"Nonlinear topology truly is a convenient thing," Kayneth mused as he stood by the window, gazing down at the forest hidden beneath layers of magical barriers. Absentmindedly, he would occasionally open his magic circuits, letting a small amount of power flow to make the air tremble or swirl around him—a simple exercise to train his body. Not that anyone could see him. Despite the early morning light, it was only six o’clock, and every other student was still fast asleep after the previous day’s excitement and fear.
The previous night had been a whirlwind. After the feast, the first-years had been led away by the prefects to their respective dormitories, where they received their introductory speech and a brief orientation. Then came the room assignments and settling in, and it was nearly ten by the time everything finally quieted down. For eleven-year-olds, getting only six or seven hours of sleep was still a struggle, but Kayneth, despite the limitations of his body, had spent the past year and a half often getting by on just four hours of light rest, pushing himself to fit everything into his schedule.
Now, with the memories stirred by the Dementors beginning to fade and retreat once more, he allowed himself a moment of relaxation—a rare lapse in vigilance. He would be spending months surrounded by dozens of children and teenagers, all of whom possessed dangerous mystical codes. Maintaining the same level of paranoia that was previously necessary for survival among gangsters and black-market traders would eventually lead to someone's untimely demise. He needed to adapt to the atmosphere here, to tolerate the inevitable noise, the endless questions, the pointless conversations, and the mindless games. Perhaps even engage in them himself—at least enough to avoid suspicion. Maintaining his cover required sacrifices. He had chosen this path himself.
For now, blending in was crucial. He needed to establish himself within the student body, ensure his cover remained intact, and only later, once he had fully assessed the environment and determined the key players, could he begin acting more freely.
Still, things weren’t as bad as he had feared. At the very least, concerns about overcrowding—an unavoidable issue when cramming over a hundred students into a single tower—had not been as severe as expected. Everyone had enough personal space, which was a relief. In hindsight, he should have remembered that Hogwarts was originally built to house a thousand students, yet today, the total population barely reached two-thirds of that. The founders had either been extraordinarily optimistic or had once planned to accommodate a much larger magical population than just Britain and Ireland.
Regardless, each dormitory was designed to house nearly three hundred students—seven years, forty students per year, with extra rooms in case of particularly large intakes or an imbalance between boys and girls. The main common room branched into two winding staircases—one leading to the boys' dormitories, the other to the girls'. Each side had seven floors, with several doors on each, leading to four-person rooms.
This year, Ravenclaw had admitted twelve boys and ten girls. Since the rooms accommodated four students each, six rooms had been opened—three on each side. The rest remained hidden within the magically twisted architecture of the tower, sealed away by the castle’s intricate spatial manipulations and protective enchantments. Next year, if the intake was larger or smaller, the dormitory layout would simply shift to accommodate.
With such extensive spatial manipulation available, it would have been easy to assign each student their own private room—something Archibald would have strongly preferred. However, it seemed that socialization, camaraderie, and all the other virtues Dumbledore had droned on about in his speech took precedence. Even if someone wanted to use their family’s influence or wealth to secure special accommodations—common practice among students of the Clock Tower—it simply wasn’t an option here.
Still, he couldn’t complain about his current roommates.
As per Ravenclaw’s tradition of maximum autonomy, students were left to sort out room assignments on their own, without prefect intervention. Naturally, MacAvoy had chosen to room with him since they already knew each other. Soon after, another boy had approached—someone Kayneth vaguely recognized.
"Simon Kerry, from Newport. You’re James, right? We met in June, in Ireland. You brought that girl with the lightsaber to the meeting. Mind if I join you two?"
"No problem," Kayneth agreed easily, though he did ask, "Did you come with someone that time? I don’t think we met in the magical quarter before."
"Yeah, Euphie invited me. Said it’d be interesting, and that it was about time I met other wizards."
"Euphemia Sunset?" Kayneth recalled the young witch he had spoken to a few times on Diagon Alley—the one with an almost religious dedication to floor-length Victorian dresses. For her age, she had an impressive grasp of potions and ingredients. In fact, Kayneth suspected she could already pass second-year exams in that subject. They had had plenty to discuss.
"Yep. We’ve known each other since preschool, went to the same primary school, lived nearby. But I only found out she was a witch this spring. I mean, she seemed like a normal girl—aside from the weird name—but I never would’ve guessed. She saw me accidentally levitate a book one day and decided to tell me everything about magic, since we’d be starting school together in September anyway. It’s a shame we got sorted into different houses, but I guess it’s not a big deal."
The fourth occupant of their room was a tall, quiet boy who introduced himself simply as "Irwin Ross" and had immediately stacked an impressive pile of books on his nightstand before retreating into them, barely acknowledging anyone else.
So far, everything had gone smoothly. The arrival, the Sorting, settling into the dormitory—there had been no slip-ups. No one had realized the truth about him. No alarms had been raised, no one had tried to "save" the supposedly possessed Murphy from an invading soul. The Sorting Hat might have been a potential risk, but Kayneth had chosen to trust its claim that it could not reveal others’ secrets. That was a common restriction for spirits bound to artifacts—they were usually programmed with strict limitations, preventing them from sharing information beyond their primary function.
Of course, staying cautious was still necessary. But not beyond the level he had already planned.
As for the Hat’s cryptic comment about "strange students"—Kayneth chose not to dwell on it.
He had no doubt that the mercenary and Waver Velvet had both died in the Holy Grail War mere days after him. Given the existence of multiple worlds, the odds of a soul transfer and survival were astronomically low. With an estimated two million wizards worldwide and eleven major magical schools, the likelihood of encountering another reincarnated individual in this specific place was about as likely as two icebergs meeting in the open ocean.
If that talkative artifact had intended to instill paranoia in him, to make him see enemies everywhere, it had failed.
His desire for revenge still burned strong—but he was, above all else, a realist.
Returning to school matters, yesterday they had been given a general overview of the students' daily schedule, and it turned out to be rather lenient. First-years had six to eight lessons a day, not counting additional studies and homework, with two full days off each week. Their exact timetables would be handed out before classes today, but it was unlikely that the first couple of days would involve anything too intense or requiring heavy use of magic.
That meant Kayneth could safely spend part of his reserves on training his own magic circuits without worrying about running out of energy during lessons. Back home, he had struggled to maintain a consistent training schedule due to his erratic routine and the constant need to expend magic on various minor enchantments for sale or healer’s work. Here, however, he intended to take it seriously.
He had set himself a goal—by the time he reached his third year, he wanted his body to be capable of using all his available circuits simultaneously. Right now, that would result in severe pain, at best knocking him unconscious, at worst causing serious cardiovascular issues due to a sudden spike in body temperature.
"Jim, why are you up so early?" came MacAvoy’s half-asleep voice from behind him.
"I'm used to waking up early. You should get into the habit too," Kayneth replied, glancing at the mechanical watch on his wrist. "It’s quarter to seven. Wake-up call is in fifteen minutes, then the house meeting, and by half-past eight, we need to be at breakfast. I doubt it’s a good idea to be late on the first day. If you actually care about house points and competition, I suggest waking the others."
Turning away, Kayneth left the room and descended one flight of stairs, stepping into the nearly empty common room, where the fireplace was still glowing faintly with dying embers. He was dressed in his usual cloak—Ravenclaw encouraged individuality, allowing students to wear whatever they liked outside of lessons as long as it wasn’t disruptive, which suited him perfectly. Settling into a chair by the window, he picked up a forgotten book from a nearby table—a reference guide on magical epidemics—and started reading out of curiosity.
True to Ravenclaw’s reputation, the common room housed countless bookshelves, cabinets, and stacks of grimoires, with additional volumes scattered across windowsills, tables, and even the floor. There was no discernible order to them—either one had never been established, or it had been lost to time. Finding something useful was always possible; finding something specific was the real challenge.
The book he had picked up detailed one of the downsides of being part of the magical population—magical creatures and beasts carried unique diseases, often harmless to ordinary people but dangerous to those with active magic circuits. Some, like lycanthropy, were just as deadly to Muggles, but most of these "diseases" were less biological in nature and more like ancient curses that had evolved to parasitize magic circuits, spreading from one magus to another.
For someone like Murphy, who had been born and raised outside the magical world, this presented a real risk—he had no "immunity" to these ailments. It would be worth checking the library to see if wizards had developed anything akin to "vaccinations" against such conditions or if their approach was purely reactive—curing infections after they occurred, with no guarantee of success.
As the common room gradually filled with students emerging from their dormitories, Kayneth remained undisturbed. Most still weren’t in their school robes, preferring to change just before breakfast. To anyone passing by, he was just another first-year with a book. By quarter to eight, most of the house had managed to wake up and get themselves presentable, and the prefects began their scheduled meeting.
Nothing particularly notable was discussed—new subjects, new professors, classroom locations, and directions to get there.
"Thanks for helping with the Dementor, James," someone said quietly nearby.
Kayneth turned to see Luna Lovegood standing beside him in a black dress. He hadn't been sure she even remembered anything from yesterday's incident—or him, for that matter. But it seemed he had underestimated her.
"You're welcome. Believe me, I have plenty of reasons to hate them too," he replied honestly.
"I understand," she said in an unusually serious tone. "But still, thank you. It’s just a shame that because of me, the other first-years got dragged into it."
"That wasn’t your fault. The blame lies with whatever lunatic decided to unleash dark spirits on a train full of children. And I’d love to ask them a few questions about it. I’m sure I’m not the only one—if not yesterday, then today, at least a few hundred owls will be leaving the school with letters home."
"I doubt it’ll change anything," she said, then added in her usual dreamy tone, "But in any case, we’re classmates now, so if you ever need anything—just call, and I’ll come."
"Noted. But for now, everything seems clear enough. Although… if you have some free time, would you mind showing me how to use Exaphanistei? I couldn’t find anything useful about it in the books—just brief mentions."
"I can show you on the weekend, but not here," she said, her voice dropping lower. Anything related to the Inquisition was not something to be discussed openly. "And it’s difficult. I still haven’t mastered it properly, as you saw."
"Since when has difficulty ever stopped us?"
"I suppose it hasn’t. They might even praise us for learning it—right before expelling us for studying magic that, according to official sources, never existed. Or maybe they’d expel us first and praise us afterward. As a consolation."
For the first two weeks, first-years were guided around the castle in rotating shifts by the house prefects. There were no maps available to them, and the internal structure of the castle was constantly shifting—moving staircases, changing corridors, and sudden new passages.
There was almost certainly a pattern to it, whether tied to the days of the week, the pulsations of ley lines beneath the school, or even astronomical cycles. But it was something first-years—especially in Ravenclaw—were expected to figure out for themselves.
As they walked, Kayneth paid little attention to the placement of windows or the decor of hallways and rooms. Instead, he focused on the structure of the magical barriers, the energy flows that formed new paths between fixed points in the castle.
Perhaps this entire system had been designed precisely to train young wizards in sensing magic and navigating it. Or perhaps the founders simply wanted to break students out of the rigid logic of the "normal" world and immerse them in the fluid, unpredictable nature of magic itself.
There were many theories about it, even among wizards.
One of the few constant places in the castle, one that didn’t shift between floors or towers, was the Great Hall. It served as a gathering place for feasts and celebrations and, on ordinary days, as a dining hall for all the students and professors. For now, however, the teachers didn’t interest Kayneth—he would meet them in class soon enough. Instead, he studied the nearly full hall, searching for familiar faces among students from other houses.
As expected, Granger and her group were at the Gryffindor table, deep in conversation with the half-giant gamekeeper, who, according to her, had now also become a professor. At the Slytherin table, Malfoy’s group was theatrically pretending to faint one by one, much to the amusement of those around them, though Kayneth failed to see what was so funny.
The boy who had helped fend off the Dementor turned out to be a Hufflepuff, likely a sixth or seventh-year. He showed no interest in the newly arrived first-years.
Among his own age group—those he had met over the past year or on the train—Rivers had been sorted into Slytherin. Nearby sat a girl with long, curly hair, Euphemia Sunset, a friend of his new dormmate. Nort had gone to Gryffindor, as had Morris, whose house he had visited in June. Pix, Evergreen, Kinley, Taggart… There were at least two or three familiar faces in each house. Not bad. He could only hope that they weren’t completely incompetent, so he might be able to organize them for something useful in the future.
Then, suddenly, Kayneth stopped dead in his tracks. Someone bumped into him from behind, but he barely registered it. For a split second, in the sea of faces, he thought he had seen Sola.
He knew it was impossible, of course. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, then opened them again and looked toward the same spot. Just a girl with unnaturally red, almost crimson hair—likely the result of charms or potions. She looked about seventeen. Any resemblance was distant at best.
"Hey, why’d you stop?" a fellow first-year asked. Kayneth hadn’t learned his name yet.
"Sorry. Thought I saw something," he replied dismissively. Then, deciding not to lie for no reason, he added, "Damn Dementors. They make you see things that aren’t there."
"Yeah, those things are the worst," the boy immediately agreed, nodding sympathetically. "I could barely sleep last night because of them. Kept hearing things. By the way, I’m Ryan."
"James," Kayneth introduced himself.
Breakfast wasn’t anything special compared to last night’s feast—simple, filling, but decent, especially considering the food wasn’t even prepared by humans. It was, after all, a boarding school, not some luxury resort. Here, students were expected to focus on their studies, not their meals. No personal service either, regardless of family influence or wealth—just another way Hogwarts kept things equal.
By nine o’clock, after navigating more staircases and corridors (some of which threatened to change position right underfoot), lessons began. Some students had been eagerly awaiting this moment, while others were dreading it.
By coincidence or design, Ravenclaw’s first-years had Charms as their first two lessons, taught by their Head of House, Professor Filius Flitwick. A half-goblin, he was smaller than some of the eleven-year-olds in the room, but underestimating him would be a mistake. Everyone Kayneth had spoken to about Flitwick agreed on one thing: the professor knew an incredible number of spells, mastered many of them to perfection, and had even invented some himself.
That said, Kayneth didn’t expect much from the first lesson. Granger had mentioned that Wingardium Leviosa was a "first Charms lesson," but she had meant the first practical lesson.
And actual practice wouldn’t start for another two months.
Until then, they would endure what was essentially military-style drilling—repeating wand movements and pronunciation exercises over and over. Given that some students struggled not just with Latin but even with long English words, and that many had poor coordination, it wasn’t an unreasonable approach.
Flitwick recommended a few games and exercises to improve finger dexterity and control, as well as tongue twisters—both in English and Latin. But that was all assigned as independent study. In class, they focused on repeating half a dozen wand movements and reciting the corresponding incantations in Latin, Greek, and Old English. The professor made it clear that until everyone could perform them flawlessly, there would be no actual spellcasting.
As Kayneth had learned from Granger, the theoretical aspect was mostly left for self-study. If it were up to him, he would have structured the course differently—starting with theory: mana and Od, the function of wands, the mechanics of mystic codes, conceptual interference with reality, spell incantations, and the conditioning of reflexes.
But he understood that Hogwarts was a school, not a university. There was a significant difference between teaching twenty-year-old magi and children who had only recently turned eleven. It was easier for them to memorize standard wand motions than to grasp the intricacies of how mana and Od mixed during spellcasting, or how to calculate the proper length of a mystic code's path and the ratio between internal and external magical energy.
The real problem, however, was that this way of thinking became ingrained. Treating spells as fixed elements, rather than flexible tools, simplified the learning process but also limited magical creativity. Many students would carry this rigid mindset into adulthood, making it harder for them to use magic freely or adapt their spellwork.
Perhaps Hogwarts delved deeper into spell interactions in the sixth and seventh years, after students passed their first exams. But Kayneth remained convinced that understanding these mechanisms should be taught from the start, not postponed until later.
Still, for now, he found this method of learning beneficial. He lacked the ingrained reflexes for spellcasting that others had developed from childhood, aside from a few key spells he had practiced extensively.
One thing that puzzled him, however, was the selection of spells taught to first-years. In his opinion, counter-charms, universal shields, or basic healing spells should have been prioritized. Instead, they were learning fire-starting, cutting, locking, levitation, and similar spells.
Perhaps the curriculum was designed around contrasting effects—cutting and mending, locking and unlocking, lifting and cushioning falls. Or maybe the textbook’s author had chosen spells based purely on variety of movements and incantations, rather than practicality.
Either way, he would follow the curriculum for now.
But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t supplement it with his own studies.
The next two lessons before lunch were dedicated to Herbology, the study of magical plants and, to a lesser extent, some mundane ones useful in potion-making. The first session was mostly a demonstration—students were introduced to a variety of semi-sentient carnivorous plants, either originating from exotic regions or bred by wizards in antiquity and the Middle Ages, before excessive experimentation with new species was restricted by law.
One such specimen was a seemingly harmless, two-meter-high shrub designed to entangle, strangle, and eventually digest any thieves who dared to slip past what appeared to be a safe, thornless hedge. According to modern Ministry standards, such things were no longer condoned under the Statute of Secrecy, though some enthusiasts still planted them around their homes in honor of their proud family traditions.
Other specimens included a variety of toxic and carnivorous plants, such as the searing antennaria, and a tropical lichen capable of parasitizing magical creatures and wizards alike, feeding on their energy. Professor Sprout—a plump, kind-looking woman and the head of Hufflepuff—delivered all of this with cheerful enthusiasm. Her promise that students would have the chance to study these plants up close and even handle them in later years did little to reassure anyone. If anything, it only made them more nervous. Perhaps, though, that was her way of encouraging even the laziest students to read their textbooks and reference materials out of sheer self-preservation.
The second, more practical lesson was far tamer. Students were given the task of identifying various non-magical plants based on their flowers, leaves, roots, or even scent. It wasn’t the most challenging exercise, but those who had grown up in London or other large cities could easily mistake heather for juniper—or, in more extreme cases, confuse reeds with bamboo or mistake the sharp scent of wormwood for elderflower.
And yet, in just a week's time, they would all be expected to brew potions. The mere thought of someone tossing kudzu leaves into a cauldron instead of hops or mistaking field thistle for dandelion—just because they couldn’t properly identify the right ingredient—was enough to make Kayneth uneasy. He briefly considered bringing along a few defensive and combat-oriented mystic codes to the lesson, just in case. Better that than having to heal wounds from some magical disaster caused by an unintentional misstep.
So, while Kayneth fully acknowledged the importance of this subject, his interest lay more in magical plants—many of which had long gone extinct in his own world, some having vanished millennia ago, while others existed only in minute, highly protected quantities. For now, however, he didn’t push himself into the spotlight. He identified a few herbs and seedlings, described two or three of their uses in potion-making, and earned a few points for Ravenclaw, but he was far from being the best in the class.
The real standouts were Karin Taylor, a bespectacled Muggle-born who had been deeply invested in biology and botany even before coming to Hogwarts, and Ryan Willin, the boy Kayneth had met that morning—son of a professional apothecary and determined not to let "some Muggle" outshine him in his strongest subject. Fortunately, there were no insults or debates over blood purity. Professor Sprout skillfully channeled their academic rivalry into a friendly competition, ultimately benefiting the entire class by providing more learning opportunities.
But after lunch came an ordeal that few had anticipated: a double-length History of Magic lesson, taught by none other than the school's resident ghost.
Kayneth had to admit—Granger, Lovegood, and Tonks hadn’t been exaggerating about how dreadful this class was. If anything, they had softened the reality.
First, there was the professor himself: Cuthbert Binns, a ghost who had been dead for at least ten or fifteen years before any of the current first-years were even born. From Kayneth’s perspective as a magus specializing in spiritual studies, this was already a top contender for the most absurd and illogical aspects of Hogwarts.
Even the most self-aware ghosts lose the ability to retain new information, learn, or develop over time. They convincingly mimic speech and even the thought patterns of their former selves, but they have little sense of time, often forgetting the living people around them and endlessly repeating the same behaviors, conversations, and lectures year after year.
There were, of course, exceptions—higher-order shades, such as the Heroic Spirits summoned by the Grail, retained a striking degree of intelligence, adaptability, and even individual motivations. But they, too, were ultimately just sophisticated copies, mere echoes of the original heroic souls.
So what did that say about a ghost who had emerged through "natural" means rather than a carefully constructed ritual or a high-level mystery?
Technically, Binns was fulfilling his role. He lectured on his subject, seemingly from memory, and had likely been delivering the same word-for-word speech since at least the Grindelwald uprising. But he hardly acknowledged students’ questions or requests for clarification, droning on in a monotone as if unaware of whether his audience was even present or listening.
He hadn’t even properly introduced himself. He simply floated into the room, murmured something unintelligible, and launched straight into a rambling lecture on how the British wizarding world viewed the Wild Hunt. He continuously jumped between Gwyn ap Nudd and the Cŵn Annwn, as if conflating two distinct legends into one without realizing it.
Kayneth was fairly certain he could have explained the topic more coherently from memory. Hell, even Lovegood would likely have done a better job—sure, she would have embellished half of it with her own interpretations, but at least she would make it engaging, in the grand tradition of old storytellers and bards.
What was the point of all this? Had Dumbledore really been unable to find a single living historian to fill the position? Was the school trying to save money, since a ghost obviously didn’t need a salary, food, or accommodations?
Or was this some kind of test for students—forcing them to develop independent research skills and study historical sources on their own? After all, the O.W.L. exam for History of Magic was a Ministry requirement.
Tonks had once mentioned that she had to study Grindelwald’s political ideology on her own, and Kayneth doubted they would hear much about Voldemort’s rebellion from Binns, given that the ghost had died before it even began and had no inclination—or, arguably, even the ability—to learn about events that had occurred after his death.
As most of the class slipped into a meditative trance—or, more likely, a well-earned post-lunch nap—Kayneth pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil, sketching ideas for a set of mystic codes suitable for everyday wear. These would be built around local spells, ensuring they wouldn't draw unnecessary attention. What he had brought from home was meant for life-threatening situations—whether it be a possessed professor, a lunatic, or some criminal forcing their way into the school with no regard for casualties. For everyday conflicts among first-years or stray spells, he needed something non-lethal, subtle, and far less conspicuous than a mercury whip or a replica of Gáe Bulg.
At the moment, aside from his wand, he only carried the hilt of his imitation "Black Key"—hardly sufficient for serious confrontations and entirely unsuitable for the childish duels and squabbles that inevitably arose among students. Even by the standards of the Clock Tower, that would be considered excessive. And besides, the act of crafting mystic codes itself could prove quite profitable.
Casually, he wondered what might happen if Binns were to be "accidentally" exorcised, bound into an object, enslaved to someone else's will, or outright banished. Would the school finally hire a more competent instructor? Would they officially leave the subject for self-study? Or would it become another "cursed" position like Defense Against the Dark Arts, churning through increasingly unqualified candidates until the role became a revolving door of incompetence?
Not that he considered history particularly vital—especially given the Ministry's relentless censorship of "inconvenient" truths—but having a general grasp was essential. History shaped politics, dictated the evolution of magical institutions, revealed the distribution of mysteries across the world, and even hinted at the locations of ancient artifacts. Still, for now, he wouldn't act rashly. It was far too early to start reshaping the school to his liking—at least not before he had a clear grasp of the internal barrier structures, surveillance spells, and defensive wards in place. Drawing attention to himself in the first week by making drastic changes would be… childish.
That lesson ended with some difficulty, as it took considerable effort to wake the sleeping students. It marked the end of the first day of classes for Ravenclaw first-years. Normally, a full schedule consisted of at least eight lessons—four before lunch, two double periods in the afternoon, followed by clubs, electives, or detentions until dinner. However, it seemed the administration didn’t want to crush their enthusiasm too soon with a brutal workload, so by three o’clock, a yawning group of students was met outside the classroom by a sixth-year prefect (whose name no one had yet remembered). He led them on a tour of the castle and its surroundings, emphasizing the importance of sticking together, keeping an eye on their peers, and—above all—not getting lost.
Given the castle’s ever-changing layout and the sheer incompetence of younger students in navigating shifting corridors and moving staircases, it wasn’t uncommon for someone to go missing in the first few weeks. Rumors abounded about those who had vanished entirely—trapped somewhere in forgotten hallways, wandering lost through time itself—but no reputable history book had ever confirmed such cases. It was more a piece of Hogwarts folklore than an established fact.
Fortunately, no one got lost this time. The group toured the castle towers, the Trophy Room, various classrooms, and the offices of the Heads of Houses. Along the way, the prefect regaled them with an endless stream of stories, no doubt embellishing at least two-thirds of the details. They passed through the infamous corridor where, just six months ago, a second-year student had gotten into a fight with a possessed professor, miscalculated her own strength, and was thrown out the window into the courtyard below. This particular event had only recently cemented itself into Hogwarts history, but it was already a well-known landmark. A new school tradition had even emerged—students regularly burned the letters "V.P.L." into the stone floor at the scene of the battle using Flagrante or other fire magic. The house-elves diligently scrubbed it clean each time, which only encouraged students to experiment with stronger and more durable spells.
After the castle tour, they explored the grounds—places they had only glimpsed upon arrival. They were shown the Quidditch pitch, the road leading to Hogsmeade, the Forbidden Forest’s edge (where even looking too long was supposedly against the rules), the shallows of the Black Lake, and a handful of other landmarks.
By the time they trudged back into the Ravenclaw common room around five o’clock, exhausted and barely able to keep their legs moving, they were finally allowed a moment of respite—to put their books away, change clothes, and catch their breath after the unexpectedly grueling trek. Before dinner, they were encouraged to consider which clubs or extracurriculars they might want to join. Participation was entirely voluntary, but it was highly encouraged by both professors and upperclassmen.
They even received a preliminary list of options, though recruitment notices and announcements for new clubs would continue appearing throughout September—if not longer. Kayneth had no intention of wasting time on such things. His schedule was already packed with his own studies and projects. The only club that might have interested him was the painting club, which seemed like a decent way to relieve stress. Unfortunately, it was exclusive to Gryffindor, and founding another one for either Ravenclaw or the entire school would be too much of a hassle. But painting could still be done in his own time—it was a surprisingly effective way to clear his mind and think things through in a calm environment.
After dinner, students had a few hours of free time before curfew—time for independent study, relaxation, or socializing for those lucky enough to avoid being buried under a mountain of assignments. First-years were advised to go to bed early in preparation for their first double Transfiguration lesson the next day. The warning was vague but ominous:
"McGonagall is not our Head of House."
Whatever that was supposed to mean, it was enough to make them all take the upcoming lesson seriously.
"Transfiguration is one of the most complex and dangerous branches of magic you will study at Hogwarts…"
Kayneth listened to McGonagall’s introduction with little interest. Every single one of the core disciplines (aside from, perhaps, History, Astronomy, and the so-called "Muggle Studies") could be considered challenging at an advanced level. Each of them carried its own dangers—especially for beginners. A careless wizard who preferred sleep and idle chatter to actual studying could just as easily die by spellwork, potion mishap, transfiguration accident, mishandling a magical creature, or even misjudging an aggressive plant.
Would it make much difference whether someone burned themselves alive with Incendio, cast on themselves instead of their target, or transfigured a nearby table into a writhing mass of chains and blades?
And then there were potions—one wrong ingredient order, and a harmless elixir meant to rejuvenate skin could just as easily turn into a cloud of chlorine gas or an explosion of nitrogen triiodide, which would detonate the moment it came into contact with an open flame.
Kayneth understood the risks. The real question was: did everyone else?
After the lecture, Professor McGonagall, like the other professors, provided a practical demonstration, transforming her desk into a pig and then back again. Then, unexpectedly, she initiated a hands-on exercise. She wrote several lengthy formulas on the board, which the students were expected to memorize, and then, with a simple spell, distributed matches to each desk. The task was straightforward in its instruction—use those formulas to transfigure at least one match into a needle.
Just like that. No explanation of the principles behind the spell, no theoretical discussion on transmutation, no breakdown of transformation sequences.
To be honest, Archibald was somewhat impressed by this approach. From the very first lesson, this woman operated under the assumption that first-years had already read and memorized at least half of the first-year Transfiguration textbook and could now apply that knowledge without prior guidance.
Alternatively, McGonagall seemed to believe they could flawlessly replicate the recorded formulas without even the faintest understanding of what they were, what led to what, and how the process worked internally.
A third possibility was that she intended to structure her entire course around overcoming initial failure—giving students an impossible task first and then gradually guiding them toward success in subsequent lessons.
Whichever the case, it explained yesterday’s warnings. If this was her standard approach every year, it was no wonder some students struggled. If his old alchemy tutor had used such radical methods, Kayneth might have become a master in his original discipline three years earlier than he had.
For now, he refrained from touching his mystic code and instead observed his classmates out of curiosity.
Simon, seated beside him, stared blankly at the formulas he had copied onto parchment as if trying to unravel some hidden truth within them.
MacAvoy, in the next row, was flipping through his textbook at a frantic pace, trying to find anything resembling their assignment. Judging by his expression, he was failing.
Taylor, seated two desks away, was nervously rubbing her glasses, clearly contemplating how to politely ask the professor what in the world they were supposed to be doing.
Irwin Ross, sitting in the last row, was already trying to cast the spell, awkwardly tracing complex figures in the air with his wand, but producing no visible results.
The rest of the class seemed to be in a similar state.
With a quiet sigh, Kayneth focused on the formulas in front of him. From what he had gathered, Transfiguration relied on two fundamental aspects—an extremely precise command, whether mental or verbal, and an exact amount of magical energy—neither more nor less than what was necessary. Both factors depended on the transformation itself: what the object was, what it needed to become, and how long the change would last.
As far as beginner-level tasks went, this one was actually well-chosen.
They were transforming an object of similar shape, but with a complex composition—a matchstick consisting of a wooden shaft and a chemically treated head. The wooden part was organic, while the head contained a mix of compounds, including potassium chlorate, lead oxide, sulfur, and other substances.
Yet the goal was to turn the entire thing into a uniform metal object, preferably low-alloy steel or at least iron.
A skilled alchemist—like Kayneth himself—could, of course, calculate the proper transmutation circle to restructure these elements accordingly. But that would take so much time and energy that any rational magus would simply order a box of sewing needles from the nearest shop and hurl it at whoever had suggested such an inefficient solution.
However, Transfiguration didn’t function on the same level as full-fledged alchemical transmutation. It was closer to Projection and Reinforcement—temporary rather than permanent, conceptual rather than purely chemical.
That difference drastically reduced the energy cost and shifted the focus to manipulating the object’s properties as a whole rather than breaking it down on an elemental level.
Placing a second sheet of parchment beside the first, Kayneth took up his quill—his proficiency with which he had been forced to relearn six months before school started—and began breaking the transformation down into its individual components.
Two main concepts were being applied here—one for form and one for material. A needle and steel. Neither was strictly defined—was it a hand-sewing needle or a machine-made one? Chromium steel or molybdenum steel?
Regardless, that part was simple enough.
The real challenge was transforming a multi-material object into a single homogeneous structure. The key was ensuring that the spell affected the entire matchstick as a single entity, rather than producing two separate metal needles—one from the wood and one from the chemically-treated head—or worse, half a dozen tiny, malformed fragments if the different chemical compounds converted independently.
This was the hardest part of constructing the command—encompassing the object as a whole while preventing the spell from spilling over and transmuting the desk underneath it.
The latter was a real danger if a student attempted to brute-force the spell, flooding their wand with excess energy in the hope that sheer power would make the transformation succeed.
"Why are we even doing this?" Simon Kerry muttered beside him, clearly frustrated.
"What do you mean?" Kayneth asked.
"This transformation," Kerry clarified. "I mean, I can’t think of a single situation where I’d desperately need a needle but only have a match on hand. And if I’ve got a wand, why wouldn’t I just use Diffindo? Or whatever spell it is that can pierce things?"
"Aculeus."
"Yeah, that one."
"You’re thinking too small," Kayneth said. "Or rather, not broadly enough. Try expanding your perspective."
Kerry’s blank stare made it clear he had no idea what Kayneth meant.
With a sigh, Kayneth offered an obvious example. "Let’s say you’re walking through a magical forest. And something attacks you—an Acromantula, an Arsuri, a Foa, or some other mid-sized but fast-moving creature. Many of them have natural resistance to magic, and between the trees, good luck actually landing a spell on them. And trying to fend them off with the nearest branch… well, you’re not Lancelot."
"What does Lancelot have to do with anything?"
"Because he—" Kayneth stopped himself, suddenly wondering what exactly British children were taught in school these days.
Finding a simpler way to explain, he asked, "You know Luna Lovegood? Second-year, light blonde hair?"
"The one who always looks like she’s talking to a dozen imaginary friends at once?"
"…Yes. Ask her about Lancelot and a branch tonight. She’ll explain in excruciating detail."
Kerry still looked lost, so Kayneth pressed on. "The point is, a stick won’t help you much. But if you learn to transfigure wood into steel, then instead of a useless branch, you have a rapier or a sword. And suddenly, your situation isn’t so hopeless—one hand keeps your opponent at bay with a blade while the other prepares a spell."
For the first time, Kerry seemed to seriously consider the idea.
Kayneth returned his focus to his parchment, resuming his breakdown of the spell.
Now, that was a practical application of Transfiguration.
Simon raised a skeptical eyebrow. "But I don’t know how to fight with a sword or a rapier," he pointed out reasonably. "And I doubt I'll learn here—if I understood correctly, Hogwarts doesn’t even have a single club dedicated to proper sports, just flying."
"You can learn on your own," Kayneth replied. "Order books from home or buy them during the holidays, go through the exercises, and practice. The most important thing is the will to learn—if you have that, the opportunities will follow. And if nothing else, you could always get better at Transfiguration and figure out a formula to turn a stick into a pistol. That would make things easier."
"Wait, is that even possible? That’s a—what do they call it here?—a ‘Muggle object.’ I doubt there’s a spell for something like that."
"Even if there isn't, you could always invent one. That’s the beauty of Transfiguration—you can turn anything into anything else. Within natural limits, of course."
"What kind of limits…?"
"Mr. Murphy, Mr. Kerry, have you already completed your assigned task if you have time for such a lengthy discussion?" came Professor McGonagall’s stern voice, cutting through their conversation.
"Apologies, Professor," Kayneth rose from his seat with practiced politeness. "We were discussing the potential of Transfiguration, but Simon raised a question that I believe you could answer far better than I. And it may be of interest to the rest of the class."
"Is that so?" McGonagall regarded him with her usual sharp gaze. "And what question would that be?"
"What are the natural limits of Transfiguration? It’s said that anything can be turned into anything else, but only within certain boundaries. What exactly defines those boundaries?"
"Well, that is indeed a very good question, though I am usually asked this much later in a student’s education," the professor said, scanning the class. Noting that several students were now paying attention, she nodded. "Very well, I’ll explain."
She turned to the blackboard, and with a flick of her wand, chalk began writing as she spoke.
"There are two primary limitations. The first—'Complexity.' The greater the difference between two objects, the harder it is to transform one into the other. The calculations required to account for differences in shape, material, structure, and magical properties become exponentially more difficult. At a certain point, even the most skilled wizard cannot perform the necessary transformations without making errors or failing to sustain the spell."
She gestured, and the chalk moved to the second point. "The second—'Power.' The larger or more intricate an object is, the stronger the wizard must be to successfully alter it. For example, a fifth-year student could transform a dog into a bucket or a goat into a barrel. But even the most accomplished Transfiguration masters, including myself and the Headmaster, could not turn a whale into a ship—not even temporarily. The magic required simply surpasses any known wizard’s capacity, even if the theoretical formula for such a transformation could be devised."
She paused before concluding, "There are additional minor constraints—some objective, others legal—but we will cover those in due time. These two, however, are the fundamental factors. Have I answered your question, Mr. Murphy?"
"Yes, Professor. Thank you very much."
"Then return to your assignment. You still have nearly an hour left. And five points to Ravenclaw for intellectual curiosity—your House stays true to its reputation."
As soon as McGonagall walked away, Simon muttered under his breath, "Smooth save."
Kayneth merely shrugged and turned back to his work. Or, more accurately, to studying the assigned task. If he followed the formulas precisely, factoring in all the variables, he could likely complete the exercise on the second or third attempt. However, revealing too much of his capability too soon would be unwise—especially with a task that was clearly designed to exceed the abilities of a beginner. Instead, he focused on observing McGonagall’s teaching methods and how she structured her explanations.
Transfiguration, after all, was just another branch of magic to dissect and analyze—particularly from the lens of disciplines he was more familiar with, such as Alchemy. It was a good opportunity to cross-reference formulas, compare energy expenditures, and determine the magnitude of magic required for different transformations. No one had yet explained how the necessary amount of magical energy could be derived from the elemental properties of the original and target objects, but Kayneth had his own approach.
He drew a circle on his parchment, then inscribed a pentagram inside it, marking the five elemental forces in the margins. The core process involved the conversion of Earth and Fire into another form of Earth, but the complexity of the material structure introduced additional variables. If only Transfiguration were rooted in the Chinese Wu Xing system instead of traditional Western Alchemy, which relied on Plato and Aristotle’s five elements. In that case, Metal and Wood would already be recognized as fundamental elements, making certain transformations much simpler.
He wondered what an Eastern school of magic would assign as its introductory exercise—perhaps transmuting foam into ceramic tiles, given that Chinese alchemy didn’t even acknowledge Air as a primary element. It would certainly ensure that students didn’t become complacent.
Eventually, just before the end of class, he presented his result to the professor—a matchstick, perfectly reshaped into the form of a sewing needle but retaining its wooden composition. He had deliberately introduced minor errors into the spellwork, keeping the transformation incomplete. Even with his natural ability, it would be unrealistic for an eleven-year-old to execute the spell flawlessly without prior theoretical instruction.
As expected, only three students managed to produce any results at all. Ross had succeeded in reshaping his object as well, though his needle had rough, angular edges rather than a smooth cylindrical shape. A pure-blooded witch named Selwyn had managed to alter the wooden portion of her matchstick into metal, though the effect was patchy.
After receiving a few house points, the group left the classroom and followed the prefect back to Ravenclaw Tower. Their double Transfiguration lesson had been the last class of the day, leaving them with plenty of free time before dinner. During the first week, first-years weren’t allowed to roam the castle unsupervised—too many students had been lost in shifting staircases or trapped in forgotten corridors over the years. Some had even wandered into the Forbidden Forest.
However, when Kayneth asked the prefect to show him the library, the request was met with approval, and half a dozen other students eagerly joined him. The rest of their classmates chose to wait until the weekend or, more likely, until they had an assignment due in a few hours and no other choice. Ravenclaws were known for their creativity and intelligence, but diligence and time management were far from universal traits.
As the heavy doors swung open, they were met with the sight of towering shelves stretching far into the dimly lit hall, lined with thousands of books. Tomes floated through the air, summoned by unseen hands, shifting positions in response to commands. The walls and ceiling faded into shadows, with only a few scattered lamps providing soft illumination. Anyone wishing to read was expected to conjure their own source of light.
It might not have been the Clock Tower’s Grand Archive, but in size and grandeur, it was comparable.
And almost every single one of these books, manuscripts, and grimoires contained knowledge Kayneth had never seen before.
Taking in the scent of ink, parchment, and dust, he allowed himself a rare moment of honesty.
This… this was absolutely worth it.
2025-03-04 00:47:26 +0000 UTC
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27/02/25
Demons of NC
Life is Good
Elden Ring: My Ending
28/02/25
Castling the Long Way
Mad Tiger
Hydrargyrum
Note: 4 more chapters are coming in the next couple of days.
2025-02-28 21:18:07 +0000 UTC
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"I am pleased to introduce two new members of our staff. First, Professor Lupin, who has kindly agreed to take up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher…"
Remus rose from his seat and gave a slight bow to the Great Hall, filled with his future students. The reactions varied—some gazes were warm, curious, or even grateful, while others were skeptical, mocking, or outright disdainful. He wasn’t surprised. He was well aware that he didn’t exactly look his best, but he had no illusions about making a strong first impression. He hadn’t come here to impress anyone with sharp robes and charm. That had been Lockhart’s approach last year, and they all knew how that had ended.
Settling back into his seat, he ignored the sour expression on Snape’s face and allowed himself to drift into thoughts—thoughts that were far from pleasant. He had been living in a near-constant state of melancholy for years, but the encounter with the Dementors had resurfaced old wounds in excruciating detail.
When had his life gone so irreversibly wrong?
Was it twelve years ago, when everything fell apart and their brotherhood was shattered? Or was it twenty-two years ago, when he had lied to the world and forced his way into Hogwarts, selfishly putting hundreds of people at risk just to have a chance at a normal education? Twenty-eight years ago, when he had been bitten? Or had it always been inevitable, one misstep after another leading him to this point?
His gaze swept over the floating candles and the grand hall, brimming with laughter and life. Had he ever imagined returning to Hogwarts as a professor? Perhaps, long ago, in his seventh year, sitting in this very hall with his friends after their final exams. Maybe he had pictured himself standing among the staff while James and Lily’s son sat at one of these tables, maybe even a daughter of Sirius or Peter.
He had never harbored illusions about having children of his own—he had accepted early on that a werewolf’s life did not allow for such things. But he had always thought he would be there for his friends' children. That he would be part of their lives.
Instead, it had all gone wrong.
Three years later, James and Lily had died protecting their son at any cost. And Sirius—Sirius had betrayed them. He had discarded the Statute of Secrecy, torn through the streets in a frenzy of violence, and slaughtered Peter, along with a dozen innocent bystanders. If Remus had been in London that night, if the Aurors hadn’t reached Sirius first, he might have been next.
That war had torn them apart. And for what? Centuries-old blood feuds, the obsession with pure and impure blood, light and dark magic—so many lives lost over the same senseless battles.
And now, Sirius had escaped Azkaban, supposedly to finish what he started.
If the Dementors surrounding Hogwarts failed, if they proved as useless as Remus suspected, then he was the only person left who could protect James' son.
His thoughts drifted to the black specters lurking outside the castle, to Harry—growing up alone, orphaned—and to Sirius, now the most wanted man in the wizarding world.
This was not how he had imagined coming back.
Not like this.
At the start of summer, he had never imagined that by September he would be teaching at Hogwarts. He had simply continued his aimless wandering, keeping to remote areas, struggling through each full moon, when one night in June, Albus Dumbledore found him—just as he had decades ago.
And just like then, he had made an offer.
This time, it was not a place as a student, but as a professor.
The Headmaster had explained everything, filling in the gaps of news Remus had long since stopped keeping up with. Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban. Harry Potter was in his third year. The past two years had seen two failed attempts on the boy’s life—one orchestrated by a resurrected Voldemort’s follower, the other through a Dark artifact.
The Ministry believed that Sirius had broken out for one reason: to kill Harry.
After that, there was no need to ask whether Remus would accept the position.
For months now, Remus had tried to piece together what that bastard who had somehow outmaneuvered death itself was truly after.
From what Harry had told Dumbledore, Voldemort had attempted to reclaim his body two years ago by manipulating Professor Quirrell into seeking the Philosopher’s Stone. It had been a calculated move—no one had expected the Dark Lord to show himself so soon. Harry had simply been caught in the crossfire, narrowly escaping with his life.
Gryffindor foolishness, really—bravery first, rational thought second.
They had been the same way at that age.
Voldemort had claimed he needed the Stone to return to full strength. That alone revealed something important: the Dark Lord could not restore his body on his own. A significant weakness.
The following year, Hogwarts had strengthened its protections against external possession. Voldemort hadn’t repeated his mistake. Instead, he had smuggled a Dark artifact into the castle—a relic that had swiftly corrupted the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Reports from witnesses described it as a fragment of Tom Riddle himself, dating back to his time as a student in the 1940s.
Of course, it had not been a true ghost. Voldemort wasn’t dead—not completely. But was it truly a piece of his soul, or just an illusion designed to mislead investigators?
In the end, no one knew.
The artifact and its host had been destroyed before any interrogation could take place. And now, mere months later, Black had escaped Azkaban.
Rumors suggested he had received outside help—perhaps from Voldemort’s remaining followers. But Dumbledore feared something worse: that Black had become the Dark Lord’s next vessel.
Perhaps they had struck a deal.
Voldemort would let him escape and reach Harry, and in return, Black would help Riddle come back to life.
Even after twelve years, Remus still could not—and did not want to—fully believe that Padfoot could have done something like this. Betraying James, who had been closer to him than his own brother, killing and maiming dozens of ordinary people—people he, unlike his own family, did not despise as lesser beings. That he had escaped from the most heavily guarded prison, risked his life and soul, and possibly even sought Voldemort’s help, all for the sole purpose of killing a thirteen-year-old child—his own godson.
He did not want to believe it even now, but he was ready, if necessary, to protect Harry, even at the cost of his own life.
Back then, at the end of the war, he had been powerless. He could not stop Black, could not save his only friends. And afterward, he had not even tried to take care of the child. Instead, he had simply run away from everyone and everything, and since then, he had not seen him once—until today.
And what if that lunatic had succeeded last year? Or the year before? The first thing he would have done was finish what he started and kill James’s son—the boy he had had some special plans for ever since 1981. And Remus would have never even known, lost in his wandering through forests and abandoned villages.
He owed James Potter and Lily Evans a great debt.
And now, at least, he had a chance to repay them—if only a little.
Even if it meant fighting the man he had once called his best friend.
As for the ongoing troubles—two years ago, Voldemort announced himself once, and a year later, his ghost had been identified by appearance. But there had been other incidents of dark magic too, ones where no witnesses remained to name the culprit, whether it was the Dark Lord himself or one of his followers.
In the spring of 1992, someone had summoned an unknown entity through a sacrificial ritual in the suburbs of London and then burned the crime scene to the ground. By that time, Voldemort had already taken residence at the school, possessing Quirrell, which meant the ritual had not been an attempt to bring him back from the void. Either the one performing it had no idea where Riddle actually was, or Voldemort had chosen not to enlighten them. Given his secretive nature in life, the latter seemed highly plausible.
That same year, in August, another incident occurred—a young wizard and multiple Muggle criminals were killed by an unknown assailant using cursed weaponry, and then the crime scene was obliterated by magical fire. Aurors had even consulted Professor McGonagall, as a recognized authority in Transfiguration. According to Dumbledore, she had hissed and cursed for days afterward, recalling the bullets that had been magically treated to inflict the most grievous wounds possible, even capable of killing a man with a single shot. In her estimation, such magic required mastery of Transfiguration at the level of a Hogwarts graduate, yet she refused to believe that any student could have used the knowledge from her lessons to craft something so vile.
There had been many theories attempting to connect these events. Officially, the Ministry had claimed that the culprit—at least in the last case—had been the possessed Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. But that was physically impossible. The attack had happened in August, and Lockhart had only fallen under the influence of the unknown artifact after arriving at school, no earlier than September.
So, did Voldemort still have subordinates carrying out his plans? At least one or two, possibly more. The incidents bore some similarities at first glance, but the perpetrators’ styles were vastly different.
Then, just a month and a half ago, right after Sirius Black’s escape, strange reports of poaching had surfaced in the Scottish Highlands. Someone had wiped out a small tribe of mountain trolls and taken some of their blood—an ingredient in many powerful healing potions. If the Dark Lord was using it to restore his body through dark magic, then it meant he was not just making plans—he was already acting.
Could Black have been working toward his resurrection instead of immediately seeking out Harry?
"Lupin," came a grim voice beside him.
"Is it time already?" Remus asked, glancing up at the dour Potions Master. He quickly scanned the hall. It seemed like the feast had only just begun—most of the plates were still full. He didn’t particularly want to leave the table, especially since he hadn’t even touched his own food yet, too lost in thought.
"We have ten minutes until moonrise. Come, I'll show you your office. We’re taking an unacceptable risk as it is."
"I can find it myself."
"And I cannot risk other people’s lives," Snape snapped, his voice low but firm. "Let’s go, Lupin."
Muttering a brief apology to Dumbledore and the other professors, Remus rose and followed Snape, who was already striding briskly ahead.
Since most of the corridors and floors beyond the ones leading to the Great Hall were still only dimly lit, Snape conjured a couple of blue-tinged lights that hovered silently over his head, casting a ghostly glow as they moved.
Lupin, meanwhile, found himself dwelling on what he could possibly say to the man beside him. The Dementors had dragged out plenty of old memories today, and some of them filled him with deep shame. Even when he had done nothing, simply standing by as his friends "had their fun," he had been complicit.
Naturally, in every conflict between Snape and James, he had always taken his friend’s side. At the time, it had felt perfectly natural. But now, with everything resurfacing, the memories made him uncomfortably self-aware.
The familiar dim corridors, the old doors and moving portraits, the sound of their footsteps on the aged stone floor—it was as if those fifteen years had never passed.
"You know, Severus…" he began hesitantly.
"You wanted something, Professor Lupin?" Snape interrupted without looking at him, his tone clipped and formal.
"Perhaps not. We’re heading to the second floor?"
"The third. Did you take your potion today?"
"Yes, in the morning, before the train ride."
"At least that is reassuring. Here—this is your office," Snape said, pushing open a door. "The key is on the desk. Lock yourself in."
"I'll see you tomorrow, then."
Snape didn’t bother responding, simply turning on his heel and walking away.
"Good night," Remus called after him, though he didn’t expect a reply.
Watching the Potions Master disappear around the corner, Lupin stepped into the room where he would now be living. The first thing he did was lock the door and stash the key in the furthest drawer of his desk.
Then, with a weary sigh, he sank down onto the floor, leaning back against the couch.
This long day was finally over.
And to think, when he had boarded the train this morning, he had no idea it would turn into such a mess. Dumbledore had warned him about the Dementors, but no one had mentioned that they would be stopping and searching a train full of teenagers. Let alone that some of them would "get carried away," savoring the fresh fear and despair of children—so different from the stale, gnawed-over remnants of emotion left behind by Azkaban’s inmates, many of whom had long since lost their minds or were little more than barely-living husks.
Even in the compartment he had shared with James’s son and his friends, the kids’ reactions had been telling. When the Dementor had begun pressing down with its full strength, Harry had collapsed almost immediately. The girl sitting beside him had suddenly screamed, as if she were seeing something horrifying or falling from a great height, then yanked out her wand.
And in that exact moment, the third one—the redhead, undoubtedly a Weasley—had drawn his own and cast Expelliarmus before the girl could do anything.
Later, after Remus had driven the Dementor away and they had all been helping to revive Harry, the boy had muttered an apology:
"Sorry, Professor, but last year, Hermione and my brothers invented a new spell. If she had cast it here, we'd all have been sliced to ribbons."
And the most unsettling part was that the girl hadn’t even tried to deny it. She had just averted her gaze and silently taken her wand back.
He’d need to follow up on that later—what exactly were they teaching second-years these days, if they could create something that, by the sound of it, could rival an Unforgivable?
Lupin had already gathered from the conversations at the station that nearly every carriage had students who couldn’t withstand the pressure of the Dementors and had tried to fight them off. It was hard to blame them for that instinct, but very few even among the seventh years could cast a Patronus, and even fewer bothered to study magical creatures and their weaknesses. As a result, the Dementors had been struck with whatever spells the students could muster. Most of those spells had little effect, but what the younger students lacked in experience, they compensated for with sheer enthusiasm and numbers.
Maybe that was where he should start his first lesson—breaking down what had happened on the train. What they did right, what they did wrong, and what they should do if they ever encountered such a threat again.
Over the past two months, as he prepared to take up the role of professor at Hogwarts, Remus had developed a general lesson plan and curriculum. His focus was on helping students defend themselves against magical creatures—beings they might actually encounter in their daily lives and that could pose a real danger. He had already arranged for the delivery of a few smaller creatures, the kind that couldn’t simply be found lurking in the Forbidden Forest.
Of course, he could have taken a different approach—focusing entirely on his primary mission: protecting Harry from Black. That would mean dedicating the entire class to dueling and preparing students for magical combat. After all, Defense Against the Dark Arts was a broad subject, and each professor tailored the course to their own interpretation.
But two things held him back from taking that route. First, even if he abandoned every other student to train Harry day and night in magical duels, it still wouldn’t be enough. The gap between Black and the boy was simply too vast—too much experience, too much skill. Second, as much as Harry mattered, Remus had been entrusted with teaching all the students, not just one. He had a duty to prepare them for what they might realistically face, to ensure they passed their exams, and not to shape the course around his personal objectives. Sacrificing an entire year of education for hundreds of students just to prepare one boy for a battle he couldn’t win yet—what kind of teacher would that make him?
And then there was another issue entirely—the utter lack of consistency in Defense Against the Dark Arts education. The past two years had been a complete disaster. The seventh years were stuck at the level of fifth years, and the third years practically knew nothing at all. He’d have to start from scratch with them. Yet, by June, the inevitable OWLs and NEWTs would arrive, and his students would be expected to pass. There was a staggering amount of work ahead of him—far beyond just keeping an eye on Black.
But the worst part, the part he didn’t want to think about, was how much the current situation mirrored the last war against the Death Eaters.
Dumbledore on one side. Voldemort on the other. The two of them gathering allies, preparing for the inevitable clash.
They would sit in their towers, maneuvering their forces, while the ones in the field—the foot soldiers—would fight, suffer, die, or end up in Azkaban.
And it wasn’t just their generation this time.
Sirius. Malfoy. Arthur Weasley. All of them were being pulled back into the same old war. And now, the students were getting drawn in, too. Harry had already faced Voldemort in his first year. The next year, someone had smuggled a cursed artifact into the school—was it young Goyle? Nott? Malfoy’s son? Who would be next?
Would young Weasley throw himself into this war just like his father? Would Selwyn’s daughter follow in her father’s footsteps and pledge herself to the Dark Lord?
Chess pieces.
White and black.
Voldemort moved Black forward. Dumbledore placed Lupin in response.
The headmaster advanced his pawn—Harry—pushing him toward the other end of the board, toward the inevitable promotion.
And somewhere out there, on the opposite side, a black pawn was advancing to meet him.
Remus had never been much of a chess player, but even he could see the board for what it was. Dumbledore had made it clear—his hopes for victory rested on Harry. That the boy would be the one to rid the world of Voldemort for good.
But until then, he needed guidance. Protection.
And Remus hadn’t dared to ask himself the question: If Black were after someone else—say, the son of Frank and Alice Longbottom—would Dumbledore still be pulling every string, making every sacrifice to protect him?
Would he still be willing to endure every inconvenience to keep that child safe?
Remus hadn’t asked.
Because he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Or maybe he already knew it.
Did he like any of this? Absolutely not.
Of course, he respected Dumbledore. He was grateful to the man—for his kindness, for the opportunity to study at Hogwarts like any other child, for helping him find friends in his youth. Dumbledore understood magic better than anyone alive. More than the Minister. More than Voldemort.
And if Dumbledore believed that Harry was the key to winning this war, he undoubtedly had a reason for it.
But as a friend, Remus wanted James’s son to grow up as a normal child. He didn’t want him to be a living symbol of a past victory, a sacrificial piece in some grand ritual, or a pawn in a decades-long scheme. The boy had already suffered enough—did he not deserve a real childhood?
But to intervene meant going against Dumbledore.
Could he even change anything?
Did he want to?
Was he willing?
Would he defy the headmaster out of loyalty to an old friend, or would he trust Dumbledore’s vision and play his assigned role? Would he tell himself that Harry, as valuable a piece as he was, was simply too important to be sacrificed?
Or was that just wishful thinking?
And even if he wanted to fight against the inevitable, he was alone now.
There was no one left to stand beside him.
At that moment, even with the windows shut, Lupin felt the full moon rising beyond the thick rain clouds, just over the horizon.
If someone had walked into the room minutes later, they would have seen what looked like a large, sleeping dog sprawled across the floor.
A more observant eye would have recognized a wolf, a species long extinct in Britain for over two centuries.
And an experienced wizard, an Auror, or a hunter of dark creatures would have immediately identified the truth.
A werewolf.
A magical beast.
Not a man.
A classified Level Five threat—"Lethal danger to wizards."
Permission to kill on sight.
2025-02-28 21:17:31 +0000 UTC
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“I can no longer kill you or Sola-Ui… I can’t but…”
"Damn it," Kayneth swore under his breath as he woke up. That same nightmare again, ending in a burst of gunfire and the sensation of bullets tearing through his body. Over the past year, he had trained himself, using meditation and self-hypnosis, to enter a dreamless trance whenever possible. But tonight, of all nights, he'd hoped for a proper rest. He should have expected this.
He glanced at the clock—only half past six. September 1, 1993. The day he would leave for school and fully immerse himself in the world of wizards. If he still had any second thoughts about this dubious endeavor, today was his last chance to turn back.
But the truth was, everything had already been arranged. His belongings were packed, instructions had been given to his apprentice for the next six months, his laboratory was sealed, lined with traps and protections from within, and practically invisible from the outside. Even this room had a few simple wards, just in case some petty burglar stumbled in. There was nothing particularly valuable or dangerous among the books he'd left in his "official" apartment, but he had no desire to deal with accusations of violating the Statute of Secrecy.
Miss Stone would remain here, still receiving her usual salary. In his absence, she was free to take on other work as long as it didn't interfere with maintaining his public image. As for his arrangement with the organization, that had been settled as smoothly as possible—though it had required making a few new promises and offering some additional services in exchange for keeping things stable during his absence. Expected, but necessary.
No, there was no turning back now. Even if he still wasn’t completely convinced that this was the right decision. Too many restrictions would arise, and not all of them could be bypassed. But if he was going to back out, he should have done it at the very least a month ago.
At the end of July, a tall woman in her fifties had arrived at his door, dressed in a formal but slightly old-fashioned suit, the sort that called to mind the headmistress of some private boarding school. She introduced herself as Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and handed him a letter addressed to James Victor Murphy.
The envelope didn’t just have the street name and house number—it specified the exact location of his room within the apartment.
That alone had left Kaybeth with many questions about the real extent of the school and the Ministry’s ability to monitor the population. If the letter had been addressed to Kayneth Archibald, Lord El-Melloi instead… the situation could have turned out very differently.
But that hadn't happened.
Perhaps, after a year and a half, the merging of two souls had reached the point where the difference between the original wizard and the intruder had blurred beyond recognition. In that case the school’s potential barriers against possession shouldn’t pose a problem either.
When McGonagall arrived, he had surprised her by openly explaining how he had run away from the orphanage, met Nymphadora, and discovered the wizarding world six months before his eleventh birthday. Then, in his room, he had shown her the wand he had purchased from Diagon Alley and the first-year textbooks neatly stacked on his desk—demonstrating both a clear eagerness to study magic and a complete lack of need for any introductory explanations.
He had considered different approaches to this meeting—one possibility was taking the scholarship exam that Tonks had mentioned to him before. Not because he needed the money, but because it would allow him to immediately establish his level of competence.
But he had ultimately abandoned that idea.
Demonstrating his talent and impressing the staff would have been easy, but he had no desire to start rumors about himself as some poor boy who couldn’t even afford textbooks and had to beg for them from the school.
In the end, he had simply assured Professor McGonagall that he was fully prepared and would board the train to Hogwarts at precisely eleven o’clock on September 1st. The ticket had already been included in his acceptance letter.
And now, that day had come.
Thinking back to the Deputy Headmistress and her sharp, calculating gaze, Kayneth grimaced. Yet another problem to deal with.
Up until now, he had only needed to maintain his act as an orphaned Muggle-born in front of shopkeepers and business owners in Diagon Alley—people whose interactions with him were limited to basic pleasantries and transactions.
Or before children.
Even Nymphadora, who was technically an adult, was still young, less than half his original age.
But even she had begun to grow suspicious.
Granger had already questioned him—had even tried to test him. Tonks, too, had attempted to pry into his past with vague, awkward inquiries. She hadn’t been very skilled at it, but that was just a matter of inexperience.
But at Hogwarts, there would be hundreds of students, all of varying ages and backgrounds.
And, more importantly, there would be teachers.
Some of whom had been working there for decades and had seen every kind of orphaned, Muggle-born, and troubled child the wizarding world had to offer.
His interactions with Fletcher and MacDuggal had already proven that just looking like a child wasn’t enough to fool everyone. Which meant he would need to be far more careful about maintaining a coherent, believable persona.
At the same time, he needed to stand out just enough to justify being at Hogwarts in the first place. If he blended too well into the crowd, this whole endeavor would be pointless. And he had to do this without contradicting anything he had already said or done in the magical community.
To make matters worse, the expectations for a "good" Muggle-born student were entirely different depending on who was judging him.
Old wizarding families expected one thing.
First-generation wizards expected another.
Professors had their own standards.
And it was impossible to satisfy all of them. He was a scholar, not a stage actor.
Realizing that he had spent thirty minutes brooding over this, Kayneth sighed, got up, and began dressing at a deliberate pace.
For his public persona, he had decided to model his behavior partially after Granger and Lovegood. From Granger, he would take an insatiable curiosity about magic. From Lovegood, he would take an interest in the old, possibly even ancient traditions of the wizarding world.
A child who had spent the past year reading through the history of magic to the point of memorization wouldn’t seem too odd if he adopted a slightly older style of conduct—one that included private tutelage, frequent dueling, and a highly formal manner of addressing others.
Besides, it was natural for first-year students to have their own ideas about what they wanted to study, what they hoped to achieve, or how they wanted to present themselves, or even change. Even if those ideas were naive.
Well—except for people like Potter.
Kayneth still couldn’t comprehend how the boy had spent over a year in the wizarding world without even attempting to look into his own family history—a history that was sitting right there, ready to be read, just waiting for him to reach out.
And nobody had even bothered to tell him.
Then again, Kayneth had no intention of playing that kind of character himself, choosing a different persona entirely.
In the worst case, kids grow up fast, and their interests change just as quickly—if the cover didn’t work, he could always come up with a new one, using a different approach.
This time, his status among the other students wouldn’t be determined by his family name but solely by his own merits. But it was a challenge he was prepared to take on.
Glancing at his reflection in the mirror, Kayneth gave himself a nod, solidifying his thoughts, and stepped out of the room.
"Please present any storage containers or other items with space-expanding enchantments for inspection," a young auror-in-training at the station entrance requested politely.
"Of course, sir," Kayneth responded smoothly. He switched his suitcase (the one he hastily purchased a year ago, though it had undergone significant modifications) from "Muggle" mode to "Wizard" mode and opened it compliantly.
"Gomenum Revelio," the Auror muttered, flicking his wand. Then, casting Lumos, he peered inside, examining the neatly stacked textbooks and alchemical supplies. As expected, Sirius Black was nowhere to be found. "No issues, you may proceed to the train. And who is this with you?"
"My friend, Llewellyn—he's a Squib," Kayneth introduced. Then he added, "My mother couldn’t make it to the station because of work, so he agreed to see me off."
"A commendable gesture," the Auror acknowledged, giving Llewellyn a quick once-over with a couple of wand movements before gesturing toward the platform.
"Bloody hell, I feel naked without a weapon," Llewellyn muttered once they were far enough from the checkpoint.
"I never promised you an easy life," Kayneth replied in the same quiet tone. "And you've clearly gotten too comfortable strolling around London with that arquebus hidden under your coat." He deliberately kept his voice low—this kind of conversation could sound very strange to outsiders. "It’s easy to get complacent in the wizarding world."
"I get it," Llewellyn admitted, sweeping his gaze over the bustling station. "But if something goes wrong here, I won’t even be able to cover you."
"I appreciate your concern, apprentice," Kayneth said with a slight smirk. "But the last time something big happened here was fifteen years ago. Right now, even one fugitive wizard is a huge event. If Black does decide to attack this place to get to that boy, keep in mind—he's spent over a decade in prison. It’s unlikely he had any opportunities to regularly practice magic. And besides, he’s alone. There are hundreds of people here, each carrying a wand."
"Yeah… I suppose that’s reassuring," Llewellyn agreed, though he still seemed uneasy. He was probably still struggling to wrap his head around the sheer scale of the magical world. Diagon Alley didn’t quite compare—here, there were already well over a thousand wizards gathered, and by the time the train departed, there would be even more. "Still, be careful in there, boss."
"I have a radiotelephone with me, just in case. It won’t work inside the school, but if something happens on the way and I need backup, I’ll call you."
"Got it. I’ll be there as soon as I can."
"Not that I expect it to be necessary. Anyway, you already have the training schedule and theory study plan—that should last you until winter. I left you the bracelet for identifying Squibs, and you’ve seen the ritual. While I’m gone, your job is to find potential candidates for training. You won’t need personal magical energy for that—borrowed magic will do. Instructions for the potions and supplies are all there."
"It’ll be fine," Llewellyn assured him. Kayneth suspected his apprentice was secretly afraid he’d change his mind about school at the last moment, delay his departure, or—worse—cancel the whole thing entirely. After all, that would mean that certain someone would lose the chance to slack off from those grueling training sessions for a couple of weeks… or even more, before things returned to their usual intensity. "Boss, I’ll handle everything."
"I expect nothing less. I hope you understand I’ll be checking when I get back," Kayneth reminded him as they neared the train.
"Good luck, boss. I’ll be waiting for your return."
Before boarding, Kayneth took one last glance around the station and noticed a large group approaching the platform—a whole squad of Weasleys, burdened with suitcases and bags, and alongside them, Potter (still alive, so perhaps the Black threat had been exaggerated) and Granger.
He considered walking over to say hello, but there were too many of them. It would take too long to get through all the greetings. That could wait until later. Giving a brief nod to his teacher, he turned and stepped onto the train.
The carriages were compartment-style, and most seats were already taken. Walking down the corridor, he passed several doors before spotting familiar faces.
"Oh, hey, Jim! Come join us—there’s still a seat," Charles McAvoy (Changed from McEvoy) called out with a broad grin, motioning for him to take the open spot.
The second occupant was a tall, fair-haired boy whom Kayneth recognized from the June meeting at Morris’s—the one who had been discussing the legal complexities of magical creatures.
Pointing at him with a rolled-up parchment scroll, Charles introduced him. "I don’t think I introduced you two last time we met. This is Keenan Rivers, my friend."
"James Murphy, Muggle-born," Kayneth introduced himself.
"Yeah, I know. I’m from a pureblood family, but we’re a young house, and we don’t really care about all that nonsense."
"Good to hear," Kayneth replied neutrally, setting his suitcase overhead before pulling out a couple of books.
The conversation naturally drifted into casual chatter. Everyone shared a bit about themselves, and in the process, Kayneth learned that Keenan’s father was a wizarding lawyer—which explained his knowledge of legal matters concerning magical beings and creatures.
Five minutes before departure, the door to their compartment slid open, and a black boy, around eleven years old and clearly new to this entire experience, peered inside.
Looking around and counting the occupants, he asked, "Got any spare seats? Everywhere else is packed. There’s only one compartment left with room, but there’s some weird blonde girl in there talking mad nonsense about a vampire-reptilian conspiracy, so I figured I’d try my luck here instead."
"Miss Lovegood has a rather unique perspective on the world, but not everyone is ready to share her point of view right away," Kayneth said with a smirk. He then glanced at the others and gestured for the newcomer to enter. "Come in, make yourself comfortable. I'm James, this is Charlie, and by the window—that’s Keenan."
"Nice to meet you. I’m Dale, Dale Nort."
"Muggle-born?" Kayneth asked, though it was more of a rhetorical question. Jeans and a windbreaker instead of robes, a couple of ordinary-looking sports bags slung over his shoulder, and a cassette player clipped to his belt—there weren’t many other possibilities.
"Well, yeah. Why?" Dale asked, looking puzzled.
"Only a Muggle-born would think to bring some kind of electronic gadget to Hogwarts," McAvoy pointed out. "They don’t work there. At all."
"We'll see about that," Dale said, tossing his bags onto the luggage rack. "I’ve heard those rumors too, which is why I brought an old Walkman instead of a CD player. If it doesn’t work, we’ll make it work—even if I have to chant over it all night at a graveyard during a full moon. There’s no way I’m surviving until Christmas without music. Or do wizards have something that plays music on its own?"
"There are gramophones," Keenan answered, since everyone had instinctively turned to him as the most knowledgeable about wizarding culture. "Or you could enchant a flute to play by itself, I suppose."
"The Stone Age… But that’s fixable."
The train started moving, gradually picking up speed. Kayneth opened a third-year Potions textbook and left the two other wizards to handle the onslaught of questions from the talkative Muggle-born. He only interjected a couple of times—mainly when the conversation turned to the ban on underage magic and its limitations.
About an hour into the journey, Kayneth closed his book and stepped into the corridor, saying, "I'll be back soon. Don’t give my seat away if someone shows up."
"Going to find that bookworm?" McAvoy asked, pausing his explanation of Quidditch rules to Nort.
"Her personality may not be the most pleasant, but she’s already taught me Accio and Protego—and those are fourth- and fifth-year spells. I’d say it’s worth it."
"The sacrifices you make for the sake of education, Jim… So noble."
He found the familiar group one carriage down, near the back of the train. The children looked unexpectedly somber and downcast, but Kayneth chose to pretend he didn’t notice. Instead, he knocked politely before sliding open the compartment door.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle. Greetings, Potter, Weasley."
"Hey, James, just a sec," Hermione was the first to respond. She turned to the large ginger cat curled beside her and gave it a firm instruction before stepping into the corridor: "Stay. And don’t eat anyone while I’m gone."
They walked a few steps away from the compartment before she said, "I saw you at the station. And I get why you didn’t come over. But, you know, Ron got a serious scolding from his parents for what he did. So…"
"It doesn’t matter," Kayneth said simply. "It’s in the past—you’ve already settled that conflict."
"Really?" Hermione asked, visibly relieved. Then, somewhat awkwardly, she tried to explain, "I was just… you know, worried. He was just concerned about me and did something really stupid, but, well…"
"It doesn’t matter," he repeated. Her reaction and concern were oddly endearing in a way. Kids—what else could you expect? "More importantly, am I interrupting anything? You all looked rather troubled."
"It’s Harry again," she corrected him. "He’s the one with problems."
"Black?" Kayneth guessed.
"How do you know that?" she asked, surprised. "He just told us."
"Rumors are flying everywhere," he said with a shrug. Given how small the wizarding world was, and how many students had parents working at the Ministry—including in the Auror Office—it was obvious the entire school would know within a week. "They say the Aurors’ leading theory is that he’s hunting Potter."
"I’m worried about him. Every year it’s the same thing," Hermione muttered, clearly recalling something unpleasant. "Someone is always trying to kill or seriously injure him."
"Then maybe it’s time to get it through his head that studying magic doesn’t begin and end with flying on broomsticks?" Kayneth suggested, his words carefully phrased but blunt in meaning. He also noted that when Hermione had told him about her first year, she hadn’t mentioned anything like this. Maybe the real center of that accident involving the Defense professor hadn’t been her but her friend instead? "And that next time, you might not be there to fight a criminal in his place?"
"I don’t want to put even more pressure on him," she protested, shaking her head.
"So you’d rather let him die?" Kayneth asked matter-of-factly. "At least he’ll go happy and unburdened by unnecessary intellectual strain."
"You know…" she started, then exhaled and held up a hand in surrender. "Let’s table this conversation for now. I’m just glad to see you’re doing well, James."
"Likewise," he said, deciding that was enough politeness before getting to the real reason he had sought her out. "And on that note—did you get a chance to start translating that book over the summer? I think it could be useful for our studies, but I haven’t found anything like it in English."
"Oh, I already have a rough draft," Hermione brightened up at the shift to a more academic topic. "It still needs a lot of work, though—I did what I could, and even asked my mum for help, but there are too many old-fashioned words and specific terms unique to French wizards. And I don’t know anyone from their magical community to ask about it. We lived far from Paris, and if their system is anything like ours, then finding wizards in the provinces is tricky. I couldn’t even ask any of my mum’s relatives for help—none of them know I’m a witch. But I’m sure the Hogwarts library has the right dictionaries and reference books on magical terminology from other countries—I’m certain I’ve seen something like that there before."
"Judging by your enthusiasm, it was really worth it?" Kayneth asked, masking his surprise. "I wasn’t mistaken?"
"Without a doubt, it was worth it," Hermione confirmed immediately. "First, there's the wand-selection process, which no one has ever properly explained to us. Second, the concept of five elements—I’ve seen mentions of it in books and even illustrations of the pentagram, but again, no one has ever taught us the details. If we can align this theory with the spells we’re learning, it could simplify or even enhance them. And I’m sure there are more benefits I’ll find once I complete a clean version of the translation with all the terminology and explanations."
"I’d like to help with that," he said without hesitation. From what Kayneth had gleaned with his limited grasp of French, the book was decent but full of gaps. For instance, it completely ignored the question of non-mage Origins, and even its understanding of wizards' magical principles was significantly oversimplified. By working together, they might be able to fill in those gaps. "Of course, I don’t know French, but I can help look through dictionaries and reference books. You've already done most of the work, which means I would merely be repaying the favor."
"If I weren’t interested in the book, I wouldn’t have managed to finish a rough draft in just a month and a half," Hermione replied. Then, with mild indignation, she added, "And if you hadn’t sent it to me, I probably would have never come across it at all—nothing like it has ever been listed in our additional reading for three years! But if you want to help, I’ll gladly accept."
"Then we’ll sort out the details after the Sorting and once classes begin."
"Speaking of the Sorting. Do you have any guesses where you'll end up? The Hat might hesitate or even let you choose."
"I doubt we’ll be in the same House," he replied honestly. It wasn’t that Kayneth didn’t consider himself brave—after all, voluntarily participating in a battle among seven of his generation’s strongest magi and their Heroic Spirits was not something just anyone would do. But he didn’t think courage was his defining trait. Besides, how did that artifact even conduct a psychological assessment? "And I don’t really see the point of this division, considering we all have the same curriculum. Why should we have to compete against each other? It makes little sense to me."
"Just another tradition, like so many others. You just accept it and move on, I suppose. And besides, earning points is fun—especially when no one else can keep up with you."
"I suppose I’ll have to experience it myself to understand. Anyway, we’ve been talking for too long—you’ve hardly seen your friends all summer," he said, nodding towards Weasley and Potter, who were not so discreetly peeking at them through the compartment door. "So I won’t keep you any longer. See you around."
"We take different routes to the castle, so I guess I’ll see you at school, James."
With a nod, he turned and made his way back to his own compartment. The journey took longer than it should have—he had to constantly step aside for students darting back and forth in the narrow corridor. Still, he took it in stride, considering it a sort of preparation for the inevitable chaos at Hogwarts. Kids were kids, whether they were wizards or not.
By the time he returned, Dale had pulled out a deck of cards and, judging by the game in progress, had already taught the others how to play whist.
Seeing a fourth potential player, the Muggle-born immediately extended an offer. "Jim, join us. I am sure you already know the rules, and playing bridge with just three people doesn’t really work."
"Sorry, I actually don’t. In my orphanage, cards were strictly forbidden."
"They were banned at my school too. ‘Gambling leads straight to gang life,’ and all that," Dale scoffed. "But at Hogwarts, they allow them. Another major plus."
"They even teach divination with cards," Charles added. "My sister told me."
"Nah, divination’s not my thing. I don’t buy into horoscopes or Nostradamus’ predictions."
"And this is coming from a future wizard?" Keenan said dramatically, shaking his head in mock despair. "Magical Britain is truly doomed."
Declining the offer to play cards, Kayneth settled back into his seat with a book, simultaneously drafting a plan for the near future. Granger’s excessive enthusiasm had, in this case, worked to his advantage. To be frank, he had not expected such efficiency from her, yet now there was a chance of obtaining a more or less complete English-language reference book by October.
At that point, he could distribute copies or share select chapters with others for note-taking. That was a solid step forward. While working on the translation, they could also investigate what literature on elemental theory was actually available to Hogwarts students.
Hermione clearly had high hopes for it—too high, in fact. Standard wizarding spells, constrained by the properties of their mystic codes, wouldn’t be enhanced by elemental principles. But other forms of mystic codes? Those were already within his reach.
The train made a brief stop at a station near Birmingham, where additional carriages were attached to pick up students from Wales and northern England, those for whom it was more convenient than traveling to London. Then, it continued its journey toward Scotland.
By lunchtime, Charles and Dale had launched into a debate over whether the Express would pass through Manchester or bypass it via Preston, continuing north along the coast. Dale argued that routing a secret magical train through one of the country’s largest railway hubs didn’t exactly align with the supposed need to "hide from Muggles." Charles, on the other hand, countered that since they had already departed from a station practically in the heart of London, discreetly laying tracks around Manchester should be a trivial task.
Unfortunately, they never found out who was right. Rain had started falling outside—not just a drizzle, but a full-blown downpour with strong gusts of wind. Soon, visibility was reduced to just a few feet beyond the tracks, and by four in the afternoon, the train’s interior lamps were switched on to combat the sudden darkness.
At that moment, Dale was passionately trying to convince the two wizards that Nirvana was the best band of the decade and that the fact they hadn’t released their new album two weeks earlier was a monumental tragedy.
Then, suddenly, the train began to slow.
Glancing at the rain-streaked window in confusion, Dale asked, "Wait… Are we already there? By my count, we should have only just passed Carlisle."
"Sis said the train arrives at school around seven, but it's only five," Charles objected. "There's another stop in Glasgow, but we shouldn’t be anywhere near it yet."
"Maybe wizards still consider Scotland a separate country, and we're about to hit customs?"
"Nort, one more joke like that, and I’ll personally dig through the library to find a way to summon Wallace’s ghost and have him haunt your dorm," Keenan remarked, and not entirely in jest.
The train came to a stop. Outside, the rain suddenly ceased, replaced by a thick, swirling fog. Then, all at once, the lights went out—throughout the entire train, judging by the immediate darkness and the panicked voices erupting from the neighboring compartments.
"Damn, did we lose power?"
"There never was any. The lights are magical."
"So... uh, did we just lose magic?"
"I doubt it... Lumos," Charles said, raising his wand. A glow flickered to life but was weak, unsteady, barely a quarter of its usual brightness. And it was unlikely that simple inexperience was the cause.
"Stay away from the windows. There’s something out there," Kayneth ordered. He had already felt the crushing presence outside for a while. Unseen by the others, he discreetly placed a weak barrier over the glass—enough to stop or at least delay a phantom or spirit. When Charles cast his dim light, Kayneth stood up and set his suitcase beside him. Just in case.
"What could possibly be out there?" Keenan asked, but still pointed his wand toward the window. "Cu Sith? The Sluagh?"
"…Dementors," Charles whispered hoarsely, pressing himself into the farthest corner of the compartment, eyes wide as the door suddenly slid open. The light on his wand flickered, on the verge of going out completely.
"Bloody hell, what is that?!"
Kayneth said nothing, his gaze fixed on the hooded, tattered figure hovering just beyond the threshold. He was too preoccupied holding up his mental defenses, but they were barely working. This creature’s influence operated on an entirely different level.
"Kayneth, all your magic circuits have been completely destroyed. You will never be able to use magic again."
"And if you refuse me, despite everything… Then I will have no choice but to cut off your right hand. How does that sound?"
Sola’s voice echoed in his mind—gentle, almost affectionate, despite the cruelty of her words. Pain flared in the fingers of his right hand, the ones that had once been broken. It was just a mental attack, just an emotional manipulation… Yet, he couldn't push away the flood of memories, each more unbearable than the last.
"My Lord, I offer my sincerest apologies, but I must inform you… During the battle, your fiancee was taken."
"If you don’t want your beloved to die, turn around slowly."
Somewhere beside him, Dale was muttering what sounded like a prayer, stumbling over the words. Keenan was silently crying, while Charles barely seemed to be breathing. From the other compartments, screams, curses, and sobs filled the air. The aura of these creatures smothered everyone, but those closest to them suffered the worst.
"Cowards, so willing to defile chivalric honor for their own gain… Then let my blood drown your dreams!"
“I can no longer kill you… but…”
How much time had passed? Hours? Seconds? Kayneth felt that if this continued much longer, his sanity might not hold. He wasn’t even sure anymore if this was real or just another nightmare. There was only one way to find out.
With trembling hands, he opened the "ordinary" section of his suitcase, hesitated for a moment, then swiftly pulled on a pair of gloves and retrieved a dagger hilt—one without a blade. Rising to his feet, he positioned himself directly in front of the hovering Dementor and said quietly:
"Stay inside. I’ll be right back."
Gripping the Dementor’s tattered cloak with his left hand, he shoved the creature back with all his strength. The oppressive aura, which drained the warmth, light, and even hope from the air, wavered slightly as if the creature was momentarily confused by such direct contact. Stepping into the corridor after it, Kayneth slammed the compartment door shut behind him and used a simple spell to condense the moisture in the air against the window, obscuring the view from inside. The droplets instantly froze from the Dementor’s chilling presence.
Without giving the creature a chance to recover, he raised his right hand.
"Clavem."
A long, nearly three-foot blade of pure magical energy extended from the hilt. Of course, it wasn’t a true Black Key, one of the Holy Church’s sacraments, designed to annihilate the undead entirely. It was merely an imitation, lacking the sacred enchantments that made real ones devastating against the resurrected and summoned spirits. However, the semi-material nature of the blade was still well-suited for harming ghosts and beings that existed beyond the normal laws of reality. It could even pierce through concrete or steel simply due to the fundamental nature of its mystery.
Kayneth had never trained with this weapon. He couldn’t slice an entire ghoul into seventeen pieces in under a second, the way a true Executor could.
So instead, he drove the blade straight through the Dementor’s head, almost to the hilt, the tip stabbing through the back of its hood and puncturing the train’s wall behind it. Then, he jumped back and pulled his wand from his sleeve.
"Lumos."
The light flared, but just like Charles’ earlier attempt, it was feeble, flickering—dimmed by the sheer presence of the Dementor. And worse, just beyond the open compartment across the corridor, he spotted another one of the creatures. More silhouettes loomed outside the train, their forms barely visible through the thick fog.
There had to be more of them in the other carriages.
For now, the priority was dealing with the one that was trying to pull out the dagger with one hand while reaching for the boy who had struck it with the other. It didn’t seem as though the creature had sustained any serious injuries or felt any pain from the blade that had pierced straight through its head, pinning it to the wall of the carriage.
Kayneth activated his circuits, stretched out his free hand, and began chanting a spell in Latin. Eight lines, one of the standard mysteries of spiritualism—Restraint of Action. As he spoke, a gray circle appeared on the floor beneath the hovering Dementor, then stretched upward into a nearly transparent column. The column contracted, tightened, wrapping the creature in a shimmering gray cocoon of a closed barrier as the magus uttered the final incantation:
"Restrictus Actum."
The mystery temporarily severed the spirit—since Dementors, by all known criteria, fell squarely into that category—from the surrounding world, restricting all of its actions. The stronger the entity and the longer the spell’s duration, the greater the energy expenditure. For now, Kayneth had "removed" the creature from reality for about five minutes.
As the oppressive aura of the nearest Dementor vanished, he let out a slow breath, as if he had been inhaling a mixture of old dust and crushed ice until now. The pressure on his mind eased but didn’t disappear completely—the memories dimmed, and the voices in his head receded to a whisper.
With ease, he wrenched free the dagger the creature had managed to pull halfway out and turned to face the next one. Now, no longer reliving the sensation of bullets shattering his bones or his nerves burning under the surge of uncontrollable magic, he could think more clearly. And so, a question formed in his mind—where had they even come from?
In Britain, there was only one place where Dementors resided: Azkaban, the Ministry of Magic’s prison. Outside of the territories specifically designated for them, these creatures only appeared naturally in places of extreme violence—battlefields strewn with unburied corpses, sites of mass executions, prolonged wars filled with torture and slaughter. In that sense, they resembled lesser undead, spontaneously manifesting from the echoes of death. But Britain wasn’t Afghanistan or Sudan—there hadn’t been bloodshed on that scale for nearly fifty years, despite the best efforts of the IRA.
There was no way for "wild" Dementors to appear here.
Which meant they had been sent.
Had Fudge decided to cull his country’s wizarding population a little? Or was he looking to spice up his life with some fresh enemies and unforeseen disasters? Perhaps Dumbledore or the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had planned an exceptionally bold first lesson? If it was the latter, Kayneth might have actually respected the man’s sheer confidence in his own invulnerability, but—
"Exaphanistei!"
A sharp, desperate cry rang out.
A wave of white light blasted the second Dementor away from an open compartment door, slamming it into the opposite wall hard enough to dent the metal. A nearby window cracked under the impact. But the creature didn’t vanish.
Kayneth tilted his head in surprise. He recognized that spell.
An exorcism mystery dating back to the Inquisition, when even the Church had resorted to magic to hunt down rogue magi, mutants of their own creation, and the various unholy creatures that had flourished amid decades of war and plague.
Too bad the power behind it wasn’t enough.
From the few uncensored records Kayneth had managed to find on that era, in the hands of a professional Executor, this mystery could erase a Dementor from existence or render it harmless for years. Not to mention its devastating effect on lesser revenants and banshees.
And yet, despite all his research, he had never found a full description of the spell—let alone a guide to learning it.
Only a handful of people on this train could possibly know it.
And he had a pretty good idea of who it was.
Kayneth quickly gauged the distance to the still-hovering creature—fifteen feet. The corridor was nearly pitch black, save for the weak glimmers from a few open compartments. His imitation of a Black Key, given his current stature, looked less like a dagger and more like a full-sized sword—possibly even a two-hander.
An Executor would have handled this with a simple throw.
But Kayneth had to be more creative.
Tossing his weapon into the air, he used a sharp gust of wind to propel the blade toward the Dementor. The shimmering edge speared straight through its head, doing no real damage but forcing it to flinch, scanning for threats.
That moment’s hesitation was enough.
Without urgency, Kayneth finished the incantation that conjured a barrier—a spectral gray chain that coiled around the Dementor’s arms and torso, locking it in place.
Then, he simply utilized the one mystical code he had at hand.
"Finita."
A brief red flash struck the blade’s surface. The solid handle clattered to the floor.
"Stupefy Duo."
The twin stunning spells hurled the Dementor down the corridor, slamming it against the door to the next carriage. The binding chains prevented it from rising again.
Kayneth strode toward the open compartment where it had loomed moments before and peered inside.
Three children sat inside, shivering, on the verge of fainting. Someone had managed to cast a weak Lumos and attach it to the ceiling, casting a flickering, uncertain glow over their faces.
All unfamiliar.
It took him a few seconds to recognize the deathly pale girl clutching her wand with both hands, gripping it so tightly that her nails had pierced her palms, drawing blood. She had conjured some kind of protective shield—a soft violet shimmer barely visible in the dim light.
Luna Lovegood.
"Mama, mama, mama…"
Her quiet whisper was the only sound in the silence.
Kayneth didn’t get a chance to say anything.
A sudden chill prickled down his spine. The voices in his mind grew louder. The images of war, of loss, of failure—every regret and nightmare surged back with a vengeance.
He turned.
Another Dementor was gliding into the carriage from the far side.
But before it could reach him, a compartment door burst open.
A senior student—probably fifth or sixth year—stumbled out, swearing viciously under his breath. Without even noticing Kayneth standing there, he barked in a single breath:
"To hell with it all! Expel me if you want! Expecto Patronum!"
A burst of silver light shot forward, blasting the Dementor out of the train and shattering the window behind it.
The older student tracked its trajectory, then cursed again and shouted:
"Chris! Flavian! You two were nearby, right?!"
"Here!" a voice called from another compartment.
"Yeah, what’s up?!" another answered, hoarse and strained.
"This is a bloody disaster! There are dozens of them outside! If they all decide to come in, we’re dead meat! So get your asses in gear, grab anyone still conscious, wands at the ready, and get out here! We hold the line as long as we can!"
"Confringo!" came a shout from the next carriage.
"Expulso!" another voice called from the opposite side, accompanied by a bright blue flash.
"Expecto Patronum!"
"So I’m not the only fool here," muttered the same older student under his breath. "Just as long as no one panics and sets off Fiendfyre…"
Only then did he notice the unfamiliar younger student standing there.
"Oi, kid, what the hell are you doing out here?"
"Trying not to lose my mind," Kayneth answered honestly, retrieving the hilt of his dagger and shutting the compartment door where Lovegood remained. If a battle broke out, she’d at least be a little safer in there.
"Admirable, but you’re a bit too young for this game. Give it another couple of years. Just stay in your compartment, lock the door, and throw up every shield spell you know. The lads will hold them off for now."
"Listen to this tough guy. Hope you get a Boggart for a permanent roommate in the loo" a female voice called from the compartment the older student had stumbled out of earlier.
"Eva—you’re ‘one of the lads,’ so you were included in the count," the boy retorted. "What do you take me for?"
"There are two more of them," Kayneth interjected, striding back toward his own compartment. Raising his wand, he flicked it toward the ceiling. "Lumos Maxima."
A pale, flickering sphere of light hung from the carriage roof, illuminating the corridor enough for him to point toward the Dementors.
"One here, and another at the far end."
"Bloody hell, was that you who took them down, kid?"
"Stunned the one in the back, but someone else got the first one before I got here. Not sure what spell they used."
"Yeah, I’ve never seen something hold a Dementor like that before. Petrificus doesn’t work that way, and Immobulus doesn’t last this long. But whatever, we’ll chuck them out the window. One less to deal with—cheers for that."
"Anytime."
Kayneth swung open the door to his compartment just in time to sidestep a Diffindo from Keenan, which instead struck the still-immobilized Dementor. Only then did he step inside, completely unfazed.
"The older students are dealing with it now," he said. "If you haven’t heard from in here, we just need to hold our ground." He raised his wand toward the door. "Protego."
The shield was mostly for show—completely useless against Dementors and their aura. However, as he stood near the entrance, he silently established a personal barrier against dark spirits. If any of them managed to get inside, it would at least slow them down long enough for him to react.
Dale and Charles, looking somewhat steadier now that the crushing aura of the nearest Dementor had disappeared, raised their wands and pointed them at the door.
But they never had to use them.
Instead of an all-out assault, the train began moving again a few minutes later, picking up speed and leaving the dark creatures behind in the fog at the Scottish border. Either the Dementors had accomplished whatever they came for, or they’d encountered more resistance than expected and decided not to push their luck.
The second theory seemed far less likely.
Not much was known about how Dementors thought—or if they even had thoughts beyond consuming emotions and souls. A glaring oversight from the spiritualists of this world, or at least from the British magical community.
Half an hour later, the shouts of triumph and the lingering panic had died down. The students raided the train’s snack trolley and personal stashes for all the magical and Muggle chocolate they could find—recommended by the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor as the best remedy for underage students after encountering Dementors. Things were slowly returning to normal.
Well, apart from the fact that everyone was speaking far too loudly and cheerfully, the corridors were lit up with more illumination spells than a Christmas festival, and nearly every compartment had at least one or two magical flames burning for warmth.
All of it, however, was just a way of masking the fear still lingering underneath.
When the general noise began to subside, Kayneth shut his eyes and said to his companions:
"Wake me when we get there. I’m feeling a bit tired."
"No problem, Jim," Dale responded. "If I’d gone up against something like that on my own, I wouldn’t just be ‘a bit tired’—I’d be sleeping with my eyes open for the next month. Honestly, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to sleep at all tonight."
Kayneth merely smirked to himself.
There was something strangely endearing about a child’s naivety.
He wondered what kind of traumatic experience an eleven-year-old boy—who clearly wasn’t from the slums or some war-torn wasteland—could have relived in those few minutes that scared him so much. A broken leg from falling out of a tree? School bullies? The death of a pet cat? A teacher scolding him in front of the whole class?
By contrast, Kayneth knew for certain that after reliving, in agonizing clarity, every single "wonderful" memory he had spent over a year carefully suppressing in the depths of his mind, there was no chance he’d be able to sleep again without potions, meditation, or entering a trance.
Even drinking himself into a stupor wasn’t an option.
If he let his guard down even for a second, he knew exactly how that would end.
Because if he let his control slip even for a second, he would undoubtedly kill himself.
Even half-asleep, Kayneth felt the train passing through multiple magical barriers—one after another.
They were almost there.
So when Charles nudged him awake, he simply opened his eyes, nodded, and reached for his suitcase.
"They announced we’re supposed to leave our luggage here. It’ll be taken to the castle for us," MacAvoy informed him.
"I heard," Kayneth replied, pulling his case toward him. "But I need to grab my robe."
"I could really use a raincoat," Keenan muttered as they walked toward the carriage exit. "It’s coming down hard outside."
"What about magic?" Kayneth asked, surprised.
He had gotten used to the idea that these people relied on spells for everything—even for lighting a room or swatting a fly.
Especially from a pureblood.
"I don’t know a spell for that yet," Keenan admitted.
"It’s not too difficult—you just have to figure out the shield’s positioning and angle," Kayneth replied as they stepped onto the platform. He reached into his sleeve for his wand, then raised it above his head, twirling it slightly in his palm to gather external mana. Aiming at the collar of his robe, he murmured, "Impervius."
An Auror trainee had taught him this one last year.
"Waterproofing, fire resistance, wind protection—a useful charm. You should learn it."
"Hey, Jim, mind doing the same for us?" Nort whistled, patting himself on the neck expectantly.
"No problem."
"First-years!" The voice of the half-giant boomed over the gathered crowd on the platform. Kayneth recognized him—he had seen the man with Potter a year ago in Diagon Alley. Granger had mentioned that he was the one who escorted new students to the castle.
Meanwhile, the older students made their way elsewhere, heading toward the barely visible, rain-soaked road beyond the veil of falling water.
"Let’s go!" Dale answered on behalf of the four stragglers, and they hurried toward the dock. Their mood had lifted considerably—rain now fell around them rather than on their heads or down their collars.
However, as they walked, rain was the least of Kayneth’s concerns. What occupied his mind far more were the barriers surrounding the castle, extending well beyond its ancient walls, even reaching as far as the train station. Some of these he could clearly see, others he could sense nearby, and some lay at the very edge of magical perception—ones a less experienced person might not even notice.
It was likely that he hadn’t detected all of them, but he was confident he had identified most. Concealment barriers, alarm spells, protective wards, scanning fields, and containment measures designed to keep threats both in and out—the entire area surrounding the castle was steeped in magic. Some structures were clearly ancient, while others had been put in place only days or weeks ago.
Kayneth would have loved to attempt infiltrating the grounds from the very edge of the barrier field, just to assess this multilayered security system firsthand. But that opportunity wouldn’t come for at least a couple of years.
At the dock, the four of them were among the last to board one of the few remaining empty boats. Once all twenty-four vessels were filled, the half-giant gave the signal, and the boats—lacking both sails and oars—began to move forward under the influence of magic, heading toward the castle perched atop the cliffs.
Kayneth was certain that this entire spectacle served no real purpose beyond impressing the children, especially the Muggle-borns, and showcasing the grandeur of the magical world. For instance, despite the relentless rain, the lake’s surface remained perfectly smooth, reflecting the school’s glowing lights. Judging by the awed exclamations from various boats, the display was having its intended effect.
Last summer, Granger had already described the entire first-year arrival ritual to him in detail. So, upon reaching the dock, the magus simply followed at the back of the group, mimicking expressions of surprise and admiration at the appropriate moments.
First, the half-giant led them to the gates and handed them over to Professor McGonagall. Then came the walk through the castle corridors, followed by the waiting room, where ghosts soon made an appearance. However, after their recent encounter with Dementors, these harmless spirits hardly impressed anyone, even the Muggle-born students.
Perhaps realizing this—or having been informed of the incident—the deputy headmistress returned swiftly, arranged the first-years into a single line, and led them into the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony.
Not that Kayneth saw much purpose in this division—this whole "spirit of competition" seemed hardly worth the fuss. But if that was the way things were done, he would simply have to accept the rules.
When just under a hundred first-years had assembled before the four long house tables, Professor McGonagall unrolled a long scroll and began reading out names:
"Abingdon, Martin."
The entire process took a long time, especially given how arbitrary the division seemed. Some students were placed instantly, while others had to wait several minutes as the artifact deliberated.
Finally, McGonagall reached the middle of the list.
"McAvoy, Charles."
"Ravenclaw!"
"Murphy, James."
When his turn came, Kayneth stepped forward, sat down, and waited as the ancient hat was lowered onto his head. Immediately, the world around him faded into darkness.
"Interesting, quite interesting…" a foreign thought echoed in his mind, clear and precise, as if his mental barriers weren’t even there. "No need to worry—I can read nearly any soul, but I cannot share what I see with anyone else. That’s how I was made. How curious… It’s been quite a while since I’ve encountered someone like you. I was beginning to wonder…"
"Someone like me? In what way?"
"A peculiar student. Every ten years or so, one or two appear, but lately, it seems there’s been a drought. My, what genuine surprise… Really, there’s hardly anything in this world larger than a single person’s ego. Every student who has sat on this stool, at some level, deep inside, believed themselves to be extraordinarily unique, as if the world revolved around them. You are no exception."
"There are others like me?"
"Reincarnation, time travel, curses spoken backward with doubled vowels leading to unpredictable effects, magical oaths and contracts with non-human entities, souls lost in time or between worlds… The magical world is vast, and no one knows all its secrets. Believe me, your story is far from the most unique I’ve encountered."
"If that’s the case… perhaps you’ve met someone I know? My students, my teachers… maybe even my enemies?"
"Oh, such a thirst for vengeance. With those feelings, you belong in Slytherin. Student, hero, killer… You would spill blood in these corridors if it meant reaching any of them. Tell me, if I were to point to a random child and say, ‘That one is among those you seek,’ what would you do?
Fortunately, I cannot share others’ secrets, even if I wanted to. If you still wish to know—search for them yourself. But, if I set aside your desire for revenge, your thirst for knowledge outweighs it, so…"
"Ravenclaw!"
2025-02-28 21:12:49 +0000 UTC
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"You want some coffee?" Pedro Ruas pushed a steaming porcelain cup toward his guest. "Real stuff. Ground beans, no sugar."
He already knew she’d refuse, but he offered anyway. Partly out of politeness, partly just to mess with her. He looked at the woman with a mix of disdain and condescension, though he chastised himself for it. He was supposed to stay cold on the inside and friendly on the outside. That was professionalism.
"No. I’ll smoke. You mind?"
"Suit yourself," the Brazilian netrunner nodded.
Her name was Kiwi. A real name or just a handle? Though, for a Yankee, did it even matter? Half their country was illiterate, and Night City’s rate was probably even worse. Soon enough, Pedro would be heading there himself to cut off the supply lines and money laundering networks of Wagner Nascimento’s crime syndicate—a gang that had grown into a full-blown political force, spreading its rot through the sensitive organs of the state. And the blame lay with the NUSA, too weak to clean up their own backyard. The filth pile that was Night City had become prime fertilizer for international crime.
"I read your report, Kiwi. Interesting stuff. You’ve got the right experience, and we’re willing to work with you. But the price…" Pedro shook his head. "We got less funding than I expected. Two-fifty isn’t an option. One-fifty."
"We had a deal," she replied, her voice devoid of much hope.
"Provisional," Pedro corrected. "I warned you."
He knew she’d accept. As far as he was concerned, he was sitting across from a dead woman. Kiwi could still walk, talk, puff on whatever garbage she smoked, but her hourglass was running out fast. He’d read her file—her body was a wreck. Genetic diseases, chemical exposure, drugs, cheap cyberware since childhood. A combo even modern medicine couldn't patch up.
"Fine. One-fifty it is. Let's move forward," she said.
"Good. I’ll run it by my superiors. But for now, let’s talk about the paid data centers we could use," he replied, taking a sip of coffee.
They talked business for half an hour, then went their separate ways.
Not long after, Silva, the handler for this op, called him.
"Got her down to one-fifty," Pedro boasted.
"Doesn’t matter. We’re getting rid of her anyway," Silva replied. "This is a Level Seven op. If anything leaks, heads will roll."
"Eliminate her? You sure? She might still be useful if we—"
"Leave it to me, Pedro. No risks on this one."
Pedro Ruas stared at the reflection of city lights on the sea. Nighttime Rio de Janeiro smelled of salt and the heavy stink of the favelas. He felt a twinge of guilt. Sure, this woman was gutter trash, her life worth nothing, but cutting down an ally always left a bad taste. Even one like Kiwi.
His conscience needed some professional help—and a lot of alcohol. Lucky for him, both were easy to find.
I surfaced from the stolen memory. The last shreds of Pedro’s consciousness were burning out, his mind crumbling in its final moments. Forty-six years of life, reduced to a few fleeting minutes.
I sifted through his last thoughts, making sure Kiwi hadn’t sold out Lucy to her new employers. Turned out she hadn’t. Not out of loyalty—more like basic self-preservation. Fine by me. A reason not to kill her on the spot.
Pedro’s memories also explained why the Brazilians hadn’t wanted to flatline me right away. They were under strict orders to avoid major conflicts with Arasaka. Politics. When I hit their radar and they dug into my history, they saw a problem. The plan? Kidnap me, keep me on ice for a few weeks, then dump me back into the wild with some fake evidence linking my disappearance to a cartel.
Didn’t work out.
After that, they’d wanted to handle things peacefully—cut off my pay from the Animals, maybe set up a meeting between their higher-ups and mine.
Too slow.
If, instead of a tranq dart, they’d handed me a business card, maybe I would’ve called.
But now? Too late.
I drained the last scraps of Pedro’s mind and returned to my body. His corpse lay at my feet, blood pooling from his ears, nose, and mouth. His pale-gray optical implants stared blankly into nothing.
Time to collect my trophies and clean up.
First stop, his stash. In the room where I had drained him, I pried off an insulated panel. This one came off easier than the last. Behind it was a small, booby-trapped safe. I punched in the code pulled from his memory—18641870, the years of the Paraguayan War, a major chapter in Brazilian history.
Inside: credit chips, quick-hacks, combat programs, and neuroviruses.
Exactly what I expected. The sports betting scheme was just one part of a broader op to weaken Wagner’s cartel and its allies. If I played this right, I could flip it into eddies for my own accounts.
I drew my monoblade and crouched over Pedro’s body. Careful not to damage the fragile blade, I started cutting—vertebrae, artificial arteries, extra cooling loops.
"Diplomatic scandal. Heads will roll," I muttered, remembering Silva’s words.
In about a minute, I had Pedro’s head cleanly severed. Couldn’t grab it by the hair—he was bald as a bowling ball. Instead, I gripped his ear with my cyberlimb. Sturdy enough. The reinforced realskin held.
Head in hand, I stepped into the hallway. Spanish voices echoed from nearby rooms—Jackie and his camaradas were ransacking the place. Rebecca was busy clearing out the armory, looking like she planned to keep every last bullet.
I walked into a larger room where Kiwi was smoking by the wall. She glanced at my prize but said nothing.
Crossing the room, I approached a big microwave the agents had been using to heat up pizza. Now, it’d be heating up something else.
Time to properly cook Pedro’s brain. Just in case some ripperdoc decided to dig around inside his head. Wouldn’t want them finding signs of a deep dive.
"Defrost, grill, steam treatment…" I muttered, flipping through the settings. "What to choose? Let’s start with medium power."
I turned the knob. The microwave hummed to life, and Pedro’s head began its slow spin inside.
"They were gonna ice you," I said, glancing at Kiwi.
"I know," she replied, exhaling smoke. "I was hoping to bail before they got around to it."
"Optimistic," I nodded.
Sparks crackled behind me.
Pedro’s skull had cyberware inside. This was gonna be a hell of a show.
"You should drop the optimism. Try caution instead," I suggested. "Better to die quietly somewhere on your own than optimistically end up in my way."
I smirked, watching a thin wisp of steam rise from Pedro’s ear.
"You know," I mused, "Night City’s got industrial microwaves. Big enough to fit a whole netrunner inside."
"Nah, I'm good. Had enough of that shit after what happened with Faraday," Kiwi replied. "I wasn’t planning on working with you anyway."
Well, let's hope so.
"I'm not the type to lecture people or preach about humanity…" My words were punctuated by the crackling and popping of the roasting head in the microwave. "But from where I’m standing, you fucked up—traded trust and a solid ally for a handout from Faraday, who would’ve zeroed you the second he was done."
"I told her never to trust anyone in Night City," Kiwi said, completely indifferent. "Didn’t lie about that. And with Faraday… I didn’t exactly have a choice."
"Yeah, well, sucks to be you. Take care," I smirked. "Drink some decent coffee."
I cranked up the microwave’s power and stepped out. At the stairs leading down, Jackie was waiting for me, looking way too pleased with how everything turned out.
"Mano, I almost feel guilty taking the money," he admitted. "Barely had to pull the trigger."
"‘Almost guilty’ means you’re still taking it, just gotta pretend to hesitate for show?" I laughed.
"Of course. A deal’s a deal."
"No problem," I nodded. "Just messing with you. Honestly, without your guys hitting them from behind, this could’ve dragged out way longer. You showed up at just the right time. Hope that eases your conscience."
Not that I cared. The cash wasn’t even mine—Lucy was footing the bill for this one. Our budgets were still separate for now, and maybe they’d stay that way.
Speaking of budgets, I needed to figure out who’d pay the most for the intel on the Brazilians' operations. Besides the betting racket, they were deep into blackmail, gathering dirt, and leaking info on Wagner’s cartel associates in Night City. Who’d pay top eddies for that? Arasaka? The Animals? Some client from Black Sapphire?
Plenty of options.
"Hey! V!" Becca’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. "Can I stash some of this shit in your club? Pleeeease?"
"Define ‘shit.’ Is it explosive?"
"Uh… I’ll be careful," she batted her lashes at me.
"You? Sure. But I can’t vouch for the rest of the club’s staff. Let’s just rent you a storage unit instead."
"That works too."
Besides the M-32 grenade launcher and its mountain of ammo, Becca had also looted a heavy flamethrower, about two dozen assault rifles, dart guns, and a shitload of other gear. She was claiming it all. Jackie and his guys were stripping the corpses for whatever else they could grab. Meanwhile, Falko and Panam were divvying up the vehicles and some of the tech. Everyone was happy.
As for Lucy, she paid tens of thousands of eddies for… a conversation. She and Kiwi spent almost an hour in one of the back rooms.
I made a quick call to Angie.
"Time to prep my ‘special reward.’"
"Wait, already?" she asked.
"Already. Everyone’s down. Your guys are only needed for cleanup."
"…Huh."
"Not hearing a lot of enthusiasm," I said. "Pretty much a free extermination of your pests. Your crew can head right back to the gym."
"You just don’t know the guys I got stuck with. Cryer’s gonna bitch nonstop about how bored he was. But yeah, you did good. The virus?"
"Got it. And the documentation. And multiple versions. You could crash the fuckin’ Olympics with this."
"Now that’s what I like to hear," she sounded much happier. "But you’ll still send me the address?"
"Of course."
She probably wanted to verify everything herself—make sure I hadn’t just cut a side deal with the Brazilians. Fine. She’d get the bodies, IDs, and whatever data was still on their drives. And if they got nosy about Kiwi, we’d spin a story about flipping her ahead of time.
"Maybe I’ll swing by and check out the bodies myself," Angie mused.
"Sure, but if you’re grabbing pizza, don’t get frozen."
"What?"
"There’s a… slight issue with the microwave," I smirked. "You’ll see."
We left the site in separate vehicles—too much loot to fit in just one ride. No way I was handing any of this over to the Animals.
Lucy and I took one of the Brazilians' cars, loading the back seats and trunk with netrunning gear.
"So, what did you two talk about?" I asked, not bothering to hide my curiosity as I hit the gas.
"Mostly silence," Lucy answered, staring out the window. "Kiwi said I was stupid for doing all this. Maybe she’s right."
"Yeah? Well, there’s a silver lining to that," I said, taking an exit into a tunnel.
"Oh? What, the Brazilian money?"
"Trust," I said, resting a hand on her shoulder. "If you’d go this far even for her, I’ve got a damn good reason to believe you’d never leave me hanging."
Sometimes, being too good for this city could get you killed. But sometimes, the ‘stupid’ choices made someone worth trusting.
"Do you feel better?" I asked.
"Yeah," Lucy said after a pause.
"Then it wasn’t for nothing."
"It definitely wasn’t," she suddenly said with conviction, turning to meet my eyes. "You’re human. I don’t doubt that anymore. And for Night City… you’re not the worst one to have around."
At that moment, I knew I’d made the right call. After everything—since our first run-in at Ho-Oh—we’d been up and down, and back again. But now, that chaos had settled into something solid.
"Maybe we should get out of the city," I said.
"You… serious?" Lucy raised a brow.
"Not for good. Just a week, maybe. Go see this fucked-up world for once."
"You sure you can tear yourself away from your business?" she asked, teasing.
"Not right this second," I admitted. "But after Konpeki and a couple more things—why not?"
"I’m holding you to that, V," she said, watching me closely. "One week. A real one. No off-the-books ‘mission’ bullshit."
"No tricks. Full-on vacation. How’s Monaco sound? Or Italy? Maybe the USSR?"
"Europe’s… complicated. Let’s pick somewhere else."
"Fine, your call."
I eased off the gas, letting the car drift through the neon-lit streets. For once, Night City felt familiar. Almost… beautiful. Like something had clicked into place.
Lucy watched the skyline, smiling.
For a second, I thought about pulling over, dragging her into the nightlife, diving headfirst into the city’s chaos just to regret it in the morning—hangovers, meds, the whole mess. But Konpeki wasn’t gonna wait forever.
So instead, we just cruised slowly through the streets, before heading back together.
Didn’t sleep right away, though.
And this time, we didn’t need Evelyn’s help. Just the two of us.
The next morning, I handed off all the virus data to Angie’s courier. Soon after, my account lit up with a sixty-thousand eddie transfer.
Time to sit down and count up my wins.
For once, I was sure—I came out ahead.
I burned a lot of eddies setting up the convoy heist, but made some back selling off the gear we pulled. Then there was the payout from Michiko, Angie’s fee, and the cash we stripped from the agents. When it all balanced out, my finances actually looked pretty damn good—1,303,000 and change. Enough to fund a solid vacation. But first, I had a mountain of shit to deal with—starting with the biggest job I’d set up for myself.
"You said you don’t care about looks," Panam said as we sat in the car outside Vik’s clinic.
"Yeah, but better safe than sorry."
"Fuck, I like my face."
"I get it. But it’s temporary. Trust me, you won’t even have scars."
"There better not be, you asshole! Ugh, fine. The bot’s been working like a dream. I spent all day cracking open different cases with it before we hit the Brazilians. Had to tweak the controller, add some upgrades…"
"It’ll get the job done?"
"Yeah. This thing’s a top-tier Militech prototype—worth hundreds of thousands. Swapping one shard from one container to another? Child’s play."
"And replacing the real one with a fake?"
"Obviously."
Thanks to Evelyn’s data, we had a solid idea of the bioprocessor’s required storage conditions. Building a fake container wasn’t an issue. Shoving the real one into my own head, though? Fuck no. I already had two sets of memories rattling around in there. A third might actually fry me.
So, first stop—Vik’s, for some quick cosmetic tweaks. Adjusted a few key facial points and proportions, and had him wrap my cyberlimb in realskin. My arm was too damn distinct.
"You’ll lose some sensitivity," Vik warned. "This model isn’t designed for realskin."
"Doesn’t matter. I just need it for a couple of days."
"Going somewhere hot again?"
"In a perfect world, I won’t have to fire a single shot."
"Perfect world doesn’t exist," Vik muttered, stitching the synthetic skin. "If you end up with extra holes and a lead overdose again, my phone stays on, even at sunrise. Just get your ass back to the clinic."
"How’s David, by the way? Thinking about quitting yet?"
"I wish," Vik sighed. "He keeps climbing higher. Probably too late to yank him out. But at least he’s learned to say ‘no’ to his bosses. He knows how valuable he is now. They’ve got him guarding another VIP. Hasn’t been home in days."
"That’s corpo life," I smirked. "No home, stuck babysitting assholes. Exactly what he and Gloria wanted, huh?"
"They bought into the dream," Vik said. "Even smart, decent people wanna believe in corpo polish sometimes."
With the face swap done, I climbed into the van, disguised as an Arasaka maintenance vehicle checking the hotel’s network systems.
"Nervous?" I asked Panam.
"Nah. But looking in the mirror and seeing the wrong face? That fucks with me."
"You never wanted to be an actress?"
"Not even once. I wanted to drive fast and shoot shit."
"Shit. Alright. Well, pretend you did. Imagine you’re slipping into a role—becoming someone else. Method acting."
"That a Soviet spy thing?"
"Close enough."
In thirty minutes, everyone would be in position. Time to bring months of planning to life. The big job at Konpeki.
I really wanted to believe it would all go smoothly. But Vik was right—sometimes a quiet, clean job turns into a full-blown shitstorm, complete with citywide shootouts and missile strikes.
2025-02-28 20:54:48 +0000 UTC
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Petra eyed the "tagalong" with a doubtful expression. She hadn’t found a way to say no when Gwen asked to join her for a patrol with Salamander. Sure, she could’ve lied, claiming that despite working together that one time, they hadn’t exchanged contact information. But the moment the press caught wind of a joint patrol, her cover would’ve been blown. And yeah, she could’ve brushed it off as a "random nighttime encounter" where they decided to team up on the spot, but… Petra was honest with herself—deception and playing pretend weren’t exactly her strengths. Even before she got her Spider powers, social maneuvering wasn’t her strong suit. A handful of decent acquaintances, one real friend—that was the extent of her network. Oh, and a romantic interest.
She grimaced under her mask. Toby had nailed it when he called MJ a pompous peacock. It wasn’t even about the rejection—it was the way it happened. Looking back at the situation with clearer eyes, Petra saw what she had stubbornly ignored before. The brief moment of attention she got from her crush wasn’t because he had suddenly realized how amazing she was. No, MJ had caught wind of the rumors that Tobias was interested in her, and the last thing he wanted was to let some "small, girly-looking twerp" steal his fangirl.
Petra had always thought Toby was a good kid. Her relationship with Flash had soured over the years, especially once she started crushing on Harry. Not that they were close before, but once the athlete saw Petra’s quiet friendship with Osborn as a threat to her own plans, things got worse. When this scrawny little kid skipped a grade and landed in their class, people were surprised but not overly impressed. Midtown High had plenty of young prodigies—Petra and Harry were among them—so Toby’s presence didn’t cause much of a stir.
The new kid fit in fast. He got close with Osborn, butted heads with MJ a few times—so spectacularly that the whole class had laughed at MJ’s expense—and had an immediate soft spot for Penny. Penny, who wasn’t exactly an outcast but often ended up the target of "jokes" because of her towering height, lanky frame, and easygoing, non-confrontational nature.
Petra still remembered the moment Toby shut those girls down. They were teasing Penny about her height—again—and he just smirked and fired back something about long legs, men’s preferences, and how one day, they'd all be eating their words. And, well, he was right. By the time Penny hit fourteen, Petra had noticed how all three of the class’s most popular guys were sneaking glances at her. Harry and MJ were looking at Penny the way boys looked at pretty girls. But Toby? Toby’s eyes held satisfaction—like an auntie watching her niece ace a spelling bee.
And unlike the other guys, Toby barely checked out their classmates. He had this annoyingly patronizing air sometimes—like a miniature adult among a bunch of rowdy kids. But instead of being irritating, it was… oddly charming. He was always upbeat, cracking jokes, tossing out harmless teases.
She grinned, recalling the first time he’d called Flash a "dumb little airhead, but at least a busty one." The whole class had frozen. Flash had sucked in a breath, ready to end the little shit, but Toby, the fearless menace, had just ducked behind Harry and whispered, not-so-quietly, "Dude, by the time she’s eighteen, that’s gonna be a solid D-cup. Don’t miss your chance."
Flash had choked, red-faced, barely holding back a furious retort. But instead of going nuclear, she had glared at him, looking a little embarrassed, and snapped, "You wanna keep running your mouth, brat?" And then, all through their next class, she kept sneaking glances down at her chest and at Harry, looking strangely thoughtful.
Weirdly enough, after that, Flash had started treating Toby… not quite warmly, but less aggressively. She also stopped giving Petra the side-eye whenever she and Penny were with Harry.
As for Petra herself—she appreciated Toby in her own way. He never outright defended her like Harry sometimes did. But she heard him, more than once, quietly scolding Flash for her antics. He openly called her a genius in front of their classmates, always polite and friendly, and never laughed along when Flash pulled her usual crap. And somehow, without ever making a show of it, he even got Flash to ease up on her. Sure, part of that was Flash’s newfound academic focus (which, yeah, was thanks to her own crush on Harry), but still—Toby had nudged things in the right direction.
Her friendship with Harry and Flash had only truly solidified after Toby transferred schools and Penny moved to Europe. But before that? Before that, she had realized exactly why Toby had always been so nice to her.
That trip to Oscorp…
Petra scratched the tip of her nose, feeling her face heat up. At first, she hadn’t noticed. But as the tour went on, it hit her—Toby wasn’t paying attention to anything except her. He was always nearby, walking just behind or beside her, eyes locked on her face, her neck…
At first, she had worried something was wrong with her appearance. But then—like a lightning strike—it clicked.
He had grown up.
He had started dating Penny, realized his feelings… and suddenly, it all made sense. Why he had always treated her so kindly. Why he had subtly steered Flash’s attitude. He had liked her. Maybe even a lot. And for the first time, she had seen it.
It was a little embarrassing. Okay, very embarrassing. But also… kind of nice.
If only she had known back then what MJ was really like—maybe she wouldn’t have brushed off Toby’s feelings. And Penny? Petra had always liked Penny as a person.
But, well. No point dwelling on it now.
She had made her choice.
And Gwen? Gwen definitely knew what she wanted.
Petra turned her attention to her black-and-white-clad friend.
Gwen had hesitated about hero work at first. But after her kidnapping, she had made up her mind—she wanted in. And, honestly? The number one reason behind that decision had been him.
Mister Mutant. The guy who had saved her and the other girls.
Petra stifled a giggle, remembering Toby’s reaction when he’d realized that he was the so-called Mister Mutant. The way he had fought against that name, only to admit, grudgingly, that he hadn’t come up with anything better at the time.
Silk(1)—because Gwen had officially named herself that now—hadn't been part of the plan. Petra had made her web-shooters, trained her in web-swinging through New York, shared her own experience… but when Gwen found out there was a patrol scheduled with Salamander, well, no amount of reasoning could convince her to sit this one out. Her debut? She’d decided to make it alongside the very guy who had saved her from captivity and put her on the path of heroism. Petra snickered quietly. Oh, she had no doubt Silk was grateful to him. But it was also crystal clear that New York’s second spider was out to claim Toby for herself. Especially after that intense interrogation Gwen had put her through after the drug dealer incident.
The meeting was set for a quiet alley in Queens. The two of them arrived a little early and were now perched on a nearby rooftop, waiting for him.
"Pe—uh, Spider, how much longer?" Gwen asked, shifting slightly.
"Not long at all—look, here he comes. Relax."
Sure enough, a figure in a hoodie, hands stuffed into his pockets, turned into the alley. He scanned the surroundings before pulling out his phone, tapping at it briefly, then bringing it to his ear. For a moment, the dim lighting reflected off the telltale sheen of Salamander's mask, and Petra’s phone vibrated in her hand.
"Hey, Salamander. Look up and to your right," Petra called, waving down at him from the roof. "Take the fire escape up."
"Hey, on my way," he replied, ending the call and making his way toward the old but sturdy fire escape—one Petra had checked in advance to make sure it wouldn’t betray them at a crucial moment.
As he climbed, Petra slipped her phone into the bag where both girls had stashed their civilian clothes. The thing was fragile, and the last thing she needed was to smash it mid-action—or worse, have it ring and blow her cover. The plan was simple: the phones and belongings stayed here, the bottom section of the fire escape would be pulled up, and they'd retrieve everything after patrol.
"Hey, girls, how’s life treating you?" Toby’s upbeat voice rang out as he pulled himself onto the rooftop.
"Hey!" Gwen greeted, a little too brightly, but at least she was keeping her enthusiasm in check. Petra sighed in relief. Her friend’s giddy fangirling over her "hero" had become a running joke in their little group, and Petra had been mildly terrified of how she'd act in person.
"Hey again, Salamander. This is Silk—I told you about her."
"Just Silk is fine! Nice to meet you!" Gwen said quickly.
"Likewise. Call me Sal, then—nickname’s way too long," Toby replied, and yeah, Petra could hear the grin in his voice. "Alright, Spider, what’s the plan?"
"Jacket off, put it in the bag," Petra instructed, motioning to the stash. "Phone too, but set it to silent first. We’re hitting some high-crime spots, then looping back."
"Got it, but I’ll need my phone on me," Toby said, shrugging off his hoodie and loose pants to reveal his costume underneath. He tossed his bundled-up clothes into the bag, then set his phone to silent before slipping it into a secured pouch on his thigh.
After the girls stashed our things in their hiding spot, Petra started strapping herself into some kind of harness system. Looked a bit like a parachute rig, except instead of a backpack, it had extra straps.
"Here, put this on. If something happens, we land, and I detach." She pointed to a little pull-tab on her chest. "I yank this, and we separate instantly. So when we’re flying, watch your hands."
"Uh… yeah, I don’t usually grab girls' chests for no reason."
Oops, the joke landed. Betting Petra’s face is the same shade as her suit right now.
"I didn’t mean that! I was just saying—ugh, never mind! Just don’t pull it by accident when we jump!" She flailed her hands, clearly trying to erase the mental image.
"Got it, got it. So… how do I put this on?"
The next five minutes were filled with a series of slightly awkward adjustments as she strapped me in. I didn’t ask any dumb questions like why or how—hell no, I wasn’t about to dangle off her like some overgrown koala. Instead, I just praised her ingenuity out loud.
"Heh… well, you’re still gonna have to hang on," Petra mumbled as she shifted her weight, tightening the straps until I was pressed against her even more. Shoutout to McCoy for the armored groin guard. Not that I had any real interest in Petra that way, but her tight suit and, well, her—it was bound to cause some reaction. If not for that little safeguard, I’d be awkwardly poking her in the ass with… uh… the buckle. Yeah. The buckle.
"Just keep your arms locked around my torso, right at the solar plexus," she added. "I need a full range of motion."
"Gotcha, Mama Koala. Whatever you say."
She gave me a little jab in the ribs.
"Ow—why is everyone always poking me?! Can’t even make a joke anymore."
"So… you two have known each other a while, huh?" Silk finally spoke up. Her voice—it sounded familiar. And there was something in it—curiosity, maybe a little… jealousy?
"Uh… we… um…" Petra, eloquent as ever when caught off guard.
"Well, I mean, I don’t go around asking you how you know each other, Silk," I cut in, keeping my tone light and easy. "We’re all trying to keep a little mystery here, right? If Spider starts telling everyone who we are, I’ll be very upset with her."
Silk hesitated for a moment.
"Yeah… yeah, you’re right," she finally said, a little sheepish. "Sorry, I wasn’t thinking."
"All good. It’s your first night out, right? We’re all kinda new at this, so no need to be nervous. So, Spider, what’s next?"
"Training first," she said. "Silk and I already practiced, but you need to get used to landing."
"Sure thing," I grinned under my mask, tightening my hold on her. "You’re the boss. You sure I’m not too heavy?"
"Nah, don’t worry about it. Ready?"
I grunted something affirmative.
Then—thwip—webs shot out, and the next second I immediately regretted confirming my readiness.
I never thought I’d say this, but thank you, Hulk, for that time you “trained” me. Otherwise, I’d be flopping around like that one dude in every bungee jump fail video.
Petra swung between the buildings with an effortless grace, twisting, pivoting midair, pulling off maneuvers that had my stomach doing backflips. Good thing she was strong, because I was gripping her tight. Six months ago, I might’ve cracked her ribs. But now? She handled it easily, moving with such fluidity that even I had to admit—it was kinda mesmerizing.
Still, when she suddenly shouted, "Tuck your legs!" mid-descent, I wanted to scream AND YOU COULDN’T SAY THAT FIVE SECONDS AGO?!
We landed.
Somehow.
Holy shit.
Okay, okay, breathe. I lived. Honestly? The Hulk jumps were worse. Especially the first few times.
"How are you feeling?" There was something expectant in her tone—like she was waiting for me to say something specific.
"I’m good, Spider, all good. Didn’t really experience it, though—it happened too damn fast." Which was true. A blur of buildings, my grip nearly strangling her, the dumb realization that Petra’s ass was basically solid muscle, and the frantic internal debate of whether I’d splatter if she fumbled the landing or if my powers would save me. Just pure, undiluted extreme. "But I got the general idea."
Silk landed beside us, watching quietly.
"Well, if you’re fine—" Oh? Oh, Petra sounded disappointed. Was she expecting me to scream HOLY SHIT, THIS IS AMAZING!? Probably. I mean, original Spidey loved swinging around. "Then let’s go for real. You ready?"
"Yeah, let’s go. Just take it slooooOOOOO—"
The red-and-blue menace took off like a damn rocket.
Okay. Either she was still mad I wasn’t worshiping her method of transportation, or she decided I just hadn’t fully appreciated it yet.
After a few more minutes?
Yeah.
I appreciated it.
Once I got used to her movements and stopped flailing like a sad, oversized fanny pack, I got why she loved it.
This wasn’t like Hulk’s jumps, where you had all the time in the world to look around. It wasn’t like racing through the streets on the Hellcycle with Blaze.
It was like… extreme swings. Pure momentum. A rollercoaster without the track. You drop, you fly, she cuts the web, you free-fall, then thwip—web catches, and you launch forward again.
And below us?
New York rushed past.
A city of contradictions. Beautiful, thrilling, full of opportunity—and brutal, merciless, terrifying all at once. Towers that stretched to the heavens, looming over squat little buildings that looked like dollhouses in comparison. Insane wealth sitting side by side with crushing poverty. Love and hatred. Businessmen and criminals—sometimes both in the same person.
I didn’t build this city. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t draw up blueprints.
But people did.
Humanity—our greatest genius and our greatest villain.
Swinging through the towering structures, I imagined the thousands, the millions of people who had poured their sweat, their blood, sometimes even their lives into making this place what it was.
And, funny enough, my mind drifted back to that conversation with the reporters. That last joke I made about faith.
Except now? It didn’t feel like a joke.
I believe in us.
Not democracy. Not communism. Not monarchy.
I believe in People. In what we can do.
We can build these massive cities. We can end pointless wars. We can break through our atmosphere and claim the stars.
Just like wooden ships once sailed into the unknown, chasing the promise of a New World, someday, metal ships will sail the void, their engines burning bright against the endless dark.
Humanity is my god.
And I believe in it.
If we don’t destroy ourselves first.
And that’s where the Emperor comes in.
Billions of people. Millions who dream of power. Hundreds of thousands who have it.
And out of all of them, only a few truly want to lead humanity into a better future.
But I believe—I know—that somewhere among them, there is someone, or maybe several someones, who could be that Emperor.
The one who will unite us—not by nationality, not by religion, not by gender.
The one who will turn humanity into Humanity.
The one who will push us forward, beyond our own limitations, into a future where everyone reaches for the stars.
Holding onto my friend, I smiled.
A grown man in a teenager’s body.
And still, at heart… a kid.
A kid who believes that we won’t burn ourselves to ash. That we won’t vanish in plagues of our own making.
A kid who believes that things will be okay.
And for the first time in this new life… I felt like everything was exactly as it should be.
Everything was right.
Living for yourself? That’s good. Just living is good already.
But living in a way that makes life better not just for you, but for everyone around you?
That’s even better.
END OF BOOK ONE
TN: Her hero name gave me grief. In the original, her name is “Шелкопряд” which literally translates into Silkworm. However, the real Шелкопряд is Mary Jane who heroed under alias Spinneret. It is just her name was localized as Шелкопряд for russian comics. There is also a niche character named Silk, yet another Spider themed hero from some alternate version of Marvel. What complicates this even further is that in Marvel, Gwen Stacy usually goes by Ghost-Spider or Spider Gwen. So for now I decided to settle on Silk until I get the word from the author
2025-02-28 20:51:02 +0000 UTC
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Primeval Sorcerer Azur didn’t look great—there was barely anything human left in him. His body was covered head to toe in emerald stones, his very existence raising countless questions.
Then again, the current Lands Between were built on unanswered questions.
"You don’t look so good," Kosta said calmly.
"…"
The living heap of stones responded… in silence.
Judging by the energy in the air, it was probably something caustic and hostile(1).
Sellen didn’t comment, though it was clear she had her own interpretation of the situation—admiration. It shimmered in her eyes as if she were looking upon a masterpiece.
"You have achieved something incredible, Master Azur. Do you still remember me?"
"…"
"Yes, it’s me, Master! I wanted to see you and thank you."
"…"
"I know, it sounds absurd," the woman laughed. "Coming all this way just for such a small thing is foolish. But it truly is my only reason. My heart is at peace now."
"…"
The sorcerer didn’t seem convinced.
Kosta, listening to her, suddenly paused for a moment.
"You… can understand him?"
"You just have to listen. Master is displeased that you destroyed his experiment(2)," Sellen said, raising a finger importantly.
Kosta could have sworn that the emerald-encrusted head tilted ever so slightly, agreeing with his former student.
Against his will, Kosta glanced back.
It hadn’t taken them long to find the village. Perched on a slope, it was small, practically abandoned (which, in fairness, described most of the Lands Between in one way or another). It was mostly inhabited by demi-humans, and they welcomed travelers in the same way most demi-humans did—by attacking.
The sound of "clearing the area" soon drew the village boss, who promptly joined the growing pile.
By now, these weren’t even the kind of enemies that could pose any challenge to Kosta—unless he really went out of his way to make things harder for himself.
Clearly, this wasn’t the time for such niche trials.
"Happens," Kosta shrugged.
His spark for farming had faded, and it was barely yielding anything worthwhile anymore. Now, he only farmed those who attacked him first. Clearly, the demi-humans weren’t in the mood for a conversation.
"…"
Kosta got the distinct feeling that Azur had just said something very unflattering about him.
"I can’t hurt you(3), but that doesn’t mean I can’t toss you off a cliff or bury you in a cave somewhere," Kosta said, completely deadpan.
"…"
If before he’d only felt like Azur was insulting him, now the primeval sorcerer actually raised his stone-covered hand—flipping him off.
Kosta’s eyebrow twitched.
"What weirdos!"
Sellen giggled, but Kosta and the primeval sorcerer ignored her quip.
"…"
Kosta frowned, somehow grasping the vague meaning Azur was trying to convey.
"Yeah, I’m a casual, so what?"
"…"
Not only did the sorcerer understand, but he even replied. And this time, Kosta caught the meaning even more clearly, deepening his frown.
"I have thought about that," he admitted, lowering himself into a squat next to Azur.
"…"
Kosta listened to the silence again, then extended his hand. A faint ember of light flickered to life in his palm.
"Look."
Azur slowly reached out his stone-covered hand and touched the light.
"…" The primeval sorcerer seemed lost in thought. "…"
"Yeah, I’ve also been considering the degree of influence a specific type of casual energy has on the world," Kosta nodded. "But…"
"…"
Kosta raised an eyebrow.
"I wasn’t finished."
He suffered from the same tendency, so he didn’t hold a grudge.
"…"
"Has no one shown you the 'Point Downwards' gesture(4) in a while?" the Tarnished asked calmly.
Honestly, he completely understood why a brilliant game designer had never added a text or voice chat to the game. A single gesture and some meaningful silence could already say everything and more.
Seeing how deeply engrossed the two men were in their… conversation (or in Azur’s case, deep silence), Sellen quietly stepped back.
It wasn’t every day she got to see Kosta speak so much—and with such enthusiasm. And not just with anyone, but with her mentor.
Her master had already seemed to forget his ruined experiment, while Kosta had long been accumulating questions and thoughts.
And no matter how much he tried to push them aside to focus on quests, the scientist (lore enthusiasts) within him refused to stay dormant. He needed answers, theories, and explanations—even if he couldn’t find the truth, he at least wanted something close to it.
If the Soulslike community didn’t have dedicated scholars (lore masters), the series would never have reached its cult status.
Love through hatred of repetition—that was the true mark of an elightened mind (lore junkie).(TN)
"The hunted sorcerer is near."
Sellen turned in surprise to see Melina manifest. The maiden didn’t say anything else before vanishing again.
That, of course, didn’t stop Sellen from whispering, "Thank you."
Melina hadn’t lied, nor was there any reason for her to—Seluvis appeared shortly after.
Gideon had made it his mission to personally close the book on the rogue sorcerer, putting all other affairs on hold. One of the demigoddess’s retainers could feel the inevitable end drawing near.
His mistress hadn’t protected him, letting him become a victim of his own arrogance. She didn’t need to punish her false servant herself—only to not intervene on his behalf.
And, at the same time, to watch what Kosta would do.
"Sellen!"
Seeing the sorceress waiting for him, a thoroughly exhausted Seluvis felt a flicker of relief.
Gideon was on his trail, closing in with a retinue of faceless figures, ready to seize him at any moment.
At that moment, Kosta finally turned away from his "conversation" with Azur and stood up.
"I’ll check in with you after I finish the main quests," Kosta mused.
At least, he hoped so. This wasn’t a situation where an illusion would cut it—listening to the specific nuances of the primeval sorcerer’s speech required all available brainpower.
"…"
Azur’s stone-covered head tilted toward Sellen, where Seluvis was sprinting toward her at full speed.
"Yeah, I know she’s reckless. I won’t let anything happen to her."
Either Kosta had lost his mind (in a different way), or he was actually getting better at understanding the primeval casua, who somehow managed to speak through silence.
It was, at the very least, unsettling.
"…"
"A man in white?" Kosta repeated, confused. "Why? What was his name?"
Apparently, some time ago, a man in white had approached Azur, offering for him to join something.
The primeval sorcerer just shrugged his stone-encrusted shoulders—he had launched a custom-made comet at the guest before he even had the chance to introduce himself.
Probably not the best idea to start a conversation by asking someone to "join a cause."
Still, one particular trait made it easy for Kosta to figure out who it had been.
"Varre," Kosta muttered, surprised.
When he first awoke in the Lands Between, he’d been in a… peculiar state of mind.
Looking back, he felt just a little embarrassed about it—especially in front of Meli-Meli.
The first time he met Varre, Konstantin physically couldn't do anything to him—he was too weak, refused to rely on casual strategies, and Varre himself, after trying to kill the audacious fool who attacked him, quickly realized after just one successful hit from Kosta that running away from the half-naked lunatic was the only option.
Back then, the Tarnished hadn’t given it much thought, his mind mostly preoccupied with waifu-related matters. Or rather, nearly all of his few thoughts revolved around that.
Could Konstantin’s reckless actions have led to something… strange?
The man sighed heavily.
"I need to go. You probably won’t understand me, but I have to thank you for giving casuals such a powerful boss skip without requiring any quests. Back in the day, it brought a lot of joy."
Sellen had no choice but to keep her word, but Konstantin owed nothing to the puppet master—nor had he ever promised one of the best waifus that he would protect the sorcerer.
The Primeval Sorcerer gave no reply, only watching the Tarnished as he left.
Despite choosing to live in isolation, rumors still reached Azur. And now, with his own eyes—or whatever was left of them—he saw that those rumors were not false.
More than that, the Tarnished didn’t even seem… particularly insane. By the standards of the current Lands Between, the man could almost be considered completely sane.
"A star…"
He had believed himself to be like the stars, but it seemed his journey was far from over.
The last person Gideon expected to see was Konstantin. Of course, he had known for some time—days… months… however long it had been—that the accursed puppet master had been seeking someone’s help. But he had never expected that help to come from a terrifyingly powerful madman.
As it turned out, though, Seluvis hadn’t actually come to him for help.
"Stay out of this, sorceress."
She looked vaguely familiar to him. Gideon had eyes and ears all across the Lands Between, and there was no way he hadn’t heard of a sorceress named Sellen at least once. But recognizing her now, in this unfamiliar body, was more difficult.
"I gave my word," the woman said solemnly.
"Exactly!" Seluvis hissed, tearing off his broken mask. "Keep your word, Sellen!"
The puppet master looked terrible—exhausted, hunted, pale. Despite his ability to move quickly across distances, he was still just a man. More than that, his magic didn’t always work, forcing him to rely on his own two feet… and those were already failing him.
Gideon removed his own mask, plastering on a benevolent smile as he turned to the one person who could end this conflict before it began. The leader of the Tarnished understood that this decision wasn’t up to Sellen.
"My friend, it’s been some time since we last saw each other. I’ve heard of your exploits. It seems you’ve hardly visited the stronghold lately?"
Konstantin met Gideon’s gaze and shrugged.
"I had my own quests."
And, honestly, he just found it exhausting to interact with people too often. But now… he could admit he felt much better.
"I’ve heard," the knight-sorcerer chuckled, clearly understanding him. "As well as the fact that my daughter is now under your care. I should thank you for all the help you’ve given her."
"Don’t let him sweet-talk you!" Seluvis screeched. "Konstantin, we serve the same mistress! You owe me, damn it!"
His pride vanished instantly. Or rather, he had never had any pride to begin with. What value was there in such a thing? Life was far more important. The moment he saw that accursed figure—that damned Tarnished—standing beside Sellen, the old man immediately grasped the situation. But that didn’t mean he was willing to give up.
"So, you’ve chosen to serve a demigod?" Gideon’s expression remained unchanged. It seemed he wasn’t even remotely surprised. "To be honest, I’m a little shocked. But it’s your decision, Konstantin of the Tarnished. We—"
"I don’t have much time," Konstantin interrupted. "I’m not obligated to protect someone who tried to turn a waifu into a puppet. Only not to attack."
Seluvis was one of the most heinous heretics in the Lands Between, having gone against one of the best waifus in the most shameless and vile way possible. Of course, collecting figurines and waifu dolls was a sacred and honorable pursuit, respected by all. But actually turning the waifus into dolls?
If not for the risk of ruining Ranni’s questline, the Tarnished wouldn’t have tolerated this sorcerer’s presence in any capacity.
Fortunately, that quest was nearly over, just like so many before it.
"Worm!" Seluvis spat. "Sellen, you promised!"
"I remember, I remember…" Sellen sighed. "My dear mentor and student, I can’t refuse him."
"You don’t need to," Konstantin said calmly. "You physically can’t help him. That’s not your fault."
"Huh?"
That thought seemed to echo in everyone’s minds. Strangely enough, the puppet master was the first to understand what the Tarnished meant.
"You—"
Seluvis never got to finish his sentence.
In a single instant, Konstantin appeared at Sellen’s side, pulling her into a firm embrace. A flash of golden light enveloped them both—then they were gone.
Seluvis stood frozen, completely alone, surrounded only by Gideon and his warriors. He stared blankly at the empty space where his last hope had just vanished.
"Marika’s tits…"
Slowly, the professor turned his gaze toward the ever-smiling enemy before him, now surrounded by countless glowing blue blades of pure magic.
Some distance away, hidden behind the hills, the Primeval Sorcerer Azur watched the scene unfold, as still and silent as a stone.
"…"
It was impossible to know what he had said, but evidently he found this very interesting.
After all, there weren’t many forms of entertainment in the Lands Between, especially for the primeval persecuted sorcerers—those who had turned themselves into heaps of emerald stones and had been exiled for practicing forbidden magic.
Konstantin and Sellen reappeared far beyond Mount Gelmir, standing in one of the many fields leading toward the capital.
Sellen blinked, taking in her surroundings. A crooked smirk crossed her lips. She had more or less anticipated how things would play out, but…
This method still struck her as a little barbaric. Effective, but barbaric.
"You’ve made me the kind of person who doesn’t keep their word, my dear Konstantin?"
"It was never within your power," the man answered calmly. "You did everything you could."
She paused.
That was true. She would have fought Konstantin if the situation had required it. That was the power of a vow. If she said she would help, then—whether she wanted to or not—she would have.
But fortunately, Konstantin was not someone a mere sorceress could oppose. She would have given it her all, upheld her word to the very end… only to hit a wall she simply couldn’t overcome.
What a shame.
Content with that conclusion, she leaned against the man, already thinking of how she should properly thank him, but—
Kosta suddenly stopped her, turning his head toward the empty space beside them.
"You already got what you wanted. Later."
"You—"
"I’ll deal with your academy issue as soon as possible," he added, just as unshaken as ever. "Just wait a little longer."
She flinched.
Breaking away from Sellen, Konstantin grabbed the "empty space"—which let out a surprised yelp—by its burn-covered arm and vanished along with it.
Clearly, yet another massive influx of runes, coursing through his body and soul, had sharpened his awareness just a little more—enough for him to finally acknowledge that some things could no longer be put off.
The others—women who had spent decades hesitating, drowning in contradictions—could afford to wait. But Kosta?
No.
Alone once more, the stunned witch watched the fading light of their departure.
It seemed the man had decided to intervene in their… relationships, settling matters once and for all. On one hand, that was a little disappointing. But on the other… it was a relief.
A commoner, staring blankly into the void with a vacant expression, was doing his best to pretend he understood absolutely nothing.
However, the intruder into his personal space had his own opinion on the matter.
"Am I truly so unpleasant to the King of Omens?"
White-Mask Varre offered a friendly smile.
The figure concealed under the illusion didn’t hold back, casting an irritated glance at the lunatic.
"That’s not me! Get lost! The illusions of the Golden Order are flawless!!!"
The last words were practically shouted, thick with wounded pride.
Varre, however, was entirely unfazed by the words of the material illusion.
"My offer still stands," he gently repeated. "He has become far too dangerous. If we don’t unite now, at least for a single battle, then later…"
"Put these foolish ambitions to rest. Your arrogance disgusts me," the illusion of Morgott growled. "I will accept battle as befits the Last King, not as some cowardly mutt! Begone before my mercy runs out, wretch!"
Varre thoughtfully adjusted his cracked mask.
Hidden under illusion, the copy of Morgott, scheming to strike down the Tarnished in cowardly betrayal, didn’t exactly exude the noble presence of a warrior. But, then again, that wasn’t his concern.
White-Mask Varre smiled widely.
"You will regret this, false king…"
"You!"
The illusion nearly lashed out at the insolent man, but before it could, Varre vanished—gone as if he had never been there. The enraged Morgott, scanning the surroundings with a scowl, eventually settled back into his position, trying his best to appear both casual and completely unresponsive.
"The illusions of the Golden Order… are flawless…"
Honestly, it didn’t sound quite as confident this time.
Perhaps he needed to prepare just a bit better.
(1) The player can "speak" to Azur, but he remains silent. Then again, who knows what he is actually saying…
(2) On the way to Azur, the player encounters Demi-Human Queen Maggie, who is connected to the sorcerers—not only evidenced by her magic staff but also by her ability to wield it.
(3) Sorcerer Azur is invulnerable. Completely. The player can attempt to harm him, but it’s entirely futile.
(4) Probably one of the most popular gestures among both toxic and casual players alike.
2025-02-28 20:47:17 +0000 UTC
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I wandered for ages, freezing half to death, but I still couldn’t bring myself to go home. What if they were all still waiting, ready to have another go at me? I had no interest in starting that all over again—I’d said more than enough for one night.
When Charlie appeared beside me, I barely flinched—just tensed at the sudden pop of his Apparition.
“Knew I’d find you here,” he said, striding over. In the moonlight, his face was pale, his features blurred by the darkness. But something in his voice made me think he was smiling.
“How’d you find me?” I muttered, shivering as he shrugged off his cloak and draped it over my shoulders. I didn’t argue. It was warm.
“You’re not the only one who likes to wander and think now and then,” he said, smiling faintly. “Come on. Mum won’t go to bed till she sees you back safe. No need to make her worry. She doesn’t deserve that… And don’t stress, everyone’s gone to bed. No one’s waiting to jump you.”
Following someone home was easier than going back by my own choice.
“How’d it go?” I asked eventually, keeping pace with his long strides.
“Well…” Charlie sighed. “First, everyone had a good row, but Mum’s tears shut that down fast. Then they decided they’d forgive you. After that, they admitted they’d been in the wrong too—but agreed you were a right arse about it. By the end, they’d settled on the idea that the Weasley family was lucky to have such a clever, understanding son… even if said son could’ve been slightly less dramatic about making his point.” His lips twitched. “Now they’ll all act like nothing happened, so no one has to feel awkward about it—though knowing Dad, he’ll probably try to apologise at some point, dressed up as some big noble lesson about his ‘higher responsibilities.’ And Mum… she’s waiting. She’s scared you’ll run off before she gets the chance to say sorry.”
Well. At least it was over.
“Ron,” Charlie said suddenly, slowing his pace. “I see how you look at Bill. I don’t think it’s jealousy exactly, but there’s… something there. You’re too sharp, too ambitious, not to notice the unfairness of your place in the family.” He paused. “But I want you to know—being the ‘heir’ isn’t just about getting attention. It’s a responsibility. A weight. And trust me, I’d have loved to be the sixth son. Ordinary. Free.” His smile was small, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Even I’m not as free as I look, Ron. There are expectations. And failing them means turning your back on family, on blood. That’s a heavy choice to make. And I’m honestly glad you don’t have to.”
I frowned, thrown off by the turn in conversation. “What expectations? You lot studied, got jobs, live where you want—what’s weighing you down?”
Charlie snorted. “For starters, I can’t marry until Bill has a son.”
I stopped walking. “Wait, what?”
He shrugged, as if it was nothing. “I’m the second son. The backup. If something happens to Bill, I take his place, and I really don’t want that responsibility.” He shot me a wry glance. “So I’ll just be over here, hoping my big brother hurries up and has a kid.”
I had no idea what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything at all.
By the time we reached the Burrow, we wordlessly split ways—Charlie took back his cloak and headed upstairs, while I made for the dim glow of the kitchen.
Mum was there. Asleep. She’d slumped over the table, her head resting on her folded arms, breath slow and even. The flickering candlelight made her look smaller somehow. Tired. Her face was still blotchy from crying.
And I suddenly felt awful.
Why’d they do this to themselves? They could’ve had a simple, comfortable life—two kids, enough gold, summer trips to the beach. They could’ve done just fine with Bill and Charlie alone. No need to stretch every Knut till it screamed.
As I stood there, debating what to do, Mum stirred. Her eyes blinked open, unfocused for a moment before locking on me.
“Ron, love—you’re back?” She sat up abruptly, gripping me in a tight hug. My shoulder dampened immediately, though she made no sound.
“Oh, you must be starving,” she said after a moment, pushing me toward a chair as she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Hold on, I’ll warm something up…”
“No need, Mum,” I muttered. “I’ll just eat it cold. Just pour me some tea.”
While she fussed with the kettle, a plate appeared in front of me—ham, bread, and, soon after, a frying pan full of sausages. The mouth-watering smell filled the kitchen, and I realised just how bloody hungry I was.
“Go on, eat, eat,” Mum fretted, placing more food on my plate and smoothing my hair absentmindedly. “You’ve been out half the day… running around in the cold…”
She suddenly leaned against my back, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and resting her forehead against my neck.
“Ronnie, love… I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I don’t even know why I bought that cloak… It’s just—there’s always so much to buy, and the money’s never enough, and the list never gets any shorter… but there’s always something more you need.”
“Mum, it’s fine, I get it,” I said, putting down my sandwich, trying to pull away, but she only held on tighter.
“I went to three different shops and couldn’t find anything decent,” she went on, her voice hurried like she was finally letting it all out. “Then I saw that cloak and thought, ‘Thank Merlin, now Ron won’t have to go without.’ I didn’t even notice it was burgundy. I just thought—no holes, no stains… I’ll wash it, fix the seams, swap out the buttons, and it’ll be as good as new. And the lace cuffs… well, they’d suit your hands, you know? You have such elegant hands, so refined, with those long fingers…”
“Mum, stop,” I groaned.
“…And it never even crossed my mind that I could just buy you one later and send it, or tailor one of your father’s old cloaks instead…”
“Mum, enough,” I cut in, finally twisting around to pull her into a proper hug. “It’s done. I don’t blame you for anything. If anything, I was the one who lost my temper and lashed out. That’s all it was. It happens, Mum—men do that sometimes. Don’t cry.”
“How can I not?” she sniffed. “I barely have time to think about these things, there’s always something that needs doing. But then I realised… all we’ve ever bought you new were your school robes and your underwear. Everything else—hand-me-downs. Even your rat was second-hand… No wonder you were upset. I’m sorry, Ron—I’ve been a terrible mother,” she sobbed, properly breaking down now.
I’d never seen her like this before.
“Come on, Mum, don’t,” I murmured, rubbing her back. “You’re a good mum. The best. I wouldn’t trade you for anything… But let’s get some sleep, yeah? I’ve got, what, four hours left before I have to be up, and you’re up even earlier.”
“Oh—Merlin, you’re right!” She gasped, looking up, her tear-streaked face snapping back into ‘Mum mode.’ “You’re full? Right, off to bed with you then! Quietly now, don’t wake anyone. I’ll just tidy up here…”
As I crept up the stairs, I could still hear her quiet sniffles and the soft clinking of dishes.
When I finally climbed into bed, everyone was still fast asleep. The moment my head hit the pillow, I was out like a light.
It felt like I’d only just closed my eyes before someone was shaking me awake.
"Arthur was called into work during the night," Mum said, bustling around as she piled extra food onto our plates. "And Bill had to go to the bank first thing, so we’ll have to take the Floo to the station..."
"What’s wrong with the Floo?" Charlie asked with a yawn.
"Well, we’ve got Harry with us..." Mum said vaguely, turning away to flip an omelette.
"Ah," said George. "So we’re avoiding anyone tracking him through the network? Security reasons?"
"Yeah, because that’s a well-kept secret," Charlie scoffed. "What a mystery."
"Where’s Percy?"
"Been up since six, scribbling away in his room," Mum replied, quickly slicing up bread for the horde of us. "Dumbledore’s opening the Floo for him around midday. And where’s Ginny? Ginny, love, hurry up or we’ll be late... Hermione, have another pancake, you’re so thin... Harry, more juice?"
Despite the morning chaos, we made it on time. We even managed to grab packed lunches and a thermos for the trip. Good thing we used the Floo—there’s no way we’d have fit all our pets, brooms, and trunks into a Muggle taxi.
The rain hadn’t let up, drizzling miserably as we rushed to stash our things in an empty compartment before heading back out to say goodbye.
Harry and Hermione thanked Mum for the summer, while she made them promise to visit again next year. She fussed over Ginny, peppering her with kisses despite her embarrassed squirming. And when she got to me, she held on just a little longer than usual, eyes full of warmth and unspoken apologies. She pressed a food parcel into my hands, even though I’d already packed my own.
It was... nice, I suppose. But something in me had already let go. Funny, how when you do finally get what you’ve been waiting for, it’s always too late for it to matter.
"See you around, Ron," Charlie clapped me on the back, giving me a tired smile. "Keep an eye on things, yeah?"
At last, the goodbyes were over, and the train pulled away from the station. I had never been so relieved to return to school. Never felt so free.
"Where were you last night?" Harry finally asked when Hermione stepped out to retrieve her cat from Ginny’s compartment—apparently, the twins had chucked his carrier in there for a laugh. "I waited up half the night for you—you just ran off without saying anything."
"Went to invite Luna to the ball," I said offhandedly, keeping my expression blank.
"To what?" Harry blinked.
"The Yule Ball. Happens every time there’s a Tournament. Figured I’d ask before someone else got in there first. You ought to get a move on with Chang, by the way. Diggory’ll probably beat you to it, and then you’ll be out of luck. He’s been into her for ages."
"What? Why should I ask her?" Harry spluttered, going a bit pink. But then, after a pause, he asked, "Do you think she actually likes Diggory?"
"Doubt she’s in love with him," I said. "Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been throwing you looks and smiling all dreamy-like when we went to the water pump. You nearly drowned waving back at her, remember? And today, when you bumped into her in the corridor—mate, the sparks flying off you two, honestly. You’ve got a shot, but only if you get there before Diggory does. She definitely likes you."
"You really think she’ll say yes?" Harry asked, looking hopeful.
"Course," I lied smoothly. "Swear on it."
"Alright… just not on the first day, yeah?"
He looked like he wanted to ask something else, but Hermione returned before he could. Not long after, the compartment filled up with our usual lot.
The next few hours were spent chatting and laughing, mostly about the Tournament. Neville listened, wide-eyed, grumbling about how his gran had refused to buy him a ticket.
"But at least I managed a Patronus!" he suddenly declared. "Practiced all summer. Look!"
He waved his wand, and on the third try, a little bear cub bumbled its way across the compartment, tripping over its paws.
"Bit small," Neville mumbled, looking embarrassed.
"It’s brilliant!" we all said at once.
"It’ll grow," I grinned, giving him a thumbs-up. "You did great."
Neville beamed. "Gran was so chuffed—she gave me my dad’s old watch. Look, isn’t it neat?"
But the conversation soon drifted back to the Quidditch World Cup.
"So you actually saw Krum?" Seamus asked, awestruck.
"Yeah, spitting image of Snape," I snorted. "Just younger. It was freaky—he was right there when Fudge shook his hand. My sister even got his autograph."
"You were in the minister’s box?" Dean said enviously. "Hermione, what about you? What’d you think of Krum?"
She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, the compartment door slid open, and in stepped Malfoy.
"Oh, look who it is—the Malfoy heir himself," I greeted with a smirk. "Here to talk about the match? Good call—your lot seems to be mute or something."
"Hardly," Malfoy sniffed. "I was just passing by when I was assaulted by the racket you lot were making. Absolutely vulgar… So, Potter? You planning to take part? Can’t imagine you’d pass up a chance to show off and get your face in the papers, yeah?" "
"What are you on about?" Harry frowned, clearly lost, and the lads exchanged puzzled looks. But Malfoy didn’t seem to care that no one had a clue what he was going on about. His face practically lit up with excitement.
"Oh, don’t tell me you lot don’t know?" he practically purred, glancing at me like he was expecting a reaction. "With your dad working at the Ministry, you’d think you’d have heard something, Weasley. But I suppose he’s not important enough to be trusted with real information, is he?"
I stiffened, but I wasn’t about to let the ferret get a rise out of me.
"Alright, Malfoy," I said, leaning back lazily. "Spit it out. What exactly are we all supposed to know?"
Malfoy grinned wider, eyes glinting with satisfaction.
"Why, about the Triwizard Tournament, of course!"
"Harry, this clown's talking about the Triwizard Tournament," I muttered, exchanging glances with the others.
"Then just say that outright, Malfoy," Harry replied just as lazily, leaning back against the seat like he was posing for the cover of Witch Weekly. "You burst in here, spewed a load of nonsense, nearly started foaming at the mouth… No, I’m not entering—I’m taking a break. Got enough photos for now, as you so cleverly pointed out. One with Fudge, one with the Irish team, one with the Bulgarian Minister. Stop by later—I’ll sign you one."
"Oh, piss off," Malfoy snapped, his face turning red as he stormed out of the compartment like a popped cork.
We all burst into laughter—even Hermione put her book down to join in.
"That was brilliant—high five," I grinned. "Didn’t see that one coming."
"Someone needed to put him in his place," Neville agreed.
"Wait, you actually got photographed for a paper?" Dean asked, intrigued.
"Yeah, but only for an international one," Harry admitted, dropping the act and returning to his usual self. "Fudge asked, so I had to put up with it. But at least I got to hold the trophy—hang on, I’ll show you."
"Wicked," we all breathed as he pulled out the photo.
While everyone crowded around to look, I sat back and thought to myself—Potter had changed. Grown some teeth, finally. Malfoy wasn’t going to get under his skin this year, that was for sure. He’d never liked the attention, but now he’d figured out how to turn it against his enemies. A peaceful year without You-Know-Who or constant disasters had done him some good. But I wondered—if he got too comfortable with it, would we end up with a second James Potter?
"So, what’s this tournament all about?" someone asked, kicking off a whole new conversation.
That was Hermione’s cue. No one but her had actually read Hogwarts: A History or any of the other, supposedly fascinating books she hoarded. It was nice, seeing her in her element—quick-witted but a little pink in the face from all the attention.
Once Quidditch and the Tournament had been thoroughly discussed, the others drifted back to their compartments, leaving the three of us to enjoy a quiet cup of tea.
The rain was relentless. It poured as we stepped onto the platform and kept hammering down when we climbed into the carriages. But my mood was still sky-high, especially when a grumbling Hermione let Crookshanks loose and dried us off with a spell. Not that I couldn’t have done it myself, but it was nice to be looked after.
Harry and I, without even needing to plan it, sent Peeves flying with a well-aimed shield charm. It wasn’t particularly strong, but hitting him together was enough to make him drop his water balloon and scarper off, cursing. Surprisingly, McGonagall had appeared just after, and we hadn’t even gotten a telling-off for using magic in the corridors.
When we entered the Great Hall, I spotted Percy sitting at the staff table beside Professor Sinistra, looking as smug and self-important as ever. But his eyes were shining—he was proud. And why wouldn’t he be? He'd walked into this hall as a first-year once, and now he was up there, a professor. And you know what? I was genuinely happy for him. I gave him a friendly wave. He pretended not to notice but then, a minute later, subtly adjusted his hat in what I knew was a disguised wave back.
The Sorting went as usual. We cheered on the new first-years—especially the younger Creevey kid. But I was most enthusiastic when Dumbledore introduced our new History of Magic professor for first through third years. I’d thought Percy might be teaching us as well, but thank Merlin, that wasn’t the case—at least now the twins wouldn’t make his life a living hell.
Once the plates were cleared, Dumbledore made a grand announcement. Not that it was news to us—between Seamus, Dean, and the train ride, the entire school had already heard about it. Maybe that’s why the reveal didn’t get the dramatic reaction he was expecting—just a hum of excited chatter.
And then Moody picked his moment.
A crack of thunder. A flash of lightning.
He stomped into the hall, his wooden leg clunking against the floorboards, and made straight for the staff table. He shook Dumbledore’s hand like an old war buddy while his magical eye whizzed around, scanning every student in the room.
"Let me introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor," Dumbledore announced cheerfully into the now-silent hall. "Professor Moody."
The man of the hour, and no doubt the subject of a million new Hogwarts rumours, took a slow, deliberate sniff of his sausage before taking a bite and washing it down with a swig from the silver flask he’d pulled from his damp coat pocket.
I stared, unable to look away.
"No way," I whispered.
2025-02-28 20:44:26 +0000 UTC
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"So Itachi-kun got himself into a bit of a mess… You know, he was here not long ago and said his little brother would be coming to see me soon," Nekomata said, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Didn’t look too great, though… I couldn’t quite put my paw on what was off at the time."
“You played with him too, didn’t you?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Obviously," the Divine Cat smirked. "But it wasn’t a proper Game. Sure, he put on the ‘ears of intent,’ it wasn’t his first time playing, and that’s never quite as fun. Still, what can I say? I’m sentimental like that. Little Uchiha was rather cheeky about the whole thing—quite amusing, really. Humans are funny creatures, so convinced of their superiority. Why ruin their delusions? Besides, I got him to promise me a new Game."
I pictured the ever-stoic Itachi Uchiha wearing a pair of fluffy white cat ears and barely suppressed a snort. Pure surrealism. No wonder Nekomata-sama was having a field day with all this.
The Divine Cat stretched his back luxuriously before letting out a sharp meow. Within seconds, the chamber filled with over a hundred armored feline warriors.
“You, you, and you,” he said, flicking his paw toward three of them.
“It’s a tremendous honor to participate in the Great Game, Nekomata-sama!” the chosen trio practically sang in unison in response.
Then…
The cat faces “melted” and soon reformed into the trio of Konoha genins: Sasuke, Sakura, and Naruto. Though they looked rather beat-up. ‘Naruto’ sported a messy bruise under one eye, and ‘Sasuke’ had a gash across his face.
“Capture the them!” bellowed a hefty gray cat, easily twice the size of the others.
“Yes, Tekinoinu-san!”
And before I could even blink, the crowd swarmed ‘my humans’, tying them up in the blink of an eye, their delighted war cries filling the air.
“EXECUTE THEM! EXECUTE THE SPIES!”
Nekomata-sama and I strolled behind the mob at a very leisurely pace.
“You placing any bets?” the Divine Cat smirked as we stepped onto the rooftop of the feline fortress—right at the “head” of the giant sphinx-like castle.
“You think Itachi’s watching?” I asked, tail flicking. “That he’s gonna step in and save his little brother?”
“Not a doubt in my mind,” Nekomata huffed. “That little brat is slippery, and he’s good at hiding. But why chase him when I can just… lure him out?”
“Like dangling a mouse on a string,” I agreed. “And Shisui?”
“He’s nearby too. Probably tracking Itachi,” the Divine Cat replied with a chuckle as he squinted at the sight of our trio of genins each being hoisted by mysterious hooks that appeared out of nowhere. “I can sense everyone on my turf.”
“Handy feature,” I murmured.
Meanwhile, the spectacle continued. Spotlights crisscrossed over the ‘captured genin’, and from all around, like the rhythmic pounding of war drums, came an enchanted chorus of meows:
"DEATH TO THEM!"
"DEATH!"
"EXECUTE THE INTRUDERS!"
The sheer volume of that many cats baying for blood sent my fur standing on end.
"Executioner! Executioner!"
That deep, many-voiced murmur rippled through the crowd of nyako-ninja—which, apparently, was the official name for those big, armored war cats.
From our perch atop the castle’s ear-shaped towers, Nekomata-sama and I had the perfect view of the show.
A black-furred cat emerged from the shadows, dressed in a deep crimson hood with slits cut for his eyes, whiskers, and mouth.
Slung across his back was a huge executioner’s axe, its wicked edge glinting under the lights.
“Who’s first?” the Executioner growled, slamming the axe into the block with a boom.
"THE GIRL! THE GIRL!"
The roar of the crowd sent a shiver down my spine.
Still no sign of Itachi, despite the drawn-out ceremony. And at ninja speed, he could have been here ten times over by now…
Actually, now that I thought about it, Shisui might also jump in. The scene was genuinely unsettling—even I was struggling to sense any illusion. The fear crawling under my skin was very real. Even though, I knew this wasn’t really Sakura.
The girl struggled, but the warrior cats quickly restrained her again and pinned her to the chopping block.
A swift swing of the axe, and her pink-haired head went rolling across the stone floor, splattering everything in thick, metallic-smelling blood. Just like my Daishiki…
"Sakuraaaaaa!" Naruto’s gut-wrenching scream, along with my own, was drowned out by the triumphant war cries of the cat horde.
And then—darkness.
I think I just passed out.
How embarrassing.
Step. Step. Step.
Silent steps.
Too silent.
I couldn’t hear them, but I could feel them.
Weird.
I was still in the dark, but… it was warm.
And…
Was the darkness purring?
Something smelled good. Not just good—comforting.
Familiar.
A warm breath ghosted over my fur. A rough tongue rasped across my forehead.
I was both here and far away at the same time.
Kami help me, if I pass out and miss something interesting…
GET UP, TORA! NOW!
You’re a ninja cat! Not some weak, pampered house pet!
Life’s not easy! And for your humans? It’s even harder!
There’s still more battles ahead—
MOVE!
BREATHE!
EYES OPEN! CHAKRA, FLOW. FROM MY MY PAWS, TO THE TIP OF MY TAIL, FLOW!
“You can do it, little one, nya” the darkness murmured. It believed in me.
“Humans come and go… and we can’t stop it… We live too long… and yet we love them too deeply, though we pretend otherwise… Silly little kitten… You have such a big heart…”
I walked through the darkness, following the voice.
"You’re revealing the biggest feline secret yet?”—for some reason, a childhood cartoon song popped into my head, one where I only remembered one line: "There’s no creature stronger than a cat, I bet…"
“How very true, little one,” the darkness chuckled.
And it sounded just like Nekomata-sama.
My eyes fluttered open, reluctantly but surely. And I was very glad they did.
"Not a bad hiding spot, Itachi-kun," Nekomata-sama drawled with satisfaction, acting like he hadn’t noticed me temporarily slipping into unconsciousness.
Well. I am sure he had. Especially after his yellow eyes studied me for a second before he smirked, whiskers twitching.
"And Sakura-chan? Her head—?" I hesitated. I wasn’t sure I wanted to look.
"It was just a cat illusion," Nekomata huffed. "The head’s fake, but Chisan is doing a fantastic job playing the role of a decapitated corpse. Truly gifted."
"Uh, yeah… totally," I swallowed, braving a glance. It looked disturbingly real. The blood, the smell, the aura of death…
"Feline genjutsu is the highest form of illusion," Nekomata-sama boasted. "Even insects can ‘see’ it. Animals, too. And humans? With their pitifully limited perception of reality? Please."
Huh. And to think I once lamented turning into a cat.
Before I could dwell on that, the guest list expanded.
Uchiha Itachi had finally arrived—Shisui right on his heels.
With a flick of his wrist, Itachi sent a kunai flying, slicing cleanly through the ropes suspending ‘Sasuke’ and ‘Naruto.’
The nyako-ninjas, recognizing the ‘terrifying Uchiha,’ immediately prettended to shriek in terror and scattered. Some bolted for the castle’s interior, some dramatically threw themselves ‘overboard.’ Though, judging by the lack of splashing, they probably just ran along the walls.
And then, Itachi finally noticed Shisui, who burst in right after him.
“Dispel and dissapear! My Mangekyo Sharingan sees through these stupid illusions,” he snapped, waving a dismissive hand at Shisui.
Oh, sweet summer child.
Shisui didn’t even think about dispelling himself.
"I’m sorry about your friend," Shisui said, glancing at ‘Naruto,’ who was hunched over the ‘corpse.’
"Sorryyy~?"
The fake Naruto’s voice warbled with a distinct purring undertone.
‘Sasuke,’ for extra dramatic effect, burst out laughing—a wild, unhinged sound—before his arm stretched and morphed into a clawed paw.
"Another illusion?" Itachi muttered, glancing between them, now ‘surrounded’ on three sides.
He leapt back, fingers flashing through hand seals. A murder of crows burst into existence around him, cawing wildly.
"Just now, he made a genjutsu with his shadow crows," Nekomata hummed beside me, tail flicking idly. "To human eyes, it looks like he’s vanished—like his body shatters into birds. Quite well executed, really."
Shisui’s pupils spiraled with Sharingan.
Oh, I loved how clear everything was in this place. The contrast. The lighting. The atmosphere. Perfect for the pure, unadulterated high-definition ninja action that was about to commence.
It seems like Shisui too, saw through the illusion.
Because he promptly drop-kicked Itachi across the rooftop.
"I'm real!" Shisui growled. "Let me help you, Itachi!"
The fake ‘Naruto,’ ‘Sasuke,’ and ‘Sakura’s corpse’ in the meantime took that as their cue to bail.
Which, uh… yeah.
Watching a ‘headless Sakura’ silently sprint away was—
Deeply unsettling.
And then.
Oh, then we got to the good stuff.
The epic and real ninja fight—the kind I’d dreamed of witnessing all my life!
I could barely keep up with all the action as they whirled around the place doing boom and pow.
It was incredibly fast and agile, full of spitting fireballs, swapping places with crow clones. Kunais flew left and right. Then, suddenly, both of them froze, staring wide-eyed at each other.
“Now, it’s time!” Nekomata-sama said and rushed from his seat, simultaneously returning to his normal size.
I leaped after the Divine Cat to follow and… found myself back in that familiar “nowhere” again…
“Find Itachi, little one, and help him…” the darkness whispered after me in a soft, purring voice.
TN: I think this is my worst chapter yet
2025-02-28 20:40:07 +0000 UTC
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Castling the Long Way
Mad Tiger
2025-02-27 00:38:11 +0000 UTC
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I perched on the roof above the gate, watching as Sasuke, Sakura, and Naruto struggled to gain entry into Torideneko. Honestly, the cat guards were straight-up messing with my three little shinobi, all of whom were now wearing fluffy cat-ear headbands. Sasuke, Sakura, and Naruto were down on all fours, enthusiastically pouncing at some kind of “cat grass” the guards had tossed in front of them, meowing like kittens. I was laughing so hard I nearly rolled off the roof.
From what I could hear, the locals found it just as hilarious. My sharp ears picked up whispers about how “the Game has started again” and how “these funny little humans are really putting on a show.” Basically, my team was getting completely bamboozled. Their entrance had caused quite the commotion, and judging by the hushed murmurs, everyone was “getting ready for the Game.” I still had no clue what this so-called Game was, though Papa-san had mentioned something about it earlier, claiming that “Nekomata-sama invented it.” But he hadn’t elaborated, and I’d totally forgotten to ask Sagashi. The whole thing reminded me of The Truman Show—only this time, the unwitting main characters were my poor teammates.
As the guards kept toying with my squad, a hush fell over the crowd. Cats scattered, darting off in different directions like they were taking up strategic positions.
“This is so much fun!” Naruto suddenly yelled, snapping my attention back to him. The way he spoke sounded slightly off, like his words were getting lost in translation, but somehow, my brain still understood them just fine. Weird.
Then, one of the guards flicked Naruto’s nose, making him sneeze so hard he nearly cracked his forehead against the stone bridge that connected the sphinx-shaped castle to the mainland. Huh. I guess that “rabbit hole” we went through earlier had teleported Sagashi and me straight onto the island while these three had to take the long way around. Neat.
“This is a human!” the guard suddenly gasped in exaggerated horror, as if he’d just now realized. At first, I didn’t get what was happening, but then I saw it—Naruto had sneezed so hard that his cat-ear headband had flown off. Ohhh. That was intentional.
Sasuke grabbed Sakura’s wrist, and the two of them bolted straight through the gates.
“ALARM! ALARM!” the guards shrieked, and suddenly, the entire place exploded into chaos. Huge and small cats alike sprinted onto the scene, hastily strapping on armor and wielding spears with suspiciously soft-looking tips. From the looks of it, if you unscrewed the tips, you’d probably find the very same blades of grass my little ones had been playing with, pretending to be "real cats."
For a split second, I wasn’t sure whether to chase after Sasuke and Sakura—who had already vanished into the labyrinth of corridors—or Naruto, who had just been dramatically thrown out of the gates. Then sirens blared, and giant searchlights started sweeping across the ground like a full-on prison escape movie. Welp. Guess I’m going after Sasuke. I still needed to take him to Mama Wasei and Papa Wasei so they could actually talk to him as an official representative of the Uchiha.
Watching the Game unfold was… actually pretty entertaining. The cats weren’t even trying to win. Most of them didn’t even unsheathe their claws. Sasuke “cut through waves of enemies,” who giggled behind his back and whispered about how beautifully they were letting him win. They were guiding him—carefully, subtly. He “discovered” that Nekomata-sama was inside the central tower, “overcame” the castle’s defenses, and kept making his way forward, never realizing he was being herded like a lost kitten.
I stuck to the shadows, following as Sasuke finally climbed up into the “head” of the sphinx-cat castle. From the whispers of the surrounding felines, I gathered that any human child participating in the Game was completely safe inside Torideneko. That put me at ease about Naruto and Sakura.
“You actually made it here?” a silky voice purred from behind a curtain of hanging beads in the massive, torch-lit chamber. The flames flickered with an eerie blue glow, casting strange shadows across the high ceilings. The silhouette behind the beads twitched its ears. “And who might you be, brave little boy?”
“I am Uchiha Sasuke,” my player declared. “Are you Nekomata? Hand over your paw print willingly, or I’ll take it by force!”
The shadow behind the curtain shifted, hunching slightly, and then—soft laughter. My fur bristled. That wasn’t a normal laugh. It had weight. Power.
“And you have the courage to say that to my face?” the voice mused.
I caught a disturbance in the air behind the curtain—someone was weaving hand signs. Sasuke stiffened, trembling on the spot. Oh damn. Nekomata-sama just hit him with a genjutsu.
“And what about you, little one?” That smooth voice was suddenly directed at me, and I nearly jumped out of my fur. “I can smell you. Come out.”
Hesitantly, I padded forward and stopped beside Sasuke, who was visibly sweating and twitching, locked in some internal struggle.
The beaded curtain parted, and out stepped… an absolute unit of a cat. He was massive. Easily a hundred times bigger than me. His fangs were longer than my entire tail. And then—he rose onto his hind legs.
Oh.
Oh no.
This wasn’t just a giant cat. This was a monster.
Nekomata-sama was a hulking mix of feline and dinosaur—razor-sharp teeth, silver fur streaked with dark stripes, thick claws that didn’t retract, and strangely shaggy ears that made his head look even larger. His eyes were bright yellow, but the black markings around them stretched up and down like stylized war paint.
“Greetings, Nekomata-sama!” I managed to squeak, bowing just in case.
“The Wasei clan?” He blinked in mild surprise. “Papa Wasei recently sought an audience with me, but I was… otherwise occupied. I have waited seven years for a new Game. Why do I smell your markings on this boy?”
“Because he’s my boy,” I said proudly. “People call him the last Uchiha. His clan was wiped out—along with every Wasei that lived among them—less than six months ago. That’s what Papa Wasei wanted to tell you.”
The enormous feline’s tail flicked once. “So, you are a Keeper?” he mused, stroking his chin with one massive claw. “Very well. You will tell me everything. Come.”
“What about Sasuke?” I asked, glancing worriedly at my human, who was now sweating bullets and gritting his teeth.
“He will break free from my illusion in about twenty minutes, using his Sharingan,” Nekomata-sama assured me. “That’s more than enough time for me to review your memories.”
A shiver ran down my spine.
Review my memories?
But there was no time for fear. This was my chance. If the Nekomata was willing to listen, maybe he could actually help us. Maybe Sasuke, Shisui, and Itachi could finally do something.
And if they could help, that meant I had done my job right.
I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and followed him.
By the time Nekomata-sama was done, I felt like an old, wrung-out dish rag. The experience had been just as disorienting as my hallucinations in the Forest of Death or the time Ino hijacked my body. My entire life had been flipped inside out, every moment replayed in vivid detail—joy and grief, laughter and loss, the deaths I had witnessed, the despair I had endured. Even old, half-forgotten memories had been dragged to the surface, leaving me raw and exhausted.
“You did well, little one,” Nekomata rumbled.
I barely had the strength to nod before collapsing onto a pile of cushions behind a screen. My head was spinning.
I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, only to be jolted awake by fleeting images—Kushina screaming, Naruto crying, Sasuke staring blankly at Itachi, and a massive, grinning fox morphing into a white, twin-tailed cat.
“Here, drink this, little one. It’ll help.”
When I came to, I found myself comfortably sprawled across a thick, warm expanse of white fur. Apparently, I had been out cold, and now I was curled up on Nekomata-sama’s massive back while he was lazily coiled atop his enormous cushion. A claw the size of a tree branch delicately extended toward me, holding a small dish of milk. Meanwhile, the oversized feline deity himself was sipping something deep red from a goblet as big as Naruto’s entire apartment.
“Where are my humans?” I sniffed the air and immediately picked up the familiar scents of Naruto and Sakura. “They were here?”
“Yes, they were,” Nekomata-sama purred, his golden eyes narrowing with amusement. “They got the paw print they came for.” He lifted his huge paw, revealing that the pad was still stained with red ink around the edges. Then he chuckled. “You should’ve seen the mess they made inside the illusion. Those little menaces nearly leveled my castle with explosive tags. Blew a hole in the roof.”
I paused mid-lick from the milk dish. Okay, that… yeah, that sounded about right.
“They’re both sleeping now,” Nekomata-sama added, waving a tail lazily toward the next room. “Time moves differently here. But don’t worry about them.”
Feeling my strength slowly return, I sat up. “Wait… that was all an illusion? You can control illusions?”
“Of course,” the giant cat chortled. “Now then—shall we go find Shisui-kun and Itachi-kun? I haven’t seen them in ages… I can’t wait to lay eyes on them. They must be all grown up now—human children sprout up so fast.”
I blinked. “You know them?”
“Why, of course,” he purred, stretching out like a lazy housecat. “They both played the Game.”
My brain short-circuited for a moment. Shisui and Itachi played the Game?
Nekomata-sama suddenly rose to his full height, and I yipped in surprise as I slid right off his fur, tumbling onto the cushion below. Before I could react, he began weaving hand signs at a dizzying speed.
And then—he shrank.
One moment, he was a towering, monstrous feline deity with enough chakra to smother the entire room. The next, he was… my size.
“Well? Shall we take a little stroll, nya~?” he asked, his new, much smaller form giving me a sly, toothy grin.
I just stared.
This new Nekomata was a sleek, light-gray cat, built almost exactly like me, except his ears were slightly droopy, and the dark markings around his eyes remained. His once-massive twin tails had merged into a single, normal one, split down the middle—half black, half white. But the biggest shock?
He was wearing clothes.
A short, gray kimono, tied with a thin white sash.
And just like that, I suddenly felt very indecent.
On top of everything, my sharp nose picked up something I hadn’t noticed before—his scent. The same scent I had smelled back in that workshop in Ryu.
So that’s who it belonged to.
What the hell had I just gotten myself into?
2025-02-27 00:37:18 +0000 UTC
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We lounged around the Burrow’s living room for a good while, everyone sprawled wherever they could, cups of tea balanced on knees and chair arms, still buzzing from the match. I was feeling pretty content, letting the others do most of the talking. We were home, safe, and Luna had already sent me an owl to say she’d made it back as well—so there was nothing to worry about.
Fred and George were bragging about how they’d managed to get double the amount of autographs from the Irish team—apparently, they’d cornered the players on the stairs and were now calculating how much they could make flogging them off to fans.
Ginny, meanwhile, was proudly showing Mum Viktor Krum’s signature on her programme while fending off the twins, who were promising her the moon and stars in exchange for it.
Percy, as usual, was full of himself, going on about how he’d been in the same box as the Minister and a bunch of Quidditch stars, and had witnessed the trophy ceremony up close. The rest of us just kept reliving the best moments of the match, retelling every spectacular move like we hadn’t all been there to see it ourselves.
“Dad, is it true they’re bringing back the Triwizard Tournament this year at Hogwarts?” I asked casually.
Dad nearly choked on his tea. “Ron! Where on earth did you hear that?”
I smirked. “You’re not the only one who works at the Ministry. Overheard someone talking when I went to get water… So? Is it true?”
Dad sighed in defeat. “It’s true.”
“Ohhh!” The twins perked up instantly. “Brilliant! We’re definitely entering—”
“Oh no, you are not!” Mum cut in sharply.
“What’s the Triwizard Tournament?” Harry asked, glancing at Hermione, who had already opened her mouth to answer, but Mum shut it down before she could.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” she said briskly, standing up and glancing at the clock. “Right now, bed. All of you.”
We grumbled for show, but between the excitement of the match and the late night, we were all too tired to put up much of a fight.
The next day was a lazy one. Staying up half the night had caught up with us, and no one really surfaced until late afternoon. By then, everyone was itching to try out some of the feints and dives we’d seen at the match, so we spent the rest of the day messing about on our brooms. Shame the backyard wasn’t nearly big enough—no room to really go for it.
The Daily Prophet was oddly tame as well—no Dark Marks, no riots, just gushing articles about the game and in-depth match analysis. Exactly what Charlie had predicted.
“With an event that high-profile, someone had to take my report seriously,” he said, flipping through the paper. “Even if they didn’t entirely believe it, they’d have strengthened security around the campsite and that Muggle’s house—just in case. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement works directly with the Auror Office. That means anyone tied to either department would’ve been aware of the extra precautions.
“Malfoy’s got Fudge in his pocket, and if your vision was right, Ron, then a lot of Death Eaters are still lurking around the Ministry. They must’ve decided it wasn’t worth the risk and called off the show of force.”
Made sense. Probably why Crouch hadn’t let his son come to the match either. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t complaining.
By evening, Bill pulled me aside and led me upstairs to his room, where Charlie was already waiting.
“For starters,” Bill said, pushing a few hefty coin bags across the table, “here’s your winnings and your betting slip.”
“Cheers, Bill,” I said sincerely, scanning the neat figures on the parchment. Fifteen thousand. That’d be enough to buy a place of my own once I came of age. No more crashing at home until I ‘got on my feet’—I could sort myself out properly.
“That’s a lot of money, Ron,” Bill said, watching me carefully. “You could do a lot with it… Just be careful it doesn’t go to your head.”
“Don’t worry,” I replied dryly, sweeping the coin bags into my school satchel, which was already charmed to hold more than it looked. “I’ve got plans.”
“Right, enough lecturing,” Charlie cut in impatiently. “Ron’s got his head screwed on. Now, Bill—what’s going on with Gringotts and our problem?”
“Same as before,” Bill said, leaning back in his chair. “There are ways around it, but you need to tell me exactly what you’re planning. Goblins don’t forgive easily. If you lot screw this up and get caught, Azkaban will seem like a holiday.”
Charlie met his gaze and said flatly, “It’s about him—You-Know-Who. He gave Bellatrix an artefact that makes him practically immortal. She stashed it in her vault.
“Now, in theory, it’s fine staying there. But as long as it exists, he can’t be killed. There’s going to be a war, and it’ll drag on forever unless we do something about it. Our family won’t be safe.”
Bill frowned. “You’re sure?”
“Would I risk everything on a hunch?” Charlie snapped, running a hand down his face before meeting Bill’s eyes again. “Don’t ask how I know, just trust me—I do. A lot of what’s been predicted has already happened.
“Ginny nearly died in second year—another one of those artefacts nearly drained her magic and took over her body. We managed to stop it. This one has to be destroyed too.”
The room fell silent.
After a long pause, Bill spoke. “I’ve been offered a transfer to Gringotts’ main branch,” he said thoughtfully. “If what you’re saying is true, Charlie, I’m going to take it. I’ll be in a position to help.”
“That’d kill your career,” Charlie said sharply. “I wasn’t planning on dragging you this deep—just needed your advice.”
Bill snorted. “If this gets as bad as you say, what the hell does a career matter? Without me, your chances of pulling this off without getting caught are slim to none.
“The Lestrange vault is on the most heavily guarded level in the bank. I already know the majority of the security charms, and I can disable them. As long as you don’t take anything else from the vault, I won’t break my contract with the goblins.
“But I can’t enter the vault myself—my oath prevents it. That’s the main problem. To unlock it, a goblin with the right clearance has to place their entire palm on the door. There are ways around that, but it’s going to take time.
“And even if we get inside, the artefact is bound to be enchanted with its own protections. We need to figure out what they are first, and I don’t have access to that information yet.”
We sat in Bill’s room, the air thick with tension.
"Flagrante Curse and the Doubling Charm," I said, watching my brothers' eyebrows shoot up. "That’s the security inside the vault. But we’re not taking anything, just bringing in something transfigured into a branch, hooking the cup, and dousing it in venom. The dragon can be driven off with an iron-clad bludgeoner, and the Thief’s Downfall can be disabled."
Bill frowned. "You know an awful lot about this, Ron," he said, narrowing his eyes. But he didn’t push for details—he knew he wasn’t getting any.
"Alright, Ron, you head off. Bill and I will go over everything," Charlie said, standing up.
I nodded, feeling oddly light as I left. At least I wasn’t handling all of this alone—having someone to back me up made all the difference. That little boost of confidence stuck with me for the rest of the week. The only thing putting a damper on my mood was that Charlie still hadn’t figured out a way to deal with Barty Crouch Sr. He was too high up, his record too clean—so spotless he’d even locked up his own son. And trying to expose how he smuggled Junior out of Azkaban with Polyjuice and his wife? No one would believe it. If we sent in an anonymous tip, it’d land on Crouch’s desk before it even reached the Auror Office. No, this needed serious planning…
The morning before we left for Hogwarts, we had a last-minute shopping trip planned. Mum had already picked up our school supplies, but Harry and I ran around the village for a couple of hours before lunch, getting haircuts, stocking up on Muggle clothes, and grabbing some sweets, while the twins kept Hermione entertained. The excitement of heading back to Hogwarts buzzed through me—right up until Mum came into the room with our freshly laundered and pressed school robes.
There it was—sitting right on top. A deep maroon robe that looked like an overlong dinner jacket, properly battered with age. I stared at it, barely hearing Mum as she chirped away, folding Harry’s clothes and showing him what she’d picked out, all while rustling through bags of silky, emerald-green fabric. I wasn’t jealous, really—I knew she just wanted to take care of him, make sure he had what he needed. If anything, I was certain she would fuss over me the same way if she could afford to.
But the fact that she couldn’t didn’t make this any easier to swallow. And that’s when the anger hit.
"Look, Harry," Mum cooed, oblivious to the storm brewing in my head. "I picked this out to match your eyes…"
"Mum," I interrupted, forcing a smile, lifting the frayed, lace-edged cuff between my fingers. "This… thing. What exactly did you pick it to match? Because it sure as hell isn’t my eyes. Maybe my face? If I put this on, I’ll blend right in—bet I’ll be the same shade as this once-faded thirty-year-old rag."
Mum froze mid-sentence, looking stunned. Harry stared at me, mouth slightly open.
"That’s your dress robe, Ron," Mum finally said, her voice tight with frustration. "Your father has several like it. And don’t you dare speak to me like that."
"Oh, great. Didn’t realise I was being sent off to a parade," I snapped, trying to bite back the urge to either punch something or break down in furious, burning tears.
"Stop being ridiculous, Ron," Mum said, her cheeks turning pink. "It’s for the Yule Ball. It’s on your list."
"Yeah, can’t wait to see how impressed everyone’ll be," I muttered bitterly. "What’s next? Should I start wearing an old pillowcase around the house like a house-elf?"
"Watch your tone, young man," Mum snapped, her patience finally gone. "I spent ages finding that. You know the selection wasn’t exactly great. If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to go stark naked."
"Brilliant," I spat. "Might as well. At least then no one will laugh at me for looking like a prat in some moth-eaten relic. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to lose my virginity before I die of embarrassment."
The slam of the door was my only answer.
"Err… Ron—"
"If you even think about offering to buy me a robe, we’re having a row," I hissed through gritted teeth, furiously stuffing my things into my trunk without looking at him.
Harry hesitated, then sighed. "I wasn’t—I just thought… You said you made a lot off that basilisk venom," he said quietly. "You could just buy one yourself—"
"Harry, you don’t get it," I snapped, spinning around, my anger deflating just a little when I saw the genuine worry in his eyes. "That money’s not for this. The Dark Lord is coming back. We’ll need gold—for Portkeys, for hiring people, for bribes, for whatever."
"But a robe’s only, what, eight Galleons? You could—"
"I could do a lot of things, Harry," I cut in coldly, before muttering under my breath, "Just don’t know why it always has to be me…"
I wasn’t sure he understood, but I didn’t want to keep talking about it. So I turned on my heel and stormed out.
On my way down the stairs, I nearly ran into the twins coming up.
"Mum’s in the kitchen crying," one of them said, frowning. No anger, just mild confusion. "What exactly did our little golden boy say to her?"
"Yeah, mate, you were shouting so loud, they probably heard you in Scotland," the other added.
"Let me through," I said flatly, stepping forward.
Something in my face must’ve put them off questioning me further. They stepped aside without a word, and I marched past them, out the front door, and into the garden.
I wandered for a while before grabbing my broom and taking off. I needed to clear my head, and there was only one place I wanted to go.
Luna.
I spotted her as I descended—she was in her garden, collecting apples. Honestly, I nearly changed my mind about visiting, but the second I saw her, I had to land.
"Oh, Ron, perfect timing," she greeted me cheerfully, as if she’d been expecting me all along. "I was just about to have some tea with my apple jam. I do hope you’ll join me?"
"Yeah, alright," I said immediately, reaching for the basket handle. Right now, I’d have agreed to fly to Jupiter with her if it meant not being alone. And not being at home.
Inside, she hummed softly as she brewed the tea, not the least bit bothered by my presence. She placed two cups on the table, along with a plate of washed apples. Everything looked exactly as it had last time I was here. Except for the plush toys—they now had colourful little outfits. They didn’t move anymore, just sat there, watching.
For the first time all day, I felt like I could breathe.
Luna smiled softly as she pushed a cup of tea toward me.
“Enjoy, Ron.”
I picked it up, glancing over the table. “Er… Luna? Where’s the jam you promised?”
She gestured toward the small pile of apples. “It’s right here.”
I blinked at her.
“I don’t actually know how to make jam yet,” she admitted. “But you can sprinkle some sugar on an apple and pretend it’s jam. Or don’t. They taste lovely on their own too. Sometimes I do that when I can’t be bothered to go to the pantry for a fresh jar.”
I grinned, suddenly reminded of my granddad. “You know, you could chop up the apple and dunk it straight into your tea. It’s even better that way.” I reached for an apple, running my thumb over its skin as memories of autumn afternoons flooded back. “My granddad always did that—he said the best apples were the ugly, misshapen ones. The ones with worm holes. Thought the worms had good taste.”
Luna’s face lit up. “Oh, let’s do that then!”
I finely chopped an apple into her cup, stirred in a bit of sugar, and gave it a test sip before handing it back. “Tastes better when it’s sweeter,” I said with a shrug. But Luna wasn’t paying attention—she was staring eagerly at the cup.
She sniffed, took a careful sip, and then squeezed her eyes shut in delight.
“Mmm… That’s lovely. Thanks, Ron. Now I know what autumn tastes like.”
We drank three cups each before finally pushing our chairs back, stuffed and content.
“You didn’t just come for tea, though,” Luna said, stretching out comfortably across the table. “You came for something, didn’t you?”
I mirrored her posture, resting my head on my folded arms, half-lidded eyes meeting hers. “Yeah. There’s a ball this year at school. A Yule Ball.”
She waited, tilting her head slightly.
I cleared my throat. “D’you want to go with me?”
Luna didn’t hesitate. “Alright.” She beamed, and I blinked, thrown by how easy that had been.
"I don't really like balls, but it would be interesting to attend at least one."
“Then how do you know you don’t like them?”
Luna turned toward me properly. “Because at balls, you have to dance in pairs, and I don’t know how,” She looked thoughtful. “"I only know how to dance alone, but then everyone thinks you're strange. And I wouldn’t want that...".”
I laughed, already picturing it—Luna in some lemon-colored dress, me in my horrid maroon robes, both of us swaying completely offbeat in the middle of the dance floor.
“Then we’ll both dance alone. Together,” I grinned. “Not that I can dance at all, really.”
Her eyes suddenly widened. “Oh! Wait here, I have something!”
Before I could ask what, she grabbed my hand and dragged me upstairs. She rummaged through a cupboard with great concentration before finally pulling out a dusty, flattened box.
“A self-teaching guide to dancing!” she declared triumphantly, lifting the lid to reveal a parchment inside. “I’ll bring it to school, and we can learn. It only teaches the waltz, though…”
“That’s plenty,” I assured her, winking. “And after that, we’ll just make it up as we go.”
I didn’t want to leave, but it was already dark, and I knew I had to. So, with a reluctant goodbye, I flew home.
I barely had time to land before I ran into the twins by the broom shed. Looked like they’d been out flying too.
“You’d best hurry, Ron,” George said, surprisingly serious. “Dad’s waiting for you.”
“And you missed dinner. Didn’t tell anyone where you were, either,” Fred added. “Mum’s upset. We covered for you—told her you let us know you’d be late—but you know what she’s like…”
I gave them a short nod of thanks and headed inside.
The moment I stepped into the sitting room, the quiet conversation stopped. A tense silence settled over the room.
“You’re late,” Mum said, lips pressed into a thin line. Across from her, Dad, Bill, and Charlie were all looking at me with varying degrees of disapproval. “Hungry? Do you want something to eat?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’ll just head up to bed.”
I turned toward the door, but Dad’s voice stopped me. “No. We need to talk.”
I sighed, already feeling my irritation bubble up. Brilliant. A family meeting. Exactly what I didn’t need tonight. If they’d just let me go to bed, I might’ve woken up tomorrow feeling less like absolute shite.
“Alright,” I muttered, stepping further into the room.
Dad started pacing by the fireplace, fixing me with a stern look. “I hear you threw a tantrum today. Disrespected your mother.”
I slumped into an armchair, stretching my legs out in front of me. “You think that was a tantrum?” I let out a humorless laugh. “You lot bought me that monstrosity of a robe—what could possibly be worse than that?”
Dad’s expression hardened. “Mind your tone,” he said sharply. “You know our situation, Ron. Your mother and I do our best to make sure you lot have everything you need.”
I let out a slow breath. “Alright, let’s just drop it. Mum, I’m sorry—I was out of line, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Can I go now?”
“You’ll stay and listen,” Dad said firmly, stepping toward me as if he thought I might make a run for it. “I thought when I showed you this house, you understood—”
“Yeah, I understood,” I cut in, pushing myself up from the chair. “I understood today that in this house, I’m no one. Just the sixth son, the one you could’ve done without if Ginny had just been born first.”
Mum gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. Dad was on me in a second, slapping me clean across the face. I barely had time to register the sting before Charlie jumped between us, blocking him from getting at me again.
“Oh no, let’s not stop now,” I laughed bitterly, shoving past Charlie just enough to see Mum clutching Dad’s sleeve, holding him back. “I’m sick of being the one who gets the short end of the stick every bloody time! Why is it always me? You didn’t buy Fred and George a heap of old rags, did you? And Percy got a whole new wardrobe—because, what, he’s got a job now?!”
“So that’s what this is really about,” Dad scoffed. “Jealousy.”
“Jealousy?” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Right. Because I’m so desperate to be the next Bill—the pride of the family, the perfect eldest son. Or Charlie, the golden boy who’s good at everything. Or Percy, who’s so driven he’d probably hex himself if it got him closer to his next promotion. Or maybe I’d rather be one of the twins, because at least they get to be something. At least they’re good at something. At least people notice them. Or Ginny—everyone’s darling, the only girl, the baby of the family. And me?” I laughed again, short and sharp. “I thought maybe I’d earned some respect, at least. I never complain. I never ask for anything. I’ve worked for everything I have outside what you can give me, so I don’t burden you. I could’ve bought my own bloody dress robes if you’d just told me—but instead, you threw some old heap at me and called it done.”
“If you knew we were struggling, you should have helped,” Bill cut in. “Instead of standing here moaning.”
“Oh, should I?” My voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Tell me, Bill—when’s the last time you paid for anything in this house? You’ve been working for years, and I’ve never seen you bring so much as a bloody dishcloth home. And for the record? I’m fourteen. It’s not my job to figure out how we make ends meet, or why we can’t. It’s yours—Mum’s.
“I get it,” I went on, barely pausing for breath. “You don’t have the money. Fine. You could’ve just told me. Said, Ron, we’re short right now, but we’ll save up and send you a new one before the ball. It wouldn’t have been the nicest, but at least it’d have been mine. Or hell, just say that. Tell me, Ron, we know it’s not much, but we love you, and we’ll figure it out. But instead, you threw this at me—some secondhand castoff from someone who’s been dead longer than I’ve been alive.
“This is my first ball,” I snapped, ignoring Charlie’s quiet attempt to cut in. “I’m fourteen. It’s important. And you didn’t care. Not enough to think about what it’d mean. Not enough to think about me. Just enough to tick a box.
“But then, why would you?” My voice went flat. “I’m just the sixth son.”
Silence. Then, without another word, I turned and walked out.
I half expected the twins to be lurking outside, but thankfully, they were nowhere in sight. The last thing I needed was another argument. Instead, I took off down the lane, needing to walk, to breathe, to let the cold air cut through the fire still burning in my chest.
Tomorrow, Mum would come find me first, she always did. Dad would take a couple of days to cool off. We’d move on. We always did. But it’d stay with me—because no matter how much we swept things under the rug, some things never really went away.
I didn’t think my parents were bad people. They worked hard, they gave us everything they could. But there were just too many of us for it to be enough. Too many kids, too little money, and plans—grand, noble plans for the Weasley name. And I? I wasn’t part of those plans. I wasn’t the heir, the prodigy, the golden child. I was just another body to fill a room.
And I understood. I did.
But I couldn’t accept it.
And as soon as I was old enough, I would leave. Not because I hated them. Not because I didn’t care.
But because I deserved to be more than an afterthought.
2025-02-27 00:34:53 +0000 UTC
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Demons of Night City
Elden Ring: My Ending
Life is Good
2025-02-26 05:10:06 +0000 UTC
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Everything settled back into routine. Training, studying, hanging out with the guys—though, unfortunately, not as much as I’d like. Penny fit right in with the group, bonding fast with Kristi, which meant our evening study sessions were now a trio event. And at night, well… my Sunshine and I got up to all sorts of mischief.
I had a few concerns about potential pregnancy—I mean, we haven't even graduated yet—but Penny put my worries to rest by flashing me a pack of birth control pills. Not that I’m against kids or anything, but now is definitely not the time. Relationships need time to grow, and our current situation is... complicated. I also had a call with Spider-Girl, setting up our first joint patrol for the night after Penny leaves the country.
Not because she wouldn’t let me go—just didn’t want her sitting up all night, stressed out of her mind, while I was running around town. The whole patrolling thing, to me, is more of a training exercise. I don’t plan on going full crazed vigilante mode, scouring the streets every night like some kind of nocturnal bloodhound. Once my work with the police and SHIELD becomes more professional, I’d rather operate on-call, responding to alerts rather than aimlessly prowling the city. Jameson, annoying as she is, had a point—coordinated efforts with professionals would be way more effective than playing hero solo. Plus… responsibility. I don’t feel competent enough to act alone yet. Training doesn’t count as real experience.
The senior mutants successfully negotiated with the injured engineer. According to Jean, the woman was completely reasonable and had no prejudices against mutants. She was eager to accept both the job and living arrangements at the school, had no complaints about the salary, and signed an NDA without hesitation. Turns out, she’d already signed plenty of non-disclosure agreements in her life, and Jean didn’t detect any history of breaking contracts or betraying trust.
Valerie Blanc—thirty-six, top-tier education, spent her whole career at Hammer Industries, only to get screwed over by a backstabbing colleague during her first solo project. Classic office politics over funding. She burned all her bridges with her old employers and left in a storm of mutual resentment. Still, young, ambitious, and undeniably talented, Valerie figured getting a new job would be a breeze.
She was wrong.
Stark didn’t even let her apply. To this day, she has no idea why. Over at Oscorp, she messed up herself—accidentally implied that Stark had a monopoly on the market. Realized her mistake too late. Got the classic, “We’ll be in touch,” but that call never came. To make matters worse, her former boss at Hammer started spreading less-than-stellar recommendations about her. One thing led to another, and she was essentially blacklisted.
The day SHIELD took her in for testing, after my call to Coulson, Jean and Cyclops had already secured her agreement to work at the school. The SHIELD girls showed up, took her for a medical checkup, and brought her back a couple hours later. So, my job here? Done.
Meanwhile, McCoy and Banner were putting me through the wringer with every test imaginable. The biggest hurdle? My abilities interfered with most scans. Physical readings were near-impossible to take because of my absorption field. The best they could do was sound-based scans, which were… vague at best. But according to Beast, that was minor. Most of the experiments focused on, Let’s see what happens when you try this, while also studying the effects of my abilities beyond the energy absorption field.
Unlike Ghost Rider, I couldn’t power up my own body. No super strength, no crazy regeneration, no turning into a sexy, supermodel skeleton on fire. Creating ammo? Also a no-go. But what did work? Manipulating hellfire, demonizing weapons and armor—hell, demonizing any object, really. The transformation seriously boosted item’s durability and performance. Everything became harder, faster, stronger, better.
Even something as simple as an aerosol spray turned into a five-meter flamethrower. A neat trick, but I still wasn’t getting any personal physical boosts, which was frustrating. I had a theory—maybe because I was a knockoff Rider? A bootleg Spirit of Vengeance? I had access to their energy type thanks to Joan Blaze, but I wasn’t actually bonded to a Spirit of Vengeance, which probably played a big role in how the real Riders functioned. Things like turning into a flaming skeleton, generating infinite ammo, and probably not needing a personal energy reserve.
On the upside, my energy vision range was growing. Whether it was from frequent use or natural progression, I wasn’t sure, but I could now see up to eleven meters and forty-one centimeters. Not exactly world-shattering, but hey—forty extra centimeters is a big deal. Maybe my energy pool was growing too, but we had no real way to measure it other than my gut feeling.
Banner had an interesting take on it. She suggested that my energy vision was expanding gradually to avoid sensory overload. A sudden, massive jump in range could fry my brain. After all, I had no control over it—my energy sight was always on, even when my eyes were closed. And yeah, now that I thought about it, adjusting to it had been rough in the beginning. Even now, I was still getting used to seeing things that weren’t actually there.
Training? Training was hell.
Oyama apparently took my request for two hours of free time as some kind of personal challenge. Not only did she ramp up the intensity of my training, but she also started lecturing during exercises. Mini-lessons in combat theory, tactical applications, historical context—anything and everything. And at the end of each session, I had to summarize what I’d learned, explain my takeaways, and answer follow-up questions.
And heaven forbid she thought I wasn’t paying attention.
If she even suspected I wasn’t fully engaged, she would beat the absolute shit out of me. Kicked my ass straight into an empty battery state, then just a little further for good measure. After those sessions, the girls had to drag me to a charging station.
Penny, to her credit, hated it. She watched those training sessions with sheer horror. Looked at Oyama with rage. But she never tried to interfere, which I appreciated. We had a talk about it, and in the end, she accepted that if I wanted to survive, I had to train like my life depended on it. Because, well… it did.
On Penny’s third day at the school, Blob and Toad showed up.
Goddamn, was I happy to see them.
Fred bear-hugged the life out of me, rambling on about how much weight I’d lost—which, to be fair, I was never big to begin with, but hey, let him have his moment. We chatted for a bit, but I didn’t hold them up too long. They’d come to see their daughter, and I knew Fred would definitely be hitting up McCoy’s lab for a catch-up session.
Fred’s a goddamn legend. A total flirt. And an amazing cook. He once joked that his real mutant power wasn’t size or strength—it was his ability to make a god-tier meal. Slapped his belly and laughed his ass off.
Huh.
If I ever set up some boys' nights, I should definitely invite him.
Fred, Harry, me… Pyro and Iceman? Eh, maybe not. They’re cool, but I wouldn’t exactly call them drinking buddies. More like casual acquaintances. Scott? Absolutely not. That guy’s the definition of a buzzkill, plus Jean and Storm have him whipped beyond salvation.
Logan?
Nope. Wouldn’t come. And even if he did, he’d just sit in the corner, brooding. Also, drinking with someone who has a god-tier healing factor is a waste of alcohol.
Which got me thinking…
Maybe that’s why Logan’s so pissed off all the time?
Damn. Who else could I invite?
Colson?
…
Pfft. Okay, but seriously, why not?
Dude’s solid. Works for SHIELD, but he’s actually competent and not a total tool.
And hey, they didn’t even make me sign any paperwork for the prosthetic. That was… interesting. Either SHIELD changed their approach, or their analysts just cooked up a new recruitment strategy.
That day, Blob joined us for testing in the lab. McCoy had asked him to use his gravity manipulation on me, and he happily obliged. At first, he applied just a little pressure, but when he saw that I didn’t react at all, he started increasing the intensity.
And, well… nothing.
Gravity felt exactly the same.
It probably looked ridiculous—Blob standing there, concentrating, while I just stood across from him, completely unaffected. No flashy effects, no cinematic cutscenes—just the tiles cracking beneath Fred’s feet. I even jumped a couple of times, did a few squats, looked at McCoy, and shrugged. My energy container was filling up, sure, but that was it. I wasn’t particularly impressed.
Unlike the two nerds who were practically vibrating with excitement.
Fred and I exchanged confused looks—thank you, Fred, for making me feel less like an idiot—and Banner finally explained what was happening.
“You’re ignoring gravity, Toby!”
And? Ooooooh! Aaaaaah!
“You get it?” Jenny grinned at my dumbfounded expression. “You’re unconsciously absorbing gravitational force. If you ever learn to control it, you could completely negate gravity at will. Not only that, but you’d be able to recharge your container much faster, without relying on a charging station.”
And just like that, my brain was already picturing myself flying. Dodging, weaving through the air with a jetpack. Damn… too bad my levitation is virtual, like that joke about a virtual million dollars and three hookers.
We finally got the gang together!
True to her word, Yuriko sat a few tables away, stoically “keeping watch” for three hours. Honestly, after spending time at home, I didn’t think this was necessary, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Last time I let you out of my sight, you showed up on a hellfire bike with a woman who looked like a burning skeleton. It’s not that I mind, but I’d rather see firsthand how the hell you’re pulling this off. Then, in an ultra-rare display of emotion, she almost smirked. Almost.
The lineup: Harry, Flash, Parker, Penny, me, and… Gwendolyn Stacy, who had officially joined the school’s TPO trio—Thompson, Parker, Osborn. I, being the comedic genius that I am, pointed out that they were now STOP, which earned me a hiss from Thompson and an elbow to the ribs from Harry.
We had a great time. The guys shared what they’d been up to, and I told them bits and pieces of my own life. They, of course, ganged up on me, demanding a live demonstration of my mutant abilities. I dodged that bullet, saying that it was too personal for mutants to showcase their powers in public spaces. I was pretty sure I heard Yuriko snort from her table. Yeah, definitely eavesdropping.
Then Gwen decided to tell the story of how Salamander had saved her.
That, my friends, was a ride.
I started sneaking glances at my reflection, half-expecting to see Roboute Guilliman staring back at me. Or maybe the God-Emperor himself…
It’s great when people are grateful, sure, but damn, that was excessive. Petra, meanwhile, was barely holding in her giggles. Penny, though? Oh, Penny.
She straightened her shoulders, beaming at me with a look that made my chest puff up. That look alone was worth more than any praise from a random (albeit adorable) girl.
Harry also threw in his two cents, giving Salamander a man-to-man nod of approval. He liked what I was doing, said it was an ‘honorable path’. Masculine solidarity and all that.
Flash, on the other hand, wasn’t exactly thrilled, but she didn’t go full disapproval mode either. Interestingly, she turned out to be a huge Spider-Girl fangirl and spent a solid ten minutes gushing about how amazing she was.
That’s when Parker started fidgeting like crazy.
I, of course, had to point it out, joking to Harry that his girl might leave him for Spider-Girl. Or, alternatively, steal her for herself. This got a round of laughter from Thompson, who casually declared, Hey, if she joins our relationship, I’m all for it.
Parker’s reaction? Red ears, narrowed eyes, a betrayed glare in my direction.
Beautiful.
We wrapped up the night in high spirits, heading back to school in the best of moods.
Meanwhile, Tobias’ “Auntie” was having a moment of her own.
Fräulein was… surprised, to say the least. Her nephew had somehow given Betty her arm back. Well, not given—replaced it with a new one.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t afford to investigate too closely. Too many SHIELD agents were now hovering around the boy’s inner circle. A double-edged sword—it provided a layer of security but also complicated her work. She’d have to be even more careful.
Taking a sip of her strong coffee, she allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Even though her original plan to install a customized prosthetic had been derailed, things were still going well. The boy was gaining connections, making moves, learning how to navigate the world. He wasn’t rushing in blindly, but he wasn’t being passive either.
And, of course, an assigned surrogate was carrying his child. A girl, no less.
A future soldier?
Perhaps.
A worthy heir, if Tobias proved himself?
That remained to be seen.
She wasn’t ready to give up on that possibility just yet.
What did bother her was SHIELD’s unexpected win in this whole situation. She had hoped to sour Tobias on them, but Coulson, the agent she had dismissed as incompetent, had turned out to be very good at his job. She had lost a low-level operative in the process, but at least Dill remained blissfully unaware of how deep her meddling had actually gone. To Dill, it was just small favors for a friend, nothing more.
And the friend?
Well, she would be keeping her head down for a while—fully integrating herself into law enforcement, playing the honest cop until the heat died down. Nothing suspicious. Nothing out of the ordinary. SHIELD wouldn’t waste their time on a minor bureaucrat who’d simply been a little too ambitious.
They weren’t recruiting for Hydra, after all.
That thought made the woman chuckle into her coffee.
Looking down at her own right hand—her sculpted hand—she briefly considered what it would be like to have it replaced with a real one. Did she want her flesh and blood back?
Yes.
And no.
She had grown accustomed to it over the years. Besides, the mechanical arm had its advantages. More functions, hidden features. The lack of sensations? That had been easy to accept long ago.
And entrusting anyone else with her body?
Out of the question.
Elizabeth was just a cop, a mother, an ordinary woman. But her?
No, she wouldn’t place herself in anyone’s hands.
That said… acquiring a mutant with such abilities?
Now that was tempting.
A simple change of appearance, an easy disguise for field agents—that was just the beginning of what someone like that could do.
For now, though, there was no need to act.
The Japanese girl was training the boy.
SHIELD had staked its claim.
The police were fully convinced that they had come up with the idea of bringing supers into law enforcement.
And, more importantly, they had big plans for Tobias, believing that his example would attract even more useful recruits.
All she had to do now… was watch.
And focus on her real goals.
Police Station, Captain Stacy’s Office
"Mr. Brock, good afternoon. How can I help you?"
"Good afternoon, ma’am. I assume you've been informed that I’m with The Daily Bugle. I’m here about Salamander."
Captain Stacy let out a deep sigh and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
"Mr. Brock," she began in a tired voice, "I’ll be honest with you—I agreed to meet you during my work hours only because you had the courtesy to come in person. Your colleagues usually prefer to terrorize my officers over the phone. But I’ll tell you exactly what I tell all of them: I have no way of convincing Mr. Salamander to grant you an interview. That is not part of the police department’s agreement with him."
"I’m not asking you to, Captain." Eddie flashed his most charming, reassuring smile, raising his hands slightly in a placating gesture. "I just wanted to ask you to pass along a message—that Eddie Brock from The Daily Bugle would be extremely grateful for the opportunity to speak with him. We’ve actually met before, the night your officers assisted him in freeing the hostages." He extended a business card toward her.
"Hm… That’s doable." Captain Stacy took the card and placed it on her desk. "I’ll pass your contact information to Salamander, but I can’t promise you anything."
"Much appreciated, Captain!" Brock’s grin widened. "And forgive me for being a bit pushy, but my professional pride won’t let me leave without at least asking—would you mind answering a couple of questions?"
"I would mind." She cast a weary glance at the towering stack of paperwork on her desk and sighed deeply. Then, after taking in the sight of the rather handsome young man now looking just a little crestfallen, she softened, offering him a small smile and gesturing toward the visitor’s chair. "Ah, well, I suppose work isn’t going anywhere… and I don’t often have charming young men visiting my office."
"Thank you so much, Miss Stacy." Eddie’s smile turned dazzling as he sank into the chair. "And I don’t often get to interview such stunning police officers."
Captain Stacy threw him a playful look, laughing. "Careful with those compliments, Mr. Reporter—I may be a police captain, but I’m still young… and unmarried."
"And that only makes you even more irresistible, Captain…"
2025-02-26 05:09:05 +0000 UTC
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The one who strikes first and fast usually wins. That rule holds true no matter how well-trained you are. But training helps you set up that “first and fast” attack—and, more importantly, execute it right.
I waited two seconds, then tossed the grenade around the corner. A crackling burst filled the air, followed by screams of pain. A cold blue flash lit up the insulated panels of the Brazilians' hideout—not so much of a “hideout” anymore, since we were already inside.
Right after the blast, Becca and I jumped out. Close-range bursts tore into the still-writhing, stunned enemies. No more games, no mercy rounds, no tranq darts. I gunned down the left one—familiar face, though it was getting less and less recognizable under the zigzagging storm of smart bullets.
The Warden had some real kickback, but with this rate of fire and stopping power? Worth every bit of it.
The bullets shredded through his RealSkin and subdermal plating. Once again, white blood from Brazil’s intelligence agency was spilling because of me.
"Bam! Bam! Boom!" Becca’s voice rang out, cutting through the gunfire.
She’d just tossed some kind of homemade explosive at the Brazilians’ feet. It wasn’t as strong as a standard frag, and whatever casing it had was plastic—no sharp shrapnel hitting us. But the impact staggered them. Thick black smoke filled the air, laced with specks of glowing white blood.
These Brazilians were running top-tier chrome, but their fates were already sealed. Still, before their bodies even hit the ground, a third agent burst into the room.
He came in hot, Sandevistan already cranked to max. I had to counter with Kerenzikov, pushing myself back. It was like a firework went off in my skull—everything around me blurred with a greenish haze. But I’d adapted to this implant by now. No wasted movement. No erratic flailing.
My smart SMG wasn’t gonna be fast enough to track him—not a chance. That’s the downside of smart weapons. I almost launched a script, but then I spotted the grenade in his hand. He threw it with absurd force, timing it so it would go off nearly on impact.
Shit.
I shifted as far to the side as I could, burning the last fractions of a second my Kerenzikov had left. Ducked back around the corner, calculating the blast trajectory on instinct. Had to drop to the ground.
Helmet, vest, armored suit—turned my head toward the explosion and opened my mouth to keep my eardrums from blowing out. Didn’t help much. Still got slammed—ringing ears, pain, impact. Most of the shrapnel went over me. A few pieces hit my helmet and vest, but I had subdermal plating and reinforced bones under that. I could take it. I could still move.
The moment my systems rebooted, I was already on my feet, surging back into the fight. Hopefully, Becca was still standing.
She wasn’t just standing. She was thriving.
Unlike me, she had rushed forward instead of back. Now, she was standing over the corpse of our last attacker.
Half of his skull was blown out, despite the metal reinforcing his bones. His brain matter had turned into pulp, flecked with glowing chrome sparks.
Becca stood above him, holding a sawed-off shotgun in one hand, both barrels still smoking. One had even cracked from the blast. One-shot kill, but damn, what a shot.
"What the hell did you load that with?" I asked, reloading my SMG.
"Oh, you know," she winked. "A little love, a pinch of badass, and a fuckton of pyroxylin."
She meant military-grade smokeless powder.
Before I could respond, another Brazilian agent appeared at the far end of the room.
Not a combat op—his body language gave it away. He looked like he barely knew how to hold that assault rifle. But I figured all that out after we had already opened fire.
This time, the blood was red. It splattered across his white button-down—the vest he threw on over it had clearly been a last-minute decision.
Then I felt it. A dull ache in my limbs. A script attack.
The guy wasn’t a netrunner himself, but someone was running scripts through him as a proxy. I had to trace the source—
"V! Watch out!" Lucy’s voice cracked in my head.
It took me a second to realize what she meant.
No new enemies. No grenades flying my way. No drones, no cameras. Nothing else moving—
Wait.
Kerenzikov, now!
A bullet from Becca’s Noko D5 “Copperhead” slammed into my vest at point-blank range, lighting up my ribs with a burst of pain.
Her eyes flickered red-orange. A control script.
Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move right.
But I lunged at her anyway.
Dodged left, out of her line of fire. Let go of the Warden, grabbed her rifle barrel with my right hand, and drove my cybernetic forearm into her throat—just enough pressure to lock her up without crushing anything. At the same time, I hooked my right leg behind her knees. Classic takedown.
Becca hit the floor.
Kerenzikov ran out.
The problem didn’t.
I pressed my weight onto her, pinning her arms to keep her from unloading another mag into me.
Her movements were jerky—Lucy must’ve hit her with an implant disruptor. Good. That meant no Sandevistan.
My emergency bioware kicked in, stabilizing my breathing.
We wrestled on the ground, the Copperhead still clattering as rounds fired wildly.
Through the transparent visor of my helmet, I saw her face—empty, doll-like.
No emotion. Just glassy, vacant eyes.
Click. Empty mag.
Good.
Or—
Becca reached for her pistols.
I locked both her wrists with mine, pinned her legs with my knees. Ended up straddling her, doing my best to hold her down without actually hurting her.
"Where the fuck are you getting all this strength?" I growled, straining to keep her in place.
She thrashed like she was possessed. At least the hack made her movements clumsy. Even so, she was strong. Too strong.
Good thing I’d been keeping up with training. Good thing I had a cyberlimb.
She writhed beneath me, trying to break my grip, even snapping her teeth like she was about to start biting.
Crack!
She slammed her helmet into my chin.
I gritted my teeth, lowered my head to meet the next hit head-on. Let our helmets absorb it. Pressed my cheek against her tactical vest, against the aramid bodysuit beneath. Felt her heart pounding like a drum.
Control scripts weren’t great for your health. But she’d be fine. Implants would compensate.
She just needed time.
"Choom, what the fuck are we doing right now?" Becca suddenly asked in a completely normal voice.
She stopped thrashing immediately.
"We’re getting up," I panted. "And then we’re going to put a bullet in the fucker who tried to control you."
"Oh, cool. Yeah, let’s do that," she said, rolling to her feet like nothing had happened.
Looked like we were out of combat operatives. We’d taken out five—four soldiers and one corporate lackey. That left the netrunners, including Kiwi.
They were next.
I had a rough idea where to find them. Lucy helped too, marking a digital arrow for me.
Becca and I moved toward a white plastic door, insulated like the walls.
Blow it open with a grenade?
Nah. Better idea. Use my optics first.
The place was built in a rush—cheap materials.
I grabbed one of the insulation panels with my cyberlimb, clenched my fingers. Artificial muscles and servos strained. The panel groaned, then gave way.
A quiet crack.
Strength check, passed.
Behind the bare concrete wall, a shape flickered into view—a man crouched in ambush.
The outline was clear.
Netrunner suit.
Smart pistol—Tsunami Kappa.
Held tight in both hands.
Take him out immediately? No. I needed someone alive—so let’s do this differently.
"On my mark, kick the door in and get back," I whispered to Becca, pulling out Apparition. "He's got a smartgun. He won't have time to lock on."
"Got it."
"One, two… hit it!"
Becca slammed the door open with a powerful kick and darted to the side. I extended my cyberlimb into the doorway, gun first, and fired a burst into the runner’s silhouette, aiming for his gut.
He tried to return fire, but the Kappa couldn’t lock onto me—my body was out of sight. The Brazilian doubled over, clutching his stomach. A second passed, then another—his combat readiness was tanking fast.
"Drop your weapon!" I shouted.
He didn’t comply.
Fine.
I grabbed the ripped-out panel from earlier and hurled it at him with all the force of my cyberlimb. A second’s hesitation was all I needed. I dashed inside, tackled the runner to the ground, and jammed a tranquilizer needle into his neck.
Dark skin. Bald. His pupils, dim behind gray optical lenses, dilated as he gasped for air. He barely had time to react before the tranq kicked in.
He slumped.
I jabbed him with a coagulant—no need to let him bleed out. Didn’t hit him with a stim, though. No reason to wake him up yet.
Alright. Moving on.
The next step was planting the virus directly into the Brazilians’ systems.
"Did they manage to wipe a lot?" I asked Lucy.
"No. I’m restoring some recently deleted files. Kiwi won’t resist. But be careful."
"You sure about that?"
"Yeah. I already talked to her. She’s in the next room with two Brazilians."
"Got it. Let’s go."
I gestured for Becca to follow.
We reached the right door. Could I pull the same panel trick?
Yep. The fasteners didn’t stand a chance.
Through the exposed section of the wall, I saw three figures. Two standing, weapons ready. One sitting on the floor in the corner, head down—Kiwi, most likely.
Time for another Apparition trick.
They scrambled for cover—behind tables, behind equipment. Didn’t help them. Kenshin rounds punched through all of it like paper.
A guy and a girl. An agent and a netrunner. Neither had enough combat chrome or experience.
By the time Becca and I stepped inside, it was just a cleanup job.
"Wait…" the agent croaked, raising a shaking hand.
I shot him twice in the head.
Young. Not a soldier—covert ops, maybe.
Once upon a time, I could’ve ended up like him. Another nameless casualty in someone else’s fight. A short line in a failure report: operation compromised, personnel lost.
"Get up. Slowly," I said, turning toward the figure huddled under the table.
"Yeah, yeah," a husky, dead-cold voice replied.
Kiwi, alright.
She rose slowly, keeping her hands where I could see them. Red coat, mask covering most of her face. The few exposed parts of her skin looked sickly pale. Her eyes, narrowed, held more exhaustion than fear.
"Oh. You’re here too, Becca," Kiwi said.
"Shut the fuck up," Becca snapped. "I know what you did."
Kiwi shrugged, indifferent. Like it wasn’t even worth a response.
"That was the last of them," Lucy said in my ear. "Grab Kiwi’s shard, then get out."
"You owe me a shard?" I asked Kiwi.
She moved just as slowly as before, handing me a small case.
"Documentation on their viruses. Everything I managed to save. Over there—" she gestured toward a bullet-riddled, blood-splattered desk "—a bunch of their daemons and programs. Some of it should still be intact."
"Damn, you really leveled up in backstabbing former allies," I said, keeping her in my sights as I rummaged through the desk drawers.
Yeah. Expensive shards. The kind used for high-grade combat programs. This would come in handy.
Time to figure out how to leave this friendly little hideout.
"Lucy, what’s the weather outside?"
"Shit. Heavy lead showers incoming. The mercs know something’s up. The door’s locked down, but they’re waiting outside."
Hmm. Call in the Animals? Try negotiating?
How many were left out there?
We took out three on the roof, one at the door. That left about sixteen.
We had seven on backup, plus Lucy running net support. Me and Becca. Worst case, Falco and Panam. Maybe we could handle it ourselves.
I pinged Jackie, laid it out.
"If your girl’s got our backs, we can flank these pendejos easy. Got grenades."
Perfect.
"Let’s move," I said, gesturing for Kiwi to follow. I led her into the room with the unconscious Brazilian runner. "Sit here and make sure he doesn’t bleed out."
She nodded, sliding down against the wall.
Becca and I checked the Brazilians’ armory on the way out.
Damn good thing we hit them first.
There was a fucking flamethrower in here. Plenty of other heavy-duty weapons too. Not a huge arsenal, but enough to make our job a lot harder if we hadn’t caught them off-guard.
Also, a set of tranquilizer darts.
Not much of their gear was non-lethal, though.
"Can we please set something on fire?" Becca asked, yanking off her helmet and eyeing the flamethrower hungrily.
"No. The whole damn building might go up."
"Fine. I’ll take this!" She grabbed an M-32 automatic grenade launcher off the rack. "Choom, grab the tripod?"
"On it."
The M-32 was old-school but reliable. Good stopping power.
We rushed to the exit, where Lucy fed me a security cam feed.
A group of mercs waited outside, backs to us, weapons ready. Good positioning. They were spread out, even had a few guys covering the rear.
But I was banking on surprise and a fuckton of explosives.
"We’re set, V," Jackie said over comms. "They aren’t watching the perimeter much. Your girl fried one of them. No sign of the rest. We’ll walk in like we own the place. Just give the word."
"Now," I said, planting the tripod and pulling out a high-power frag grenade.
"Una, dos, tres, cuatro…" Jackie counted down. "Go!"
Thunder cracked.
Explosions rocked the building.
Gunfire filled the air.
I watched on Lucy’s feed as the mercs spun, caught completely off guard by the attack from behind.
"Lucy, hit it!" Becca yelled, gripping the grenade launcher.
We positioned ourselves so the door shielded us. Even when it opened, we’d be mostly out of sight. The mercs? Sitting ducks.
The doors slid apart.
I tossed my grenade—probably unnecessary.
The M-32 roared, launching 40mm rounds one after another.
The concussive blast shook the whole building.
Shrapnel shredded the mercs—already panicked from the ambush. Those who weren’t dead or critically wounded broke into a full retreat.
"Move up," I told Becca, helping reposition the launcher down the hallway.
"Dios mio! What the fuck are you guys using?!" Jackie’s voice came over comms.
"Borrowed some toys."
"Just don’t fucking hit us!"
I signaled Becca to hold fire.
Gunfire still rattled through the building, but it wasn’t organized anymore. The mercs had lost cohesion.
"We’re almost near you," Jackie said. "Don’t shoot, for the love of all that’s holy—Jesus Christ, there’s blood on the fucking ceiling."
His last words weren’t just over comms—I could hear him now.
Damn.
That went even better than expected.
"About ten guards ran off," Lucy reported. "Doubt they’ll be a problem."
Yeah, I figured. These Night City security agencies were barely more than glorified rent-a-cops. Their main job? Terrorizing unarmed or poorly equipped workers, shaking down debtors, and making life hell for the unlucky. The Brazilians hired them as a glorified alarm system—a disposable meat shield at best.
The building was fully under our control now.
Didn’t even have to call in the Animals.
Now came the fun part—looting. And then I’d ring up Angie’s crew for cleanup duty.
2025-02-26 05:07:22 +0000 UTC
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Ranni pressed her spectral lips together.
"This… is not how I envisioned my brother’s liberation."
Melina nodded numbly.
Of course, they had expected Konstantin to win. Perhaps not this decisively, but win nonetheless. After all, he already possessed three Great Runes, had defeated one of the strongest demigods, claimed his runes and, naturally, his Great Rune, making himself even stronger. In the end, he had farmed a lot.
But the way in which the Tarnished had won…
The fearsome Lord of Blasphemy had been reduced to a snake-cutlet. There was no beauty in this battle, no elegant rolls, no perfectly timed dodges. Only the brutal beating of a heretic.
For the first time, they had seen Konstantin angry.
The Soulslike community had a reputation for being toxic—rightfully so. But what did they know of waifu fans? Those creatures that existed in every fandom where even the faintest trace of the word "woman" could be found.
And angry waifu fans—especially angry waifu Soulslike players—were terrifying by their very existence alone.
"He really liked the gift…"
Melina’s barely audible whisper made Ranni shoot her a displeased glance.
No matter how you looked at it, that "gift" had just turned someone she once cared about into mincemeat.
Unfortunately, she was in no position to complain about the untimely ends of close relatives. If her goals conflicted with her feelings, she would discard those feelings and bury them deep within her doll-like heart.
Regrettably, the opposite rarely happened.
But when it did…
"Konstantin should hurry up and—"
The spectral demigoddess narrowed her eyes thoughtfully for a moment.
"…continue my quest…"
Melina blinked in surprise, glancing at Ranni, only to see her vanish in a burst of starlight.
"Witch," Melina noted instinctively, tightening her grip on the jar in her hands.
She needed to get it to her Tarnished as soon as possible—before she accidentally did something to it. Like crack it. Or drop it. Or shatter it into dust. Or—
Melina hastily faded into incorporeality, heading toward him.
He had just finished praising the sun. Oddly enough, he did not forget the obligatory ritual of victory over a powerful enemy.
Konstantin stood before the battered corpse of the snake, lost in thought. His anger still smoldered within him, but it was beginning to fade.
He needed a few moments of silence to digest the runes and distribute them throughout his body. He didn’t have the time to reach a Site of Grace—he had once again been hit with an absurd influx of runes, not to mention another Great Rune.
It felt as if, if he didn’t feed most of them to his Inner Sun soon, he might just explode.
A strange feeling.
As he felt the four keys to sweaty gamer supremacy now pulsing inside him, Konstantin involuntarily glanced down at his loincloth.
A random scrap of fabric, yet it had proven more durable than the sturdiest armor. And he knew it wasn’t the cloth itself—that was completely ordinary. It was more like his own power was protecting it.
The power of censorship.
Good thing he never bothered with those kinds of mods.
Kosta shook his head, pushing away unnecessary thoughts. As always, he decided to shelve them for later.
Quests wouldn’t wait.
"Your vessel, Konstantin," said the false Finger Maiden, handing him the jar with her usual detachment.
The Tarnished nodded just as impassively, accepting this most sacred of gifts and storing it away in a place only he understood.
The most important things were already in his possession. Everything else was secondary.
"Your clothes are ruined again…" Melina muttered. "I’ll get you some ne—"
New clothing appeared on Konstantin’s body. Slightly different, but still resembling his old travel attire—light and practical.
"I kinda just threw it toge—"
Kosta suddenly fell silent as he saw the way her eyes lit up.
Meli-Meli wasn’t particularly expressive, but right now, she looked so happy, she might as well have been on the verge of breaking into dance.
‘…But all I did was just dress myself…’
Absolutely delighted, the waifu had been about to say something when she suddenly turned and noticed Sellen and Rya approaching. Adjusting her hood, she disappeared into the immaterial realm.
There would be time to discuss things later. Perhaps… she could finally take advantage of the next healing session.
Or the next two.
Or the next three…
…Or perhaps… not just three…
For a moment, Kosta could’ve sworn he saw the incorporeal false Finger Maiden stumble.
…Probably just his imagination.
"Your spirit is quite unusual, Konstantin," Sellen mused as she approached, rubbing her chin while surveying the scattered remains of the snake. "My student-teacher, wouldn’t you be interested in studying this creature later?"
She hadn’t seen his journey to Nokron.
Seeing the curiosity shining in his waifu-sorceress’s eyes, Kosta could only shrug.
"When I get the chance."
"When you fulfill your destiny and claim Elden’s power," Sellen corrected, raising a finger with a sly smile. "Just don’t forget about me afterward."
Now, Konstantin held four Great Runes. Even with two, he could have marched to the Capital. With three, even more so.
But four Great Runes in the hands of one Tarnished, someone who could wield them to their full potential…
Sellen doubted the Lands Between would ever witness anything like it again.
And he accomplished it in such a short amount of time, no less.
It was impossible. Absurd. Ridiculous. Laughable. Terrifying. Unnatural.
There were endless words to describe it, and still, they wouldn’t be enough.
Upon hearing Sellen’s remark, Kosta’s expression hardened.
"If I ever forget about you, I’d rather turn myself into a disco ball."
The sorceress let out a loud laugh but quickly collected herself. After a brief moment of contemplation, she narrowed her eyes in thought as she has come to a descision.
It was hard to say—even for the Greater Will itself—what exactly she had just decided.
"The Lord… The Lord is… I… Wh-what should I do…?"
Rya was far less composed. And who could blame her? She had just learned far too much, all at once. And most of it was not good. The girl was teetering on the edge of something far worse than death.
Perhaps the best comparison would be someone who had spent their entire life playing Happy Farm and Truck Driver Simulator, only for their dearest friend to recommend playing Dark Souls II after a long workday.
Or something like that.
"Praise the Sun."
The steady, confident voice made Rya stare at him in confusion.
She had been wondering since the beginning—why was he so kind to her?
Especially considering the fact that he must have known the truth from the start—about her origins, about the horrors of her manor, about how she had unknowingly lured him into certain death.
He should, at best, hate her. And yet, he was being kind.
Why?
"Praise… the Sun?"
Kosta nodded.
"No matter how difficult things get, the Sun will always light your path."
Rya’s pupils shrank.
"But… what if there are clouds?"
"Parry them with your shield," Konstantin replied, dead serious.
"And… what about the night?"
The first answer hadn’t clarified much. If anything, it had only made her more curious.
"Even the Presence of the Moon didn’t save it(1)," he said, just as unfazed.
"Then…"
Kosta sighed.
"First and foremost, the Sun is within us. Now—repeat after me…"
He raised his hands, fixing Rya with a firm gaze. Reflexively, she hesitated—then mimicked his movements.
"Again!"
"B-but…"
"PRAISE THE SUN!"
"PRAISE THE SUN!!!"
"Again!"
Sellen folded her arms thoughtfully.
Strange as it was, Konstantin’s approach was working.
Repeating after him, Rya truly felt something begin to warm her from within.
Most likely, it was nothing more than a simple hope, one that had taken root in the girl’s heart just like it had in so many others before her.
Through his actions, his casual-hardcore power, and his unwavering will, this man had already accomplished the impossible. And he continued to do so, right before everyone’s eyes.
Whatever he said or did—all of it held a weight too great to resist. Not that anyone really wanted to resist it.
"You…"
Sellen turned her head and saw Lady Tanith, her half-naked Crucible Knight, and Patches skulking somewhere in the background. Of course he was the first to run and report everything to her.
It was difficult to put into words what exactly the mistress of Volcano Manor was feeling at that moment. The last thing she had expected to see upon arriving in her husband’s lair was his flattened, utterly pulverized corpse, his mangled face frozen in an expression of shock, confusion, and pain. But mostly confusion.
Destruction was everywhere. The cavern itself looked like it could collapse at any moment. The air was thick with the scent of blood, but this time, Tanith knew it was not the blood of countless victims.
It was her husband’s.
Tanith’s gaze shifted to Konstantin and Rya, who were gloriously praising the Sun.
"So it’s true," she finally spoke, drawing attention to herself. "You actually defeated the lord."
Konstantin glanced at her and simply shrugged.
Lady Tanith’s eyes flicked to Zorayas, who was deeply engrossed in the ritual, waving her serpent tail enthusiastically, her mask discarded—seemingly useless now.
Who would have thought everything could fall apart so suddenly? Years of schemes, intrigue—all of it crumbling before the sheer might of a single man in nothing but a loincloth. Such was the law of this world, one that could only be challenged by power of equal measure. A paradox.
"I am deeply grateful to you," Tanith said evenly. "Our lord was weak. You have shown us the truth. Even if he had been stronger, he still would have lost."
"Grinding alone doesn’t compensate for skill," Konstantin muttered, then added, "He had more strength than Radahn(2). But no mastery. And he never would have."
Tanith, carefully listening to the man who had killed her husband, gave him a respectful bow.
"There is wisdom in your words, Tarnished. A brave soul who walks the most treacherous path shines the brightest of all. I admire you."
And she truly did. He had come with thunder and would leave with fire. An unstoppable force before which even the mightiest fell. The lady of the manor cast a sideways glance at her unwavering Crucible Knight.
Still… something about this powerful Tarnished unsettled her. Namely, his inclination toward nudity. And the fact that he was spreading this inclination to others with surprising success.
Then again, compared to her husband, his eccentricities were… harmless.
These men…
Tanith sighed. Unfortunately, she was merely a dancer. Disciplined, composed, loyal to her man (or whatever he had become)—but still, just a dancer.
"Defeat is not the end," she said after a brief pause. "Our lord is immortal. One day, he will return, stronger than ever. Until then, I will continue to follow the path and fulfill my duty. I will be leaving Volcano Manor soon. I advise you to do the same."
"I have one last thing to do before I go," Konstantin replied with a smile.
For some reason, he had the feeling that, despite the impending collapse of the cavern, the woman had no intention of leaving. No matter how normal she seemed on the surface, in today’s Lands Between, there were no truly normal beings left. Everyone had long since lost their minds to some degree.
Lady Tanith shuddered in horror as she saw Konstantin’s body ignite with crimson flames. Dark, destructive—not radiating warmth, but something else entirely.
After all, the Sun did not merely bring light and comfort.
It could burn just as easily.
The Tarnished crouched, pressing his hands against the ground, and then—
Hell itself erupted.
A storm of fire, so fierce it consumed the entire cavern in an instant, devouring Rykard’s remains as if it were alive.
Tanith barely had time to process what was happening before nothing remained of her husband. Not even ash. He would never be reborn in his body again. Not even the absence of death itself could save him now. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed to her knees.
"No need to feast on grilled snake steak," Konstantin remarked, then turned his gaze to the woman’s knight. "You’re going to have to take care of her. And not just her."
The Tarnished glanced at Rya, who was still standing there, arms raised mid-praise, her serpent tail curling nervously. The Hellish Fire that had suddenly swallowed her left quite the impression.
No. Definitely too many impressions for Zorayas in one day.
The Crucible Knight, unfazed by the flames, did not so much as flinch. He gave a firm nod, then dropped to one knee, bowing his head.
Of course, remaining as composed as ever.
"I don’t need that," Kosta said sternly. "Just keep grinding, and one day show me what you’re capable of. But take care of your mistress and the waifu. Even if they resist."
His gaze shifted to Rya, who flinched.
Whether he liked it or not, some waifus had a habit of self-destruction. In Soulslikes, that was practically normal. But that didn’t mean Konstantin was just going to accept it. He doubted she’d willingly stay with him or go to Stormveil Castle, so he had to make sure someone could look after her. At least until she recovered.
Perhaps his illusion could check in on her from time to time.
Blindly following the will of a waifu would not lead him to his own proper ending. Konstantin understood that.
"Yes, my lord," the knight replied just as sternly, rising to his feet. "Praise the Sun!"
Covered in draconic scales, the warrior raised his arms. In his eyes, the light of faith had fully awakened.
Still wearing only his loincloth, he silently strode toward Tanith, grabbed her, and hoisted her over his shoulder. She did not resist, continuing to stare at the spot where her husband’s remains had once been.
Rya, seeing the knight moving toward her, thought about doing something, but he was too fast. In the blink of an eye, she let out a startled cry as he threw her over his other shoulder.
"L-let me go…!"
"…"
The Crucible Knight ignored her.
"They still have much to discuss," Konstantin said. "Be careful—your mistress may have a potion of oblivion(3) with her. Don’t let either of them take it. And don’t kill Patches, even if he’s skulking around somewhere nearby. Understood? Then you may go."
The knight hesitated for a brief moment. That last part clearly confused him.
"This is our shared burden," Konstantin sighed. "It has to be this way."
The knight, after a moment’s internal struggle, gave a solemn nod.
They all carried a shared burden.
At first glance, Konstantin hadn’t been too fond of him. But now, he had to admit—the guy wasn’t the worst person he’d dealt with.
And his attitude was that of a true Soulslike player: he kept grinding, he had embraced the Sun. And the way they first met…
Well, many noobs naively believe that getting a good build will solve all their problems.
"I’ll definitely visit you later," he said, turning his gaze to Zorayas, who was still struggling to break free. "I’m sorry it has to be this way."
Rya gave him her saddest look, but in the end, she simply went limp on the knight’s shoulder, accepting her fate.
At the very least, she now had the Serpent’s Amnion…
"I understand…"
Kosta grinned in satisfaction.
"Things just keep getting curiouser and curiouser," Sellen mused, watching the powerful figure walk away. "You’ve grown taller, my student. How do you feel?"
She approached him, clearly intrigued. Now, she actually had to look up to meet Konstantin’s gaze.
The man focused on his sensations.
"I don’t feel any particular changes."
"What a weirdo," Sellen clicked her tongue. "Aren’t you afraid of getting too big?.."
He wasn’t. There was simply no time for that right now. Such… “side quests” could be dealt with later, after the main objectives.
"I see," the woman nodded, catching something in his gaze. "Well then, shall we leave before it’s too late?"
Sellen looked up.
They could hear a faint cracking and grinding sound spreading through the cavern. The ground trembled beneath their feet, dust rose, and stalagmites began breaking off one by one.
"Now."
Right after he spoke, a terrified scream rang out. Sellen quickly understood what was happening—his summoned spirit, a perfect copy of the man, was dragging a struggling Patches by the leg.
"F-friend, your spirit’s lost its mind! Do something before I get mad at—what the hell?!"
The Mimic Tear wordlessly passed Patches’ leg to Konstantin. He grabbed the bandit by the ankle and began dragging him toward the Site of Grace. Rykard couldn’t have picked a better place for his lair. It was perfect.
Without hesitation, the man caught the flow of Grace, and with Patches still in tow, lifted him up.
"Tanith might need help," Konstantin suddenly said, surprisingly amicably, stunning both Patches and Sellen. "You wouldn’t want to leave her behind like this, would you?.."
The bald bandit stared at the Tarnished in horror, gasping for breath.
"I have no idea what you’re—"
"Follow them. Occasionally, send reports to Stormveil Castle in Limgrave. I’ll make sure no one bothers you. If I’m satisfied with your work, I’ll help you set up a business. You did want to become an honest merchant, didn’t you?.. At this rate, Tanith might even take notice of you. A successful merchant would have much better chances."
Of course, Kosta didn’t believe that himself. He was simply trying to find a compromise. Maybe his patience with the bandit was excessive, but as he had told the knight…
This was their shared burden, and without it, dark fantasy would lose some of its… well, dark shades.
Patches groaned mentally (or maybe not just mentally), realizing that this terrifying psycho was reading him like an open book.
"Bloody hell, buddy, when did you get so good at sweet-talking people… Fine, I agree, damn it, you crazy bastard!"
"Great."
Kosta caught the flow of Grace, and after a brief pause to steady his senses, hurled Patches into it. With a startled scream, the bandit vanished, sent far beyond the manor.
The tremors in the ground became even more pronounced.
Konstantin knelt at the Site of Grace, extending a hand to Sellen. Now that he had—imperfectly, but still—wrapped up another important quest, he needed to move forward.
Specifically, he had promised to help a certain waifu. Fortunately, their journey wouldn’t take long.
Sellen approached him and took his outstretched hand. Just as another stalagmite broke loose and plummeted toward them, the Grace’s flow whisked them far away from the boss’s domain.
Before the Tarnished could say a word, Sellen suddenly tackled him, pinning him beneath her.
"I got a little bruised," she whispered into his ear. "Will you help me heal?.. I’m not foolish enough to try stealing you from that jealous girlie, but if it’s just a little, the tiniest bit…"
She had long been curious to see how this power would affect a real body. And though she understood that her actions were still somewhat… reckless, she wasn’t going to go too far.
At least not until the jealous girlie made a decision and stopped resisting.
After all, she wasn’t that crazy. Maybe just a little. Or perhaps a little more than a little. But still—not too much.
Sellen kissed the stunned Tarnished, though she didn’t stay calm for long herself. The energy surged into her body, reaching straight for her primeval glintstone.
It didn’t take long for her to understand why the jealous girlie had such a strong reaction.
Returning from another mission, Knight Bernahl hadn’t expected the manor to be nearly deserted. The only thing keeping it from feeling completely empty was the distant laughter of the inquisitor, echoing from the second floor. But at this point, his presence was no different from the ghosts lingering in the halls—hardly worth talking to. Faintly, he could see them at times, even exchange a few words.
Who would have thought that a specter would be his only real source of information?
"The Tarnished soul… has felled the lord… ooooh…"
Bernahl scratched his helmet in confusion. Then, realizing what he was doing, he pulled it off and scratched his actual head.
"Rykard fell at the hands of Konstantin, the Tarnished…"
That explained a lot. And, at the very least, it was surprising—this Tarnished had only arrived a few days ago. If someone had told Bernahl earlier that anyone could just walk into Volcano Manor and kill their enigmatic lord, he would have never believed it.
"Well…" Bernahl sighed. "The strong kill the weak. That’s the rule…"
He truly did believe in that rule. Their half-dead world had long since lost any traces of civilization, revealing the raw reality of things.
If the Tarnished had been able to kill Rykard, then he had the right to do so. It was that simple.
Leaving the specter (and the laughing inquisitor) behind, the knight stepped outside. Apparently, the day wasn’t done throwing surprises at him, because right in front of him—
Stood a sorcerer.
An old man in a cracked mask, somewhat reminiscent of the lady of the manor’s mask. He was bloodied and clearly exhausted. It was obvious he had been pursued and was not the one doing the chasing.
"Sellen. Where is she?!"
Seluvis knew she had been here. But now, her trail had blurred once again. She was close, very close!
Bernahl scratched at his helmet again, then cursed under his breath.
"You mean the sorceress? She already left with Kon—"
"Damn it!"
Seluvis didn’t wait to hear the rest. He vanished.
It wasn’t long before an entire group of knights arrived, led by a dark and imposing figure—Gideon. No Tarnished could mistake him for anyone else.
Luckily, he was too preoccupied to investigate what another Tarnished was doing in Volcano Manor.
Bernahl quickly realized what was expected of him.
"A strange sorcerer was just here, Sir Gideon."
"I see. Then we’re on the right path."
Before long, they too disappeared, leaving the aging knight alone once again. He lifted his gaze to the moon. Perhaps he should stay at the manor for the night and leave… somewhere come morning.
He had long since gotten used to the inquisitor. If he thought about it, the guy wasn’t actually that bad.
Just insane.
Then again, was anyone here normal?..
Bernahl sighed.
"I've noticed you. Show yourself."
It was shaping up to be a strange day.
‘Another broken mask?’ the elderly knight found himself wondering, resisting the urge to scratch at his helmet.
Before him, appearing seemingly out of nowhere (which, to be fair, was not exactly uncommon in the Lands Between), stood a slender man dressed entirely in white.
On the exposed part of the man's face, Bernahl spotted a strange mark resembling a trident.
The stranger smiled.
"You have sharp eyes, little lamb. Varre(4). That is my name."
‘Little lamb?’ Bernahl raised a brow beneath his helmet.
Yes, truly a strange day…
(1) Presence of the Moon is the secret final boss of Bloodborne. It is considered a conceptual being, though it ultimately could not withstand the even more conceptual forces of bored hunters.
(2) Defeating Radahn in a first playthrough rewards the player with 70,000 runes, compared to Rykard’s 130,000. The Blasphemous Lord also has significantly more health: Radahn’s HP pool is 9,572 versus the combined total of Rykard and the God-Devouring Serpent, which reaches 89,613.
(3) During Rya’s questline, Tanith will give the player a Tonic of Forgetfulness, which can be given to the girl, causing her to forget everything.
(4) More of a reminder than a footnote. Varre is the first NPC the player encounters upon arriving in the Lands Between. As previously mentioned, in this fanfic’s storyline, their meeting went… a little differently ಠ_ಠ.
2025-02-26 05:02:36 +0000 UTC
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Castling the Long Way
Mad Tiger
2025-02-25 06:53:04 +0000 UTC
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Finally, the big day arrived, and we were dragged out of bed at some ungodly hour—about four in the morning. I don’t think I’d ever been up that early in my life. We ate breakfast on autopilot, only properly waking up when we were already trudging through the morning chill and damp, following Dad along goat tracks in the dark.
Dad, of course, looked disgustingly cheerful compared to the rest of us, constantly glancing back and slowing down to throw out some supposedly encouraging words. Personally, as I shuffled along half-asleep, I couldn’t wrap my head around why we couldn’t just Apparate straight to the hill an hour and a half later instead of traipsing through the countryside at the crack of dawn. I mean, at least the Stoatshead Hill wasn’t too far, but Ginny’s grumbling behind me and Hermione’s occasional yelps whenever she tripped over a root weren’t exactly lifting my spirits. Especially not when I kept stepping into mole holes.
By the time we actually reached the hill, I was knackered, my lungs were burning, and I had properly decided that I needed to start exercising. I’d spent way too much time holed up with books, trying to cram everything at once.
But, of course, the fun wasn’t over yet. Now we had to crawl around in the grass looking for some random bit of rubbish that was apparently a portkey. Wizards, honestly. Would it kill them to just enchant the portkeys to activate at different times and hand them out with the tickets? Or at least tell people what to look for?
We would’ve been stuck wandering around in the dark for ages, but thankfully, the Diggorys turned up, rustling out of the bushes like a pair of overgrown badgers. After a short chat—where Amos spent most of the time throwing resentful glances at Harry, Hermione and Ginny sneaked looks at Cedric, and Cedric himself got caught up in a conversation with the twins—I nearly nodded off on my feet.
And then, finally, we were off.
Everything after that went just as expected. The only thing that really got to me was Mister Roberts. Reading about it in a book is one thing, but actually seeing it happen? It was disgusting. Heartless. Watching them wipe his memory over and over again, ten times a day, every single day, just because a bunch of wizards had decided to camp out here for a couple of weeks? It didn’t sit right with me at all. No one cared what that bloke was going through, how it was affecting him. It was just convenient for them. And these were regular wizards—not Death Eaters.
It made me think about Hermione, too—how she wiped her parents’ memories. The thought put me in an even fouler mood. She was always the first to jump in and defend anyone she thought was being treated unfairly, even when the rest of us rolled our eyes and told her to drop it. And yet… she’d done the exact same thing. The way people thought seemed to change when they got too deep into the magical world. Even someone as principled as her.
Still, once we started making our way to our campsite, my mood lifted a bit. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep making me morbid. Or the fact that I’d barely eaten and was freezing my arse off. But the sun was up now, the ground had dried, and I had other things to focus on. Everywhere I looked, there were witches and wizards from all over the world, magical tents of every kind, people out and about—proper excitement in the air.
I only remembered the twins and their stupid bet when I spotted Bagman. Should’ve asked Charlie to put a stake down for them too—he wouldn’t have minded. But I’d completely forgotten.
I pulled them aside and told them straight: stay away from Bagman. Claimed I’d overheard some Ministry workers talking about his debts to the goblins while waiting in line back at the Ministry. We’d gone through customs on the way back from the reserve—checking we hadn’t brought anything illegal into the country and all that—so it wasn’t a far-fetched story.
The twins looked a bit put out but took my word for it. At least they wouldn’t be losing money to Bagman. They’d still have enough left for some decent souvenirs.
Our spot was brilliant—stadium just past the trees, close enough to walk straight over. The only downside? The water pump was miles away, all the way near the caretaker’s hut. Dad decided we needed to hike all the way there first thing, despite the fact that our tent had a bloody bath in it. So clearly, it had water.
Turns out, though, magical taps don’t just conjure water out of thin air. The tents had built-in storage tanks—some could even refill automatically with the right charms, but it depended on how much you’d paid for the tent. Ours, apparently, wasn’t that fancy.
Dad, meanwhile, was buzzing, practically shaking with excitement as he clutched a hammer like it was his prized possession, eager to set up the tent by hand. I left him to it with Hermione and Harry, while the twins shot off to track down Lee Jordan’s campsite.
I started the fire with Ginny instead—Dad would’ve spent all day messing about with matches otherwise. A few scraps of paper, some dry twigs, and a handy Muggle lighter I’d brought along did the trick. Bit of smoke at first—everything was still damp from the morning dew—but it caught quickly.
Once the tents were up, Dad sent the three of us off to collect water while Ginny sorted out breakfast. By then, the sun was blazing, and the whole campsite was alive with activity. Every few steps, we ran into someone we knew.
Wood all but tackled Harry the moment he spotted him, launching into an excited rant about making second-string on some team. That took a solid twenty minutes to escape from. Then we ran into Seamus and Dean. I could tell this was going to drag on, so I slipped away while they were distracted and made my way over to Luna’s site.
Took me a while to find it. Their spot was right near the caretaker’s hut but off to the side, tucked close to the trees and the main road.
I spotted Luna from a distance—her pale dress and hair stood out against the greenery. She was weaving her way through the trees when I called out. She stopped, waving cheerfully, waiting as I picked my way over, dodging roots and potholes.
There was only a single narrow path leading past their camp, so we walked it together back towards her tent.
Theirs was easy to spot—bright blue, small but striking, shaped like an eastern pavilion. Classic Lovegood style.
"Luna, why’d you lot come a whole week early when you could’ve just used a private portkey and been here in a minute?" I asked, curious.
"But home isn’t going anywhere, Ron," she replied with a dreamy smile. "It’ll still be there, waiting for us. And it’s beautiful here… You can walk through the ordinary forest, talk, and not have to rush anywhere. And it’s so quiet…"
That’s when it hit me—there was no printing press here. No magazine. No meetings with other magical scholars. Just Luna and her dad, spending a whole week together, talking, walking, and not sharing his attention with The Quibbler or anything else. No wonder she was so content.
I turned down the tea—had only popped by to double-check that she and her dad were definitely heading home straight after the match. Their campsite was way too close to where things were about to go down.
As soon as a bleary-eyed Xenophilius wandered out of the tent, I figured it was time to go. Luna smiled at me as I left and promised to write in our notebook once they were safely home—so I wouldn’t worry.
That was what I liked about her. She never pried like other girls, never dug too deep or badgered me with questions. But she knew when something was off and did what she could to reassure me, in her own way.
I got back just in time for breakfast—and the arrival of my older brothers. And with my mood back to normal, so was my appetite. The sausages and egg sandwiches with fresh greens hit the spot.
Our campsite was right next to the main road, where Ministry officials were constantly coming and going. So most of the morning was spent watching Dad chat with every other wizard who passed by. Some even stopped for tea, had a bit of a gossip, then rushed off again. Personally, I would’ve rather been sprawled under a shady apple tree in the Burrow’s garden, knocking out another test for Flitwick, than roasting in the sun while eavesdropping on Ministry chatter. But no one asked me.
Two things, though, did catch my interest.
First, Bagman let slip that Bertha Jorkins still hadn’t returned from her holiday—even though she was supposed to have been back at work last week. But with all the chaos of the tournament, he apparently had no time to go looking for her. Claimed she’d done this before—disappeared for days on end a few years back. But I still didn’t like the sound of it.
Then Crouch turned up. He barely stuck around, just downed a cup of tea, muttered something about work, and left. But before he did, he gave Harry a long look. Proper serious bloke, that Crouch. If you ask me, he’d be better suited to leading the Department of Magical Law Enforcement than running International Magical Cooperation.
By the time I’d eaten three meals and napped twice, the road leading to the stadium started filling with vendors pushing carts.
Harry went straight for the omnioculars, buying a set for each of us—said it was our Christmas present. Hermione followed suit, picking up programmes for everyone. And me? I went for the big green supporter rosettes—couldn’t exactly turn up without showing some team spirit. We pinned them to our jackets and carried on browsing.
That kept us busy for another couple of hours, but time still dragged. The omnioculars, though? Impressive bits of magic, if the instructions were to be believed. Rewind and replay any moment, adjust the playback speed, built-in commentary, instant name recognition for every move and trick—turns out wizards can keep up with modern tech when they want to. Though, knowing our lot, they probably weren’t even British-made. More likely imported just for the Cup. But judging by the clunky bronze design, they were definitely wizard-made. No way Muggles would’ve built something that ugly.
By the time the sun set, lanterns lit the path through the forest, casting pools of light along the road. Somewhere in the distance, a gong sounded, and at long last, we started making our way to the stadium.
Crowds swarmed past us, pressing in from all sides. Laughter, songs, chants, snippets of conversation—it all blended into a buzzing, electric hum. The air itself seemed to vibrate with anticipation, sending shivers down my spine. And then we saw it—
The stadium.
Now, wizards in Britain? Not exactly known for their forward-thinking ways. But what five hundred witches and wizards had managed to build in just a year? It was unreal. I swear, even in my time, back in the year 2000, nothing like this had existed yet—not even in Russia.
The whole thing looked like it had been yanked straight out of the future.
Thousands of lights, a dazzling array of colours, beams of what had to be some sort of magical laser show. Music blasting from everywhere and nowhere at once. Surround sound. Giant floating screens that shifted between advertisements and live footage. This wasn’t just a stadium. It was an event—a full-blown spectacle with every special effect imaginable.
“Blimey,” I muttered, half-laughing. “The foreigners have arrived and brought civilisation with ’em.”
“What are you on about, Ron?” Harry asked, pausing mid-step to glance at me, his wide-eyed stare still locked on the glowing adverts overhead.
“Just thinking back to our first year,” I said, grinning as I took in the scene. “Remember how we had to trek through the dark to get to the boats? You’d think, with all this magic, they could’ve strung up a few lanterns instead of making a load of first-years stumble around in the pitch black. But no—only now do they pull out all the stops. Wouldn’t want the foreigners thinking we’re a bunch of backwards hicks, would we?”
“First-class seats… Minister’s Box,” came a voice from up ahead. “Good for you, Arthur. Your lot’s up two flights, then to the right,” the witch checking tickets informed Dad, ushering us along. “Hurry along now, don’t hold up the queue…”
The Minister’s Box turned out to be fancy. Like, proper fancy—like something out of a posh theatre. Plush velvet seats, gold accents, thick carpets… The works.
And our seats? Right in the front row, directly by the railing. The entire pitch stretched out before us, crystal clear.
I glanced around, eyes scanning the box—then stopped short. No Winky.
That was the second thing that caught my interest. A bloody good sign, too. That meant Imperius was working, and the little house-elf was exactly where she should be—keeping an eye on Barty at the manor. And when Crouch Sr. turned up a little while later and took his seat, I fully relaxed.
In the book, Winky had been holding his place. But she wasn’t here. Which meant Barty Jr. wasn’t here either.
One disaster dodged.
The box quickly filled up with more guests, and I found myself wondering—how the hell had we ended up here? It didn’t take long to work out the answer.
Thanks, Bagman, and your dodgy law-breaking relatives.
The place was crawling with high-ranking Ministry officials, foreign dignitaries, and even the Ministers of both countries.
Fudge greeted Harry like a jolly uncle doting on his favourite nephew—beaming, patting him on the shoulder, and making sure he was introduced to all the big names. He even shook hands with me and Dad, and, to my surprise, managed to dredge up our names from the depths of his memory—including Hermione’s. Percy, meanwhile, was gawking at us like we’d just strolled in from another planet, but Dad seemed pleased with all the attention and didn’t look remotely surprised. He’d known about our little visit to the Ministry.
Malfoy, of course, couldn’t resist. While Fudge was busy making pleasantries with Narcissa, he threw a few digs at Dad, clearly relishing the chance to show off. And Draco? He was playing lord of the manor, pulling faces at us—full of contempt, as if we weren’t worth the dirt on his designer robes.
Thing is, he was wasting his breath. The way I saw it, Dad got us into the VIP box as a favour from Bagman, whereas the Malfoys? They bought their way in—with a donation, of course, not a bribe. Merlin forbid anyone call it that. So if anyone had no business strutting about like a peacock, it was him. Without their vault full of Galleons, they’d be watching from the nosebleeds with the rest of the plebs. But I suppose people like Malfoy always boast about whatever it is they’ve got.
Draco’s mum, though—I had to admit—was stunning. You didn’t see many women in Britain who looked like that. Proper aristocratic beauty, classical features, not a hair out of place. But her presence—that was pure Black. Cold, untouchable, like she was carved from marble. She actually reminded me of Snape—deadpan expression, not a flicker of emotion, but with eyes that saw everything. A strong, sharp gaze that carried the same quiet menace as a cocked rifle. The only difference was that hers were ice-blue, not black.
Honestly? I wouldn’t trade places with Lucius for all the Galleons in Gringotts. No telling who actually wore the trousers in that marriage.
Then, at last, Ludo Bagman burst into the box, all flustered and breathless, and the match finally began.
And what a match it was.
Now, I’ve never been the biggest Quidditch fan, but this game? This was something else. The energy in the stands was electric—people on their feet, shouting themselves hoarse, lost in the thrill of it all. And the game itself? Fast, brutal, precise—nothing like the school matches I’d seen before. This was Quidditch on an entirely different level.
And then there were the Veela.
They did me in completely.
At first, they just seemed like very beautiful women. But the moment they started dancing, something hit me—a raw, all-consuming need. Not like Harry, who just wanted to impress them—no, his was naïve, almost sweet. But me? I knew what it felt like to touch a girl, and that magic of theirs twisted it into something feral. Lust, magnified by a thousand, burned through me, drowning out every rational thought. It was like an instinct—something primal and ancient, clawing to the surface.
Thank Merlin for Charlie. The second he heard the growl rumbling in my throat, he jabbed me hard in the ribs and chucked his jacket over my lap. That snapped me out of it, just in time. If anyone had seen—hell, if anyone had noticed—I’d have died of embarrassment.
After that, I kept my eyes firmly away from the Veela, focusing instead on maintaining my mental shields—thank you very much, Occlumency practice.
The match lasted about ninety minutes, and when Krum finally caught the Snitch—securing Ireland’s win—I cheered louder than anyone.
Not because I was overjoyed about the result.
But because I was rich.
I had money. Actual, proper money.
Drunk on victory and euphoria, we took our time making our way back to the campsite, stopping every few steps to celebrate with someone we knew. Then, after packing up the tents, we activated the portkey.
Forty minutes later, we landed in the field across from the Burrow.
And sprinting across the grass to meet us—arms open, apron flapping—was Mum.
2025-02-25 06:51:32 +0000 UTC
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"Jump in after me," commanded Sagashi-san before disappearing into what looked like a rabbit hole in the back room of Granny Cat’s shop.
I sniffed at the cool air seeping from the tunnel—definitely too small for even a child to fit through. It carried a faint, tantalizing scent of catnip.
"What am I? Alice?" I muttered, flicking my tail. Maybe this was some kind of secret passage to kitty paradise?
"Follow Sagashi-san," instructed the black she-cat. "Don’t be afraid."
"I’m not afraid," I huffed. "But maybe he could, I don’t know, move aside first?"
I waited a few seconds, then slid in after the Siamese. After what felt like a long, weightless moment, I landed on something soft.
Sagashi’s eyes glowed green in the dim light. We were in a cave, its walls covered with something—maybe mushrooms, maybe glowing fingi, maybe even gemstones—scattered like a dusting of faintly flickering stars… or watching eyes. Yeah, just like those "star-eyes" I hallucinated when I got food poisoning.
"Come on," Sagashi called, his pale form darting through a narrow crevice.
"Hold up! How exactly do we get back? Can you fly or something?" I grumbled as I followed. "And you lied—you said this was close by, but you made me ditch my humans!"
"They’re coming here too," Sagashi said matter-of-factly. "They’re just taking the long way, through the upper path. This tunnel is for cats only."
"Oh. Well, okay then," I muttered. "So… where exactly is here?"
"This is Torideneko—the ancestral homeland of all cats," Sagashi replied. "We’ve arrived."
As we emerged from the tunnel, I finally understood why that word had felt so layered with meaning. It wasn’t just a place—it was a world, a fortress, a sanctuary. It meant home in the purest, most instinctual sense.
First off, it was nighttime—or something like it. The sky wasn’t black, but an eerie greenish hue that somehow made everything clearer than daylight. I could see so far.
Second, the smell. A gentle, intoxicating mix of catnip and something ancient. It made my paws itch to run. To play.
And third… We were in the garden of an enormous castle—one shaped like a sphinx. Holy crap.
Sagashi led the way toward it, his tail flicking.
"Hey, Sagashi-san," I finally asked. "Who exactly are ‘Mama-sama’ and ‘Papa-sama’?"
He stopped, looking at me with wide blue eyes—eyes eerily similar to Naruto’s.
"You don’t know?" he asked, sounding genuinely shocked. "That’s… strange. Your mother never told you about Torideneko? These things are passed down with our very first milk—we know them before we even open our eyes!"
"Uh…" I hesitated. "So, funny story—something happened to me a while back. Almost died. When I woke up, I could barely remember my own name. So, yeah, maybe I was told all this… but if I was, I don’t remember."
Sagashi tilted his head, thoughtful. Then he nodded. "Alright. Then I’ll explain."
He sat, wrapping his tail neatly around his paws. "This place is Torideneko, but humans call it ‘Nekomata’s Castle.’ Our kind has its own hierarchy, one that traces back to the great cat demon, Nekomata-sama, who used his power to create this realm and build his great castle."
"Wait… so we’re in a different dimension?" I asked, for some reason thinking about the Ninja Turtles and "Dimension X."
"Of course. Can’t you feel it?"
"Uh… sure," I lied, not wanting to look like an idiot. "Go on."
"There are the Great Thirteen—Nekomata-sama’s children. Twelve of them founded the six great cat clans, the ancestors of all who now live in Torideneko and beyond—"
"Wait. What about the thirteenth?" I interrupted. "Didn’t get a mate or something?"
Sagashi’s ears twitched, and he immediately lowered his voice.
"The thirteenth was a daughter," he murmured. "Rumored to be barren. And very dangerous. She even changed her name—now she is called Reikoku, ‘The Ruthless One.’ Humans know her as Aomoku no Bakeneko—‘The Blue-Eyed Demon Cat.’"
Yikes.
"But I was explaining the clans," Sagashi continued. "Aside from the great clans, there are also lesser clans, descended from the originals. Each clan is led by a Papa-sama and Mama-sama—a tradition honoring our ancestors. My clan, for example, is called Wasei."
Something clicked in my brain. Wasei sounded suspiciously close to Vasiliy(1), the name of my old cat that sent me here.
"Huh. So ‘Wasei’ means…?"
"‘Wild-born,’" Sagashi confirmed. "Our ancestors left Torideneko and intermingled with the cats of the human world. Over time, we lost much of our original power—our size, our abilities. What remains is intelligence, strength, and, for a rare few, ancestral memory."
"So basically, any random house cat that has chakra could technically be considered part of Wasei?" I asked.
"Pretty much," Sagashi nodded. "But true Wasei—those who have reawakened their ancestral memory—are rare. Only Papa-sama Wasei and Mama-sama Wasei and their four sons have that honor."
"And they can talk like humans?"
"Yes," Sagashi confirmed. "And the higher clans understand them. Of course, they say that Nekomata-sama himself understands all his descendants, but that’s why he’s The Great Creator."
I squinted at him, my curiosity burning. "Alright, now I really wanna see these ‘higher clans’ you keep talking about."
Maybe, just like Naruto’s summons—those giant toads—there are massive cats or some kind of tigers here?
Sagashi chuckled. "Then follow me."
We scaled a tree, then leapt onto a stone wall and padded along its edge. And then—
Oh. My. Catnip.
My brain short-circuited.
This wasn’t just some magical cat world. This was a whole freaking civilization.
Everywhere I looked, there were… cat-people. Humanoid felines, walking on two legs, dressed in flowing robes and armor. They spoke—their language a blend of purring, meowing, and something that sounded eerily like Japanese.
Some browsed market stalls, some strolled around, other hurriedly moved somewhere. Further down the street, amusing-looking soldiers in cuirasses and helmets, armed with pikes, patrolled.
Now I really understood why the Wasei clan was considered the lowest rung on the hierarchy.
Compared to this?
Yeah, we were basically feral strays.
"Wait," I muttered. "We understand the higher clans?"
"Of course," Sagashi snorted. "We lost speech, but we still comprehend them—and other animals too, for that matter."
"Yeah, I noticed that too," I agreed with the Siamese. "Guess it's like compensation for what was lost. You know, like how people who can't hear well have better eyesight or a stronger sense of smell, that kind of thing."
"Do you have a name?" Sagashi asked. "We never went through a naming ceremony, but my mistress calls me 'Sagashi.'"
"Oh, yeah, I’ve got a few," I chuckled. "Tora, Namaiki, Choko… and, hmm… I prefer the first one. But about this thing you mentioned. 'Naming ceremony'—what is it exactly?"
"It's a grand festival where Nekomata-sama himself bestows a name upon his descendant. That name is then recorded on plaques, so it's always possible to know whether a descendant of Nekomata-sama is alive or not. These names are kept in the heart of the castle. It's a great honor… And there are stories—rumors, really—that it unlocks certain abilities or something like that. Probably just gossip."
"Oh…" was all I could manage. "That's… pretty cool."
"Let's go see Papa-sama and Mama-sama, Tora-san," Sagashi called to me. "Your humans will be arriving here soon."
The head of the Wasei clan was a strikingly beautiful, long-haired white cat with a large patch of gray fur on his side. His eyes—just like mine—were green. Mama-sama, on the other hand, was a sleek, short-haired cat with a deep chocolate-black coat.
Sagashi whispered something to them, and they both turned their full attention to me, tails flicking with interest.
"So, you’re a ninja cat?" Mama-sama asked, her amber eyes narrowing slightly. "From Konoha?"
"In my early kittenhood, I was taken from Konoha to Himachi," I began, recounting my life story. "I lived in the palace of the Fire Daimyo. After becoming self-aware, I wanted to learn how to control my chakra and become a ninneko.
"My first teacher was a human—Uchiha Shisui, who belonged to the very same clan from Konoha that I was taken from."
"We know the Uchiha," Papa-sama said with a nod. "Many from the Wasei clan—and even some of the higher clans—worked alongside them. They say that even Nekomata-sama himself favored the descendants of Hagoromo and created the Game for them. How is your pride faring? We have not heard from them in a long time."
Part of that conversation flew right over my head, but I caught onto the part about pride—they were referring to the feline families that had once lived with the Uchiha clan.
"Unfortunately, they were all wiped out, along with almost the entire Uchiha clan," I answered. "I came here with Uchiha Sasuke—my human—hoping I could tell him the truth about what happened to his clan. I was a witness to its destruction."
My words made the clan heads’ tails puff out in alarm.
"Wiped out?" Papa-sama repeated.
I nodded.
"I didn’t see it happen with my own eyes, but an enemy force purged the area. Every cat that lived there disappeared. So did the civilian members of the clan…"
Sagashi and I walked down the alley leading out of the castle in silence, since we had no choice but to take the long way back.
I was completely drained—turns out, talking that much takes a lot out of you.
I had spilled nearly everything to the Wasei clan heads, leaving out only the part where I used to be human and was sent here by my own cat, Vasiliy.
Mama-sama and Papa-sama had promised to help me, as well as Sasuke, Itachi, and Shisui—since the Uchiha were allies.
What I didn’t quite understand was how they planned to help.
"Look, Tora-san," Sagashi suddenly said, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Your humans and the girl are trying to get through the gate."
I glanced ahead and snorted with laughter.
All three of my little kiddie ninjas—Sasuke, Naruto, and Sakura—had been fitted with adorable white headbands with fuzzy, triangular cat ears on top.
"Guess that’s the price of admission," I muttered, still chuckling.
"I’ll stay here with them, then," I told Sagashi. "Thanks for guiding me here and giving me a chance to talk to the clan heads."
He let out an amused purr and flicked his tail.
"Good luck, Tora-san."
(1) In the first chapter I translated his name as Basil. It's an English version of his original name Vasiliy
2025-02-25 06:46:55 +0000 UTC
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Demons of NC
Life is Good
Elden Ring: My Ending
2025-02-23 06:17:09 +0000 UTC
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Both Zorayas and Sellen could only speculate about what the Praetor looked like. But while the sorceress remained largely indifferent, Rya was drowning in doubt.
The hidden city of the serpentmen had opened her eyes, nearly driving her to despair, but it had not consumed her. Not only because she was too preoccupied with watching the Tarnished farming with his club—like an unstoppable force of nature tearing through the city, leaving behind only those few who had the sense not to attack him and instead hid among the ruins—but also because of an unexpected gift. A gift that had come so suddenly, it had left her momentarily stunned.
To some, it was vile, repulsive. But to Rya, it was something warm and familiar: a Serpent’s Amnion(1). It seemed as if Konstantin had known from the very beginning exactly what to look for to help her, and so they had turned the entire hidden section of the manor upside down.
It seemed the man wanted to complete her quest as quickly as possible.
But as it turned out, all of her worries—and even Konstantin’s terrifying farming spree—were just a prelude to the true horror.
They knew he was searching for the Lord. He had been looking under every rock, trying to find the path to some hidden place that only he seemed to know about. A secret passage.
And in the end, he found it.
Or rather, he found Patches—but Konstantin wasn’t one to turn down help.
Casualization wasn’t a sin, after all.
"This is… the Lord of Volcano Manor?"
Sellen knew firsthand what experiments with magic could lead to. She had conducted plenty herself on other astrologers, which was largely why she had earned her reputation. She did not believe in restrictions, refused to accept limitations, and had tried every possible path to climb higher and further.
That in itself wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. What was bad was that she had forgotten the boundaries that didn’t restrict her, but supported her.
Sellen glanced at the Tarnished, wondering if he had intended to show her the Praetor from the start. After all, if he knew how dangerous it was, he could have simply told them to wait above, couldn’t he? Or did he believe that as long as they were by his side, they were safer—even if they were up against the Outer Gods themselves? Or perhaps, there were other reasons?
Or maybe… he simply didn’t give it much thought?
‘Interesting,’ the sorceress mused, narrowing her eyes with a smile.
There was still something she wanted to test, but for now, the opportunity had not presented itself.
Rya was far less composed. She stared in horror at the monstrous, towering beast before her—just as powerful as it was grotesque.
"L-Lord…?" she trembled, her legs weakening beneath her.
Her mother’s barrier wouldn’t protect her. Nothing would. If that thing lunged at her, she had little hope of escape. She couldn’t believe she had been living right above something like this all this time.
And even more than that, she couldn’t believe that her mother—the one she called mother—had been sending the manor’s servants, her most loyal ones, to this thing.
It was madness.
It was too much.
"Buddy!!!" Patches screamed, dashing behind the ever-unfazed Konstantin and hiding behind his back.
The Praetor, not yet making any move to attack, regarded his guests with curiosity.
"He’s not quite him yet(2)," Kosta said calmly, staring at the massive serpent’s face. "I doubt we’ll be able to have a proper conversation."
Not that he seemed particularly disappointed by that.
The man glanced around.
"Step back—he’s got AoE attacks."
The experience of a father’s belt phasing through textures must have had a profound impact on the vision of the genius game designers.
Rya and Sellen exchanged glances.
"Did you not hear him?!" Patches screeched, grabbing the women and pulling them back. "Run, run, run, before I change my mind about protecting you, run!!!"
Konstantin, watching in mild surprise as the suspiciously motivated rogue dragged the waifus away at record speed, felt something unusual.
For the first time, he didn’t feel like kicking Patches off something.
Who knew how long that feeling would last, but right now—it was real.
Of course, Ranni couldn’t ignore something like this. The demigoddess had her regrets, but most of them she had let go of long ago.
But what her own brother had turned himself into, in his pursuit of power—that, she couldn’t ignore.
"He deserves to be freed," she said coolly. "…What’s with the jar?"
Melina, who had just arrived in time for the show, clutched the vessel more tightly, nearly dropping it.
The thought of how her Tarnished would react if she dropped it terrified her.
"Please… don’t ask," she exhaled, turning her gaze to Rykard.
The expression on the Daughter of the Goddess’s face was strangely indifferent—she was growing less and less concerned for Konstantin. It wasn’t out of apathy or arrogance, but rather…
Simple, natural trust.
"So this is the path Carian royalty chose to oppose the Golden Order?"
It wasn’t often that Melina managed to get a rise out of Ranni. In fact, it was almost unheard of—partly because they rarely interacted, and partly because the demigoddess was simply better with words and able to control her emotions with ease.
But right now, the words of the false Finger Maiden hit home.
Seeing the slight pout forming on the normally composed demigoddess’s spectral face, Melina felt an immense sense of satisfaction.
‘Suck on that, witch!’
Of course, outwardly, Melina remained just as calm and indifferent.
"The path my brother chose to walk, in pursuit of freedom," Ranni narrowed her eyes. "You are not the one to judge him, maiden."
The demigoddess turned away with an air of finality. And yet, she had seen the slight smile hidden beneath Melina’s hood.
And that irked her.
Ranni huffed, puffing up her spectral cheeks even more. She shot the insufferably smug false Finger Maiden a glare, mentally promising to get back at her for this one.
After all, how could she argue against the words of the Goddess’s daughter, when she had been thinking the same thing?
Radahn had been a victim, transformed into a monster against his will.
But Rykard had consciously twisted his own essence, ceasing to be himself.
To any sorcerer, the mind was the most important thing they had. Losing a limb, or even an entire body, meant nothing as long as their consciousness remained.
But her brother—the son of Queen Rennala, the greatest astrologer—had thrown that away, willingly sharing his will with some pathetic snake.
Was that not even worse than submitting to an Outer God that couldn’t even fully influence this world?
Ranni frowned.
Fortunately, neither of the Queen’s daughters needed to continue this conversation, because now, the real spectacle was about to begin.
Both the Tarnished and the Blasphemous Lord had grown tired of staring at each other.
Konstantin stepped forward, heading straight for the weapon waiting for him—the tool made for slaying this serpent. A hybrid of a greatsword and spear, embedded in the ground, as if it had been waiting all this time for someone who could finally slay the beast.
To be honest, Kosta still couldn’t quite believe he was seeing it just sitting there, but…
The Tarnished grasped the weapon, feeling its energy resonate with him, merging with his own.
He had already held "upgraded" weapons before, so this was nothing new to him.
"Soulslikes were always anime," Kosta muttered to himself, leveling the greatsword-spear at the serpent. "And this kind of fight brings that out the most."
The snake hesitated for a moment, then—
"Lunge."
A maw, large enough to swallow him whole, snapped forward.
To be fair, Rya thought this was the end.
But she had simply forgotten that she had already witnessed one strange duel with the Tarnished before.
Luckily, Konstantin reminded her quickly.
There was no normal way to dodge the serpent’s lunge. It was too big, too fast—there was nowhere to go.
Unfortunately for the Lands Between, roll mechanics worked exactly as intended.
Because in Soulslikes…
The engine doesn’t decide the rules.
The player does.
Roll.
To say the serpent was surprised would be an understatement.
Until now, Rykard had been in a dormant state.
But now, he opened his eyes—staring directly at Konstantin.
At first, the gaze was barely interested, but after frowning and taking a closer look…
"Hmm… You are unworthy to be sacrificed to the Serpent King…"
Kosta blinked, surprised by yet another inconsistency(3), but he didn’t argue.
Instead, he swung his weapon, unhesitatingly tapping into the power slumbering within him, reinforced by his own casual energy.
After all, this was a cinematic battle. It needed to be spectacular above all else, not grueling—and the man saw nothing wrong with that.
You had to diversify the gameplay somehow, didn’t you?
A strike.
For a moment, a beam of light illuminated the entire battlefield, forcing the spectators to shield their eyes. A painful roar of a hundred voices erupted as the monster’s maw gaped wide.
And this was only the beginning.
"Grab."
Roll.
Konstantin rolled to the side, and seeing that the shockingly intelligent serpent was already trying to intercept his dodge…
He simply and effortlessly leaped backward—not by a step or two, but by dozens of meters, nearly launching himself into the sky. Was there even a ceiling here?
Mid-air, the man swung his mighty weapon again, pouring even more power into it.
Strike!
The serpent howled even more desperately, its massive body, bathed in magma, convulsing uncontrollably, sending fiery splashes everywhere. More and more.
Some of the splashes, whether Konstantin wanted it or not, landed on his clothing. What little could still be called "clothing" began melting against his skin, exposing him.
The serpent had no idea that all it was doing was unleashing the true power of a Soulslike player.
Melina sighed in exasperation.
Konstantin, unfazed by his attire being burned away, swung his weapon again, feeling it overflowing with power, on the verge of cracking apart.
It turned out that Meli-Meli’s gift was far superior to some pre-made piece of iron designed for a single fight.
Kosta squinted with satisfaction, feeling the warmth of one of the best waifus enveloping him at the thought.
Strike!
Of course, intellectually, Rya understood how powerful the Tarnished was. Someone who had collected three Great Runes in such a short time was more terrifying than even the mightiest of the demigods.
And yet, it was one thing to hear about it. It was entirely different to witness the ground shaking from every swing of that bizarre weapon, the entire cavern engulfed in golden light, burning their Lord alive with every blow—while the beast couldn’t even land a hit on what seemed to be just an irritating little fly.
Rya’s serpentine tail twitched with intrigue, her pupil narrowing.
Well, except for the clothing situation…
"How are you so calm?" Rya whispered to Sellen, turning her head.
Patches was nowhere to be seen—he had bolted back the way they came.
The sorceress, observing the battle with interest, ignored the half-serpent, fully engrossed in the spectacle. After all, she rarely had the opportunity to personally witness the Tarnished’s strength rather than just seeing it through an illusion.
"Going to spit venom?"
Roll.
"Magma."
Roll.
"Bite."
Roll.
To Konstantin, the serpent was an open book. It was as if he had fought it dozens, even hundreds of times before. And unlike Radahn, whom he had honored as a warrior, the Praetor, who had willingly fed himself to the serpent, did not inspire the same respect.
The lord of Volcano Manor, merged with the Devouring Serpent, felt it. He felt how the insanely powerful Tarnished was pressuring him, how his gigantic body was being scorched with every single swing of that bizarre but merciless weapon—one that had been lovingly left behind by a predecessor.
In the Lands Between, there was no true death. But that didn’t mean one couldn’t lose their body. And, fortunately, very few beings could persist as untethered spirits. Praetor Rykard was no exception.
Konstantin, covered head-to-toe in magma, didn’t even flinch. It simply couldn’t harm his skin, sliding off his body as if obeying some unknown will.
And, strangest of all, the modest strip of cloth covering his decency—having already survived more battles than any demigod—remained completely intact!
The disparity in power was obvious, and soon the wounded serpent realized it. And so, it changed tactics.
If it couldn’t harm Konstantin, it had to target someone it could.
The serpent suddenly lunged, its massive body stretching toward the startled Sellen and Rya.
The last thing they had expected was for the Tarnished’s opponent to suddenly change strategy and cowardly attack them instead of Konstantin.
Unfortunately for the Praetor… it didn’t help.
The gaping maw, poised to consume the women whole, was slammed away—along with the rest of the beast.
Boom!
A thunderous crash rang out, so powerful that it felt like the entire cavern might collapse, burying them all alive. The burst of golden light was so intense that, for a moment, the entire cave was drowned in Konstantin’s energy. So concentrated—so filled with unrestrained rage, raw fury, that for an instant, it felt as if reality itself trembled.
Sellen blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blinding afterimage, turning her gaze to Konstantin in fascination.
"How intriguing…"
The veins across the man’s body shone with golden radiance, his once-grey eyes now blazing with gold. His entire form was wrapped in a golden shroud, permeating every fiber of his being, creating an utterly unique aura.
An otherworldly aura.
In the man’s grip remained only the hilt of his greatsword-spear hybrid—the blade itself shattered by the force it had absorbed.
"T-terrifying… y-you’re not scared at all?" Rya stammered, her voice trembling.
It was as if she had just watched her entire life flash before her eyes.
Sellen stared thoughtfully at her own shaking hand, then back at the Tarnished, in whose eyes—for perhaps the first time—she saw something akin to fear.
‘What a peculiar weirdo…’
The sorceress smiled, waving at him to show she was unharmed.
Konstantin gave a curt nod, casting a brief glance at his broken weapon before casually tossing it aside. Then, his gaze shifted to the struggling serpent—wounded, burned, its body decaying before their eyes.
The Praetor had never looked so pitiful.
Now, not the serpent, but Rykard’s own face stared at them. And in those wide, bloodshot eyes, for the first time in an eternity—
There was fear.
"Heretic," Konstantin spat, like an inquisitor laying eyes on the manifestation of filth.
A filthy heretic had dared to threaten the few things that made Soulslikes beautiful!
Rage.
For perhaps the first time since arriving in the Lands Between, the Tarnished felt pure, unfiltered rage toward an opponent.
If both of his waifus had been devoured alive by this giant snake, it would have been an instant loss for him.
All his efforts to reach his ending—one he had never gotten to see in the game—would have been meaningless.
But most importantly—
He had brought them here himself.
It had been his mistake.
The serpent had gotten too close.
This was a lesson Kosta wouldn’t soon forget.
"You tried to casualize me," he said, his voice outwardly calm as he slowly approached the Praetor. "By itself, that’s not a bad thing. What’s bad is… how you chose to do it."
The last words came out as a growl.
Rykard, now fully awakened, sensed the impending doom. He had no idea what the Tarnished meant—
He only knew his end was near.
"Very well…"
The abomination reached into its own serpentine maw—
And pulled out a massive sword, forged from writhing, interwoven bodies.
A world without death could create things far worse than simple monsters.
Too bad for this world—Soulslike players thrived in it.
"You want to see what real cheesing(4) looks like?" Konstantin’s voice turned to ice. "I’ll show you what real cheesing is."
Melina’s phantom heart skipped a beat.
In one hand, the man now held the club she had gifted him.
In the other…
It was Ranni’s turn to be surprised.
A Summoning Bell.
The Tarnished rang it several times.
A strange mass emerged, blinking curiously.
But its task became clear immediately.
It began to tremble—and took the shape of Konstantin.
The Mimic Tear’s hand formed an exact replica of the club wielded by the Tarnished. Not just an imitation, but a perfect copy, temporarily mirroring the full power of the original.
For better or worse, the world would never witness two Serpent-Hunters(5) at once, but it would witness something else.
Without a word exchanged, the two half-naked men—practically twins—sprang into action simultaneously. Rykard let out a thunderous roar, swinging his massive sword.
Roll.
The wind pressure from the swing was so intense that it would have blown an ordinary person away. But neither Konstantin nor the Mimic Tear fell under the definition of "ordinary." If anything, the Tarnished dodged without even feeling the force, while his copy…
For just a moment, it melted into a puddle of goo before instantly reforming back into Konstantin’s shape.
A Mimic Tear upgraded by Roderika, as befitted a true embodiment of absolute casuality, had far too much HP.
SMASH!
Melina’s gift, brimming with the full power of the Tarnished, proved to be a much more fearsome weapon than the Serpent-Hunter, enduring far more of his strength.
The impact was so powerful that the ground beneath the serpent cracked, and the cavern trembled with a dreadful, echoing wail.
Unfortunately, that was just the prelude.
The Mimic Tear, raising its replica, mimicked Konstantin’s movement.
SMASH!
Right behind it, Konstantin followed up with another crushing blow, unwilling to forgive the serpent for daring to threaten his waifu.
SMASH!
The Mimic Tear required no additional commands.
SMASH!
SMASH!
SMASH!
SMASH!
SMASH!
SMASH!…
Anyone who witnessed what Konstantin was doing with this strange imitation of ash felt an involuntary shiver run down their spine.
What had previously resembled a battle, at least outwardly, had now devolved into a full-fledged beating. The enraged Tarnished and his duplicate had gotten right up in the boss’s face and were pummeling it, like some rabid beast, each strike reducing the cavern further to rubble.
A creature dozens of meters tall had been reduced to nothing more than a punching bag, thrown around the cavern, desperately trying to crawl away from the two monsters. But its greatest flaw—its sheer bulk—had now become its doom.
Rykard had a blind spot beneath his own massive body(6), a weakness he could do nothing about. And the two relentless beings exploited it ruthlessly, preventing him from so much as touching them.
Konstantin alone would have been enough to defeat Rykard.
But together with the Mimic Tear? This wasn’t even a victory.
This was the annihilation of a heretic who dared open his mouth against a waifu.
The God-Devouring Serpent. The Blasphemous Lord. The Lord of Volcano Manor. Once-revered Praetor Rykard, a monster who had devoured the bodies and souls of countless warriors, was reduced to a bloody pulp.
(1) In the questline, for Rya to accept the truth about her birth, she needs to be given the Serpent’s Amnion, which can be found in the Temple of Eiglay, past the boss.
(2) There are several theories regarding what exactly happened to Rykard: the serpent completely devoured him, leaving only a fragment of his consciousness; the serpent consumed him, but his mind remained dominant; or Rykard and the serpent now coexist within the same body. Personally, considering the connection between the Praetor and the creeping beast, the last theory seems the most plausible.
(3) In the game, Rykard actually wants to make the Tarnished a part of the Lord of Blasphemy. Within the constraints of this fanfic, this line has been altered.
(4) “Cheesing” in gaming refers to using strategies that, while technically within the game’s rules, trivialize difficulty—often breaking game balance or bypassing intended challenges.
(5) The Mimic Tear can replicate weapon properties, including special attacks granted when using the Serpent-Hunter against Rykard, making the fight look like a complete beatdown.
(6) Rykard does, in fact, have a blind spot directly beneath him. While the magma around him deals damage, it is relatively low, allowing the player to stay in that position and wail on him with minimal interference. He has a few attacks that can reach this area, but they are easy to dodge, making it possible to completely annihilate the boss while he struggles helplessly.
2025-02-23 06:16:06 +0000 UTC
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“Sent you the local cops' contacts,” Angie texted. “They won’t show up, no matter how loud it gets. Not that they like coming here anyway. Sixth Street’s in the loop too, so no trouble expected.”
“Perfect,” I replied, sliding my newly bought monotanto—picked up in Dogtown just yesterday—out of its black sheath with my left hand.
The ghostly blade had a faint green tint. I held it up, looking through it at Rebecca, who was sitting across from me.
“Woooooooow…,” she drawled meaningfully. “Not really into knives, but those are sick.”
Further back in the van, Panam was hunched over the bot’s control panel, making last-minute adjustments. Falko was parked nearby with a fast getaway ride, just in case. Lucy wasn’t here—she was already jacked in, running support remotely. Jackie’s crew and the Animals were in position, waiting for the signal.
Outside, the last embers of sunset smoldered in the sky. Long shadows stretched behind every passerby, dragging across the cracked asphalt and concrete like ghosts. Rush hour was winding down, and the night was just getting started, laced with the kind of promises that never came true.
“Alright. And… it’s working,” Panam announced. “Now we just gotta get this thing to the building. You had a plan for that, V?”
“Yeah. Don’t sweat it.”
The building’s inner courtyard was fenced off and well-guarded, but the opposite side was a little sloppier. No doors, no guards, no fence—just a blank wall, a couple of cameras, and a dumpster. Homeless folks drifted through sometimes. If a group of younger ones lingered too long, some asshole in camo would eventually show up, real aggressive-like, and kindly suggest they fuck off—either that or take a free shock baton massage. But if a single, pitiful-looking vagrant wandered in alone, security didn’t react as strongly.
That’s what I was gonna use.
“Need to scan something real quick,” I lied. “Gonna zone out for twenty minutes. When a really dirty-looking guy comes up to the van, hand him the bot, Panam.”
“Got it. Really dirty guy. Understood. Is there a password or something?”
“‘Magnus never betrayed.’”
“The fuck does that mean?” Rebecca asked.
“A lot,” I said. “Those words hold conflict and drama, but no time to explain now.”
“Shakespeare or what?” Panam smirked.
“Nah, but also a classic. Alright, going under.”
I latched onto a homeless guy, his face covered in sores and scabs, his age impossible to tell. A quick observation of his behavior told me he’d long since crossed the threshold of sanity. He wandered aimlessly between dumpsters, scratching furiously, pushing a shopping cart back and forth. His body was barely holding together, but it had enough implants left for me to take over without a hitch.
His right leg seized up every few steps, making him limp. His vision was full of floating black spots. How long did this guy even have left? A week? A month? Probably not much more.
Gripping the cart with shaky hands, I threw in a couple of crushed boxes and crumpled black bags, then shuffled around the corner to where our van was parked. Knocked twice, and the door opened.
Panam took one look at "me" and barely masked her disgust.
“What do you want, buddy?” she asked.
“M-Magnus never betrayed!” I rasped, feeling something rotten and wet gurgle in this body’s throat.
“Uh-huh. Come closer,” she said, eyeing me like she might need a hazmat suit. “Hope you know what to do with this.”
With quick, practiced hands, she passed over a black plastic case, the bot hidden inside. I struggled to drop it into the cart, covering it with trash bags.
“Prospero burns… P-Prospero’s on fire…,” I muttered, shambling away.
Hopefully, this poor bastard wouldn’t just die on the way. No clue what kind of hell he’d put his body through, but his HP bar was in the fucking red. Limping my way to the dumpster, I let myself collapse with the cart, flailing around like a junkie in withdrawal to mask the bot’s movements. It activated its cloaking and slid out from under the trash.
The pile shifted, then something half-invisible scuttled toward the building’s wall. Perfect. Now to ditch the bot’s case in another dumpster and get out of this body.
When I snapped back to my own, Panam glanced over. “Where’d you find that super spy?”
“Trash, obviously. How’s the bot?”
“We’re in,” she confirmed. “Slapped a magnet onto one of the arms, even managed to close the vent behind it. Patching the feed through to you now.”
The screen showed a dusty ventilation shaft as our little spider scurried along.
“Keep an eye on everything,” I reminded her.
“Of course.”
I expected surprises. Hopefully, the Brazilians hadn’t been here long enough to perfect their security. No ultra-sensitive tripwires in the vents or some such.
“Fuuuuck…,” Panam groaned. “Well, that didn’t last long.”
Up ahead, the vent was blocked by a welded grate with wires running out of it.
"That’s the entrance to the Brazilians' inner sanctum," Lucy said over comms. "Try backing out and exiting the vents. There might be another way."
“Okay… There was a drop into a storage room somewhere.”
The bot crawled out into a dimly lit space, closing the vent behind it. It was packed with old construction leftovers—unused transformers, relay cabinets, and other debris. The Brazilians had clearly remodeled before moving in.
Panam frowned. “Huh… Even if we can’t get inside, maybe I can fry their system from here?”
“Would that take out their cameras?” I asked.
“We’ll see. Weren’t you planning to enter from the roof?”
“Yup!” Rebecca beamed. “And we got that sick-ass thing from the comics!”
She meant the grappling hook pistol. I had my doubts about its actual effectiveness, but if it failed, I had a much more reliable method—one Viktor had helped with yesterday.
Meanwhile, the bot crept into a hallway. A few old, torn construction posters clung to the walls. Dust covered the floor, crisscrossed with footprints. Loose screws and fasteners littered the ground—a clear sign of recent structural modifications. The Brazilians had made themselves at home.
Further down, a guard stood decked out like he was heading into a war zone. But on closer inspection? No high-end detection gear. Intimidating look on a bargain-bin budget. I’d considered trying to bribe this security group, but the risk was too high. The second word got out, the Brazilians would vanish into thin air. No doubt they had a backup escape plan.
The bot froze as the guard approached. Closer… Closer.
A car rumbled by outside, and Panam seized the opportunity, using the noise to scuttle the drone onto the wall. It was cloaked, sure, but those little mechanical legs still made some sound.
"Fifth, all clear," the merc reported into his headset and kept walking.
Panam waited for him to move a safe distance before guiding the bot forward through the hallway again. Looked like she was following a bundle of cables running along the ceiling, hastily secured with plastic ties.
A short while later, the bot bumped into a locked door.
"No big deal. We’ll try another way," she said, still sounding optimistic.
Back into the vents, but this time, the bot didn’t attempt to enter the Brazilians’ domain. Instead, it found its way into some kind of utility room. Electrical panels, heavy-duty transformers, network switches. I didn’t know shit about this kind of equipment, in this life or the last, but Panam seemed to have a clue.
"Fucking classic!" she exclaimed, clearly pleased. "Super high-tech netrunner defenses, cameras on every corner, but the electrical grid? Looks like a drunk monkey put it together. I mean, nothing completely fucked, but press it in the right spots, and the whole thing crumbles. Should we press, V?"
"Will it take out their surveillance?"
"External, yeah. Inside? No clue. Probably got backups. Surge protection, generators."
"Alright. The outer perimeter is good enough for now. Hold for my signal. Gotta check our gear."
"Don’t rush. I’m gonna run a few more numbers."
"Fucking hell, this thing…" Rebecca groaned, struggling into a skintight aramid-insulated bodysuit. "Turn around, please. Gotta ditch my bra. It’s getting in the way."
"I got a better idea," Panam suggested. "Why don’t you just turn around?"
"Oh! Alright! Fuck, this thing is so uncomfortable."
"Trust me, getting shot through walls is even more uncomfortable," I commented while she kept fumbling.
I was wearing a similar suit. It wouldn’t completely block implants that could see through walls, but it shortened their detection range and threw in some interference. Plus, it worked as extra protection against shrapnel, broken glass, and all the other sharp bullshit this city threw at you. Over that, I strapped on a light vest. We both wore open-face helmets with built-in shrapnel-resistant goggles.
For weapons, Rebecca really wanted to bring the "Hercules," but it was better not to flash that around in front of the Animals so soon after we zeroed Mauser. That gun left very distinct wounds. We settled on the Nokota D5 "Copperhead"—solid balance of fire rate and armor penetration. She also packed a couple of Lexington pistols and a sawed-off shotgun loaded with buckshot for those close encounters.
I was rolling with Apparition and the HA-7 Warden—smart SMG built in Dogtown off an Arasaka "Shingen" model. Mine was modded with a 50-round mag. Solid power for an SMG and smart weapons in general. Recoil was rough, but hey, that’s the trade-off. And we’d be working in tight spaces today, so fine by me.
For blades, I had two monotanto blades and a pair of throwing knives. Rounding it out—five grenades. Four standard, one EMP.
Probably the most prepped I’d ever been for a job in my career as a Night City freelancer. The Brazilians weren’t gonna be easy. This wasn’t some low-level gang sweep.
"Giving you a heads-up, we’re moving," I told Jackie over comms.
"You need us doing anything yet?" he asked.
"Finish your coffee, load your guns, and wait for the signal."
A few more minutes of final checks—made sure nothing was loose or interfering with movement.
"We’re ready," I told Panam, pulling up Lucy’s rough building map in my optics.
"Good," she replied. "Starting the autopilot."
Our van started rolling. A couple of minutes, and we’d hit the enemy’s camera range. Hopefully, Panam would have them dark by then.
"Taking phase, grounding neutral, and…"
The building’s lights flickered and died.
Our van pulled up near the dumpster where I’d dumped the bot. Time to step out.
Outside, the sky had fully surrendered to night. Twilight thickened in every alley and corner that neon couldn’t reach.
A small recon drone zipped out after us—Panam’s work. I took a few steps, then switched to the drone’s camera feed.
"Three," Lucy's voice came through comms. "I’ll handle the sniper and the guy near the far side of the roof."
"Got it."
Three rooftop guards. Solid security, but not enough against two good runners. I locked onto my target and started casting.
Amnesia. Short circuit. Short circuit. Synapse burnout.
A second later, all three guards started convulsing as their implants glitched and their nervous systems fried. Clean takedown, but these guys probably had scheduled check-ins. It wouldn’t take long for someone to realize something was very wrong.
We had to move.
"Becca," I whispered.
"Yeah, yeah! I wanna to do it already…"
With a click and a faint whirr, the grappling hook launched… and then promptly fell back down.
"Fuck! What the—" she cursed. "Gimme a sec…"
"No. Just jump."
"Oh… Alright."
She spread her legs, bent slightly, and launched—shattering every Olympic record in my old world. Viktor had done solid work. Reinforced ankles for long-distance jumps. Simple chrome, but damn useful.
She didn’t quite reach the roof, but she landed on a pipe jutting out from the side.
"Now drop that amazing hook down here," I said over comms.
A few seconds later, the grapple fell at my feet. I clipped it to my vest, and Becca reeled me up.
And just like that, we were on the roof. Two intruders loaded to the teeth.
Ahead: a hatch and a stairway down to the second floor. It was dark, but my optics had no problem adjusting. Red outlines of guards moved through the walls.
If this turned into a gunfight, it wouldn’t be a small one.
We moved quietly through the hall, hearing shouting below—someone was already hitting the fire extinguishers. Looked like Panam had completly fried the wiring. Even up here, the air smelled like burnt plastic.
Checking the map, I led Rebecca past the roaming guards. The darkness worked in our favor.
"Enrique! Enrique, you copy?" came a voice to our right.
"Shit, rooftop’s not responding?"
"No. We should—"
"Nine to Three, all clear," a voice answered over the guards' radios.
Wait… what? How?
Had Lucy hijacked their comms and cloned the rooftop guards’ voices? Or maybe even synthesized them entirely?
"Three to Nine, hold position. Wiring’s totally fried down here."
"Copy that, Three."
So she had faked it. Smart. That was her own little addition to the plan. Not something I’d thought of. This bought us even more time before the full alarm went up.
Slipping past the last of the guards, we made it to the Brazilians' restricted zone. Two guys stationed at the door—one local merc, one of our international guests.
"Lucy," I whispered. "Their agent's on the right. I think he’s got built-in defenses. Can you hit him with two amnesias back-to-back?"
"Yeah. Got it."
Now we just had to sync our attacks so the scripts hit both targets at the same time. I crept up to the corner, peeked around. One second. Two. The Brazilian spotted me even in the dark but didn’t have time to trigger the alarm—just reached for his holster and managed to say:
"Hey—"
Then Lucy’s net attack hit both him and the local merc. The attack was digital, but the death? Very real.
I quickly rushed to the Brazilian’s body and jacked into his port. Needed to pull their IFF data to open up the next passage.
"Got the key," Lucy said over comms. "Opening the door now."
The metal doors slid open in front of us. Lights were still on. So yeah, they definitely had backup power.
Inside was a small room packed with netrunner gear. This was my area of expertise. Without wasting time, I slotted in the shard and uploaded the virus we’d prepared earlier. Originally, the bot was supposed to handle the upload, but I had to do it manually.
Our virus would give Lucy safe access into their digital fortress.
"You in?" I whispered.
"Yeah. Perfect. Now… head straight, then take a right. Not many cameras here."
I immediately noticed the walls were lined with white panels. Not just for aesthetics. These were insulation materials. My optics couldn’t see through them—but neither could the enemy’s. Level playing field.
We moved fast down the short hallway and descended into the basement. So far, everything was running smooth.
"Go straight until the fork. Take a left, third door on the left. Kiwi should be in there."
"Got it."
But then—two guards.
I recognized the voice around the corner. They were speaking Portuguese:
"They say it’s just the wiring. Everyone’s been pulled back. Posts reinforced."
"Better play it safe. We should call Diego."
‘Not gonna happen,’ I thought, already pulling an EMP grenade from my rig.
Round three, boys. You had two chances to catch me. Now it's my turn to hit you by surprise.
2025-02-23 06:10:54 +0000 UTC
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Castling the Long Way
Mad Tiger
2025-02-22 04:48:49 +0000 UTC
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Thank the feline gods, my Sasuke didn't completely lose it from having his entire reality rearranged. But damn, I only just now realized how recklessly I’d been walking the edge of disaster this whole time. And to top it off, I felt kind of guilty. Guilty for all the times I ranted at the screen back when I watched the anime, calling Sasuke an idiot, a traitor—how could he do that?! And now? Now I didn’t even know what to do.
The guy was barely breathing, sobbing into my fur, but—somehow—I was the only one he believed. Maybe a cat’s word was like a bug in the system, slipping through the cracks in his manipulated memories. Or maybe it just hadn’t fully settled in his brain yet, all that forced rewriting of history.
Shisui had tactfully left to give him some space, while Naruto pretended everything was fine—busy tending the fire, not pushing his best friend, letting me take on the role of Emotional Support Cat. And damn, was I grateful Shisui had chosen to drop all this in digestible chunks, because if he'd hit Naruto with the where’s your mom, buddy? question, I’d probably be chasing after him through forests, fields, and rivers as he went full search-and-rescue mode. Or worse—who knew what else was planted in his head?
Sasuke eventually calmed down, just absently stroking my fur, his gaze fixed on the fire. Then, after a while, Shisui returned, carrying a massive bundle of firewood—though, unfortunately, all of it was soaked. Rain had started up again.
"Tell me about…" Sasuke hesitated, like the words wouldn’t form. Like his own mind was rejecting the name.
Naruto sat beside us, reaching out to pet me too, brushing against Sasuke’s hand in a silent show of support.
"I was presumed dead," Shisui continued. "Staying in the village was too dangerous for me. And there were… other reasons. But I was also looking for Itachi. Eventually, I thought of Ryu and Grandma Cat. Your brother… even if he believed—" he exhaled, "—even if he truly thought he did it, there was always the chance he’d want to see you, just once. I know how he thinks. So I asked Grandma Cat to contact me if she ever received a request from Itachi. Or, if for any reason, you ended up here. After all, Itachi could have used his Sharingan to manipulate her perception. Didn’t this mission seem… strange to you?"
"Oh, you think?" Naruto snorted. "What’s weirder than getting a mission to take a giant cat’s paw print?"
"I… I had a feeling," Sasuke admitted quietly. "That it might be some kind of… challenge from Itachi. But I couldn’t figure out what he was trying to say. Or what he wanted to do. Or if it even came from him at all."
"I think he just wanted to make sure you were alive and okay," Shisui told him. "I don’t believe he has any intention of showing himself. This is probably just an excuse to confirm you’re safe—that you’ve officially become a shinobi. To be honest, I was also waiting for the day you got your headbands. It meant you’d finally have some degree of freedom outside Konoha’s walls during missions."
"And what do you plan to do? Capture Itachi or something?" Naruto asked skeptically.
"That’s the idea," Shisui smiled faintly. "I need to talk to him. But I doubt he’ll want to listen."
"He doesn’t trust you?" Naruto squinted, suspicious.
"He thinks I’m dead. And on top of that, I have no idea what’s been shoved into his head. I barely even know what’s been done to yours. You’ll have to fill me in so I can figure out how to approach him."
"Yeah," Sasuke said quietly.
The conversation stretched on deep into the night. Sasuke recounted his ‘memories’ to Shisui—though now, it was obvious those weren’t really his memories at all.
One key thing was missing: In the version of events he remembered, Itachi never spoke about his friend, never mentioned the Mangekyo Sharingan, never taunted Sasuke about gaining it through hatred. All Sasuke recalled was his brother stepping out of the darkness, eyes gleaming red, telling him he was too weak to even be worth killing.
Thinking back, I realized—when Itachi showed up during Jiraiya and Naruto’s search for Tsunade, that was probably when he finalized the ‘corrected’ version of events, reinforcing it with Tsukuyomi. Those gaps in memory? Sasuke had likely brushed them off, assuming he was just too young to remember clearly. And honestly, did it really matter to his hatred exactly what words had been said? When you’re that consumed by revenge, the details blur together.
Damn. My old friend Sergey told me Sasuke had eventually killed Itachi, but I never got that far—I only watched up to Gaara’s rescue in Shippuden. Now I was seeing the whole mess unfold in real time.
"So, what do we do?" Naruto finally asked when they’d exhausted every angle of their fragmented, manipulated memories. "And by the way, you still haven’t actually told us what really happened. If everything we remember is only a year old, what about those three missing years? What actually happened?"
"I’ll tell you," Shisui said, "but not right now. You need rest. You still have a mission in Ryu tomorrow," he added with a half-smile. "But one thing I can say? You’ve known Tora-san before. You were friends. And you two were close before all of this happened. Whatever he’s been doing, he’s been trying to set things right—at least between the two of you. That’s why I had no doubts leaving you in his care. Because I trusted this cat."
Oh, what a smooth talker. Shisui, you charmer, you.
I had no choice but to show my appreciation. Of course, I also used the moment to rub against him and mark him with my scent—multitasking at its finest.
His smile widened as he picked me up, giving me a thorough head scratch. Damn, he knew all the good spots. I even let him rub my belly. And that’s how I fell asleep, warm and blissed-out in his lap.
By morning, I woke up sprawled across Sasuke. Naruto was next to us, snoring on top of his sleeping bag. Shisui was gone, not even a trace of his scent left.
Rustling came from the side, and I turned to see a sleepy-eyed Sakura digging through her pack.
"Oh, Neko-chan," she yawned, rubbing her eyes. "We should wake up Sasuke-kun and Naruto."
Oh, don’t worry. I’ve got this.
I took a deep breath, positioned myself between their heads, and let out the loudest yowl I could manage.
"ATTEN-HUT!!!"
Naruto screeched, flailing as he nearly tripped over Sasuke, windmilling his arms like a panicked chicken.
Sakura burst into giggles. Sasuke, by contrast, remained completely still—except for the way his chakra spiked as he calmly reached for his kunai.
The team shook off their sleep quickly, packed up, and erased all traces of their campsite before heading out.
By the time we reached Ryu, it was about nine in the morning. The sky was still overcast, though the rain had stopped. The air still smelled damp and fresh.
And then—bam—the scent hit me.
Cats. A lot of cats.
My fur stood on end before I could stop it. Normally, I could control my instincts just fine, but this—this was different. This place reeked of territorial markings. And not just casual ‘this spot is mine’ scent-posting. No, this was the kind of overwhelming, aggressive scent that screamed: Step one paw out of line and we’ll rip you to shreds.
A tremor ran through my body that I couldn’t shake.
"Neko-san," Naruto muttered, glancing at Sakura as he gently stroked my fur. "You're shaking… what's wrong?"
Sasuke tensed up too, his eyes scanning the area before he reached for the door handle—the same one covered in an overwhelming number of scent marks. I counted at least ten different animal signatures. And I wasn’t even sure they were all just regular cats...
Oh, for the love of all feline deities—this close to a real ninja cat enclave, and my damn instincts decide to act up?!
Naruto pulled me closer, and I instinctively dug my claws into the fabric of his seemingly indestructible orange jumpsuit.
"Easy, easy, don't be scared, Tora-chan," he whispered in my ear. I forced myself to cycle chakra through my body, trying to drown out the overwhelming urge to bolt out of there and as far away from this cursed shop as possible. I pressed my face against his neck to block out the dense mix of animal scents surrounding us.
Inside, the shop was a sensory overload: the sharp tang of metal polish, the earthy musk of animal hides, ink, paper, the distinct scent of burning incense and pipe smoke… and the underlying presence of two women, five tomcats, and two female cats. None of them, however, matched the scents from the door.
So then… who the hell left those marks?
"Sasuke, my boy, it’s been ages since I’ve seen you!"
In the middle of the room, seated cross-legged on a thick woven mat, was the strangest little old lady I’d ever seen. Wrapped in a fluffy wool scarf, she was idly puffing on a long pipe like she’d stepped straight out of some samurai drama. The smell of her tobacco was…‘pungent’. And the way she laughed—this raspy, mischievous cackle that instantly put me on edge. Her silver-white hair was a mess of strange tufts, and perched atop her head was a black headband with cat ears. Even the tip of her nose was darkened, like she’d smudged charcoal on it.
"Good to see you, Granny Cat," Sasuke greeted her respectfully.
Ah. So this was her. The infamous Granny Cat.
And judging by the way her seven furry companions were positioned around her—yeah, definitely a cat person in every sense of the word.
One in particular, a massive Siamese, was sprawled luxuriously across her lap, looking smug as hell. That is—until his nose twitched. His ears flicked, and one icy blue eye cracked open.
The other cats noticed too, stiffening as they turned their gazes toward me.
"What’s wrong, Sagashi-san?" Granny Cat tilted her head at her oversized feline, watching as his posture shifted. "Ohhh, looks like Sasuke-kun and his friends brought us a little guest. Now, now, children, be polite. Boy, you can put your kitty down now," she added, looking at Naruto.
Naruto hesitated but did as she said, gently placing me on the floor.
"This cat wandered up to us near Ryu," Sakura chimed in, tugging on Sasuke’s sleeve. "Sasuke-kun, how do you even know our client?"
"Granny Cat has always worked with the Uchiha clan," Sasuke explained. "She’s a legendary weapons supplier and an invaluable source of information."
I, however, had my attention locked on their leader—the Siamese, Sagashi-san—who had hopped off Granny Cat’s lap and was now sitting with his entourage, tails flicking in unison.
"How did you get in here?" a sleek white tom demanded. "That girl said you just found them recently, but those boys—" he narrowed his eyes at Naruto and Sasuke, "—reek of your scent markings."
"Maybe that’s just because they’re my boys?" I replied, puffing out my chest with pride. "Wait… so you understand human speech?"
"Pff, of course we do!" scoffed a black cat with a gray patch over one eye. "We’re descendants of ninja cats, after all."
"What a coincidence," I said, suddenly feeling oddly calm. I even sat down on my haunches to show I meant no harm. "Because I’m one too. In fact, I am a ninja cat!"
"WHAT?!"
Seven pairs of feline eyes widened in complete shock.
"Impossible!" the black cat hissed suspiciously. "You’re just a regular cat!"
"He should be taken to Mama-sama and Papa-sama!" Sagashi-san declared, flicking his tail decisively. "Come with us."
"I can’t just leave my humans—" I started, but then I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. A girl had just stepped out from the back of the shop, carrying a pink and very thick album.
"Don’t worry, the humans will be… occupied reminiscing for a while," Sagashi-san said cryptically. "We have time."
And just like that, I found myself flanked on all sides, a veritable escort forming around me. The massive Siamese led the way, his dark tail waving like a banner.
Welp. This was happening.
I was a little nervous, sure—but damn if I wasn’t intrigued.
Was I finally about to learn the great and ancient secrets of the ninja cats?
Or at the very least… get a decent meal out of it?
2025-02-22 04:46:06 +0000 UTC
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By the end of the trip, I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, I didn’t really want to go home. On the other, I was getting a bit fed up with the adventure as well. It was the monotony of it—every day was the same routine. The excitement had worn off, and even the variety of creatures we were observing no longer felt all that impressive. I wanted a change of scenery—climb some mountains, swim in the sea, lounge on a beach with a book. Do something rather than just watch. Still, if the Lovegoods invited me along again next year, I’d definitely say yes.
I found comfort in spending time with Luna. She never started conversations herself, but she always answered questions clearly and thoroughly in that way only she could. If you asked, she could talk for ages, speaking slowly, as if explaining things to herself as much as to you.
Mostly, we talked about books—ones we’d read together, ones I hadn’t read yet, or ones she still wanted to read. Some she mentioned made me want to find them in the Hogwarts library once we got back. I could’ve just asked to borrow them from her—she wouldn’t have refused—but something held me back. I didn’t want her to think I was spending time with her just because I wanted something from her. I wanted her to know that I enjoyed her company for what it was.
Maybe it was silly, but Luna didn’t really have other friends besides me. And if people did talk to her, it was usually because they needed something. Once they got what they wanted, they forgot about her just as quickly. The last thing I wanted was to make her think I was like that too. She’d already given me so much, and I had nothing to give her in return. No way to make her life easier, even if I wanted to. Maybe that’s why I felt a bit guilty.
Funny thing was, she’d probably just laugh if she knew what ridiculous thoughts were running through my head. She saw straight through people—no, more like she felt them, the way animals or wise old men do when they look into someone’s soul. But even knowing the truth about people, she still chose to see the good in them. She could find something to appreciate in anyone, even if she never spoke to them—be it their nice hair or a cheerful laugh. Most of the time, though, she didn’t pay much attention to others at all.
Sometimes, at my request, she told me stories—long, magical, almost childlike tales, yet full of meaning. I think she made them up herself, or maybe she blended English legends with her own imagination, adding new characters. They often featured a brother and sister, or two friends, or sometimes tragic lovers setting off in search of happiness in a faraway land. But there were always two of them, always helping each other. They always reached their destination, always found what they were looking for. Luna didn’t believe in unhappy endings or vague conclusions—only happily ever afters.
And listening to her, I realised just how lonely she was. I would’ve done anything to make sure her own story ended well, to make sure she got the happiness she deserved.
But all stories have to end eventually—and so did ours. We returned to Britain.
Back home, the entire Weasley clan was gathered under one roof for the Quidditch World Cup. I hadn’t been around such chaos in ages, and it brought back memories of childhood.
Mum and Dad barely noticed me—Bill had come home, their pride and joy, their golden boy. Dad took extra shifts at work, and Mum was running around the house like a headless chicken. As long as their sixth son came back in one piece, that was good enough.
Bill had outdone himself this year. Ponytail tied back, a fang earring, leather trousers, dragon-hide boots—he looked like a bloody rock star. Not that I’d ever admit it, but he did look cool. And expensive. That part annoyed me. Strolling in like some big shot to show us all how much better life could be. He even spoke like Malfoy, all slow and posh, like he was above it all. Sod him.
Charlie, though—I was actually glad to see him. He’d tanned even more over the summer, but otherwise, he was the same. Warm smile, open expression, hands rough with callouses. He was the only one who genuinely asked me about my trip. The rest of the family didn’t seem all that interested.
Percy was pleased to see me, in his own way, but he barely had time to listen—too busy preparing for his new job, triple-checking notes like he was launching a rocket to Mars instead of teaching first-years. But that was Percy for you, a perfectionist to the core. No surprises there.
The twins bombarded me with questions at first, but they mostly just talked over each other, jumping from one topic to the next—how they’d been keeping Harry entertained while I was away, all the new prank products they’d come up with. Then they actually had the nerve to have a go at me—for not gathering ingredients in the jungle for their experiments. Like I was supposed to know! Frustrated by the missed opportunity, they left my room in a huff. Not for long, though. A while later, they were back—with all their stuff, moving in.
Mum and Dad were just glad to have all their kids home, at least for about ten minutes. After that, they got busy with household chores and chatting with the older brothers. The only real sign of affection I got was Mum piling my plate extra high at dinner. Business as usual.
Ginny, though, was over the moon to see me. For the first two days, she followed me around like a shadow, absolutely thrilled with the little colourful feathers I’d brought her from the reserve. Treated them like precious gems. No idea why they meant so much to her, but she loved them. Luna did too, actually.
Then, for Ginny’s birthday, I got her a brooch with rock crystal. Thought she was going to crush me with how tightly she hugged me. I’d picked it up in the city with Muggle money, barely cost me anything, but she was overjoyed. I had to admit, being an older brother had its perks.
Harry turned up three days later, bags and all—Dumbledore had made him stay at Privet Drive for the last stretch of summer before finally letting him move into the Burrow. It worked out well, though. I had some important things to sort out.
Charlie came to me that evening with a serious look on his face.
"It’s time, Ron. No point delaying any further," he said. "We should bring Bill in on this."
He must’ve seen the doubt on my face because he added, "Don’t worry, I’ll have him sign a standard contract for services rendered. Nothing life-threatening, just a clear set of terms. It’ll guarantee confidentiality, set specific conditions—nothing too binding. I doubt Bill will object. I’ll talk to him myself."
I’ve got no idea how exactly they talked it out, but Charlie had Bill’s respect, even if our dear eldest brother still had to act all high and mighty about it. They signed the contract, though, and when it came down to business, Bill finally dropped that superior tone of his.
We didn’t let him in on the full story. Just asked him if it was even possible to get into someone else’s vault, in theory. Given his job, Bill should’ve known about that kind of thing. Who had the right to access a vault? Could someone negotiate with the goblins to visit a vault without taking anything if the owner was in Azkaban? We kept it straightforward.
"I'm not going to ask why you need to know," he said after a moment’s thought. "But it’s a shame, Charlie, that you don’t trust me..."
"It’s not about trust," Charlie shot back calmly. "We’ve been over this, Bill. The less you know, the safer you are. Safer for you, and safer for your career."
"Fine," Bill said, all business now. "You can’t just waltz into someone else’s vault. The only loophole is if there are no heirs and the vault reverts to the goblins. Then you might be able to strike a deal—but goblins name their own terms, and they’re not always doable. Could be an obscene amount of gold, could be a family artifact—goblins love putting wizards in their place. And trust me, they never lose out. You’ve got to be careful dealing with them unless every single term is nailed down in a contract."
"What about just robbing the place?" I cut in, seeing Charlie’s frown. "Use a hair from the vault owner, Polyjuice—"
"Dodgy, but doable," Bill admitted. "Goblins are vulnerable to Confundus and mind-suppressing potions. Knock one out properly, get some potion down their throat… but the safest bet is Imperius. If you lot are mad enough to try robbing Gringotts, though, I reckon Azkaban would be the least of your worries. And one hair’s not enough if the vault’s on the lower levels. It’d be easier if you just told me which vault you’re after. Top-level ones don’t need Polyjuice—anyone with the key can get in. But lower-level vaults have security enchantments. Even with Polyjuice, you’d need the owner’s wand to verify identity."
"Lestrange vault," Charlie said bluntly.
Bill let out a low whistle. "That’s on the lowest and most heavily guarded level," he said. "It’s protected not just from the outside but from within. And there are identity-revealing enchantments. I’ll check the details and see if there are any direct heirs, but don’t get your hopes up—this is as close to impossible as it gets. If there’s a direct heir, though, that could make things easier, if you can convince them to help."
"Could the Malfoys inherit?" I asked. "Bellatrix and Narcissa are sisters."
"And?" Bill snorted. "First off, the head of the family is still alive. A life sentence in Azkaban isn’t enough to give his relatives free rein over the vaults. Second, like most old pureblood families, the Lestrange inheritance only goes to a male heir. Even if Bellatrix were to become a widow without a son, she wouldn’t get any of her husband’s family wealth. She’d get a nice payout from the estate’s profits over the years, maybe a share in any businesses they invested in after the wedding, plus any jewelry and dowry she brought into the marriage. But the vault itself? The family heirlooms? All the treasure hoarded over centuries? If there’s no heir, it all goes to the goblins after six months unless someone comes forward to claim it.
"The goblins actually have an artifact tied to the vault. It shows whether there’s a blood heir. If it goes dark, it means the bloodline’s ended, and the goblins take everything. If there’s an heir, the vault gets sealed until they step up—but when they do, they’ll have to pay a hefty fee for every day it sat untouched."
"Bloody hell," I muttered, properly impressed.
"That’s what came out of the war and the peace treaty with the goblins," Bill said with a shrug. "No one back then could’ve predicted a time when all these grand old families would be clinging to their last remaining heir—or that some bloodlines would die out completely."
"What about a distant relative or an outsider?" I asked. "Could they inherit?"
"Property and businesses, sure—if there’s a will. The Ministry might recognise them as an heir, but Gringotts won’t. Goblins have their own laws—it’s blood and magic or nothing. Unless, of course, the head of the family officially adopts a boy into the bloodline and magical lineage."
"Bill, do the goblins take bets on the Quidditch World Cup?" I asked, changing the subject as we were getting ready to wrap up.
"They do, but most wizards prefer to bet through independent bookies or the Ministry’s Sports League," he said.
"Why’s that?" Charlie asked.
"Goblins never offer odds higher than three-to-one—four-to-one if their analysts think the bet’s a real long shot. The Ministry bookies offer ten-to-one, but they take a five percent cut of the winnings. The independent bookies offer twenty-to-one, tax-free, but it’s a gamble—you never know if they’ll just run off with your money. Regular punters usually stick with one bookie they trust."
"Bill, could you place a bet for me?" I asked, forcing myself to swallow my pride. No matter how I felt about him, money was money, and I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity. "If you can’t, I’ll ask Charlie."
"Yeah, alright," he said, surprisingly quickly—didn’t even bother making a show of it. "How much?"
"Five thousand," I said, pulling out my coin pouch. I wasn’t worried about secrecy—Bill couldn’t blab or act on anything he’d learned today.
"Five—what?" His eyes widened. "And where the hell did little Ronniekins get that kind of money?"
"None of your business," I snapped. "It’s not even mine, technically. Just looking to make a profit off it. The owner’s fine with it."
"You’ve lost the plot," Bill said, narrowing his eyes. "That’s a massive risk. What if you lose?"
"I won’t," I grinned, shaking the pouch. "I’m lucky."
"I can’t do five. Goblins cap it at three, max. Unless Charlie agrees to split the bet…" Bill shot him a questioning look, and when Charlie nodded, he scooped up my pouch and stuffed it into his belt bag. "You're taking a big risk, kid," he added.
"Ireland wins, but Krum catches the Snitch," I said.
Bill huffed a laugh, but I didn’t stick around to hear his lecture. I left them to it.
If it all went according to the book, I’d be rolling in gold even at three-to-one odds. If not… well, I’d be broke. No big deal—who dares wins, right? Worst case, I’d sell another vial of venom through Charlie.
Harry was genuinely happy to see me. The bloke had obviously missed me and was itching to tell me all about his summer. Bit embarrassing to admit, but I hadn’t thought about him once while I was away. Didn’t even bring my notebook—no point, since the protective wards in the reserve blocked all magical communication. Only one official channel worked, and even if it didn’t, enchanted notebooks wouldn’t have held up across an ocean. Still, he listened to my stories with his mouth hanging open, not even trying to hide his envy at how exciting my trip had been. Then I had to go through the whole thing again for Hermione.
She, in turn, told us about her trip to Rome with her parents. Skipping the museum details, it was actually pretty interesting.
I asked Harry about Sirius, more out of politeness than anything. If I was being honest, I didn’t really care how he was getting on. But Harry had been writing to him, and apparently, Black had no plans to come back to Britain anytime soon. He was somewhere tropical, enjoying life, and not saying much about himself.
At the end of the week, we celebrated Harry’s birthday. Mum outdid herself with the cake and the feast. These days, we always had dinner out in the garden, so the whole family gathered around the table. Otherwise, we all got up at different times, and Mum called us in to eat separately to avoid the chaos of everyone crowding the tiny kitchen at once.
After Ginny’s birthday, the Burrow became even more cramped—Dad had driven off in his car to fetch Hermione.
Ginny refused to share her room, so Hermione got Charlie’s, which was in the best shape. Charlie himself was moved in with the twins, and they, in turn, were stuffed into mine and Harry’s room. That did not sit well with me.
I could understand Ginny—she and Hermione weren’t close enough to bunk together. But Bill refusing to share his room, even with Charlie? And Percy’s was so packed with neatly sorted papers you could barely move in there. And so, once again, I got the short end of the stick.
Still, having the twins in our room turned out to be useful. I remembered from the book that Mum found and destroyed all their prank sweets and orders. She was furious at their OWL results—three Exceeds Expectations between the two of them, the rest all Acceptable at best, which took some effort to achieve. But thinking about my own dreams and how much I hated the idea of sitting through another few years of school just for the sake of it, I decided to help them out.
I suggested we secretly enchant a bag to keep their prank supplies and order lists hidden.
They, and most of the older students, could have done a basic charm to lighten the load or expand the space a bit. They could’ve also added notice-me-not charms or a ward against prying hands. But those kinds of spells wore off and needed regular reapplying—not very convenient. The strength of the enchantment depended on the caster, so the same spell could last three days, a day, or just a few hours.
To make the effect permanent, you needed a base to anchor the magic and a reservoir to store it. That turned a simple enchanted object into a basic magical artifact. These could last ages—until the item wore out or the inscription got damaged.
Traditionally, this was done through embroidery or stylized rune patterns, where tiny beads, gemstones, or bits of precious metals acted as reservoirs, holding the magic.
Or you could just burn or carve a rune sequence into the surface, like I had on my own bag—a bit crude, but reliable. The problem was, rune sequences were activated and stabilized with blood magic, and that was banned in Britain.
That was why Hogwarts students no longer made their own simple artifacts, even though it used to be a school elective. They’d axed it from the curriculum, along with magical crafts, protective magic, and a few other ‘controversial’ subjects.
To be fair, maybe banning it wasn’t a bad idea. I’d read up on it recently—blood magic in the wizarding world was no joke. A single drop could do all sorts of things to another person. And with a school full of kids, not all of them level-headed, it made sense to be cautious. Of course, the Ministry overdid it, as usual, and banned everything outright.
These days, blood magic was only permitted in limited cases—mostly for making complex magical artifacts for sale, with the Ministry keeping a tight leash on it. That way, customers got quality-assured products, rogue enchantments didn’t spread unchecked, and the Ministry got its cut.
Of course, people still secretly enchanted their own things with blood magic. No one was going to check every bag to see if it was shop-bought or homemade. Hermione, if the book was right, made her own beaded handbag with similar enchantments. But my parents were way too straight-laced—if they ever found out I dabbled in ‘forbidden’ magic, they’d go grey on the spot.
Anyway, I helped the twins enchant a couple of bags to keep their prank supplies hidden from nosy hands. Why? Consider it an investment in their future business. Plus, it never hurts to have the twins owe you a favor. In Hogwarts, they had access to everything—information, supplies, you name it. That could come in handy.
Three days before we were set to leave for the Cup, Charlie pulled me aside.
"I talked to Bill and sent an anonymous tip to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement about a possible attack on the Muggle camps after the match," he said seriously. "Hopefully, they’ll tighten security and stop it before it happens. But we need a backup plan. I don’t want Ginny and Hermione running around in a panic in the dark while a bunch of lunatics hyped up on adrenaline are causing havoc. You know things might not play out exactly as they did in your visions."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"Bill thinks it’s best we leave early too. Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him about you."
"And what did you lot decide?" I asked, relieved that someone else was sharing the burden with me. "I’m not thrilled about this whole situation either. The Lovegoods have a portal straight to their place. Luna said they’re not planning to stick around after the match—they want to head straight home and get The Quibbler’s match review out the same day. Maybe we could hitch a ride with them? They wouldn’t mind."
"We wouldn’t be able to explain to our lot why we need to leave," Charlie said after a moment’s thought. "I’ve already arranged a portkey straight to the Burrow, Ron. We just need to figure out how to convince Dad to head home straight after the match instead of staying in the tents overnight."
"Mum’s the key," I said after mulling it over. "While Dad’s at work, you and Bill start getting in her ear about the potential chaos after the match. This isn’t the first World Cup—stuff must’ve happened before, even without Death Eaters showing up. You know what Muggles are like—riots, drunken brawls, vandalism. Doubt wizards are any better. And with Ginny there… You know what Mum’s like—just hint at a bit of danger, especially if it involves her precious girl, and she’ll start panicking. If Bill backs it up as well…"
"Alright, we’ll go with that plan," Charlie agreed, flashing a reassuring grin before heading out. I stayed up a while longer, running through backup options in case things didn’t go to plan. I even considered faking an illness with one of the twins’ trick sweets.
But in the end, there was no need for any self-inflicted injuries. Within three days, Mum had wound herself up so much that she didn’t even want to let Ginny go with us at all. In the end, the whole family pressured her into relenting, but only on the condition that we all returned home immediately after the match. Dad didn’t argue, and the three of us certainly weren’t going to challenge her decision.
For the first time since coming back, I slept soundly.
2025-02-22 04:40:40 +0000 UTC
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Demons of NC
Life is Good
Elden RIng: My Ending
Announcement
Next Hydrargyrum update will be a mass release!
Also, I might need one more day off next week, but I doubt it.
All in all, everything's back on track!
2025-02-21 07:22:23 +0000 UTC
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Did Patches expect to receive orders from Tanith?
Honestly, after everything that had happened in the past few days, he had completely forgotten about it. As in, entirely forgotten that he owed anyone anything.
“You look exhausted, Patches. Running from the inquisitor again?”
“He was running from me!” the former ‘law-abiding’ bandit huffed, turning up his nose.
From somewhere on the second floor, distant, deranged laughter echoed. Patches flinched, glancing toward the staircase.
‘Who in their right mind keeps a mad inquisitor in their manor?!’
Sometimes, he felt like the only sane person in the entire Lands Between…
“I thought so,” Lady Tanith chuckled behind her mask. “I have a new task for you. It’s urgent.”
“But I already—”
“It’s urgent, Patches,” she pressed, her voice sharp. But just as quickly, it softened into something gentle and coaxing: “Only a noble hero like you can handle it.”
“Of course, that’s me!” Patches declared proudly—then, realizing what he had just agreed to, smacked himself on his bald head. “But you already have—”
He abruptly shut up the moment he met the cold, lifeless gaze of the Crucible Knight.
Ever since undressing, the knight had become a hundred times more terrifying. Even his aura had changed.
Lady Tanith sighed, shifting her gaze to her ever-unflinching knight.
As his lady, she could not order him to put his armor back on. If she were an unmarried woman, well… given the state of his physical condition, perhaps she wouldn’t have minded. The draconic features didn’t faze her in the slightest.
But as the Lady of Volcano Manor, Tanith remained faithful to her husband, despite everything—even if he had become a giant, grotesque serpent abomination.
Really, though… these men and their peculiar interests…
“Only you can handle this mission, Patches,” Tanith sighed. “Surely, I can rely on such a brave Tarnished, can I not? But if you’re not enough, I could ask the inquisitor to go wi—”
“H-How about Knight Bernahl?” Patches blurted out.
“He’s already on another task,” she replied smoothly. “But don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll quickly find common ground with the inquisi—”
“I GOT IT, I GOT IT!” Patches practically screeched, hearing the distant laughter grow… closer. “W-What do you need, Lady Tanith?!”
“Follow the secret path after the powerful Tarnished, the sorceress, and my daughter. Observe them and report everything that happens. Of course, if you sense any trouble, the inquisi—”
Patches was already gone. Somewhere in the depths of the manor, mad laughter echoed once more.
Lady Tanith, now alone with her nearly-naked Crucible Knight, shook her head.
“…Would you consider wearing something other than just that loincloth, my servant?”
“…”
Not a single muscle on the knight’s face twitched.
Tanith sighed again—this time, in resignation.
Had Melina been here to witness this scene, she would have felt a deep, profound sense of sympathy for the lady of Volcano Manor.
Fortunately—or unfortunately—she was elsewhere.
The last thing Melina had expected to see was her chosen Tarnished bathing in lava alongside a sentient warrior-jar.
Yet, here they were.
Completely unexpectedly. Spontaneously.
“Oh! Fiery mountain! Temper me in your flames! Oh-ho-ho!”
Konstantin, sitting beside him, remained motionless, his expression focused, serious—as if he were enduring a trial of the gods.
Clearly, his material illusion was not thrilled about being burned alive.
Alexander, however, was thinking along similar lines, glanced at Konstantin with concern.
"I never thought that beings of flesh and blood could temper themselves in fire, my friend… But I am still grateful that you brought me to this place! I would have taken an eternity to get here on my own, ha-ha-ha!"
Kosta gave a stern nod.
"At first, I didn’t consider that not everyone has the luxury of easily traveling across the Lands Between. But if the timing of a quest doesn’t line up—adjust it yourself…"
For a brief moment, the man’s form flickered with light before stabilizing again. Clearly, while this controlled illusion of the Tarnished was keeping up the conversation with the warrior jar, his real body was occupied with something else.
Melina, of course, had a good idea of what that was.
"Clearing the area." The dreaded "farming."
And yet, she felt a strange sense of pride. If someone had told her at the beginning of their journey that her chosen Tarnished would—probably in the near future—not only be able to hold conversations with other beings but also do so through a controlled illusion while simultaneously handling other tasks… Melina would have just sighed.
Even she, the daughter of a Goddess, doubted she could have learned such a thing so quickly. Obviously, this was a skill Konstantin hadn’t always had. His consciousness must have evolved to an absurd level, but…
It seemed like he wasn’t in a rush to fully utilize it.
"Yes, my friend, fate has bound us together…" Alexander sighed… somehow.
Konstantin’s material illusion wavered, his "skin" momentarily peeling away to reveal golden strands of light woven together.
Cursing under his breath, Kosta got to his feet and then—
Rolled(1) through the lava toward the nearest outcropping that wasn’t submerged in molten rock.
"Oh, stars…" Alexander shook his jar-like head.
His friend was certainly… unusual.
Fortunately, the body woven from casual energy didn’t completely break down, quickly stabilizing again.
"Even casualization requires practice," Kosta remarked, completely unfazed. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "You already figured out I’m not really here, haven’t you?"
Alexander let out a hearty, good-natured laugh.
"Of course, my friend! I highly doubt your real body would be bothered by such temperatures."
After all, the Tarnished was the bearer of three Great Runes, had faced one of the most powerful demigods in the realm, and emerged from the battle completely unscathed. His body’s regeneration was nothing short of unnatural.
"I’m sorry," Kosta’s expression wavered slightly, his composure not as solid as before. "I’m just trying to keep up with everything… I’ve never had a timed challenge like this before…"
Melina, watching from a distance, tensed.
Of course, she understood him. Probably everyone who interacted with him did.
They couldn’t keep up.
Events moved too fast, too imperceptibly, and trying to catch up with this man was almost impossible.
She had never even asked if her mother was one of his waifus.
And that answer… might determine not just the fate of the Lands Between.
But the fate of Konstantin himself.
"Oh, nonsense!" Alexander bellowed. "If not for you, I’d still be stuck in that damned pit, and who knows how long it would have taken me to get here! And how did you even know about the oil(2), ho-ho-ho!"
Konstantin didn’t answer, his face settling back into its usual unreadable state.
Melina knew how deeply the man respected the warrior jar.
Alexander had helped him embrace hardcore casualization, and while she still didn’t fully grasp what that meant, she understood that it had been something incredibly important to him.
It was after that conversation that Konstantin had truly begun to change.
Alexander, noticing the serious—yet oddly unreadable—expression on Konstantin’s face, crossed his arms.
"I see… You’ve taken on a heavy burden, my friend, but…" The warrior jar thumped a hand against his hardened shell. "Know this—I’d be an absolute fool to hold a grudge over such a small matter! You helped me become even stronger, even though I’ve done almost nothing for you!"
"You’ve done far more than you think," Konstantin muttered—not just for himself, but for the entire community.
"That is true friendship!" Alexander declared. "So don’t dwell on the fact that you couldn’t do everything exactly as you wanted. What matters is that, in the end, we’ve met again."
Konstantin was about to respond, but Alexander continued, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Melina saw the Tarnished genuinely emotional.
"On my way here, I crafted something for you. Take it. I believe it will suit you well."
Alexander reached deep into his jar-like body, rummaging around.
Konstantin’s material illusion stared at the offering, its heart—woven from pure casualization—stopping for a moment in anticipation.
To be honest, Melina felt a twinge of indignation.
Konstantin’s reaction was eerily similar to when she had gifted him the club—the club, crafted from the dead branch of the Erdtree itself, reinforced and enhanced by one of the greatest blacksmiths in the Lands Between…!
And yet—
Alexander was offering him a jar.
A completely ordinary jar.
Or was it?
Had she underestimated its significance?
Without hesitation, Konstantin rolled through the lava, reaching the astonished Alexander, and accepted the gift with absolute reverence.
"I will treasure this jar like a waifu," he declared solemnly, lowering his gaze to the vessel.
The illusionary man's eyes burned with light like never before. Or perhaps, it was simply that his illusion was already at its limit.
A grand artifact, a symbol of might and dominance, an ultimate mark of a true tryhard—revered in legend, sung of in ballads, rendered in CGI animations.
"This is but a small gift," Alexander chuckled, though he was clearly pleased by how warmly the Tarnished had received it. "More importantly, though—the flames here are too weak. I won’t be able to temper my body so that it never cracks again."
Unfortunately, the lava was insufficient to fortify his jar to the degree he desired.
"I suppose I shall head east. I recently heard an ancient saying—‘If you seek the eternal flame of ruin, make your way to the snowy Mountaintops of the Giants, high above the clouds.’"
Of all the things Melina did not expect, it was for Alexander to suddenly provide her Tarnished with a direct lead toward something terrifying.
Thankfully, before she had time to panic, Konstantin turned his head toward her, as if sensing her reaction.
"You shouldn’t go there," he stated flatly. "If you need help with tempering, I can try using my flames to aid you."
Alexander… frowned.
At least, Kosta thought he did.
"You have already done far too much for me, Konstantin," the warrior jar rumbled, shaking his vessel-like body. "As much as I would like to accept your help once more, I still have my pride as a warrior. I ask for your understanding."
Kosta exhaled quietly, then gave a reluctant nod.
Of course, he understood.
This was the mindset of all hardcore tryhards—
No summons. No spirits. No consumables, controllers, monitors, or even the game itself—
"I understand."
Konstantin’s illusion watched Alexander depart with complicated emotions.
On one hand, he felt immense relief.
On the other…
It was as if the warrior jar himself was marching toward his ending.
And while Alexander may not have considered it a bad one—
To Konstantin, it was horrifying.
"Is this jar the reason you created this illusion, Konstantin?" a cold voice cut through the moment.
Melina had appeared.
Kosta turned his head toward his waifu, lost in thought.
The waifu-sorceress was right—he wasn’t perceiving the world the same way as he would in his real body. Everything felt muted, dulled. Even his vision was like seeing everything from the corner of his eye, and in a way, that was exactly what was happening. He was occupied elsewhere, devoting only a fraction of his attention to this illusion.
Without this unnatural perception, he physically wouldn’t have been able to pull off this "trick." The human mind simply wasn’t built for it.
Not to mention the nature of the magic itself—it didn’t just require conjuring a projection; it demanded that a literal piece of his consciousness be severed and infused into a cluster of casual energy.
For Sellen, whose soul and mind had long existed within primeval glintstone, this wasn’t an issue. Her consciousness was vastly different from that of an ordinary person, which, arguably, could be said about any sufficiently powerful casual.
Konstantin closed his illusionary eyes, pushing away unnecessary thoughts.
"I will use this gift only once, when the time comes. But yours… I will use it until it breaks."
Melina hadn’t expected to hear that from her Tarnished. She felt her heart skip a beat, warmth spreading through her chest.
"You won’t break it so easily," she said, standing a little taller with pride.
His words were pleasant. Lately, they hadn’t had much time to speak alone. And though she didn’t love the fact that, at this very moment, Konstantin’s real body was somewhere else, likely with that arrogant witch…
She had to admit—that arrogant witch had helped him tremendously, revealing a unique magic that would allow him to accomplish everything he wanted.
That thought alone made her feel a little better.
"Yeah, Meli-Meli," Konstantin said, completely unfazed.
Melina had been about to protest at the nickname, purely out of principle, when suddenly Konstantin held out a jar to her. Instinctively, she took it.
"I couldn’t keep holding it forever," the Tarnished said with a casual shrug. "Thanks. You really helped me."
She instantly understood what he meant.
His body was beginning to dissolve.
Before she could say anything, his illusion crumbled away, leaving the false Finger Maiden standing alone, clutching a strange jar. Just before he disappeared completely, she barely caught his voice in the distance:
"…try not to run from healing…"
Melina pressed her lips together.
Her Tarnished had perfectly timed his exit.
But that wasn’t even what bothered her the most.
"I was just about to ask if he considers the Goddess a waifu…"
Another moment lost. She let out a soft sigh, lowering her gaze to the jar.
Still, she was glad.
At least this time, she—the most useless Finger Maiden in the history of the Lands Between—had been able to help.
Of course, she’d still have to find another moment to ask her pressing question. And…
Melina lowered her head further, hiding her face beneath her hood.
Maybe she really should stop avoiding his healing.
But she’d still have to ask him to make sure it was a bit… more private.
Realizing how that sounded, even in her own head, Melina let out a tiny, almost inaudible squeak.
Life in a Soulslike had prepared her for a painful (and repeated) death, but not for the realization that she would have to ask a man to be alone with her, just so the other women wouldn’t see her embarrassing reaction to… enjoyment.
Unfair.
Patches had suspected that the manor was bigger than it seemed. But…
He had not expected to find an entire burning city beneath it, may all the Outer Gods, the Queen, and Goddess Marika’s divine curves have mercy.
A city crawling with actual humanoid snakes.
The ones that had survived.
"Hey, you!"
A serpent-man, hissing from behind the remains of a building, cautiously peeked out and stared at the bandit in shock.
Patches sauntered up, squatting down next to the creature.
"You seen a half-naked psycho? …Or just a regular psycho?"
The serpent-man let out a fearful hiss, glancing around nervously.
Patches could understand. Destruction was everywhere. The ground was covered in fresh craters, as if some giant had been swinging a massive club through the hidden city.
And let’s not even talk about the sheer number of corpses—serpent-men, marionettes, bats, and the undead, all piled up in various states of defeat.
"Ssss… f-faaaarmsss…"
Patches flinched.
That forbidden word.
It was spreading quickly throughout the Lands Between, striking terror into the few remaining beings who still retained a shred of sanity.
Harvesting—no, farming—was a nightmare beyond comprehension.
"Yeah, yeah, that’s the one, good job, buddy. Quick thinker. Now, where did he go? Hurry up, I’m a busy man, got a business to run, you know."
The serpent-man froze.
Then, oddly, it let out a strange hiss as its neck began to stretch… unnaturally long.
Seeing the formerly harmless creature growing larger and larger, the brave Tarnished made the only rational decision—
Run.
Fortunately, if there was one thing Patches was good at, it was running!
Before the serpent could fully transform, Patches had already bolted.
The creature hissed in surprise, watching the bald man flee at an impressive speed.
The hidden city beneath the manor, once teeming with horrors, was now a graveyard. Well—technically, that was nothing unusual for the Lands Between. But this time, it had been one man that turned it into a wasteland.
That half-naked lunatic had wiped out everything, leaving only a handful of barely-sentient beings cowering in the ruins.
As Patches continued searching for the Tarnished, another problem emerged—the lakes of lava and the overwhelming heat.
It was so hot that Patches actually found himself grateful to the Greater Will for blessing him with a bald head.
The problem of the lava lakes remained unsolved, forcing Patches to search for an alternate route. More than once, he had to rely on the mechanics of non-existent parkour, leaping across ledges.
In short, he had lost track of the Tarnished long ago.
"Where am I?.. Why is this place so huge?!" Patches clutched his head, barely able to breathe.
It was hot. Unbearably hot. The very color palette of this place seared his eyes!
The hidden section of Volcano Manor had unfolded into a sprawling, winding labyrinth. At some point, Patches had simply lost his way.
Honestly, he would have loved nothing more than to escape. Just run, never look back. But two things stopped him:
First, he was lost and had no idea how to leave.
Second, he really, really wanted to hear a few more of Tanith’s praises for his underappreciated—at least by society’s more self-aware half—persona. Finally, someone who understood him!
And for that, he needed to complete her task.
Unfortunately, that meant more exploring. And so, he found himself squeezing through cracks, climbing over ravines, and pushing open an alarming number of strange doors.
One such door gave him pause.
A massive, pale, bloated form lay resting at the center of the chamber.
"M-Marika’s…" Patches whispered, but never finished, as the enormous, slumbering mass twitched.
Not even the Greater Will itself could determine the sheer effort it took for the bandit to not scream at the top of his lungs.
But, whether fortunately or unfortunately—he didn’t.
Whatever that thing was, it remained asleep.
It seemed he had not triggered its aggro(3).
‘They really need to clean out this basement!’ Patches barely stopped himself from groaning aloud.
Did Tanith even know what was living under her manor?! What kind of lady of the house let this happen?!
Slowly, carefully, feeling his heart hammering in his chest, he crept around the beast’s perimeter and finally slipped out through a window.
The moment he was safely outside, Patches exhaled in relief and, after a quick glance over his shoulder, let out a smug laugh.
“See that, you bloated bastard?! It’s me, Patches the Untethered—"
The beast inside let out an earth-shaking roar.
Patches bolted, once again speedrunning deeper into the hidden city, still trying to track down that insane Tarnished.
Conveniently, forgetting his own fear.
"Hey! Walking piles of iron, where am I?!"
Two Abductor Virgins exchanged confused glances(4).
Patches sighed as they began rolling toward him at an ominous pace.
He was really starting to get tired.
And yet, Patches’ survival instincts remained impeccable. He had scoured nearly the entire hidden portion of the manor without dying even once. Say what you will about the so-called honest merchant, but the fact that he had outlived some of the Lands Between’s bravest heroes had to mean something.
And people say luck isn’t a skill…
"Now, where is the exit?.. Wait… A path?" Patches muttered, scratching his bald head.
He had scoured every inch of the lower manor, finding only traces of the Tarnished’s activities. But him, his waifu, or that snake girl?
Nowhere to be found.
Patches was starting to suspect that the half-naked lunatic had finished whatever act of mass destruction he had set out to accomplish and had already left.
He was wrong.
Because Konstantin was still searching, too.
Searching for an alternate route to the boss room, meticulously inspecting every stone in this new—but familiar—location.
And so, following after the Tarnished and his waifu, Patches unknowingly led them to the only place left.
"The boss has to be here."
The calm voice behind Patches sent a shudder down his spine.
He barely had time to turn before Konstantin—
Kicked him directly into the "path."
"Wha—?! AAAAAAH!!!"
Patches tumbled down, rolling all the way to the bottom of the passage, landing in a completely unexplored area.
Scrambling to his feet, the very offended merchant whipped his head back toward where he’d fallen from—
Only to see Konstantin. Perfectly still. Perfectly composed. And, for some gods-damned reason, smug as all hell.
"Hey! Why the hell did you kick me?!"
"That’s a question the community has been asking for years."
Konstantin’s calm response only deepened Patches’ frown.
He didn’t get it. At all.
"Listen, buddy," Patches began, putting on his best fake grin, "how about you help me out of here, huh?"
The Tarnished feigned deep thought.
"I’ll help," Konstantin finally said with a smile. "But first, I need you to do something. Could you check out that cave?"
‘Huh. He’s chattier than I expected,’ Patches mused, rubbing his bald head. "Sure, pal!"
He turned and peered into the narrow passage. Shrugging, he made his way forward. With every step, the cave widened, growing larger and larger until, finally…
He stepped into a true arena.
If the last creature had inspired fear, then—
Upon seeing this boss, Patches felt nothing but exhaustion and rage.
"Oh, for—damn it… DAMN IT! Why me?!"
A creature, dozens of meters tall. A grotesque, mutated serpent, a writhing mass of intertwined corpses, coiled into a massive knot, slowly opened its eyes.
Praetor Rikard, who had not seen new visitors for a long time, awakened from his slumber.
And, honestly, he probably shouldn’t have.
(1) Lava doesn’t kill the player instantly; instead, it just deals continuous damage. Strangely enough, navigating lava is actually more efficient either with an Ash of War ability or good, old-fashioned rolling.
(2) The second time you help Alexander out of a hole, a simple push won’t work—you’ll need to find and throw a jar of oil at him.
(3) In early versions of the game (and, according to some, still in certain instances), this boss had a broken trigger, allowing the player to bypass its AI entirely by entering the arena from a specific position.
(4) A dual boss consisting of two Iron Virgins. There are two ways to encounter them—either by allowing yourself to be abducted by one in Raya Lucaria Academy, or by finding them in the Temple of Eiglay, within Volcano Manor.
2025-02-21 07:18:02 +0000 UTC
View Post
We finally got back.
You know, I really like Xavier’s school. I like my home too. But I’ve also realized something—I want… freedom. Yeah, that’s probably the best way to put it. When I was a kid, I couldn’t do anything without my parents. Even as a teenager, there was always some kind of leash. Then came the kidnappings, the life with mutants, their protection. I’m endlessly grateful to everyone who helped me. But suddenly, I just want my own place. My own apartment. A real space that’s mine, where I can come and go as I please.
Not that anyone’s restricting me right now, but there’s something about having a home of your own. Is this my rebellious phase kicking in? No idea. Maybe I’ve already been going through it, and this is just the latest symptom. I mulled it over while we got Penny settled into the room next to mine, where she unpacked, and I changed into fresh clothes and made a very necessary trip to the bathroom.
Yeah, I want to live separately. Visit my parents, drop by the school to see my friends from time to time… but—here’s the kicker—I still got school. Classes, training, tactical drills, learning to control my powers in the lab… The more I think about it, the more I realize that I’m nowhere near independence. Not unless I cut back even more of my so-called “free time.” Scratch that—I’d have to cut down on sleep, because I barely have free time as it is.
I already worked out a deal with Yuriko—two hours a day where I can do whatever, as long as I train after lunch while Penny’s here. One free day per week for personal business. But if I get my own place in the city, that’s extra travel time on top. Even if Ouyama moves in with me—what then? No training grounds. No lab access. And I’m not stopping my training. If I want to be an actual fighter, I need to train every single day. And that’s before factoring in my plans to study Qi, find magic users, learn to do magic, and finish college.
So yeah. I got myself all hyped up about the idea and then immediately depressed myself with reality. And to think—I used to dream of being a hedonist. A lazy life, lounging around with beautiful women, chilling at some cushy job that paid me for doing nothing. And look at me now. Training like a lunatic, studying like an overachieving nerd, preparing for a high-risk career as a certified superhero.
Where the hell did it all go so wrong? Or so right? I don’t even know anymore. If I’d never gotten powers, Penny and I would already be engaged, and I’d be packing for Europe, planning a normal-ass future with a normal-ass girlfriend. We’d be having normal, amazing sex with zero world-ending bullshit. She’d be setting me up with cute friends she liked, life would be good.
And yet, back then, I dreamed of superpowers. Even before I thought about hero work, I wanted to be a powerhouse. A lazy powerhouse, sure—just chilling on my couch, but if shit hit the fan, I’d walk out, kick ass, then go back to my snacks. Be careful what you wish for, kids. Ugh. Enough reflection. I can mope, but not for long—no time for existential crises. And honestly, who actually lives alone at fifteen, other than anime protagonists?
That said, getting my own place when I hit eighteen? That sounds fantastic.
I stepped out of my room and walked straight into a hilarious sight—a group of mutant girls and Penny, locked in what could only be described as a silent showdown.
It looked like I’d caught the scene right at the beginning because both sides were just standing there, staring each other down. There’s no better way to put it.
The only one smiling was Kristi—probably because she already knew Penelope.
“Hey, girls,” I said, deciding to take control before things got weird. A new guy at school? That gets a warm welcome. A new girl? That can start a territorial pissing contest if you’re not careful. “Let me introduce you. This is Penelope Black—my fiancee. I’ve mentioned her before. Her mom’s in town for work, so she’s staying at the school until they leave.”
The tension visibly eased. Their expressions softened. Even their stares became more welcoming. Well, except for Jubilee. That one was just radiating happiness. Pure, unfiltered joy. The kind that spreads like radioactive fallout—I could already tell she was about to go spread the news to every corner of the mansion.
I introduced Penny to the rest of them—everyone except Wolfsbane, who hung out with a different crowd, and the guys, who weren’t around. Surprisingly, it went well. No hostility. In fact, they warmed up to her almost immediately. Within five minutes, they were deep in conversation—asking about Europe, how we met, what I was like as a kid.
Oh. Oh no.
Emperor above, give me strength.
And then, without warning, they stole her. Just scooped Penny up, encircled her, and whisked her off for a grand tour of the school. Not even a glance in my direction.
Uh. Okay. Thanks, I guess?
So… what now?
Since I wasn’t about to stand there like an idiot, I shot Penny a text: “Heading to the lab for a bit. Call me when you’re free.” A tiny, irrational part of me worried for her, but I pushed it down. She’s not an idiot, and neither are they. Besides, Raisa was with them—probably the most level-headed person here. And Windy was basically the voice of reason in our little friend group.
With that settled, I made my way to Beast’s lab, where McCoy and Banner were—as usual—buried in research. They stood in front of a monitor, deep in discussion, spitting out complex nerdy terms at a speed that made my head spin. I understood about one in every five words.
"Greetings, oh brilliant minds!" I called out, grabbing their attention as I made my way to the couch.
The scene was a familiar one—just like always, the women gave me a quick wave and went right back to their conversation. They wouldn’t pay me any real attention until they were done.
Honestly, I’d tested this before. Once, I even put on headphones and started dancing right here. They barely spared me a glance before forgetting I existed.
That time, I actually considered taking it a step further—a full-on striptease on the table.
Thankfully, I caught myself in time. I do not have the moves for that.
Five minutes later, McCoy finally acknowledged me. “And what, dear boy, brings you here at this hour?” she asked, arching an amused brow.
For context—I usually show up after training. But today? Early. Without a word, I struck a dramatic pose, arms spread wide, palms to the ceiling, head tilted back in divine revelation—and ignited my hands in Flame.
With everything that had been happening, I hadn’t really had time to stop and analyze things. But now, in this quiet moment, I felt it—a rush of energy, raw excitement, a hungry sort of anticipation. There was something in me, stirring like a sleeping beast—slowly waking up, stretching, sniffing the air, wondering who it could sink its teeth into.
And that… worried me a little.
My energy manipulation? That was just a tool. That was fine. But the Flame… The ability to project absurdly high temperatures was one thing, but if I recall what happened with Scorpia—how my gun transformed into a hellish weapon—it wasn’t just fire. It altered things. My will reshaped my weapon into something deadlier. And that wasn’t skill. That was instinct.
And now? I really wanted to talk to the Ghost Rider.
McCoy and Banner, meanwhile, had launched into another rapid-fire debate—glancing between me and their notes, throwing around scientific terms I did not understand.
Why. Why did I have the brain of an orc instead of a Parker?
What followed was a whirlwind of questions, tests, and enough scientific swearing to make a sailor blush. Turns out, the Flame is way more versatile than my usual heat. Wrapping myself in fire? Easy. Shooting out a stream of flames? Child’s play. Whipping up a fiery tornado? Why the hell not. But the real kicker? Clothes.
When I manifested the flame away from my body, my underwear remained completely intact—thank God. But when I mentioned the whole weapon transformation thing, McCoy handed me a pair of plain rubber gloves and told me to concentrate on not burning them while igniting my hands. Have you ever seen rubber gloves covered in infernal runes? It was absurd, pure, unfiltered chaos. For one wild moment, my brain suggested testing this on a condom, but I shoved that thought out of my head before it could take root.
Then came the clothing and armor tests.
Turns out, the Flame doesn’t destroy my battle suit—it alters it. The colors shift into a red-black palette, the design turns sleeker and more predatory, and when I don’t actively force the fire, it lazily licks along the edges like a living thing. The emblem of the Angels of Vengeance moves to my chest, getting larger and more vibrant. McCoy and Banner had very mixed reactions. On one hand, they were practically giddy at all the new data. On the other, they kept muttering stuff like “This should be impossible.”
Then came the weapons tests. The three of us headed to the shooting range—after evacuating Logan and a group of girls, Penny included, who’d been enthusiastically blasting at targets. The scientists took cover behind full-body riot shields they somehow had lying around and made me fire off different guns. Verdict? Ridiculously OP. A small-caliber pistol suddenly hit with the force of an elephant gun. Zero added recoil. Every single bullet? Armor-piercing with an explosive payload. Standard targets? Reduced to confetti.
Then we tried my Colt. We promptly decided to move all future tests to the desert because my simple ‘Valera’ had just evolved into ‘Valeriy Satanovich’. The thing was already terrifying before—now? Now it was the Colt from Hell. First shot? Left a crater in a concrete wall. A big crater. Like, 15 inches wide, 10 deep. The sonic boom alone nearly deafened both women. Banner turned green—not in a Hulk way, more in an I-just-watched-my-life-flash-before-my-eyes way. McCoy and I had to calm her down. And the muzzle flash? A full-ass yard of infernal fire.
McCoy was absolutely losing her shit by this point, practically growling with excitement. Every effect of the Flame got meticulously scribbled down into her notebook, accompanied by occasional muttering and restrained cursing. And, according to her logic, if I could do this with my hands and weapons, I should be able to do the same with vehicles. She was technically right but not completely. When I tried to “demonize” a car? Nothing. Just drained my reserves to zero. After recharging, they handed me a tricycle. Because, and I quote, "Start small." That idea came from Logan. His expression was completely serious. McCoy, bless her heart, took him entirely at face value and backed him up.
And so… I created the Tricycle of the Antichrist. This was worse than the hell-rune gloves. It was a tricycle. From hell. And then McCoy made me ride it. The thing didn’t break, but the whole "pedal to move" mechanic still applied, which meant I had to actually pedal the damned thing. Everybody laughed. I suffered.
Then came Logan’s motorcycle. Demonization drained a third of my reserves—compared to the tricycle, which had taken almost nothing. McCoy theorized that the energy cost scaled with size and complexity. I didn’t ride it. Logan didn’t let me. That was one reason. The other? I don’t know how to ride a goddamn motorcycle. Not in this life. Not in my last one. Never had the chance.
Instead, they gave me an electric scooter. Which ate up a fifth of my reserves. And actually let me ride it. Bad idea. The little bastard shot forward like a goddamn missile. I immediately ate pavement. The scooter? It kept going. Hit second cosmic velocity. And rammed straight into Storm’s car.
So. Turns out, demonized vehicles are viable projectiles. Good to know. Bad to use in practice. I stared at the ruined rear door of Ororo Munroe’s beloved Chevy. A single phrase popped into my head: "Nous sommes dans la merde." Logan, standing next to me, came to the same conclusion.
"We’re fucked," he muttered. Then, without another word, he turned to the girls. "Let’s go, ladies. If anything happens—blame McCoy." And just like that, he left, girls in tow, all throwing me very sympathetic looks. That left me, McCoy, and Banner—now forced to figure out how the hell we were gonna explain this.
Then Oyama found us. She had the unmistakable expression of a woman who had zero patience left. She gave me a long look, jabbed a finger in my direction, and said flatly, ‘I’m taking him.’ Then she turned and headed for the door. I sighed dramatically, cast a mournful glance at McCoy, and shrugged with exaggerated helplessness. "I’d stay, but my boss says no." Head down, shoulders slumped in fake resignation, I followed my strict sensei.
"Thanks, Sensei," I muttered. She raised an eyebrow. I elaborated. "I… uh. May have lightly rammed Miss Munroe’s car. With a scooter." Silence. Then, just for a split second— a hint of a smug little smile. Ah. Right. She and Ororo weren’t exactly friends. Not enemies, but definitely mutually ignoring each other in a very pointed way. Don’t know why. Maybe Ororo couldn’t stand Yuriko’s bluntness. Maybe Yuriko found Ororo’s holier-than-thou energy grating.
Either way, Toby? Devious little bastard. Managed to dodge Storm’s wrath. Probably made Sensei’s day a tiny bit better. McCoy and Banner? Well. They’d take the hit. How tragic.
Yuriko led me to a small classroom, arms crossed, expecting a full report. So I told her—mostly everything. How I found out about Mom’s situation. My run-in with the Ghost Rider. The hostage rescue. The fight with Scorpia. The meeting with SHIELD. The only thing I left out? Deadpool. And our deal. Family business. No need to share that with my teacher. Then, Yuriko asked one very simple question.
"Did you test the harpoons?"
…Ah. Damn.
As Yuriko walked me through a few more recommendations, she casually dropped another one that actually made me pause—testing the lethality of air guns.
“If a pneumatic pistol in your hands hits like a firearm, you’ll be taking it on missions,” she said, dead serious. “But I highly recommend not showing off these abilities. You need a hidden ace, something you can pull out at the right moment. Your Flame fits that role perfectly. The power level you've already displayed is more than enough to make people take you seriously—SHIELD’s interest in you proves that. Showing off even more? Unnecessary.”
I just nodded. Hard to argue with logic like that.
As I was stepping out of the classroom, my phone vibrated—Penny. She was done with her tour and was unpacking in her room, waiting for me. I turned to my merciless sensei, giving her my best "Have pity on my soul" look.
“Go,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Tomorrow we train as scheduled. And you better catch up on your academic work.”
See? My sensei was an angel.
“You got it, Boss!” I grinned. “Everything will be perfect, Boss!”
Oyama watched the boy walk away and felt… pride? Yeah, probably. Onryo was improving. She had definitely made the right call with him. The thought of taking him under her wing no longer seemed like some irrational impulse—it was satisfying. His growth was her accomplishment, after all. She had always loved achieving her own success, but pride in a student? That was something new. And for someone who intended to live forever, discovering something new was everything.
It only reinforced what she already knew—humans performed best under pressure. When his mother was in danger, Tobias had found a way to the city in record time, coordinated with the police, rescued hostages, fought a supervillain, and won. Yeah. She’d chosen well.
Still, she had been in a foul mood all morning because of his fight with Scorpia—specifically, because she hadn’t seen it happen. But her student had managed to make up for it in the most unexpected way.
A scooter.
She needed the security footage from the garage. Maybe even grab a beer and watch Toby’s glorious act of vengeance against that insufferable woman.
As she strolled down the hallway, maintaining her usual mask of indifference, Jean Grey passed her in the opposite direction. The telepath barely acknowledged her—until, just for a fraction of a second, she swore she saw Oyama flash a wicked, sharp-toothed grin.
2025-02-21 07:16:13 +0000 UTC
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As I stepped into the room, I heard Michiko speaking, her voice smooth and controlled.
"If you ever wish to see the city, dear uncle, I’d be happy to give you a tour. Night City may be rough in places, but among the slums, its heart beats with a mesmerizing rhythm."
She gestured for me to wait, so I leaned against the wall of the safehouse, eyeing the bronze incense burners on sleek designer shelves. Michiko was using an implant for the call, so I couldn’t hear the other side, but one word was enough to clue me in—uncle. Yorinobu had arrived in our lovely little city.
"As you wish, uncle. But if you need anything… Oh. He hung up. Probably in a restaurant, dining with some beauty. Or two." She turned her gaze toward me with a slight smile. "Good evening, Mr. Price. How are you feeling? Did you sleep well?"
"Not great, to be honest," I replied, stepping closer.
"I see," she nodded. "Just a word of advice—perhaps you’ll find it useful. I assume you got rid of the bruises from—what, ten hickeys?—with a mix of anticoagulants and vascular tonics. But many scans can still detect micro-traces on the skin. Add in some proper agents, or better yet, invest in durable, elastic Realskin. No journalist has ever caught anything on me."
"Noted," I said as I took the seat across from her.
I was eager to know what my former—now current—employer wanted from me and how much it would interfere with my own plans. Thankfully, Michiko didn’t beat around the bush.
"You remember I told you that time moves fast? Especially in Night City."
"Michiko-san," I said in my most polite tone, "I assure you, every word from our last conversation has been burned into my memory for eternity."
"Glad to hear it. I’ll say it again—time is fleeting. Opportunities fly by as fast as bullets. You either catch them—or dodge them."
Yeah. Or get perforated.
"Militech’s situation in California has been… difficult lately. They’ve lost a lot of cargo. Just yesterday, a major convoy was taken apart."
Keep a straight face. Keep a straight face.
"Of course, bad times are followed by good ones. Militech has enough resources to weather the storm. However, we should take advantage of this moment. Here."
A small case slid out from the table in front of me. I picked it up carefully.
"Do all your furnishings have hidden compartments like this?" I asked.
"A good number," she replied with a knowing smile. "Enough that I hear that question often."
Inside the case was a collection of Militech personnel files from Night City. Nothing too classified, just a general overview.
"Perhaps some of this is already familiar to you, but better safe than sorry."
"Alright," I nodded. "And what exactly do you need from me?"
"You see, V, I don’t want to constrain you with strict orders. That would only hinder you."
"But a general direction at least, Michiko-san?"
"Fine," she straightened her back, her usual amused tone turning more serious. "Your task is to improve our strategic position in the ongoing competition with Militech. You may use any means at your disposal—recruiting informants, stealing data, spreading disinformation, and so on. I don’t consider sabotage the best method here, as we’re aiming for a long-term, systematic impact—one that insurance won’t cover."
Goddamn corpo speak, scraping against my teeth like sandpaper. And this was still the gentler version of it. But the core message was clear. Michiko wanted me to fuck Militech over—not in broad daylight where they could just clean it up, but in a way that would stew and rot before anyone could pinpoint where the stench was coming from.
"Pay close attention to that missing convoy," she added. "There’s a good chance its equipment will soon surface in Dogtown—where you are always welcome. The convoy is an excellent pressure point. Far more effective than families or personal weaknesses. Speaking of which, I recently found out that someone from our side got involved in the kidnapping of a certain executive’s mistress. Tell me, V, what do you think came out of it?"
"One corpse. One slightly pissed-off corpo who now holds a grudge against us?"
"Correct. The phrase 'Violence isn’t always the answer' is as overused as the oldest workers on Jig-Jig Street, but sometimes, it rings true."
Right. Violence isn’t always the answer. That’s why corps resort to blackmail and bribery when the blunt approach won’t cut it.
Does Michiko suspect I had a hand in that convoy disappearing? Doesn’t really matter. I was careful before heading out into the badlands, double-checking for tails, scanning the hardware she gifted me. Nothing. So, I hope my little roadside heist stayed off her radar. But either way, the convoy is just another piece on the board—potential leverage on Anthony Gilchrist or Meredith Stout.
That said, I’d have to be careful flashing that Bolt drone around in Konpeki. Sometimes, waving your ‘bolt’ around too much can have long-term and systemic consequences—ones not covered by insurance. But that’s a technical discussion for later, one I’d have with Panam. We could either strip the drone down beyond recognition or move it out of the hotel before shit went down.
"Deadline?" I asked.
"The sooner, the better," she said sweetly.
Crystal clear. Standard corpo vague bullshit. Do good things. Don’t do bad things.
Though, honestly? With me, that kind of approach might actually work.
"What about operational expenses?" I asked.
"As you know, accounting and secrecy don’t mix well. So I’ve decided to grant you an advance—along with a little something extra. Take a look at the suitcase by the wardrobe. Eighty thousand, cash. Completely untraceable. No serial numbers to track. No receipts required. That’s for expenses. Your actual payment will depend on results. I do hope you impress me."
"I’ll do my best."
"But don’t overwork yourself," she added, half-joking, half-serious. "Take care of your health."
I left the safehouse in high spirits. I’d worried Michiko might try to drag me into some internal corpo power struggle—faction wars, all that shit. But no, just classic corporate warfare against a competitor. And the timing was perfect. I already had some solid cards in my hand. Just had to play them right.
Funny how things worked out with Michiko-san.
She saw my potential but didn’t know the extent of what I already knew. She came close to figuring it out, but I managed to keep her at arm’s length with a mix of partial truths and carefully omitted details.
I spent about forty minutes handling various loose ends—looping through the city, swapping Michiko’s cash for credchips, ditching the suitcase, and so on. "Advance of trust" sounded nice, but I wasn’t about to let my guard down.
Then, after one last tail-dump through an unfinished building, I made my way to Arroyo.
Arroyo and Northside were like decomposing corpses. Except Northside had at least partially mummified, while Arroyo was full-on rotting, crawling with parasites. Homeless people of all stripes huddled among abandoned construction sites and still-operating factories. That was Arroyo—hot, suffocating, filthy, and pathetic in its own way.
And yet, according to Michiko, this was where you could hear Night City’s heart beating with a mesmerizing rhythm.
Yeah. That heartbeat was going off the fucking charts.
Full-blown tachycardia, like a hobo overdosing on Glitter.
Falko was waiting for me by a beat-up van. He was dressed in a work jumpsuit and a reflective orange vest, standing near a transformer, surrounded by three die-hard patriots from the 6th Street gang.
"You gotta understand," one of them, a guy in camo and a cowboy hat, was saying. "Texas and the rest of America need to stay together. You think Washington’s full of corrupt bastards? Damn right it is! Always has been. But over there—" he pointed toward the nearest Arasaka facility "—they got scumbags even worse. To them, we’re gaijin. Second-class citizens. And that ain’t ever gonna change."
"Boss," Falko cut in, nodding toward me.
"Ah…" The Sixth Street guy glanced at me and waved dismissively. "Man, these days, there's a boss for every worker. Or two. Take care. Save my number."
The 6th Street crew strolled off, passing by a wall covered in their graffiti and tags.
"Everything good?" I asked.
"Yeah. Just talk."
Satisfied that we weren’t being watched, Falko popped open the van’s rear doors. At first glance, the cargo area was crammed with equipment and tools. But then he yanked a grease-stained tarp off a large electrical panel, revealing a hidden crawl space behind the cab. Inside, nestled among wires and cooling units, was a netrunner setup. Lucy waved at me from her makeshift workstation, motioning for me to squeeze in.
I had to fold myself in three to fit, but the space was surprisingly comfortable—padded with soft rubber along the floor and parts of the walls.
"Take a look."
Lucy sent over a batch of photos. A nondescript two-story building with a fenced-in courtyard.
"We didn’t plant cameras there. They monitor the area constantly. See here? Across the street, there’s an auto parts store. They’ve got a security cam over the storefront. It’s disabled."
Ah. So they’re detecting and shutting down any external surveillance around the building. Small business owners wouldn’t even notice, or they’d just think their system was busted.
"You diving in?" Lucy asked, offering me a cable.
"Yeah," I said, plugging it into the port near my nape.
"Keep it quiet," she pressed a finger to her lips. "We don’t have the best setup here. No chair, no ice bath. I can only give you a coolant shot."
"Don’t worry. Quiet as a mouse."
I didn’t fully immerse myself in the Net—just enough to feel my body still sitting in the van while my digital self spread out across the district, blending into the background noise.
And there it was. The wall.
I used a slightly unconventional protocol to take a "snapshot" of the enemy network’s cyberspace. What materialized before me was a massive rectangular fortress. A true virtual stronghold. Sharp angles, solid walls. Not a tower-citadel like the one Abernathy hid behind, but still damn secure, and more importantly—built smart. One gate, sensors everywhere. I could break it, sure, but sneaking in unnoticed? Even I had a decent chance of tripping an alarm.
I disconnected.
"They’ve dug in deep."
"Local security guards the outer perimeter and upper floors—Bastion Group," Lucy shared. "There are about twenty, twenty-five of them. The actual Brazilians stay on the first floor and the basement. They don’t let the mercs downstairs."
Two layers of security with different access levels. Living the high life.
"That’s a lot," I muttered.
Too much, actually. Maybe this Brazilian intel outfit wasn’t just taking private contracts. Maybe they were running a full-scale op in the city. Which made their data even more valuable. But getting to it? That was gonna be a bitch.
Alright. Time for a plan.
I flipped through the snapshots again. Fuck. I really didn’t like this setup. It was too good. Their cameras covered every approach and were tied to alarm nodes. Disable even one, and the system would instantly flag it. Sure, any defense can be cracked. You just need a bigger hammer. But doing it quietly, with a small team? That was the real challenge.
What other options were there? They moved around a lot—maybe we could hit them during transit? Force them to relocate and ambush them mid-move? Tempting. But these guys were pros. I was sure they’d call in extra security the moment they were vulnerable. It could be even harder than hitting them at their base.
"The runners don’t leave the building," Lucy added. "They’re holed up inside. But I’m sure Kiwi is there."
Shit. Just say ‘fuck it’ and call Angie? Let her level the place? But I did promise Lucy we’d extract her problematic "friend."
Alright. So—go loud with a hired crew? Or try for stealth?
I pinged Falko.
"Has Panam tested the bot yet?"
"Yeah. Controls check out. That thing scrambles up walls like a cockroach."
"Perfect."
Alright then.
I turned to Lucy.
"If the bot can take out their netrunner and plant a virus, we can crack their defenses quietly. Then I go in with… say, Becca, we do what we need inside, and then we get out. You cover us from cyberspace."
"Let me go," Lucy countered. "Kiwi is my problem. I should be the one taking the risk."
Problem? More like a pain in the ass.
"Nah," I smirked. "That’s not how this works, Lucy. I have a Sandevistan and wall-penetrating optics. You can boost your reflexes, yeah, but you need to be in the chair. I’m the one who’s gonna be cutting throats."
"We’re hiring backup, right?" she asked—no, pleaded. "I’ll pay for it."
She was worried about me. Kinda sweet.
"Backup? Of course. Just need to figure out who."
Didn’t want to use the same crew from the convoy raid—too risky. Better to wait before reaching out to them again. Maybe someone from Afterlife? Or even a gang? Speaking of which…
"Alright. I’ve got a handle on things. That’s it for today. We’ll run the op tomorrow or the day after. I just need to make a few calls."
"Okay. And if you need money—"
"Yeah, yeah, I got it," I chuckled.
Tempting to burn through way too much of Lucy’s cash on overpriced mercs. If she blew her budget, maybe she’d have to put that Moon trip on hold. But… nah. Not trying to bankrupt her.
Compromise, then.
Once we got home, I dialed Jackie.
"Got a job."
"I also got a job right now," he replied, a little too proud of himself.
"Congrats. Let me put it another way—tomorrow or the day after, can you put together a crew of five or six for overwatch? Standard deal. No combat, 2.5k each. If it turns into a shootout, 7k. Plus, you get an extra 3k for organizing."
"You planning something big, mano?"
"Medium," I corrected. "But the opposition’s nasty. So, you in?"
"En las malas se conocen los amigos." He laughed. "Of course. I’ll grab Cesar and a few others. Just send me the when and where."
"Will do. I don’t skimp on details."
Alright. Backup secured. On to the next.
I called Angie.
"V! Hey," she greeted me, a little too cheerful—but there was a note of genuine curiosity in her voice. "How’s the spy business?"
"I found them. Already got photos of their base and scoped out their defenses. Gotta say, their security ain't half bad."
"Awesome! You're a doll! Send me the address, and we’ll—"
"Hold up, hold up."
"What’s wrong?" she asked, a little wary.
Probably thought I was about to negotiate for a bigger payday.
"Remember you said you wanted a sample of that neurovirus?"
"Yeah. That shit cost us a fortune, but it could bring in just as much."
"And you even promised me a ‘special’ reward," I reminded her.
"I did. And I don’t go back on my word."
"Right, so listen… Your two-meter, hundred-kilo boys and girls are gonna roll up with miniguns, rockets, and sledgehammers, smashing everything in sight. What do you think happens to netrunner equipment in all that chaos?"
"The neurovirus doesn’t weigh much. Might still be on a shard somewhere?"
"I’ve seen how competent these fuckers are. Bet they’ve got full wipe protocols ready to go the second your meatheads show up with guns blazing. Any useful data? Gone."
"Yeah… So what do we do about it?"
"You listen to me. Here’s the play—I’ll send your crew to a location a few klicks from their base. You wait for my signal. I go in first, snatch whatever’s valuable, and then I get the hell out."
"Good plan, V, but there’s just one problem. You know how things go once the shit starts flying…"
"Your muscleheads shoot at anything that moves?" I smirked.
"They might clip you. I’ll send them your picture, sure, but when we’re turning a building into Swiss cheese… well, you get it."
"I get it. I’ll have my own people for backup. If shit really hits the fan, all your crew has to do is make a very loud entrance. Enough to pull their attention off me."
"That we can do. But are you sure you wanna go in there?"
"Yeah. Wouldn’t be offering otherwise. So start prepping those special rewards."
Angie let out a sultry chuckle.
"Well, well. Sounds like a quickie in the car ain’t gonna cut it this time. Oh, by the way, you wanted to know more about biotech? I’ll send you something over email. And if you manage to score that neurovirus, I’ll throw in a few exclusive offers."
"What makes them different from the standard stuff?"
"You’ll find out after we deal with these fucks," she teased, then added, her voice dark with satisfaction, "They made me walk a real fine line. I cannot wait to introduce them to the hottest girl in Night City."
"You mean yourself or Matilda?"
"Catrina," Angie corrected. "She burns the brightest."
She was talking about La Catrina, the crematorium in Heywood.
"Alright. Stand by for my signal."
So, what do we have?
A bot to sabotage their security and sneak us inside.
A skilled netrunner—Lucy—covering me from the Net.
A rescue team in case I get pinned down.
And a full-blown distraction crew—the Animals—ready to raise hell and clean up.
The plan was locked in. Just a few final touches, and then it was time to dive headfirst into the fire.
2025-02-21 07:12:26 +0000 UTC
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Castling the Long Way
Mad Tiger
Announcement
Guys, I’m getting swamped—too much happening at once. I need a bit of a breather, so I won’t be posting tomorrow or the day after (Tue/Wed). Apologies, but I need these two days to get everything back on schedule. See you all on Thursday!
2025-02-18 03:36:20 +0000 UTC
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