was unthinkable.

It wasn’t surprising that this aspect of his power had been the most demanding of his stats, only now fully beginning to unfold.

For a split second, a thought flickered through his mind—that he could have glitched into a rock and trapped himself forever—but, honestly, he doubted that anything at this stage could pose a real threat to him.

Surveying his surroundings, Konstantin moved forward.

It seemed that one of the most important quests was nearing its conclusion.

She had failed.

Abruptly, unexpectedly—it had all happened so fast that for the first time in a long time, Ranni, who had always calculated her every move, felt the ground give way beneath her feet.

Watching the Tarnished with keen interest, she had been hunting. Hunting the foul creatures that had tormented her for decades, if not centuries. The ones that had forced her to hide, like a cowardly rat.

Now that she had a blade in hand, she was certain she could achieve her goal. But, succumbing to emotions, the Lunar Demigoddess had become too overconfident.

Too convinced that she could always escape.

Too certain that she was a powerful sorceress, one who answered neither to the Goddess nor even to the Greater Will.

Too sure that she had accounted for everything.

The Death Shadows. Or, more accurately, one specific Shadow. A horrific creature, a hound sent by the Two Fingers to hunt her down all this time. Something vaguely resembling her sworn brother, yet fundamentally different. One of the entities that had come from the cosmic depths on the Greater Will’s orders.

It had managed to suppress her essence. To trap her in a space from which she could not escape. The power of the Demigoddess had been attacked so suddenly that, in a final desperate bid to flee, she had found herself locked in her weakest, most powerless form—a small doll, barely even a proper vessel.

A terrible, repulsive, disgraceful situation—one entirely of her own making. She had succumbed to mortal weaknesses.

If only she hadn’t been so distracted by the Tarnished, if only she had focused entirely on her task, she never would have ended up like this!

But she had let her guard down. Relaxed. And immediately paid the price.

Or so she thought.

Afraid to reveal herself, Ranni didn’t dare release even a fraction of her consciousness beyond the doll. Because of this, she realized too late that someone had boldly picked up her fragile vessel and was now inspecting it.

Terror. For a moment, sheer terror consumed her—the kind she hadn’t felt since she had dared to use the Rune capable of slaying a Demigod.

She had foolishly believed herself long freed from such emotions, thinking she had become as cold as the Moon itself. But the truth was, deep down, she remained the same timid, dream-filled girl she had been ages ago.

However, the terror didn’t last long—because then came the realization of who was holding her vessel.

Perhaps the most enigmatic, bizarre, and powerful being she had ever encountered—aside from Goddess Marika and the Moon itself.

Arriving in the Lands Between with practically nothing, at first appearing barely different from an ordinary human, now, after such a short amount of time, Ranni was looking at someone who could easily be called otherworldly—if not a god.

No mere human, not even one aided by an Outer God, could have advanced this far, this quickly. His body should have long since been torn apart from the sheer amount of power he had absorbed in such a short span.

And yet, not only had he absorbed all of it without issue, but he wielded it with such efficiency that Godrick the Grafted’s augmentation and the blasphemous devouring power of the lord her brother had turned to seemed like mere cheap tricks in comparison.

The explanation for this was both simple and profound: the one they had thought of as the Tarnished had never truly been one. But was something masquerading as a man forsaken by Grace. Someone who knew more than any prophet, perhaps even coming from the same place as the Outer Gods themselves.

The one who called himself a waifu enthusiast, a tryhard, and a casual.

“…I don’t think we have the luxury of just staring at each other,” Kosta said quietly, lifting his gaze.

He could feel it. The creature was close.

“…”

Ranni barely noticed how her spectral face puffed up in annoyance—she was displeased, though she wasn’t sure why.

Perhaps it was because his words were so calm, so unnervingly rational, that they completely ruined the romantic atmosphere she had envisioned. The very same romantic feeling she had read about in so many books!

…Not to mention that recent scene between the false Finger Maiden and the equally false Tarnished…

What could be more romantic than a sudden rescue by one’s future king, just when all hope seemed lost? Her newly awakened feelings had not only gone unpunished but had been rewarded!

She could have never dreamed of something like this.

“…You’re not the type to give in easily, are you?” the haughty demigoddess asked, puffing up even further. “Well… fine. I never thought anyone would recognize me in this form…”

“…”

The look Kosta gave her was so piercingly expressive that Ranni wanted to sink into the ground.

The false Tarnished had become far too perceptive, and that… created its own problems.

“…But since my secret is out, I won’t let you go now…”

“Preceptor Miriam has awakened in me a deep curiosity about what books you’ve been reading.”

Kosta’s deadpan remark triggered something close to an infernal scream—a shriek filled with pure horror, far exceeding even the fear of death.

The last trace of composure fled from the demigoddess.

“You!” Ranni pointed a tiny, doll-like hand at him. “Now you must take responsibility! Destroy the Death Shadows roaming these lands. Because of you, the name of Ranni the Witch has been stained with disgrace!”

Had her doll body allowed for it, tears would have been flowing from her eyes.

This man had stolen the chest with her ring—with her mother’s permission, no less—and now… now this…

“I-I warn you, I will not accept refusal!”

Of course, had she not been so flustered and in such a vulnerable form, she would never have reacted this emotionally. But the combination of circumstances had done their work.

She should have been thanking all the Outer Gods that Melina was currently preoccupied elsewhere—not to mention Sellen.

Kosta fully understood that sometimes, it was better for waifus not to meet, lest something spontaneously explode behind his back.

“My intentions have been serious from the very beginning,” Kosta said calmly, lifting the doll-bodied waifu onto his shoulder.

Ranni was just about to puff up even further, with even greater importance this time, but, unfortunately, she didn’t get the chance—she could feel it.

The Shadow was coming their way.

Beside her miniature doll form, the face of her true self appeared, peering out from the vessel.

“This form has loosened my tongue,” Ranni admitted, sounding notably calmer. “It seems I’ve said too much.”

Kosta shrugged but glanced at her in surprise when she suddenly smacked him with her tiny doll hand.

“Forget it. Forget this entire conversation! And… and forget whatever that blabbermouth servant said!”

She never expected such betrayal… No, she had known the Preceptor was quite talkative, but until now, she had never spoken of such things to anyone…

Had the false Tarnished somehow influenced her with his terrifying power?!

Kosta put on his best I-have-no-idea-what’s-going-on tryhard face and headed toward the Death Shadow.

He was curious to see how this iteration of the Lands Between would handle an asset reuse.

(1) In the game, Miriam has neither a questline nor dialogue windows.

(2) This is one of the theories floating around. In the context of the idea that Radagon and Marika are one entity, it’s plausible that Marika’s goal from the beginning was to eliminate all possible rivals—if not through force, then through deception.

(3) On the bridge, the player will encounter a reused asset of the Godskin Noble.

(4) In gaming terminology, especially among the great and terrible speedrunning community, a “wrong warp” refers to an error or exploit that allows a player to teleport to unintended locations (either along the intended path or entirely off-course), often skipping large portions of a game’s content. In FromSoftware games, wrong warps are commonly performed by crashing the game during a loading sequence.

[Life is Good] Chapter 55

The patrol went relatively smoothly after the sewer incident. We left a note for Daredevil, burned into a wall—her kind of sight should pick that up easily if she’s paying attention. Gwen and I had to talk Parker into it—she was dead set on tracking down Murdock, but neither of us were thrilled about another trip through the city’s septic system.

I called a police sergeant—number courtesy of Captain Stacy—after I mentioned my nighttime outing to her. She, for the record, was not happy about it. But after advising me to be careful, she handed over the number of the officer on duty that night and passed on the necessary instructions.

Oh, and we also arranged for me to participate in some training exercises with SWAT. In a few days, after school, a police car would pick me up from our agreed-upon location and take me to the training grounds.

The sergeant took my report, promised to notify the precinct handling that area, asked for a precise description of the scene and location, and then actually praised us for not disturbing the body. Before hanging up, she wished me luck.

From there, we ran the usual rounds—stopped a convenience store robbery, broke up a fight, and handed out a well-deserved beating to three fine young ladies who thought attacking a lone woman was a good idea.

First incident: We called the cops, got a bag of homemade salted nuts from a grateful old Indian woman.

Second incident: Just tied everyone up in webbing and left them to cool off.

Third incident: The victim cursed us out and walked away.

The absolute highlight of the night? One of the attackers, still stuck in the web, actually had the audacity to ask, "So, are you gonna untie us so we can go back and kick her ass with all six of us?"

Even Parker caved after a few minutes and agreed to let them go—with a half-hearted speech about how "violence isn’t the answer," blah blah blah.

Gwen? Oh, Gwen was fully on board with kicking the woman’s ass. Apparently, being called a "cheap knockoff of a dumb bug" really struck a nerve.

Then came the best part of the night—our superhero coffee break.

I loved every second of it, reveling in how much we were messing with people.

While making our rounds, we came across a 24-hour diner in a much nicer part of the city. The streets were well-lit, relatively clean, and the few pedestrians actually looked like respectable citizens.

We landed on a nearby rooftop for a short break, and Gwen, eyeing the diner, sighed, "Man, I could really go for a cup of coffee."

Parker instantly agreed, then hesitated before adding, "And… maybe a pastry."

Her stomach loudly backed up that request. Gwen giggled, I smirked.

"So what’s the problem?" I asked. "Let’s go get some coffee and grab a bite."

"Uh, we’re in costume!" Gwen shot back.

"And? You just pull your mask up to eat. Not an issue. My helmet has a thin fabric layer underneath—I can take off the visor if needed."

"We don’t have any money," Parker muttered. "No pockets."

"That’s because your suits look like something straight out of a sex shop," I deadpanned.

To be fair, their flexibility with all those flips and mid-air acrobatics in skin tight costumes had me breathless and drooling a couple of times.

"Sexy? Absolutely. But seriously, get a damn utility belt. Something simple, just for essentials. Buy a cheap burner phone, stash a twenty in there for situations like this. Super useful."

I reached into one of my belt’s compartments, pulled out a crisp fifty, and grinned.

"Tonight’s on me. Next time? You two owe me. Deal?"

And just like that, we walked—yes, walked—right into the diner, still in full costume.

Inside, it was surprisingly busy for this hour. Four out of eight tables were occupied, plus a couple of women sipping coffee at the counter.

Our entrance caused the expected reaction—every head turned our way, eyes widening.

Most just looked curious… but some? Some tensed hard.

I scanned the room and, sure enough, caught a few very familiar bulges under jackets and shirts. Firearms.

For a second, I regretted bringing the girls in here. But then I took another look.

This wasn’t a hostile crowd.

This was the Wild West saloon effect—armed, dangerous people, eyeing newcomers, waiting to see if they’re about to bring trouble into their favorite late-night spot.

So I did the only sensible thing: grabbed both girls by the elbow and casually led them to an open table.

"Sal…" Parker whispered, voice tense. "They’re armed."

"And?" I replied just as casually, not bothering to lower my voice. "It’s America. Everyone has the right to defend themselves. They’re sitting, eating, not waving guns around. Not our problem. And we’re not cops, so it’s not like we’re here to check gun licenses."

I sat down and gestured for them to do the same.

"So let’s just drink our coffee, eat some sandwiches, and enjoy the night." Then, lowering my voice, I added, "If we start shit here, we will be the bad guys. We don’t have official authority. People tolerate what we do because we take down active criminals. But busting into a random diner and harassing people? That would backfire spectacularly."

Then I stood up and walked to the counter, where the woman behind it had visibly started to relax. The rest of the room? Still wary, but less so.

"Good evening, miss. Can we get three coffees and…" I glanced at the menu behind her, hesitating.

I liked chicken sandwiches. No idea about the girls.

Eh, screw it. If they didn’t like them, I’d order something else.

"Three chicken sandwiches, please."

"Ground or instant coffee?"

Bless the patience of food service workers. She was still a little on edge, but that monotone, so-over-this voice? That was the voice of a woman who’d asked this same question a thousand times and had long since stopped caring.

"Ground, obviously!" I practically shuddered at the thought of instant. "And sugar on the side, please."

"Got it. I’ll bring it over in a minute."

Just like that, the tension in the room broke. The definitely-not-law-abiding crowd that had been eyeballing us like potential threats? They started talking among themselves again, chuckling here and there.

By the time our food arrived, the diner felt almost normal.

If you ignored the fact that we had just casually strolled into a mob-affiliated underground casino’s front operation for a late-night snack.

Yeah.

Figured that one out two minutes after sitting down, thanks to my energy vision.

There was a room directly below us—not particularly big—but it had distinct wiring patterns for security systems and heating, along with five occupied tables.

Not hard to put two and two together.

People sitting across from each other, shifting their hands in very familiar movements?

Yeah.

They were definitely playing cards.

The people in the diner were definitely security. Not just for the establishment but also for certain special patrons. I caught how one of the workers slipped into the back and made a call as soon as we walked in—probably to someone downstairs. The underground gambling den got a little nervous, but after a follow-up call (likely reporting that we were just grabbing coffee and not here to bust heads), everyone seemed to relax. Five minutes later, the games resumed like nothing happened.

The girls were a little tense at first, but the fresh sandwiches—not pulled from a fridge but actually made on the spot—helped. Surprisingly, Gwen seemed less nervous than Parker. I was still figuring her out, but she didn't have Parker’s relentless idealism, which, frankly, was a relief. Eating with masks was awkward, but we managed.

We were finishing up our coffee when one of the security ladies—previously seated with two colleagues—stood up and walked toward us.

Tall, fit, and with a relaxed but confident stride, she had short red hair and striking green eyes. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but attractively tough. The kind of woman who’d knee you in the balls for calling her "ma'am."

And let’s be real—I loved how often I ran into redheads in this world. My aesthetic enjoyment levels were through the roof.

"Good evening, guys." Her voice was husky, rough—definitely a smoker. "Hey, kid, you’re that ‘Mister Mutant’ dude, right?"

"Evening, miss. Yeah, I used that name once." I rubbed my chin, feeling a bit awkward. "Hadn’t come up with a proper alias yet, so I just blurted out the first thing that popped into my head."

She snorted. "Yeah, that tracks. Lucky you didn’t get stuck with some dumbass nickname from the internet. Some people called you ‘Super-Dick.’ there"

She cackled. I… physically recoiled.

Oh hell no. I had a full-body vision of myself dramatically leaping into a gang fight only to hear someone yell: “It’s Super-Dick! He’s here to deliver justice… anally.”

Nope. I was knocking on every wooden surface I could find.

Too bad the tables were plastic.

"Anyway, just wanted to say thanks," she continued. "You saved my little sister from those bastards trafficking girls. I was losing my damn mind trying to find her until the cops called my mom."

She pulled out a notepad, scribbled a number with the name Claire, and handed it to me.

"If you ever need something—anything—call me. If I can help, I will. If I can’t, I’ll say so. No hard feelings, okay?"

I took the paper and tucked it into my belt’s compartment. Never knew when a favor might come in handy.

Then something clicked in my head.

"Wait… your sister. She’s also a redhead? Green eyes? Long hair?"

Claire’s grin widened. "Yeah, Karin. Real knockout, huh?"

"Oh yeah…" I muttered, remembering her in just her underwear. Even after everything she’d been through, she still looked stunning. "Great figure. And solid attitude, too."

I flashed back to her accidentally stepping on her captor’s face with a cheery "Oops, my bad!" before shoving them into every sharp corner she could find.

Claire roared with laughter, slapping me on the shoulder. "You like her? She won’t shut up about you. I’ll tell her she made a good… impression. Call me, I’ll set you two up."

"Uh… but, y’know, the whole…" I gestured at my suit.

"Oh, please," she waved me off. "We’re women with standards, kid. We don’t tolerate scumbags. You knocking some sense into the little punks running around the Kitchen? That’s actually doing us a favor. The serious women here don’t get mixed up in dumb shit. Business is business, but we don’t do human trafficking."

Her face twisted in disgust.

"We work under Silvermane. She’s strict about that kind of filth. So yeah, you ever need anything, Saly, just call. My mom and sis would be happy to help you out too."

"Got it. Appreciate it, Claire."

Yeah, she was definitely a criminal, but I couldn’t help but like her. Maybe it was because she was being nice to me.

Eh, whatever.

"Oh! One more thing—selfie?" She hesitated for a second, scratching the back of her head before pulling out her phone. "Gotta rub it in my sister’s face."

"Sure thing."

I pulled my fabric mask back down and locked my visor into place. Claire threw an arm around my shoulders and snapped a good ten pictures.

"Hell yeah! Thanks, kid. I’ll get outta your hair. Take care, guys."

She waved, then threw a glance at the girls, who had been completely silent the entire time.

"You two keep an eye on your boy, got it? And if anything happens, don’t take it out on my sister—girl’s got a pure heart."

With that, she headed back to her table.

I went to pay, but the cashier just waved me off with a smile. “On the house. Come back anytime.”

Y’know… for a mob front, this place was pretty damn welcoming.

Life, man. Just like onions.

And onions? Well, they’ve got layers.

Thanks for the wisdom, Shrek.

We left the diner to the usual hum of conversation, with a few people even calling out good luck wishes.

"Y’know," I mused, "good thing we already ate, because after that selfie session, I was getting some looks—like people were lining up to get one too."

"And they totally would’ve torn you apart for souvenirs," Parker snorted.

Then, grinning wickedly, she added, "Next day, there’d be a listing: ‘Salamander’s underwear—freshly worn, expensive as hell.’"

"That is not funny. My boxers are exclusive. They can take my dignity, but leave my underwear alone!" I declared dramatically to the night sky, shaking my fist for emphasis.

"Sal..." Parker groaned, pressing a hand to her face. "Sometimes, you're such an idiot I just can't deal."

To my left, Gwen was trying (and failing) to suppress giggles.

Honestly? This whole patrol thing wasn’t so bad. Made some useful connections, too. Daredevil, a few contacts in the underworld… Gotta make sure I keep those. Never know when I’ll need to lie low.

For a split second, I imagined myself in a Sinister Six lineup, taking the Scorpion’s spot. I actually shook my head to clear the thought. Yeah, no thanks.

We split up close to dawn. The sun wasn’t up yet, but school still existed, and we needed at least a few hours of sleep.

I couldn’t wait to be done with this whole school thing. Never thought I’d be dying to graduate in a second life, considering how nostalgic I used to get about my first time through.

The girls wanted to walk me home, but I waved them off. They needed sleep too, and I highly doubted anything would happen to me. I had money for a cab, my abilities, and I hadn’t even come close to draining my energy reserves. Hell, the most effort I put in tonight was lighting the way in the sewers and looking cool while the Spider-Girls handled the fighting.

Oh, and signing autographs for those three ladies who jumped the foul-mouthed victim. And getting a picture with that Indian store owner—who, by the way, promised me discounts just for the selfie. Honestly? I might take her up on that. Her salted nuts were fantastic.

I stuffed my mask and gloves into a small backpack, climbed down the fire escape, pulled my hoodie up, and strolled toward the street.

That’s when I saw her.

A lone woman, walking straight toward me.

She stepped into my energy perception range—nothing unusual. Normal heat signature, phone in her pocket, earpiece, a couple of electronic devices on her belt. I was about to just walk past when she spoke.

"Hey, kid, you from around here?"

Her voice was low, smooth, but there was a tension in her stance.

Just in case, I got ready—held my breath slightly, prepped a shock touch. Not taking chances.

"Good evening," I said smoothly. "I live in New York, yeah, but this isn’t my neighborhood."

I pushed my hood back a bit to show my face. She studied me for a moment, then visibly relaxed. Even gave me a small, closed-lip smile.

"Seen anything suspicious?" she asked.

…Funny question, coming from someone whose jacket bulged slightly—two concealed firearms, tucked under her arms in shoulder holsters.

Wouldn’t have noticed before, but training with Oyama had sharpened my eye for these things.

"Other than the armed woman standing in front of me? Not really." I grinned.

Her brow twitched up.

"I have a permit for these," she said, either reassuring me or justifying herself. Hard to tell. Not that it mattered. "What are you doing out here so late? New York’s a dangerous place."

"Miss, are you a cop?" I raised an eyebrow at the rather intrusive question.

"Answering a question with a question is rude, kid." She softened her tone, injecting a bit of warmth. "Let me walk you to a busier street?"

Mmm… that’s suspicious.

"No offense, ma’am, but I think I can manage on my own. If I’m being honest, you’re kind of freaking me out. You stop me, start asking weird questions, you’re armed, and now you want to walk me somewhere? No offense, but all of that combined is setting off some red flags."

"Oh…"

She actually looked a little sheepish.

"Yeah, I get how that might seem sketchy. Alright, kid, fair enough. Stay safe, then. Sorry if I spooked you."

"No harm done, miss. Have a good night."

I nodded, pulled my hood back up, and kept walking—keeping an eye on her through my energy perception.

Yeah, she was shady. Definitely looking for something. Asking way too broad of questions.

But nothing happened.

After a few seconds, she watched me go, then turned and walked the other way.

I let out a quiet breath of relief.

I’d had enough adventures for one night.

Daily Updates (05/02/25) (Wednesday)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 56

• Tier 2: Chapter 61

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 56

• Tier 2: Chapter 61

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 61

We were heading back to Konoha as a group of five. Hatake Kakashi met us on the evening of the second day after the start of our cat mission near the caves. My presence wasn’t exactly hidden, but there was a convenient cover story: “This cat wandered into our group, and now Naruto wants to take him back to Konoha.”

No idea if Kakashi actually bought it, but he didn’t argue. The kids wouldn’t talk, and the adults now had an official excuse for where I came from. And really, who would seriously investigate a random cat?

Haruno Sakura, who had spent most of our time in Ryu blissfully unaware thanks to the genjutsu, only remembered fighting a black nyako-ninja with a white lightning mark on its forehead. Then, according to her, Sasuke heroically defeated The Nekomata, and they got the giant paw print they were sent for.

She had no memory of us spending an entire evening with Itachi and Shisui. Didn’t hear them, didn’t see them. Sharingan is such a damn cheat code.

It turned out Sasuke didn’t have the same memory-consuming seal as Itachi. Itachi’s brain had been scrambled specifically because of his Mangekyo Sharingan. But Sasuke? They still hit him with genjutsu—enough to implant false memories of things that never happened.

Like how he came home that night and found his entire clan slaughtered by some unknown monster that killed with horrifying brutality. How he walked in on Itachi standing over their parents’ corpses.

My blurry memories from the anime, where Itachi said something to Sasuke during Tsukuyomi, were confirmed by Nekomata. If Itachi had shown Sasuke his version of that night inside Tsukuyomi, Sasuke would’ve fully “remembered” it. It would’ve burned into his mind as an absolute truth, solidifying his hatred beyond repair, twisting his personality even further.

Mind games never end well.

The weirdest part? Itachi took a quick scan of Naruto and quietly mentioned that his memories had been tampered in a different way. Instead of outright erasing things, his perception had been rewired, making his mind cling to specific memories like a child trying to fill in blank pages.

Everything for him felt bigger, brighter, and more real.

Things like:
 "Everyone in the village hates me, but Grandpa Hiruzen is kind!"
 "Sasuke is my friend!"
 "I love my team!"
 "I LOVE RAMEN!"
 "I’ll prove to the whole village that I can become Hokage!"

These weren’t just thoughts—they were core beliefs.

So that explained why he was so obsessed with “bringing Sasuke back” in the anime.

And let’s be real—if Minato had actually survived, Naruto would have latched onto him instantly. He would have completely overshadowed everyone else in his life. Instant bond. Instant loyalty. No competition. It was terrifying how easily he could’ve been steered.

Itachi managed to unlock some of Sasuke’s real memories. From his reaction, he saw enough to believe that everything had been a setup.

And I was right there for the Uchiha family meeting—Itachi and Shisui deciding what to do next.

I wanted them to tell Naruto the truth—that his mother was alive. They debated it. But it wasn’t simple.

For starters, Itachi was actively working inside Akatsuki. He had a partner—Hoshigaki Kisame, one of the Seven Ninja Swordsmen of the Mist. According to his memories, they’d been working together for years—ever since Itachi “massacred his clan.”

But the problem was… Kisame had never actually talked about their pasts.

Itachi had no idea how long they’d really been partners.

Which raised a question—was Kisame also under genjutsu? Or did he already know the truth?

Then there was the guy in the mask.

Itachi had vague memories of him. Shisui had seen him. Kushina suspected he was Uchiha Obito. But Itachi had never once encountered a masked man in Akatsuki.

None of the people Itachi had seen in the organization really matched the description. Unless someone was very good at hiding.

Eventually, the brothers decided to put off telling Naruto the truth—at least for now.

Because in the end, nobody could predict how a jinchiriki would react to having their memories tampered with.

I wanted Naruto to know. But without Kushina physically there to ground him, there was a very real chance that his emotions could spiral out of control, and Kurama would break loose.

He might seem stable one day, but the next? He could be tearing through Konoha like a wrecking ball, ready to strangle Hiruzen with his bare hands.

As much as I hated it, the logic made sense.

Then there was Orochimaru.

It turned out that Shisui and Itachi had already tracked him down. And he might actually be able to help Kushina.

But Itachi remembered him differently.

He recalled Orochimaru trying to kill him.

And he also remembered Orochimaru being a part of Akatsuki.

Yet in Itachi’s mind, that was only a couple of years ago.

Hearing the name immediately put me on high alert.

The anime had made one thing clear—Orochimaru was going to throw everything into chaos during the Chunin Exams. He’d end up killing the Third Hokage.

And then Sasuke would run off to join him.

Could Orochimaru have been manipulated, too?

Unlike Jiraiya and Tsunade, he hadn’t been in Konoha when everyone’s memories got wiped.

And if you consider the fact that everybody else who had been away at the time was eliminated, that meant Orochimaru was the only Konoha ninja left alive who knew the truth.

And that was exactly why the village turned him into public enemy number one.

Even if he did walk straight into Konoha and start shouting about the memory wipe atop of a giant snake, no one would believe him.

For now, though, the plan was to leave Naruto alone.

And since Kakashi had been put in charge of Team Seven, the older Uchiha were actually relieved.

Because they knew him.

But that also meant Kakashi knew a lot about the Uchiha and their abilities.

Before we parted ways, Itachi and Shisui made it clear—Sasuke and Naruto couldn’t say a word about what they’d learned. This meeting? It never happened.

And me? I got a very important job.

If Naruto and Sasuke got sent outside Konoha, I had to warn Shisui.

The boys couldn’t do it themselves—it was too risky. They might be watched.

Which led to the next problem.

How?

I just started planning how I’d sneak into the Hokage Tower and strap a coded ribbon to a pigeon when—

A crow flew directly into my mouth.

I choked.

A freaking Uchiha clan jutsu.

They sealed a message carrier inside me and then explained that I’d have to focus my chakra in my throat to release the damn thing.

Fantastic.

Kakashi, meanwhile, wasted no time putting Team Seven through a forced march back to Konoha.

The rain started up again, so I hunkered down inside Naruto’s backpack, still bummed about my proactively canceled Mission Impossible reenactment.

Shisui’s crow ended up being needed way sooner than expected. I damn near slept through the whole thing.

We had just returned to Konoha, and I decided to check in on some of our other friends. Managed to meet up with a Hyuga—only one, though—and even that took way more effort than it should have. I got drenched from all the water dripping off the trees and covered in mud by the time I reached the white-eyed district. But hey, the bath afterward? Absolutely worth it.

Oh, and turns out Hinata was starting to, uh… develop. Ahem. Moving on.

Meanwhile, my little troublemakers got sent straight to the Land of Waves. Yeah, that Land of Waves. The one from the anime.

Apparently, the anime only covered major events, because there was way more happening in this world than just the plot points I remembered. But either way, the moment Team 7 got back to Konoha, they got hit with another mission.

Barely a day had passed before they were packed up and sent off again.

Rain had finally stopped overnight, and by morning the sun was out. Lucky for me, I caught them just in time—almost missed them completely. Was not expecting them to get deployed again so fast.

And then I saw him.

Old guy. Beard. Glasses. Straw hat. Nursing a bottle like it was his lifeline.

Yep. That was definitely Tazuna. And the Land of Waves was in the same direction as Ryu, which we had just gotten back from.

Kakashi spotted me and told Naruto the mission was more serious this time, meaning no cats allowed.

Honestly? I wasn’t about to argue.

I wasn’t a fan of the whole starving on the road thing, and sitting in a backpack while bumping along through the wilderness wasn’t my idea of a good time.

I could do way more good here in the village—spying around, checking in on people, gathering intel.

So, despite my instincts screaming at me not to, I let the kids go without me.

I had to trust Shisui and Itachi.

But before I did… I, uh… coughed up a crow.

And I may have sent it off with a little more information than planned.

Because in the moment of sending the mental message, a bunch of memories suddenly smacked me in the face—memories from the anime.

Like how they were going to get attacked on the way.

Like how there was going to be a masked kid and a big guy with a sword trying to stop the bridge from being built.

I have no idea if I screwed something up or just made things better, but as soon as that crow flew out of my throat, it paused, turned, and stared at me.

Like, full-on, meaningful eye contact.

"…What are you looking at?" I hissed, flicking my tail. "Get moving, birdbrain, before I remember I have predatory instincts."

It must’ve understood, because it immediately took off, disappearing into the sky.

The sunshine didn’t last long—by the time I started jumping across rooftops, the drizzle had returned.

I had intended to visit the Hyuga again, but instead, I found myself heading toward Ino’s place.

Team 10 had gotten Asuma as their sensei, and I figured I could poke around for info. They probably weren’t running missions in this crappy weather like my poor, overworked kiddie-ninjas.

Hinata was training at home.

Neji’s team was bouncing around on bad-weather assignments.

But Ino? Ino was probably at home being a civilian kid.

Sure enough, I found her at the Yamanaka compound—specifically, in the biggest house, which definitely belonged to the clan head.

I could smell her from the entrance.

"Who’s there?" she perked up from behind a book when she heard the door shift.

I didn’t bother sneaking. Just walked right up, stopped in the doorway, and gave a nice, polite meow.

Blonde Tornado immediately launched herself at me.

"Oh my gosh, Tora-chan! What are you doing here? Where’s Naruto and Sasuke? Why are you so wet? You must be starving, poor baby!"

She was firing off questions faster than I could blink.

Finally, I just lifted a single, mud-covered paw.

That shut her up.

"You… came here by yourself?" she asked, eyes widening.

I nodded.

"Did something happen to Naruto and Sasuke?" she pressed, voice rising in alarm.

I shook my head.

"They’re on a mission?"

I nodded again.

"Do you wanna stay with me for now?"

She had the deduction skills of a detective.

Another nod.

She beamed, scooping me up into her arms.

"Tora-chan! This is amazing! I always wanted a kitty! I’m gonna dry you off, clean your little paws, and feed you something warm. You’re so smart for finding me!"

I yawned, already feeling exhaustion settle in.

Kakashi had absolutely run us into the ground with that forced march.

Between that and the all-nighters in Ryu, I was running on empty.

And honestly? Ino’s plan sounded perfect.

Step one: Get fed.

Step two: Pass out.

Step three: Process all the insane crap that just happened in Ryu.

[Castling] Chapter 61

On the last Sunday of the month, when we were finally let out of the castle, I picked up some walnut halva in Hogsmeade, a pack of good tea, and went to visit Percy—to congratulate him on making it through his first month of teaching.

From what I’d heard, the first-years actually liked his lessons, though they all agreed he was strict and not someone you wanted to annoy. They had a point—push Percy too far, and he’d launch into a two-hour lecture on morals that would make you want to crawl under a rock from sheer embarrassment.

A few of the first-years would do their homework in our common room, chatting excitedly as they pored over pictures and solved riddles with encoded dates. Instead of boring old tests, they did crossword puzzles and word games, even put together group essays—each student getting a piece of the assignment before piecing it all together like a report with drawings and everything. Honestly, I almost felt jealous that History of Magic hadn’t been taught like that when we were younger.

Percy’s new quarters were right next to his office on the second floor—used to be Binns’ before he, well… died and moved into the staff room in his free time. The place was small but tidy—a cosy sitting room with a fireplace, a tiny bedroom, and a bathroom. Not bad for a bachelor. He even had his own personal house-elf. Now, Snape and Flitwick had much bigger quarters, but they were Heads of House. At least Percy had a big window, and it wasn’t damp or stuffy like the dungeons.

He was actually happy to see me, which wasn’t something I expected. He was all flustered and bustling about, and I felt kind of bad for him. He wasn’t used to being on his own without the family backing him up, and I reckoned he was terrified of messing up and disappointing everyone. But apart from Ginny, I was the only one he was really glad to see.

The twins? They’d completely fallen out with him within a week. They refused to take him seriously as a teacher, still treating him like their overly patient, ever-forgiving older brother. They’d show up at all hours, hammering on his door, demanding permission for the Restricted Section. They got pissed when he caught them out after curfew and docked points. They ignored his detentions. Basically, they were being utter prats.

Percy got so fed up with their antics that he had to involve Mum, Dad, and Dumbledore. After a private talk with the Headmaster, the twins finally backed off—but completely cut him off too. Wouldn’t talk to him, scowled whenever his name came up, like he was the one who’d betrayed them. Even me and Ginny got side-eyed for still visiting him.

And Percy was hurt by it. He wouldn’t admit it, but I could see it. Still, he tried not to make it sound like complaints—just… explaining things. Luckily, we moved on to school talk, and he started brightening up again.

"I’ve figured out the biggest flaw in Hogwarts’ education system, Ron," he declared dramatically, putting down his tea and gesturing so wildly I was sure he’d knock the cup over. He’d been going on for an hour, and at this point, my brain was drowning in information, my stomach bloated from tea.

"Muggle-born students need to learn the basics before they even set foot in Hogwarts! It’s like one kid already knows how to read, and the other hasn’t even seen letters before, yet they’re taught the same way, on one programme. I’ve already requested approval for a pre-Hogwarts elective for Muggle-borns. What do you think? Did I jump the wand on that?" He shot me a worried look.

"They come to you with questions anyway," I shrugged. "Might as well give them proper hours for it, or you’ll never get a break."

"I’ve been considering writing a book, Ron," Percy mused. "Something small, like a Ministry pamphlet. No dates or big events, just the essentials. You wouldn’t believe how many Muggle-borns think robes are just oversized nightgowns, or that flying a broom is some primitive medieval nonsense. I think it should be given to Muggle-born first-years before they even get to Diagon Alley."

"Good start," I nodded. "But if you ever do turn it into a full book, make it bright, fun. Add pictures, puzzles, maybe even some handwriting practice with a quill—something for younger kids, to get them used to it. The flashier it is, the more likely they’ll actually read it. But don’t rush anything, yeah? The Ministry might not love you poking the system. Feel it out first. No need to get Dumbledore in trouble over it, or ruin your own career before it’s even started."

"You’re right," Percy said, nodding thoughtfully. "But there’s so much I want to do… so much to fix. Once you see the flaws, you can’t unsee them."

"Percy, you’ve been teaching for a month," I snorted into my tea. "Slow down. If the system’s broken, it’s because someone likes it that way. So work on building your own reputation first—then you can change things. At least wait until you’ve graduated your first class before trying to take over the world."

I pulled out a small package and slid it across the table. "Here. Luna sent you this. A dreamcatcher. She says you probably don’t sleep well."

Percy blinked, clearly thrown, but took it carefully. "Er… tell her thanks, Ron."

Then, as if just remembering I had my own life, he hesitated. "How are you doing? My first salary’s coming in tomorrow, and I could give you five Galleons towards a new dress robe. Sorry it’s not more—most of my pay’s going towards supplies right now. The Ministry hasn’t approved them yet, so I have to cover the costs myself. And… well, now that I’m working, it feels weird asking Mum and Dad for help."

"Thanks, Perce," I smiled, pushing my cup forward so he could top it up. "But don’t worry—I’ve already found a robe, and I can afford it."

"And how’s Harry?" Percy asked, pouring more tea. "I heard something about Hermione—"

Hermione, in true Hermione fashion, had gone all in on the house-elf issue. She’d combed through the entire library, even made badges—actual enchanted badges. The moment she walked into the common room one evening, looking smug and self-satisfied, I knew we were in trouble.

Hermione didn’t do things by halves. Now, house-elves were about to get salaries, weekends off, and eventually—if she had her way—full-blown freedom and wands.

"Look, Hermione," I said after she’d rushed through her impassioned speech, "I get why you’re doing this, but I can’t sign up for it—not the way you’re going about it."

Harry, on the other hand? He just sighed, gave up, and bought the damn badge to shut her up.

"What are you on about?" Hermione frowned.

"Look, I'm happy to send a petition to Dumbledore asking him to ban the use of spells on house-elves in class, but I'm absolutely against freeing them, giving them wands, and all the rest of that nonsense—weekends off, holidays, salaries…"

"Nonsense?" Hermione snapped. "Since when did freedom and basic human rights become ‘nonsense’ to you, Ron Weasley?!"

"Exactly, Hermione. Basic human rights. But elves aren't human," I said evenly. "And you’re trying to force human values onto a race that doesn’t even want them—without actually understanding how they live. And meanwhile, you’ve made yourself the laughing stock of the whole school. Personally, I’ve got no interest in taking part in this doomed farce."

"All beings—humans and creatures alike—are equal!" she declared stubbornly. "They all have a right to freedom and equal treatment!"

"Right. So, let’s hand goblins wands and give them the right to kill wizards, then?" I shot back.

"Don’t twist my words," she retorted. "Goblins aren’t helpless, but house-elf slavery has been going on for centuries."

"It’s not slavery—it’s a symbiotic relationship," I said. "One that’s kept both wizards and elves alive. If you break that balance, someone’s going to end up dead—either us or them."

"And how, exactly, did you come to that ridiculous conclusion?" Hermione demanded, getting to her feet. "You’re just being narrow-minded and prejudiced, Ron. I’ve known that for ages, but I’ve tried to ignore it. But you keep proving me right."

"Hang on a second, Hermione," Harry interjected before she could go off on a full rant. "You were in the kitchens with us, yeah? Did any of them look unhappy? Did they complain about their lives?"

"They're conditioned to be obedient and dependent," Hermione said irritably. "They've never known any other way of life."

"Alright," I said, taking advantage of the pause. "Let’s put emotions aside and talk facts, yeah? What do you actually know about house-elves?"

"I know they live on a magical source and feed off magic," she answered instantly, then added bitterly, "And I know they're powerless slaves. Their masters can do whatever they want to them without consequence."

"Well, we’ve clearly been reading different books," I muttered.

"I've read every book on the subject in the library," Hermione snapped. "I doubt you've read more than me."

"More doesn’t always mean enough," I countered. "Now, how about you listen for once, like I listened to you, and then you can argue? House-elves are rare in the magical world. They're born from a new magical source, and their numbers depend on its strength. They feed off the source’s magic—but only when they're working. If they sit around doing nothing, they don’t get magic. Over time, they weaken, they get sick, they age, and eventually, they die. That’s why they’re so eager to work all the time. So tell me, Hermione—what do you think will happen to them if you force them to take days off?"

"That can’t be true," she said stubbornly. "I didn’t find anything like that in any of the books I read."

"I’ll write down the name of the one book I did read," I said calmly, not wanting to get into another shouting match. "Now, let’s move on. Elves are at their strongest when they feed off the magic that created them. They can absorb magic from another source, but it’ll never feel right—it won’t fit them. That’s why even changing owners is traumatic for them, let alone being freed—"

"If that’s true, then freedom would kill them," Harry murmured, glancing at Hermione, who still looked sceptical.

"And your whole idea about wands is rubbish," I continued. "They’ve already got more raw magical power than most wizards—without wands. And honestly, who knows what’d happen if the old agreements didn’t bind them? Try pissing off a house-elf, and see what happens. They won’t kill you, but they’ll make your life hell. They’ll polish the floor just right, so you slip and accidentally crack your head open on a table corner. I’m exaggerating, but you cannot underestimate them. They twist their masters’ words and commands like a bloody Niffler working a lock."

"Blimey," Harry muttered. "Should’ve seen that coming, though—Dobbie nearly killed me a few times, and he was trying to help."

"Bottom line, Hermione," I sighed, "you jumped the wand on this one. I get why you got upset seeing how Moody treated that elf. It made me uncomfortable too. But think about it—he didn’t actually hurt it, not any more than the Ministry hurt that poor Muggle groundskeeper at the Cup when they Obliviated him. House-elves are valuable—you can’t just make new ones. And sure, some wizards are bastards to them, but those cases? We’d never hear about them. In the end, an elf will always choose its source and master, even if that master’s a right git, over you and your useless ‘freedom’."

Hermione was silent for a long moment before sniffing and scooping up her badge and the bit of parchment I’d written the book title on. "I can’t argue with you right now, Ron," she said stiffly. "But once I’ve done my own research, we will have this conversation again."

A week later, I signed the petition to Dumbledore, same as everyone else. But we never talked about house-elves again. Hermione knew how to end an argument when she wanted to.

The day before the foreign guests arrived, the castle was a madhouse. Everyone had completely lost the plot. Even the normally unshakable professors—Flitwick, McGonagall—were on edge. And then McGonagall, of all people, went full Snape on Neville, just with a please tacked on:

"Longbottom, please, I beg you—do not attempt any magic in front of the Durmstrang students. If you botch even a basic transfiguration, it’ll be a disaster and bring eternal shame on Hogwarts."

I’d been at this school for years, and even I didn’t realise that one person could apparently represent the entire school. Neville, poor sod, went red as a tomato.

Meanwhile, Snape was his usual snide self, barely drawing breath between insults.

By this point, I’d gotten into the habit of asking him about Moody every week or so.

"As always, Weasley, nothing’s changed. The object of your undivided attention continues to wander his office, eat his meals, and teach his classes," Snape said with a smirk the day before the guests were set to arrive. "He has yet to transform into Crouch in any way, shape, or form. But, not to sound prophetic or steal any of your dream-induced glory, tomorrow, we will undoubtedly see Crouch appear on the map. And beyond it, too. I guarantee it."

What a snide Slytherin git.

Still, the castle-wide frenzy did have its advantages. Hogwarts had been scrubbed from top to bottom, every corridor scoured, even the gaps between the flagstones stuffed to stop the tapestries from swaying in the drafts. The place had a festive feel—looked as clean as Christmas.

On the 30th of October, lessons finished half an hour early, and by six, we were all lined up outside in our House groups. Thankfully, Ravenclaw was stationed next to Gryffindor, so I discreetly pulled Luna closer while Padma slipped over to Parvati and Lavender. No one noticed.

The evening was cold but clear, no rain. Still, it was bloody freezing, and even our enchanted cloaks weren’t much help. Fortunately, Hermione had taught us some warming charms over the summer, so we weren’t suffering too much.

The carriage appeared first, silhouetted against the moonlight, its dozen massive horses looking like something out of a Christmas card.

"Ho-ho-ho…" Harry and I muttered in unison, glancing at each other under our breath, drawing snickers from Hermione and the other Muggle-borns. McGonagall, however, was having none of it and silenced us with a sharp glare.

Madame Maxime was massive—even taller than Hagrid by a head. She was impressive, no denying that—elegant, well-groomed—but not Hagrid’s type. Even if there were no other half-giants in the world, I still wouldn’t have bet on it.

We barely spared her a glance, though; we were too busy gawking at her students. Stunning girls, all of them—long legs, curvy figures—the wind plastered their delicate blue robes to their bodies in a way that was very easy on the eyes. But they looked terrified, casting wary glances at the castle like they’d just arrived for an Azkaban tour instead of an inter-school tournament. Probably thought we were a bunch of barbaric lunatics living in a fortress.

Not that we had time to keep staring—the Beauxbatons lot were quickly ushered inside before they froze solid in their silk and lace.

Then the ship rose from the depths. Now that was something. Looked like it had sailed straight out of Pirates of the Caribbean.

The Durmstrang boys were massive—all built like Goyle and Crabbe, except taller and meaner. More like a trained militia than students. Wouldn’t have been surprised if they weren’t actually schoolboys at all—who even let students play for their country? But Krum… Krum had every girl in Hogwarts practically swooning.

As for Karkaroff? Didn’t like him one bit—looked like Malfoy Sr., but oily. The type you wouldn’t turn your back on. But whatever, not my problem. Was still mad interesting seeing people I’d only ever read about.

By the time the Durmstrang lot had disembarked, even with warming charms, the cold was biting. And we were starving. So we herded inside behind our guests, eager to get warm and fed.

Inside, under proper lighting, the Beauxbatons girls looked even more stunning—but their expressions said it all. They were not impressed. Not thrilled to be here, by the looks of it. Probably why they all but bolted back to their carriage after dinner.

The Durmstrang boys, on the other hand, seemed delighted—like they’d been living in barracks and eating gruel their whole lives. They ogled the golden plates, admired the floating candles, stared wide-eyed at the enchanted ceiling like they’d just walked into a palace.

Then Dumbledore gave his speech, the food appeared, and honestly? That was it—forget the guests. French cuisine didn’t do much for me—I only really liked grilled tiger prawns or straight-up fish. But there were these potato-and-meat things baked in some kind of sauce, and they were brilliant.

"Be so kind, please—pass ze bouillabaisse!" a voice purred near my ear.

I turned. A gorgeous blonde stood beside me.

I barely had time to process before Hermione slammed the bowl into her hands and spun back around, looking absolutely livid. Meanwhile, Harry and I just watched the girl go, our eyes inevitably drawn to the way her hips swayed as she walked.

"What was that about?" Harry asked in a hushed voice once the girl was gone.

"They’re insufferable," Hermione hissed. "Prancing around like they’re something special. We went mad cleaning the castle, and all they do is complain. It’s too cold, the food’s not right—honestly! What did they expect? They came to Scotland in nightgowns, and somehow we’re the problem?"

"Come on, Hermione," I said, grinning. "They’re just guests."

"Exactly," she snapped. "Which means they should have manners."

I didn’t argue—I was too full. I barely forced down the last of my dessert before the plates vanished.

Then, just as I was about to relax, two more familiar faces appeared at the High Table—Ludo Bagman and Mr. Crouch.

Dumbledore introduced them and explained the tournament rules. The moment he mentioned the age restriction, half the school erupted in protests. But they soon quieted when the Goblet of Fire was brought out.

"The Goblet will remain here, in the Entrance Hall, so all students may view it," Dumbledore announced. "Those who wish to participate must sign up with their Head of House. Tomorrow evening, before dinner, the candidates will assemble here and place their names into the Goblet in an orderly manner. The rest of the school will wait here to witness the selection. I will be placing powerful enchantments around the Goblet—so do not attempt to bypass them, because you will fail."

His eyes twinkled as they landed on the twins.

‘Thank Merlin Snape’s kept an eye on Moody, and Dumbledore’s actually taking things seriously for once,’ I thought, following the others back to Gryffindor Tower. ‘Maybe—just maybe—this year won’t be a complete disaster for Harry.’

Daily Updates (04/02/25)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 78

• Tier 2: Chapter 83

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 45

• Tier 2: Chapter 50

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 49

• Tier 2: Chapter 54

[Life is Good] Chapter 54

As I said—this was a brilliant idea.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself as we stood at an intersection of underground tunnels, silently staring at three possible paths.

Petra had realized the problem the moment we got down here and saw multiple routes branching off, but now, with three ways ahead of us, the issue was glaring.

We took turns glancing at each passage and saying absolutely nothing.

Me? I didn’t trust myself not to be sarcastic.

Parker? She was actually trying to think of a solution.

And Gwen? No idea—either she was thinking too, or she just didn’t want to say something that would make her friend feel worse.

"I say we go straight," Petra finally offered hesitantly.

"Doesn’t really matter which way we go—it’s all a guessing game at this point, Spider," I sighed, accepting that I should stop my little silent protest. Acting like a sulky kid wasn’t going to help. Neither muttered complaints nor shutting up entirely would magically give us a map.

I took another long look at each tunnel, lighting up every crack and crevice in search of any clue.

"We’re probably looking for something smart," I continued. "There was no blood up top, no sign of a struggle. That means our missing dealer—whether she’s alive or dead—was taken cleanly. And unless one of you has a map of these tunnels…"

I trailed off, already guessing the answer as the girls exchanged looks.

With a sigh, I pulled out my phone. The signal was weak, but I managed to load something that vaguely resembled a map. Too bad it was full of cryptic symbols and notes that meant absolutely nothing to me.

So, for the next ten minutes, we debated where the hell we even were.

Eventually, I gave up and melted some arrows into the walls, marking where we came from. Not too deep, just enough to be noticeable if you knew where to look.

Sure, there were exits to the surface, but having breadcrumbs down here? Not the worst idea.

We pushed forward, taking the middle tunnel without turning.

I quietly hummed an old tune from my past life—something about a space marine crashing into a guy’s girlfriend.

Yeah, I did miss some of the music from back then. A lot of the stuff I loved didn’t exist in this world—and probably never would.

Petra and Gwen stayed silent, scanning our surroundings for anything useful. My singing wasn’t exactly appreciated—probably because they couldn’t understand the lyrics and because I had a voice like a drunk, forty-year veteran janitor who smoked too much and sang too loud at karaoke.

If my life was a fanfic, I’d have a deep, velvety voice. Powerful, commanding—hell, I’d be beating enemies with the sheer force of my vocals.

Instead, I was stuck at the level of Ivan the Boozed-Up Groundskeeper.

I was mid-lyric—"How could you, Space Marine, crush my love?"—when I spotted a heat signature just around the next corner.

A human body.

Not moving.

I placed a hand on each girl’s shoulder and whispered, "There’s someone up ahead. They’re not moving. Just barely hit my range. Move quietly. If I spot anyone else, I’ll let you know."

We crept forward, carefully stepping over the damp ground.

At first, I thought they might just be asleep or unconscious.

But compared to the heat signatures of living people?

Nope.

This person—presumably our missing dealer—was cooling down.

Her outline was already duller than Parker and Gwen’s, and the area where her body touched the cold floor was noticeably cooler.

So, yeah.

No surprises when we turned the corner and found a corpse.

The girls, however, took a few seconds to process before they launched into a synchronized performance of The Aria of Vomiting.

I politely looked away while they lifted their masks and emptied their stomachs.

Yeah, okay. Not unexpected. The stench was horrible, and the sight wasn’t much better.

The woman—who probably wasn’t a stunner even before death—looked horrific.

Even I was a little nauseous, though not as much as them. Guess my experiences at Stryker’s base had dulled my reaction to corpses.

Not exactly a pleasant thought, but hey—it helped.

Crouching, I examined the body closely.

A stick—no, a stake—was lodged in her eye, and her throat was a shredded mess. Multiple deep cuts turned her neck into something resembling deli meat.

As for the stake?

Yeah. I had nothing. Just a random stick, best I could tell.

"Salamander," Petra’s strained voice broke the silence behind me.

Judging by the continued gagging sounds, Stacy still wasn’t doing great.

"Why?!"

"Why what?" I asked, glancing back.

"Why kill her? And like this? The drugs were still upstairs…" There was confusion, disgust, and horror in her voice.

"She was dead before her throat got sliced open," I pointed out, gesturing toward the corpse. "Look at the blood—or lack of it. With her throat cut like that, there should be a fountain. Instead, there’s barely a puddle. What does that tell you?"

"That… she was killed with the stake first? But there should still be more blood!"

“Exactly. She was eaten, Spider—more precisely, drained.” I raised a finger for emphasis. “And around here, there are only two kinds of sapients that ‘suck’ like that: Aquaman and vampires.”

"Who the hell is Aquaman?" Gwen finally spoke up, her voice shaky and distant.

Oh, poor girl. Welcome to the real hero experience. No censorship here.

“A fictional character. A superhero, fish fucker, ichthyo-phile, gill-lover.’” I shrugged indifferently. “Read about him somewhere on the internet.”

"Fish-fucker? What?" Silk sounded completely thrown off.

I was just about to launch into a dumb joke when Parker cut in, voice rising in a furious whisper.

"Are you seriously talking about some pervert when there’s a corpse right here?!"

"Chill," I held up a hand. "I wasn’t joking about the vampire thing. And just so you know, I’m keeping my energy vision up at all times—ten-meter range, so keep alert, too."

She crossed her arms but stayed quiet, so I continued.

"Listen—this body was alive not even half an hour ago. Then, something dragged her underground, sprinted straight through these tunnels, drained her dry, shoved a stake in her eye, shredded her neck, and left her here for the rats."

I gave her a pointed look.

"Now tell me—who else needs blood and would go out of their way to hide a bite mark by turning the neck into ground beef? And, side note—the rats? They’ll probably start with that spot first. Since, y'know. Fresh meat."

A simultaneous, deeply disgusted "Ew."

Gwen turned away and clamped a hand over her mouth, mask lifted slightly. Petra copied her, full-body shudder included. 

I patiently waited. And, surprisingly, Silk was the first to speak again.

"How the hell can you talk about so nasty so casually?" She jabbed a finger at me, her voice rising with indignation. "You're a guy!"

"Uh… yeah? And?" I raised an eyebrow. "Look, I’ve seen some shit. This?—" I gestured toward the corpse. "—This isn’t even the worst of it, trust me. And you should get used to it. Patrolling the city isn’t just rooftop gymnastics and punching bad guys—it’s bodies, blood, and filth. So I’d recommend not romanticizing this gig too much."

"You don’t even care that someone was murdered?" Petra’s voice had that judgmental edge that really started to piss me off.

"First of all, she’s already dead," I said, a little sharper than I intended. "If I could have helped her, I would have. Second, she was probably a drug dealer—selling poison to anyone with cash. Gangsters, scumbags, kids, pregnant women. Yeah, the buyers aren’t saints either, but I’m not about to mourn the loss of someone making a living off ruining lives. I used to believe in that ‘just following orders’ crap too—until some of those ‘just doing their job’ types beat a ten-year-old to death right in front of me. So no, I’m not about to sit here and cry over the tragic circumstances that led to her making bad choices. Don’t ask me to."

"Tobias?!" Gwen suddenly gasped. "It is you, isn’t it?! I saw you on TV! That whole thing with the lab! And you know Spider because you were classmates! And you’re a mutant!"

…Well.

Shit.

So much for a secret identity, huh?

How the hell did comic book heroes manage to keep theirs? Clark Kent got away with just glasses and a different haircut! How!?

"Not here, Silk. Not now." I exhaled, rubbing my temples. "Masks on, we use codenames. Who knows who’s lurking in the dark just beyond my range, listening in? Let’s deal with the actual problem first—the body. And just so we’re clear, we’re not catching that vampire. They probably just dragged their dinner down here, had their meal, and booked it."

"Sal, vampires don’t exist," Petra groaned.

"Oh sure they don’t," I scoffed. "Mutants exist. Girls with super strength exist. Venom is out there eating people, supervillains with magic powers are running wild, there’s a flaming skeleton cruising around on a demonic Harley—but vampires? Nooo, that’s too ridiculous. You’ve completely convinced me, Spider. Bravo.

"Now, let’s head up. I’ll call the cops—we shouldn’t be touching a crime scene anyway."

Thankfully, no one argued this time.

We made our way back in silence. Gwen was lost in thought, probably freaking out over unmasking me. Not that it mattered—my secret identity had the lifespan of a cigarette near a gas leak.

Honestly, this was my own damn fault.

I talked too much. People listen. They connect dots. Just slapping on a mask and changing my voice wasn’t enough—not when people had, you know, brains.

Petra, though…

She was mad.

I could feel it in her posture, in the stiff way she walked.

I sighed, sped up a little, and tapped her shoulder.

"Spider, don’t be mad, okay? This sewer is putting me in a shit mood." I tried to soften my tone. "I’m sorry I was acting like a dick. I know you want to help people, but sometimes… it’s just not possible."

She sighed heavily but didn’t pull away. Instead, she put a hand over mine.

"It’s fine," she said, and—surprisingly—her voice was warm. "I just… I hate that we were too late. That we couldn’t help."

She fell quiet for a few beats, then added, "Sal, I get where you’re coming from. It’s enough to know that you would have helped if you could. Expecting you to feel the same way I do… that’d just be selfish. Your attitude still rubs me the wrong way, but I get that you have your own way of looking at things."

Huh.

Props to Parker.

I was expecting more scolding, more righteous fury, more attempts to fix my morally grey ass.

Instead, she was just… accepting it.

And honestly?

I respected those that respected other’s opinions even if they disagreed.

When the two girls and their masked tagalong finally vanished into the night, the crime scene fell silent once more.

Then, from the shadows, came the softest sound of footsteps.

Had anyone been able to see through the pitch-black tunnels, they would have spotted a small figure—no older than fourteen—stepping toward the corpse.

Her delicate face was twisted in irritation and mild disgust.

She was wearing a light, powder-blue dress—far too thin for the underground chill—draped over narrow shoulders. Long, silky black hair tumbled down her back. And in the gloom, her red eyes glowed like embers.

Dried blood crusted around her lips, staining her chin. The front of her dress was splattered with dark patches—doing nothing to improve her already foul mood.

Wrinkling her nose at the lingering stench, she let out a small, frustrated sigh before gripping the corpse by the ankle.

With zero visible effort, she dragged the body deeper into the tunnels.

There were places ahead where she could hide it—let the rats strip the flesh away properly.

She shouldn’t have played with her food.

It was stupid.

A dumb little game, scaring the woman for fun—delaying the feeding just because she could.

That idiotic mistake had almost cost her.

She had slipped. And the woman had time to scream.

And then—of course—the damn heroes had shown up.

Good thing she had sensed them coming—three bright, pulsing signatures of life, one of them laced with something strange. Something… unsettling. Alluring.

She just barely got away.

In the end however, she had to flee into the reeking sewer with her catch, leaving the manhole only half-closed in her rush. 

As her friend Marisha would say, relying on “it’ll be fine” didn’t work out, and those three ended up following her down there. 

Luckily, she felt them approaching again and tried to hide her trail.

Any blood left behind would only spur them on, so she decided to abandon the corpse. There was no one to save, no one to chase, and the darkness would keep her secret.

Hiding deeper in the tunnels, too far for the light coming from the boy to reach her, she had listened. She had watched. And she had learned something new.

Salamander—the boy in the mask—knew about her kind.

That was surprising. As was the absolute blasphemy coming out of his mouth. Equating noble predators with some perverted fishman?

Utterly disgraceful.

And his entire attitude—so flippant, so crude. It was offensive. In her time, men had been far more refined. More dignified. More proper.

The girl let out an indignant huff, then immediately winced at the choking stench around her.

She hated strong smells, loud noises, bright lights. Everyone in the nest knew to stay quiet around her and to avoid wearing strong perfume. A vampire’s senses were delicate—far superior to a human’s, but also far more sensitive. It was both a gift and a curse. Eavesdropping on conversations was effortless, but so was suffering through the absolute filth of the world’s worst smells.

In the end, however? Things hadn’t gone too badly tonight.

She had her fun and got a good look at the object of romantic daydreams for one fifth of the brood.

The boy was interesting, she’d give him that. He was the source of that strange feeling she’d picked up earlier—his life force didn’t feel like that of a regular human. Not even like the other mutants she’d encountered.

And then there was the way he’d examined the corpse—completely calm, just thinking, making logical conclusions. The fact that he’d outright said he wasn’t about to shed a tear for some dead drug dealer? She liked that.

Sure, officially, the nest disapproved of those who hunted humans. But the truth was, as long as you weren’t a mindless glutton devouring people left and right, the worst you got was a finger wag and a stern lecture. Clean up after yourself, don’t be reckless, and it was all fine. And his attitude? Almost identical to her own.

She grinned to herself. Just yesterday, she’d been the one scolding one of her fledglings for hunting irresponsibly, and now here she was, doing the same damn thing.

A predator needed to hunt.

But she just shouldn’t have played with her food.

She was almost discovered, carelessly handled covering her tracks, and if it had been Spider or Silk, by themselves, they might have taken the body. Luckily, their man knew how to think. So she gotten lucky, but that was a fluke.

If anyone else in the nest had made a mistake like this, she’d have broken their damn legs herself—at least twice.

So yeah, no one was going to hear about this little misstep. Not even Marisha.

She’d die of shame otherwise—no sunlight required.

Speaking of Marisha… she needed to check out this Tobias guy from TV. It would be hilarious if she discovered who Salamander really was. Her friend, who ran the Salamander fan club in the nest, would be gnawing her slippers from sheer envy.

But as for tracking him down? Sending anyone after him? No. That’d be stupid. Hunting heroes was the fastest way to ruin the peace they had in the shadows.

That fat bastard Kingpin had already stirred up enough trouble, putting out that damn bounty.

Now they all had to be extra careful.

She wasn’t about to make things worse with some dumb idea.

…Though later, she was going to Google this ‘Aquaman’ guy.

Something told her she’d regret it.

But she’d be lying if she said curiosity wasn’t both her greatest weakness and biggest thrill.

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 50

To say that the hero Goldmask didn’t inspire confidence was an understatement. He looked as if he had burned alive at least five times and spent most of his life (and possibly death) on a diet of pure Erdtree rays.

Standing on the ruined bridge, he silently gazed into the distance, towards the towering Erdtree, lost in thought.

The only reason Kosta even remotely understood why Corhyn held the revered hero in such high regard was the simple fact that Goldmask was, without a doubt, a true tryhard. Perhaps the true tryhard, unlike Kosta, who had inevitably drowned in all the vices of Soulslike games.

After all, Goldmask wandered the world practically naked, clad only in a thin golden ornament that concealed absolutely nothing. And unlike Kosta, who had long since grown accustomed to wearing clothes most of the time, Goldmask had no intention of ever changing his ways.

Who was he, if not the most faithful adherent to the ideals of tryharding?

"Goldmask!" Corhyn’s voice trembled with barely restrained emotion under his blindfold. "It’s really you! This is an honor! But what am I saying, my name is—"

"…"

Goldmask, his finger still pointing off toward the Erdtree, made the faintest movement(1).

"Oh, so you already know about me!" Corhyn nearly broke into tears.

What disturbed Konstantin the most in this entire situation was that he, somehow, could also subconsciously interpret meaning from the man’s finger movements.

Apparently, prolonged exposure to the Primeval Casual had left its mark.

Unfortunately, Kosta hadn’t come here to observe the movement of Goldmask’s finger—he had come to speak with him. Or rather, at him. Probably.

"Goldmask—"

"Konstantin!" Corhyn nearly shrieked. "You're interrupting Goldmask’s divine contemplations!"

Goldmask’s finger subtly altered its trajectory.

He had absolutely no problem with the Tarnished speaking.

"Ah!" The priest immediately lowered his head. "I lost myself in the moment… I’m so sorry…"

Of course, Corhyn hadn’t forgotten who Kosta was, or that it was him who had first planted the seeds of doubt in his heart. But Goldmask was supposed to be the one to dispel them. The revered hero, the one who understood the Golden Order better than anyone else.

Seeing that the priest wasn’t going to interfere anymore, Kosta spoke again.

"My name is Konstantin. Kosta is fine."

"…"

"I want to discuss lore with you."

"…"

Goldmask was clearly giving him his full attention.

Kosta fell silent for a brief moment, then—perhaps for dramatic effect—he enacted the principle of regression.

"Radagon is Marika(2)."

"…!"

Goldmask’s finger trembled uncontrollably. Brother Corhyn, as if hearing something truly forbidden, stood frozen, mouth agape.

Kosta raised an eyebrow, surprised by the intensity of their reaction.

"Easy with the finger movements, I haven’t even gotten to the lore-theorist speculations yet…"

Unfortunately for Goldmask and Corhyn, this was only the beginning of what Konstantin had to say.

The history of Queen Marika’s ascension had been buried beneath centuries of secrecy, but no one had ever bothered to warn Kosta about that—so he had no problem laying it all out.

He spoke of where the Goddess had been born and why she had come to despise the Omenborn.

He spoke of who the Lands Between had worshiped before the Goddess and how the Omenborn were connected to the dragons.

He spoke of the sacrifice Marika had made to become a Goddess.

He spoke of how she waged war afterward, ensuring that faith in the Erdtree spread and took root throughout the Lands Between.

And he spoke of the Ages—the era when the Erdtree was at the height of its power, and the era when it had begun to wither.

Without even realizing it, Kosta had just spoken more heresy in a single conversation than the Lands Between had heard in centuries.

At first, the two followers of the Golden Order, their eyes wide, tried to listen and comprehend what he was saying. But by the end…

Corhyn was kneeling, blindfold removed, staring at the Erdtree as if seeing it for the first time. Goldmask’s finger had stopped moving.

"There’s a theory," Kosta continued, his tone as neutral as ever, "that the real Erdtree burned down long ago(3). What we see now is an illusion. The Golden Lineage has always been known for its illusions."

He would verify this later. But honestly, even without confirmation, he was already fairly certain it was true.

Konstantin turned to the illusion of the commoner who had been following them, locking eyes with it. The cursed child of the Goddess saw no hatred in the Tarnished’s gaze—only respect.

And that only made the rage burn hotter.

Morgott’s projection, having listened to everything from beginning to end, was on the verge of madness.

Yes! Their illusions were flawless, may the Greater Will bear witness! But right now, this acknowledgment felt more like mockery!

What he had always prided himself on was being turned against him—not as an attack on the Golden Lineage, not as an insult, but simply… as a historical fact. And somehow, that made it even worse.

Now he understood why Melina had chosen to betray them. The root of the problem was this arrogant Tarnished, this outsider who had brought a new Outer God into their world. One who dared to place himself on the level of their Goddess. One who sought to destroy what they had worked so hard to build.

Then again, wasn’t it they who had let the Lands Between deteriorate to this point?

And, most terrifying of all—what if the Tarnished’s words were…

…simply the cold, undeniable truth?

He, a child born with cursed attributes, had seen enough to recognize the accuracy in the Tarnished’s words. He understood his mother’s hatred—but to accept that…

Morgott exhaled, straightening his posture. He turned to Melina, who stood quietly at the side, watching the Tarnished.

The demigod was about to speak—but then, he noticed something.

On the girl’s left hand, on her ring finger, gleamed an old, worn-down ring.

His gaze sharpened so intensely that Melina, misinterpreting it slightly, blushed and hurriedly pulled her hood down further.

"I’ll send you an invitation to the ceremony, brother…"

Their relationship wasn’t that bad, after all. At the very least, they weren’t enemies—and as for other relatives…

Well, options were limited.

"…"

Morgott, feeling his projection fading, dismissed it.

All across Altus Plateau, the illusions began to dissipate—there was no point in keeping them anymore. The damned Tarnished, who had deluded himself into thinking he was equal to the Goddess, could see right through them anyway.

Let’s see how well he fared against a properly organized coalition of frightened lapdogs.

That said, compared to Brother Corhyn, Morgott’s dissipated projection was in fantastic condition. The priest was completely devastated. Before he had even begun to embrace Goldmask’s wisdom, he had already been shattered by the very man who had planted those seeds of doubt in the first place.

Seeds that had blossomed into an entire forest.

"Goldmask… Say something… Goldmask?"

To be fair, Kosta had gotten a bit carried away. At some point, he had stopped paying attention to Goldmask’s finger movements.

The hero stood completely motionless.

And it quickly became apparent why.

Goldmask—one of the most devoted followers of the Golden Order—had become so disillusioned with his faith that…

He had chosen to die.

His finger trembled one last time.

Then, the revered hero collapsed, lifeless.

A massive surge of runes flowed into the nearest accidental murderer of a legend, along with a Rune of Perfect Order(3), something akin to a Great Rune—capable of reshaping the world.

Kosta had just skipped an entire questline in one move.

He cleared his throat. The material illusion nearly disintegrated from the sheer energy influx—but it held.

"I… didn’t mean to…"

Melina averted her gaze from the corpse of the creature, whose body had been held together only by its unwavering faith in the perfection of the order created by her mother.

Fortunately, history was quite forgetful, and even if the spirits carried whispers of this incident, they would eventually fade.

At least, Melina hoped so.

"I see…"

Brother Corhyn, kneeling before the body of Goldmask… No, he had not gone mad(4). Instead, he let out a confused smile.

After all, the one he had wished to call his teacher had, in his final moments, asked him to follow the one who had killed him—even if unintentionally.

…It was unintentional, right?

"You sought me out for a reason, Konstantin? Everything you told me… What is it that you seek? Surely, you don’t mean for me to—"

"I need a specialist, someone knowledgeable in their craft, for my ending," Kosta responded calmly.

One could go a long way simply by praising the Sun—a symbol of hope and light that remained undimmed by the hundreds—no, thousands—of retries. After all, it was the unwavering belief that every boss would eventually fall.

Unfortunately, the Sun alone wouldn’t get far without preparation. If he truly intended to spread faith in the Sun, he needed to lay the groundwork.

"You want to grant me the power to dictate the laws?" Corhyn laughed nervously.

He had thought about it ever since he saw how Stormveil Castle had changed. He knew he could help this fledgling faith take root. But never had he expected that the one spreading his creed throughout the Lands Between would come to him for help.

Heresy. Absolute heresy. A scribe and a priest, one who had devoted his life to the Golden Order, who had spent most of his conscious existence studying its incantations, was now about to contribute to a new faith that would overthrow the current one.

And yet, considering what he had heard—the fact that their world was barely holding together anyway…

Corhyn’s laughter grew even more strained.

He began to feel as if this Tarnished possessed some manner of influence over the mind—some unseen force compelling him to submit, to believe. It was as though a shard of the Sun itself had taken root within him, filling him with light and hope.

A part of him wanted to just go mad. But somehow, he had the sinking feeling that this lunatic, now unrecognizable from their last encounter, wouldn’t let him surrender so easily.

Even the one he had wished to call his teacher had blessed Konstantin.

If the Golden Order was imperfect, then it simply needed to be made better—even if it ceased to be the Golden Order at all. And Corhyn could help make it better.

After all, as a Tarnished, hadn’t he always dreamed of aiding the future king in bringing order?

His dream had been twisted, turned inside out, and fulfilled to the absolute limit.

Perfectly in line with the setting.

"I don’t really have a choice, do I…" Corhyn exhaled, gradually calming himself. "But I alone won’t be enough, Konstantin. Or should I start addressing you as ‘Your Majesty’?"

Kosta frowned.

"Just Kosta is fine. I’ll take you to someone who can help."

"Huh?"

Konstantin’s illusionary projection grabbed Corhyn’s shoulder. The space around them twisted.

Corhyn blinked, disoriented. In an instant, the madman had transported him to a ruined temple where, seemingly indifferent to their sudden arrival…

A massive turtle, wearing a bishop’s hat, rested peacefully.

‘Who in the world put a hat on this turtle?!’ Corhyn’s eyes widened at the sight.

The massive turtle, however, seemed utterly unfazed by their appearance.

"Konstantin the Tarnished," the deep voice rumbled with amusement. "You have returned so soon…"

"I need to finish my main quests as soon as possible," Kosta’s projection replied with his usual deadpan tone.

Of course, Miriel(5) didn’t quite understand him fully, but he grasped the general idea. The bishop-turtle had heard the rumors, and the wandering sorcerer, Thops, had only found his way to him thanks to this strange Tarnished.

Miriel had long wanted to meet him, and it was no small surprise that this time, it was the Tarnished’s projection that had sought him out.

To ask for assistance in building a new order.

Perhaps even during the unforeseen union of Rennala and Radagon, things had not been this strange.

Would this Tarnished’s arrival prove to be a blessing or a curse? He couldn’t yet say.

At the very least, it wouldn’t be boring.

There were so few entertainments left in the Lands Between, after all.

"Ho-ho, of course, Konstantin!" Miriel agreed without hesitation. "Is this the one you spoke of?"

"Yes."

"Excellent! Welcome to the Church of Vows. I am Miriel, steward of these sacred halls. My apologies for the current… state of affairs."

"I already promised I’d help with the repairs," Kosta stated flatly.

Miriel gave no visible reaction, more focused on the priest standing before him.

"Are you familiar with the history of this place? How it came to be the Church of Vows?"

Brother Corhyn hesitated, scratching his head as he looked around.

Just moments ago, the man he had wished to call his master had died. And now, here he was in another place, meeting yet another eccentric figure.

And he still didn’t know what those copies of a simple commoner were supposed to be.

Though, truthfully… he wasn’t sure if he cared all that much anymore.

"Of course, I know of the Church of Vows… This is where the Houses of the Erdtree and the Moon were united…"

"Splendid!" the turtle beamed. "There are so few left who still remember this place…"

After the Shattering, that is…

Hearing such a genuine compliment from the Pastor of Vows made the priest shift uncomfortably.

The projection of Konstantin nodded, satisfied with the exchange between the priest and the turtle bishop.

"I have to go."

"Of course, Konstantin the Tarnished," Miriel responded kindly. "You still have much to do. And remember… celestial dew…"

Kosta blinked.

That sounded suspiciously like an accusation of betrayal, made in advance—along with a preemptive offer to wipe the slate clean.

In a way, it was the purest form of truth.

With that, the illusion vanished, leaving Corhyn alone with Miriel.

Naturally, the priest had to voice the question that had crossed the mind of every Souls player who had ever encountered this massive, benevolent, and highly suspicious turtle who just so happened to deal in universal sin absolution:

"…if you don’t mind me asking," Corhyn hesitated, forcing a smile. "Who put that hat on you…?"

It looked so strange.

"…"

Miriel remained silent for a long moment. Then, in the most gentle and reassuring tone, he simply said:

"…let us use celestial dew and forget this disagreement."

Corhyn blinked.

…He may have just stumbled upon something dangerous.

The Carian Study Hall. The stereotypical quiet girl’s favorite library spot—the one Konstantin should have visited long ago.

Honestly, the moment the Tarnished stepped past the threshold of the library, he realized just how thoroughly it had been saturated with casualization. If the sorcerers had their own hub, it would undoubtedly be the Carian Study Hall.

Konstantin had no idea how much time and effort had been spent turning the library into this bizarre spatial trap, and even less understanding of why one of the best waifus wanted him to go through it just to finally reach her real body, but…

Well, why not?

Kosta was grateful to Ranni for patiently waiting and watching, allowing him to take care of all his other business first.

"Strange that she isn’t nearby…" murmured Melina as she materialized. "I can’t believe she wouldn’t want to watch you brave this place in her name. Could it be that she…?"

Melina didn’t want to be in this library, period. The nature of her existence allowed her to perceive, better than most, just how unstable the space inside was. And the statue the Tarnished had received from the demigoddess certainly wasn’t going to make it more stable.

If anything, it would do the opposite.

"Ranni isn’t nearby," Kosta confirmed. "She’s probably run into some trouble."

She hadn’t been around back when he was defiling the Golden Order with heresy either—something the ever-curious demigoddess would have absolutely wanted to hear.

At times, Kosta found himself wondering if fate actually did exist. But in his mind, fate was more like pre-scripted events, ones prepared by the world itself—or something like that.

Unfortunately for fate, he didn’t give a damn about those scripts. He’d find out later how many phases fate had.

Melina blinked in surprise. She hadn’t seen her Tarnished particularly concerned about the doll.

No matter how much the witch annoyed her, it was obvious that Konstantin sympathized with her, and the demigoddess wasn’t opposed to that sympathy. Whether she wanted to or not, Melina had to accept it. She should have accepted it a long time ago.

Or… maybe not accept it, but at least not start unnecessary conflicts.

"I’ll handle this," Kosta added after a brief pause. “In the meantime, free Blaidd and knock him out. Don’t hand him over to Iji—take him straight to Stormveil Castle. I’ll explain everything a bit later. Trust me.”

Melina silently opened her mouth.

"Huh?"

Without explaining anything, Konstantin stepped toward her, grabbed her hand, and the false Finger Maiden suddenly felt herself being swept up by the currents of Grace, sent hurtling in an unknown direction.

She blinked in confusion, finding herself inside the spatial trap. It wasn’t a problem for her—but it was for others.

Looking around, the bewildered girl spotted a massive half-wolf, whining as he clawed at… well, distorted space. And rather successfully, too.

"Wooooo…"

"Blaidd?"

The half-wolf let out a startled whimper, turning his head toward Melina. Trapped within the sorcery, Blaidd didn’t recognize her—after all, he had never met the false Finger Maiden face to face.

"Who are you?"

Melina gazed at the pitiful half-wolf, slightly delayed in her reaction.

Her Tarnished must have been in a real hurry to ask her to handle this.

"I am Konstantin’s chosen maiden," she said calmly, drawing her blade.

She was only going to scare him a little.

The last thing the wide-eyed half-wolf saw was a girl bathed in the golden radiance of the Erdtree.

Who ever said that being freed from madness would be painless?

(1) The Goldmask, much like the Primeval Sorcerer Azur, does not speak. Despite the ability to “converse” with him. However, according to Brother Corhyn, the Goldmask is more than talkative—he simply communicates using his finger. Only his finger.

(2) Over the course of Goldmask’s quest, the player can learn the same incantation that Kosta already knows. This incantation must be used on a specific statue in Leyndell, revealing the terrible truth that Radagon is Marika. The player can then share this revelation with Corhyn and the (allegedly shocked, judging by his finger movements) Goldmask. Lore scholars still haven’t reached a consensus on whether Radagon and Marika were always one entity or if they merged later.

(3) Goldmask can indeed grant the player this rune, leading to the Age of Order ending. It’s unknown whether he created a pseudo-Great Rune himself or simply discovered one.

(4) During Goldmask’s quest, Corhyn either drinks the Tonic of Forgetfulness and wanders off into the mist, forgetting everything, or he fully descends into madness and dies at the end of the quest.

(5) Miriel, Pastor of Vows, is a merchant NPC who teaches both sorcery and incantations. While in a normal playthrough, the player meets Miriel much earlier, Kosta’s unconventional progression path meant that he was only now properly encountering the character.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 83

Saburo was here. Yorinobu too. That meant any second now…

"Lucy, disconnect now!" I ordered.

I remembered all too well what was coming next. The impending shitstorm included a full system-wide purge—every foreign netrunner in the hotel's network was about to get fried.

"No. Not until you’re out of there. That AV… it’s…"

"Yeah. You got it right. Get out!"

"What the fuck is going on?" Panam hissed in my ear.

"We're leaving," I said with as much confidence as I could manage—before immediately second-guessing myself. "If that's even still an option…"

How fast would the hotel go into full lockdown? Yorinobu was gonna strangle his old man in a matter of minutes, then sound the alarm. Just getting to the van, without our gear, would take us at least five. Shit. We were already out of time. Konpeki Plaza had just turned into a trap.

What now? Try to force our way through one of the security checkpoints? Looked like we had no choice.

"We’re moving," I told Panam.

"But the gear—"

"We're leaving! But grab the second bot and the controller."

With that, I stepped out into the hallway, scanning the empty stretch of corridor. Everything still seemed quiet. The chip was in a small pouch on my belt, secure for now.

"V, in the penthouse, right now, there’s—"

"Yeah, yeah, fuck ‘em. Lucy, get out—and before you go, set the cameras to record for a few seconds, then pull the plug! You hear me?!"

I reached the elevator, slamming the panel. Panam was right behind me, stuffing the bot into a black case. I could only hope we still had a shot at outrunning fate.

And as for Jackie… well, some people are born to drown, others to hang. Looked like he was the latter. I couldn’t help him now. Right now, I just had to focus on getting my own ass out of here in one piece.

"Fuck!" Lucy’s voice cracked through the comms, filled with sheer panic.

The Arasaka family drama had just reached its climax.

"He killed him, V. Just like that, he—"

"I don’t care! Get out! Right fucking now!"

Rage and helplessness crashed over me. Why wouldn’t she leave?! Her self-sacrificing bullshit was the last thing we needed right now. Why couldn’t she just listen?! Precious seconds were slipping away, melting like snowflakes on a scorching sidewalk. Any moment now, the storm would hit, and the whole world was gonna hear it.

INTERLUDE: YORINOBU ARASAKA

The elevator carried Yorinobu toward his fate. He would face it in the company of two of Night City’s finest—and simultaneously, its worst. Martinez had only just begun walking this path, but Adam Smasher? That title fit him perfectly.

Two massive figures stood behind the Arasaka heir. Two instruments of violence, primed and ready to serve.

Smasher had been swayed by the promise of another great war. As for David? Yorinobu’s sympathetic allies in security had deliberately boxed him in—restricted him, stifled him—until the young solo was gasping for air. And then, at just the right moment, Yorinobu had stepped in as his savior. Years among the gangs had taught him well—he knew how to manipulate people like Martinez.

And now, that knowledge would carry him to victory.

The elevator doors slid open to reveal the penthouse. Yorinobu stepped out first. Smasher and Martinez followed in silence.

The thieves? Already here. Yorinobu’s implants let him see them—two mercs thinking they were hidden behind smart glass. The glass? Smart. The mercs? Not so much. They could’ve at least made for the balcony and jumped. Where the hell had DeShawn dug up these idiots?

‘Like attracts like,’ Yorinobu thought with a smirk before addressing his AI assistant.

"Are they here yet?"

"They approach from the landing pad," the robotic voice responded.

‘Right on schedule.’ He let himself relax, just a little, as he settled into a chair.

Smasher and Martinez had spotted the thieves, of course, but they had their orders—no one touches them without Yorinobu’s say-so. The heir glanced up and caught an odd shift in David’s expression. Strange. The kid had seemed more level-headed before.

"Just do as I tell you," Yorinobu reminded him. "The rest is my concern. By tomorrow morning, you’ll wake up a different man—a man whose dreams have finally come true."

"Yeah… of course, Yorinobu-sama."

He was getting himself under control again. Good. Just in time.

Yorinobu was nervous, too—but there was no turning back. The bridges had already burned. The last embers were falling into the abyss.

He’d been wary when Evelyn vanished. But his instincts had been right—the biochip was too valuable a prize. Someone was bound to come for it. Probably the same people who’d been using Parker.

Ah, Eve. Maybe she got too ambitious. Maybe she refused to play by her employer’s rules and got erased for it.

Didn’t matter now.

The thieves were here. And Saburo Arasaka was descending the stairs, accompanied by… only Goro Takemura?

Just him?

Arasaka’s guard dog was dangerous, but alone? Against both Smasher and Martinez? He’d never stand a chance.

‘You walked right into it, old man. You shut the trap yourself.’

"I thought I told you not to meddle in my affairs," Yorinobu said in Japanese, keeping up the charade.

Takemura started sweeping the penthouse, scanning, checking every corner. In another second or two, he’d spot the intruders.

"Leave us," Saburo suddenly commanded.

"Arasaka-sama, I still haven’t done a full sweep," Takemura protested, bowing.

He was just doing his job.

"This is my son," the walking corpse replied.

A wave of fury and disgust surged through Yorinobu. He barely managed to keep it off his face. That line—those words—encapsulated the sheer madness, cruelty, and utter stupidity of Saburo. His unshakable belief in his total control over his children.

‘You’ve been dead for years, old man. Hell, were you ever even alive?’

"Of course. Should I retrieve what we came here to…?" Takemura asked.

"I will handle it. You may go."

If the missing chip were discovered now, Yorinobu would have to dispose of Saburo… less quietly. Not that he minded. This was precisely why he had two of Night City’s deadliest solos on a leash.

Saburo had always underestimated this city. Its rebellious spirit, its defiance, its worship of individualism. He despised Night City—but he’d already been burned by it once, thanks to Silverhand.

It would be poetic if he met his end at the hands of someone like Smasher or Martinez.

But… Yorinobu wasn’t opposed to doing it himself.

‘Stay calm. You can do this,’ he told himself, clenching his fists.

And yet… something deep inside him still wavered.

‘What are you afraid of? This ghost? You challenged him long ago. It’s time to end this.’

The guards left via the elevator, leaving the highest echelons of corporate royalty alone.

Silence hung thick between father and son.

"Did you think I wouldn’t know it was taken from me?" Saburo finally asked. His voice, dry and brittle, sounded almost inhuman.

"Actually, I don’t think of you at all. Ever" Yorinobu shot back. "You see, that’s your problem. You think the world revolves around you. Arrogant."

"Yorinobu…"

"Why did you come?" the son cut him off. "To humiliate me? To personally see to it that your son knows his place?"

Saburo answered with one of his favorite proverbs:

"The nail that protrudes from the wall gets hammered…"

"Couldn’t think of anything original to say?"

"And do you think it “original” to sell our greatest achievement to Westerners - our future to these… barbarians?!"

The mention of the future sent another surge of rage through Yorinobu.

He shot to his feet, finally facing his father head-on.

‘Not for you to talk about the future, you walking corpse.’

"Our future? Ours? You are mistaken. You’ve only ever cared about yourself… and your sick schemes"

"I knew this day would come. That sooner or later, your impudence would cross the line. There is much for which I could forgive you, but for treason - no." Saburo said, slowly stepping back toward the column, the one hiding the thieves behind smart glass. "I’m just glad you mother didn’t live to see this. The heart should break but once."

It was easier than he thought it would be.

Yorinobu lunged at his father, letting his fury take over. His hands closed around the old man's throat. Saburo didn't even resist. That frail, decaying body—so weak, so pathetic—had no real will to live left. Just endless, insufferable arrogance.

For a split second, Yorinobu hesitated, loosening his grip. Some part of him wanted to stop, to shrink back in fear, to beg for forgiveness like he had in the past. But his mind knew—it was over. The last bridges had already burned to ash.

"You shall never have to forgive me for anything again," Yorinobu murmured darkly, cold sweat running down his back, rage curling like a vice around his gut.

He struck again, this time with complete abandon.

A second passed. Another.

The bio-mod should have kicked in by now.

Three months ago, in a hidden clinic in Tiba, a trusted ripper had installed this modification. Not cyberware. An organic implant, completely isolated from the rest of his systems. The Yakuza called it the "stingray’s barb"—a needle-thin stinger, hidden inside the palm, tipped with a gland full of lethal venom. A precise press, and it would spring free.

Right now, that stinger should've already pierced through his father’s withered, liver-spotted skin. Should've ended the old man’s reign with one fatal dose.

Saburo crumpled. He was dead before he hit the floor.

So frail. So utterly insignificant.

For a man who had dictated the fate of millions, his body held shockingly little weight.

The room swayed around Yorinobu. His biomonitor flashed urgent warnings—stress hormones spiking off the charts. But what about his soul? Did it feel the rush of long-awaited freedom? The breath of the future, now his to command? Or was this just a grotesque patricide?

He forced my hand! He left me no choice! He called our disgrace an honor and demanded I accept it!

Yorinobu couldn't pull himself together. He forced himself not to look at the corpse, cursing himself for the weakness. Even dead, his father terrified him.

He spent a few seconds just catching his breath. Then, steeling himself, he turned back. He forced himself to step closer, to crouch, to check for a pulse.

Nothing.

The fear drained away, replaced by something steadier.

Switching to English, Yorinobu said, "I wish… I wish to put the hotel on lockdown."

"May I ask why?" the AI assistant inquired.

"Saburo Arasaka has been murdered."

"Code Red initiated," the AI replied smoothly.

Then, across the entire hotel, an announcement rang out:

"Attention! Code Red has been innitiated throughout Konpeki Plaza. Please remain in your rooms and follow all instructions given by staff."

---------------------------

"Attention! Code Red has been innitiated throughout Konpeki Plaza. Please remain in your rooms and follow all instructions given by staff."

The elevator lurched to a stop. The lighting dimmed, shifting into an ominous red hue.

"Panam, can you get us out of here?"

"I’ll get you out," Lucy cut in.

"No! Leave! You saw what just happened! They’ll be swarming this place any second—physically and in the Net. Lucy, listen to me—I’ll find my own way out!"

"What the fuck just happened?!" Panam grabbed me by the collar, yanking me around to face her.

"Saburo’s dead."

"Fffffuck," she exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "Never thought I'd give a shit about a dead corpo, but he picked a really shitty time to croak."

"Done," Lucy’s voice chimed in.

The elevator hummed back to life, its lights returning to normal. It resumed its descent, carrying us down to the service floors.

Downstairs? Chaos. Staff panicking. Security struggling to keep control. And now? The big guns had arrived. Konpeki’s private guards were reinforced by combat teams.

Were they loyalists, prepped in advance by Yorinobu? Or just regular security? Didn’t matter.

"Move, move, move!" A black-armored security officer barked orders, directing frantic personnel. "You—against the wall! What’s in your hands?!"

His rifle locked onto some poor bastard—a terrified waiter clutching a tablet.

Panam and I slipped through the mess. Our disguises still held up, but there was no way they’d let anyone leave.

"Stop right there!"

A woman stepped into our path. High-grade chrome, a katana on her hip.

A close combat specialist. Arasaka loved those. Fucking samurai cosplay bullshit.

"Give me a sec," Lucy whispered in my ear.

"Return to your designated zone—" the woman started, one hand resting on her sword’s grip.

Then, her eyes flickered—first white, then orange-red.

Lucy’s Amnesia script hit her hard.

I fired the dart gun.

The tranquilizer hissed through the air, needle burying itself in the woman’s throat.

She staggered.

Panam and I caught her before she could collapse.

"What… I…" she slurred, then her eyes shut.

We dragged her into a supply closet and locked the door behind us. Quiet. Clean.

"Should I take her uniform?" Panam whispered. "Lucy, can you spoof us as security?"

"Won’t work," Lucy replied. "They’re not letting anyone out. More of them are pouring in. Full lockdown. You need to fight your way to the van. I’ll cover you."

Shit.

I stripped the katana and grenades from the downed agent. Standard issue—good enough. Panam took her vest and swapped out her pistol for a heavier revolver.

"Left door. Through the kitchen. There’s a stairwell down. The elevator’s too well guarded," Lucy directed.

I gave up trying to make her leave. She wasn’t going anywhere until we were clear.

We moved.

Dimly lit kitchen. The hum of industrial fridges. A few deactivated cameras—Lucy’s handiwork.

Two flights down, a guard lay sprawled, knocked out by a script.

Freedom was close.

I tugged at the realskin covering my cyberarm, tearing it off in pre-prepped sections. It was slowing me down.

Twelve guards at the parking garage checkpoint. Heavier weapons. Two auto-turrets online.

"Give me two minutes," Lucy said.

Panam and I ducked behind the stairwell door.

I passed her a grenade. Set my bag on the steps.

Didn’t need a stray bullet fucking up the chip’s containment.

I wasn’t slotting that thing into my head. Way too many bad vibes.

"I’m ready," Lucy announced. "Now… go!"

And the chaos erupted.

One of the guards' optics flickered. White. Then orange-red.

Mind control script.

The guy turned. Opened fire on his own team.

The turrets spun around and also opened up—on their own people.

Jesus fuck, Lucy.

I followed up, frying enemy optics with a reboot script.

Then Panam and I made our move—both hurling grenades toward the panicked security detail.

Explosions rocked the checkpoint. Metal shrapnel shredded through corpo flesh.

"Comm-link’s down! I can’t—!" one of them screamed.

Lucy cut their comms, too? Fucking beautiful.

It was over fast. The remaining guards scrambled toward the elevators. Lucy dropped them with scripts before they even reached the doors.

Turrets dead. Guards down.

We owned this space.

I grabbed the chip bag, making sure it was intact.

"Time to go home, Johnny," I muttered with a grin.

Panam was already in the van, revving the engine. It seemed like we were finally in luck today when, all of a sudden…

I heard Lucy’s scream and interference over the comms.

“Are you there?! Can you hear me?!”

A few seconds of silence stretched on like an eternity. Then a single word: “Error.” And then silence again.

"Hey!" Panam was shaking my shoulder. "Time to go!"

I just stood there in silence, staring at the twisted corpses of the security guards. Tried to trace the signal. Static. Interference. Then, finally, Lucy’s voice.

"I'm alive… I think."

"Disconnect now!" I demanded.

"I can't. Sorry. I fucked up. They locked the ICE. I can't get out of the subnet."

Fuck!

"Get out of here. I’ll figure something out."

Her voice was weak, distant. She’d taken a serious hit on every level. Her body got fried by a virtual attack, and her mind was stuck inside the Net.

"V…" Panam whispered in my ear. "What’s the move?"

"Take this." I handed her the bag with the chip. "Get to our people and hide it. And don't even think about saying you're coming with me. You're a damn good tech and driver, a decent sniper—but in a close-quarters fight? I trust myself more."

"What the hell are you planning?"

"I know how to get her out. I'm going back to Konpeki."

"No. No. Get out of here," Lucy’s voice crackled through the static.

"Nah, that’s not how this works," I chuckled. "My turn to ignore your warnings. Delta, Panam. I’ve got unfinished business."

She hesitated, took a few steps toward the van, then turned back, almost like she was confessing something.

"You know, I thought everyone in this city was shit. But you guys? You’re alright. Don’t get yourself killed. Your plan is fucking insane, but… I respect it."

"People do crazy shit for love," I said.

The engine roared behind me as the van pulled away. Muffled gunfire echoed from above.

And just like that—I was heading back into Konpeki.

Daily Updates (01/02/25 | Sat) + (03/02/25)

sorry guys, health has been acting up this weekend. probably the consequence of a very eventful February. But here are the chapters that I missed.

01/02/25 (Saturday)

Hydrargyrum

• Tier 1

  • Chapter 17

  • Chapter 18

• Tier 2:

  • Chapter 21

  • Chapter 22

• Extra

  • Character List

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 77

• Tier 2: Chapter 82

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 44

• Tier 2: Chapter 49

Life is Good

• Tier 1:

  • Chapter 47

  • Chapter 48

• Tier 2: Chapters 52 + 53

03/02/25 (Today)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 55

• Tier 2: Chapter 60

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 55

• Tier 2: Chapter 60

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 60

Once, in a past life, I watched a movie about a boy wizard. I can’t even remember his name now—I just recall he was a funny little kid with glasses. But there was one scene I remember: he’d stick his face into this big, smoking bowl and it was like he was hanging around inside someone else’s memories. Sure, he couldn’t ask them anything, but he could see and hear everything going on.

That was exactly how I felt when the darkness parted, and I tumbled onto a wooden floor, landing beneath a low table. Around me—legs. Lots of them. By scent alone, I recognized Sasuke, Itachi, and two other people, their scents similar enough to mark them as family. I wriggled out from under the table and looked around. Morning light streamed in through the windows, and most importantly, the smell in the air was heavenly.

Omurice.

My mouth watered. Sure, milk was fine and all, but this? This smelled real. Hot, fluffy, delicious.

“Tora-san?” Sasuke’s voice snapped me out of my daze, and I froze. He could see me?

“Sasuke, did you bring home another stray?” Itachi’s voice followed, calm and unreadable.

“Hey! Tora-san is not a stray!” Sasuke huffed. “He’s a ninja cat! And he’s not mine—he lives with Naruto and Kushina-san. He probably just came to visit me today!”

I plopped down on my butt, thinking hard. This definitely never happened in real life, because I never got around to dropping by the Uchiha district. But… in theory… I wondered what date this was supposed to be?

Itachi watched me for a moment, then casually placed a bite-sized piece of his omelet at the edge of the table. I hesitated for half a second before stepping forward and eating it. It tasted real.

“This cat acts like he’s doing me a favor,” Itachi said with a smirk, but when I gave him a demanding look, he put down another chunk of omelet for me.

“Tora-san is super smart and really strong,” Sasuke bragged, grinning at me like we were in on some secret.

“Kwa-aa-a!”—and then, from out of nowhere, a fat, yellow frog with black spots dropped onto the table. It blinked once. And then it sucked in the whole scene.

I don’t even know how to describe it properly—it was like it flicked out its tongue and everything around me vanished in one enormous slurp.

I barely had time to react before the world collapsed in on itself like paper being crumpled. I ‘jumped off’ just in time—just barely escaping being flattened—as the entire memory folded inward and disappeared.

What. The actual. Hell.

Was that what had erased Itachi’s memories? Sasuke looked about eleven years old back there.

I ran around the darkness, trying to find the frog, or another memory to fall into.

And suddenly—Boom. New scene.

Now I was in Naruto’s house. I nearly stumbled as a wave of emotions hit me. Memories. My memories. There was Naruto’s bed, with my pillow. His desk, his scrolls, his ink. Sasuke and Naruto sat with their backs to me, whispering and laughing as they cleaned their kunai. I remembered this night.

“Good evening, Hokage-sama. I came to pick up my brother. Mom told me to come a little early tonight...”

I froze. I knew that voice.

“Oh, Itachi, sweetheart, outside of the Hokage’s office, you can just call me Kushina. I am your godmother, after all,” came the warm reply.

The fur on my neck bristled. I bolted downstairs and jumped straight into Kushina’s arms.

“Tora-san?” she laughed, scratching behind my ears. “What’s gotten into you, little guy? You’re usually not this clingy.”

“Oh, hey there, tiger cub,” Itachi greeted from the couch. The exact couch I always sprawled out on whenever guests visited.

I forced myself to calm down. Right. Not real. Not real memories. Just… possible memories. Fabrications.

Still, I couldn’t help it. I turned, hopped onto Itachi’s lap, and curled up.

“He seems to like you,” Kushina teased.

“I’ve always liked cats,” Itachi murmured, stroking my fur carefully.

Footsteps on the stairs. Sasuke and Naruto entered the room.

“Hey, Nii-san! You’re here for me?” Sasuke beamed.

“Yeah…” Itachi began—

And then, that damn frog reappeared.

I lunged for it. But it leapt first—snapping out its absurdly long tongue, latching onto the couch—

And sucked the memory away.

I barely escaped the collapse. Again.

Oh, you fat little bastard. It’s on!

After that, there were memories of yet another family dinner. A few times, I saw the Academy setting, with Itachi watching over his brother from the same tree I liked to climb. Sometimes he talked to me. Sometimes he was wearing an ANBU mask and pretended we didn’t know each other, but I’d still walk up and rub against his legs.

From what I could tell, these reconstructed memories kept getting attacked by the frog-devourer—which, by then, was as big as I was—and everything was heading toward that fateful day when everything changed.

I was right. It all culminated with me standing the middle of the Forest of Death, bathed in red moonlight, surrounded by ominous half-darkness. 

There were multiple figures with Sharingan eyes, presumably powering some kind of technique. I saw them carry Naruto out of that building where I’d tried to free Kushina. Itachi rushed to help him, but his father blocked his path. 

The image was pretty fuzzy—probably Nekomata-sama had pieced it together from what I’d heard rather than what I’d actually witnessed. Someone grabbed Itachi, and then that masked guy with one eye, the one who used to help Minato, appeared in front of him.

“You’ll forget everything,” the masked man said quietly.

And right on cue, that devouring frog fell from above again. By now it was bigger than me. It looked like it had grown each time it ate a memory.

Acting on impulse, I clamped down on its tongue just as it shot out to slurp up that memory. The frog let out an ear-splitting, totally un-frog like shriek and leapt… with me still hanging on to its tongue. 

I bit down hard, and the two of us ended up back in the darkness. Then it was like being on the wildest carnival ride ever. I was rattled around like I’d stuck myself in a washing machine or signed up to be an astronaut. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the memory we’d left behind freeze in midair, shrinking and dissolving into the surrounding black void.

Then I got slammed hard against whatever passed for a floor in that place, and the frog yanked its gross, slimy tongue out of my grip. We stared each other down, and that was when I noticed that this thing looked an awful lot like Naruto’s froggy coin purse—fat and bulging as if full of coins. I’d assumed those lumps were warts or something, but now I could see them clearly: stuffed inside its mouth, still glistening, were all those memories, like crumpled bits of paper.

There’s no creature stronger than a cat, I bet…

“All right, cough it up!” I yelled, trying to psych myself up, and pounced on the devourer, claws and chakra at the ready.

Its back was slick, covered in some gross slime, and my claws barely caught hold of its skin. The first time, I slid right off. Then the frog started shrieking, darting around, and jumping away from me. On the next tries, I formed chakra claws—and maybe my hunter’s instinct was kicking in. My vision was red with fury. I bit and scratched, tearing into that stupid frog that seemed to have wiped out all of Itachi’s memories, leaving only darkness.

I didn’t hesitate for even a second when I tore open its nasty white belly with my claws. The devourer thrashed its legs, and chunks of vivid memories flew out of its mangled body. It was disgusting, but at the same time, I felt a rush of strength and a fierce pride that I’d beaten it. 

I’ve killed animals before—birds, mice—usually just on instinct, never stopping to question if I should. But this frog… it was different. I wanted to annihilate it. And maybe I felt a bit weird about it because I know Kushina-san and Naruto eventually form summoning contracts with frogs. But this thing was probably just some twisted manifestation of a jutsu. Either way, its shredded body vanished, easing my moral jitters somewhat.

Now freed bits of memories just hovered there, glowing, like they were trying to rise up the way but couldn’t manage it.

"Damn it!" I tried to straighten them out, fix them, but it was no use—my paws just weren’t built for this. "Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" I was about ready to start howling in frustration.

"Who’s there?" A quiet voice suddenly cut through the darkness. Definitely Itachi.

"Hey!" I called out. "Get over here! Help me!" Maybe since this was his memory, he’d be able to fix it properly or something? Damn these mind tricks.

"Who’s meowing?" I heard footsteps in the dark.

Oh, fantastic. Even inside the twisted halls of mental reality, Itachi still couldn’t understand me. Just great. I swore under my breath.

"Who’s there?" And suddenly, Itachi was right in front of me. "A cat? What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know, just playing with some paper," I huffed and kicked one of the crumpled scraps his way. It rolled to his feet, and he picked it up, smoothing it out.

"A photograph," Itachi murmured, staring at the unfolded paper. "Who crumpled this? And why?" He laid it out on his knee, and I circled around to get a better look.

It was a frozen moment in time: we were all sitting in the Uzumaki living room. I was curled up in Itachi’s lap, Kushina sat beside him, Sasuke and Naruto stood behind us, both grinning. The photo suddenly glowed, lifted into the air, and dissolved into light. Itachi, however, now fully focused, started smoothing out more crumpled memories, watching as each one lit up and vanished into the air.

"I remember you, little cat," Itachi suddenly smiled. "Your name is Tora-san."

He reached out, touching the tip of my nose. My whiskers twitched, and suddenly—

A tickling sensation hit me so hard, I wanted to sneeze—

And then I woke up.

I was curled up on Itachi’s chest, rising and falling with his slow breathing. His fingers were tangled in my fur, and as I stirred, his body jolted slightly. His eyes fluttered open, and for a second, he looked so young—like a kid who had just woken up from a long nap. He rubbed his eyes with one hand, blinking blearily.

"Tora-san…?" He whispered my name like a question, running his fingers through my fur. I purred in response.

"Itachi? How do you feel?" A shadow suddenly blocked out the greenish sky. Shisui.

"Shisui-nii-san?" Itachi stared at him in shock. "I just… I just had the strangest dream… It felt so real…" He sat up, lifting me off his chest, but the second he looked down at himself, at the familiar black-and-red Akatsuki cloak, his face turned deathly pale. "This… This isn’t a dream, is it?" His head snapped up. "Sasuke! Is Sasuke alive? Tell me!" His voice cracked, and he grabbed Shisui’s arm in a panic.

I glanced at Nekomata-sama, who had once again shrunk down to his smaller, yellow-eyed cat form, his dark ears slightly drooping.

"Sasuke is alive," Shisui reassured, nodding toward the two figures standing at a distance—Naruto, watching quietly, and Sasuke, his expression unreadable, eyes locked onto Itachi like a starving man staring at food. I guessed they’d left Sakura in a genjutsu for now. Hopefully, she’d never find out about her decapitation.

"…Nii-san?" Sasuke took a small, hesitant step forward. And in just that single word, I heard everything—pain, hope, uncertainty.

"Come here, my foolish little brother," Itachi’s voice trembled as he stood up.

"…Nii-san!" Sasuke closed the distance in an instant, stopping just short of touching him, hesitating. Then Itachi reached out and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"What a touching family reunion," Nekomata-sama purred, dramatically washing his face as if wiping away an invisible tear. "You did well, little one. His original memories couldn’t be restored, unfortunately—too much time has passed, and they were erased far too thoroughly. And let’s be honest, people don’t want to notice inconsistencies when they’re drowning in grief. But this… this was something else. 

“That sneaky little creature only revealed itself when things were already in motion. By the time I noticed it, it was too late to warn you. It was a hidden memory-devouring seal that activated the moment we tried to unlock Itachi’s past. But you handled it well, and you didn’t hesitate. If that frog had kept feeding, it would have eventually devoured every last good memory he had, leaving nothing but an emotionless husk…"

I shuddered at the thought. Then, out of nowhere, a cold drop of water landed right on my nose.

And then, just like that, the skies opened up.

Great. Just great. I hated the rainy season. With a sharp shake, I darted for cover, Nekomata-sama following close behind.

But the Uchiha brothers didn’t move.

They stood there, still holding onto each other as the rain poured down in sheets, soaking their clothes and dripping down their faces.

Real shinobi don’t cry… 

-------------------------

TN: Forgot to add this in the last chapter but “There’s no creature stronger than a cat, I bet…” is from a Russian poem “Mouse and Rat” by Krylov Ivan Andreevich (orig. Крылов Иван Андреевич, “Мышь и Крыса”)

P.S. Damn, that was trippy...

[Castling] Chapter 60

As I climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower with the others, my mind was still racing—could Moody really be Crouch? But standing under the shower a few minutes later, I shoved the thought aside and called myself an idiot.

Barty had copied Moody’s mannerisms perfectly, so of course, the real one would act just like he did in the book. And honestly, what would Crouch even be doing here if Wormtail hadn’t dragged the Dark Lord back to England yet? Last I checked, he was still holed up in Albania, twiddling his thumbs.

So, no need to panic—yet. I’d keep an eye on things. Might even try to get a look at the Map from Snape, just to be sure. He wouldn’t give it to me, obviously, but maybe I could sneak a peek. That thought settled me enough to drop it—for now.

Our dorm was just as I’d left it, except for a few new Quidditch posters covering the walls. The usual buzz of voices filled the room. Seamus, as expected, had smuggled in another barrel of ale—this time, a three-litre one. The lads had already knocked back their first round and were demanding I take a penalty drink. By now, drinking on the first night back had become a bit of a tradition.

With a nice bit of warmth in my chest, we laughed and interrupted each other, rambling on about dreams of Triwizard glory and the admiring looks of witches. Eventually, we all collapsed into bed.

Morning was grim. I hadn’t got enough sleep, my head was buzzing slightly from the ale, and the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall showed nothing but a heavy, grey sky with non-stop drizzle. None of that would’ve been too bad, if we didn’t have Herbology first thing.

The path to Greenhouse Three had turned into a swampy mess, and half of us slipped and skidded the whole way. By the time we arrived, we looked like we’d crawled through a pigsty—thankfully, the charms kept us dry, but the same couldn’t be said for the Hufflepuffs. We huddled under the overhang, trying to make ourselves presentable before heading inside.

And then things got worse.

We spent the lesson squeezing pus out of Bubotubers. I had never seen anything more disgusting in my life. These tall, slimy, black growths stuck out of the ground, swaying slightly, each one covered in bulging, pulsing boils. Sprout handed us gloves and told us to pop them. The things burst with a squelch, spraying thick, greenish-yellow goo everywhere.

Within forty minutes, the greenhouse reeked of something horribly sweet, like rotten fruit left to stew in a hospital bin. By the end of it, everyone practically bolted for the door the second we were dismissed.

But the day wasn’t done throwing horrors at us yet.

Hagrid, beaming like a polished cauldron, presented us with four massive crates full of his latest batch of experimental monstrosities—two for us, two for the Slytherins. These things looked like overgrown, semi-transparent prawns with stingers and suckers, reeking of rotting fish. They were the size of dinner plates. But Hagrid? He was gazing at them like a proud dad.

Thankfully, today we only had to feed them, though even that was a stomach-turner. Their diet? Rat spleens, frogspawn, liver, ant eggs, maggots, mealworms—you get the idea. The girls looked repulsed, the lads muttered curses under their breath, and we all fled back to the castle as soon as we were allowed, desperate to wash off the double-layered stink.

After lunch, we had Muggle Studies.

Maybe it was just the foul mood I was in, but by the time we’d gone through the syllabus, I was done with this subject. This was the second year in a row it was completely useless, and it all came back to the Statute. Even Hermione was starting to consider dropping it.

I’d always assumed these lessons would actually teach wizards how Muggles lived. But if that were the case, why did none of them understand pounds and pence? Why did they dress like lunatics when trying to blend in? Turned out, Muggle Studies was basically Wizarding World Survival Training. And it finally made sense why wizards were so clueless about the Muggle world—they apparated everywhere and never actually experienced it.

Take this, for example:

If a magical kid ever accidentally splinched themselves into a Muggle area, there were emergency beacons in their robes—a button on their cloak or shirt. Press it, and someone from the Ministry would track them down and bring them home. It worked kind of like a distress signal registered with the Aurors. And if you had a house-elf? Well, you could just summon them.

For kids like me, who lived in mixed areas, they could track you through your wand if you got lost. The official advice? Walk somewhere quiet, send up gold sparks with your wand, and wait. The Aurors had an enchanted map that would show your location, and someone would apparate in to get you within minutes.

As for Muggle-borns, like Hermione? If they ever got lost, their best bet was to go straight to a police officer.

But the biggest rule drilled into us?

Never intervene.

If you saw a fight, someone getting mugged, or some poor old lady getting her purse snatched? Do. Not. Step in. Keep your wand out of sight, let Muggle authorities handle it, and above all—protect the Statute of Secrecy.

The whole thing was a load of rubbish.

The Statute had been passed after the witch hunts had already stopped. Queen Elizabeth had outlawed accusations of witchcraft, and she’d even signed a peace treaty with the magical community. Wizards took over enforcing secrecy themselves, and in exchange, the Muggles and the church left them alone.

But back in the old days? Wizards hadn’t exactly been saints.

Before the Statute, witches and wizards lived however they pleased. A hedge-witch could get offended and curse an entire village’s livestock, and no one would do anything about it. Dark wizards would spread plagues just for fun. And who suffered most? Not them. It was the poor Muggle-born witches and healers, the ones who lived on the edges of villages and actually helped people.

The Muggles, of course, weren’t much better. They’d accept magical healing one day, then grab their torches and pitchforks the next, blaming their own misfortunes on the same healer they’d been thanking a week ago. When the last great plague swept through, that’s when the real witch hunts started. Innocent women, magic or not, were burned by the thousands.

And then there was the church.

The church had power. Real power. They weren’t just some religious order; they had soldiers, courts, and executions at their command. And some Muggle-borns, terrified of being burned, worked with them, turning over secrets about the magical world to save their own necks. They knew the hidden paths through the forests, the entrances to wizarding settlements, the places where the magical creatures lived.

And that’s when the real slaughter started.

It wasn’t just witches. The Muggles hunted magical creatures. Entire races and species were wiped out. Our local reserve only had two species of dragons left. Another had practically nothing worth preserving anymore.

And here’s something I didn’t know—wizards could get sick. They could die from Muggle diseases. And the church? They weren’t above experimenting to find out which poisons and plagues worked best against magic folk.

No wonder they’d decided to hide away forever.

And we were supposed to just sit through this lesson, listening to our professor praise the Statute and act like it was the greatest thing that ever happened?

Yeah. I was done with Muggle Studies.

Back then, wizards finally realised that while Muggles might be mortal, pathetic, and mostly useless, they could still be dangerous—especially in a crowd. There were far more of them than there were of us. Sure, a witch could dance through ordinary fire without a scratch, but magical fire? That could burn anyone. And enchanted ropes? Good luck breaking free or apparating out of those.

By the time Muggles had done a proper job of thinning the wizarding population, the magical community signed a treaty with the ruling queen. Now, if any wizard living on magical land caused harm to Muggles—whether by war, meddling in their politics, or conjuring up another plague—the treaty would activate, and wizards would be done for. It would give the church free rein, and after centuries of stockpiling knowledge, they had plenty of ways to fight back. That’s why vampire hunters and monster slayers still exist, even if most people think they’re just fairy tales.

This is also why certain subjects were banned at Hogwarts—Demonology, Ritual Magic, Chimera Studies, and anything that could accidentally summon something too powerful to control. The last thing the wizarding world needed was an excuse for bounty hunters and inquisitors to come knocking.

So, the treaty was signed, and suddenly, wizards had a new problem: How do you control a population that’s spent centuries doing whatever they want?

That’s where the first Wizard’s Covenant came in, eventually leading to the Statute of Secrecy. They built a Ministry, set up regulatory departments, wrote out proper laws, and even threw together Azkaban. They sealed off all magical areas from Muggles, completely cutting off from the outside world, forming a state within a state. That’s how things have run ever since.

The less wizards interact with Muggle society, the better. And in Britain, that approach stuck. Other countries went their own way. Some didn’t bother hiding magic at all. In others, it became an officially recognised religion. Some nations let magic coexist in plain sight—fortune tellers, psychics, healers—most Muggles believe what they want, and those who do witness something real just brush it off as another parlour trick.

And then there’s Voldemort.

Now he was an interesting case.

His position in the wizarding world was… complicated. Sure, he was a wizard, but he didn’t officially belong to any magical family. The House of Gaunt never claimed him—if they had, he’d have had his own vault in Gringotts. His legal surname was Riddle, after his Muggle father. That made him a Muggle-born wizard in the eyes of the law.

Which meant the treaty didn’t apply to him.

And when he started marking his followers, branding them with the Dark Mark, he legally absolved all those pure-blood supremacists from responsibility. Maybe that’s why they chose him as their leader—he was a loophole. If they acted against Muggles, the Ministry would come down on them. But he? He was technically an outsider. Besides, that would explain why the pure-bloods never went to the same lengths without him leading the charge.

Then there was the goblin treaty—another thing that didn’t apply to the Dark Lord. His ancestors never signed the peace agreement, so killing goblins wouldn’t land him in trouble with their clans.

The more I thought about it, the clearer it became: Voldemort wasn’t just some terrifying dark wizard—he was the perfect figurehead for a war.

We were buzzing for our first lesson with Moody. Everyone who’d already had him described the experience as some weird mix of excitement, horror, and sheer dread. And finally, the day arrived.

“Books away,” Moody rasped as he clanked his way to the front of the room. “Won’t be needing ‘em. You lot have read enough. What good are bloody Red Caps and hinkypunks when you don’t even know how to handle a real threat?”

We all glanced at each other in confusion but shut our textbooks without question.

“You’re years behind where you ought to be,” he suddenly barked, making half the class jump. “I’m here to fix that.”

He dropped into his chair, pulled out the class register, and spent ten minutes going through the list, his magical eye scanning each of us like he was expecting to find someone up to no good.

“Today, we begin studying curses. There are three types…”

What can I say? The Unforgivables were covered with demonstrations—though thankfully, not on humans. Moody showed us the Killing Curse and the Cruciatus on a garden gnome, and Imperius on a Hogwarts house-elf—to really drive the lesson home, since elves had higher intelligence and a wider range of emotions. It was grim.

Hermione went pale and nearly broke down when the elf started skipping around the room, slamming its head into our desks. And when it climbed onto a pile of stools, grinning as it tied a noose and slipped it over its neck, the girls screamed. Moody finally ended the spell, launching into a lecture about how a caster could make their victim do anything—and they’d do it willingly.

After class, it took ages to calm Hermione down—she was all but drafting a petition to the Ministry. Neville looked like he’d gone into shock. Moody hadn’t even tried to console him. And poor Lavender was sobbing into Parvati’s shoulder.

Honestly? I hated Moody’s lesson. Everyone did, no matter how much he tried to sell it as “education” or “preparation.” Sure, he was a professional, but this wasn’t a training camp—it was a classroom. And his constant shouting of CONSTANT VIGILANCE! was only good for giving half the students anxiety.

We checked the official curriculum for Defence Against the Dark Arts. Turns out Moody was technically operating within Ministry guidelines—except he was following the sixth-year syllabus. The list clearly stated what creatures and beings Unforgivables could be demonstrated on. House-elves, gnomes, toads, and a few others were considered “acceptable subjects.”

He wasn’t allowed to kill the house-elf or cause permanent harm, but mental coercion? Complete subjugation? That was fine.

Yeah.

We were definitely signing Hermione’s complaint letter.

And another thing—why did Crouch, in the book, bother casting Imperius on everyone? The notes on the spell were very clear. There was no real way to resist it. Some people had a natural immunity, but it was rare. Otherwise, the only way to break free was when the spell wore off or wasn’t reinforced properly.

It needed constant magical upkeep—like a battery draining over time.

The only ones with a real advantage were those trained in mental defences—people with structured minds, strong enough to push back. But even then, resistance only worked if the target had more power than the caster. And casting Imperius in the first place? That wasn’t something just anyone could do—it took strength and a very specific mindset.

All in all, the more I thought about it, the more I realised how bloody strange the whole thing was.

Looks like Harry managed to resist Imperius because of the Horcrux—one soul bound by the curse, but the other still on guard. That made sense.

Either way, I decided I needed to check the Map, just to make sure. It probably wasn’t Barty, but Moody still wasn’t exactly the picture of sanity.

Snape, meanwhile, had broken his own personal record for being a miserable git. Moody’s presence was winding him up something rotten. I’d never seen anyone spit venom like that—not even a full-blooded snake. I spent two weeks trying to figure out how to get near him without being hexed into next week. In the end, I accidentally botched a potion and landed myself a detention.

"Mister Weasley, if you had something to discuss, you should have come to my office rather than putting on a show in my class," Snape drawled when I arrived. "I already have Longbottom for that kind of disruption."

"Sorry, sir, I’ll remember that next time," I said with my most polite nod.

"So? What was so important that it cost Gryffindor ten points and a melted cauldron?" he asked, smirking as he settled into his chair.

"I have reason to believe someone’s planning to enter Harry into the Triwizard Tournament as a fourth champion," I said, watching his expression. He didn’t even pretend to believe me.

"And who, exactly, would benefit from such idiocy?" he asked mockingly. "Not to mention, if you’d paid attention to the Headmaster’s speech, Weasley, you’d know that there will be an age restriction. Even your brainless Potter won’t be able to blunder into this one."

"The Goblet is making the choice. Someone’s going to Confund it, make it think there’s a fourth school, and slip in Harry’s name. Whoever does it will be over the age line, so it’ll work."

Snape gave me a long, unimpressed look. "And who is this mysterious benefactor?" he drawled. "More importantly, why bother? Potter couldn’t win the Tournament. If the goal is to get rid of him, there are far easier ways."

"I have visions of the future, sir," I admitted. "Not dreams. Not predictions. Just… flashes of what’s coming. But only about me and the people close to me."

Snape let out a tired sigh. "Merlin’s beard, not another Trelawney…"

"Laugh all you like," I snapped, meeting his gaze. "But none of my visions have been wrong. I’ve just changed things before they could happen. And I’d really rather be cautious than wait for disaster."

Snape moved fast. One second he was across the desk, the next he had me by the collar, yanking me so close I could see every pore on his nose. His black eyes bore into mine, searching for a lie. I held my ground, refusing to look away, and after a moment, he let go, falling back into his chair. The lazy contempt was gone—he was actually listening now.

"Why must I always drag the truth out of you piece by piece, Weasley?" he said irritably. "If you truly want my help, you might start by explaining properly."

"Because it’s too insane for you to believe me outright, sir," I said flatly. "And I know you don’t fully trust me. But I promised to keep you informed about what’s happening in the castle and what I plan to do."

Snape scowled, then sighed. "Fine. Enough with the dramatics. Explain."

"Barty Crouch Jr. didn’t die in Azkaban. His father smuggled him out, and he’s been locked up under Imperius at the family estate ever since. But he’s not completely controlled—he could shake it off at any time. His goal is to capture Harry, because Voldemort needs his blood to return to full power. That would break his mother’s protection, and the Dark Lord would be able to kill him.

Crouch will impersonate Moody, rig the Goblet, make sure Harry wins, and then deliver him to Voldemort. Now, I know Pettigrew’s dead and never made it to Albania, but Trelawney’s prophecy still stands—‘The servant will return to the master, and the Dark Lord shall rise at the end of the year.’(1) Just to be safe, I want to check the Map. If you won’t lend it to me, at least look at it."

Snape snorted. "That is without question the most absurd theory I have ever heard, Weasley."

But despite his words, he reached into his desk, pulled out the Map, and spread it across the table.

"I am not giving this to you," he said, beckoning me over. "But you can see for yourself how ridiculous you’re being. And for future reference—perhaps don’t believe every vision you have. Unless, of course, you want to end up a drunken lunatic."

I scanned the Map and quickly found the Defence Against the Dark Arts office. Alastor Moody, it read. I let out a quiet breath, feeling the tension ease.

Snape watched me with a smirk. "I think I’ll mention your little ‘Cup Confundus’ theory to the Headmaster," he said at last. "It would be a shame if someone else had the same idea."

I didn’t care about his sarcasm. I just needed to keep Harry out of the Tournament—and away from Voldemort.

"I’d appreciate that, sir," I said sincerely. "And if you could check the Map now and then, just to keep an eye on Moody, I’d feel better."

"Fine," Snape said, suddenly in a good mood—probably because he’d just humiliated me. "I’ll do you that favour, Weasley. On one condition—you keep me informed and stay out of Potter’s disasters. Honestly, I should have asked for more when I agreed to this ridiculous arrangement. You are exhausting. Now get out. I’ve wasted enough time on you."

"I hope none of what I’ve told you comes true, sir," I said, pausing in the doorway. "But if it does—I want you to take me seriously next time. Just so you know—Krum, Delacour, and Diggory will be the champions. Goodnight, sir."

Lessons carried on as usual. We had classes, went to Hogsmeade on weekends, and for the first time since everything, I felt a little calmer. Snape might be a bastard, but he always kept his word. And if he said he’d keep watch, then nothing—not even a rat—was getting past him unnoticed.

(1) The real prophecy goes like this: “It will happen tonight. The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, abandoned by his followers. His servant has been chained these twelve years. Tonight, before midnight... the servant will break free and set out to rejoin his master. The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was. Tonight... before midnight... the servant... will set out... to rejoin... his master..”

As you can see the circumstances have changed and the prohephecy in its original form is no longer applicable so I directly translated the ‘new prophecy’ as it was in the original.

[Life is Good] Chapter 52 (Interlude) + Chapter 53

TN: Since the previous chapter technically marks the end of Book 1, here’s an Interlude.

In the original story, this chapter was used for an announcement and a link to the continuation, but since our circumstances are different, consider this a freebie.

--------------------

An endless white void stretched from horizon to horizon. If there were an observer—though none existed—they might wonder: how can there even be a horizon here?

But there were no observers.

Just two men and a corpse.

The dead guy had been thoroughly lasgunned, his body covered in an unreasonable number of burn marks. Standing next to him was an Imperial Guardsman, watching with calm indifference as a Krieg soldier approached.

When the Krieg trooper was about five meters away, he reached up and pulled off his gas mask, revealing a bald head marked with a three-headed hydra tattoo.

"Hey, Alpharius. What’s with the body?"

Strangely, as soon as he removed the mask, the man's entire demeanor shifted. He no longer looked like some caricature of a soldier—he straightened up, broad shoulders stretching, suddenly resembling a legendary warrior from ancient tales… if said warrior had lost a battle against male pattern baldness.

"Hey yourself, Omegon," the Guardsman replied, reaching up to grab his own face—then ripping it off. Beneath the Phantom of the Opera act was an identical twin to the Krieg soldier.

"This guy? One of the readers."

"You… wait. Why the hell did you shoot him, brother?"

"He suggested adding NTR into the second book and cucking our good boy Toby."

Alpharius' expression twitched into something between disgust and actual physical pain.

Silence. Omegon slowly turned his head from his brother to the corpse, then back again.

“…And you haven’t burned the body why?”

"Was waiting for you." Alpharius shrugged, flicked a match, and casually tossed it onto the corpse. The body immediately burst into flames, clearly soaked in something extremely flammable. The two bald giants grinned as they watched the fire crackle. Nothing quite like watching a Slaaneshi heretic burn.

Well. Except watching more Slaaneshi heretics burn.

"Omegon, you do know the second book has already started, right?"

"Oh? Already? Let’s go?"

"Let’s go! Hydra Dominatus!" Alpharius pumped his fist.

"To infinity and beyond!" Omegon echoed enthusiastically.

A beat of silence.

Alpharius turned to stare at him.

"…Seriously?"

"What? Buzz Lightyear is awesome," Omegon muttered, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Toy Story, Omegon? Really?"

"No, but think about it—Buzz is clearly the prototype for an Astartes!"

"Omegon, he’s a toy. A literal toy."

"…Uh… Praise the Omnissiah?"

"Okay, you know what? Screw this. Just click the “next chapter”…"

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Chapter 53

The whole poetic, reflective mood? Yeah, that vanished the second Petra—either forgetting I was strapped to her or just wanting to show off—decided to pull a full-on acrobatic flip midair.

I could have asked, "Madam, to what do I owe this grand display meant to impress my humble self?" but, honestly, my brain was too busy screaming OH SHIT, FUCK!!! in a continuous loop.

Look, maybe this is cool for her, but at the moment, I’m a glorified backpack. And we, the noble species of the rucksack family, do not appreciate being spun around like that. Centrifugal force and all.

Spider seems to forget that I don’t have superhuman strength. Like, yeah, she’s a superhero, but I literally told her—multiple times—that I’m just a regular guy. Does she have goldfish memory, or is this selective hearing?

Unsurprisingly, my arms slipped, and suddenly, I was dangling like an actual sack of potatoes, flailing like an idiot. Thankfully, someone realized they messed up, because once I managed to grab onto her again and stop myself from flopping around like a loose kite, she stopped with the aerial circus act and started swinging in a straight line.

Nope. I need a glider. I want a glider. I don’t care if I have to cackle like a madman while flying on one—just give me a damn flying board. Being luggage sucks.

Hell, I think I finally understand baby monkeys who cling to their moms. Poor little guys. This is hell.

"Spider!" I shouted into her ear. "Don’t do that again!"

"Okay!" she yelled back. Then, much quieter—but still loud enough for me to catch it—she added, "Sorry."

I wanted to reassure her somehow, but yelling didn’t seem ideal, and my only real options were either rubbing her stomach or patting her boobs. So instead, I just squeezed her a little tighter to show I’d heard her. Hopefully, she got the message.

Still… question—how exactly were we planning to find criminals?

I mean, at this speed and altitude, we’re only going to notice something big, like a full-blown police chase with sirens blaring. I couldn’t make out a damn thing below us, and while I don’t know about my two Spider-ladies, I seriously doubt they could either.

Turns out, the question answered itself.

We reached Hell’s Kitchen and landed on one of the flatter rooftops. Petra detached herself first, then unbuckled me before stashing the harness in a dark corner.

"We’re doing a sweep of the Kitchen. If anything’s happening, it’ll be here—dangerous neighborhood," she explained.

"On foot?"

"No, Silk and I will be jumping across the rooftops, holding onto you. Nothing complicated, don’t worry."

I nodded reflexively, already lost in thought.

Gwendolyn. That’s it. That’s who she is.

The pieces clicked into place. Her costume wasn’t the one I remembered from those old cartoons. It was more like a black-and-white variant of Parker’s.

And I hadn’t considered her before because of the whole getting kidnapped by human traffickers incident. I mean, how does a girl with Spider-powers even get caught by thugs?

But then again… she’s not some experienced Spidey from the comics. She’s a schoolgirl.

And back then? She was tied up. Hands and feet bound. Same as the rest of the hostages. Maybe she just didn’t have time to break free.

And now that I was really listening—her voice.

I knew that voice.

It was the same one I’d heard coming from Silk.

Maybe they got their powers together? Like that storyline where Parker got bitten first, and then the same spider bit another girl afterward? I don’t remember who it was supposed to be, but… yeah.

Not that it matters.

So what if Gwen Stacy is Gwen Stacy? No point making a big deal out of it.

Meanwhile, the girls positioned themselves on either side of me, grabbed me by the waist, and I slung my arms over their shoulders.

Then, we jumped.

And, honestly? It was kind of fun.

They had a solid grip on me, my powers kept me from getting hurt, and—most importantly—I wasn’t a damn backpack anymore.

This was way better. Like sibling piggyback rides, but at high speed.

On the taller buildings, Spider and Silk shot out their webs in sync, swinging with practiced coordination. They’d clearly worked out this movement beforehand.

I appreciated that they’d put in the effort to include me.

And I was slightly embarrassed I hadn’t figured out a better method myself.

Eh. I had an excuse—my brain had been overloaded lately. And between training, planning, and keeping up with Penny and Kristi (who was now very enthusiastically involved in our little mischief, albeit taking things slow out of deference to Penny), I hadn’t exactly been focusing on tactical movement strategies.

Anyway, back on track.

We roamed around Hell’s Kitchen for a while, but… nothing.

The neighborhood was definitely rough—run-down buildings, poor lighting, sketchy graffiti, and trash piles in some corners.

But outright crime?

Not so much.

Sure, there were a few groups of shady-looking people hanging around, mostly women, drinking, smoking—probably something stronger than tobacco—but nothing that warranted intervention.

At one point, we heard some yelling and rushed over, only to find a bunch of guys very passionately arguing about soccer (my old soul crying out—football!). Lots of swearing, lots of laughing—but no broken bones.

"I thought Hell’s Kitchen was supposed to be full of crime at night," I mused, perched on a horizontal pipe on the rooftop where we’d stopped for a break.

"Eh, not always," Parker shrugged, sitting next to me. "It depends. But it’s not like there’s a mugging on every corner. A lot of people here know each other, or they’ve got protection from some local big shot. Now, outsiders? Yeah. A random girl walking around alone? She might end up going home without her underwear—if she’s got nice lingerie."

Gwen let out a quiet giggle.

She’d been oddly silent so far.

Shy? Or just unsure how to jump into the conversation?

"Hmm…" I hummed, pretending to ponder. "So, does that mean we should hold off on helping people? You know, wait a little… if the girl’s cute?"

Petra let out an irritated tsk, while Gwen giggled again.

"Salamander! You think everything’s a joke, don’t you? Be serious!"

"Oh, please! Who’s the Friendly Neighborhood Spider who cracks jokes while beating up bad guys? Come on, Spider, don’t turn into Mama Koala. It really doesn’t suit you."

"She’s just nervous," Silk suddenly chimed in, defending Parker. "It’s my first night out, and it’s her first time patrolling with you. She feels responsible. It’s stressing her out a little."

“I’m not… Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous, yeah.” Spider sighed, her shoulders dropping slightly. “I just don’t want anything to happen to you guys. When I patrol alone, I don’t feel this kind of fear.”

“Well, at least you’re honest. Don’t stress, Spidey.” I threw an arm around her shoulders, gently pulling her closer. “We’ll be fine. I’m sturdy, and you and Silk have precognition, strength, agility, and speed. No way some low-level thugs can actually mess with us. Just relax and enjoy handing out some light-to-moderate ass-kicking.”

“You say that like I enjoy it.” Parker muttered under her breath.

“It was supposed to be a joke, so you’d turn down the overprotective hen act. There are three of us, all with powers—what could possibly happen that would make us break a sweat?”

SCREAM!

A bloodcurdling, panicked, female scream cut through the night.

Mmm… Okay, that one wasn’t on me.

We booked it toward the sound, only to find… nothing.

An empty alley. Darkness. Silence.

The buildings flanking it were in pretty bad shape, abandoned crates were scattered around, some already broken. A brick wall, a couple meters high, blocked the far end of the alley.

“This feels very suspicious, girls.” I muttered, lighting up my palm to brighten the place.

A quick search turned up a torn-up backpack. A group vote later, we decided to check inside and found… drugs.

Neatly packaged baggies of weed, powder, pills—basically, the whole damn pharmacy.

“That’s weird,” Gwen spoke up. “A dealer wouldn’t just ditch their stash. That’s the kind of thing that gets you killed by your own people.”

Yeah, no argument there.

It was obviously some street pusher’s haul. Maybe a courier’s. But where the hell was the owner?

No tracks. No signs of a struggle.

“Which means either she got scared off, or something took her.” Petra slipped right into detective mode.

“Uh… Spider? Why do we care?” I raised a brow.

Two masked faces turned to me in silent question, waiting for an explanation.

“Like, why are we looking for a drug dealer? To thank whatever scared her off?” I deliberately didn’t mention the possibility that she was dead or… eaten. “For all we know, Daredevil did it. She’s always cleaning up Hell’s Kitchen.”

That last part? Not random.

Because I had just picked up a heat signature entering my energy vision—someone moving stealthily, practically ghosting down the wall behind the crates, barely four meters away.

“Maybe she just got dragged around the corner, beaten up, and left in a dumpster, where her kind belongs.”

“Salamander, if we save people, we save everyone.” Ah, so noble, Spidey. But trust me, some people? Not worth saving. “Look over here…”

She pointed at a nearby manhole cover—slightly ajar, not fully closed. The backpack was right next to it.

“Mmm… How about we just shut it and move on?” I tried one last time to avoid crawling into the sewer.

Parker, in absolute silence, pried the cover off completely and stared at me.

“You going in?”

“Going in. No choice.” I sighed, shrugging in resignation.

I mean, really. I can’t just leave them. What if we go down there and find Lizard? Or some other nightmare? Four mutant turtles and a giant rat, maybe?

“But before we do… let’s meet our guest.”

With that, I flooded the hiding spot with bright light from my palm.

A few seconds of stillness.

Then, from behind the crates, a woman in a Daredevil-red suit stood up.

The girls immediately shifted—Parker and Gwen stepping apart, web-shooters half-raised.

Me? I stayed put.

No need to get jumpy.

A hand-to-hand fighter? Not exactly a threat to me.

“No need to get nervous.” The woman said calmly, holding her hands up in a not-a-threat gesture. “Good evening, Salamander. Spider, nice to see you. And you are…?”

She turned toward Gwen, clearly unable to place her.

Which was interesting.

Daredevil sees with echolocation, right? How does she tell people apart? By memorizing Parker’s shape?

Must be.

Sounds like they already knew each other.

“Her name’s Silk.” Parker answered.

“Daredevil? Do you know what happened to the owner of this…” She lifted the drug-filled backpack.

“No, unfortunately, that wasn’t me.” The woman’s voice carried a hint of amusement. Then she turned toward me. “Got here just after you did. I would have stepped out sooner, but your guy here beat me to it. How’d you even notice me? I was sure I snuck in undetected.”

Yeah, fair question.

Both Spider and Silk, with all their enhanced senses, hadn’t even noticed her.

“Unconventional perception.” I shrugged, keeping it vague.

She nodded, accepting that answer without pressing further.

“Maybe you shouldn’t go down there.” Daredevil made a last attempt to dissuade us. “It’s dark, it smells awful, and we have no idea what’s down there. I can check it out while you keep looking up here.”

“No, we’ve already decided to go.” Parker was unshakable. “And it’s safer if we go together.”

“Mmm… Alright. Then I’ll go with you.”

“Oh? You want to join us on this delightful journey into the depths of filth and stench?” I couldn’t help the dry sarcasm, still slightly annoyed at Parker’s knight-in-shining-armor routine dragging me into the sewers.

“I’d be going in anyway. And honestly? I’m not thrilled about it.” Daredevil sighed. “My sense of smell is extremely sensitive. But if you’re really set on going down there… I have to join you.”

She exhaled sharply.

“I don’t want some kids getting eaten by a mutant alligator. I’d feel guilty later.”

“Ha-ha.” Gwen let out a very nervous laugh. “That’s just an urban legend. There aren’t actually alligators in the sewers, right?”

No one answered.

“No, seriously. That’s just a joke, right?”

“Just…” Daredevil made an uncertain motion with her hand. “Be careful, okay? I’ve seen some shit on the surface. What’s underneath? I don’t want to imagine.”

Silk mumbled something under her breath as we gathered around the gaping hole in the street.

I distinctly caught the words: "Smartasses."

And then, very quietly: "…maybe we should just leave the damn drug dealer."

“I'll go first. The dark won’t bother me. Then you two follow, got it?” said Daredevil.

“Uh… okay.” Spider didn’t even argue, easily handing over leadership of the “party” to Daredevil. Honestly, fair enough. She had way more experience than all of us combined, and if we were gonna wander into a literal shithole, might as well let the person who could navigate in darkness take point. Even with my glowing self providing some illumination, her skills were an undeniable advantage.

We climbed down.

And… yeah.

Toby, it’s not cool to be petty.

But I am feeling a little smug.

See, I have built-in filters in my mask. Courtesy of Dr. McCoy. The girls? Not so much. Their masks practically wrinkled with the force of their expressions, and even Murdock winced.

And yet, here we were.

I told them not to go down here. But noooo, terminal hero syndrome is a thing. Even Daredevil—who should have known better—jumped right in.

Like, seriously?

"Hey, guys! You’re planning a little swim in raw sewage? Sure you don’t wanna reconsider? No? Absolutely certain? Oh, in that case, count me in—I’d never forgive myself if I missed out on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!"

I expected better judgment from an adult hero. Someone with more experience. A bit of healthy cynicism. But to be fair… what else was she supposed to do?

Fight three powered teenagers? Let a bunch of kids wander into potential danger?

Daredevil is a certified do-gooder, through and through.

And now here we were, standing in a sewer, looking around.

To the left, an identical tunnel.

To the right, same thing.

Walls streaked with something unpleasant, and a revolting little river of filth ran right through the middle. The only light was coming from me, and there were no tracks—just surprisingly dry walkways on either side of the sewage stream.

“Ladies, I just wanna get this out there now: no splitting up and no sex.”

Three heads snapped toward me.

Well. Three masks.

I couldn’t actually see their expressions, but the silence was pretty damn loud.

“I’ve seen way too many horror movies about walking around in the dark. If we split up, we will get picked off one by one. If we start getting freaky, something will kill all of you first, then come for me… best case scenario, it eats me right away. Worst case?”

I really didn’t wanna relive that horror flick I watched the other night—director’s alias was "Mid Night" or something. Dude had an obsession with vampires and weird kinks. Whole thing was called Vampire’s Life.

I shuddered at the memory.

“So, just think of this as a weird guy’s personal quirk, but let’s stick together, yeah? We’ve only got two directions—fifty-fifty chance of picking the right one. That’s pretty good odds, right? And only Daredevil can actually see in the dark, and I can’t split myself into two cute little glowing Salamanders.”

In the comics, Spidey got night vision after dying and coming back. As far as I knew, Petra didn’t have that. Her senses were sharper, sure, but that was it.

By extension, Gwen probably had the same limitations.

So, really, my argument was airtight.

Unbeatable.

And… completely ignored.

“Then you two go right. I’ll go left. I don’t need light, and I’m used to working alone. I would’ve gone in here on my own anyway, and this way, we can cover both directions.”

…Fucking hell.

Yuriko was right. Heroes are morons.

Going into the sewers for some random drug dealer, then splitting up?

I was fuming.

Trailing behind the two spiders—so I wouldn’t blind them—I muttered to myself the entire way.

"I’m here with you kids so you don’t get eaten by a crocodile, kids! I have to, or I’ll feel bad! Blah, blah, blah. But oh, go ahead and split up, kids! My conscience is totally at peace now!"

“Sal… you’re overreacting.” Gwen tried to soothe me.

“You know what, Silk? I have a bad feeling about this,” I carefully patted her shoulder. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be a downer. I’ll shut up now and focus.”

“It’s fine.” There was warmth in her voice, reassuring. “I’m nervous too. Spider’s just pretending to be totally chill.”

“Pff.” Petra snorted. “I am on edge. I just don’t whine about it. And I listen to that—ugh—whiner behind me.”

She very quickly corrected herself.

Mmm. Yeah, she was gonna slip up and expose one of us eventually.

“Girls, I did say I wouldn’t bring the mood down…” I started, looking down at the thing I had just stepped in. “But for the record, can we all agree that our first adventure together is already a complete shitshow?”

The quiet, eerie tunnels of the New York sewer system echoed with three slightly tense, but genuine, laughs.

[Elden Ring] Chapter 49

Seeing and feeling the healing energy wash over her body and soul was pleasant. For many reasons—most of which had already been mentioned more than once.

But right now, what pleased her most was how it was happening. Her Tarnished was dressed, focused, surprisingly attentive, and actually speaking with her.

He had torn himself away from that arrogant witch and had chosen to spend time with her.

"How do you feel?"

A question he had asked before. He already knew the answer. And yet, he asked again, looking directly into her eyes—calm, but with intent.

Could it be said that Konstantin had completely recovered? Or… could he go even further? What would he become if he absorbed even more runes?

"Good," she muttered, averting her gaze.

"Then close that cursed eye," Kosta said flatly. "That cutscene with the burning bush(1) on your head didn’t leave the best impression, Meli-Meli."

"A possible future…" Melina murmured. "Is my hairstyle really that bad?"

She sounded oddly lost as she said it, staring at the ground in thought.

"Yes."

"W-what… how did that even happen?"

It seemed she was genuinely concerned about her hair.

No matter how much time she had wandered the Lands Between, she had always taken care of herself. Spectral body or not, a world teetering on the edge of ruin or not—it mattered!

"The world burned," Kosta shrugged.

Melina gasped.

"You…!"

"The moment they called me Maidenless(2), I realized my greatest fear," Kosta declared with unusual gravity. "And that’s losing you."

Worlds without waifus were empty—any waifu enthusiast could tell you that. But truly dead worlds were the ones that had once had waifus… and then lost them.

At that point, nothing else mattered anymore.

Darkness. Emptiness. Oblivion.

Kosta hadn’t been grinding and cheesing his way through the Lands Between just to bask in some cheap, overpowered strength that ruined the fun of real challenges. His goals had been clear from the very first day.

Melina suddenly had the overwhelming urge to fade into immateriality or—if that wasn’t an option—just sink into the ground and vanish. But the man in front of her wouldn’t let her. He grabbed her hand again, stopping her from running away.

"Let—let go…!"

But the unyielding Soulslike player did not let go. His face was a perfect mask of stone, the unshakable calm of a veteran who had dodged every AOE attack, who feared no janky hitboxes, who had faced bosses forums called "easy" only to suffer countless retries at their hands.

And Melina… Melina could not fight against that.

She stopped struggling, feeling something inside her snap.

"You say such things to me, but you’d say the exact same thing to the other… witches…"

She didn’t care about some random Irene, Millicent, or Roderika. But Sellen and Ranni…

The real problem here was greed. Probably.

Of all the waifus, the false Finger Maiden was likely the most possessive and stubborn, refusing to even consider sharing her Tarnished with anyone. Irene, Millicent, and Roderika? She could tolerate them, at best. Concubines. Nothing more.

But witches…

WITCHES.

"What?" Kosta raised a brow, genuinely puzzled. "No, I wouldn’t say that to them. I have no other Finger Maiden. Only you. Without you, I never would have made it this far."

The vast majority of Soulslike players, if Melina had not gifted them Torrent, would have long since died of exhaustion—forced to trudge across the endless expanse of the Lands Between at the pace of a turtle.

That was the absolute truth.

After all, let’s not forget about softlocks…

"Liar."

Melina said it without heat or malice.

Maybe, on some level, she’d never truly believe him—no matter what he said, or how many times he said it.

And maybe… Konstantin understood that, too, because his expression darkened slightly.

He had to really think about this—about how to get through to the closed-off, slightly… just slightly unhinged girl in front of him.

"I don’t know what I’ll do once I become king," he admitted at last. "Strength… that’s all I have. So tell me—without you, who do you think I’d start listening to?"

It was obvious.

The women who would surround him.

Kosta’s words hit Melina harder than she wanted to admit.

It was exactly what she had feared all this time. The one thing keeping her from disappearing into nothingness.

"I can become a king. But I am still a Tarnished with no name, no lineage," Konstantin murmured. "A Tarnished without a Maiden is incomplete. Maidenless."

At that last word, Kosta grimaced so hard that Melina’s lips twitched into a tiny smile.

She liked when her Tarnished spoke like this. How expressive and passionate he was.

"You want me to remain your Maiden?"

"A Maiden for the Tarnished. A Queen for the King," Konstantin said plainly.

Melina shook.

A Queen? Her?

She—the one who couldn’t even count on the title of a demigod? One of Queen Marika’s forgotten daughters?

"My… my mother…"

"Not waifu."

"NOT WAIFU?!" Melina shouted.

The answer she had been waiting for all this time.

The question that could determine everything.

Now, she had her answer.

Kosta simply shrugged.

If he had valued a waifu only for appearances, he wouldn’t have been a true waifu enthusiast.

A waifu came from the soul.

Sure, Marika had an undeniable royal presence on many, many sites—but Kosta, a connoisseur of true waifus, looked beyond the surface.

And what he saw?

He hadn’t liked it since the very first day he arrived in the Lands Between.

But Kosta wasn’t done.

"I gave you a ring," he said. "Where is it?"

Already shaken beyond reason, Melina stared at him in alarm.

Saying nothing, she reached under her mantle, hesitantly pulling out the ring.

Wordlessly, Konstantin took it from her.

Then, as if this were the most mundane thing in the world, he knelt and slipped it onto her ring finger.

He did it so casually, like he’d put rings on people hundreds of times before.

Right now, though, Melina wasn’t thinking about that.

She wasn’t thinking at all.

She just stood there, staring at the ring he had just placed on her finger.

Konstantin rose, ready to say something else—

But then Melina suddenly grabbed him—

And kissed him.

Quick. Fleeting. As if it hadn’t happened at all.

Then, without another word, the false Finger Maiden ran, leaving Kosta alone.

She had already pushed past every conceivable boundary.

Melina needed a moment—just a moment—to process her own reality again.

Konstantin, whether he wanted to or not, turned his gaze slightly—

And felt someone watching him.

Someone who had been trying to hide.

He locked eyes with Ranni, who was peering out from behind some bushes.

The spectral face of the lunar demigoddess tried to appear as indifferent as possible, but Kosta could see the interest in her gaze—like she was watching an important plot development in her favorite show.

Her only show, really.

Saying nothing, the moon waifu disappeared.

But the message was clear.

She, too, had quests that needed completing.

Konstantin sighed.

He understood.

But lately… she had been appearing a bit too often.

A dangerous thought crept into his mind.

Was it possible that the Death Rune had reached her because she’d been too distracted? (3)

Too focused on watching the adventures of a Tarnished with no name?

Kosta shook the thought away.

For now, there was something else to do.

A flash of light swept him away.

A hardened Soulslike player. A stoic tryhard. A master of casual cheese.

…It had been a long time since anyone had hugged him.

…Of course, first, he had to go back for Sellen.

"You haven’t visited me for a long time, my Sun…"

She was beyond happy to see him. When he hadn't appeared at the hold for some time, Fia had started to worry, but her calling as the companion of the dead was not given to her without reason.

Who said the dead were silent? On the contrary, they spoke far more than the living. One only had to listen, try to understand their words, embrace them, and give them a chance to be heard.

The companion of the dead had heard much. Including the whispers that the Tarnished she had longed for had returned to the hold. But he had not come to her, and that saddened her deeply.

She wanted warmth.

Sweet Rogier, her faithful companion, had tried to intercept the terrifyingly strong and swift Tarnished, but…

It was as if he was avoiding them. Both her and her dear Rogier, as if he didn’t want to see them.

To her immense relief, she had been mistaken.

"Doing quests."

The man's vague response didn’t faze Fia in the slightest. All of her attention was focused on what she felt as she embraced the Tarnished. Something immense, unfathomable—she could no longer even begin to grasp how powerful he had become.

Or rather, she couldn’t comprehend what he had become at all.

The gap between them had grown so vast that she simply couldn’t process it. More than that, if she wasn’t careful, her body could have been torn apart.

Thankfully, the Tarnished—changed beyond recognition—didn’t allow her such a foolish death, restricting the warmth he radiated just enough so that she felt only a small stream of energy, no more. Still gentle, still enveloping her body and soul, yet nowhere near the overwhelming sensation she had experienced in the beginning.

It was, in its own way, disappointing. She wanted to feel it again. The warmth granted by the Tarnished could help not only in completing the Rune(4), something even more perfect and whole than she could have ever imagined, but also…

"I can feel how much you’ve changed…" Fia murmured, running a hand over his head. "You’ve been through so much…"

She could feel the echoes of the Great Runes within him. The land had yet to be filled with rumors, but soon, both the living and the dead would spread the word that the world now had a sole bearer of four Great Runes. Their world would never be the same.

The speed with which he had gathered them across the Lands Between was terrifying.

It felt as though a god, akin to Queen Marika herself, had descended upon their world and brought all of the Lands Between to their knees.

Fia’s eyes, whether she wanted them to or not, gleamed with fanaticism.

She, who considered herself the companion of Godwyn, the Prince of Death, was now faced with what felt like his antithesis. The embodiment of life and hope, a warm, guiding Sun.

Had all those who defamed her been right all along?

"My Sun…" she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Will you grant me my request?"

Konstantin pulled away from Fia’s embrace, raising his gaze to her.

For some reason, a chill ran down her spine. The partially golden hue of his eyes seemed to peer directly into her very soul.

It felt as though he already knew what she was going to ask. As if he had simply been waiting for it.

Uncertainly, Fia reached for the dagger she never let out of her grasp.

"P-please, find out who this dagger belongs to… and return it to its owner…"

"I don’t think he deserves to die," the Tarnished said quietly.

Change. She had sensed from the very start that he had changed—not just deep within his essence, but even his consciousness and perception had shifted in an indescribable way.

As if a man who had been half-asleep, speaking to her in a dream, had suddenly opened his eyes.

"Y-you…"

The foreknowledge Konstantin possessed unsettled Fia. She already felt insignificant next to someone so powerful, but now…

"He’s merely a follower of the only teaching that accepted him(5)," Konstantin spoke softly. "If he and his brother are offered a better alternative, he will take it. And he will be of use."

At least, that was the feeling Konstantin had.

"A-alternative?"

Konstantin smiled.

"The dead will never know peace, even if they are freed. Your lord will not rise again."

Fia’s fear slowly turned into horror, her heart pounding wildly.

The Outer Gods bear witness—she was terrified of what she might hear.

And yet, she desperately wanted to hear it.

"I… I don’t understand…"

Kosta, gazing into the eyes of the waifu who had embraced countless Soulslike players, finally came to a decision.

He could help.

After all, he had never intended to usher in the Age of Duskborn.

Maybe not now, but sooner or later, the waifu who embraced the dead would have tried something.

And killing a waifu…

That wasn’t even funny.

"Praise the Sun."

The Lands Between were vast, and Brother Corhyn knew this well. Finding a single person was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Although, in the current Age, it was more like searching for a needle on scorched earth—but that didn’t change much.

"Why are there so many commoners here…" Corhyn murmured in confusion.

He knew that the Golden Order’s prophet, Goldmask, should be somewhere on the Altus Plateau. But the plateau was enormous, as was the number of places from which one could admire the beauty of the Erdtree.

Initially, Corhyn had considered asking the undead for directions (after all, just because someone had died a few times didn’t necessarily mean they were aggressive or had completely lost themselves).

But to his growing unease, he realized that all of them…

Were just hollow illusions. Entire crowds of identical, lifeless commoners filled the Altus Plateau—exact copies of one another.

The deeper he went, the more he saw these dolls, and the more unsettling the atmosphere became.

Why? Who? Why was someone creating replicas of the same commoner?

Instead of finding his way and locating his teacher, Goldmask, Corhyn was beginning to think that maybe he should temporarily leave this unsettling region. Only his devotion to meeting the hero kept him moving forward despite it all.

In the worst case, his unseen companion could attempt to save him and transport him back to the hold.

Brother Corhyn was not one to flee from problems so easily.

Fortunately, this time, fate smiled upon him.

…Or almost.

"Brother Corhyn?"

Walking along a path littered with faceless commoners, Corhyn feared most of all that they might suddenly spring to life and attack him.

So, naturally, his reaction was to let out a startled yelp, his body glowing with golden light as he prepared to fight for his life (or rather, his life in undeath).

But to his own surprise, he calmed almost instantly.

The voice.

It was familiar.

Stomach still twisting with lingering fear, Corhyn slowly turned his head—only to see a familiar figure.

A clothed Tarnished.

"Konstantin…?" he blurted out, dumbfounded.

The Tarnished, standing a head taller than before and appearing as if he had materialized out of nowhere, smiled.

"I know where Goldmask is."

"Ah…?"

For some reason, Corhyn thought that the previously unresponsive commoners scattered across the Altus Plateau had all simultaneously turned their empty gazes toward Konstantin.

But…

Probably it was just his imagination.

(1) This refers once again to the ending of the Lord of Frenzied Flame, in whose final cutscene the player can see Melina with her mysterious accursed eye and a strange, scorched tuft of hair on her head.

(2) This is what Varre calls the player. As one might guess, he implies that the player is “Maidenless” in the sense of “without a Maiden (guide),” but the term Maidenless can also be interpreted more literally as “without a woman” or “without a companion,” adding some rather interesting connotations. The term quickly became a meme online, planting suffering in the hearts of lonely Soulslike players from the very first minutes of the game, as is only fitting for a true Soulslike.

(3) Over the course of Ranni’s questline, she ends up in trouble, hiding away from yet another asset reuse version of Blaidd.

(4) This is, of course, just speculation. Fia mentions that for a Rune to be born, the new life of Marika’s firstborn must mix with the death of a demigod (that same firstborn). I assume she might have used the accumulated power to try and apply it to Godwyn, hoping that with his full Death energy, a new Rune would form within her.

Whether she knew, when offering the Rune to the player, that the demigod’s condition wouldn’t improve—or if she expected Godwyn to be revived later and reclaim it—is unclear. What is clear, however, is that the player gets a unique opportunity to finish off the undead dragon guarding Godwyn, which probably doesn’t align with Fia’s plans.

(5) The dagger belongs to D, Hunter of the Dead. Naturally, the companion of the dead and the man who slaughters them left and right were bound to have a conflict. D’s motivation is quite simple: the undead were hunted down by the Golden Order. And no other doctrine, aside from the Golden Order, ever accepted D and his brother.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 82

“Fuck… what dumbass designed these uniforms?” Panam grumbled, struggling to adjust the tight black suit with its subtle red tint. “Workwear’s supposed to be comfortable.”

“Not for elite hotel staff,” I replied. “Be grateful we don’t have to slap on gold realskin. The main crew at Konpeki? They shine like fucking trophies.”

“I’m sure they could’ve made something both stylish and comfortable,” she said, standing next to our van in the rented garage. “But no, it’s gotta send a message: ‘You’re a fucking nobody. Shut up, smile, and choke on our corporate cock.’ Honestly, I’m not even surprised they provide the underwear, just weirded out there’s no spiked anal plug that injects turpentine every hour.”

I ran a final check on our cargo. Beneath all the harmless tools and equipment was our real gear—bots, weapons, and special devices. When they scanned it, we’d need to swap the results fast. If they caught on, I had an Arasaka black ops ID as backup, but that would mean aborting the mission. Too much heat.

“How many people got our backs tonight?” Panam asked. “Battalion? Platoon? A whole fucking division? How many combat drones?”

“No drones. Just Lucy, Becca, and Falco.”

“For real? I thought you’d have a small army up your sleeve, like usual.”

“This time, an army wouldn’t help,” I said. “Security’s too fucking tight at Konpeki. Even Smasher’s here.”

“That Smasher?”

“Yeah. So shooting’s a bad fucking idea. Might negatively impact our life expectancy. Like I said—quiet, smooth, no noise. We have everything we need to pull it off.”

“Fine. Talking’s on you. I don’t know shit, I’m just here to tinker with hardware.”

“Got it. Just don’t forget your fake name and backstory. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Alright, boss. Hop in, I’m driving.”

“Standard corp protocol says we use autopilot. So sit back and relax.”

“Ugh… I need to find my zen. Stop losing my shit over every little thing,” she muttered, getting comfortable in the driver’s seat. “This whole day’s like a fucking safari. Gonna just sit back and think, ‘Damn, I really made the right call picking another life.’”

The garage door rolled open, and our black van pulled out onto the city streets. We were headed from the outskirts to the waterfront.

“You guys moving?” Lucy’s voice came through comms.

“Just left.”

“Stay safe, V. You didn’t promise me a vacation for nothing, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep my head down.” I smirked.

Nice to know someone was waiting for me, worrying about me. Not that I was too concerned. Worst-case scenario, we’d leave empty-handed. That secret agent ID came at the perfect time—I even prepped a few alibis for who we could be spying on in Arasaka’s name. City politicians, rival corps—plenty of options.

“Autopilot drives like a granny,” Panam groaned as the van slowed way too early for a red light.

“Yeah. Safe. By the book.”

“Just how you like it, huh?”

“Rules exist for a reason. Especially traffic laws.”

A sports car blew past us in the opposite lane, barely dodging a couple of other vehicles.

“Yeah? And guys like that will never follow them,” Panam scoffed. “Rules are for people who can’t afford a lawyer, a bribe, or a ripperdoc.”

“Oh, come on,” I waved her off. “Nothing’s more boring than bitching about social justice. Everything’s already been said—multiple times and with plenty of cursing.”

“True. But sometimes, it just feels good to yell about it. Especially with the cursing.”

The rest of the ride was quiet. The city didn’t notice us tonight. Just two more faceless workers on the night shift, making sure some lucky bastards had electricity and clean air to breathe.

Then, we arrived.

Konpeki Plaza. A citadel of glass and neon, so polished it reminded me of the Net itself.

“Hell of a shack,” Panam whistled. “Tons of eddies just so a couple hundred people can lounge on leather couches and take a shit in gold-plated toilets.”

420 luxury suites, 20 conference halls, 14 high-end pools. None of that concerned us. No red carpet, no grand entrance. Our van rolled into a hidden docking bay on a side street. From there, we used a service tunnel to reach sublevel five, where the first real test began—security screening.

Twelve guards at the checkpoint. Most wore suits, but three were kitted out in full combat gear. Konpeki didn’t fuck around. I knew this would be the most critical part of our plan.

First scan didn’t like something. A tall guy in a black-and-red blazer stepped up to the driver’s side and said,

“Step out of the vehicle. The system can’t complete a full diagnostic of your cargo.”

“Expected,” I replied as politely as possible. “We’ve got interference materials in there—signal dampeners, jammers. We’re doing network security. Inspection protocol 10.2: direct connection required.”

“Alright,” the guard nodded and walked off to get the gear.

“I’m ready,” Lucy’s voice chimed in.

Time to work fast. We had prepped fake scan data, but I’d have to tweak it on the fly. Two guards started poking around the van, opening the cargo hold. Everything suspicious was concealed inside standard-issue network maintenance casings.

One of them connected to a device. I kept my face neutral, mentally repeating: Nothing to hide. Just another routine check.

“Remove this panel,” the guard instructed.

“Buddy, do we really have to do all this?” Panam sighed.

“Remove it.”

“Fine, fine.”

She reached for her tools while Lucy worked her magic. My job? Keep smiling.

“Well?” Panam asked, showing him the inside of a large black box.

One of our bots was in there, but completely dismantled—its components blended perfectly with the legit hardware. To an untrained eye, it just looked like complex circuitry.

The guard stared at it for a few seconds, pretending to understand. Then, with a knowing nod, he said,

“Alright. Proceed.”

We fucking made it. The hardest part? Over.

We drove on, reaching the service elevator, where we started unloading our gear. A staffer with gold realskin appeared out of nowhere.

“Have you worked here before?” he asked.

“Nope. First time.”

“Do not speak to guests in the halls, do not approach within fifteen meters of them, do not enter occupied rooms…”

“We got the manual, pal. Chill,” Panam cut him off.

“I am not your pal. You will address me as Akigawa-san. I expect you to follow instructions precisely. If not, I’ll file a formal complaint with your employer. Here’s your equipment cart. Good night.”

“Good night, Akigawa-san,” I said with a smile, loading a black case onto the cart.

“What a fucking prick,” Panam muttered once he walked off.

“Well, someone’s probably shitting on him daily, so he just wants to pass it on. Cycle of corporate fuckery.”

“It’s not a cycle. It all trickles down to the most powerless person, and the only thing they can do is take it out on their wife and kids.”

“Yeah. And the kids take it out on the cat,” I smirked, remembering an old meme from my past life.

“We’re talking about the most powerless and broke people. Where the fuck are they gonna get a cat?” Panam pointed out. “Only pets available in Night City are roaches and tapeworms. And even those are apparently dying off ‘cause of the new Chromanticore formula.”

“Tragic. People just don’t respect biodiversity.”

We finished loading the equipment onto a large cart. Next up—the elevator. We needed to find a hidden maintenance room or an unoccupied suite, somewhere we wouldn’t be disturbed.

We went up five floors, landing in the unseen guts of Konpeki Plaza—behind the bar and kitchen, far from the prying eyes of high-paying guests.

“You’re entering ICE territory,” Lucy warned. “I can still talk to you, but I can’t do much else.”

Yeah. But once we neutralized the local netrunner and got the virus in, the hotel’s entire system would be under Lucy’s control.

“Who are you here for?” A gold-skinned employee turned to us.

“Routine security and network prot—”

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Just hurry it up and don’t block the hallway.”

And so, our little tour of luxury’s underbelly began. We needed to reach an elevator that would take us higher.

The hallways were pristine. Almost sterile. You don’t see that often in Night City. You get used to garbage everywhere—on the streets, in cafes, hell, even at home unless you’ve got a doll you can program to clean up. In nicer places, there’s less trash, and it’s “fresh,” meaning someone actually bothers to clear it out once in a while. But true, complete cleanliness? That only exists in the most expensive places. Konpeki was one of them. Everything here practically sparkled, even the back rooms no guest would ever see.

“No, no, no!” A tall woman in a white blazer suddenly blocked our path. “First time here? Use the other elevator. Over there. Around the corner. Move it.”

“Alright,” I shrugged.

The whole place was buzzing with stress. These employees acted like they were running a nuclear power plant or a Blackwall containment site. Walking on eggshells, whispering, snapping at each other, throwing death glares like shuriken. Was this how it was every night, or was today just extra fucked?

When we hit the fortieth floor, we heard some manager—gold-skinned like the rest—chewing out a janitor.

“Every person is a product, and you are clearance rack garbage! One more mistake… Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

A sharp slap punctuated the lecture—or, more accurately, the training session.

“And who the hell are you?” The manager turned toward us.

“Routine security and network—”

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t get in my way.”

“Relax, Mr. Manai,” I said with a cold smile, his name flashing across my optics. “Konpeki Plaza’s motto is: ‘Luxury. Beauty. Security.’ We’re here to ensure the last one. And we do file reports to the higher-ups.”

“I was just… ah,” the guy hesitated. “My apologies. Tough day. Of course, I wouldn’t interfere with your work. Goodbye.”

And with that, the golden-skinned dickhead scurried off.

“Hey,” I turned to the janitor, who looked like she was about to break down. “Know any room we can use to prep our equipment? Somewhere quiet.”

“I… uh… I’ll take you there. But, um, it hasn’t been cleaned yet.”

“No problem,” I said. “We’re not guests.”

“It’s, uh… really not clean,” she warned, looking even more uncomfortable. “You get what I mean?”

“Don’t worry,” Panam reassured her. “We’ve seen worse than dirty underwear.”

Honestly, after all that build-up, I expected a scene out of a week-long orgy. Instead, it was just some crumpled clothes on the floor and stained bedsheets. Nothing catastrophic.

“Give us an hour,” I said, slipping a folded bill into her hand.

“Oh, you don’t have to—” she started, then snatched it before I could second-guess myself.

A second later, the door shut behind her, and we were finally alone. Time to get started. First, we took control of the room’s cameras and checked for bugs. Found a few, but they weren’t active.

“This place sucks,” Panam muttered, dismantling a server unit. “We should flood the pipes or something. Just for fun.”

“They’ll have bigger problems soon,” I replied, pulling a monokatana from its hidden slot in a detector case.

“Bigger problems? You know something I don’t?”

“Yeah, some things.”

“Oh, great. More secrets. Here, mister spy guy, take your gun.”

She tossed me a ten-round Nue with a solid suppressor. I also grabbed a Brazilian dart gun from my stash. Four tranq shots in the mag, one in the chamber. We couldn’t carry much gear today—too many bots taking up space. But we had weapons, meds, and a few portable cameras. A small kit, but all essentials covered.

“Alright. Waiting on your signal,” Panam said, assembling the first bot. “Lucy, you there?”

“Yes.”

“She’s in. Let’s go.”

The bot booted up and climbed to its feet as Panam pried open a vent. A few seconds later, it scurried inside, and she took control via tablet and joystick. Occasionally, she commented:

“Drinking, sleeping, more drinking, fucking… Oh, the mayor!”

“What’s he doing? Drinking? Sleeping? Fucking?”

“Nope. Reading a political mag.”

“Huh. A scholar.”

“Shit… slight problem. Hang on.”

“Need us to do something?” I asked.

“We got it,” Lucy assured me.

Yeah. I didn’t need to micromanage every step. A solid team handled their shit. All I could do was pace around and stare at the floating holographic fish above the table. Outside, the sky was thick with either fog or smog. Same weather as that night I raided Jimmy Kurosaki’s den.

“And one, and two…” Panam murmured.

“The netrunner’s down,” Lucy confirmed. “I’m in the system.”

“What about the penthouse cameras?”

“They’re up. It’s empty right now. Panam, second phase. Release the spider, I’ll guide it. It’s a long climb, so get comfy.”

“Got it.”

More pacing. A pair of pearl-strung panties lay on the floor, next to crumpled tissues made of damn-near real paper. The great heist of the century—spent staring at someone’s dirty laundry. My meditation was interrupted when Lucy fed me a live feed from Yorinobu’s penthouse.

For a second, I just stared. It was so familiar. I’d seen it in my past life, in Evelyn’s braindance, and now through security cameras. This was where the world’s fate would change.

But I wasn’t setting foot in there.

I was stealing his treasure with mechanical hands. Hacking someone else’s future.

The penthouse was empty. Lights were on. Yorinobu’s pistol rested on the bedside table. Somewhere nearby, his pet iguana egg was probably stashed.

A vent hatch opened. The barely visible outline of our bot slipped inside.

“Cameras are looped. We’re in. Let’s begin,” Lucy announced.

“More like continue,” Panam corrected.

“Direct the bot to the bedside console.”

“On it. So, does the safe pop up from the floor?”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

Now, we just had to hack the lock, swap the chip into our container, and leave a fake in its place. Sounds simple, but a thousand things could go wrong.

“Safe’s open.”

It took about a second and a half.

“Lucy, you’re a fucking miracle.”

“Thanks, but I’m working with a stacked deck thanks to you guys.”

A bit of cold vapor rose from the spot as the black horizontal lid of the floor safe slid open. Inside— a container.

The bot carefully unlatched it. From my angle, I couldn’t make out the details, but soon enough, Panam confirmed:

“All set, Lucy. You can close this piece of shit up. Me and the spider are delta’ing.”

“You got the chip?”

“Of course, V. Relax your damn cheeks. It’s done with surgical precision.”

I exhaled and let myself smile. Attached directly to the bot’s frame was a small container maintaining the correct temperature. The chip would be fine for the next hour and a half. The second, permanent container was with us.

“Returning?” I asked.

“Yep. Smooth sailing. We’re already in the vents. Take a smoke, breathe a little.”

Funny. A job this risky, one that could’ve easily gotten everyone killed, and we pulled it off without even dirtying our hands. Then again, that’s how it should be. The more intricate the plan, the easier the execution— if you prepared well enough. We did prepare well.

Team, equipment, step-by-step strategy, intel— everything lined up perfectly.

The bot emerged from its visual cloaking, waving a manipulator at me, probably on Panam’s command. I grabbed the prepped container off the table, slipped on an insulated glove, and swiftly took the chip from the bot.

Well, hello there, Johnny. How’s life? Oh, right— it’s not.

A tiny piece of tech with that much power. And an absolute fuckton of potential problems.

The chip clicked into the container. Lid shut. Time to get the fuck out.

“So, I’m scrubbing all traces and… V, did you wanna mess with the cameras?” Lucy asked.

Should I try to dig up dirt on Yorinobu? Was it worth it?

“You know…”

But before I could decide, Lucy’s voice sharpened with tension.

“Someone’s coming up to the penthouse.”

“Yorinobu?”

“No. V, it’s… Just see for yourself.”

I switched the feed back on— just in time to watch the elevator doors slide open.

And stepping out, flanked by some woman I didn’t recognize, was none other than Jackie Wells.

Fuck…

A line from our last call flashed through my mind:

“Got a job.”
“Me too.”

He’d said it with so much pride. Like he’d just… scored a golden fucking ticket. And I didn’t think twice about it. I was too wrapped up in my own plans.

But how?! I’d cut Evelyn out of the chain. Jackie himself told me his big gig had fallen through. So why—

“V, something’s up,” Lucy cut through my spiraling thoughts. “An AV’s approaching the hotel. They’re activating heightened security measures.”

And there he was.

Saburo.

Everyone’s fucking here.

It’s time for this whole thing to go completely to shit.

[Hydrargyrum] Character List

Kayneth Archibald El-Melloi - the MC, also known as Lord El-Melloi, is the Master of Lancer in the Fourth Holy Grail War of Fate/Zero. He is the Lord of the Department of Mineralogy of the Clock Tower in the early 1990s.

James Murphy - the boy whose body Kayneth possessed

Muggle World:

Albert MacDuggal - black market ‘trader’, Kayneth’s ‘boss’ in the Muggle world

Llewellyn Smith - Kayneth’s apprentice, squib.

Wizarding World:

Stuart Morris - 11 years old, half-blood, hosted the Hermione’s Lightsaber lecture

Charles McAvoy - 11 years old, Kayneth’s roommate, half-blood, met Kayneth in the bookstore before going to Hogwarts

Keenan Rivers - 11 years old, pure-blood, met in the train compartment, friend of Charles McAvoy

Dale Nort - 11 years old, muggle-born, met in the train compartment, wants to combine magic and technology to make his Walkman work

Simon Kerry - 11 years old, Kayneeth’s roommate, met in Ireland during Hermione’s Lightsaber lecture, friend of Euphemia.

Irwin Ross - 11 years old, Kayneth’s 4th roommate,

Euphemia Sunset - 11 years old, met in Ireland during Hermione’s Lightsaber lecture, always wears long Victorian dresses.

Karin Taylor - 11 years old, muggle-born, wears glasses, excels in Herbology

Ryan Willin - 11 years old, pure-blood, son of apothecary, Karin’s rival in Herbology

Marissa Selwyn - 11 years old, tried to use Stinging Hex on a dementor

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 22

"How do you think we should translate ‘le principe’? Should it be ‘rule,’ ‘cause,’ ‘origin,’ or ‘foundation’?" Granger asked, looking up from a thick dictionary. Despite all the preservation and cleaning spells, the book looked as though the last person to use it had lived during Napoleon’s time.

"In the original textbook, it’s closer to ‘principle,’ but in translation, I think ‘origin’ fits better," Kayneth replied as he approached the table, setting down another stack of reference books. It was already the third guide on French magical terminology, along with several books on wand creation and selection. He had even found an old, early 19th-century Ministry pamphlet detailing common issues with wand compatibility and methods to resolve them.

Stuffed into the pocket of his cloak was a simple notebook where he jotted down the titles of books that had caught his interest along the way—volumes he planned to study later. That list was growing alarmingly fast.

"You think so?" Granger hesitated, pulling her rough draft closer. "To me, ‘rule’ fits better. Like ‘the rule you act by.’ Or maybe ‘principle’ as in ‘he has principles.’"

"Principles exist today and disappear tomorrow. But this ‘le principe’ stays with you for your entire life. ‘Rule’ is closer, but it’s more of a moral or legal category—it dictates what you can or cannot do, whether you follow the rules or break them. ‘Origin,’ on the other hand, is what shapes your actions, your decisions, and even the way your magic manifests. It’s the starting point of everything you do. You might not even be aware of it—most wizards don’t realize it exists—but it constantly influences you nonetheless."

"That sounds a little terrifying," she murmured, turning her wand over in both hands, studying it as if seeing it for the first time. It might have seemed odd to an outsider, but in the near-empty library, there was no one around to notice.

It was a quiet Saturday morning, and no more than half a dozen students occupied the vast library, their presence swallowed by the towering bookshelves. The time for frantic exam cramming and last-minute essay revisions hadn’t arrived yet, and even the most dedicated Ravenclaw bookworms had opted to sleep in. But, as always, there were exceptions.

During breakfast, which was pleasantly unhurried now that the initial chaos of the school year had settled, Kayneth had approached Granger, who was sitting alone, and proposed they start working on the translation they had discussed on the train. She had agreed immediately, adding that the sooner they finished, the better—soon, coursework would pile up, and time for personal projects would become scarce.

He had noticed a few curious and surprised glances from other students—perhaps it was strange to see a Ravenclaw first-year casually chatting with a Gryffindor third-year, or maybe it was simply Granger’s reputation at play. The know-it-all, insufferable, overly ambitious bookworm—someone most people were hesitant to approach.

Once they reached the library, Kayneth quickly skimmed through the draft translation, marking the most pressing issues. Overall, the quality was decent—Granger had clearly received some help in structuring her sentences—but there was still plenty of room for refinement. However, had he started correcting it right away, inevitable questions would have arisen about how he was so familiar with such an obscure topic.

Instead, he spent the first hour retrieving various reference materials: books on French magical terminology, tomes on wand crafting, and even texts on magical artifacts. That way, he could justify his knowledge while also adapting the translation to a terminology he was more comfortable with.

The work had turned out to be more involved than expected. Every time they adjusted a passage, another concept required further clarification, leading to more searches among the towering bookshelves. Three hours in, their table was buried under a mountain of books, many of which hadn't been touched for decades. The thick clouds of dust illuminated by the slivers of morning sunlight filtering through the tall windows made that abundantly clear. They had even needed to disperse the dust a few times with spells.

Strangely enough, Kayneth found himself in a rather pleasant mood. It had been a long time since he had unrestricted access to such a wealth of information—without hitting dead ends due to lack of sources or being forced to rely on the single ‘officially approved’ textbook favored by the Ministry.

Of course, the library here wasn’t limitless, and he was certain that Beauxbatons, with its own specialized terminology, would offer far more in this particular field. Still, even in the open market, he wouldn’t have found a fraction of what was available in Hogwarts’ library. Unpopular and outdated texts weren’t in demand, so they were rarely reprinted. And public magical libraries? A fantasy. Wizards saw no need for them.

Even the magi of the Clock Tower didn’t make their archives publicly accessible, though, in their case, they had far more compelling reasons.

"And what exactly about this scares you?" Kayneth asked, settling into the seat across from Granger. She was still staring at her wand as if expecting it to answer her questions. "Your actions are already shaped by upbringing, heritage, genetics, magical ability, and countless other factors. Why does this particular one unsettle you?"

"Things like family or social status are at least understandable. But this... I don’t even know what it is at its core. This ‘le principe,’ or if you prefer, ‘origin.’ Wands are chosen based on a wizard’s characteristics. Mine is made of vine wood with a dragon heartstring core. According to the books, dragons—being among the most powerful magical creatures—can wield all five elements, so their materials work well for any wizard."

"Correction," Kayneth interrupted, his tone more instructive now. "They can work for any wizard, but they’re typically used for those who exhibit a strong affinity for at least three or more elements. If a wizard’s affinity was clear-cut, selecting a resonator would be much easier. Take me, for example—I only align with Water. Giving me a dragon core would be a waste of resources. You, on the other hand, are a different matter."

"You mean to say I have an affinity for all elements at once?"

"No. You're not an exemplary witch."

"I'm not even trying to be," she muttered, turning away, slightly offended. "There are plenty of people better than me."

"It's not an insult, just a term," the magus replied, smirking inwardly but keeping a serious expression. He gestured to the pile of old tomes around them and explained, "It appears in some books. An 'Exemplary' or 'Balanced' wizard is someone who can use all elements at once, and such individuals are exceedingly rare. From what I’ve read, you definitely lack affinity with Ether, and there are doubts about Fire as well. So at most, you have three elements, maybe four. But even that is a lot."

"Fine," Hermione replied, though not entirely convinced, slightly ashamed of her earlier reaction. "But I was talking about something else. A wand consists of both wood and core, each meant to match one’s Origin and elements. If my dragon heartstring was chosen for my elements, then my vine wood must correspond to my Origin. And I’ve checked a few reference books—what vine represents isn’t exactly… flattering."

"I’d say the interpretations are fairly positive—fertility, passion, joy, youthful exuberance…" Kayneth listed offhandedly.

"James!" she interrupted sharply, nearly tossing her wand aside as if it had burned her. "Why would you say that out loud?! Do you have any sense of tact? If we finish this translation and distribute it to other students, do you even realize what they'll start thinking about me just by looking at my wand?!"

"That depends—was your vine wild or cultivated?" he responded expressionlessly.

"Oh, great choices—treachery or promiscuity! Mr. Ollivander said my wand came from domesticated vine wood… Listen, maybe we should just destroy the draft while we still can? Or place a copying and reading restriction on it? I came across a rather fitting curse just recently."

"And what about scientific progress? Surely, it’s worth some sacrifices?" he teased. "But seriously, as always, my dear teacher, you’re too fixated on predefined ideas. You think too rigidly, too straightforwardly, always defaulting to the obvious conclusions. I’ve said this many times, and I’ll say it many more—your narrow-mindedness will be your downfall if you don’t fix it."

Since reaching the book would be too much of a stretch at his current height, Kayneth simply extended his right hand and traced a smooth arc with his wand. "Accio worn green book on the corner of the table."

"Here, look," he said, flipping open the medieval wand-making guide, written in archaic English. He swiftly scanned the section on wood selection and pointed to a paragraph. "Vine represents more than just what you found—it also symbolizes prosperity, hospitality, and even immortality in some interpretations. It’s also a religious symbol, even one of divinity. And, most importantly, it denotes chosen status. Not to mention, there are far fewer types of suitable wand wood than there are abstract concepts, so the priority is that the wood’s attributes don’t contradict one’s Origin. Only in rare cases do they perfectly align and enhance it."

"So, you think ‘chosen status’ motivates me? I’m not Harry, I wasn’t paraded around as the savior of the world in my first year."

"And yet again, you’re thinking too narrowly," he sighed, shaking his head. "‘Chosen status’ can be interpreted in many ways—uniqueness, distinction, destiny. In your case, I’d say it best translates as stand alone. Outstanding, independent…"

"…Lonely," she finished softly. "I scored an 'Outstanding' in English and Literature at my old school, I know exactly what that phrase implies. And I can’t say I find it comforting."

"In any case, that’s just my opinion in a field where I’m no expert. It will take a lot of tests and verification to get a definitive answer."

"Sounds like you’re trying to cheer me up…"

"Excuse me."

They turned toward the voice, spotting a first-year Gryffindor emerging from behind a bookshelf. A second later, Kayneth recognized him—Nort, the boy he'd shared a compartment with on the train.

"Miss Granger, you were asked to come to our common room. I was told to let you know someone needed your help with Defense Against the Dark Arts homework."

"‘Miss Granger’?" the magus noted, arching a brow. "You must have quite the reputation among the first-years." Then, greeting him properly, he added, "Good morning, Dale. Any success in merging technology with magic?"

"Oh, hey, Jim," Dale greeted casually. "No luck yet. Anything with a microchip just dies instantly. But I haven’t given up. By the way, what are you doing here?"

"We have a joint project."

"A...?"

"Dale, right?" Hermione asked, shooting him a wary look. "Who exactly sent you?"

"Weasley, m—"

"If you add ma'am to that sentence, I’ll have a reason to test a new hex on a live subject," she threatened. "What exactly did they tell you about me? And Ron, seriously—have they already started acting like upper-years, sending first-years running across the castle on errands? Fine, tell him… Actually, no, wait here. I’ll be done in ten minutes, and we’ll go together. I’m not letting a first-year get lost because of me."

"But I can go by—"

"This isn’t up for debate. There's an empty table over there. Sit tight while I finish."

"I take it that means we’re stopping for today?" Kayneth asked once Nort reluctantly obeyed, picking a random book off the shelf.

"Unfortunately," she admitted with a sigh, beginning to gather up the scattered books and notes. She hesitated before picking up her wand again. "I really did promise to help, but I miscalculated the time. I thought we’d get further, but I suppose this is a good start."

"Can I take your draft in the meantime? I’d like to give it a thorough read when I have time, maybe suggest some refinements."

"Of course."

"By the way, are you free tomorrow?" he asked. An idea had just come to him. "Something rather interesting is coming up, and I think you’d enjoy it."

"Oh? And what exactly?"

"Let’s just say it concerns wizards and the Inquisition."

"No, no, and NO! This is absolutely impossible!"

Granger's outrage was entirely genuine. She even leapt to her feet, cutting off any potential counterarguments with a sharp wave of her hand.

"What exactly?" Kayneth asked, sitting casually on a fallen tree trunk. They were at the very edge of the forest—far enough to be discreet, but still relatively safe for testing a not-so-approved spell. Lovegood sat cross-legged on the grass beside a tree, still wearing her school robes, which was unusual for her outside of class. "The existence of the Inquisition? Witch hunts? Or the fact that inquisitors used magic themselves?"

"All of it!" she huffed. "Professor Binns’ lectures might be a nightmare to follow, but I have read history books myself while doing essays. They clearly outline the names and dates of what actually happened!”

“Sometimes, they did manage to catch a wizard, but Muggles didn’t know that wizards weren’t afraid of fire. They knew how to freeze the flames and pretend they were in great pain. In reality, they didn’t feel pain at all, only a pleasant tingling sensation throughout their bodies and a warm breath of air. Wendelin the Weird, for instance, loved ‘burning’ at the stake so much that she changed her appearance forty-seven times just to experience that incomparable pleasure, surrendering herself to Muggles each time,” Luna quoted A History of Magic from memory. Then, with her usual dreamy and distracted expression, she continued:

“It sounds beautiful and very modern—wise wizards and foolish, clueless Muggles. But the textbook doesn’t say anything about the witches who were drowned, hanged, or stoned to death. Or about the fact that someone burning at the stake would suffocate from the smoke long before dying from the flames. Or that many witches and sorcerers were ‘mercifully’ strangled while still tied to the post. Or how exactly those who supposedly ‘gave themselves up to Muggles for entertainment’ endured days of torture to extract confessions of witchcraft and heresy from them.

“All of this is even recorded in Muggle history books about the Middle Ages, which I bought to compare with ours. Haven’t you read them?”

“Of course, I have, but—”

“But you decided that since school never told you the truth about dragons and trolls, they must have been lying about witches in books as well,” Kayneth finished for her. “Or do you just like the Ministry’s version better? I seem to recall you saying you outgrew fairy tales when you were five.”

“But why even do this?” Granger asked, a question that seemed completely logical from her perspective. “Why teach us from incorrect textbooks and make up things that never happened? It’s all ancient history anyway.”

“Because this version is more convenient and paints us in a much better light. It wasn’t us who ran away from the ordinary world in fear, hiding behind the Statute and afraid to show ourselves to Muggles. No, we simply got tired of noisy, ill-mannered neighbors, so we fenced ourselves off from them. And they—well, let them scurry about with their petty problems, ignorant of the truth.”

“And that’s exactly why, despite it supposedly not being us who hid from people, a third, possibly even half, of the Ministry’s work is dedicated to maintaining the Statute. And if a child exposes the wizarding world, they are immediately expelled from school, while an adult would most likely be sent straight to Azkaban for many years,” Luna added.

“Alright. Alright…” It was hard for Granger to argue with facts and logic. Losing to Luna on “her own” field was especially frustrating. “Let’s assume you’re right—wizards fled from Muggles because they were afraid of hunts and stakes. That’s still no reason to lie about it. I’m sure wizards would accept the truth and adhere to the Statute even more strictly if they understood the situation completely.”

“Do you think wizards invented something new here?” Archibald asked rhetorically, standing up as well. He walked across the clearing before continuing:

“Teacher, have you ever heard of the ‘Home Children’ program? The relocation of orphans, street children, and poor children from the metropolis to the colonies—Canada, Australia, Africa—as free labor. They took kids like me, ten or eleven years old, from orphanages or straight from poor families, lied to them that their parents had died or abandoned them, crammed them into a steamship’s hold, and months later, those who survived found themselves on the Australian shore or somewhere in Rhodesia. No money, no documents, no education, no rights at all. And there, you either worked for food or starved to death.

“A double benefit for the Crown—they didn’t have to spend money on upkeep, and there were plenty of hands to settle the colonies. But somehow, I doubt you’ll find this little tidbit in school history books,” the magus concluded. After all, he had received an excellent home education, not only in magical arts but also in practical ‘academic’ subjects, including history. His teacher often cited this case as an example of a waste of human resources—one from which, however, certain magi of the Clock Tower managed to extract some benefit.

“B-but that was a long time ago, back in the eighteenth century…”

“As far as I remember, the last batch of children was sent about ten years before you were born.”

“This is reflected in magical history as well,” Lovegood noted. “Many of those children had already been recorded in Hogwarts’ Book of Admittance, only to suddenly disappear right around the age when they should have received their letters. And while in North America, Ilvermorny was founded in the seventeenth century, and Uagadou in Africa has stood since long before our era, a proper magical school in Australia wasn’t established until less than two hundred years ago. Before that, there were many debates about whether those children sent to Sydney should be taken from Muggles and kept at Hogwarts until they turned eleven, as they do in Japan.”

“Alright…” Granger had clearly surrendered under such pressure. “Let’s assume you’ve convinced me. But let’s get back to the question—what does the Inquisition have to do with this, and why did you just shatter my faith in my own country?”

“We started with the fact that both Muggles and wizards like to conceal or gloss over unpleasant historical truths,” Kayneth reminded her. “In our case, we’re talking about how the Statute wasn’t enacted solely out of fear of pitchfork-wielding peasants and crazed village priests. There was also the Holy Church.

“Yes, it sounds tautological—a church within a church—but that’s what they called themselves. Among other things, they had a branch known as Executors—priests who were allowed to break commandments and even use ‘heretical’ magic if it served a righteous cause. Over the centuries, they created many of their own spells—they had no interest in household or culinary magic. Instead, they focused on exorcism and the extermination of monsters.”

“Monsters?”

“At the time, there were no serious prohibitions against dark magic anywhere, nor against the crossbreeding of magical and non-magical beings or plants. Nor against the creation of homunculi and cadavers, among many other things that would make even You-Know-Who turn pale,” Luna added simply.

“Those bans were only introduced later, after the Statute was enacted. But in the Middle Ages, chimera studies and necromancy flourished. Almost all of the most important books on these subjects, now, of course, banned, were written in that era. I’d wager that half of the carnivorous shrubs and trees Professor Sprout loves to show us were bred around the fourteenth or fifteenth century. Not to mention the many chimeras that were stitched together from just about anything, the risen dead, and all sorts of half-humans.

“And it was the Holy Church’s job to destroy this entire menagerie—while also hunting down the authors of its best works. They didn’t kill all wizards and witches indiscriminately, but people like Francesco Prelati or Peter Niers were hunted relentlessly.

“You do recognize those names, don’t you?”

===

“Yes. One was a necromancer from the time of the Hundred Years' War, the other a German dark sorcerer who lived about a century later. Both were executed.”

“Well, and along with them, the Church usually wiped out everyone associated with them or even just acquainted with them, to prevent the spread of knowledge about dark magic. Of course, they always had their own opinion on what should be considered dangerous or dark magic. As a result, wizards and witches were often killed for experiments that seemed completely harmless to them and even to the Council.

“This, in turn, bred revenge and counterattacks against the Church. It was called vendetta or fehde, blood feud—some say it's still quite respected among the Irish. By the seventeenth century, in certain parts of Europe, it had almost turned into an all-out war.

“But in the end, the wizards accepted the Statute and faded into the shadows, while the Holy Church was officially disbanded about forty years later—although some believe it wasn’t entirely…”

“Luna, has anyone ever told you that you get a little too carried away at times?” Granger asked. Then, after receiving two almost astonished stares, she added, “What?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t expect to hear that from you.”

“Was that… disrespect toward your teacher?”

“No, of course not. You just misheard very loudly.”

“For the record, I was almost at the end of my story,” Lovegood replied before concluding, “In any case, after all of this, nearly all information about the Church was erased—both among wizards and Muggles. But fortunately, some old books managed to escape censorship. And if you’re very lucky, you might even stumble upon some of the Church’s spells.

Which, I believe, is precisely why we’re here. Once, in a medieval text, I came across the spell Exaphanistei, meant for banishing dark creatures and dangerous spirits. James wants to learn it, and I’m willing to help.”

“Alright, let’s assume all of this is true. But why do you need me?”

“But, teacher, aren’t you at all interested in an exceptionally rare magic that you won’t find in any ordinary books? Not to mention that our school is surrounded by hundreds of spirits, any of whom could literally devour your soul. A means to fight them could be quite useful.”

“This is illegal. Studying spells of unknown origin, especially those that, by your own admission, were created by the enemies of wizards—there’s no way that’s legal. It definitely violates school rules. You could be expelled or even held accountable for something like this. And if all information about these spells was erased, there must have been a reason for it,” Granger noted.

However, she didn’t seem eager to run to the Heads and report such a blatant violation of school discipline either.

“New knowledge or Ministry regulations—what should we choose?” the magus asked, almost rhetorically.

“Knowledge,” Lovegood answered without hesitation.

“Knowledge,” Kayneth agreed.

“Do they only recruit lunatics in Ravenclaw?” Granger muttered. “I… I’m not going to take part in this. But I’ll stay and watch what exactly you’re studying. I’ll supervise the process. The last thing we need is for you to accidentally cast something Unforgivable and get expelled.

“But when we get back to the castle, I am going to check the reference books and find out whether this magic is forbidden—and what the punishment for it is.”

On Monday and Tuesday, the first-year Ravenclaws attended mostly familiar subjects. After introductory lessons, the professors gradually settled into a working rhythm, starting with simple concepts before moving on to more complex ones.

Except, of course, for the ghostly lecturer, Binns. He continued to drone monotonously, seemingly unaware of which course or House he was addressing—or even what season it was. As a result, most of his lectures began somewhere in the middle of a topic and ended abruptly without conclusion.

Students either had to fill in the gaps themselves or resign themselves to cramming all of wizarding history from scratch in the final week before exams.

Astronomy was also added to their schedule, though it was purely practical. They were taught to track celestial bodies and the movement of constellations in case a spell or potion required a specific moon phase or a particular zodiac sign for Saturn during a full moon.

One practical session on Monday evening and one theoretical class on Tuesday—just two lessons a week.

Of course, there was also the first flying lesson, but Kayneth wasn’t particularly interested in it. Even in this world, the mystery of broom levitation was too impractical, riddled with limitations.

So, he simply completed the assignment, received his Exceeds Expectations, and forgot about the subject.

Although, according to some sources, even the much-feared Voldemort had supposedly mastered true flight without any devices or mystic codes.

If that was possible, then such magic was worth investigating someday. But for now, there was too little information about it.

Wednesday, however, turned out to be an exhausting day.

After yet another endless History lecture—where many students managed to squeeze in an extra forty-five minutes of sleep—they had Herbology, where they studied common and magical ferns along with their blooming cycles.

Then came two back-to-back Potions lessons.

And after a short break, they were scheduled for a double session of Defense Against the Dark Arts.

As he calmly sipped his soup, trying to ignore the chatter from all four House tables, the magus reflected on his first impression of one of the most interesting subjects in his opinion—and its instructor, the last of the four Heads of House.

If anything, the only flaw he saw in Professor Snape was his relative youth for teaching such an important discipline.

On the other hand, Kayneth had been even younger when he became a master alchemist—and about the same age when he began teaching.

In any case, he found this professor’s approach the most reasonable, free of unnecessary theatrics.

After an opening speech, Snape conducted a brief quiz to assess the students’ knowledge level (which, according to him, was alarmingly low).

Then, they moved on to practical work.

Unlike the first Transfiguration lesson, Snape didn’t demand the impossible.

Still, he did expect at least some basic competence.

The assigned potion was fairly simple. The brewing process had a few steps—nothing requiring precise evaporation, pH measurement, or boiling at exactly 1,368.5 seconds on low heat.

===

By the end of the lesson, at least half the class had managed to produce a more or less acceptable result. The rest, however, received clear and detailed explanations of their mistakes—along with some rather scathing remarks about their intelligence and their likelihood of making it through their first year.

With particular enthusiasm and flair, the professor tore into Ryan Willin, who had decided that a simple cough balm was too easy for his level. Instead, he had attempted—unsuccessfully—to brew an improved version of a cold remedy, a potion only studied at the end of the third year.

Kayneth, on the other hand, submitted a vial of balm prepared exactly according to the recipe. The professor merely shrugged indifferently in response, as if completing such an elementary task was to be expected, and he was genuinely baffled by those who managed to mess up something so basic.

Archibald agreed with the professor's assessment, though he was willing to make some allowance for eleven-year-olds, especially Muggle-born wizards, many of whom had likely never set foot in an alchemy lab before. At most, he would adjust the grading by a single point.

By the end of lunch, as Kayneth waited for the others, lost in thought, a nearby conversation caught his attention.

A group of second-year girls from their House were discussing young Malfoy, noting that he hadn’t appeared in the Great Hall or attended classes for almost a week.

Apparently, after a dangerous incident during Care of Magical Creatures, he had sustained a serious injury and had remained in the infirmary ever since. No one knew when he would recover.

Kayneth was curious—what kind of creature had these thirteen-year-olds encountered that could inflict wounds resistant to magical healing even after a full week?

Surely, that half-giant hadn’t been foolish enough to bring a Palug’s Cat to class—one whose claws inflicted wounds that never healed, capable of shredding even iron armor? Or something similar, perhaps?

After lunch, the first-years, still under the prefect’s supervision, headed to their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, where Professor Lupin was already waiting for them.

The furniture had been pushed against the walls, leaving an open space in the middle of the room. In the center stood the professor, surrounded by four small chests.

Since there were no chairs, the students placed their book bags in the corner and gathered in a semicircle before him.

While the professor checked the attendance list and gave a brief introduction—explaining, unsurprisingly, that they would be studying defense against various dangerous creatures and spells—Archibald found his thoughts drifting elsewhere.

Still, when the time came, he reflexively responded to the name Murphy, as he had already become accustomed to doing.

In the file he had reviewed in July on Sirius Black, a certain Remus Lupin had been mentioned as the fourth member of their group—the only one still alive and free.

According to the records, he should have been just over thirty years old, yet the man standing before them looked at least forty, with wrinkles and prematurely graying hair.

That, of course, could have an explanation.

Besides, there was hardly another person in all of magical Britain with the same name—unless someone was deliberately impersonating him.

Unfortunately, the materials he had read contained no photos or portraits of anyone in the group except Black.

There was also very little information about Lupin.

He was listed as a half-blood (Albert had been mistaken in calling the Marauders a band of purebloods—clearly, he was just repeating rumors from unreliable sources).

His father had been a Ministry official, and Lupin himself had been a top student and prefect at Hogwarts.

However, after the incident with Black, he had never stayed in one place for long, eventually vanishing from public view altogether.

Had he been in hiding? Fled to another country?

And now, coincidentally, he had reappeared here, taking up a teaching position despite having zero prior experience.

What were the possible explanations?

A random coincidence? Unlikely—the wizarding world was too small for that, and the story of the so-called Marauders was too well known.

Another possessed individual or a follower of Voldemort? Possibly even a third, considering the strange history of the last Defense professor?

The Headmaster, for all his eccentricities, hardly seemed like a complete fool. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice—let alone three times. Otherwise, he simply wouldn’t have lived this long.

Could it be that Lupin had taken the job as part of a personal vendetta—to confront Black where he knew he would appear?

That theory made sense… except for the risk it posed to students should a fight break out.

Then again, was the situation with this position so dire that the Headmaster was willing to hire just anyone without credentials or recommendations?

Perhaps it was that bad, considering the previous year’s professor had been a self-proclaimed author and amateur monster hunter with no teaching ability whatsoever…

Meanwhile, Lupin had finished his introduction and got straight to the point.

“All right. Before we begin our first practical lesson, I want to talk about the recent incident on the train.

“I understand that for some of you, recalling it may be unpleasant. However, there are valuable lessons we can learn from what happened.

“For demonstration purposes, I will now show you a dementor. But don’t be alarmed—this is merely an illusion, conjured at my request by Professor McGonagall.

“It’s just mist, light, and smoke. Nothing dangerous.”

He pulled a small piece of rock crystal from his pocket and placed it on the floor. Then, silently, he waved his wand over it.

Within seconds, black smoke swirled into the shape of a dementor—though its edges remained somewhat blurred and hazy.

Kayneth suspected that this had been done deliberately, to avoid terrifying the students with a too realistic illusion.

Even so, many flinched or cried out, and he himself barely restrained the reflex to grab his wand.

After all, those creatures had caused him far too many problems—and, to put it mildly, deeply unpleasant experiences.

“Just mist,” Lupin reminded them, passing his hand through the slightly distorted illusion.

“No aura of fear, and it can’t touch anyone.

“As the Headmaster told you on September 1st, these creatures are extremely dangerous. They feel neither pity nor mercy.

“I regret that you had to encounter them, and I completely understand why your parents have written to the Ministry to protest such an unacceptable situation for Hogwarts students.

“However, today, we’re focusing on dementors themselves.

“Raise your hand if you had a direct encounter with them and attempted any spells against them—or witnessed someone else doing so.”

Kayneth slowly raised his hand, not entirely sure where the professor was going with this. Six other students followed his example. However, three of them, including McAvoy, had only witnessed others repelling the spirits and barely understood or remembered what had happened.

One witch, however, provided a detailed description of a silver-light puma that had chased the Dementor down the entire train corridor before sinking its teeth into the creature’s cloak and throwing it outside. After that, it was the turn of those who had actually attempted something themselves.

"I used Lumos twice," Willin admitted. "But it didn’t work at all."

"Why that particular spell?" the professor asked.

"Dementors are dark spirits—everyone knows that," Willin explained. "I was scared of the one that was… floating near us, but I managed to remember that much. And since all the lights went out before they appeared, I thought light might drive them away.

"But it didn’t do anything—he just kept hovering there until one of the older Slytherins drove him away with some kind of blue flash."

Marissa Selwyn recounted how she had unsuccessfully tried to use a Stinging Hex, which the Dementors completely ignored.

Howard Brown, one of the Muggle-born students, admitted that he had tried to immobilize the spirit using Leviosa, based on what he had read in the textbook. In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten that the creatures already floated, making his attempt useless.

When it was Kayneth’s turn, he stated that he had used Tellum Duellis. The professor raised an eyebrow in surprise, prompting Kayneth, imitating Lovegood’s manner, to explain to both Lupin and the rest of the class:

"It’s a dueling spell that was quite popular among wizards in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, before the Statute of Secrecy. The spell transforms a wand into a rapier."

He deliberately omitted the fact that it only appeared that way—the spell actually formed a weapon of magical energy around the wizard’s mystic code.

"Why that spell?" Lupin asked, a perfectly logical question.

"At the time, it seemed like the best option," Kayneth replied. "I understand, professor, that nowadays it’s practically useless—Muggles outlawed dueling a long time ago, and we’re not allowed to display magic openly. Any wizard could just raise a shield, which would immediately dispel the weapon.

"Not to mention the risk of breaking your wand with a strong strike and the fact that I don’t even know how to properly handle a rapier. But at that moment, it was the best idea I had."

In truth, he had simply covered himself in case any of the children who had been in the compartment with Lovegood remembered the blade piercing the Dementor and started asking questions about it. He had spent some time searching through spellbooks for an appropriate equivalent, but he’d had plenty of time to prepare.

"I'm more interested in why you studied such a spell in the first place," Lupin continued. "Especially since you admit it’s nearly useless now."

"It looks impressive and dangerous," Kayneth said with a shrug. "It was originally created for duels, allowing wizards to replace an actual sword with their wand in a fair fight against some Muggle nobleman.

"The funniest thing is that I actually did manage to stab the Dementor with it—I think he was just as surprised as I was, if they’re even capable of feeling surprise. But it didn’t do him any harm at all.

"Then one of the older students ran up and paralyzed the creature with some spell, but I didn’t recognize it, and he didn’t say the incantation out loud."

"I see," Lupin said. "However, I must point out that you three were taking a serious risk. Dementors could have perceived your actions as a direct threat and attacked you in earnest. You wouldn’t have been able to defend yourselves if an older wizard hadn’t intervened.

"I fully approve of your willingness to protect yourselves, but you lacked the experience and knowledge to properly assess the threat and choose the right countermeasure. That’s precisely what this course is designed to teach you."

Lupin smoothly shifted back to the lesson. "For example, there is a specific spell that can repel Dementors and keep a wizard safe from them. However, it is only taught in the upper years. For now, just watch carefully."

Expecto Patronum, he pronounced, making a circular movement with his wand.

A silvery mist seemed to drip from the tip of his wand, pooling at his feet before forming into a large wolf. The spectral animal glanced at the students, bared its fangs, and dissolved into the air within a few seconds.

Remus explained, "That is the spell you saw, Edwards. Every wizard’s Patronus takes a unique shape—mine is a wolf, that student’s was a puma. Yours might be a raccoon or a swallow if you decide to learn it.

"Before we move on to practice, does anyone have any questions?"

"Yes, professor," Kayneth said, raising his hand in a disciplined manner and waiting for a nod of approval. "Please clarify something.

"You said, 'There is a specific spell against Dementors.' However, last week, I saw them repelled by Expulso, Depulso, and a boosted Stupefy. They were also set on fire with Confringo and attacked with other spells.

"If they aren’t entirely incorporeal, but have some level of material presence, then destructive, stopping, and repelling spells should be able to affect them. Not kill them, since they can’t die, but at least force them back or disable them."

"I understand what you mean, Murphy," Lupin replied. "But you see, I believe that every magical creature—sentient or not—requires a different approach. Even those that pose a danger.

"In antiquity and the Middle Ages, countless magical species and wizarding races were wiped out—by Muggles or even by wizards themselves. Out of fear, greed, or sometimes just for sport.

"As a result, the magical world was impoverished—not only scientifically and morally, but also in purely pragmatic terms. The fur, scales, bones, and other parts of nearly every magical creature can be used in wand cores, potions, or magical artifacts.

"What if the snakes from the heads of the Medusas that once lived in Libya, exterminated before our era, or the hair of Scottish Trows wiped out in the Middle Ages could have been the key to a potion that completely cures dragon pox? We’ll never know now.

"Over time, wizards became more sensible. Nowadays, we don’t exterminate dragons—we keep them in reserves. We allow vampires to live freely, whereas once they were killed on sight. We no longer hunt trolls in the forests for sport.

"Of course, one could walk around with their wand at the ready, blasting Expulso at every Doxy, Grindylow, or Bundimun they see, just to be safe. But I aim to teach you how to avoid danger without killing magical creatures.

"That requires special spells and specific approaches, which is what this course is all about."

"But as for Dementors specifically," he continued, "there’s another factor. They’re incredibly resilient—better to say stubborn creatures. They feel no pain, no fear.

"Even a direct hit from Confringo or Diffindo won’t stop them immediately. To truly disable one, you’d need to literally slice or tear its body apart. And in the time it would take one wizard to do that, the Dementor would likely reach them first.

"But the spell designed specifically to counter them works instantly, as soon as it is cast.

"Does that answer your question?"

"Yes. Thank you, sir."

"Professor Lupin," Taylor interjected. "You talk about humane treatment, but you made a student banish a Boggart. The Gryffindors were bragging about it."

"Boggarts, like Dementors and many other spirits, are immortal—or rather, 'un-dying,' since the concept of death doesn’t apply to them.

"The one that lived in our wardrobe and was banished by Neville will soon reappear—somewhere in a closet or an old cupboard, in a town or village, perhaps not even in Scotland. But it will return quickly."

"No more questions? Good, then let’s move on to today’s lesson," Lupin said, dismissing the illusion and tucking the crystal back into his pocket. Then, he pointed his wand at the chests on the floor.

===

"Are we going to deal with Boggarts too?" McAvoy asked doubtfully.

"No. Finding another one in the castle would be difficult, and it’s too early for you to face something like that," Lupin replied. "Seeing your greatest fear materialized in front of you is difficult, even when you're prepared for it. Especially when it turns out to be something completely different from what you thought your worst fear was."

Archibald remained silent and turned away. He already knew what the spirit would show him. His wounded fiancee, unconscious on the grimy floor of an abandoned factory. The dishonored mercenary of the Einzbern family standing over her, slowly, deliberately cocking his weapon. No, he didn’t need a mirror to see his worst fear—just closing his eyes was enough.

"You’re only first-years, so we’ll start with something simple before moving on to more difficult subjects," the professor continued. "Today, we’ll be dealing with the Bogeyman."

"Professor, you’re joking, right?" Kerry asked, genuinely surprised. Some of the other students, especially those from non-pureblood families, broke into laughter and murmured among themselves.

"Is the Tooth Fairy next?" someone quipped.

"I understand your skepticism," Lupin raised a finger, catching their attention, "but let me remind you that just last spring, many of you thought trolls and goblins were just stories and myths. But reality proved otherwise. Now, can anyone in the class tell me what a Bogeyman is?"

"A Bogeyman—also known as a Buka, Bogle, Torbalan, Talasam, Ou-Wu, Kuklas, and by many other names across different languages—exists all over the world, wherever there are children," Ross, standing in the back rows, answered calmly. "In Muggle folklore, it's a monster that kidnaps children at night—sometimes just the naughty ones, sometimes all of them. Parents often use it to scare little kids, saying that if they don’t eat their porridge or go to bed on time, the Bogeyman will come for them.

"But in reality, unlike Trows, which you mentioned earlier, professor, a Bogle doesn’t actually kidnap children. It simply settles in their room and feeds on their emotions until they grow old enough. Sometimes it might bite, scratch, or grab their legs to scare them more, but it can't cause serious harm. It’s very afraid of light. The Ministry classifies it as a second-category threat, meaning 'harmless.'"

"Excellent answer, Irvin. Just excellent," Lupin praised. "And that’s exactly what we’ll be dealing with today. But first, I need those of you who have used Lumos before and are confident in casting it to step forward."

Thirteen students moved to the front.

"Perfect. Now, stand evenly apart, about five to six paces away from me, so we form a square with me in the center."

While Kayneth and the others found their positions within the "perimeter," Lupin instructed the remaining nine students to take out their wands and mimic his looping motion. Then he had them repeat it while clearly pronouncing Lumos.

After that, he asked them to visualize a bright white light.

Within five minutes, every student had managed to produce at least a faint, flickering glow.

Nodding approvingly, the professor paired them up with those who had already lined up. Kayneth was paired with Edwards. The remaining students formed two extra pairs.

Then, with a wave of his wand, Lupin shut the shutters and curtains, plunging the classroom into darkness.

Archibald also felt the faint trace of another spell—likely a barrier preventing even the smallest slivers of light from leaking through gaps in the door or windows.

"Now, get ready," Lupin warned, a flickering red flame appearing in his left hand. The eerie glow cast unsettling shadows on his face—he was deliberately setting the mood.

"In a moment, I will release several Bogeymen. When they try to attack, you must create light to defend yourselves. If one person in a pair fails, the other should back them up.

"But I want all of you to at least attempt the exercise.

"Don’t be afraid to overdo it—light doesn’t harm, only repels them. You won’t hurt these creatures.

"But keep in mind that when multiple Bogeymen are together, they like to grab their victims by the legs and drag them into a corner or under a bed. I’ve prepared the classroom for this."

With another silent flick of his wand, the hard wooden floor beneath them transformed into a thick, soft carpet.

An advanced use of Transfiguration—even if Remus had calculated the spell in advance.

"You should still brace yourselves for a fall. Karin, you should take off your glasses—it’ll be safer."

"Now would be a great time for Granger with her light sword," someone murmured in the darkness. Kayneth thought it was Simon.

"Begin!" Lupin commanded, clenching his fist and extinguishing the flame.

In the complete darkness, the sound of wooden crates tipping over echoed through the room.

At first, only nervous chuckles and whispers filled the air.

Then came the voices.

"Hey, I hear footsteps."

"Shit, something brushed against my leg!"

"Did you guys hear that scratching sound?"

A moment later, a witch let out a shriek, followed by a boy cursing as the muffled thud of someone falling onto the carpet reached their ears.

Archibald felt a rush of air. Edwards yelped in fear and jumped away, nearly hitting him with her cloak.

Oddly enough, that was all he experienced.

The creatures ignored him completely.

More than that—he could barely sense their astral presence at all. It was as if they were several floors away or behind a reinforced barrier.

Adults—both wizards and Muggles—couldn't see Bogeymen. So this was how selective manifestation worked in the real world.

He had never encountered a spirit with such a form before. As a spiritualist, he was fascinated—whether or not there was any practical application, the mechanics alone were worth studying.

"Lumos."

"Lumos!"

"Lumos Maxima!"

"Lumos Solem!"

Bursts of light cut through the darkness, briefly blinding their eyes, which had adjusted to the pitch black.

Kayneth joined the others, casting his own orb of light toward the ceiling.

On the floor, four small shadows darted about—distorted humanoid figures barely two feet tall. They scurried under desks and along the walls, trying to escape the glow.

At that moment, Lupin swung his wand wide, throwing open all the windows.

Sunlight flooded the classroom.

The nocturnal spirits had no choice but to flee at full speed toward the safety of the still-dark crates.

The students, some shaken, others excited, looked around. Some were on the floor, still gathering themselves. A few seemed more confused than frightened, as if they hadn’t fully processed what had just happened.

"You all did wonderfully," the professor declared, sweeping his gaze across the room.

With a flick of his wand, the wooden floor returned to normal.

"Five points to everyone who participated, and another five for those who faced Dementors. Irvin, an extra five for your excellent explanation.

"Now, tell me—who didn't see or hear the Bogeymen?"

Five students, including Kayneth, raised their hands. The others were Ross, Selwyn, and two Muggle-borns.

Looking at them, Lupin explained, "That’s natural—some people mature faster, some slower.

"You’re simply older in spirit. The Bogeymen no longer see you as children. It’s neither good nor bad—just how things turned out.

"But if you’d like to participate in another practical exercise, you can join the second-year Ravenclaws on Friday, or sign up for the junior Defense study group meeting on Thursday after the eighth lesson.

"For now, take a moment to compose yourselves. We still have ten minutes left in class.

"And don’t forget to wait for your House prefect—first-years should not wander the castle alone just yet."

Stepping away from the students who were either dusting themselves off or fixing their hair—some with their hands, others with magic—Kayneth leaned against one of the desks and closed his eyes.

Despite disagreeing with Lupin’s philosophy regarding magical creatures, he still found the lesson intriguing.

And yet, perhaps it was just his imagination, but he could have sworn that in the darkness, he had sensed not four, but five magical presences.

The fifth, weaker signal could have come from the professor himself, or, less likely, from one of the students.

However, the effect was unlike possession—something Archibald had seen plenty of in his line of work. In a way, he could even be considered possessed himself now.

Could it be the result of a powerful mystic code? Or perhaps a trace of non-human ancestry affecting his magic circuits?

There had been no mention of anything like that in the records available on Remus Lupin.

But if, for example, his great-grandfather had belonged to a magical race, was that really anything unusual by Hogwarts’ standards?

The double Defense lesson was the last class for the first-years that day.

Which meant Kayneth could now focus on reading and editing Granger’s translation. He intended to finish the task before the weekend, so they could move on by Saturday.

For now, their workload was still light, leaving him time for this, as well as magic circuit training and gradually getting to know other wizards—at least those from his own House.

The next morning, as the first owls tapped at the Ravenclaw common room windows with the day’s mail, Kayneth glanced at one of the newspapers left behind by the birds.

Between a long-winded column where the head of the Auror Office reassured worried parents about the absolute necessity of Dementor inspections on the train and a small article about a large-scale accidental magic incident near Belfast, he spotted a massive headline taking up a third of the page:

"Sirius Black Spotted by Muggles!"

According to the article, a man resembling the fugitive had been seen near Dumbarton.

However, by the time patrols arrived, he had already vanished. And there was no point even mentioning the Aurors, who had been notified far too late—after the report had dragged its way through countless police and Ministry channels.

But the real question remained—what was stopping Black, who had once studied here and knew the school's surroundings intimately, from simply Apparating somewhere beyond the protective wards?

Even if he was traveling only on foot…

"Accio map of Scotland," Kayneth muttered, making the standard motion for the spell and picturing the object in his mind.

There was a slight delay, but then a rolled-up, yellowed sheet of paper emerged from beneath a pile of books in the corner and floated into his hand.

Spreading it out on the nearest table, he examined the map, which turned out to be a Muggle edition from about fifty years ago.

He quickly found what he was looking for.

The small town was closer to Hogwarts than Glasgow. By train—even an old one—it was about an hour’s journey.

That was roughly fifty miles.

Which meant that by the weekend, the highly dangerous fugitive, mass murderer, and a man who valued personal revenge over the Statute of Secrecy…

Would be somewhere nearby.

"Of course," Kayneth muttered. "Because there was no way things could ever go smoothly and without incidents…"