JohnnyZ

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 55

Naruto’s tense voice cut through the thick silence like a kunai. "What happened to Sakura?!"

Even the campfire seemed to burn quieter, and the rain outside had stopped its rhythmic tapping against the rocky ground. Sasuke wasn’t even breathing, frozen like a statue.

"Relax. She’s just asleep," Shisui said, his Sharingan still gleaming from the shadows. "I put her under a genjutsu so she wouldn’t interrupt our conversation."

"Who… are you…?" Sasuke rasped like the words were caught in his throat.

Poor guy probably felt like his world was tilting. Ninja life 101—if you screw up, don’t expect anyone to wipe your tears.

"You don’t recognize me?" Shisui huffed softly, stepping forward into the firelight.

"This… this isn’t possible," Sasuke whispered, taking a shaky step back. "You’re dead!"

"You know him, Sasuke?!" Naruto stage-whispered, clearly thrown off. "Wait, so this isn’t Itachi?"

"No," Sasuke flinched at his brother’s name before glaring at Shisui. "This is my cousin, Shisui. He supposedly took his own life right before Itachi… did that." His voice dripped with unspoken rage. "Itachi was blamed for Shisui’s death. And a few days later…" He clenched his fists. "But now it makes sense! Itachi couldn’t have done it alone! I was only eight, but I’ve thought about it so much since then. It’s obvious now!"

Well, given the information Sasuke had, his conclusion was actually pretty logical.

"So that’s what you remember…?" Shisui murmured thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.

That’s when I realized—unlike me, who had literally watched Sasuke’s version of events in the anime, Shisui was piecing things together in real-time. He must’ve suspected, but without concrete proof, he didn’t know exactly how Konoha had rewritten history. And as far as actual witnesses went, there was only one: Uchiha Sasuke.

"What do you mean ‘that’s what you remember’?" Naruto asked, tugging on Sasuke’s sleeve. He’d caught that phrasing immediately. "Are you saying there’s a different version? Did we forget something?" He turned to me then, his blue eyes sharp. "Tora-chan, do you know something?"

I puffed up importantly since everyone was looking at me and gave a solemn nod.

"It seems Tora-san has been trying to tell you," Shisui tilted his head. "But even I don’t know how to explain it all, and I can actually talk. I don’t even know if you’ll believe me."

"You know Tora-chan?!" Sasuke and Naruto asked in unison.

"Of course," Shisui replied, nodding. "Tora-san is the personal cat of the Fire Daimyo’s family. For the past four years, I’ve been serving as one of the Twelve Guardian Ninja." He gestured to his belt, where a white triangular cloth bearing the Fire Country emblem was tied. "Tora-san is… special. He’s incredibly smart. I was personally involved in some of his training—if you can even call it that. Even as a kitten, he was sharp, picked things up quickly. He’s about two years old now. Still young, but already accomplished."

Hearing someone speak so highly of me? Ah, music to my ears. I casually strolled over and stretched out by the fire, enjoying the stunned expressions on my boys’ faces.

"You’re saying our cat is only two years old?" Sasuke looked at Naruto, both of them clearly thrown off. "But… he told us he’s an Uchiha!"

"That’s right," Shisui nodded. "Tora-san was given to Madam Shijimi by Uchiha Yakumi in the middle of the sixth month, two years ago."

Sasuke and Naruto exchanged glances.

"He’s stronger than both of us," Naruto pointed out. "If this is a trap, we’re already caught."

Sasuke gave a sullen nod. They hesitated for a moment but eventually sat down across from Shisui. I ended up between the older and younger Uchiha—like a buffer.

"Tora-chan, you’re really only two?" Naruto asked suddenly, looking at me. I nodded. Just to make it crystal clear, I swiped my paw through the dirt, drawing two little lines.

Sasuke narrowed his eyes. "Tora-chan, do you actually know Shisui? Can you confirm what he’s saying?"

I nodded again.

Naruto leaned in and whispered (not well enough, given my superior feline hearing), "This is like that thing with the canned food, remember?"

Oh! Oh! He actually remembered! My tail flicked in excitement.

"What’s this about canned food?" Shisui asked, curious.

"Alright, tell him!" I urged.

Naruto nodded. "Tora-chan kept leading us to the Uchiha district. We weren’t sure what we were looking for, but we found some weird stuff. Like fresh Autumn Equinox festival snacks. And imported canned food with a production date after the massacre was supposed to have happened."

Shisui exhaled, giving me an approving look. "I’m glad you had doubts and found some small pieces of the truth on your own," he said. "Because the massacre of the Uchiha clan did not happen four years ago. It happened much more recently. Seven months ago, during the Autumn Equinox."

"What?!" Both Sasuke and Naruto practically screamed, their eyes blown wide.

"Seven months?" Sasuke’s voice cracked as he clenched his fists. "But… I remember…"

"Your memories were altered," Shisui said softly. "The last time I saw you was four years ago, right before I became a Guardian Ninja. I didn’t commit suicide. But I returned to Konoha when I learned what was happening… I just wasn’t fast enough to stop it."

"Altered memories? But how?" Naruto demanded.

"If you try to think about anything from the past four years, your mind automatically plays the same ‘flashbacks.’ You can’t recall specific details. Either there are massive gaps, or your memories are generalized. Think about it. Try remembering the last few months. And the time before that."

"I tried," Sasuke admitted suddenly, voice low. "But all I ever see is the massacre. Every time I think about my past, that’s all that comes up. I only started thinking about other things when Tora-chan and… Naruto showed up."

"For me, it was the same," Naruto murmured. "Whenever I thought about my past, all I could see was how much everyone hated me. It was constant. Never-ending."

"Can you even remember moving into your apartment? Where your stuff came from? The small everyday things?" Shisui asked carefully. "Do you remember learning to read? To write? Do you have any memory of a time when you were too young to take care of yourself?"

Naruto fell silent. Deep in thought.

"No," he admitted finally. "Just this constant… emptiness. And my apartment… I just felt like I’d always lived there. Like it was normal. I never questioned it. Like, I don’t question where the water comes from when I brush my teeth."

"Exactly," Sasuke muttered. "But that could just be trauma. Some people block things out, like war veterans. They either bury it under fake cheerfulness, like that ‘eternal rival’ of Kakashi-sensei…"

"Or they obsess over it," Naruto finished grimly. "And spend half their lives at the cemetery."

"Alright, let’s say our memories were tampered with," Sasuke crossed his arms. "But what about our friends? Did someone rewrite their memories too? You’d think they’d have noticed or at least dropped some hints."

And that, my dear boys, was the million-ryo question.

"You’re absolutely right, Sasuke," Shisui allowed himself a small smile. "Have you ever heard of the Mangekyo Sharingan?"

"The… Mangekyo Sharingan?" Sasuke echoed, swallowing hard. "I… yeah. My brother showed me his eyes. That night… And before that, I saw them when he fought with our father and the other Uchiha about your death."

"On that day, during last year’s Autumn Equinox festival, a specific genjutsu technique was activated," Shisui said grimly. "A secret technique of our clan, Sasuke. It altered the memories of everyone in Konoha and the surrounding areas. Most people didn’t even notice, because the changes revolved around a single, secluded clan. And just like that, it became ‘common knowledge’ that the Uchiha clan was wiped out four years ago, that the eldest son of the clan head had committed a brutal massacre, leaving only a single survivor—Uchiha Sasuke, the younger brother of Uchiha Itachi."

"You’re lying!" Sasuke suddenly screamed, clutching his head as his eyes flared red, the Sharingan spinning wildly. "That’s impossible! Itachi did it! I saw him do it! He told me himself! It was Itachi!"

Naruto grabbed Sasuke as he thrashed, eyes wide with panic. He turned to me for help, then to Shisui, completely at a loss.

Shisui exhaled, stepping in to hold Sasuke’s other side. "Looks like they put a mental block on him," he muttered. "No matter how much evidence he sees, he’ll instinctively reject it."

Sasuke fought against their grip, his whole body shaking. "Ita—chi—" His voice cracked.

"Sasuke," Shisui called gently. "Itachi loved you. He loved you so much. Remember the brother he used to be. Remember, Sasuke!"

Tears streamed down Sasuke’s face.

"I don’t believe you," he choked out, voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t believe you. Itachi killed them all. He killed my father. My mother. My little brother Kazuki. Your sister. Do you remember Yumiko-chan? She’s dead too. He killed her. And your mother—Aunt Keiko. Can you really forgive him for that?"

Shisui visibly paled, his expression crumbling. "I remember them," he whispered. "I remember them all. But it wasn’t Itachi. Sasuke. It was not Itachi. He tried to save them. He tried to save Naruto. He went against the clan because he wanted to protect them."

He took a shuddering breath. "Forgive me too. I wasn’t fast enough. I couldn’t save them. But I remember. And I want to save him. Help me save Itachi."

"What?" Sasuke’s spinning eyes abruptly dimmed, shifting back to their usual dark color. He went completely still, as if processing what he’d just heard. "Did you just say… save Itachi?"

"Yes," Shisui murmured. "You see, Sasuke… Your brother was made to believe that he did it. That he was the one who slaughtered everyone with his own two hands. Do you understand?"

"No," Sasuke whispered, his voice small, broken. "I don’t understand anything anymore…"

Naruto, hesitating for only a second, placed a firm hand on Sasuke’s shoulder. "We’ll figure this out, Sasuke."

That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I leapt onto Sasuke’s lap, rubbing against him in the most comforting way I could. His whole body was rigid, but I could feel it—the same cold, hollow emptiness inside him that I’d sensed before.

"Nope, not on my watch" I pressed my nose against his tear-streaked face, staring straight into his dazed eyes. "You’re my gloomy little Emo! Don’t you dare fall into that darkness again. We need you! Me and Naruto!"

Sasuke flinched, his fingers gripping my fur tightly before he pulled me into his chest. I purred, trying to ground him, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

"Tora-chan…" His voice was barely a whisper. "My brother… Itachi… He’s the one who… killed everyone?"

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes, desperate for an answer.

I shook my head firmly.

"No."

[Castling] Chapter 55

That trip did something strange to me. I learned a lot about myself—some of it was not exactly pleasant. For one, I realised I was a sentimental idiot, a proper product of this cushy modern age—a pampered weakling who’d grown up thinking meat just appeared on shop shelves by itself.

The easy life I was raised in hadn’t prepared me for the real world. Not that I was unaware of how things worked, but growing up in a world of glass buildings and convenience meant I never had to think about it. Turns out, knowing how to throw a punch or defend yourself is pointless if your entire mindset has been warped by the comforts of civilization.

Modern people don’t trust each other anymore, too afraid of betrayal and disappointment. They’d rather isolate themselves or fill the holes in their hearts with domesticated, predictable animals. A dog isn’t just a loyal pet—it becomes a friend, a family member. A cat turns into the centre of its owner’s universe. I’ve seen it time and again with my mates. And it’s unsettling, really, when creatures of the same species drift apart like that. Some sink to the level of animals, living only to satisfy their base needs, while others humanise their pets, treating them as equals—or sometimes even valuing them above other people.

For the first time, I realised how spoiled I was. Maybe I wouldn’t have been so quick to order steak at a restaurant, or throw barbecues every Friday, if I’d ever had to go out and hunt my own food. But in cities, that connection to nature is gone for good—along with any real sense of balance or understanding of life’s actual worth. Any life.

Dropped into the real jungle, I lost all my confidence. I felt like a child suddenly seeing the world for what it was—brutal, but not in the senseless, cruel way of our world. Here, everything survived by consuming something else. If it wasn’t you eating, then you were the one being eaten. There were no harmless, cute little creatures. But at least here, nothing killed just for fun, just because it could.

I mean, sure, I knew dolphins were carnivores—I’d seen them being fed fish for doing tricks. But did I ever stop to think, back when I was swimming with them at the aquarium, that they were actual predators? That outside their little tank, a magical version of them could casually knock prey out of trees for a snack? And if a person fell into the water, just four quick strokes of those blade-like fins, and they’d be gone—vanished without a trace. I actually regretted never living in the countryside, never having to butcher livestock, never seeing real life without the filter of convenience, safety, and having everything I needed within arm’s reach.

We travelled through the jungle along enchanted pathways. They kept us hidden from the creatures around us, allowing them to go about their lives undisturbed. Each path led to a viewing hut, either on the ground or up in the trees, where we had a clear view of places where certain animals tended to show up.

This time, the researchers had come to study the Rakhanut—an absolutely bizarre magical creature that, at first glance, looked like the cat from Shrek with massive, cartoonishly expressive eyes. Except this little guy was downright strange.

Greenish-grey scales shimmered around its eyes, nose, and paw pads. Tiny black, twisted horns poked out between its ears. Below the nose, where fur should’ve been, was a layer of soft, grey-blue feathers. Two small, leathery wings, too tiny to be of any real use, sat folded against its back—more decoration than anything practical. It looked so absurdly adorable that any little girl would’ve screamed and scooped it up for a cuddle. Even I found myself grinning as I watched it darting around, playfully chasing some little rodent.

Then, at the edge of the clearing, something moved. A massive beast, creeping forward—looked like a lion, but with bony protrusions sticking out of its skull. My first instinct was to shoo it away from the tiny creature.

We’d been warned during the lecture not to interfere, and I barely stopped myself from acting. But then the Rakhanut bristled, sensing danger, and in a split second, it flipped backwards just as the predator lunged.

And then, it grew.

Not just a little—suddenly, the tiny thing was a towering, four-metre-tall monster. It swung a massive, muscular wing, knocking the lion-like beast senseless. Then, with a flick of its head, it tossed the predator into the air on its metre-long horns, slashing its belly open in the process. In three quick bites, it devoured the lifeless carcass, chewed for a bit, and spat out the bony growth like it was nothing.

An hour later, it had shrunk back into its small, fluffy form and was once again happily chasing a mouse, like nothing had happened.

It took me a while to recover—not from the blood or the killing, but from how completely unpredictable the whole thing was. It felt wrong. Meanwhile, Luna took it all in stride, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

When I finally asked her if she’d wanted to step in, knowing the little cat-thing was about to get eaten, she just said, “That’s their life, Ron. That’s survival. If I saved one, I’d be dooming the other. They figured it out themselves—who was more deserving of life. This isn’t my world, and I’d rather not interfere.”

After witnessing a few more moments like that, I started getting used to it. Even found myself feeling relieved—like I’d crossed some kind of internal barrier, grown up a little, learned to think differently.

We didn’t go too deep into the jungle. Rakhanuts preferred to live closer to the water, so we stuck to the river, sleeping on the yacht at night and using magical transportation to reach our observation posts by day. Even if the hut was built high above the ground, all it took was a tap of the wand, and you’d be there in an instant.

They kept us busy, but nothing too taxing. Mostly, we recorded everything—how many creatures showed up, what they did, when they left, what they ate. Or we activated artefacts to track new arrivals, marking which ones were already logged and which weren’t.

The older magizoologists followed up by tagging certain animals with tracking charms—kind of like magical microchipping. It let them monitor populations and guard against poachers. They didn’t tag every creature, just the rare and valuable ones. Those on the brink of extinction were completely off-limits—no visitors, no interference. The perimeter was protected by magical wards that repelled predators.

This place was home to magical creatures from all over the world. The reserve was huge. There was even a desert somewhere on the far side, which meant they could house creatures from different climates, giving them controlled areas to live in without threatening the local ecosystem.

Wizards from all over the world worked here. But, interestingly, barely anyone from Britain.

Watching one species didn’t mean we ignored the others. Over the course of our trip, we saw all sorts of creatures—about half of the rare magical beasts listed in the field guide. No dragons, though; they lived much further upriver. We did, however, catch a glimpse of a Poisonfang in flight—looked like a prehistoric pterodactyl. Thank Merlin it wasn’t heading our way.

But the real highlight was a massive bird with a name that sounded like someone had coughed up a dictionary. The locals just called it Big Thunder.

Our observation hut was about five metres off the ground, so when a giant yellow eye—roughly the size of my own head—blocked the window and cast a shadow over the room, I nearly had a heart attack. For a split second, I thought we’d been ambushed by a dragon. Or a dinosaur. Honestly, nothing would’ve surprised me at that point.

Turned out, it was just a giant bird. A cheerful, bright blue, ridiculously fluffy thing—not dangerous at all, unless you happened to be standing where it landed. It screeched like a banshee, sure, but otherwise, it was more impressive than scary. Still, I wasn’t exactly used to birds and fish being bigger than me.

Once it had stuffed itself full of some purple berries and flown off, I climbed down and collected a handful of its shed feathers for Luna and Ginny. Meanwhile, Gustavo kept an eye on the perimeter to make sure I didn’t end up as someone else’s snack.

By the way, Gustavo didn’t use a camera. No big lenses, no fancy equipment—just a long crystal mounted on a handle, kind of like a torch. The jungle was littered with them, constantly recording any creatures that passed their detection fields. He just had to refine the footage later to get moving images for the magazines.

Knew who else surprised me? Xenophilius.

The yacht didn’t have any proper books, aside from a few dry, boring reference guides. But it was packed with foreign scientific journals from the last few years. Some even had articles on recently discovered magical species. No sign of Wrackspurts or Nargles, mind you, but I did find an entry on the Gulping Plimpy.

That one’s a real tropical fish—looks a bit like a pufferfish but has a pair of tiny hind legs instead of back fins. Not poisonous, either. Apparently, wizards eat it after magical exhaustion—kind of like how Muggles swear by chicken soup when they’re sick.

So, turns out Lovegood wasn’t just a complete nutter. He actually wrote some solid, well-researched articles on well-documented creatures. Outside Britain, he was even somewhat respected—often called in as an expert for certain topics. Which just made me wonder even more… why, in England, did he insist on acting like a complete loon?

But the biggest shock?

The Blibbering Humdinger was real.

That happened right at the end of our trip. There was suddenly a huge commotion—people buzzing about a breakthrough. At first, I thought they’d found another breach in the barrier or something like that.

They cordoned off a nondescript bush by the river, cleared the area of other wildlife, and set up an old-fashioned magnifying glass on a stand. They kept fiddling with the dials, adjusting the focus, then—just like that—everyone gasped. Proper, stunned silence.

Then chaos.

They started shaking Xenophilius’ hand, cheering, congratulating some other old researcher as well—some professor type who looked like he’d spent his life buried in books.

After they finished taking notes and snapping images, Luna and I were finally allowed to have a look.

"Look, Ron," Luna beamed. "That’s the Blibbering Humdinger! Dad was right—we were going to find one. There was a breach here recently. Isn’t it beautiful?"

I leaned in to peer through the glass.

An eye stared back at me.

Just a single, ordinary brown eye—perched on eight spindly legs.

Looked like someone had glued a spider’s body to an eyeball. It moved around in its socket, though it didn’t blink. Had little hair-like tendrils that almost looked like eyelashes.

Creepy as hell.

Calling it "beautiful" was… generous. Especially when it started crawling towards me, its unblinking pupil fixed in my direction.

"Erm… Luna?" I asked, swallowing hard. "What is this thing supposed to be, exactly?"

"Why does it have to be anything, Ron?" she said dreamily, eyes full of admiration for the thing. "Sometimes, things just exist. Dad convinced Master Sherry to create this artefact so we could see beings from the Thin World. The human eye isn’t capable of perceiving some things without the right tools. But now the Council will have to admit the world is far bigger than they thought."

"Wait—you’re saying no one has ever seen this thing before?" I asked, my brain struggling to process that.

"Nope, we’re the first," Luna said cheerfully. "They’ll probably name it Sherry’s Humdinger now. But Dad won’t mind—he doesn’t care much for recognition. He’s just happy they finally listened and funded the research. I still get to call it what I like."

I frowned, my thoughts spinning. "So… you see these kinds of creatures, Luna? Like, without magical lenses?"

"I don’t see them," she corrected, looking at me with mild confusion. "I feel them."

"Er…" My stomach turned. "Am I supposed to be able to feel them?"

Luna blinked at me, genuinely surprised. "Wait… you don’t?"

"No," I admitted, feeling oddly guilty, like I’d let her down somehow. "Should I?"

"But how?" she asked, tilting her head. "You play the Path. You wear my Nargle charms. And you didn’t even question me when I told you about Wrackspurts."

"That’s different, Luna," I sighed. "I believe you. I don’t feel them, but I trust that you do. You understand magic better than I do. Who was I before you? A Muggle with a wand. But you taught me—and everything changed. I started… seeing things differently. Trusting my instincts. Hogwarts started playing Path with me, revealing its secrets…"

"Wait. Stop, Ron," she suddenly interrupted, fixing me with an intense look. "What do you mean, Hogwarts started playing Path with you?"

I hesitated. "Erm… well, you know, like we played at your house. And how your home played tricks on us—made it interesting, led us to discoveries."

Luna stared at me for a moment—then suddenly burst into laughter.

"Sorry, Ron," she giggled, grabbing my hand when I huffed and looked away. "You’re just so funny sometimes. Come on—let’s go have some tea," she suggested, nodding towards the group of excited researchers heading back our way.

Luna and I headed down to the common room, where she busied herself in the small kitchenette, setting a steaming cup of tea in front of me before settling into the seat opposite.

"Ron, no matter how magical a house is, it can’t play with you," she said matter-of-factly. "It’s not alive. It’s got hidden secrets and functions built into it, but it’s you who creates your ‘Path’ when you play. The house is just responding to your magic."

I frowned. "So, you’re saying I had it all wrong? It wasn’t Hogwarts showing me things—I was finding them myself?"

"Exactly," she nodded. "That’s why you still don’t believe in your Path, even though you’ve learned to feel it. You think it’s something outside of you, not something you control. But it’s the opposite. Say you’re cold, and you wrap yourself in a blanket. The blanket doesn’t make you warm on its own. You warm it first, and then it gives that warmth back to you. Magic and the Path work the same way—it’s all about interaction. You wanted to understand Hogwarts, so you shaped your Path. The castle simply responded, showing you what you sought—or what it thought you’d find interesting."

"But that seems too simple, Luna," I argued. "If that were true, then loads of people should’ve been able to find the Chamber of Secrets or the Room of Requirement. Even Filch knows every hidden passage, and he’s a Squib."

"Well, let’s be honest—it’s not Filch who knows them. It’s his magical cat," Luna corrected, completely unfazed. "As for the rest… To interact with something, you need to feel or see it. And to do that, you need to understand yourself—connect with your magic. But most people never do."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because it’s difficult," she said simply. "And unfamiliar. You have to believe before you feel. You have to step off a cliff before you know you won’t fall. Most people would rather build a sturdy bridge than take a leap into the unknown."

"But playing Path was brilliant," I countered. "It was strange at first, but… fun."

"That’s because you wanted to understand," she said, giving me a knowing look. "You lost something, Ron—something important—and it changed you. Just like it changed me. You were lost, uncertain, or you wouldn’t have agreed to play my way. When I lost my mum"—she glanced away, fingers tracing the rim of her cup—"I realised that everything can change in an instant. Forever. It doesn’t matter if you’re a strong wizard or a weak one, if you know a lot or barely anything—it will happen, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. So, what’s the point in running? If you rush through life, you’ll get where you’re going, sure—but you’ll be exhausted when you arrive. And you’ll miss the beauty along the way. You won’t understand it. You won’t feel it.

"I’d rather take my time. And I’m glad you do too," she added with a small smile. "Otherwise, I wouldn’t have a friend. No one wanted to play with me before. Not then, not now… And I don’t know how to play any other way. I’d be bored if I had to."

"Luna, but knowing things isn’t a bad thing," I said, hoping to pull her from that sad place. "Knowledge helps. Hermione’s brilliant, and the more she learns, the more confident she gets."

"You can copy a master’s painting a hundred times over," Luna replied, voice calm as ever. "You might even get good at it—really good. But if you only copy others, you’ll never create something new.

"There are more books in the world than anyone could read in ten lifetimes. There will always be someone who knows more. What’s the point of memorising hundreds of spells when you could just study Lumos? It’s the first spell most people learn. It’s supposed to be simple. But if you understand it—really understand it—you can recreate any spell. You can create new spells.

"By controlling your magic in Lumos, making the light brighter or dimmer at will, you learn how to channel power into a spell. And once you know how it works, you can invent your own. But most people would rather learn something already made—something more complicated, more impressive. It makes them feel powerful. Who cares about Lumos when you can learn Expecto Patronum?

"So, they end up knowing everything about magic—but understanding nothing. And you can’t create something new out of nothing.

"And that," she concluded, taking a sip of tea, "doesn’t interest me."

We finished the rest of our tea in silence, both lost in thought.

"Do you think I’ll ever be able to feel those invisible creatures?" I asked eventually.

"If you want to," she said with a smile. "Wizards can do anything, Ron—if they want to and understand how. But you’re terribly impatient. You’d struggle to focus for long enough.

"Still," she mused, tapping a finger against her cup, "if Master Sherry agrees to make the artefact cheaper, then maybe, one day, everyone will be able to see them. Well… everyone who wants to, and everyone who knows how to feel even just a little."

"Can’t imagine there’d be too many of those, Luna," I chuckled. "Not everyone was lucky enough to play with you as a kid."

She gave me a dreamy smile. "But that’s their problem, isn’t it? Everyone walks their own Path… Maybe we could disguise the artefact as something simple. Glasses, perhaps?"

Later, we found out the Humdinger wasn’t just some harmless oddity.

It was a parasite.

It burrowed into people’s brains and triggered nightmares—specifically tailored to their worst fears. When I made a noise of disgust and called it a useless little menace, Luna looked at me like I was missing the obvious.

"The Humdinger isn’t useless, Ron," she chided. "Not everyone can say their fears out loud. Not everyone can admit weakness. For some, it’s better to experience them—to live through them in their mind and come out the other side. The next time, the fear won’t seem quite so terrifying.

"Everything in the world has two sides. And you choose which one to see. Your Boggart is proof of that. Would you have ever understood it—let go of it—if you hadn’t seen it first?"

I had no answer for that.

Instead, I asked, "Luna, do you give names to every creature you feel?"

"Yes," she said, grinning. "I can’t shape them, but I can name them. Isn’t that wonderful?"

All I could do was nod.

Daily Updates (15/02/2025)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 72

• Tier 2: Chapter 77

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 42

• Tier 2: Chapter 47

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 39

• Tier 2: Chapter 44

[Demons of NC] Chapter 77

INTERLUDE: David Martinez

Cold, damp twilight. An industrial zone near the bay.

“A2, report status,” a voice crackled through comms.

“On position,” David replied.

“Understood, A2. Hold position with A1 and wait for reinforcements. Maintain perimeter control.”

“Reinforcements not needed.”

“Repeat, A2. Wait for reinforcements. You are required to follow the approved operational plan.”

The last words sparked a flicker of irritation in David. Not anger—more like a mix of boredom and exhaustion. He was sick to death of the security division's restrictions, sick of waiting on the sidelines, following pre-approved plans that, 95% of the time, didn’t let him unleash his full potential in combat.

“Reinforcements not needed,” he repeated, pulling out his Malorian Arms Overture with his left hand. “They’ll just get in the way.”

“A2, I’m warning you…”

David had already stopped listening. Time to act.

Aside from his .42-caliber Overture revolver, he carried an HJKE-11 Yukimura for rapid fire and quick reloads, plus a newly gifted Ba Xing Chong shotgun—his heavy artillery. He gripped it easily in his right hand.

The helmet overlay turned transparent, providing an unobstructed view. The gray-steel armor barely restricted his movements, its components fitted so well they felt like a second skin. He wanted to move, to throw himself into the heat of battle. Tonight was a special occasion.

Not street thugs. Not some wannabe samurai. High-grade mercs. The brass still hadn’t figured out who hired them—suspicions were spread evenly between Kang Tao, Zetatech, and even Petrochem.

A strike team in urban camo, no insignias, had flown in on a high-speed AV to raid one of Arasaka’s facilities in Night City. They landed, wiped out the security, grabbed what they came for. Their op was running smoothly—until their extraction plan fell apart.

After the aerial attack on Susan Abernathy in the city center, Arasaka had increased the number of interceptor drones. Some of them had been placed in various locations across Night City under strict secrecy. One such drone had nailed the enemy AV with a shaped-charge warhead, taking it out completely.

The mercs were forced to retreat back into the facility they’d raided, locking down security systems and taking up defensive positions. Either waiting for alternative evac or planning to take as many with them as they could before going down.

David stood behind a metal shipping container. Ten meters ahead—a side entrance to the building. But, according to his scan, a sniper had the approach covered. The optics highlighted his silhouette in a third-floor window.

David holstered the revolver and pulled a grenade from his rig, simultaneously running a trajectory calculation through one of his programs.

Funny. Back in the Academy, he’d been one of the top students in his class. People used to laugh at him—called him a nerd, a bookworm wasting time on boring equations. But now, as a chromed-out killing machine, he realized math was just as important in battle as cracking skulls.

Trajectory calculated. Perfect timing—1.1 seconds. Which meant he needed to wait 3.1 seconds. He started the timer overlay in his HUD, then activated Sandevistan.

Time stretched.

David stepped out from behind the container, left side first, and launched the grenade like a fastball. The sniper barely had time to react before the explosion tore through the window.

Perfect calculation. Sandevistan-enhanced throw. A simple grenade became a precision strike, as effective as a small missile.

His optics confirmed the sniper had survived but had been thrown back.

Sandevistan off. Time to move.

David rushed the building, conserving seconds on his Sandevistan.

Shoulder-first, he smashed through the door. Inside, they were waiting. His optics painted a clear picture—short hallway, then an open room with three enemies in a semi-circle, weapons raised toward the door. Two rifles and a shotgun.

They were still. Probably even holding their breath.

David unclipped a smoke grenade with his left hand and moved forward, silent.

One of the three made a hand signal. The others adjusted their stances slightly.

‘He can see me,’ David realized instantly.

Even though his armor had some anti-scan measures, their cyberware was tracking his movements. Instead of unsettling him, it made him excited.

This was what he lived for.

Not wiping out helpless goons. Fighting professionals.

This was why he came in alone.

The enemy had a netrunner. David already knew that from the security cameras in the room.

“Showtime.”

The smoke grenade flew down the corridor. They shot it apart mid-air, but the chemicals had already mixed. A thick red mist began spreading.

The guy with the optics probably smirked. He could still see. But the smoke wasn’t for David.

Sandevistan—again. Another grenade. A strong, precise bounce off the wall—landing right at their feet.

The explosion sent shrapnel ripping through the red mist. A moment later, David was inside.

Three shots from the revolver, two for the security cameras.

One merc managed to react—he activated Kerenzikov, stumbling backward while firing wildly. He reached for a grenade of his own.

Adrenaline surged through David’s veins.

The last bullet from his Overture found the enemy’s wrist. The grenade dropped right at his feet.

Sandevistan off. Explosion.

David ducked behind a column as the blast echoed.

His nerves hummed with energy. His heart pounded in sync with the cyberware, fusing metal and flesh into something greater than either.

Everything was exactly as it should be.

No hesitation. No doubt.

‘Reload.’

Six rounds back in the Overture.

More numbers. The mathematics of combat.

Enemy count, bullet count, solution paths.

Get it right—you live. Fuck up—no second chances.

His frequency scanner picked up enemy comms.

“They’ve breached!”

“Already?!”

“Shit! How many?!”

“Only saw one. Cameras are down. Perry, check it out.”

A basic combat drone—mounted with a light machine gun—floated into the hall.

The next room was larger. Five enemies. One was piloting the drone. The others covered every possible entry point.

David stayed out of the drone’s sight, moving along the column.

“Nothing,” the operator reported. “No visual. Three of ours down. Should’ve…”

David didn’t let him finish.

He’d already solved the equation.

Sandevistan—one more time.

He charged.

The mercs hesitated.

He was moving too fast, unpredictable. They opened fire, but he weaved between bullets like they were moving through water.

At this speed, it seemed like he was charging into a dead end—one guy against five.

But he’d already solved for X.

The answer was geometry.

Positioning. The way they stood in relation to him.

They didn’t realize they were already dead.

It sounded like one shot, but it was a whole volley.

Not from a single firearm—more like a micro-missile system.

A swarm of guided explosives, launched from Ba Xing Chong’s oversized barrels.

Merciless, burning wasps found their targets.

Each one distributed with precision.

David pushed off the ground with his right foot, shifting his center of gravity back as he sprang toward the wall, deactivating Sandevistan.

The space in front of him erupted into a firework display of muzzle flashes, explosions, and crimson mist. Five mercs were torn apart. Chunks of bodies, shredded gear, chrome sparking from shattered skulls. Ba Xing Chong was a simple weapon—one volley, up to six targets gone in an instant. All you had to do was catch them in the blast radius before they had a chance to dive for cover. Not even Kerenzikov could save you from its payload. Its raw stopping power was almost as awe-inspiring for the wielder as it was devastating for the victims.

Time to reload Smasher’s gift.

Meanwhile, enemy comms were turning more and more panicked.

“I saw him. He’s alone. Didn’t even have time to run a script. He wiped Ross, Rowdy, and the others in seconds.”

That was probably their netrunner.

“We got a breach on the west side! Jensen, Timmons, Caesar—move it!”

David glanced at the bodies—or what was left of them. Needed to make sure nothing was about to detonate. Ba Xing Chong’s rounds prioritized heads and limbs, so ammo rarely cooked off postmortem, but better safe than sorry.

His gaze settled on the remains of the drone operator. Six grenades in his webbing, plus several breaching charges. Almost completely intact. Unlike the rest of him—both legs gone, right arm missing, left arm and head barely hanging on by strips of skin and cloth.

Perfect.

David stepped on the corpse’s chest, ripped the left arm off, and tossed it aside.

At the same time, his optics traced silhouettes beyond the double doors ahead. More enemies, about twenty meters away, moving slowly, covering each other.

He finished reloading Ba Xing Chong, slung it over his left arm, then grabbed the drone op’s torso by the harness.

Sandevistan—on.

One by one, he primed the grenades still attached to the dead merc. Then, gripping his shotgun tight, David spun on his heel like an Olympic hammer thrower—except instead of a metal ball, his projectile was a nearly headless corpse.

The body crashed through the doors, tumbling forward, sliding several meters across the floor, leaving a thick, red smear in its wake.

“What the f—” one of the enemies started, just before the explosions went off.

Throwing a grenade? Too predictable. They’d have tried to dodge, shot it mid-air, relied on cyberware to counter it.

But a corpse-rigged bomb? That threw them off. They wasted precious fractions of a second trying to process it.

Then—detonations.

Then—David.

The entire next room was drenched in blood. Bits of shredded flesh everywhere, the floor a soupy mess of pulverized meat.

Time for the Yukimura.

A few quick headshots put down three survivors. He shot out a camera for good measure.

They’d managed to throw a few scripts at him, but two got swallowed by his implants, and the third barely tickled.

David pressed forward. His optics saw them coming through the walls—mercs, moving in from all over the building.

Time to wrap this up.

Ba Xing Chong in his right hand. Overture in his left. From a compartment in his armored forearm, a combat module slid into place.

He stepped into a wide corridor.

Overhead LEDs buzzed coldly.

Bodies of Arasaka security littered the floor—cut down when the mercs first stormed the place.

Plenty of hostiles left. They were positioned in doorways, behind cover, using every advantage.

One blast wouldn’t take them all out. This would be a shootout.

Gray urban camo. Black webbing. Assault rifles, SMGs, LMGs.

A professional strike team.

And against them—just one man.

One man who had long since crossed the line of what counted as human.

David charged straight at them, activating and deactivating Sandevistan between bursts of gunfire.

Six rounds from the Overture—four kills.

Two mercs popped out at the same time—one Ba Xing Chong blast erased them both.

David dumped the shotgun, freeing his right hand. Tossed a grenade. Yukimura in his left.

From deep in the building, a heavily armored enemy burst out with two teammates.

David and the enemy leader activated Sandevistan at the same time.

This guy wasn’t slow.

Fully chromed, built for war.

Mantis blades flared from his arms. He juked side to side, already predicting incoming shots, charging straight for David.

The Yukimura wouldn’t cut it here.

But something else would.

David’s left forearm flashed red.

You might be faster than a bullet.

But you can’t outrun light.

Razor-thin laser beams lanced through the air, slicing through flesh and armor.

Two of them lost their heads instantly.

The borg with the mantis blades lasted longer.

His armor smoked, the plating melting into thick, acrid fumes.

David backpedaled, keeping his hand steady as he carved into the bastard.

His wrist-mounted laser system fired six precision beams and one high-intensity blast.

All adjustable. A slight shift in angle, a flick of the wrist—new target, new cut.

At full charge, it lasted ten seconds. He only needed five and a half.

The mantis-bladed borg took a direct hit to the gut, holes burned clean through him, deep gashes crisscrossing his body.

His two partners? Mincemeat.

One of them had been the first sniper.

“Jensen? Dei?” a voice called over open comms—probably the netrunner.

But they weren’t answering.

David spent the next minute reloading, collecting gear.

“Is anyone there? Hello?”

“Hi,” David said, stepping into the security room.

The enemy netrunner was inside.

“I surrender! I surrender!” The guy—dressed in a black bodysuit and armored vest—threw up his hands, wide-eyed.

David lowered his Overture.

“Cool,” he said casually. “I’m leaving.”

“For real?” The netrunner blinked. “No cuffs? No bag over my head? You want me to follow you or what?”

“Nah. Sit tight. Another team’ll pick you up. I don’t feel like dragging you around.”

“Well… uh, thanks?” the netrunner said, still unsure. “Who the hell are you, anyway? I’ve heard of a lot of Arasaka vets. Fought some. But you—”

“You probably haven’t heard of me,” David said, pausing at the door. “Just finished my internship.”

“Holy fuck…” the netrunner muttered as David left.

The solo walked back through the trail of destruction he’d carved.

Zero wounds.

A few shots had hit him, but either they’d glanced off or his armor had held.

Outside, reinforcements had finally arrived.

Black-armored Arasaka soldiers patrolled the perimeter, unsure what to do next.

“All clear,” David announced, removing his helmet. “One surrendered. The rest are neutralized.”

“MARTINEZ!”

A furious voice snapped across the comms.

The senior officer of the response team stormed toward him, pulling off his helmet—his face flushed red with anger.

“That was direct insubordination!”

David calmly packed his weapons into a sports bag.

“Gotta go,” he said flatly.

“You signed a contract! I’m writing a full report, and you—”

“Bye,” David cut him off, walking past. “My cab’s here.”

The officer took a step to block him, but hesitated.

He feared David.

Tried to hide it, raised his voice, but the fear bled through every word.

“That chrome isn’t yours, Martinez!” he shouted after him. “All they gotta do is flip a switch and you’ll be a pile of useless scrap! You hear me, Martinez?! Know your place, you go—”

David turned around. That alone was enough to shut the officer up. The guy stood there, silent for about three seconds, then, with noticeably less confidence, repeated:

“I’m filing a report.”

“Go ahead,” David nodded and kept walking.

He climbed into the automated taxi, pulling his legs in—barely enough room. His frame had become too non-standard for most seats.

“Good evening, sir,” Delamain greeted him in its usual polite tone. “Rough day at work?”

“Nah,” David cracked open an energy drink, taking a long sip. “Easier than I thought.”

Just then, his holo rang. A familiar number. Mr. Tanaka. A man who had once played a significant role in his life.

“Good evening, David,” Tanaka’s voice was smooth, controlled.

“Good evening,” David replied just as politely.

“I’ve received reports that you’ve been skipping scheduled checkups with our specialists. Avoiding tests. If this is due to your work with Security Services, I will escalate this to your superiors.”

“It’s not work. The situation has changed. I won’t be participating in the Roboskeleton project.”

There was a pause.

“What?” Tanaka’s usual composure cracked—rare for him. “What does that mean, David?”

“I’m opting out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I consulted an independent ripper and a few corporate ones. The consensus is that these tests could negatively affect my current condition. They’re offering me a different implant package. A different project.”

“But David, this—”

“Apologies. I have a work call.” David cut him off. “Goodbye, Mr. Tanaka.”

He switched to the incoming call. The screen filled with the face of Jeremiah Grayson.

“Where the fuck are you, kid?”

“On my way. I’ll be on time.”

“You better be early. Move your ass,” the merc barked.

David wasn’t fazed. Lately, nothing fazed him. Words, actions, even bullets—just noise.

The cab pulled up to “Coals”, an upscale restaurant. The evening fog clung to the streets like a dirty yellow veil.

David stepped out, walking through the haze toward the elevator. The mist reminded him of dispersing smoke grenades.

“Hold it,” a security guard in a black suit with an Arasaka emblem stopped him.

A scan.

“It’s him,” the guard confirmed. “He’s clear—wait. You’ve got blood on you.”

“Don’t worry,” David smirked slightly. “It’s not mine. I, uh, spun a corpse. It had grenades and—actually, could I get a napkin?”

The guards exchanged looks. One reached into his pocket, but the other shrugged.

“They’re already waiting for him. Not our problem.”

David stepped into the elevator. After a brief ride, the doors slid open, revealing a luxurious VIP lounge.

The bar glowed with ambient lighting. A live pianist played a real grand piano.

Amid all this opulence, Adam Smasher looked out of place—like a parked military vehicle in the courtyard of an elite mansion.

“Evening,” David greeted. “You—”

Smasher silenced him with a gesture, then pointed toward one of the tables.

A man sat with his back to them.

Short, well-kept hair.

A gray bio-silk shirt.

A vest.

Some corpo? Probably.

The man was speaking on an old-fashioned phone in Japanese.

David’s implant translated:

“This isn’t a business trip. Of course, work will need to be handled, but that is our fate. Duty follows us like a shadow.”

The voice was familiar.

With his enhanced hearing, David picked up the voice of the woman on the other end.

“If you’d like a tour of the city, dear uncle, I’d be happy to show you around. Night City may be rough in places, but its heart beats strong among the slums.”

“You think I haven’t seen enough of this city over the years? Haven’t listened to its rhythms?”

A pause.

“Pay me no mind. Tonight, I’m just another tired tourist.”

“As you wish, uncle. But if you need anything…”

“I’ll be in touch. Good night, dear niece.”

The man put down the phone and slowly rolled his shoulders.

David had never seen Smasher act this… restrained before. It was as if the borg wasn’t the center of attention for once.

Finally, the man turned to face him.

“Sit,” he said. “These chairs should still be able to hold you.”

David sat across from him.

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

“Of course, sir. You’re Yorinobu Arasaka.”

He recognized him immediately.

“Today was your last day in security services,” Yorinobu stated. “Starting tomorrow, you work directly for me. 

“You clearly have talent—something those narrow-minded commanders can’t properly utilize.”

That last part hit home.

It was exactly what David had been thinking for the past few weeks.

[Life is Good] Chapter 47

Some dreams just fuck me up.

The Sketched Man? He still makes some sense—like, maybe some cosmic entity noticed me because I remember my past life. But this shit? The nonsense I dreamed last night? What the hell does Strucker have to do with anything? Why the fuck did my subconscious drag him up and shove him into a Star Wars setting? Having that kind of family, even in a dream, is nightmare fuel. 

My ass is still clenched so tight from fear it probably looks like a dried-up prune.

Outside, it was still dark. Penny and Ginger were passed out, but I couldn't sleep. I was exhausted—physically and emotionally—but I was wide awake. The clock said five a.m., and my brain kept chewing on that stupid dream. Strucker… A stylish dude, sure, and if the canon applies to him, then he's alive and well. Or, more likely, she is. Ten-to-one odds. 

Ugh… I wonder if Wanda pulled off the plan.

Carefully, I slid out from under the covers, grabbed my phone, and slipped out of the room, using a soft glow of light to guide me. No, I wasn't about to call Deadpool—I wasn’t about to be that asshole who blows a hero’s cover with a phone call. I just wanted to chill on the internet, sip some tea, and veg out on the couch in the living room. Maybe do some light stretching after, since sleep clearly wasn’t happening. Hell, I might even rot my brain with some mindless short videos on the local TikTok equivalent.

But my plans for couch potato-ing went straight to hell. Mom Judy was already there, curled up on the couch, fast asleep. Next to her were both the house phone and her cell. I sighed heavily. God, Mom… I’ve put you through so much stress. I backtracked to her bedroom, grabbed a blanket, and carefully draped it over her, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. For half a minute, I just stood there, watching as she shifted in her sleep, nestling under the warmth. The apartment wasn’t cold per se, but it was still winter, after all.

"I’m so sorry," I whispered, the words slipping out on their own. And just like that, my thoughts snapped back to Wanda’s little nighttime operation. Please, Emperor, let everything go smoothly. I grabbed the house phone and went to the kitchen.

At least I got through the tea, the light workout, and the internet doom-scrolling. The news was mostly positive. Salamander was trending everywhere, topping the charts across every news outlet. It was glorious. The Washington Post even drew parallels between me and America’s most patriotic hero—Captain America. Apparently, I wasn’t just playing hero; I was serving the country, working with official institutions. The article even justified my masked identity:

"The authorities are well aware of who hides beneath the Salamander’s helmet"—which, yeah, true. SHIELD could confirm that one. "But keeping his identity from the masses… If the world knew who their hero was, I am more than certain that his crime-fighting days would come to an abrupt end, buried under a horde of rabid fangirls."

…And fuck, wasn’t that right. I’d already seen a few fan sites, and holy shit. My masked portraits were everywhere, and the content was wild. Fanfiction, spicy art—full-on pornographic stories featuring me. Some even claimed to be "true accounts" of encounters with the great Salamander himself.

The superhero forums were even worse. I knew part of the hype was artificially inflated, and yeah, my gender definitely played a role in the craze. But damn.

One lady, going by "Silver Mane", straight-up offered me a million dollars to marry her granddaughter. And if I wasn’t up for marriage? A hundred grand for just one date. I almost answered out of pure greed. I could feel the little Loot Goblin inside me waking up, only for my Imperial Guard instincts to put a bullet between his beady little eyes, muttering, "Death to xenos."

I actually snorted at the mental image.

Meanwhile, Iron Lady was killing it in popularity. Unlike me, though, her fame was organic. No artificial hype—just pure badassery. Slick suit. Big guns. Girls loved that. Next to her, I was like some Justin Bieber wannabe standing beside real life Freddy Mercury. One was a heartthrob for teenage girls; the other was a global rock legend.

Spider-Girl got some coverage—mostly positive, but minor. Petra focused on small-time crime. Muggers, petty thieves, street fights—good old-fashioned neighborhood crime-stopping.

Hell’s Kitchen and Daredevil were getting a ton of press, too. I definitely needed to meet her. Through her, I could get an in with Qi-users. My biggest weakness was still my physical abilities. At my core, I was slow, relatively armored, with high damage output in close-range combat. But acceleration and Qi-enhanced movement? That would make me a whole different kind of beast. Time. That was the real issue. No question about it—I needed to wrap up school ASAP. It was just getting in my way at this point.

The Punisher got… less pleasant coverage. Pure anti-heroine material. A ruthless killer of criminals. A true terror to the underworld. In my past life, I’d respected the Punisher’s approach to human garbage. But this woman? The reports scared me. She wasn’t just brutal—she was cold. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t an emotional break. She was just like that.

In a hero-versus-crime scenario, baddies usually ended up neutralized, with occasional unfortunate fatalities. But the Punisher? If you survived a run-in with her, you may as well consider it a rebirth. She was relentless, merciless, efficient. And yet—even she had diehard fans. People she’d saved, radicals who shared her views, and even some cops who genuinely believed the system needed someone like her.

It was hilarious how villains had fan clubs, too.

Take Mysterio, for example—the very same villain I’d totally forgotten about in my panic over Mom Betty. She was apparently the most popular villain out there.

And the biggest shock? The woman was deep into charity work.

Like, seriously deep.

Through various schemes, she donated massive amounts to charity. She was personally funding two orphanages. And law enforcement? Conveniently blind to her "extra activities." To the point where she could walk into a children’s cancer center and spend an entire day entertaining kids with "real magic tricks." And somehow, police sirens only ever blared into action ten to fifteen minutes after she left.

Interesting.

I mentally noted that if we did end up fighting, I’d go easy on her. Gentle punishment only. Spanking-level discipline. Maybe just a light tap on the ass. And then, of course, she’d activate her "Mysterious Anti-Salamander Cloaking Device" and make a daring escape.

I was just about to read up on "The Most Unlucky Supervillain", aka Rhino, when my phone vibrated.

The caller ID? Mom Betty.

For a second, my breath hitched, and it took actual effort to press accept.

"Hello..." I managed to squeeze out, my throat suddenly dry.

"Son..." Mom’s voice was tired, but calm—oh, wait, scratch that. "You hear me? NEVER! Never again are you allowed to hire some crazy, costumed mercenaries to paralyze me, kidnap me from my hospital room, drag me into the subway like a sack of potatoes, take me even deeper underground to some freaky-looking people, attach a new arm to me, and then haul me all the way back, tucking me into my bed as if nothing happened, while the police spent the whole damn night trying to find me!!!" There was an angry huff, then a deep sigh. Meanwhile, I had no idea what to say.

"...Toby... thank you again. You're the best son in the world. But just so you know—you’re not escaping the belt for this."

"Please, Mom. I love you so much. Just... don’t scare us like that again, okay?" I was grinning like an idiot, though. A belt? Pfft. At this point, I think only the Hulk could actually make me feel a spanking.

"I’ll try..." She sounded calmer now, having vented everything that was sitting on her chest. "Now, hand the phone to Judy before they realize I’ve been 'kidnapped back.' After that, I doubt we’ll get a normal conversation."

I looked over at Mom Judy, who had just woken up. Seconds later, she was radiating pure happiness, clutching the phone like a lifeline. I wisely chose not to eavesdrop on whatever emotional outpouring was happening there. Instead, I slipped back into the kitchen and shot Wanda a quick message from my Salamander phone: "Thank you. You're the best. Call me when you can."

Early morning at the Daily Bugle newsroom.

"BROOOOOOCK!!!"

The thunderous roar of J. J. Jameson shattered the normal buzz of the newsroom, making every single worker—and the one male employee—flinch. Said employee also got a few sympathetic looks from his colleagues.

See, J. J. Jameson was… beloved. Eccentric, demanding, relentless, but a goddamn legend in journalism. Sure, she was a tyrant who expected miracles from her staff, but she was also a workaholic who looked out for her people. There were countless cases where she'd personally helped employees through tough times. So, yeah, people loved her… from a safe distance.

"Brock! My boy!" she exclaimed dramatically as he cautiously stepped into her office. "I need something from you! And to be specific, I need an exclusive interview with Salamander! Do whatever you have to do, but I want the Daily Bugle to be the first newspaper to publish an exclusive scoop on that guy!"

"But, Boss—"

"Listen up, Brock. You’ve got a once-in-a-lifetime chance here!" She immediately cut him off, leaping from her chair and pacing the office like a storm, hands gesturing wildly in sync with her words. "I woke up this morning and it hit me! New York just got its first major male superhero! And the Daily Bugle just so happens to have a talented young male reporter! What is this if not destiny, Brock?! So! You’re going to take your pretty little ass over to Captain Stacy’s precinct, get a meeting with Salamander, and you’re going to find common ground with him. Which you will—because at the very least, neither of you plan to sit on your asses while the women handle everything.

"Find the right angle, befriend him if you can, and ideally—become his personal journalist. That kid is a gold mine!"

Jameson studied Eddie’s face as he processed everything she’d just thrown at him. A slow, dawning realization flickered in his eyes, and when she saw it click, she grinned like a wolf.

"I see you get it. Now listen, if you pull this off—every single article on Salamander? Yours. And not just that—I'll make sure you get prime columns. You do this, Brock, and you’ll be the youngest, most successful male journalist in the industry. Don't waste this chance. You see the opportunity here, right?"

"...I do, Miss Jameson," Brock said, his enthusiasm building.

"Then WHY THE HELL ARE YOU STILL HERE?! MOVE IT! MOVE IT! MOVE IT!!!"

As she watched him bolt out of her office, J. J. Jameson turned to her secretary.

"Wendy, tell me—what’s the difference between a good boss and a bad boss?" Jameson grinned smugly.

"A bad boss just yells, but a good boss yells and motivates."

The young woman, a fresh college graduate who had already earned J. J.'s favor with her sharp wit and fearlessness, smirked back.

"Exactly, kid. Learn while I’m still alive." Jameson leaned back in her chair, looking very pleased with herself.

Salamander… Oh, what a brilliant start this guy had. She actually squinted with pleasure. And the free publicity he’d given her paper—her, personally. The editor-in-chief smacked her lips in satisfaction. If that wasn’t an invitation for a mutually beneficial partnership, she didn’t know what was.

"A man and a functioning brain? Miracles do exist."

Lieutenant Elizabeth’s Hospital Room.

"Lieutenant…"

"Captain…"

"...I see our doctors were a little premature with that disability paperwork?"

"Uh, yeah, ma’am." Elizabeth felt the weight of Captain Stacy’s unimpressed stare. "...So, um… what happened?"

"You’re asking me?" Julia stared at her lieutenant with open disbelief before sighing deeply and sinking into a chair. "This whole situation is a goddamn circus. Beth, mind if we keep this off the record for a sec?"

After a nod from Elizabeth, the captain rubbed her temples.

"I really hope we don’t have a repeat of last night, but if something like this happens again—please give me a heads-up. We shook down half the damn district over this, and the lowlifes are gonna be hiccupping in fear for a month."

"I didn’t know it was going to happen, ma'am," Elizabeth sighed, looking away. "...I went to sleep without an arm… woke up with an arm…"

She looked down at her left hand again. It was clearly not the original. Paler skin, a thin circular scar where it had been attached, awful nails—or rather, no nails at all. The whole thing was thinner than her natural arm. But it felt the same. Moved the same. It was just… weaker.

"So I assume asking who, what, and how is a waste of time?" Stacy deadpanned.

Elizabeth just gave a noncommittal shrug and a very apologetic smile.

"Figured." The captain let out another long sigh. "...Alright then. Officially, last night’s events were a series of planned police raids. The results were productive, at least. Now, go talk to your wife and get your stories straight before this turns into an even bigger mess."

"Already," the lieutenant nodded. "She won’t make a fuss. Though I’m definitely going to get an earful..."

Captain Stacy chuckled knowingly and gave her a sympathetic nod.

"My daughter gives me grief over taking risks too. Good luck, lieutenant, get well soon. I’m drowning in paperwork while you're out here on vacation."

"Will do, Captain. Thanks for stopping by."

Tobias

After breakfast, Logan and Storm picked up Penny and me. Mom and I had agreed not to tell anyone about Betty’s miraculous recovery—Gigi would find out today when she visited, and I’d tell Penny later.

"Hey, everyone," I said as I flopped into the back seat after helping Penny stash her suitcase in the trunk. She slid in beside me but on the opposite side. "This is Penelope Black, my school friend and fiancee. Penny, this is James Howlett and Ororo Munroe—teachers at the school I’m attending now."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Howlett, Miss Munroe," Penny beamed at them, flashing her dazzling smile before taking my hand.

"Just Logan," Wolverine grunted, giving Penny a once-over. He studied her for a few moments before shifting his gaze to me. Then, with a respectful nod, he gave me a thumbs up.

Which promptly earned him a jab in the ribs from Storm, who then flashed Penny an amused wink.

"We’re pleased to meet you too, Penny," Ororo added as she started the car. "Toby mentioned you’ve been living in Europe for a while. How was your trip?"

"Thank you, ma’am. It was fine. Long flights can be exhausting, but I caught up on sleep and feel great now."

"That’s good to hear. So, you know our school is for… special students?" Ororo’s pause was slight, but I could tell she was gauging Penny’s reaction.

"Yes, I know," Penny nodded. "Toby told me right away that he’s a mutant. But that doesn’t change anything for me."

"Penny’s got no issues with mutants, Miss Munroe," I added, throwing in my two cents. "In fact, we actually met Mystique and Miss Lehnsherr together for the first time."

Penny shot me a puzzled look, and I realized—shit—she didn’t know who those two were. I’d been careful not to mention any specific names or identities in our chats online.

"Remember when we were getting ice cream?" I prompted. "The older lady? She’s one of our community’s leaders. And the younger one—her assistant and second-in-command."

"Shut up…" Penny’s wide eyes locked onto mine. "Did you know back then?!"

"Nope," I admitted. "We only met as mutants after I got kidnapped the first time. Miss Lehnsherr saved me, along with one of her people—Victoria. So… yeah, that’s how that went."

Logan suddenly cut in with, "So, kid—what’s your mutation?"

"Uhhh… I don’t have one?" Penny blinked in confusion.

"Logan, I told you—Penny’s just a regular girl."

Two synchronized snorts sounded from the front seats.

"Kid, no offense, but with your luck, I don’t believe that for a second," Logan huffed.

"I’m betting she’s a gamma mutant," Storm suddenly giggled.

"Been there," Wolverine waved it off dismissively. "I’m calling a disguised alien." A brief pause. "…Possibly a reptilian."

Silence took over the car. Penny and I exchanged equally baffled looks. Then, after a solid ten seconds of our stunned silence, Ororo’s shoulders began to shake—then came the quiet snickers—until finally, she burst into outright laughter. Logan just smirked like a smug asshole, looking all too pleased with himself.

"Hilarious," I grumbled.

"Forgive us, Toby," Storm said, still catching her breath after laughing. "But your faces were just too funny."

"I forgive only debts," I replied, cartoonishly frowning. "And everything else… I punish! Punish severely!!!"

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 44

One question. Just one question crossed Melina’s mind the moment she saw what was happening.

"What is going on?"

Two men—one half-naked, the other clad in heavy armor—stood a short distance from the manor on the scorched volcanic plain, burning each other with their gazes alone. Melina instantly recognized the Crucible Knight. As for Kosta—well, that went without saying.

The knight didn’t have to remove his helmet for anyone to understand his intent.

Melina directed her question to Sellen. Her voice was melancholic, devoid of anger, laced with reluctant acceptance.

The sorceress flinched, feeling a phantom ache shoot through her body, and forced a smile.

"A duel, my lady. Please close that cursed eye of yours—it unnerves me."

Mostly because of its mysterious properties, which lore scholars—both reputable and otherwise—were still debating endlessly on various forums. The discomfort she felt every time Melina opened her usually sealed (though, as of late, not so much) eye was never a good sign.

Sellen trusted her instincts. As much as she was intrigued by something so unusual and enigmatic, she’d rather observe its effects from a safe distance.

Melina narrowed her eyes. They had already sorted things out—the hierarchy was established. And yet… Sellen remained remarkably uncontrollable.

Under normal circumstances, Melina would have long since eliminated her, but their situation was so far from "normal" that trying to compare it to anything was pointless.

And what infuriated her the most was that Sellen understood this, which was exactly why she allowed herself such frivolities! What a witch!…

The other women didn’t concern her as much. With the exception of that filthy temptress at the Roundtable Hold. The one who stole warmth from the Tarnished, her Tarnished, in such a questionable manner. But Konstantin hadn’t interacted with her recently. He had been too busy with his other "quests," leaving only Sellen within Melina’s line of sight.

A witch even bolder than the other semi-divine witch!

But at least that one was honorable, and Melina knew she wouldn’t do anything stupid…

Probably.

Most likely.

Maybe.

Melina desperately wanted to believe that.

Sellen, however, was different.

The false Finger Maiden let out an unexpectedly weary sigh and closed her cursed eye. Sellen raised an eyebrow in mild surprise.

"I will not harm you," Melina said calmly. "Just promise me you won’t exploit his weaknesses for your own gain."

"The jealous girlie greatly underestimates her chosen one," Sellen smirked.

At those words, Melina flushed—both with rage and embarrassment.

Fortunately, Sellen was quick to continue before the goddess’s daughter had time to do anything to her.

"You may not believe in my honor or honesty," Sellen said smoothly, "but do not underestimate my sense of reason. Have I ever given you a cause to doubt it?"

Seeing Melina’s deeply skeptical gaze, Sellen let out a soft giggle.

"I crave the light no less than you do. Perhaps even more. Is that really so unnatural?"

The false Finger Maiden had no answer to that.

Instead, she averted her gaze, deep in thought.

What drowning man wouldn’t want someone to reach out and save him? Even among those who had long lost their will, many still hoped. And what about those who had no intention of perishing at all?

Melina exhaled slowly, shifting her attention back to the two men.

"He considers him a serious opponent?" she asked.

Sellen smiled cryptically.

"Yes and no."

The goddess’s daughter frowned, demanding an explanation.

It was actually very simple: Kosta never underestimated Crucible Knights. Back in the day, their insane poise had drained much of his patience and sanity.

That is, unless you overleveled, of course.

And while now he was definitely overleveled, Konstantin wasn’t the type to dismiss weaker opponents outright.

He knew—Soulslike games had taught him well—that bosses weren’t the hardest part of the game.

The real threat was the trash mobs you had to plow through just to reach the boss.

Every single enemy—no matter how weak, no matter what level a casual or tryhard might be—could potentially be dangerous.

Hesitation meant defeat.

And let’s not even talk about the dogs.

But in this case, the reason for taking off his armor was something entirely different:

Kosta, an experienced Soulslike player who had fully ‘awakened’, was doing what all experienced players did at some point in their career—

He was trolling.

Blatantly. Deliberately.

With his very presence, he was mocking the Crucible Knight’s heavy armor.

And the knight knew it.

"Arm yourself, Tarnished!"

Only the Greater Will knew how much Tanith’s knight was holding himself back. The openly mocking Tarnished wasn’t even giving him the bare minimum of knightly respect!

Not a single shred!

"Your armor restricts you," Kosta’s eyes sharpened—like an experienced tryhard, trying to educate an innocent newbie whose only previous gaming experience was pressure washer simulator. "You think just because you leveled up and found a good set, you’ve become invincible? That’s not just casualizing the game.

That’s just being a noob."

The Tarnished smirked, then—without warning—he clapped his hands together…

And laid down on the scorched ground, sprawling out as if he were about to take a nap(1).

To say his actions were strange would be an understatement.

But that only made them more infuriating.

The Crucible Knight snapped.

Behind him, spectral angelic wings unfurled, his massive sword glowing with power. With a flash, the armored knight lunged forward, intending to tear the arrogant Tarnished apart.

Only…

The outcome was already obvious.

"…Those dodges…" Rya whispered, drawn by the sounds of battle.

Kosta, rolling effortlessly around his furious opponent, occasionally patting the knight’s shoulder as if in encouragement.

At first glance, it looked bizarre.

…At second, third, and fourth glances?

Still bizarre.

But at the same time, the fluidity—the grace of those dodges—was almost hypnotic.

Each perfect roll, each frame-perfect dodge, briefly phased Kosta out of space and time.

It was perfection…

Sellen nodded, unsurprised when she turned and found that Melina had already vanished.

If General Radahn couldn’t kill the Tarnished, what hope did a Crucible Knight have?

He was strong, yes. One of the few who had once sworn fealty to the first Elden Lord, having survived multiple Eras of the Lands Between.

But he was nowhere near the might of the strongest demigods.

The outcome was inevitable: Konstantin won.

He exhausted his opponent, forcing him to drop his sword and fall to his knees, acknowledging the absolute superiority of a seasoned Soulslike player.

Though, to the women’s collective surprise—the ending was far more dramatic than they had expected.

"Rolling…" the Crucible Knight rasped, barely able to speak. "How… how did you reach such power, Tarnished…?"

Tanith’s loyal knight knelt before Konstantin.

But Konstantin didn’t look down on him.

And not because the Crucible Knight—even kneeling—was still taller than him.

No—Konstantin’s gaze was the same as that of a veteran, who had just seen potential in a rookie.

"I kept trying until I got it right," Kosta said matter-of-factly.

"And when I did get it right…

"I didn’t stop."

"Didn’t… stop?" the Crucible Knight whispered.

"Different builds, challenges…

Kosta’s eyes scanned the battlefield before he lowered his voice.

…Speedruns."

For some reason, those words sent a chilling shiver through the air.

Everyone felt it.

Even if they didn’t fully comprehend the true horror of the Tarnished’s words.

Not that he needed them to.

"You thought the world had given you everything and that there was no room left for growth, but you've limited yourself too much," Kosta declared with inspiration. "A true Soulslike player doesn’t restrict themselves with conventions—or even the game engine itself."

The Crucible Knight, somehow grasping the deeper meaning behind his words, unexpectedly bowed his head. He remained composed, but this time, without challenge—his posture carried cold determination and acknowledgment.

"What must I do?"

Kosta clapped again, this time without mockery—only respect. And truly, how could he not respect someone who actually managed to understand his nonsense? The Tarnished smiled.

Everyone started as a noob. That was normal.

"You’ve grown too used to your armor, knight. It’s become your power, making you complacent. Do you even remember the last time you took it off?"

"I understand," the Crucible Knight nodded solemnly.

An unseen Melina rubbed her eyes.

She felt drained.

And rightly so—because the Crucible Knight, ever composed, began removing his armor. In the end, he stood clad only in a loincloth, one eerily similar to Kosta’s own.

A figure of muscle and scars, his body marked with draconic growths, the knight stood before Kosta—a noob who had finally set foot on the true path. He still bore the face of an old man, but who said it was ever too late to start anew?

Sweating from failed attempts and cursing everything under the sun was something you could do at fifteen or fifty. This was one of the core pillars of the community.

"Excellent," Kosta said with complete composure. "Now, repeat after me."

The Tarnished raised his hands toward the sun.

"PRAISE THE SUN!!!"

For a brief moment, the Crucible Knight hesitated.

Then, firmly, he echoed the Tarnished’s cry.

Two half-naked men, magnificent in their solemnity, standing upon the scorched ground, had reached an understanding.

"W-what is happening…?"

Rya, Melina, and Sellen turned their heads toward Tanith. Though her mask remained in place, it could not fully conceal the expression of the Lady of Volcano Manor.

"They’re just insane, isn’t it obvious?" Patches scratched his bald head. "What?"

Naturally, he had no idea why everyone was looking at him so strangely.

Surprisingly, Rya had little trouble believing that there was a hidden passage in their home. Having spent her entire conscious life in the manor, she had noticed plenty of oddities, and the existence of some… secret extension to the manor would explain a lot.

So when she saw Sellen touch an unassuming wall—only for it to crumble in a flash of casual energy, revealing a concealed passageway—she wasn’t even that surprised.

"It would be strange if the son of the Grandmaster of Raya Lucaria wasn’t a skilled sorcerer," Sellen muttered thoughtfully, examining the wall.

Ordinarily, she could sense such hidden passages easily. But this wall had been indistinguishable from the rest of the manor. If the Tarnished hadn’t known for certain that a passage existed, they might never have found it.

"So it was real…" Rya murmured in quiet resignation. "Unbelievable…"

Truth be told, she had long known her mother had lied to her. Not just about the manor’s secrets, but about… many things. She simply had no proof and had subconsciously avoided unpleasant questions.

Who would have thought that the man she had personally invited would be the one to uncover the truth?

‘Lady Tanith… my mother… lied to me… Was I not born by the grace of the King?’

Rya shook off those wrong thoughts, turning her gaze to Konstantin.

"This passage… Does it lead to the Lord?"

"It’s one of the ways to reach him," Kosta grimaced, sinking into unpleasant memories.

God, how he had hated exploring this place(2).

And yet, there were so many players who loved it…

Truly, the ways of the community were inscrutable.

From the passage, a repulsive giant slug slowly slithered out.

"Why… why do you need to fight him?"

Rya started glancing around, feeling like her mother could appear at any moment and find out what they had discovered.

"You’ll understand when you see him," Kosta shrugged.

His social skills had long surpassed any other Soulslike player of his caliber, but even he found it difficult to explain what became of the current Lord of Volcano Manor.

Seriously, he should have just gone farming like a normal person instead of… this.

"Can I… come with you?" Rya whispered.

Kosta shrugged.

"Sure. But first, I need to prepare."

‘Prepare?’ Melina’s eyebrow twitched.

Her Tarnished never prepared!

At first, he refused to be a casual, and besides—

He never needed preparation in the first place.

But it didn’t take long for her to realize what he meant.

A magic staff appeared in Konstantin’s hand, which he struck against the ground. Casual energy flowed into the staff and radiated outward.

Objectively, Melina found it hard to say exactly how long she had been gone. More than a few days? Probably. But no more than a week. A pathetic week—hardly any time at all in the Lands Between, where nothing of significance had happened for decades, if not centuries.

But, as usual, Konstantin had his own opinion on the matter.

Or perhaps… he had no opinion at all.

Which was somehow even scarier.

Before them stood a perfect copy of Konstantin.

A material illusion, mirroring the Tarnished’s every movement, woven from golden energy. Stable—so much so that even Melina couldn’t immediately tell which of them was real.

Seeing how ecstatic Sellen looked, it wasn’t hard to guess who had taught him this.

"There is no limit to casualization."

Both Konstantins said it at the same time, then simultaneously grimaced.

"You still need a bit more practice, my apprentice," Sellen whispered sweetly.

Rya, nearly shifting into her snake form out of pure shock, stared at the two Tarnished with wide eyes.

Kosta grimaced again.

Obviously, the developers—who had already given casuals a million and one ways to make the game easier—had stopped short of gifting players Sellen’s ability to create stable material illusions.

But this world was… different.

In a way, this was the first casualization that Kosta had actually mastered himself—one that didn’t just come preinstalled due to his… bizarre existence.

Kosta grimaced again—this time, only him. The illusion remained motionless.

‘I need to farm more,’ Kosta thought, glancing at the innocently crawling slug.

The illusion slowly turned its head toward Melina, who visibly flinched.

"Can you teleport me, Meli-Meli?"

Still refusing to manifest, the false Finger Maiden grabbed the illusion’s hand—gasping at how real it felt—before both of them vanished, swept away by the currents of Grace to some far-off place beyond Volcano Manor.

Rya, her horror barely concealed, stared at the spot where the copy of Konstantin had just been.

"Ghosts-s-s…" she hissed, her voice slipping into something serpentine…

…and her tail flicking through the air.

Sellen’s gaze snapped to Rya’s tail.

Kosta, barely sparing it a glance—still adjusting to being in two places at once—reached into his inventory and pulled out Meli-Meli’s gift, looking at the club with pure love in his eyes.

Words couldn’t describe how happy he was to have received a present from her.

And now, finally, he could use it.

Rya, coming back to her senses, finally noticed the way Sellen was staring at her.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asked.

Following the sorceress’s gaze, she suddenly froze—and let out a frightened hiss.

"Powers-s-s almighty…"

‘I wonder which ‘powers’ she’s talking about… and how many phases they have…’ Konstantin mused as he headed into the hidden passage.

Still struggling to move his legs, he felt each step growing easier.

Though he still had to figure out how to explain why he needed to…

Well, quite literally tear himself in two.

As it turned out, his greatest enemy wasn’t bosses, mobs, or even interactions with his waifus, but—

Time.

In the game, quests would wait for him as long as needed.

Here, though? This place introduced a whole new factor.

Thankfully, it didn’t take Melina long to realize where Konstantin was headed.

There were times when Alexander hated his life.

Normally, he was a rather cheerful warrior-jar, but if he was being honest with himself, his entire existence had been artificially created. So he wasn’t exactly designed for life or survival… in general.

Not that he usually dwelled on it—except for moments like these.

He was stuck in a hole. Again(3).

Great Jars above…

It happened often. Way too often. Sometimes he was trapped for days, sometimes he got out easily. There were times when the warrior-jar genuinely thought he wouldn’t meet his end in battle—but in some random hole instead.

Even though Alexander put on a brave face, showing no signs of fear, every single pit he encountered, terrified him.

Natural enemies in an unnatural form. Opponents he could never defeat. They could only be buried. Then again, was that really winning…?

“…What am I even thinking about…” Alexander sighed—somehow. “Hey! Can anyone hear me? I’m stuck! Somebody help! Hey, anyo—OH STARS, KONSTANTIN, WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?!”

The last person Alexander had expected to see was the Tarnished hero who had materialized out of thin air—accompanied by a slightly bewildered Finger Maiden.

“I came to help,” Konstantin said with complete composure, deliberately ignoring how he had even found him. “And to invite you somewhere.”

“Invite?” The jar-warrior echoed in surprise. “What are you talking about, my friend?”

Konstantin smiled.

“Have you ever tempered yourself in a volcano? I thought you might find it interesting.”

Alexander, who had just been preparing to set out toward Mt. Gelmir, shuddered—jar and all.

‘Is my friend becoming omniscient?’

Wait… Did he imagine it, or did the Tarnished’s form just glow for a moment…?

…No, surely he was just imagining it…

Melina, seeing how lost the jar-warrior looked, pursed her lips, staring at Konstantin’s illusory form.

‘He scolded me for running away from healing… Again…’

She was almost afraid to imagine what he would become when he finally sat on the throne of Elden Lord.

But…

The more she observed, the more she wanted to see it for herself. Not just to keep an eye on the witches and other questionable individuals around him. But simply to witness it.

To feel pride for her chosen Tarnished.

To experience an Era the Lands Between had never seen before.

A vision of the Crucible Knight stripping off his armor and accepting Konstantin’s faith flashed through her mind.

…Perhaps, in the end, she wouldn’t need to protect him from scheming women.

She might have to protect the world from him instead.

Despite herself, Melina hadn’t even noticed the subtle shift in her own thinking.

She was starting to see herself in a time where she was never meant to be.

And that, without a doubt, was a good thing.

(1) A rather popular gesture that players can learn through interactions with White Mask Varre and the Blackguard.

(2) Reaching Rykard is possible through exploring the lower levels of Volcano Manor, but honestly, it’s much easier to just complete Lady Tanith’s questline. Seriously, Volcano Manor is one of the most confusing and bizarre locations in the game. Sometimes I get the feeling the devs deliberately tried to stop the player from reaching it. There’s probably some hidden lore behind this…

(3) This isn’t just a storytelling detail—Alexander’s quest in the game actually involves helping him escape from a pit twice.

Daily Updates (14/02/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 49

• Tier 2: Chapter 54

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 49

• Tier 2: Chapter 54

Annoucement:

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[Castling] Chapter 54

The trip cost me a fair bit—thirty-five Galleons just for the travel, another ten to join the expedition, and fifteen more for a translator, a Portkey, and getting all the paperwork sorted between the two Ministries. But I didn’t regret a single Knut, even if I was a bit put out at first.

The international Portkey took us straight from the Lovegoods’ home to Manaus, a city in Brazil where we spent the first two days. And I’ve got to admit—I was a little underwhelmed.

The city was massive, but rundown. Towering buildings loomed overhead, yet the place had the feel of a glorified village. Clean in some areas, even stylish and expensive-looking in spots, but at the same time, kind of shabby and worn. The wooden stilt houses by the water were brightly painted, but the wood had blackened with age, and the paint was peeling in places. The older mansions had crumbling mosaics and weathered carvings. It wasn’t quite the modern metropolis I’d imagined from the travel brochures.

But what really got me was how, just beyond the city—this bustling, chaotic place—there was nothing but jungle stretching for miles. You could step out of your house, walk five minutes past waterlogged, rotting tree trunks, and suddenly, you were in the Amazon rainforest.

We were put up in a magical hotel designed in an old colonial style. Hermione would’ve said it looked like something she’d seen in Paris. But surrounding it were rows of ugly, peeling four-story blocks, like some dreary, distant suburb. The hotel itself was nice enough, though. Not that we stayed there long.

They kitted us out with enchanted rucksacks full of supplies—clothes, all white, charmed shoes to repel moisture, and a few other interesting trinkets.

One little device fit in your nostrils like a tiny ring, regulating humidity for easier breathing and warding off infections. It even changed colour to indicate your health status. We were also given a universal potion to guard against local magical and non-magical illnesses, covering everything from yellow fever to dragon pox.

Another gadget, like a sleek earpiece, kept your body temperature regulated and had a small glowing crystal that repelled insects from getting too close. I was well impressed—all these magical tools were compact and actually useful.

On top of that, we got a bracelet—an emergency Portkey back to base. It activated automatically in danger and doubled as a tracking charm, so no one could get lost.

After a full briefing on jungle safety and strict instructions to only use magic at designated spots, we were finally ready.

On Wednesday morning, after breakfast, we boarded a ferry, and the adventure began.

At first, we passed scattered stilt villages—little wooden shacks thrown together from whatever materials people could find. Scrawny trees dotted the banks. Then, at last, the scenery changed. Lush, wild greenery took over. The air thickened with humidity, heavy with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves. Without our enchanted gear, it would've been unbearable.

We stuck to the right bank. The rainy season had ended, but the floodwaters hadn’t fully receded yet, leaving entire stretches of land submerged. Trees jutted straight out of the water, their branches level with our heads, where all sorts of small creatures scurried about. It was fascinating to watch. Luna and I spent the entire day glued to the railing, trying to spot as many animals as we could.

I was surprised at how much she knew. She identified almost every critter we passed and, if she wasn’t sure, flipped through a field guide, and we’d debate over the species—though she was always right in the end.

This was an expedition, not a sightseeing tour, so the adults were busy taking notes, making charts, and having serious discussions. They left us to entertain ourselves. Luna basically became my personal guide—unlike me, she’d actually read up on the region beforehand. I, on the other hand, had completely forgotten to do my homework.

There were two other teenagers in our group—twin boys a year older than me. Their dad studied Peruvian Vipertooths, the local dragon species. This wasn’t their first expedition, so they had plenty of stories to share. Between them and Luna, I was never bored.

By evening, our ferry docked at the riverbank, and we were assigned tents. No separation by gender here—we four ended up in one tent together. I made sure Luna got the spot by the wall, giving her as much space as possible. She wasn’t one for crowds, and I figured she’d appreciate it.

A protective dome covered the entire campsite, blocking out the jungle sounds so we could sleep in peace. In the morning, Luna was up at the crack of dawn, dragging me out of my sleeping bag for breakfast before we joined the twins—they’d promised to show us something interesting.

Near the river, there was a large cleared-out area—three, maybe four kilometres across—enclosed by a magical barrier. Inside were various magical creatures, waiting to be transported. They moved about naturally, oblivious to us and each other.

Apparently, this was a sort of checkpoint. Some creatures had been bred or studied in the reserve and were being released back into the wild. Others had been captured for research—or ingredients. I recognised plenty of creatures whose parts were used in potions. Seeing a Runespoor, Boomslang, or a Snargaluff in real life, instead of just reading about them, made things feel a lot more real.

We spent the whole morning wandering through the invisible enclosures, trying to identify animals from the guidebook.

By evening, three more ferries arrived with more wizards. Throughout the day, a few barges and loads of small boats passed us, but Muggles couldn't see a thing.

After dinner, the adults gathered in the main tent for their discussions, leaving us by the fire. The twins and an old local shaman entertained us with stories and legends of the region. Luna, not one to be left out, shared a few English folk tales of her own. Her soft, melodic storytelling was so soothing that I nearly nodded off.

The next day, everyone split into smaller teams. Ours had eight people:

A native guide, officially representing the reserve.
A journalist and a writer—Xenophilius Lovegood.
A magizoologist—an energetic, sharp-eyed Spanish woman named Isabella, who talked so fast that even the translator struggled to keep up.
Two burly Brazilian security wizards.
A photographer, Gustavo, who specialised in magical wildlife photography.

And two of us.

The next morning, our travel companions transferred to another boat heading for Peru, off to the dragon reserve, and disappeared northwest. We also swapped vessels, trading the ferry for a boat of our own.

It was large and comfortable—more of a small yacht, really—and from the outside, it looked just like the Muggle boats that zipped past us along the river. Inside, though, it was a different story. Each of us had a proper cabin, there was a shared dining area and a lounge, and—finally—actual bathrooms. Up until then, we’d been relying on magic for, well, everything.

The most interesting part of the journey happened closer to midday. We passed through a magical barrier—I felt it as soon as we crossed, my ears popping as if all sound had been sucked out of the air.

For a moment, my vision doubled. The river ahead seemed to split into two for the briefest second before merging back together, like staring through a heat haze on a blistering summer day. Everything blurred and shimmered.

Then it was gone. Back to normal. Except… it wasn’t. The air had a different ‘texture’ now, a faint taste of something unfamiliar. The sounds around us were sharper, crisper. The river, wide as an ocean, had been murky and brown before, thick as liquid clay. Now, it was crystal clear—though you couldn’t see the bottom, thanks to the thick carpet of underwater plants stretching up towards the surface, swaying gently with the current. And then there was the magic. A presence so dense and heavy, it was almost tangible. Like stepping into the heart of a magical sanctuary—but magnified tenfold.

“Congratulations, colleagues,” came the captain’s voice over the speakers. “Welcome to the Jaú Magical Reserve.”

There was a round of applause and a few excited cheers before everyone settled back into their business.

“What the hell was that?” I asked, stunned, once we were alone on deck.

“What do you mean, Ron?” Luna replied serenely.

“I mean—just now. My vision doubled, and then everything… shifted. Did we just pass through some sort of portal?”

“We crossed into the magical part of reality,” she answered, which, of course, made no sense at all. Seeing my confusion, she elaborated. “All magical locations exist in a different space. Only a tiny part of them extends into what Muggles perceive as reality—like the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron, or the red telephone box for the Ministry of Magic, or even that warning sign near Hogwarts. These places act as transition points, just like here. Think about it—how else would we hide entire magical landscapes and buildings? Muggles would have spotted them from space by now with all their fancy technology. Just imagine how massive a dragon reserve has to be to let those creatures live freely.”

“But I never felt anything like this when I visited our reserve back home,” I argued. “Or when I went to see Charlie in Romania.”

“Well, you never actually went inside the reserve in Romania, did you?” Luna countered. “You need special clearance for that—tourists aren’t allowed in. You probably only saw the rearing pens where they breed dragons artificially and a little souvenir shop. And our local reserve doesn’t require a permit because it exists within the Muggle world—it’s built on a magical hotspot. The magical background there is weak, and there’s nothing of great value, so access is unrestricted.”

“So… wait, let me get this straight,” I frowned, trying to piece it together. “Are you saying wizards sort of… fold space with magic to create extra pockets of reality?”

“Not exactly.” Luna tilted her head in thought. “The Muggle world is three-dimensional. Ours is four-dimensional. Actually, it’s multi-dimensional, but we, as wizards, can only perceive the first layer of it. The other layers are inhabited by magical entities and creatures. I think we, as magical beings, naturally belong to this world, but we have access to the Muggle one. And where magic seeps through into their world, creating breaches, we feel at home. All magical creatures, plants, and everything else originated here, in this reality. But over time, wizards adapted certain areas of the Muggle world for magic as well. Even so—this place feels better, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah… I guess,” I admitted. “Thanks for explaining. I had no idea things were so complicated.”

“I’m sorry, Ron,” she said softly. “I’m not very good at explaining. I just see and feel what’s true, but putting it into words is hard. I’ll give you a book about it when we get back. Then you can explain it to me properly—scientifically.”

“Hold on,” I said, something clicking in my head. “Isn’t the Muggle world technically four-dimensional too? What about Time?”

“Well, time in the real world is linear and fixed, whereas in ours, it can be manipulated. We can alter it using magical artifacts, and that, in turn, can affect their world. But they can’t influence ours. So for wizards, the Muggle world is effectively three-dimensional.”

“So…” I hesitated. “Can Muggles accidentally stumble into a place like this—this magical reality?”

“They can. And they do,” Luna said, nodding. “Sometimes, a tear forms between the worlds—an unregistered gateway opens up. When that happens, Muggles can wander into our reality. Some of them get sent back, but rarely. Most of the time, they don’t survive. There’s an entire international network that tracks missing Muggles who end up on magical lands.”

“No wonder so many people disappear without a trace in the Muggle world,” I muttered, feeling a chill creep up my spine. “That’s terrifying. Imagine never knowing what happened to someone you love.”

“It is sad,” Luna agreed. “But these breaches can’t be predicted. The places where they happen often, Muggles call ‘cursed lands.’ Sometimes, it happens the other way around—magical creatures accidentally slip into the Muggle world. You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? They’re always seeing something—Yeti, Chupacabra, the Loch Ness Monster, giant squid, kelpies… A dragon even made its way onto a Muggle beach in our county once. ‘The Ilfracombe Incident’—you must’ve read about it, Ron.”

“That does ring a bell…” I frowned, trying to remember. “But I don’t recall the details.”

“In the 1930s, a Welsh Green escaped from a reserve through a breach and landed on a beach, scaring a bunch of Muggles,” Luna reminded me. “Luckily, there was a wizarding family there on holiday, and they acted fast. After they subdued the dragon and Obliviated everyone on the spot.”

“And these breaches… how do they find them?” I asked, feeling more than a little stupid—turns out there was a lot I didn’t know, despite spending so much time in the library.

"In every Ministry, there's a department that deals with these incidents and cleans up the mess afterwards. In Britain, it's the Department of Mysteries—lots of specialists work there in different fields. My mum used to work there too," Luna added, turning away to watch the river.

"Er… Luna," I said, pulling her attention back. "So right now, at this very moment, there are Muggle boats floating along this same river, going about their business? And we can’t see them, just like they can’t see us?"

"That’s right," she nodded. "They’re in their reality, and we’re in ours. The Hogwarts Express works on the same principle. It runs along a Muggle railway track, just in a different layer of reality. Wizards Apparate through intersections of magical currents, Floo travel works this way too, and owls deliver letters so quickly because they use magical pathways—places where space folds in on itself, shortening the journey. There’s not a lot of magic in the Muggle world, so even though we live side by side, we each exist in our own reality. That’s why Muggles don’t notice much."

"Then why do these breaches in the barrier appear?" I asked. No way I’d be able to relax until I got an answer.

"There are lots of reasons," Luna said thoughtfully. "The energy of the barrier between worlds isn’t stable—it’s always shifting and changing. Think of it like a piece of fabric being pulled in all directions—eventually, it stretches too thin and tears. It’s a bit like our skin—flexible and resilient, but still vulnerable to damage. Muggles have so many new devices now—towers, machines, satellites… They send out waves and interference, creating tension in some spots while stretching others too far. And then—rip."

"I always thought electricity was what messed with magic," I frowned. "I read that Josephine Flint, before she became Minister for Magic, gave a whole report to the Wizengamot proving that Muggle inventions interfere with the proper function of a wand."

"Well, she was a pure-blood," Luna shrugged. "It suited her to say that. But really, it’s the opposite. In the real world, it’s actually magic that disrupts technology—it’s a three-dimensional world, remember? It wasn’t made for magic. But all those waves and disturbances—when the energy surges high enough—can cause tears in the barrier."

"Oh, look—a river dolphwing!" she suddenly gasped, leaning over the railing and pointing at the water.

Something big leapt from the river. Maybe it was a dolphin—except for the extra set of razor-sharp fins along its sides that looked alarmingly like wings. It snapped its jaws shut around a tiny monkey dangling from a branch and, with a shrill cry of triumph, disappeared back into the depths. The whole thing lasted no more than a couple of seconds.

Before I could even react, more of them burst out of the water, yanking their own meals off the branches. A fat toad managed to wriggle free and tumbled into the river, only for two of those not-quite-dolphins to slice through the water like blades, each taking a bite before vanishing beneath the surface again.

"Erm… Luna," I finally choked out, still staring at the rippling water. "Are you sure those are dolphins?"

"Not exactly. They’re a magical species," she answered, completely unfazed. "But all dolphins are carnivorous. Besides, their saliva and glands can cure Gill’s Fever—that’s when a wizard’s magic burns out. Nature is brutal, but it’s perfectly balanced, don’t you think? Come on, Ron, let’s get something to eat. I’m hungry too."

And with that, she calmly dragged me off to the dining area, as if we hadn’t just watched a bunch of river monsters tear their lunch straight out of the trees.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 54

"Man, our first real mission was just plain stupid," Naruto grumbled.

"On the other hand, Kakashi-sensei let us use radios," Sasuke countered dryly, shooting me a look. I, on the other hand, was practically vibrating from suppressed laughter and sheer pride.

Yeah, sure, the whole thing had been dumb as hell—but it was hilarious.

"Come on, you have to admit it’s weird—chasing after your own cat all over Konoha, only to hand him over and watch poor Tora-chan get squeezed half to death by his so-called owner, Madam Shijimi," Naruto snickered, scratching behind my ear with his scratched-up hand. "Not surprised he ran away from the palace to hang out with us."

"Tora-chan, you came back way too fast. Think they’ll put out another request for you?" Sasuke asked.

I shook my head. The lady had already summoned a shadow clone of me and set it loose in Otakuku. She told me she’d start making regular requests for my retrieval—just to keep up appearances. That way, if anyone saw me in the village, it wouldn’t raise suspicions. Smart lady. She also stuffed me full of the finest gourmet treats and gave me a good brushing. The only thing that threw me off was her asking about Kushina-san. She hadn’t heard a word from her in over a month. Neither had I.

It had been almost a month since the genin exam. A month since Naruto learned the truth about the Nine-Tails. And the wildest part? The clans had apparently decided to spill the beans to all their heirs at the same time. Maybe in the anime, they needed time to process it—slowly warming up to each other over different missions. But for us? The night after the team assignments, there was a full-blown debrief at Sasuke’s apartment. And nobody bailed.

Team 7—Naruto, Sasuke, and their reluctant third wheel, Sakura—got paired with Hatake Kakashi. And I knew this guy. I’d recognized his scent immediately. He was the same dude who’d tracked me down under Kushina-san’s orders.

Everything else went exactly like in the anime. Team 7 got stuck doing the most mundane grunt work. Cleaning up trash, walking dogs, catching stray cats—rinse and repeat. They barely trained with their actual sensei. Watching all of that play out over a couple of anime episodes was one thing. Living through it for a full month? Different story.

I had it easy—I was a free agent. Spent my time training with Akamaru and Kuromaru, keeping an eye on my little pack, and occasionally tailing Hiruzen. But Naruto and Sasuke? They were suffering. They tried squeezing in their own training after their dumb missions, but that wasn’t enough. Meanwhile, Kakashi-sensei spent way too much time reading his trashy little book and dodging questions about what was under his mask. At one point, they got so desperate, their entire mission became "Find Out What’s Under the Mask."

Spoiler alert: They failed.

Two days after the Great Cat Chase, I tagged along for their morning mission briefing, like I usually did. Normally, I just listened in, got the gist of their schedule, then went off to do my own thing. Today, though? Today, things got interesting.

Kakashi actually showed up on time. I immediately noped into the bushes. Not getting caught in the middle of whatever this was.

"You all did a great job honing your cat-hunting skills," Kakashi drawled, and I swear this man smirked with his single visible eye. "Which is why today, you’ve been given a special mission. You need to collect a paw print from a cat named Nekomata. This mission is ranked D-plus. I have some business to take care of near Ryu, where the request came from, so I’ll escort you to the client. The rest is up to you."

"What?! Another cat mission?!" Naruto groaned. "Sasuke, say something! This is ridiculous! We want a real mission! …Sasuke?"

I turned toward the Uchiha and immediately spotted the shift. Oh. Ohhhhhh. Ryu.

Naruto, standing in profile, had the same realization. His eyes practically doubled in size.

"Ohhh," Naruto muttered, slow and dawning. "I'm starting to like this mission."

I planted myself in Naruto’s backpack and made it very clear—I was coming with them to Ryu.

They understood immediately and didn’t even bother arguing. I stashed some of my canned food in Naruto’s bag and packed some dry treats in Sasuke’s. Just in case. You never know when the road might make you queasy, and a little salty snack helps.

The next morning, we set off. Kakashi led the way. Naruto, with me in tow, brought up the rear. I switched between walking on my own, napping in the bag, and trailing them from the shadows.

For a while, everything was perfect. A new, fun mission. Exciting travel. A chance to see the legendary ninja cats of Ryu. And then—on the second day of the journey—it started to rain.

Not just any rain. Naruto let out a deep, suffering sigh and muttered a single word:

"Karatsuyu…"

"Ryu is further east, so the rainy season here should be ending soon," Kakashi said, attempting to console his very soaked team as they huddled in a cave for shelter.

I peeked outside. The sky was pitch-black, and the rain poured down in sheets. Yeah. Real convincing, sensei.

"We’ll meet back here in four days," Kakashi continued, getting ready to leave. "I have other business in a neighboring town. Your mission is to collect the paw print. The city is five kilometers north of here. Sasuke knows where to go. He’s in charge."

"Oh, so you're just leaving us, sensei?" Sakura piped up.

"Yep. See you soon," Kakashi said, and before anyone could object, he was already walking away.

I watched from my perch in Naruto’s bag as he set it down in the back corner of the cave and loosened the straps so I could slip in and out as I pleased.

"So, Sasuke-kun, you're in charge?" Sakura asked, suddenly chipper. "How do you know the way to Ryu? Have you been there before?"

"The city is home to…" Sasuke hesitated. "Weapons craftsmen. They supplied the Uchiha clan with gear." He paused again, then added, quieter, "I used to go there. With my brother."

Oh.

That gave me an idea.

Slipping into the deep shadows, I used the dim firelight and Sakura’s distraction to slink out of the cave. A little stretch of the legs. Some fresh air. Maybe take care of some, uh, cat business. The rain made it annoying—washed away all the good scents—but at least I didn’t track in mud.

"Oh! A cat!" Sakura squeaked when I padded back inside, shaking off the excess rain.

The boys exchanged looks.

I flopped down and started grooming.

"I think he wants food and a warm place to stay," Naruto said. 

"He’s so cute and fluffy! We have to keep him, right, Sasuke-kun?" Sakura turned her big green eyes on him.

Sasuke looked like he was about three seconds from laughing.

"No, k-khmm, Sakura. We won’t chase him off," Sasuke assured her, digging through his bag and tossing me a handful of treats.

"Ohhh, where’d you get those, Sasuke-kun?" Sakura gasped.

"Well… our client is called ‘Granny Cat,’ and she has a lot of cats," Sasuke said smoothly. "I figured I'd bring a little something for them."

Smart cover.

Good thing I'd already cleaned out the stash I packed in Naruto’s bag. Otherwise, Sasuke definitely wouldn’t have gotten away with that one.

"Naruto, wanna take a walk around the area?" Sasuke asked after a couple of hours, cutting a glance toward Sakura.

"Huh? Oh, uh, yeah, sure," Naruto shrugged.

I let out a demanding meow.

"Looks like T—uh, Neko-san wants to join us too," Naruto chuckled. Sakura blushed and turned away, pretending not to hear. Sasuke tucked me under his cloak, and we stepped out into the rain.

"I've been thinking," Sasuke said once we’d put some distance between us and the cave. "It's possible that Itachi arranged this mission for us through Granny Cat."

Naruto blinked in surprise, and I flicked my ears, equally intrigued.

"Why do you think that?" Naruto asked.

"Well, my brother and I used to come here often for weapons. And this whole 'paw print' game… Itachi came up with it. Maybe he wants to test me. He told me to hate him. To train and get stronger."

Naruto tensed and looked around cautiously. "Our mission's just a D-plus rank—if you even count the 'plus' part, which is mostly because we left the village. We should be careful. What about your client, this 'Granny Cat'? Does she know what happened to the Uchiha?"

"Fifty-fifty," Sasuke admitted after a pause. "Maybe she’s heard rumors. You know how it is—Konoha’s a hidden village. If word got out that the great Uchiha Clan, protectors of the village, were gone, it could make us look weak. So they probably kept it under wraps. I just remember she really liked Itachi." He hesitated before adding, "Last time I saw her, I was six. Maybe seven."

"We could carefully ask about your brother," Naruto suggested. "Like, when she last saw him and stuff."

"No." Sasuke shook his head. "Itachi's dojutsu is too powerful. He can alter memories. Just stay alert. If he’s here, he’s probably just watching. Don't let on that we suspect him."

"Got it. Let’s head back." Naruto glanced down at me. "But first, I actually do need to hit the bushes."

Sasuke handed me over to Naruto, then gave me a long look.

"What do you think, Tora-chan? Is this an Itachi trap?"

I couldn't exactly shrug, so I settled for an ambiguous little trill. But honestly? I didn't remember this mission happening in the anime.

When we got back to the cave, the fire had nearly burned out, and Sakura had apparently gone to sleep. Naruto let me down, and immediately, my nose twitched. Something was off.

There was another scent.

"Good evening, Sasuke…"

Two crimson Sharingan eyes flickered to life in the darkness.

Holy shit.

"Would you not scare the hell out of kids like that, Shisui-san?!" I yowled indignantly at our unexpected guest.

"Paw print mission" is from a filler episode of Naruto Shippuuden 189

Daily Updates (13/02/25)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 71

• Tier 2: Chapter 76

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 38

• Tier 2: Chapter 43

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 41

• Tier 2: Chapter 46

[Life is Good] Chapter 46

There was about an hour left before Penelope arrived. Initially, I planned to meet her at the airport, but we agreed she’d come straight to me, and then we’d head out together with the whole gang to visit Mama Betty. With time to kill, I pulled Mom Judy into the bathroom with the classic "Whoa, come check this out, I think our shower’s broken." Ginger was in her room, and Mom followed me, silent and confused, as I turned on the shower.

"Mom, I met with a mutant today. She’s well-connected. We talked, and she agreed to help Mom Betty get her arm back. This isn’t a joke—she can actually do it. And she wants to."

Mom pursed her lips, frowning in thought before sighing. "Alright… Give me the details. And why the hell are we talking about this in the bathroom?"

"Details… Well, you know how I said most mutants are really tight-knit? So, I met up with an acquaintance today to thank her for helping out with that whole kidnapping situation. She was one of the people who busted in to get us out. And she did it for me. She’s a good person. A bit crazy, sure, but—anyway, the second I mentioned Betty’s situation, she immediately offered to help. And I said yes. So tonight, she’s gonna… uh, steal Mom Betty. For medical reasons. And by morning, she’ll be back—with a brand-new left arm. I’m telling you now so you don’t worry. But if anyone calls? Act surprised, panicked, confused—full-on distressed mother mode."

"Do I know this girl? And what exactly are we owing her for this?" Skepticism and hope. And a lot of concern for me. Poor Mom Judy—my mutant bullshit had already burned through so many of her nerves.

"You don’t know her—she doesn’t live in any of our enclaves. And it’s me who’ll owe her, not us. She asked for five dates." I flashed her an awkward smile. "And before you start thinking weird things—no, she’s not some old, creepy lady forcing me into anything. They’ll be actual dates, and she’s really pretty."

Mom stared at me for a few seconds… then burst out laughing. No—she cackled. Slapping her thighs, gasping for air, fully losing it. Meanwhile, I stood there, dying inside, trying not to laugh with her but also seriously wondering if this was just pure hysteria.

She finally caught her breath, wiping away tears, and let out a drawn-out "Ooooooh, Tooooooobyyy~" before wrapping me in a bear hug with the most shit-eating grin I’d ever seen.

"My boy’s all grown up! Already got girls wrapped around his finger. And not just any girls—ones who offer themselves up and only ask for dates in return. Oh, Toby, if she really fixes Betty’s arm…" She sobered up a little, looking almost awkward. "Well… uh, just—don’t ghost her, okay? Especially if she’s cute and not some old hag."

Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Did my own mother just suggest I pay off a debt with sex? What the fuck? Huh??? HUH???

"Why do you look so shocked, sweetheart?" Mom Judy smirked, watching my brain short-circuit in real-time. "Getting any ideas? I meant—go on those dates and actually get to know the girl. Don’t just do it because you owe her, okay?" 

She sighed and sat on the edge of the tub "I’ve lived a long time, and I’ve never heard of someone regrowing a damn arm. And prosthetics? I was reading up on them today—crazy expensive. We would have done everything possible for Betty, but we’d never afford anything better than the budget option they hand out to disabled vets.." 

She gave me a pointed look. "So, a girl who offers this kind of help? She really, really cares about you. And she deserves more than just some half-assed ‘repayment’—at least try to get to know her."

Jesus. Mom, you scared the shit out of me. This world’s already messed up enough, but having a family member basically send you off to sleep with someone just for thanks? That’d be way too much. But this? This was fine. She was just really impressed. And, yeah, let’s be honest—probably already making plans for my future marriage. ‘Not old, not ugly, has connections, can work miracles, helps my son and his family. Probably rich. And older? Even better—she'll keep my boy in line.’

If Mom Judy had some kind of secret internal ranking of ‘Potential Daughters-in-Law,’ I was pretty sure Wanda just shot straight to the top, despite still being an unrevealed character in her mind.

I could see it now—Mom Judy, stumbling out of a bar with Wanda, throwing an arm around her, happily slurring to everyone, ‘This is Wanda, my FAVORITE daughter-in-law! Ah, Tobi, you lucky, lucky boy!’

Brbrbrbrbrbr. Funny? Yes. Terrifying? Also yes.

"Anyway, it’s your decision," Mom said, brushing off my stunned silence. "Just remember—people who genuinely care about you? They’re rare. You boys have it easier; your wives will take care of you. But still… don’t take that for granted. Just be a decent, grateful person." Then her expression hardened. "Now, why are we in the bathroom?"

"Because of me, Mom. I’m really sorry." My shoulders slumped. This was my fault. "Mutants are watched. And since I ‘got attention’ after those kidnappings, I’m now officially under ‘observation.’ I could remove them, but I don’t want to show my hand just yet. I wanted to talk to you and Mom Betty first."

Okay, yeah. That was a lie. I only wanted to talk to Lieutenant Betty. But no need to hurt Mom Judy’s feelings.

"Got it." The excitement from ‘Betty’s gonna have an arm again!’ drained a little, but I saw her shift into Battle-Hamster Mode. 

"Get rid of them. All of them.” Her voice was lethal. “If they plant more? Rip those out, too! Make them suffer! The bastards!" 

She actually shook a fist at the ceiling. "This is our HOME! Sure, I get that Betty’s a cop, but now these sneaky little rats think they can eavesdrop on my family?! Over my dead body! I’m taking Gigi out for some errands. When we’re gone? Burn the bugs!"

"Mom, but then they’ll—"

"Oh, please. Like they wouldn’t figure out you found the bugs after we locked ourselves in the damn bathroom?" …Shit, she had a point. The "broken shower" excuse wasn’t my best work. "And, Tobias—are you sure you trust this girl?"

"Mmm… As much as you can trust someone who’s always treated me well, saved my ass from a life-threatening situation, and never asked for anything in return." I spread my hands. "We knew each other before I was even a mutant. And she was just as nice back then."

"Alright…" She sighed, rubbing her temples. "You’ve always been my genius boy—" Oh, please, Mom. I just got a cheat code at birth. "I’ll still worry… but a healthy Betty is worth any amount of nerves." She gave me a guilty smile before pulling me into a hug. "I’ll trust your trust in her, sweetheart."

"Thanks…"

After Mom dragged Ginger out of her room—where she’d been wallowing in misery—they headed off to the store, supposedly to pick up groceries for Penelope’s welcome dinner. Meanwhile, I went on a little bug hunt.

I found four cameras. One of them was in Ginger’s room.

Fucking pedophiles.

Whoever planted that shit, I swear I’ll rip their reproductive organs out through their throat.

On top of that, I dug out seven more listening devices scattered throughout the house. They were everywhere—except the bathroom. Suspiciously convenient.

Figuring there might be more hidden inside the electronics, I cut the power to everything, but found nothing. Could be they only activate when the devices are turned on and running off the power grid. I should probably ask Yuriko to run me through a crash course in PEST CONTROL for intrusive surveillance.

I fried all of them with a quick energy discharge—except for one.

Sat there for a bit, just staring at it. Thinking.

Should I serenade these fuckers with some garbage-tier pop song in the most off-key, ear-bleeding voice I can manage?

Wouldn’t take much. These cheap-ass bugs probably don’t have the best audio quality. Wherever they’re monitoring from, they’re either listening in real time or collecting recordings to analyze later. Either way, the question was… what to grace them with?

Didn’t actually remember any full song lyrics except for a couple of cringe-y lines that had lodged themselves in my brain like a parasite.

Then it hit me.

Oh. Oh-ho-ho-ho.

Why the hell not?

And so, in my absolute best bedroom voice, I started narrating—in exquisite detail—a porn scene I remembered from my past life.

A good one, too. Classy. Tasteful. Two guys absolutely wrecking a gorgeous woman, taking their sweet time with her.

I really went in on the descriptions, savoring every last detail. If I was gonna do this, might as well go all the way. Besides, threesomes with two guys? Practically the holy grail fantasy for half the girls out there. No joke—I saw a poll about it online once.

Naturally, I swapped in myself as the main star, along with “my buddy Alex” and “naughty little Jessica.”

I was so caught up in my performance, I almost missed Mom and Ginger coming back.

Damn shame. I really had a knack for this.

Would’ve loved to see the face of the poor bastard stuck monitoring this feed.

S.H.I.E.L.D. Surveillance Van, Near Tobias’ House

Today, the van had extra personnel—since the target was actually home for once, they’d added two more agents alongside the usual "designated sufferer," a fresh academy graduate. Newbies like her always got stuck with surveillance duty to "gain experience." And the whole day had been boring as hell. Target was asleep, target left the house, the family was dealing with emotional stress over the injured cop mom…

Sure, the young women in the van sympathized with their "client"—a lieutenant, no less, practically a fellow officer, lost an arm in the line of duty. That was serious. But sympathy didn’t make the shift any less mind-numbing.

Things got slightly more interesting when the target came home.

When the boy started finding their bugs and hidden cameras?
That was a shock, but not a major one.

All cameras were wiped out, and only two audio bugs remained. He was holding one of them, based on the sounds they were picking up. The situation was reported up the chain, but no new orders came through.

No big deal. They’d wait out their shift and call it a day.

Then the kid started talking into the bug.

When the signal from the device suddenly cut out, one of the women leaned back in her chair, groaned in pure hatred, and snarled at the ceiling.

"Whoever the fuck this Jessica is, I hope she dies like a dog in a ditch."

"Forget Jessica—Mila, you got a photo of this guy?"

"I do, but we don’t have a shower in here, so what’s the point?" Mila rasped, her voice heavy with regret.

"I do at home! C’mon, send me the pic, and, Angie… can we, uh… ‘accidentally’ steal that recording?" The girl who had asked for Tobias’ picture gave their senior agent a pleading look.

The older woman stared at her, completely floored, before sighing and shaking her head.

"Sam, are you fucking serious? This system has copy protection… unfortunately."

"Fuuuuck," Sam groaned. "And yeah, I also hate that lucky bitch Jessica."

Mila just nodded in solemn agreement, sighing as she pulled out her phone.

Damn. The kid was fine. A couple more years, and he was gonna be absolute sex on legs. Sigh…

"Hey, girls… you do realize that little shit did that on purpose, right?"

"Gee, thanks, Miss Columbus. You discovered America for us."

"I feel like this shift is gonna drag even worse now…"

"Mila, you got pictures of any of his guy friends?"

"Sam, go fuck yourself!!!"

The sheer petty satisfaction from that little stunt warmed my heart. Whether anyone had actually been listening or not didn’t even matter—I just couldn’t wait to see how the poor bastard writing up the official report was going to explain that.

God, that thought alone had me giggling.

Next time? Maybe I’d narrate a full-blown Eldar-tier orgy, back when they were still getting it on with Slaanesh. Let them truly embrace the wonders of the finer things in life.

Penelope was running a little late—traffic—but we met her at the door. She looked exhausted. Long flights and road trips will do that to you.

Seeing her in person after so long—especially after only video calls—was different. And damn, she’d really grown into her looks. She was still taller than me, but not by much anymore. I was definitely catching up, maybe even surpassing her in another year—unless I randomly stopped growing. Her face had lost that last bit of baby fat, becoming sharper. As for the rest of her? Hard to say, since she hadn’t taken off her coat yet.

"Hey, everyone," she greeted, her voice carrying that tired but happy warmth. "Mind if I leave my suitcase here for now?"

"Welcome, Penny, of course!" Mom smiled at her with sympathy. "Are you sure you don’t want to stay and rest a bit? You must be exhausted."

Ginger just squeaked out a small "Hi" and immediately hid behind me.
Yeah. Penny loved hugging the tiny redhead to death.

"Nah, I’m good. I’m not that tired. …Why are you looking at me like that?" She turned to me, curious.

"Admiring the view."

I stepped forward and hugged her tight.

"I missed you."

I felt her arms wrap around me, just as strong, and heard her whisper back, "I missed you too."

"Ahem." Mom definitely wasn’t trying to ruin the moment on purpose. "Sweethearts, let’s get going. You’ll have plenty of time to get all cuddly later."

Yeah, we might have gotten a little carried away. It was physically hard to let go of my Sunshine.

I won’t bore you with all the details of the trip or our visit to Mom Betty. We took a cab, sat with her for about an hour, chatted. She’d been moved to a VIP hospital room—courtesy of the police department. She looked better, happy to see us, and even happier to see Penny.

I finally learned the truth—she hadn’t lost her arm as some kind of punishment from Scorpia. It had happened in the middle of the fight itself. Just one more casualty in the chaos of battle.

After we were politely but firmly told to leave, we took another uneventful cab ride back home.

The two things that made my day?

One—Betty genuinely looked better.

Two—Ginger had finally snapped out of her funk.

My little sister was obviously upset about Mom losing her arm, but at least that puppy-dog sadness had faded from her eyes. She was even smiling, laughing at our jokes. Mom and I, however, exchanged a few too many knowing looks whenever the conversation touched on prosthetics, disabilities, or the future—enough that Betty started glancing at us suspiciously from time to time. But she didn’t ask, and we weren’t about to tell her. No way to know how many bugs were planted in her hospital room. I’d already found three in the last place I checked. So… “Surprise incoming!”

At home, Ginger immediately grumbled, “Then why the hell did we even go shopping?” when we decided to screw cooking and just order pizza instead. We devoured it while chatting, but Penny was already nodding off at the table, so it was unanimously decided: bedtime. Since Penny had firmly insisted on sleeping in my room, Mom handed me a mattress and gave me a very conspiratorial wink.

Somehow, without even discussing it, we ended up pulling my mattress onto the floor and merging it with hers. Penny didn’t even hesitate to change into her pajamas in front of me, not shy in the slightest—in fact, she seemed to be showing off. The only modesty she showed was turning her back when unhooking her bra under her pajama top.

Honestly? If she hadn’t been exhausted, maybe something would have happened. The looks she was giving me were… well, let’s just say they had potential. But—

Our gentle kisses and whispered nonsense were rudely interrupted by a very persistent knock at the door.

Penny went to answer it, because I… had a certain issue that made standing up very inconvenient.

At the door stood a very serious-looking Ginger.

“I’m sleeping here tonight.” She marched in, carrying her mattress, blanket, and pillow. “I don’t wanna be alone.”

Her expression was way too smug for this to be just about comfort. Oh, I see how it is… My little sister had a bad case of sibling jealousy.

She shoved her mattress right up against ours, forcefully claiming the middle spot and kicking me to the edge. The theory about her jealousy was further confirmed by the victorious little looks she kept shooting at Penny…

Except she forgot something very important.

Namely, Penny’s obsession with red-haired kids.

Which is why G immediately found herself wrapped up tight in Penny’s arms, thoroughly smothered.

Penny, by the way, did not seem upset about this turn of events at all. And I get it—my little sister is an absolute baby angel, doomed to be relentlessly snuggled until she grows old enough to fight back.

Ginger shot me pleading looks for help.

I just grinned and joined in.

And so, we all drifted off to sleep, snuggled up together. Ginger, despite her initial protests, actually fell asleep faster than Penny—smiling like a damn cherub. I had a sneaking suspicion my sister secretly loved all the cuddling but was just putting on her best tsundere act.

Right before I dozed off, I heard the house phone ringing.

And then, in the distance, Mom’s hushed voice.

I had a feeling Wanda’s plan was officially in motion.

Hope it works…

I spent the next hour tossing and turning, worrying, thinking—until, finally, sleep took me.

I was hanging from something, suspended over a bottomless void. Everything around me was made of cold, unyielding metal. My mouth tasted like blood, and my face stung from recent blows.

And standing above me was…

Darth fucking Vader.

“You killed my father!” I shouted at him, seething with rage.

“No, Tobias,” he intoned.

And I felt a jolt of shock.

But that was nothing compared to what he said next.

“I am your father.”

He reached up, removing the black helmet—

And beneath it was the bald, scarred, sneering face of none other than Baron von Strucker.

Like straight out of the comics.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” I screamed, a mix of horror and fury ripping through me.

This can’t be real! This can’t be happening!

Strucker—Vader?—leaned down and effortlessly lifted me by the scruff of my neck.

Where Vader’s life-support panel should have been, a Hydra emblem gleamed—a modified version, the one they used after their betrayal in Alpha Legion.

“Not no, son,” he said with a twisted smile.

“Hydra Dominatus.”

Then, with zero effort, he tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and started walking toward a set of massive exit doors.

“Come on, Tobias. Let’s go home. We’ll install a nice little bomb in your head, and then we can finally live together like a normal family.”

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 43

In the Lands Between, there weren’t many left who hadn’t at least heard of Kosta. You’d have to try really hard to avoid hearing about the Tarnished whose strength surpassed that of demigods. The bearer of three Great Runes, the one who, with high probability, would soon become the next Elden Lord.

And Tanith was no exception. She couldn’t be. By the time Rya first told her about the half-naked madman, he had already claimed his first Great Rune. That alone was enough for Volcano Manor to welcome him with open arms.

His second Great Rune, obtained in record time, made him even more valuable. Tanith even considered sending her adopted daughter out again to seek the Tarnished and invite him back. From Rya’s stories, he seemed to be surprisingly kind to her.

But there was a disconnect—Tanith and Konstantin lived with entirely different perceptions of time.

The woman had only just begun considering her plans when another rumor reached her—Radahn had fallen. And the same lunatic had been the one to defeat him.

Needless to say, this madman became the last person Tanith wanted to see at her manor.

Like an uncontrollable force of nature, he tore across the continent, collecting Great Runes, and something told her he wasn’t going to stop.

And her suspicions were confirmed.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Konstantin the Tarnished,” Tanith said, offering a polite, if slightly strained, smile behind her mask. Yet, her voice betrayed not even the slightest hint of unease. “Welcome to Volcano Manor.”

Kosta nodded curtly, his helmeted gaze meeting the hostile glare of the Crucible Knight.

Hostile, yet eerily composed.

Kosta frowned, feeling an inexplicable urge to fight the knight. It almost felt like a challenge. Frankly, he wasn’t opposed to crossing swords with this brute—someone who, once upon a time, had nearly locked him inside a damn boss arena.

Unfortunately, they still hadn’t added an option to explain an accidental death of the woman who devours her defeated husband(1).

Tanith, noticing the tension between the two men, exchanged a glance with Sellen, who was smiling in amusement. For a brief moment, there was mutual understanding between them.

“I see you’ve brought a companion,” the former dancer continued.

“Sorceress Sellen, Lady Tanith,” Sellen introduced herself with a slight bow.

“Sellen?” Tanith repeated with mild curiosity. “I’m certain I’ve heard that name before.”

Praetor Rykard was one of Queen Rennala’s sons—formerly of Raya Lucaria, an academy that was practically a city yet for some reason still called itself an academy. Naturally, Tanith had heard quite a bit about it. The name of the exiled sorceress was at least familiar to her.

However, she didn’t dwell on it. The academy had produced many notable sorcerers over the years…

“I’m pleased to hear that, Lady Tanith,” Sellen said with a pleasant smile.

She could have said that she had heard things about Volcano Manor and Tanith as well, but she kept quiet. Not that she feared anything while standing next to Konstantin, but…

Let’s just say he had a knack for ruining relationships all on his own.

Meanwhile, Tanith’s knight and the Tarnished continued exchanging unfriendly glares.

The Crucible Knight gestured toward the exit, silently offering to “discuss” things more directly outside.

Kosta narrowed his eyes. Of all the things he’d expected from this questline, the Crucible Knight being this aggressive wasn’t one of them. Sure, Kosta wasn’t exactly a beacon of humility, but this was the first time someone had openly threatened him so boldly.

It made him very interested in meeting Godfrey’s people up close(2).

“We’ll settle this after the quest is over.”

The Crucible Knight, taking this as a direct challenge, instinctively raised his blade, but Tanith swiftly intervened.

The last thing she needed was her manor being reduced to rubble.

“There’s no need for fighting. Especially not with such a renowned Tarnished,” Tanith said, her voice even. “Rya spoke highly of you. ‘A noble but strange warrior’—that’s how she described you, I believe.”

She allowed herself a soft, affectionate laugh.

From somewhere near the doorway, a faint, embarrassed hissing sound could be heard.

Everyone, everyone, collectively pretended they hadn’t noticed.

This questline, it seemed, had already gone completely off the rails.

Kosta barely refrained from shaking his head to clear his thoughts.

“I was invited by a waifu. I couldn’t refuse.”

Tanith tilted her head slightly, studying him, as if trying to read anything from his expression—only to be met with a solid wall of stoicism.

Is he somehow connected to the Crucible Knights? Tanith wondered, glancing at her ever-stoic knight.

“So, you came here because of Rya?”

“The waifu was the main reason, but that’s not my only purpose.”

He really enjoys tormenting people, Sellen thought, casting a sidelong glance at him.

The hissing behind the door grew slightly louder.

Once again, everyone collectively ignored it.

Volcano Manor was full of secrets, and this just became one of them.

“And what is your second reason?” Tanith asked, a hint of genuine curiosity creeping into her voice.

She prided herself on understanding people. And not people, too. The only one who could ever truly deceive her senses was her own knight. She knew he was loyal, but reading his emotions—when he had them—wasn’t always easy.

…Though, with the recent arrival of Patches, it had certainly become much easier. That alone had earned the bald rogue a few points.

And now there was another lunatic, hiding his emotions behind an infuriating mask of indifference. Just like her knight! She’d known him for gods-know-how-many years, and she still didn’t even know his name!

“I want to fight Praetor Rykard.”

Kosta’s words landed like a meteor from Astel.

A growl, deep and guttural, rumbled from the Crucible Knight’s throat—a sound not unlike that of a dragon’s. The air turned suffocatingly heavy, thick with tension, making it seem like a battle was inevitable.

Sellen blinked in mild surprise. She hadn’t expected the conversation to escalate like this. But in a way… it made sense.

This was Konstantin the Tarnished, after all.

She barely stopped herself from grinning.

An illusion could never capture the thrill of experiencing moments like this in a real body!

“…You want to fight the Lord?”

Konstantin turned to see Rya, who had stepped forward at last. She looked utterly shaken, as if the ground beneath her feet had crumbled away.

Honestly, the sight of a betrayed waifu almost made Kosta falter—but…

His commitment to completing quests his way, even when they contradicted one another, was stronger. The path to good waifu endings was paved with suffering and trials.

…Honestly, he’d much rather just be stuck retrying bosses than dealing with all this.

“You wish to challenge the Lord?” Tanith repeated, her voice unreadable. “That is possible.”

“Lady Tanith?!” Rya gasped.

“This desire is worthy of respect,” Tanith said quietly. “A warrior and sorcerer as mighty as you, Konstantin the Tarnished, has earned that right. But first, please, be our guest at the manor. You did come to see my daughter, didn’t you?”

Kosta shrugged.

“Yeah.”

He had expected exactly this response from Tanith(3).

"Excellent," the woman smiled. "In that case, welcome, Konstantin. You must be exhausted after defeating the Fallingstar Beast. We are grateful that you have rid us of such a dangerous creature."

For some reason, Kosta had the distinct impression that the Crucible Knight grimaced under his helmet, as if he had been about to go into the fight himself. Any second now, he'd probably sprout those "angelic" wings(4)—or whatever they actually were.

The Tarnished allowed himself a grin, the kind only an over-leveled summoned phantom could give, completely ruining their summoner’s sense of accomplishment.

The Soulslike community could be both the most united and the most bitterly divided. The legends of the toxic, sweaty Souls veterans were many.

The Crucible Knight, somehow picking up on the exact spectrum of emotions radiating from the Tarnished, let out a deep, guttural growl—barely restraining himself from attacking the lunatic only out of respect for his lady.

‘He’s not as emotionless as he seems,’ Tanith noted, observing the silent exchange between the two men. "The drawing room is further down the hall. Rya will take you there and give you a key—make yourself comfortable."

Tanith then turned her gaze toward a bewildered Zorayas. Realizing she had zoned out, Rya hastily nodded.

"U-understood!.."

The lady of the manor then unexpectedly turned her attention to Sellen.

"Of course, I am also pleased to welcome you, sorceress. Make yourself at home."

"Thank you, Lady Tanith," Sellen replied with a broad smile.

Tanith’s demeanor stood in stark contrast to the rumors that had reached Sellen.

And that only convinced her further that, without the Tarnished, she wouldn’t have dared approach this manor within a comet’s distance.

Inside Volcano Manor, a somber yet strangely celebratory atmosphere reigned. Enormous, sparsely populated, with only a handful of servants still present—though they were mindless, merely repeating the tasks assigned to them in life, mechanically tending to the estate.

"It may be a little dark and damp, but you’ll get used to it quickly!" Rya called out as she led them.

‘A little?!’ Sellen mentally screamed. ‘It’s practically a snake’s den, not a manor!’

The place completely lived up to its reputation.

Rya, lost in thought for a moment, suddenly smacked her forehead.

"Please don’t go upstairs without an escort. Inquisitor Ghiza likes to rest there—sometimes he doesn’t distinguish between friend and foe, so please be understanding(5)…"

Sellen blinked, glancing toward the staircase leading to the second floor.

Konstantin, however, didn’t even look surprised—just nodded. Unfortunately, his composure didn’t last long.

A familiar scream echoed through the hallway.

Charging down the staircase they had just passed, Patches bolted past them, followed by none other than Inquisitor Ghiza—who was cackling madly, swinging a massive spiked wheel attached to a handle.

Within seconds, their figures disappeared into the shadowy corridor, and silence returned.

A frustrated hiss escaped Rya’s lips.

"I told him not to go upstairs alone!…"

Zorayas, having lived in the manor since childhood, never noticed the oppressive atmosphere that loomed over it. If anything, the dampness and darkness brought her a sense of comfort—a feeling of home.

Konstantin, his expression unreadable, stared at the space where Patches had just fled.

‘This is the curse of all Souls players,’ he closed his eyes in resignation.

Soulslike games wouldn’t be themselves without Patches. He had even been in the long-forgotten Demon’s Souls! Dark Souls II didn’t count.

Kosta sighed. He would just have to accept the near-omnipresence of the bald bandit as a fact of life.

A cursed fact.

The drawing room Tanith had mentioned was not empty. Unlike the rest of the manor, it was surprisingly warm and well-lit. Perhaps that was why it wasn’t completely abandoned—at least here, there was a hint of life in the otherwise lifeless estate.

"Konstantin the Tarnished?" A man extended his hand. "It’s an honor! I am Bernahl. A Tarnished, like yourself."

Konstantin shook his hand.

"The honor is mine."

He had learned much from him(6).

Bernahl let out a hearty laugh.

He hadn’t expected the Tarnished, who had so quickly made a name for himself across the Lands Between, to know who he was. Even though the world had mostly emptied, the continent was still vast enough that countless warriors were simply forgotten. In a world where true death did not exist, there was no worse fate than to be lost to memory.

The sheer amount of cut content in Elden Ring was terrifying. And the DLC had only made it worse…

Rya, watching the friendly conversation between Kosta and Bernahl, barely held herself together. She still couldn’t fully believe that he had come to challenge their Lord. The last thing she wanted was for either of them to die.

But then again… she hadn’t heard much about Praetor Rykard. And she had certainly never seen him…

This was all so strange. Too strange.

And the worst part was—she had no idea how to even approach such a delicate subject.

Rya was about to speak when the door to the drawing room suddenly slammed open, and a panicked Patches burst in, throwing the door shut behind him before leaning against it.

In the distance, faint, crazed laughter echoed away.

"By Marika’s rounded blessings…" the bald bandit groaned, sliding down the door. "These fanatics… they never let up!"

Just as Patches was about to sigh in relief, his gaze landed on Konstantin—whose expression was darker than the night.

His eyes widened in horror.

"You have got to be kidding me! Oh, damn it—this is impossible…!" Patches’ face twisted in disbelief before he forced a strained grin. "Ahh, my friend! I’m so glad to see you! Well, I have urgent business—goodbye!"

Springing to his feet as if he had been struck by lightning, Patches threw open the drawing room door and bolted down the dim corridors of Volcano Manor. There were plenty of other empty rooms he could hide in!

Somewhere in the distance, a spectral, exhausted wail drifted through the manor.

"…kill him… kill him… uuuuu…"

Sellen, silently observing the chaotic scene, glanced at the flickering candlelight in the room.

‘What a strange place.’

Konstantin, whose composure had once again severely suffered thanks to Patches, stood motionless for a moment, staring at the door.

Then, finally, he turned toward a startled Rya.

"Let’s go."

"Huh?"

That thought seemed to hit both Sellen and Rya at the same time.

The Tarnished had no intention of delaying his quests.

Stepping into the dimly lit hallway, Kosta narrowed his eyes, scanning his surroundings. Rya and Sellen followed close behind.

"K-where are we going, noble Tarnished?"

"Konstantin. Just Kosta," the Tarnished grumbled out of habit. "Looking for a hidden passage. Aren't you curious about those strange noises you've been hearing?"

Zorayas's pupils narrowed.

"Noises..?"

The manor was much larger than he remembered. He doubted he'd find the passage he needed without tearing the place apart. And even then, he had a hard time picturing what exactly the hidden area beneath the manor would look like.

It might take days—if he planned to keep things quiet and not resort to outright destruction. Which was why he needed to start now.

After all, he still had to time his meeting with Alexander just right to receive the most valuable treasure ever to grace the Lands Between. An artifact of immeasurable worth, a symbol of power and prestige…

That looked like a completely ordinary and insignificant piece of junk.

Kosta’s eyes gleamed with determination. However, his thoughts were quickly derailed.

"By the way. Where’s Diallos?"

Rya tilted her head in confusion.

"I… don't know who you're talking about, Konstantin."

Kosta frowned. He remembered the guy’s questline but honestly had no idea how his actions might have affected it. Maybe it just wasn’t time yet…?

Then again, before leaving, he had instructed the sorcerers at the Academy to help the knight’s servant. Could that have changed something?

It looked like he’d need to make another courtesy visit to Raya Lucaria.

The Tarnished sighed.

The half-dead Lands Between, when you really looked at it, was a bottomless pit trying to tear apart any unfortunate soulslike player who dared venture too deep.

"You’ll have to show me how you create your illusions," Kosta declared firmly.

Maybe he would have to stretch himself thin with all these tasks. If he needed extra stats, he’d just grind for them.

Sellen’s eyes gleamed with an intensity Kosta had rarely seen.

Rya, seeing the downright terrifying expression on the sorceress’s face, took a step back.

The next few days were spent searching—until finally, they found the passage they were looking for.

Upon seeing Volcano Manor, Melina immediately tensed.

She knew who was imprisoned within its depths. And even more so, she knew why her chosen one had decided to venture there.

She had been away for just a few days, and that was more than enough for him to get himself tangled in yet another catastrophe terrifying even to the demigods.

The girl sighed, adjusting her hood.

"Could you stop appearing so suddenly, witch?" the false Finger Maiden grumbled in irritation.

"…," Ranni pretended not to hear Melina’s complaints. "Sellen has been surprisingly patient and methodical in her teaching. Even I find her magic lessons to Konstantin… interesting."

"What?!"

Melina instinctively snapped open her cursed eye, frantically looking around—but all she caught was the fading shimmer of a starlit afterimage.

Ranni had fled. The smug witch had escaped without explaining anything!

She had been away for just a few days, and Ranni hadn’t helped her at all!

(1) After Rykard is defeated, the player can find Tanith devouring his remains. A single accidental hit will kill her, which then triggers a fight with her knight—who will not stop hunting the player even after his death. The player respawns at a Site of Grace, only to find the very same enraged knight waiting for them.

(2) It is known that some Crucible Knights swore loyalty to Godfrey, the first Elden Lord, in order to survive when the old order fell. With the collapse of yet another era, they were left without purpose once again—though this time, they had some semblance of choice. In a way, Crucible Knights became mercenaries.

(3) After Rykard's defeat, Tanith states that she is grateful to the player, as the Tarnished’s victory proves the Lord’s weakness.

(4) Crucible Knights can manifest golden wings on their backs. Notably, they do not resemble dragon wings but instead take on a more "classic" angelic design—something that has caused endless headaches for poor lore scholars (lorekeepers).

(5) If the player ventures to the second floor of Volcano Manor, they can encounter a hostile phantom—an Inquisitor.

(6) In the game, Bernahl is a merchant who can teach the player various Ashes of War.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 76

Other than the shower, the apartment now had a curved bathtub—no jacuzzi, but big enough for a couple of people. Whatever Evelyn had thrown in there smelled pretty damn nice. The water had turned a pale pink, with flower petals floating on the surface.

"Shower first," Lucy cut off my attempt to step right into the bath. "Gotta wash the Badlands off us."

Fair enough.

I went in first. The dimly lit shower steamed up quickly, hot water stripping away the exhaustion and tension that had been with me since morning. Hard to believe this day was finally winding down. From the top of Arasaka Tower to the middle of the desert. From corporate intrigue to gunfights and high-speed chases. What’s the perfect way to wrap up a day like that? Alone with a beautiful woman, of course. Well… alone might be a stretch.

"Her being here doesn’t bother you?" I asked as Lucy stepped into the shower with me.

Obviously, I was talking about Evelyn, who was busy dimming the apartment’s neon lights and lighting candles.

"Her?" Lucy smirked, looping her arms around my shoulders. "She’s not here. It’s just us. Just you and me."

"Guess that’s one way to look at it. Husbands at dollhouses would agree with you—just a mannequin. A doll with no mind of her own."

"It’s not like that," Lucy countered. "Dolls aren’t empty shells, or they’d all be the same except for their faces. Eve’s more like… a braindance. She’s got emotions, gestures, even traces of thoughts—like an imprint of a personality, but the person herself is asleep. It’s like playing a BD. Why be self-conscious about that?"

"If you say so…"

"Don’t be such a prude," she teased, pulling me out of the shower. "You like it. You just like pretending you’re some respectable guy. Old habit—same as wearing a suit whether it fits the situation or not."

We slid into the warm bath, sitting across from each other. I leaned back against the heated porcelain, letting my muscles relax. The dim lighting, slow music, the mix of spicy and sweet scents—it all blended together with the candlelight flickering on the water’s surface. But what held my attention more was the way it played across Lucy’s wet skin as she leaned forward, reaching for the syringes.

"You ever tried this before?" I asked.

"No," she said, injecting the hormonal complex into a hidden port beneath the skin at the crook of her elbow.

"You’ve got one of those?" I raised an eyebrow.

"For my coolant," she explained. "Once, I got fried by an ICE defense in a fortress. My body temp shot up past forty-nine. This thing saved my ass."

Her voice changed slightly as the drug kicked in. The tiniest shift in her posture—the way she tilted her head, moved her hips—told me her senses were heightening.

"Feels good, huh? Relaxing?"

Under the water, I ran my fingers from her knee, trailing higher and higher.

"Wait… You take yours first," she stopped me. "Then we talk."

"Sure you don’t wanna talk after?" I smirked, tracing the curves of her body.

"No. After, we might not be in a talking mood."

"Good point," I admitted, grabbing the syringe.

The injection wasn’t as smooth as when Vik or the docs did it. My cyberarm didn’t shake, but I wasn’t exactly a pro at giving myself shots. Normally, I only jab people with drugs during fights—long as it hits the moving target, that’s good enough.

The effect was fast, just like last time. I felt it washing over me, my body relaxing in a way I hadn’t even realized I needed. Even in the shower, even here, I’d still been tense. Too used to it. Too wired to notice. But now, my usual death grip on control was loosening, and my focus shifted to everything else—every touch, every sensation.

"Let go," Lucy murmured. "Relax. Let the water hold your arms."

I did as she asked, letting my arms go limp. My right hand floated up, but my left—weighted down by synthetic joints, hidden blades, and a neurotoxin injector—sank. Weird feeling. Like being half a corpse. My cyberhand settled on the bottom of the tub, resting against the metal.

I let it stay there for a moment. Then I figured, fuck it—there were far better places for my cyberhand to be than the bottom of a bathtub. Eyes closed, I slid my fingers up the curve of Lucy’s waist.

"Talk first," she reminded me.

"Then talk," I said. "Or did the shot not work, and you still don’t know where to start?"

"It worked. It’s just… hard," she admitted. "I want to talk, but nothing’s coming together. It’s frustrating. So fucking frustrating."

"Yeah. I get that. Start from further back, work your way up."

"Alright. Let me just tell Eve to grab me a cig—"

"Don’t. Normally, I wouldn’t care, but it smells too nice in here. If you need something to ground yourself, just hold my hand. Squeeze as hard as you need. Just start talking—it’ll come."

Her fingers clenched around mine, tight enough to sting.

"You know where that data center was?" she asked. "The one where I 'worked' for Arasaka."

"Somewhere near Night City?"

"No. Europe. Between a city called Gdańsk and a half-abandoned nuclear plant. Arasaka bought out one of the reactors."

"Damn. That far."

"When I escaped…"

She trailed off, clearly trying to avoid whatever memories hurt the most.

"It’s okay. Say what you want to say."

"They searched for me. For years. A few times, they almost caught me, but I slipped away at the last second. One year. Two. Three. Four. I slept under bridges, in abandoned buildings, basements. I had to hope that the next asshole who came at me had enough implants for me to short out. And every time I tried to settle, tried to stay somewhere, they found me again."

I frowned slightly. "Arasaka doesn’t like losing people—I know that—but a manhunt this long? Takes a lot of time and money. Usually, if you slip past the first wave, you can disappear."

"This was personal," Lucy murmured.

"Someone wanted revenge?"

"Yes. And… no. Let’s not talk about that. Not now. Not tonight. The shot’s helping, but… not that much."

"No problem."

Michiko’s words echoed in my mind. You don’t know anything about her. And yeah, maybe she had a point. I thought I knew Lucy. Relied on memories from a future that never happened. But outside of that narrow circle of light? There was a whole world of her past I’d never even seen.

"I made it to Night City eventually. It got easier. Big, messy city, hard to track people. Arasaka’s presence here is Japanese—not European. I lost my pursuers. I could finally breathe, but then…"

Something in her grip loosened.

"Something happened?" I asked.

"Night City happened," she muttered. "Again. And again. I got screwed over, almost chopped for parts, nearly sold, nearly bought. Every time I tried making connections, it ended the same way."

"And then you met Kiwi."

"Yeah. It seemed random at first. We talked. Met up sometimes. The more I learned about her, the more I felt like… I was looking at my future. A reflection of myself in a few years."

I almost told her they weren’t alike—but I held my tongue.

"But she had it worse," Lucy added. "Her whole life—nothing but darkness. And she survived. Kiwi helped me, too. Took me from a scared, broken girl to who you see now. Then she introduced me to Maine. And for a while, things got better. I felt alive again. But then…"

She looked away. The empathy boost from the drug made her pain feel real, like I could physically sense it.

"It was like a curse. First, some cyberpsycho killed Becca’s brother—for no reason. And he nearly took all of us with him if it weren’t for Maine. Then Maine himself. Then Dorio…"

Weird. The way she said it, the way her words hung in the air—it stirred something inside me. I thought back to who I was then. The man at the top of Arasaka Tower. The man who’d just come back from the dead, driven by secrets and ambition. I could have saved them. But instead, I let them die.

Because at the time, I thought it would make it easier to own the girl whose hand I was holding now.

“When everything went down with Kiwi and Faraday… I don’t even think I was surprised. It was like I told myself: You always knew this city would kill you one day. But then you went and surprised me.”

"Why’d she go along with Faraday so easily? He’s the kind of guy you can’t trust for shit. Today he offers you a deal, tomorrow he screws you over. Kiwi had to know that."

"She did. But sometimes people don’t get to choose. You told me that yourself back at Ho-Oh."

I had to dig through my memory. That was when I offered Lucy a partnership. She told me she had no choice, and I said:

"You always have a choice. It’s just that sometimes there’s only one right answer. That’s still better than having no right answers at all."

"You think Kiwi got stuck with no right answers?"

"Maybe. She always needed more eddies than we could pull together. Health issues. Survival."

"Health issues? Rippers can patch up just about anything these days. Shit that used to be a death sentence, they fix like it’s nothing now."

"Yeah. But for every person technology lifted to the stars, it buried another in the dirt," Lucy said. "Kiwi was one of the ones left in the dirt. Toxic work conditions, black-market meds, janky implants. They did shit to her that would’ve made even your buddy Vik, or those sketchy back-alley rippers, lose their shit. They used her up for as long as they could, then threw her away. You landed on rock bottom with thousands of eddies and built your own crew. I had a rougher time, but at least I had netrunner skills. Kiwi… to afford her first cyberdeck, she sold a kidney."

"Not even chrome?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Nope. Any decent chrome she had got ripped out by her former 'owners.' Then she had to pay the ripper off. Turns out, her kidney was so fucked that the buyer demanded a refund."

Jesus. That’s some true hardcore cyberpunk shit.

"She got into netrunning because, without expensive meds, she wouldn’t have lasted a month on the streets. She went all in. Survived. But the problems didn’t go away. Her body rejected implants. Most rippers refused to work on her after just one look. One asshole even gave her a priest’s number instead."

That explains why she always walked around without a lower jaw. I figured it was just some fucked-up aesthetic choice. Like a Moxie girl with a cracked doll mask, or one of those Maelstrom freaks modding themselves into full chrome nightmares.

"When she left, I was secretly relieved," Lucy admitted. "She just disappeared. No goodbyes. No fights. I tried to forget about her. And then you showed up. Things got better again. Even better than before. Now she’s back. Now she’s in deep shit, and I know about it. I keep telling myself to just walk away. That she made her bed, and there’s no reason to help her. Not a single fucking reason!" Her voice shook, and for a second, I thought she was gonna cry. "And yet, I still don’t want her to die. Stupid, right? How fucking stupid…"

"You know what? I’ve heard enough," I said. "If you wanna pull her out of this and let her live, then we do it. I’ll help. Hard job? Who cares? We’ve handled worse. You said they’re locked down tight, right? Heavy security, solid netrunner defenses?"

"Yeah. They’ve closed up tight."

"Good," I grinned. "We just happen to have some of the hottest prototype hardware fresh off the back of a Militech truck. Let’s give our new bot a test run before Kompeki."

"It’s… really that simple?" Lucy looked almost skeptical.

She probably expected me to be against it. The 'rational' move would be to let the Animals rip the Brazilians apart and not give a shit about some traitor’s fate. And yeah, maybe that is the smarter call, but… there’s plenty of reasons to do this, too. Potential loot, for one. And emotions? Those count, too. If Lucy doesn’t want Kiwi dead, then fine. Some fights, you walk away from. Others, you don’t.

"I’m on your side. Don’t forget that," I told her, pulling her into a hug.

It felt good. But it wasn’t about sex. Not right now.

"Loneliness is a slow poison," she whispered against my ear. "It eats away at your strength. Turns you into the worst version of yourself."

No arguments there.

"A lot of people break," she continued. "And even when they find someone, they can’t let themselves get close. Like getting out of the water, only to drown on the shore."

Yeah. It’s like pneumonia, when your lungs fill up with liquid. There’s nothing physically stopping you from breathing, but you suffocate anyway. And people who are socially dead? They keep walking, keep working, keep making money—hell, they can even be 'successful'—but inside, they’re gone. Hollow. Just another ghost in the machine. Just another Susan Abernathy. Just another me in those first few days after waking up in this world.

Back then, I thought I was alive. But maybe, just maybe, I’m only starting to really live right now.

"I’m so glad we met," I murmured before sealing our long conversation with an even longer kiss.

Her skin in the water felt unbelievably soft. It was hard to believe there was subdermal armor underneath. Not solid plating, of course—woven nanofibers, like a second skin, lightweight and barely noticeable.

As we kissed, three little words kept bubbling up in my head. Just say them, I thought. But something in me held back. Like saying them out loud would be some kind of fatal weakness. A confession of vulnerability I wasn’t ready to make. So instead, I let my actions speak for me. And that was enough. More than enough.

"Let’s get out of the water," Lucy suggested, breaking the kiss.

"Alright. Time to reenact the ancient journey of the first fish that crawled onto land."

We left the warmth of the bath, carrying with us the scent of herbs and oils. It smelled almost surreal against the usual stench of Night City.

Evelyn tossed us some soft towels. They soaked up the water fast, clinging to bare skin.

"You want coffee or an energy drink?" Lucy asked out of nowhere. "Protein bar, maybe?"

"What for?"

"You’re gonna need the stamina. Unless you plan on staying on the bottom tonight?"

"You know I like to mix things up. And I’ve trained for more than just shootouts."

I finished toweling off and tossed the cloth into a pile.

"We’ll see," Lucy smirked, stretching her arms in a way that made her intentions very clear. "Tonight, it’s double the workload."

"Either you want me to fuck you with ankle weights on, or…" I glanced at Evelyn, her synthetic eyes glinting softly in the dim light. "You sure about this?"

"Who are you trying to be right now, V?" Lucy grinned, stepping closer to the doll. "A loyal husband? A choirboy? Besides…" She tugged the silk knot at Evelyn’s waist, letting the robe slide open. "She’s not really here. Just a recording. A brain dance in real life. But if you really don’t want to—"

"I’m not saying no," I admitted. "I just wanna make sure you’re cool with it."

Maybe it was the hormone cocktail still buzzing in my veins, but a little hesitation lingered. It was weaker, sure, but still there. Guess some habits run deep. With Angie, it had been easier. I knew it wasn’t serious. Just business. But Lucy? That was different.

"For me?" Lucy mused, gently guiding Evelyn out of her robe. "Eve, did I have a good time last night?"

"It seems you had a great time," the doll answered smoothly.

"Well, there you go," Lucy said, turning back to me.

"You’re not jealous, are you? Stop standing around," she beckoned me forward with a playful smirk. "Come join us."

I exhaled through my nose, shaking my head. Then, with a half-smirk of my own, I stepped forward.

"Alright then…"

And just before I closed the distance, I muttered a phrase in English. A phrase that carried its own weight.

"I never asked for this."

Lucy chuckled. "Never asked, but got it anyway," she murmured, pulling me in. "Let’s start with a kiss."

Everything really did start as just a kiss.

Evelyn didn’t do much at first—just stood there, still and quiet. Until suddenly, I felt… let’s just say, different oral attention, but from a much lower position. The sensation was… intriguing. It made me want to let go, sink into the moment, let new experiences take over. Lucy guided my hands—one to her waist, the other to the back of Eve’s head.

And that’s when I got a message.

Seriously? Right now? What kind of sick joke is this? You’d think there’d be some universal rule against incoming calls during moments like this. That every comms channel except flesh-to-flesh connection should be locked the fuck down.

But eventually, everyone gets that call. The one you have to answer, no matter what. The one that doesn’t come with a “decline” option.

Thankfully, it was just a text. One of the secured lines Arasaka had set up for me.

"I trust you’re not too busy tomorrow, Mr. Price. I’d like to meet again—this time, to properly integrate you into your new role. M."

[Mad Tiger] Chapters 42-48 (Reupload)

Chapter 42

‘Well, if nothing else, seei

Daily Updates (13/02/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 48

• Tier 2: Chapter 53

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 48

• Tier 2: Chapter 53

Elden Ring

• Tier 1: Chapter 37

• Tier 2: Chapter 42

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 42

The Tarnished was fast, and Sellen knew it. Watching him cover distances in days that would take an ordinary person weeks—if not months—had only been surprising for the first few days.

Konstantin’s spectral steed wasn’t called the fastest mount in the Lands Between for nothing.

But what was even more terrifying was the way he somehow memorized Sites of Grace and could teleport between them with a single touch. The Lands Between had plenty of ways to traverse long distances quickly, but Konstantin had taken it further than anyone else.

And yet, even knowing all that, Sellen was still a little surprised to see him approaching just a few days after her illusion had faded.

"Wonderful," Sellen removed her crown with a smile. "You really don’t like keeping a woman waiting, do you, my dear teacher-student?"

The man dismounted from the vanishing Torrent with an indifferent shrug.

"Waifu quests don’t wait."

The jealous daughter of a Goddess had been right—Sellen hadn’t been able to sense everything through her illusion. A construct woven from magic, after all, could only simulate sensation rather than transmit it to her real body. What she saw now with her own eyes far exceeded anything she had expected.

Power radiated from the Tarnished’s body, making Sellen’s eyes glimmer with intrigue. She wanted to study him—to understand how much his body differed from the other Tarnished and whether he could even be called one at this point.

If anything, Konstantin looked far more like a demigod than a man abandoned by Grace.

Or perhaps not even a demigod, but something… Beyond(1).

There was something else the exiled sorceress was curious about—how would her body react if infused with the Tarnished’s energy? The illusion hadn’t been able to convey the sensation properly.

Unfortunately, her body still hurt—a painful reminder that she had best not get too greedy.

Sellen was very curious who had taught Melina to hit in a way that left no bruises. That hesitant daughter of a Goddess had an absurdly heavy fist, yet could restrain herself with masterful precision.

It was, honestly, something to admire.

Hearing Konstantin’s response, Sellen perked up even more. She raised a finger in mock seriousness.

"That’s exactly what I wanted to hear! And, by the way, you do remember what I said, don’t you?"

"I’m ready for new lessons," Konstantin nodded sternly. "And I have some things to share in return."

Could Sellen be any happier?

She loved teaching. But even more than that—she loved learning. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that the path to a witch’s heart was paved with magic.

And whether intentionally or not, Konstantin was walking that path confidently.

Sellen glanced toward the Gelmir Hero’s Grave.

"You must already have a good idea of where I’m headed and why, don’t you?" she said. "Which means you know that my business isn’t exactly urgent."

She wasn’t selfish enough to demand Konstantin handle her problems before his own. Even if that jealous girl showed up right now and put a stop to her plans.

Sellen had never really believed in anything—except the Stars and the magic they had brought into the world. But even she hadn’t been able to avoid the feeling of hope creeping in. Before Konstantin, she hadn’t believed the Lands Between had a chance. Their world was dead. No—worse. Neither alive nor dead. The only thing left for them was to chase their own goals and forget about time.

But now? Everything had changed. That neither-dead-nor-alive hope had been reborn. And in an unexpected form—a man running around completing waifu quests.

And, oddly enough, Sellen herself had become one of those waifus. She, the one who should have rotted away long ago for her crimes, had somehow gained more than anyone else.

It wasn’t fair. But who had ever said hope was fair?

No. Hope had its own goals.

Konstantin stared at the dungeon—ahem, the Gelmir Hero’s Grave—for a while before losing interest entirely. He’d never liked clearing repetitive dungeons, and now there was even less reason to do so. A waste of time.

Maybe, if he was really bored in the endgame, he’d come back to fight the boss.

A letter appeared in Konstantin’s hand—the one Zorayas had given him.

"I want to visit Volcano Manor."

"Volcano Manor?" Sellen frowned.

The manor had a reputation. She had, of course, heard the rumors about Praetor Rykard—one of Queen Rennala’s children—drowning in blasphemy, and the devoted wife who was willing to follow him into madness.

Torturing enemies to death. The lunacy of the fallen son of the Academy’s Grand Master and his equally deranged woman—that was what Volcano Manor meant to Sellen and anyone with even a little knowledge of the situation.

What could the Tarnished possibly be looking for there?

The answer was obvious.

"I need to visit a waifu and defeat a cinematic boss," Konstantin answered flatly. "And then, we’ll see. Don’t worry, I won’t drag out this quest."

Kosta frowned.

He had zero intention of doing this quest the way the game intended.

Sellen narrowed her eyes.

"You do realize we don’t understand half the things you say, right?"

Kosta shrugged.

Of course he did. He just didn’t care to explain most of the time.

"Such a weirdo!"

Sellen, thoroughly enjoying the Tarnished’s deadpan attitude, burst into laughter—only to nearly choke from the pain. Sudden movements were still a bad idea for her. But fortunately, that didn’t dampen her spirits.

Through her real body, everything felt so much more—brighter, sharper, realer.

What a shame that at any moment, a jealous servant girl could appear, and who knew what would happen then.

For now, though, she would enjoy the moment.

Kosta, watching the sorceress wince through her laughter, blinked in mild surprise.

The most terrifying thing was—he was pretty sure he knew what had happened.

But his thoughts quickly shifted in a different direction.

He really, really hoped the manor would be… emptier than it was in the version of the quest he knew. Sure, he wanted to kick a certain bandit off a cliff again, but that was something to do in the endgame, when he had more free time and was in the right mood.

And besides—it would be weird if said bandit was already at the manor when it was in a completely different part of the continent.

Of course… he could have found a way to travel absurd distances quickly, too, but…

Kosta scowled.

He had a bad feeling.

And, as it turned out, not without reason.

Volcano Manor. A place that many would, without exaggeration, call Hell—if they even had the words to describe it. Oceans of lava, a pitch-black sky, scorched earth upon which loomed a vast, foreboding estate that repelled the few visitors foolish enough to approach within cannon shot.

Unfortunately, not everyone had the good sense to stay away.

Rya remembered the strange, bald bandit. Watching Konstantin the Tarnished battle a dragon had been one thing, but the sight of Patches distracting (or rather, falling on top of) the dragon had left… quite the impression. That alone had saved the bandit when he was caught by Lady Tanith’s knight.

She could only imagine the sheer terror Patches must have felt upon seeing the towering knight in heavy armor, whose sword alone was as big as the bandit himself.

"Well, well!…" Patches let out a thoroughly unconvincing laugh. "Could it be you’ve heard of the one and only Patches the Untethered…?"

Zorayas’ pupils slit like a snake’s as she gave the question serious thought.

"Never heard of you."

The massive knight took that as his cue and raised his sword in silent preparation to strike. But before the words had fully left her lips, Zorayas frantically waved her hands.

"Wait, wait, wait! I’ve never heard of him, but I have seen him!…"

The giant sword halted just before Patches’ neck, leaving the stunned bandit staring dumbly at the knight.

"Do as your mistress tell you! Put that thing away before I get angry!…"

Rya nearly hissed in exasperation.

Has he completely lost his mind?!

A rhetorical question. While she found Mount Gelmir far less unsettling than most who still retained their sanity—considering it not the most welcoming place, but still home—she did understand that the road to said home was…

Let’s just say, highly specific.

"Why are you here?" Zorayas sighed.

She certainly didn’t remember giving him an invitation(2).

"Unusual goods can only be found in unusual places!" Patches puffed out his chest in mock bravado—though he quickly deflated when he caught the knight’s meaningful gaze.

So expressive was the knight’s silence that even through the helmet, Patches felt it.

"Ha! You thought I’d actually say something like that?" Patches grinned, his false confidence barely holding. "Of course I’m here to serve Tanith—or whatever her name is—with absolute loyalty and dedication!…"

Patches was no fool—he was a very shrewd merchant. He made a habit of learning about the big players in whatever land he found himself in. He’d heard about Tanith—or whatever her name was! In passing. Just a little.

"Lady Tanith," Zorayas corrected with a frown.

"Yes, yes…"

"Maybe I should just… you know?" The knight’s grip on his sword shifted slightly.

Zorayas nearly shifted into her true form in shock.

"You can talk?!"

The Crucible Knight remained impassively silent(3).

…He never spoke.

The girl licked her lips as an intrigued hiss escaped her.

Interesting! She had to give him a chance—at the very least, she had to introduce him to her mother! Lady Tanith would decide what to do with him.

Patches, sensing he had once again survived a brush with disaster, smirked.

Once again, Patches the Untethered has slipped his way out of trouble!

Or so he thought.

Lady Tanith, though surprised by the appearance of such an… eccentric figure, did not immediately dismiss—or worse, execute—the bald bandit.

To be honest, much like her adopted daughter, she was intrigued.

"Brave Tarnished,…"

"Yes, yes, that’s me!"

Bathed in candlelight, the woman thoughtfully adjusted her mask. After a brief silence, she continued in her usual composed tone.

" I am Tanith, the proprietress of this house…"

In all honesty, Patches wasn’t particularly interested in hearing whatever it was this castle—or manor—or whatever lady was saying. He was far more concerned with the deeply meaningful look the giant armored knight was giving him.

He could feel the menace through the helmet!

‘True terror doesn’t wear heavy armor… or any clothes at all,’ Patches shuddered, thinking back to his dear old friend. Yeah, sure. Friend. That’s what we’ll call it.

If that freak showed up, then this heap of metal would really see how one should properly instill terror.

Not that it mattered. That was impossible. They had just seen each other recently (seriously, just recently!). There was no way there’d be such a ridiculous coincidence.

The Finger Maiden who had long since lost faith in him—falling into an endless depression—had agreed to transport him to the other side of the continent. There’s no way that lunatic would chase him across the Lands Between! Sure, he was insane, and Patches was a well-known figure, but that strange Tarnished was far more preoccupied with women and collecting Great Runes.

Which, to be honest, was a relief.

That meant Patches had nothing to worry about.

…Unless, of course, there happened to be a woman with a Great Rune somewhere nearby…

"…Rise with us, against the Erdtree."

Having completely tuned out Tanith’s speech, Patches absentmindedly nodded along. Like hell he was going to refuse with that terrifying knight standing right there! If the guy wasn’t in armor, then maybe he’d—

…Wait. Wouldn’t that make him even scarier?…

‘By Marika’s tits, am I seriously starting to fear naked people?!’ Patches mentally groaned.

"Yes, yes, of course…"

Zorayas, watching from the sidelines, carefully pretended not to notice how Lady Tanith shot her a look—as if silently asking who in the name of all the Outer Gods and whatever else above she had brought into their manor.

Still, Lady Tanith wouldn’t be herself if she didn’t have a certain… flexibility.

"Such a confident answer from a brave Tarnished soul," the masked woman cooed in her usual gentle voice. "The tasks will be difficult, but only a hero as courageous as you could possibly accomplish them…"

Patches, who had been subjected to every imaginable kind of insult, was now—perhaps for the first time in years—hearing someone address him with actual kindness.

The voice of the woman who had once captured the heart of the most blasphemous of lords slipped into Patches’ ears like the sweetest of melodies.

In truth, she hadn’t even said anything all that extraordinary—but the way she had said it…

It struck a certain chord within Patches.

And that wasn’t all.

"Of course, Volcano Manor values its servants. You may settle here if your heart so desires, brave Tarnished soul. Your journey must have been difficult—to reach this place through all its dangers without an invitation must have been quite the challenge, wasn’t it?…"

"I nearly died like a hundred times!" Patches exclaimed indignantly. "You’ve got a giant monster living on one of the cliffs! Looks like a beetle(4)!… A cosmic beetle! And it uses gravity magic! I’ve had enough gravity magic in my life, damn it! I barely got away from that thing!"

Not to mention the damned serpent-men, the exiled sorcerers, the raving lunatics, the bloodthirsty demi-humans, the rotting corpses, the somehow even bigger marionettes trying to slice him to ribbons, the wild animals…

And let’s not forget that this was all happening in rocky, absolutely unwelcoming terrain for any regular traveler—not to mention that spiky abomination—

It was like the whole world was trying to kill him!

Patches had no idea just how right he was.

He unwittingly stumbled upon a fundamental feature of the soulslike genre.

Tanith calmly folded her hands.

"And yet, you managed to overcome every danger to arrive here. That is worthy of admiration, brave Tarnished soul."

Patches sniffed, straightening up.

"Yes! Yes, worthy of admiration! Finally, someone gets it!…"

Tanith smiled beneath her mask.

The Crucible Knight, Lady Tanith’s ever-loyal guardian, scratched the side of his helmet.

It seemed they had a very unusual new resident.

Surprisingly, Patches actually settled into the manor. For some reason, Lady Tanith didn’t just tolerate him—she seemed, at least at first glance, rather amicable toward him.

Zorayas, having been the one to vouch for the so-called honest merchant, spent some time genuinely confused as to why her lady had chosen to keep such a strange figure around.

But eventually… she started to understand.

"At least it’s not boring," Bernahl shrugged.

The old Tarnished, once righteous and noble, had long abandoned his ideals and joined their manor. At times, Zorayas caught traces of regret on the old knight’s face, but lately, he seemed… noticeably more lively.

Patches, through the sheer fact of his existence, was an irritant—one that provided a tremendous motivation to keep living. Even to those who had long since stopped being alive.

"Kill me… kill me… someone, please… u-uhhh…"

The ghost of Volcano Manor. A bodiless entity that had taken up residence in their home. They never saw it, but every now and then, strange wails echoed through the halls in the dead of night.

Ghosts were nothing out of the ordinary in the Lands Between. What was unusual was that this particular specter’s voice actually reached them. It must have been in agony.

Though, sometimes, Zorayas wasn’t entirely sure if the ghost’s pleas were directed solely at Patches… or if he was only part of the problem(5).

Either way, the manor had definitely grown livelier, which—on some level—was a good thing. Even Lady Tanith’s knight had started speaking now and then. Admittedly, his vocabulary mostly consisted of curses and barely-contained murder attempts directed at their newest tenant, but still…

At times, Rya was so bored that she began hallucinating serpent-people walking through her chambers! Ones just like her!… Or maybe slightly different, but close enough. The arrival of the bald bandit… or merchant… whatever he was—Patches, in any case—had helped distract her.

Even if he was insufferable.

For better or worse, fate had other plans for her life—and, in truth, for the entire Lands Between. It wasn’t long before their manor received new visitors.

And they knew of them before they even arrived.

Perched atop one of the cliffs was a beast known as the Fallingstar Beast. A creature they never dared to approach, fearing the very thought of angering something that had fallen from the depths of the cosmos. A harbinger of broken cameras, janky hitboxes, and a massive health pool.

Like all things that stood against a sweaty Soulslike player…

It fell.

(1) Empyrean – a title one must be born with. It is believed that those chosen as Empyreans were meant to replace Marika and usher in a new age in the Lands Between. Known Empyreans include Miquella, Malenia, and Ranni. There is also mention of the Black-Eyed Queen, though, unfortunately, her storyline was ruthlessly cut, leaving even the most dedicated lore scholars at a loss.

(2) The game never explains how Patches received an invitation to Volcano Manor—or if he even received one at all—leaving plenty of room for speculation on how exactly he ended up there.

(3) The knight, an imposing figure, stands as Lady Tanith’s silent protector, never uttering a single word throughout her entire questline. He will attack the player if they attempt to harm his lady.

(4) To reach Volcano Manor, the player must either accept Rya’s help, get abducted by an Abductor Virgin beneath the Academy of Raya Lucaria, or somehow make it past an adult Fallingstar Beast. Just from the name alone, it’s clear that a first-time player encountering this creature is in for a very bad time…

(5) In the manor, the player can find a kneeling ghost begging for Praetor Rykard to be slain. However, in the context of this fanfic, the knight’s despair isn’t only directed at Rykard.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 53

Naruto was fidgeting, restless, grabbing onto anything he could in the kitchen like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He washed the dishes. Started cooking something. At this hour? Well, I guess he was hungry—probably drained a ton of chakra too. He put rice on the stove to cook, then finally sat down, slumping into his chair.

"Tora-chan, do you think I’m a monster too?" he asked me suddenly.

"What?" I blinked at him, startled. Then I shook my head.

"Mizuki-sen— Mizuki," Naruto corrected himself, biting his lip. "He said I’m the Nine-Tails, that’s why everyone in the village hates me. And the people who don’t… it’s just because they don’t know what I really am. That I’m doomed to be alone and hated forever."

Oh. I’d… kinda missed that part. I was so focused on watching Iruka and keeping track of everything happening around us that I hadn’t even thought to listen closely to what was actually said to Naruto. Big mistake.

"You knew, didn’t you?" Naruto sniffed. "You knew I was like this?"

I nodded. And to prove it, I nuzzled against his cheek.

"You really knew?" His blue eyes widened. I nodded again. Tora the All-Knowing, that’s me.

"What about Sasuke? He didn’t know, right?" Naruto pressed on. "He just found out that he’s been friends with a demon… He probably won’t want to be friends anymore. And neither will the others. I’ll be alone again." He clenched his fist and bit down on his knuckles, probably trying to stop himself from crying.

"Okay, enough with the depressing talk," I huffed, swatting him with my paw. Anything to snap him out of this spiral.

I wanted to smack some sense into him properly, but honestly, even I wasn’t feeling too great about this whole thing. Sasuke… I had no idea what was going on in that spiky head of his. Was he mad? Freaked out? Or was he just giving Naruto space to think? Who knows? 

And Naruto, well—Naruto just cried like it was the end of the world.

Maybe it was the stress. Maybe he thought their friendship was over. Maybe the post-battle adrenaline crash just hit him all at once. In the anime, Iruka had been the one to comfort him, tell him he wasn’t the demon fox, that he was just Naruto. He'd made sure to settle Naruto emotionally before his brain had time to spiral. But here? Here, it had all played out differently. And Sasuke had learned the truth in the worst possible way—secondhand, under messed-up circumstances.

And now they were both at that age—twelve, almost thirteen, just hitting that horrible transitional phase where everything pisses you off and you take it out on everyone around you. You’re moody for no reason. Your emotions are big but you don’t know how to deal with them. It’s a mess. Their heads must be spinning right now.

Suddenly, the rice pot hissed.

"Oh, crap, it’s boiling over!" Naruto yelped, jumping up to stir it.

I heard something outside and spun toward the noise. Scratching. A window shifting. Someone trying to get in?

"Tora-chan, it’s me," a familiar voice whispered.

I turned back just as a shadowy figure slipped through the window and landed on the floor.

Sasuke.

Oh, thank the Cat Gods, he actually showed up. Wait. What if he’s just here to quietly pack up his stuff and leave? He’s practically been living here—his stuff is all over the place!

"Tora-chan… is Naruto okay?" Sasuke asked softly. I stared at him, then flexed my claws into his palm.

"He’s upset… because of me, isn’t he?" he guessed immediately.

I nodded.

"Don’t worry, Tora— I mean, Namaiki-chan," Sasuke said, gripping my paw like we were shaking hands. "Everything’s fine. We’re still friends."

Whew. Okay. That definitely deserved a hug.

Sasuke scooped me up and, with me still in his arms, quietly stepped into the kitchen.

Naruto jumped, nearly dropping his bowl of rice.

"Naruto…?" he hesitated.

"You hungry?" Naruto cut him off, slamming his plate on the table with a little more force than necessary.

"Uh… yeah, sure," Sasuke said, surprised.

"With fish?" Naruto grabbed a can of smoked fish from the fridge.

"And me too!" I announced. Look, emotional crisis or not, I also missed dinner.

"You too?" Naruto blinked at me, his lips twitching like he was holding back a smile.

I nodded.

"Tora-Namaiki-chan was really worried about you," Sasuke said. "He ran all over the village looking for you after you disappeared with Mizuki. I was worried too."

That shut both of them up. They focused on eating instead, chewing slowly like they were waiting for the other one to say something first.

I decided my time would be better spent enjoying my meal—some high-quality rabbit in a can. Mm. Finally.

So yeah. Everything was complicated. But at least they were still friends. Sasuke had come back on his own. I hadn’t even needed to track him down and drag him here myself. And honestly, they hadn’t really even fought. Naruto had just freaked out and ran off, convinced that no one would want to be friends with him anymore.

Thanks a lot, Mizuki.

Still, I guess it was inevitable. Naruto had probably wondered his whole life why people treated him the way they did. And thanks to the Third's expert-level gaslighting, he’d never gotten a real answer. Sandaime had just kept feeding him some bullshit about being "mischievous" or "causing trouble"—like a twelve-year-old would buy that. But now? Now Naruto knew. And Sasuke knew too. And that meant they might actually start thinking about it.

Huh. Looks like Hiruzen accidentally shot himself in the foot with this one.

Honestly? Not a bad outcome, all things considered.

The next morning, we all woke up together. Same as always. Sasuke and Naruto had slept head-to-toe like usual, and I rotated between them as I pleased. They didn’t bring up the whole "fox demon" thing again, but they did discuss grocery shopping. And honestly, Naruto was way too happy about it.

Sasuke, apparently, had "proved" he wasn’t leaving by making a shopping list for the future. And Naruto was downright giddy about it. Meanwhile, I was just happy that said list included canned cat food and those crunchy little snack pellets that tasted like bacon-flavored chips.

"Hey, Sasuke, yesterday Mizuki said that we were gonna be on the same team," Naruto said as we walked to the Academy. I popped my head out of his backpack and let out a satisfied little mrowr. Sasuke glanced at me.

"You heard that too, Namaiki-chan?"

I nodded and purred.

"He’s happy," Naruto grinned. "Me too."

Sasuke gave a small nod, looking a little embarrassed.

"Maybe they’ll put Hinata or Ino on our team," Naruto continued. "I heard we have to have a girl. That’d be cool."

"Oh, right," Naruto suddenly perked up. "I wanted to ask you something! Yesterday— I wasn’t just seeing things, right? Your eyes— they were red?"

Sasuke tensed slightly, then sighed. "No, you weren’t seeing things. I think… I awakened the Sharingan. I could see everything—every move. It’s hard to explain. It’s a clan dojutsu."

"Whoa, that’s awesome!" Naruto practically bounced in excitement, shaking me in the process.

"I— I still don’t know how to activate it on purpose," Sasuke admitted. "But once I figure it out, I’ll show you."

"Alright," Naruto agreed. "But your clan must have had scrolls, a library, some kind of instructions, right? Or does it just… happen differently for everyone?"

"Hmm," Sasuke frowned in thought. "I know the basic properties of the Sharingan. And I know that it usually activates in moments of extreme danger, especially when someone close to you is about to die." He hesitated slightly, casting a quick glance at Naruto before looking away.

Naruto immediately skidded to a stop. "So yesterday…?"

"I was scared you were gonna die like an idiot, alright?!" Sasuke snapped, suddenly flaring up before spinning on his heel and stomping toward the Academy.

Naruto blinked, then took off after him, falling into step beside Sasuke without saying another word. They didn’t talk the rest of the way, but I could tell—both of them felt lighter. Like something had settled inside them.

Before the team assignments, Iruka pulled Naruto aside for some ‘heartfelt’, teacherly wisdom—the usual stuff about believing in himself and not letting what people say get to him. But Naruto just nodded absentmindedly, letting the words wash over him. Then he straight-up told Iruka he was fine. Said that even if everyone saw him as a monster, he’d still protect Konoha and his friends. And that, personally? He didn’t feel like a monster. He didn’t sense any scary Nine-Tailed Fox thing inside him, and he wasn’t mad or upset about anything.

Iruka, after hearing that, finally calmed down. He even offered to take Naruto out for ramen during their lunch break. Naruto, being Naruto, immediately agreed—but only if Sasuke came too. Iruka, surprisingly, did not immediately veto the idea of feeding two bottomless pits at once.

And that was that.

The team assignments went exactly as expected. Ino, Choji, and Shikamaru got grouped together. Kiba ended up with Hinata and that bug guy, Shino. And, of course, Naruto and Sasuke were paired with… Sakura.

Naruto kept sneaking glances at their new teammate, looking embarrassed, while she spent the entire time making goo-goo eyes at Sasuke. Yep. Nothing new here.

Honestly? Good.

I’d had enough stress for one lifetime in the past twenty-four hours. I needed a break. A nice, calm stretch of time where no one tried to fight, cry, or set anything on fire. Otherwise, I was gonna start shedding out of sheer emotional exhaustion. And no one wants that.

[Castling] Chapter 53

Lupin showed up three days later, only to resign and leave the castle five days after that. Snape had let slip that he was a werewolf, and soon enough, furious letters from outraged parents flooded in. The students were gutted—everyone liked Lupin, and, to be fair, he was the most reasonable Defense professor we’d ever had. Harry took it especially hard, even though he tried not to show it. I reckon he’d been hoping to talk to Lupin about his dad, his godfather, and their Marauder days.

Hermione had a bit of a moan about it too—mainly that swapping teachers so close to exams was completely unfair—but she quickly moved on. She was neck-deep in revision, and at this point, nothing else existed for her. That didn’t stop her from having a go at me, though, when I casually mentioned that if Snape hadn’t exposed Lupin, I would have.

“He didn’t take his potion, Hermione,” I shot back when she started laying into me. “Outside of school, he can be whatever he wants—a werewolf, a centaur, I don’t care. But he was a teacher, and as it turns out, an irresponsible and dangerous one. He got what was coming to him, and I won’t pretend to feel bad about it just because you don’t like my opinion.”

That was the last we spoke about him. Not that we had time to dwell on it—Snape took over Defense and made sure we barely had a moment to breathe, hammering us with revision.

Surprisingly, he wasn’t half bad at teaching Defense. He focused a lot on practical work, which suited everyone fine, though, as always, his teaching style was harsh and relentless. But, thanks to him, Neville finally got a new wand. Snape spent a whole week going head-to-head with the poor bloke before finally banning him from lessons altogether.

The very next day, Augusta Longbottom stormed into the castle.

For an old lady, she was fast and loud—reminded me a bit of my Auntie Muriel. She marched straight into our lesson, demanding answers. Snape threw us all out of the room, but, naturally, we eavesdropped from the corridor. We heard her hurl accusations and insults at him, and then Snape calmly, methodically, buried her under a mountain of cold, hard facts.

“I am not required to teach students who cannot keep up with the curriculum,” he stated, his voice sharp as a blade. “Your grandson will not pass his exams. Or did you assume that your talentless whelp would be handed grades out of pity, as has clearly been the case before? His wand doesn’t even respond to the simplest spells. I cannot imagine what logic you used when selecting it.”

“How dare you?” she gasped, seething. “That wand belonged to Neville’s father! His father was a hero, you filthy half-blood—”

“I don’t care,” Snape cut in icily. “Your grandson can wear his heroic father’s old underpants if he likes, and you can kneel at the altar of that wand all you want. But I will not allow him back into my lessons until you buy him a functional one. If money is an issue, feel free to ask the Headmaster—there are funds set aside for underprivileged students. If you wanted to raise a gardener, you should have sent him to a Herbology apprenticeship instead of forcing him to suffer through Hogwarts. I have no intention of wasting my time on a lost cause, at least not until you take responsibility and get him proper equipment.”

“You vile little—!” she screeched before storming out of the classroom, nearly knocking us over in the process. “Mark my words, you sniveling little wretch, you’ll be sacked by sundown! Sacked and disgraced!”

But come dinner, Snape sat at the staff table as if nothing had happened, and the next day, he was back in the classroom like clockwork. Clearly, Dumbledore valued his one-man-army professor over the fury of an elderly battle-axe. By Saturday, Neville was proudly showing off his brand-new wand.

The Gryffindors cursed Snape in every way imaginable while celebrating Neville’s good fortune. As for Neville himself? He was thrilled—his new wand actually listened to him, even if he hadn’t suddenly turned into a prodigy overnight. He was already managing a decent Shield Charm and was eager to refine the spells he’d struggled with before. One evening, when it was just the two of us, he admitted something that took me by surprise.

“I’m grateful to Snape,” he confessed, though he still looked like he wanted to spit after saying it. “Even if he is a complete bastard.”

I stared. “You, er… wanna run that by me again, mate?”

“My gran always compared me to my dad,” Neville sighed. “She even gave me his wand—wanted me to be just like him when I grew up. And I… I never would’ve dared ask her for a new one. So, yeah, I’m glad this happened, even if it was humiliating… When I’m older, and I’ve trained up properly, I’m going to challenge Snape to a duel.” He gave a firm nod, as if sealing a vow to himself.

I got a gift from Black.

We were lounging under our usual tree after exams when, out of nowhere, a screeching bundle of grey feathers dive-bombed straight into Harry’s face. It had a massive letter tied to its leg. Turned out it was from Sirius.

According to the letter, he was doing just fine. He’d shown himself a few times to Muggles in distant parts of the country to throw the Ministry off his trail, and now he was soaking up the sun in France, though he wouldn’t say exactly where for security reasons.

“Don’t want to risk this letter falling into the wrong hands,” he wrote. “This owl isn’t the best postman—seems like she was looking for a job, though, so I took what I could get.

“There’s something I didn’t get a chance to tell you when we met. I was the one who sent you the Firebolt.

"Crookshanks took my order to the owl post in your name. But the gold—I arranged for it to be withdrawn from my personal vault at Gringotts, number 711. Consider it a birthday present from your godfather—thirteen years' worth. I know you already had a decent broom, but my godson deserves the best, and I couldn’t think of anything else to get you.

“If you ever need me, don’t hesitate to write. Your owl will find me. I’ll send another letter soon, once I’ve had some time to rest and recover.

Sirius.”

But it was the P.S. that really got me:

“P.S. I imagine your friend Ron will want to take this owl, considering he no longer has a rat—because of me.”

Curtains closed, job done. Of course, Black would assume the penniless Weasley would be thrilled to adopt some half-useless, out-of-work owl.

Git.

Then again… a useless, knackered rat versus a slightly more functional, knackered owl… maybe not the worst trade in the world.

“That’s brilliant, Ron,” Hermione beamed, completely missing my mood. “Now you have your own owl!”

“And what exactly do I need an owl for, Hermione?” I grumbled. “I send letters home with Percy’s owl, Charlie’s got his, and Harry and I use our notebooks to talk. I call you on the phone. Who else do I even write to?”

“But it’d be rude to turn down a gift,” Harry said hesitantly while the owl, screeching like it had just been hexed, flapped in wild circles over our heads.

“Fine, then I’ll give it to Ginny,” I shrugged. “She can use it to keep in touch with her friends. I don’t have time to look after it—I had more than enough of that with the rat.”

“Speaking of which, Ron…” Hermione started cautiously, but I cut her off.

“I don’t want to talk about the rat, Hermione. I already told Dumbledore—I had no clue Scabbers was an Animagus. It’s not like I ever played with him or stroked him or anything, and the one time I actually tried taking him for a walk, well… we all know how that turned out.”

“But why did he hide with your family?” Harry asked, glancing at Hermione. Clearly, they’d already talked about this behind my back. The realization left a bitter taste in my mouth.

“I don’t know! Alright? Maybe he needed somewhere to lie low until his master came back. The Burrow’s magical, yeah, but it doesn’t have the same protections against Animagi as some of the old family estates. And my parents were close to Dumbledore back in the first war. If Wormtail was a traitor and a Death Eater, maybe he was listening in on conversations, hoping to find a way to track down Voldemort if anyone mentioned him. 

“How the hell am I supposed to know what was going through his head? He was just a rat to me. Charlie found him at Hogwarts, patched him up, passed him on to Percy, and then when Percy got his owl, I ended up with him. Not that I was thrilled about it, but what was I meant to do—chuck him out? Or are you actually accusing me of something?” I let out a dry, bitter laugh and scrubbed a hand over my face.

“Of course not, Ron!” Hermione said quickly. “How could you even think that?”

“Well, why else are you two giving each other looks, then?” I shot back. “You think I don’t notice? I’m not an idiot.”

Harry exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s just… weird, isn’t it? That no one ever figured out Wormtail was an Animagus all these years? Rats don’t live that long, and none of the adults ever questioned it? That’s all we were wondering.”

“Oh, right. And you don’t find it weird that Black just waltzed out of Azkaban? What, was he the only Animagus criminal in history? And what about Dumbledore? The man claims to know everything that happens at Hogwarts, yet he somehow missed three Animagi running around for years? And who’s to say they were the only ones? What if there were more? What if the school’s protections against Animagi, Dementors, cursed objects, whatever—what if they were removed ages ago so Lupin could study here? Wouldn’t put it past them. And speaking of Lupin, why didn’t he recognize his ‘dear old friend’ on the train, huh? Sat in the same compartment as him the whole way to Hogwarts. Scabbers was literally right there in a cage. And you expect me to have noticed something no one else did? Give me a break.

“My dad’s barely home—he’s busy earning money for the family. And Mum’s got enough on her plate looking after all of us, never mind keeping an eye on a rat.

“So if you’ve got something to say, just say it. Don’t whisper about it behind my back—I don’t deserve that,” I finished, standing up and scooping up the owl.

“Where are you going?” Hermione called after me.

“To give Ginny her new pet,” I muttered. “Wouldn’t want Black to think I’m ungrateful, would I? See you lot later.”

I wasn’t sure if my friends actually suspected me of anything or if they were just overanalyzing the whole thing, but I didn’t like that they were doing it behind my back. Then again, maybe I was partly to blame—I never went along with their blind trust in Lupin, never treated Snape like the spawn of hell, and never saw Dumbledore as some untouchable saint.

I wasn’t really on anyone’s side, was I?

But friendship doesn’t mean nodding along and agreeing with everything, does it? I put up with Hermione’s constant know-it-all attitude without complaint. I accepted Harry’s stubbornness as just a part of who he was. But to them—proper Gryffindors through and through—there was no middle ground. Everything was black and white, good or evil, right or wrong. No room for in-between.

Oh, sod them. As long as they stayed alive, that’s what mattered.

Ginny, at least, was thrilled with the gift. She squealed so loudly I was pretty sure she deafened the poor bird (and everyone within a three-meter radius). She named him Pigwidgeon—Pig for short—and apparently, he took up residence on the foot of her bed. The girls in her dorm adored him, fussing over how “adorable” and “lively” he was. Well, they would, wouldn’t they? The more useless the pet, the more they loved it.

Still, Ginny’s excitement and the pure joy in her eyes lifted my mood. Sod it. Family was what mattered. And besides, I still had Luna.

We made up, in the end. They came to me.

“Ron, you got it all wrong,” Hermione started hurriedly, talking so fast her words blurred together. “We never thought anything like that—we just—well, we were just talking about it.”

Harry nodded. “You seemed down about it, and we could tell you didn’t want to talk, so we figured we’d just… you know, let you be. And what the hell, Ron? Why would you even think we’d suspect you of something? We’re your friends.”

Just like that, the weight on my chest eased.

Maybe they were right. Maybe I had been imagining things, overthinking.

“Ah, you boys,” Hermione sniffled dramatically, then pulled both of us into a crushing hug, knocking our foreheads together. “You’re both such idiots.”

We laughed, rubbed our foreheads, and each got a quick kiss on the cheek before moving on. The subject never came up again.

The train ride home was loud and chaotic—just the way it should be.

Our compartment was packed with our usual lot, plus Hermione, Kellah, and Lavender. The latter two only stopped by briefly to drop off some pastries and juice before deciding to stick around for a few hours.

Harry, while buying some cakes from the trolley, nearly walked straight into Cho Chang. One look at her smile, and that was it—he was gone. Spent the rest of the ride staring dreamily into the distance, completely useless in conversation.

The rest of us, though, were buzzing. We swapped stories about exams, talked about summer plans, and showed off spells we’d learned. Lavender flirted outrageously, and I, being the generous soul that I am, encouraged it. Kellah was practically hunting Dean down. Hermione kept trying (and failing) to read while grumbling about the noise. And Harry? Well, Harry was off in his own little world, completely captivated by a pretty girl’s face.

Shame we all had to split off into different compartments eventually.

Still, we managed to make some plans.

“Cheer up, mate,” I told Harry. “The Quidditch World Cup’s in August—Bagman sorted us tickets. Dad said to invite you and Hermione to come with us and spend the rest of the holidays at the Burrow.”

“That’s brilliant,” Harry said, perking up a little. “Just… dunno how I’ll survive a whole month at the Dursleys until then. I wrote to Sirius—asked if I could stay with him. I mean, I’ve got the gold, I could’ve paid for a room, wherever he’s holed up. But he said no. Said it’s ‘for my own safety.’ And Dumbledore made me swear I’d stay at Privet Drive for the whole month.”

“You’ve gone all law-abiding on me, Harry,” I smirked. “The Knight Bus hasn’t been outlawed, has it? You could just pop over every day if you wanted. Or we could get your fireplace hooked up to the Floo Network—I’m sure your uncle would be more than happy to agree if you asked nicely. Or Dad could sort you out a Portkey to the Burrow—not cheap, but it’s a solid plan. That way, you’d only have to go back to Privet Drive to sleep. Use your head, mate, it’s there for a reason.”

“Ron, you’re a genius,” Harry grinned, instantly perking up. Hermione looked just as pleased—her family was off to Rome for the summer, and she’d been feeling guilty about leaving Harry behind. Or, well, about coming back and rubbing it in his face.

“Hold on, let me run it by Dad first,” I said, smug with my own brilliance.

As usual, I walked them out to the Muggle side of the station.

Dursley Senior hadn’t changed much since the last time I saw him, though he did look a bit friendlier—if you could call that twitching grimace a smile. At least he had a new car to keep him happy. He let out a disgruntled grunt when he spotted me but still flicked me a quick, interested glance, gave me a curt nod, and got into the car without even yelling at Harry. Progress, I suppose.

Leaving the Dursleys to it, I wandered over to the Grangers, who were just about to get into their own car. Had a quick chat, formally invited Hermione to the Burrow, then waved them off.

That night, we had a proper feast at home. Later, after a couple of glasses of Dad’s plum brandy, he was in a right cheery mood, so I took the opportunity to talk to him about Harry.

I spun it so that Harry was all worked up after everything that had happened that year, dead set on running off to find Black. That, of course, got Dad flustered.

He shut down the Knight Bus idea straight away—too risky drawing attention to the Dursleys’ house, and the bus had a habit of making unscheduled stops. Couldn’t be too careful.

The Floo Network was also a no-go for the same reason.

But the Portkey plan? That one, he liked.

Not that it ended up mattering—Dumbledore got involved.

Dad must’ve mentioned it to him, because the next thing we knew, the old man showed up at Privet Drive himself before Harry could leg it.

I only just managed to warn Harry about the story I’d spun, but he caught on quick.

Put on a full-on performance—shouting, throwing a fit, even throwing in a few threats for good measure. End result? The Hogwarts house-elves now Apparate him straight to the Burrow every morning at nine and back again at nine in the evening. Everyone’s happy.

With Harry’s summer sorted, I promptly disappeared on him—spent three weeks in Brazil with Luna and her dad, chasing after the elusive Blibbering Humdinger.

Not that Harry was fussed. The twins and the rest of my lot kept him busy. He was well-fed, had decent clothes for once, spent his days at the beach or playing Quidditch. A proper summer, not a miserable one stuck at Privet Drive. And with my family involved, boredom wasn’t an option.

Percy, meanwhile, was going full steam ahead with his new job. He’d aced his N.E.W.T.s—straight Outstandings across the board—and even had a shiny nameplate in the Trophy Room as the school’s best Prefect and top student. Mum was glowing with pride.

Dumbledore had even given him a job assisting Binns in teaching History of Magic.

The pay wasn’t great at first—only fifty Galleons instead of the full eighty, with the remaining thirty going toward his Ministry qualification—but that was still a massive win. It meant he didn’t have to take out a high-interest loan from the goblins.

Percy practically worshipped Dumbledore after that, over the moon with how well things had worked out. He spent every waking moment scribbling lesson plans, poring over textbooks, and drafting lectures. His owl barely had a moment’s rest, flying back and forth between Hogwarts and the Ministry’s Education Department.

And I was about ninety percent sure my siblings would murder me when they found out the whole ‘becoming a teacher’ idea had been mine.

Not that I had time to dwell on it—Luna and I were off, trekking through the jungle with a proper research expedition…

Daily Updates (11/02/25) + Announcement

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 70

• Tier 2: Chapter 75

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 40

• Tier 2: Chapter 45

Elden Ring

Chapter Tomorrow

Announcement:

Last week, my landlord started renovations, and ever since, we've been dealing with electrical issues. That’s why there was a power outage last Friday. I was hoping they’d fix everything over the weekend, but that didn’t happen, so we’re still experiencing outages. Until they sort it out, the update schedule might be inconsistent. Thanks for your patience!

[Life is Good] Chapter 45

Helen Dill, Philip Coulson’s superior, two hours after his meeting with Salamander.

The conversation with Philip had been unpleasant, to say the least. That arrogant little “agent” had completely ruined her mood. "A stupid plan," he had the nerve to say. As if she didn’t know that already. "I didn’t push it further because it would’ve only made things worse." Men… Coulson, Salamander, that bald bastard… they all pissed her off to no end.

Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t have insisted on such methods of recruitment, but a close friend had asked for a favor. For some reason, the police had taken a liking to this boy and weren’t keen on handing him over to S.H.I.E.L.D.

Not that it was some kind of major loss. Just another dick-wielding brat who thought too highly of himself. Her soul simply couldn’t take this kind of injustice. A man’s place was at home, under protection, not on the battlefield.

Tobias should be grateful. Coulson was practically a desk jockey. Smart, sure, but he rarely risked his own skin. And this kid? With his abilities, he’d be thrown into frontline assault units or infiltration teams in no time.

Besides, it would all work out for him in the end—just as her friend had assured her. A few strings pulled in the police department, a medal pinned to his mother’s chest. She had, after all, put up a respectable fight against a supervillain. She lost, obviously, but still, the optics were good. They had even secured a benefactor to cover the costs of her prosthetic. Of course, it wouldn’t be the top-tier quality that S.H.I.E.L.D. could provide… but, honestly, with all the advancements in the world these days, it might end up being even better. It wasn’t like they’d give her anything truly cutting-edge anyway.

So, everything would turn out just fine. The lieutenant gets a medal and a prosthetic, the brat walks away with a bad taste in his mouth about S.H.I.E.L.D.—not entirely sour, but enough to keep him from enlisting. Police would get their new PR toy. The arrogant Coulson would take a black mark in his file for not executing the recruitment strategy in full, and she would be walking away with a very nice stack of cash. Enough to buy Barthie something new.

And there wouldn’t be any blowback. Who the hell was Salamander? Just another mutant riding the hype wave. The higher-ups didn’t take him seriously—they were just keeping tabs on anyone with potential. No special oversight, no protection. She had checked. First thing. Any adjustments to the reports would get lost in the shuffle of similar cases, especially since she’d be the one overseeing the final edits. Coulson’s would need a bit of tweaking, but hers? She would write it exactly the way it needed to be written.

Tobias’s Aunty.

Everything had gone almost according to plan. The only issue? The executioner had failed to follow through completely. The woman grimaced. Such incompetence. Given detailed instructions and still freestyling? Unbelievable. But not a major concern.

A well-placed lover of a high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was still happily siphoning money from her, while her 'police friend' continued supplying funds—small favors in exchange for thick stacks of green bills. The police had made their stance clear—they weren’t sharing the boy. A small request, a large wad of cash, and…

The mystery benefactor had already been arranged. Elizabeth would receive a top-tier prosthetic—with a few undocumented features. Enhancements that would increase her survivability while simultaneously ensuring greater control and loyalty.

The girl had grown too attached to her so-called family, forgetting that everything she had didn’t belong to her. Her entire life was a debt—a debt owed to the lineage and legacy of her benefactor.

Yes… the woman knew she had allowed herself a moment of weakness. That brief lapse at the hospital… Unacceptable.

No matter. It would be corrected soon.

Nicholas Joseph Fury, one hour after Coulson’s conversation with his superior.

The man scowled.

This wasn’t just annoying. This was a full-blown problem.

On his table lay a report from one of his agents. And two separate official statements—one from Coulson, the other from his superior. Three files in total. And while the official reports painted Coulson’s failure as a simple misstep, the personal debrief told a much nastier story.

The one thing working in Coulson’s favor? His report included a note that his submission had been edited. And the one who had edited it? Helen Dill.

Now that, in itself, wasn't suspicious. It was standard practice—if a superior officer deemed it necessary, they could revise or expand upon an agent’s report. To provide clarifications or complete information. But in this particular case, when paired with the agent’s follow-up report and Coulson’s “corrected” version, it looked an awful lot like… sabotage.

Fury exhaled slowly, tapping his fingers against the desk.

Coulson had been given a simple assignment—establish initial contact with Tobias.

Christ, this kid was becoming a real pain in his ass. Every time he popped up in the reports, Fury’s blood pressure spiked. But in this particular case, he was actually grateful for how things had played out.

Because the way things had worked out, no one had realized how closely he had been keeping tabs on Tobias. All the official tracking had been buried in routine updates, general security summaries—standard S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol. Fury had made damn sure that nothing stood out, that Tobias looked like just another kid in the system. His personal interest? That was handled through alternative channels—nothing that would leave a trace in the database.

And thanks to that? Thanks to the fact that no one thought Tobias was under close surveillance…

He had just uncovered a serious fucking problem.

Coulson hadn’t just been given generic briefing points—he’d been handed a detailed script with explicit instructions on how to handle certain topics… in the worst possible way.

First and foremost—Tobias’ injured mother. Not his biological mother, sure, but every report made it crystal clear how much she meant to him.

The correct approach? Offer help. No strings attached. Make it a gesture of goodwill, a show of trust.

What had actually happened?

They dangled the prosthetic like a bargaining chip. No concrete timeline. No firm commitments. Just empty promises floating around like a fart in the wind. 

Coulson, already uncomfortable with these kinds of tactics, had immediately noticed that the kid’s response had turned negative. The initial trust Tobias had tentatively placed in him? Gone.

Hell, it wasn’t just gone—it had dipped into the negatives.

And then there was the second additional directive—mutants.

Or, more specifically, the “strongly recommended” idea of gently nudging Tobias toward spying for S.H.I.E.L.D.

Fury scratched at the bridge of his nose.

This was where shit really went off the rails. Tobias had been supposed to receive a veiled offer to inform on mutant activity to S.H.I.E.L.D. Nothing overt, but the implication was meant to be clear.

The problem?

The kid wasn’t stupid.

A little green, maybe, but not a fool. His school records painted the picture of someone with a firm moral compass—a kid who didn’t snitch. Hell, there was even an incident where he’d gotten into a fight defending a girl who was being bullied.

And now, because some idiot had decided to push a manipulative, half-assed recruitment attempt, instead of considering S.H.I.E.L.D. as a possible ally, the boy had written them off as another group of opportunistic bastards.

If you’re stacking this on top of his loyalty to the people who saved him twice from Stryker, fed him, clothed him, trained him, plus the fact that his friends and girlfriend are all there? Yeah, Tobias would never turn against the mutant community of his own free will. That wasn’t just a bad move—that was a steaming pile of shit dropped right onto Fury’s desk. 

A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had deliberately shut down any possibility of recruiting a highly promising asset. And if you factored in the whole "future son-in-law" angle Fury had been contemplating? How the hell would that conversation have gone if Coulson hadn’t taken some initiative?

Nicholas Joseph Fury closed his eye and exhaled slowly through his nose. His fingers twitched with the very real desire to track down Helen Dill and personally rearrange her face. But that wouldn’t get him anywhere. Knee-jerk reactions were stupid.

No, this needed an investigation. And he’d personally oversee every step.

With Coulson’s report and the unfolding mess with his superior, it would be perfectly reasonable for Fury to start showing an active interest in Salamander. And from there… he could make his oversight of the kid a little more explicit.

Yeah.

Nothing ever happened without a reason. And if Dill really was sabotaging S.H.I.E.L.D., they’d figure out why, who she was working with, and how deep it went. If she had co-conspirators? They’d dig them out, too. And Coulson? He’d get a commendation for initiative.

But if Coulson had, for whatever idiotic reason, fabricated this whole thing just to stick it to his boss—something that honestly didn’t track with his record—then he would get a disciplinary action instead.

And Fury? He’d walk away with a legit excuse to keep very close tabs on Tobias. Let them call it nepotism, personal bias or "male overprotective instinct" or whatever the hell they wanted.

Tobias & Wanda Wilson, Immediately After Her Question

"Mmmaa…," I choked out, full-on cosplaying Kakashi-in-shock, except I had both my eyes open. Meanwhile, the smug grin on the woman standing in front of me was only getting wider.

"Good afternoon, Miss Wilson," I finally managed to say, pulling myself together. "Not really. Got here a little earlier than planned—no traffic. Had some coffee, killed some time. Speaking of, would you like some? It’s actually pretty good here."

"Why the hell not?" Deadpool adjusted her glasses —which I was now fairly certain had no actual prescription— before flashing me a playful smile. "And let’s drop the formalities, just Wanda, we are friends, after all."

"Yeah, about that…" Okay, now I was actually feeling kinda awkward. Her grin was so damn genuine. "I, uh… Sorry for throwing your name out there so freely. I didn’t really think it through—" And now I definitely felt guilty. Wanda had always treated me well. Hell, she stormed into Stryker’s compound for me. She was insane, yeah, but still…

"Oh, please," Wanda scoffed, looping her arm through mine as we strolled toward the coffee stand. "I like that you thought of me! Tell me, how’s your mom? Need any help? ‘Cause I do have a few friends who specialize in… y’know, special things."

I shot her a look. She wasn’t teasing me. She wasn’t playing. That mischievous smile had softened into something… gentler, something encouraging. And her hand gave mine the slightest squeeze.

"It’s not that bad," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "She lost a lot of blood. Fractured clavicle, some bruises, a mild concussion. But the doctors say she’ll make a full recovery. If it weren’t for the… you know… the arm… there wouldn’t even be much to worry about." My throat tightened involuntarily. "Wanda, what would it take for your people to help with those ‘special things’?"

We reached the stand. Wanda ordered a quadruple eXpresso. In one cup. I hissed under my breath, "Espresso, Wanda. Es-press-o."

Her response? A playful flutter of her lashes and an exaggeratedly demure giggle.

I got myself a mint tea.

Once we were away from the coffee stand, she finally answered my question.

"So, what exactly do you want?" she asked, as if we were discussing what toppings to put on a pizza. "A new arm for her, or a prosthetic? A new arm would be easier, but a prosthetic’s totally doable too—just takes a bit more effort."

I nearly choked on my tea. "A new arm?"

"Well, yeah," Wanda replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"New arm, new arm, absolutely new arm," I rasped, my voice cracking like I’d just hit puberty all over again. "What do I need to do?"

She hummed, tilting her head in exaggerated thought. Then she grinned and held up a hand, fingers spread. "Five! Yeah, five!"

My stomach dropped. Five million?! I didn’t have five hundred thousand, let alone five million! I was about to start panicking when—

"Five dates!"

…Wait, what?

I froze, blinking at her, completely short-circuiting.

Did I hear that right?

Wanda, reading my stupidly stunned expression the wrong way, let out a dramatic sigh and folded down one finger, pouting. "Fine, four. But you’re really breaking my heart here, Tobi."

I, still operating at 10% brain capacity, reached out and unfolded the finger she’d just bent down.

"Five," I mumbled. It was all I could manage. Holy shit, my eye was suspiciously watery. Must’ve been that legendary speck of dust floating around…

Wanda hesitated for a second before her usual playful smirk returned. She flicked my nose. "No sulking, Tobi! C’mon, let’s go somewhere warm. There’s a great burger joint nearby. And don’t stress about your mom—I guarantee she’ll be fine. But don’t forget—five dates!"

We walked arm-in-arm, her nonstop chatter filling the air. And honestly? I didn’t get why people thought she was crazy. She was hands down the best person in this goddamn world.

As she launched into the exquisite details of our first romantic date—because apparently tonight was just a friendly outing, but next time? Oh, there would be candles and white wine—I discreetly wiped at the totally-not-a-tear on my cheek. Wanda, as if sensing it, squeezed my hand just a little tighter.

By the time we got to the restaurant, I’d calmed down. Wanda seamlessly steered the conversation back to our upcoming first romantic date—"Not tonight, tonight is just friendly!"—and before I knew it, we were joking back and forth like always.

We also collectively agreed that a table set on the back of a giant cloned mammoth was a bit much for a date. And that a choir of red-haired dwarves dressed as leprechauns would be more distracting than atmospheric.

We settled on a small, cozy restaurant with private booths.

"You better call me if you need anything," Wanda said, slipping off her jacket and revealing a crisp white blouse—unbuttoned just enough to be tantalizing, but not overly suggestive. Delicate lace peeked through underneath, just hinting at the fancy lingerie. I appreciated that she didn’t make a big show of pulling out my chair or anything—she just sat down with effortless elegance.

"Oh, and by the way," she added, leaning in slightly, giving me a perfect view down her neckline. "I run a referral program. You bring in a big contract, and you get a ten percent cut. But if we partner up? Fifty-fifty, baby." Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper. "Keep that in mind, Tobi."

I nodded absentmindedly, trying very hard to maintain eye contact. Look, technically, the distance between her face and her chest wasn’t that big. Less than a meter. So, realistically, this was just a case of bad eyesight, right? Yeah. Let’s go with that.

From there, our conversation meandered into all sorts of random topics—well, mostly her talking and me happily listening. Wanda knew a lot of mutants, had even worked with some on missions. She laughed as she recounted how both Toad and Beast had chased her off after she pretended to flirt with Blob. I had no idea how she managed it, but by the time she finished telling me about the time she beat an enemy army commander with her own severed arm, I was wiping away tears from laughing too hard.

For some reason, the way she told stories reminded me of an old friend from my past life—one of those guys who could charm the hell out of any girl just by rattling off funny anecdotes, firing off joke after joke with pinpoint precision, and slipping in just the right amount of casual compliments. And you know what? I didn’t mind at all. I was having a damn good time. No alcohol, no tension, just pure fun. And it didn’t hurt that the woman across from me was stupidly attractive, rocking that whole sexy-but-playful-teacher-who-knows-exactly-what-she’s-doing vibe.

Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she somehow found my well-hidden collection of very specific adult films and crafted this whole persona just to mess with me. Not that I was complaining.

As the night wound down, we split the bill fair and square, which, again, was a major green flag in my book. And even though we didn’t end up going on that Ferris wheel—I wasn’t about to let her freeze her ass off in that light outfit—we made plans to go when it warmed up.

On the way out of the park, I couldn’t hold back my curiosity anymore.

“You ever work for S.H.I.E.L.D.?” I asked.

Wanda didn’t tense exactly, but the playful smirk disappeared. Instead, she shot me a sharp look and asked, “When did they approach you?”

“Uh… Right before our meetup, actually.” I scratched the back of my head. “Wasn’t a big deal. They just wanted me to consider joining them in the future. Well, he did. The agent. Guy was pretty chill, but… the conversation didn’t go all that smoothly.”

“Not Phil Coulson?” Her voice was casual, but there was something… measured about the way she asked.

“The one and only,” I confirmed. “Said they’d be willing to help if I ran into trouble, didn’t push too hard, but…” I hesitated. “The way he dangled my mom’s prosthetic in front of me? Like it was some kind of carrot? It left a bad taste in my mouth.”

“That’s weird,” Wanda muttered. “I know Coulson—he’s a damn sweetheart. And he’s not an idiot. Maybe they don’t take you seriously yet? Eh, whatever.” Her grin returned, bright and mischievous. “By tomorrow, they can shove that prosthetic up their asses, so forget it.” Then, lowering her voice just slightly, she added, “Oh, and if things start getting… weird, don’t freak out. And give your family a heads-up, yeah?” She winked. “By morning, your mom’s gonna have both hands.”

We were already at the taxi stand when she said it. I stared into her laughing eyes, feeling an overwhelming wave of gratitude. Without thinking, I pulled her into a tight hug. And for a second, I just stood there, feeling her arms wrap around my back.

The honk of the cab startled us apart. Before I could say anything, Wanda leaned in and kissed me—hot, quick, but undeniable.

“That was my advance payment,” she teased, winking before sauntering away with a hip-sway that should’ve been illegal.

I climbed into the cab with a shit-eating grin.

Advance payment, huh? Whose, exactly? Heh.

Wanda strolled into her apartment like she owned the place. Her jacket hit the couch in one smooth motion, and she practically sauntered up to her mirror. She turned this way and that, letting down her hair, unbuttoning a couple more buttons on her blouse until the lacy bra beneath was just visible. She ran her hands down her hips, cocked her head… then nodded to her reflection with a satisfied smirk.

“Damn, I am hot,” she purred. Then, looking up toward the ceiling, she added with feeling, “Thanks, Author. No, seriously. Solid work.”

With that, she peeled off her civilian clothes and slipped into the familiar red-and-black of her Deadpool suit. After rummaging through some junk, she pulled out a machete and headed for a particular room—one that had been occupied for quite some time by an… unwanted guest.

Inside, a woman sat slumped against the wall, her eyes glazed over in exhausted misery.

Tobias would’ve recognized her immediately—the former head torturer at Stryker’s facility.

Wanda grinned, sharp and predatory.

“Well, hello there, sweetheart. How’s life treating you?” she cooed, stepping into the room. “Listen, I’d love to sit and chat, but I’m kinda on a tight schedule today. See, I need a left arm. And mine…” She glanced at her own hand, flexing her fingers. “Well, mine just won’t do. I wouldn’t want to give my favorite boy’s beloved mom something tainted, after all.”

Her grin widened as she twirled the machete in her grip.

“So! Time to pay for your extended stay, honeybunch.”

Her captive finally reacted—tensing, eyes darting wildly in panic.

“Now, now, don’t squirm,” Wanda tsked. “You’ll ruin the clean cut.”

The woman definitely squirmed.

Wanda sighed. “Ugh. Why are you like this? You do realize I still have to kidnap an injured cop, smuggle her through the sewers, find the Sculptor, convince her to do her thing, and then return my dear future mother-in-law safe and sound? Just sit still and—ugh! Will you quit squirming already?!”

The woman’s screams echoed through the apartment.

Half an hour later, with a proper organ transplant cooler in hand, Wanda whistled a jaunty tune—one she’d recently heard from a certain someone’s well-hidden stash of very niche adult films—as she waltzed out of her base.

Behind her, a cooling corpse slumped against the wall.

With neither arm.

"Gotta make sure this goes smoothly, sugar. So, right arm for practice—then the left."

Those were the last words the torturer ever heard before she passed out from sheer pain.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 75

The Maelstrom AV was descending, wobbling dangerously as it tilted to the side.
What the fuck was this thing? Looked like a modded-out civilian model, barely holding together in the air. But it had three machine guns, missiles, and at least some armor.

A dust cloud rolled in over the horizon. I zoomed in. Two dozen blacked-out vehicles, plus a whole swarm of bikes. They were coming in hard.

The cyber-freaks wanted everything. They knew about the heavy security, which meant they sent a full squad for this.

Their vehicles were covered in white skulls, spiders, and pentagrams—except instead of occult shit, they had lines of code from old viral programs scratched inside. Some windows were meshed up with metal grates, others welded shut. Maelstrom’s rigs weren’t as tough as nomad war machines, but I saw plenty of turrets. Enough guns to make this a problem.

"Hey, lady boss," Fuller’s voice came through the comms, thick with irony. "Didn’t you say we’re only shooting guys in Militech uniforms? These dudes look a little different. So, uh… shoot or what?"

"This is special edition Militech gear," Panam shot back. "Custom-made for hunting loud-mouthed assholes. You’re first on their list, so fire away."

"Copy that! Ma’am, yes, ma’am!"

"Can we just fucking leave?" I asked Panam. "I don’t need a goddamn Mad Max reenactment right now."

"We’ll try," she said, "but these fuckers really don’t look like they’re gonna let that happen. So buckle up."

She floored it. The others followed.

I switched to wide-band frequencies, trying to not get shot at for once.

"Convoy’s yours. We’re leaving," I transmitted. "Repeat: the cargo is yours. We’re walking away."

A voice crackled back, drenched in static and something else—probably drugs.

"Fuck you! You ain’t leaving shit! BLOOD AND CHROME! WE’RE HERE TO KILL!"

Alright. Fuck diplomacy.

No clue who was running this raid—Royce, Brick, or some new psycho in charge—but red-eyes weren’t in the mood to talk.

Out of twenty-something Maelstrom vehicles, ten swerved toward the remnants of the convoy. The other twelve were locked on us.

Fourteen bikers on our tail, plus one very pissed-off AV.

The gunship’s turrets opened up, rounds spraying across the desert.

"We gotta take that thing down!" Panam barked.

"It’ll crash on its own in a minute," Mike snorted.

He wasn’t wrong. The thing was struggling, rocking like a drunk trying to stay upright.

"It’ll fucking kill us before it crashes," Panam snapped. "Shit!"

A bullet smacked the side of our armored glass, cracks webbing out instantly. Tiny shards rained down into the cabin as the wind howled through the fractured pane.

One more hit and the glass was gone.

"That’s what I was talking about!" Panam shouted.

I was about to start hacking the AV when one of our rockets streaked toward it—only to explode midair.

They had fucking point-defense turrets.

Great. Our EMP missiles wouldn’t even get close. We had to take out the AA first.

Meanwhile, a swarm of drones joined the chase. Lucy took over, handling them fast. One of the kamikaze units veered off course and dove straight into a Maelstrom biker.

The guy and his bike turned into a very fast-moving fireball.

Badlands Fury Road. Shame Slider’s not here to see this. Could’ve strapped his blind ass to a truck, let him shred a flaming bass guitar.

I dove into cyberspace, going after the AV. Two netrunners inside, holding the whole thing together. Smart move. For cyberpsychos, they actually knew how to defend their shit.

Didn’t apply to their bikers, though.

They caught up—then immediately regretted it.

Our turret fire ripped through two of them in seconds. The rest swerved, dodging, forced to slow down. Their vehicles weren’t fast enough. On rough terrain, they couldn’t keep up with nomad war rigs.

The real problem was still the AV.

I pushed another attack against its ICE, slamming through grotesque layers of digital security—ugly code, twisted architecture, just like the slabs of scrap armor welded onto their hull. But they’d invested in this tech. And their runners were holding up.

They weren’t trying to hack us—just locking down their ship.

If I could deep-dive into the Net, I’d gut them in seconds. But out here? In meatspace? My options were limited.

The AV’s heavy machine guns shredded the ground, kicking up dust. Cactuses exploded into pulp, standing firm only to get ripped apart by gunfire.

Alright. If I couldn’t hack it quickly, maybe…

One of Maelstrom’s drones hadn’t been fried yet. I hijacked it, sending a quick ping to Lucy. Let her know it was mine now.

Their AA turrets weren’t targeting it—good. Managed to trick ‘em.

But fuck. No explosives. No real weapons. Just a lightweight MG. The AV wouldn’t even notice if I shot it.

But speed? That I did have.

I scanned the hull, looking for weak points.
Engines? Armor gaps?

Then I saw it.

A homemade missile rack deploying from the side.

Oh, perfect.

I guided the drone in, waiting—waiting—now.

It opened fire right as the launch sequence started.

The missiles cooked off inside the rack.

The drone exploded.

The AV caught fire.

It lurched, engine trailing black smoke, shaking violently in the air.

It managed one more burst from its guns—shattering our windshield and peppering the rig with rounds.

Mike took a grazing hit. Nothing fatal.

Then the AV tipped forward, losing control.

Somehow, the bastard still didn’t explode immediately. It plowed into the desert, grinding into the sand, obliterating a couple of cactuses along the way.

A handful of red-eyed freaks bailed out, running for their lives.

And then—

BOOM.

The horizon lit up in flames.

A hot, dry wind whipped through the shattered window, throwing fine brown dust into the air.

Didn’t bother me—I was still in my helmet. But Panam and Mike squinted, blinking against the grit.

Mike let out a few loud sneezes, rubbed his nose, then asked, "Anyone else? Corpo reinforcements? Maybe the Soviet Army?"

Panam pulled out a red-and-black bandana, tying it over her face before answering.

"Nope. Just got word some runner fucked up Militech’s local net. Something big just hit their nearest base."

"Us?"

"Nope," I said. "Maelstrom. But this plays in our favor. Those red-eyed freaks are gonna carve up every last corpo left at the convoy. No witnesses."

According to my knowledge of the future, Militech never managed to pin this on Maelstrom right away. That meant they sure as hell wouldn’t trace it back to us.

We kept driving for another thirty minutes, cutting across the Badlands. Every now and then, our rigs split up, then rejoined to fuck with potential tracking.

We also jammed every possible transponder in the stolen gear.

When we finally rolled into the ghost town of Rocky Ridge, Panam climbed out of the driver’s seat and immediately took control of the situation.

"Alright, listen up," she barked, pulling down her bandana. "Everything—everything—you grabbed from that convoy goes in this pile. Even a goddamn keychain. Even a fucking candy bar. Not because I’m greedy—because I don’t want Militech SpecOps knocking on your doors tonight."

"How thoughtful of you, ma’am," Fuller smirked, unloading crates of prototype laser grenades.

"Hell of a ride!" Becca whooped.

For her, the job was done for the day. For me, it was just getting started. Bug sweeps, stripping corporate security—so much damn work, but no way around it. You love looting? Then you better love covering your tracks just as much.

Lucy and I were handling it in the back room of an abandoned bar while music and laughter filled the next room. No one seemed in a hurry to bother us, so I took off my helmet.

Corp breaker was doing its thing, but I had to nudge it along here and there. Militech gear came loaded with layered security.

"Check this out," Lucy said, still focused on cracking into stolen drones as she sent me some logs. "Fresh."

The first email read:

From: Patricia
To: Anthony Gilchrist
So you decided to fuck us over? Who the hell were those assholes that jumped the convoy first? If Royce hadn’t switched the ambush spot, we would’ve been left with nothing. I don’t pay you for scraps. Try that shit again, and you’ll regret it—if you live long enough.

The second:

From: Anthony Gilchrist
To: Patricia
No idea what you’re talking about. I gave you everything—codes, timing, convoy details. If your psychos fucked up, that’s on them, not me. Either someone’s watching you, or you got a virus in your system. Check your security.

And the third:

From: Royce
To: Brick
That bitch set me up. Knew she would. Wasn’t wrong. Someone hit the convoy before we could. If I hadn’t moved the ambush, they would’ve taken everything. And Militech backup would’ve landed right on top of us. Whole thing’s fucked.

Huh. That explains why Maelstrom showed up ahead of schedule.

Royce must’ve suspected Patricia was setting him up, so he changed plans last minute and hit the convoy somewhere else. In the end, it worked out. Good prep, fast cars, solid team—that’s what saved our asses. Didn’t even need to burn the EMP missiles.

Still, hiring that crew wasn’t cheap. I wasn’t in the mood to tally up costs yet. That’d come later—after we offloaded some of the stolen goods through Dogtown’s weapons market. Easy enough to ship the gear far away—Africa, Latin America, Southeast Asia. Hansen’s channels had all kinds of buyers.

"What were you up to this morning?" Lucy asked, her eyes flickering as she worked through more stolen drone data.

"Had to run around for Arasaka’s agency," I waved it off. "Recruitment."

Didn’t mention that this time, they were recruiting me.

"Why not just stay the hell away from them?" she asked.

"Because we live in Night City," I said. "You think Maine was free from corpo influence? He worked for Faraday, who worked for Militech. Even Johnny-fucking-Silverhand burned one corpo tower with the help of another. Corps are giant piles of cash and resources. Once you’re playing at high stakes, you either work for them or steal from them. But you don’t get to pretend they don’t exist."

Lucy didn’t answer. That argument could go on forever. And honestly? My logic had holes in it too. It all came down to what you wanted, how much you were willing to pay, and how far you were ready to go.

"I found the Brazilians this morning," she changed the subject. "They moved again."

"Oh, great. Where to now?"

"Arroyo. Kiwi and I know that shithole way too well. With all the ongoing construction, the power grid’s a mess—makes it easy to hide energy-hungry setups."

Instead of saying, when hell freezes over, people in that district said, when Arroyo gets finished.

Industrial jungle. Megabuildings, abandoned factories, grime-covered streets, and lowlifes packed together like rats. It was where David lived before his life got flipped upside down.

"How much security?"

"Not sure. They’ve got solid defenses. Hard to scan. But probably a lot," Lucy said darkly. "They hired some private security outfit called ‘Bastion Group.’ Just a bunch of assholes in camo, the kind small corps pay to beat up workers and shoot first, ask never. But they’ve got numbers, V. Official headcount’s around a hundred."

Shit.

"They can’t all be holed up there, right?"

"No, but you can expect a couple dozen at least. The Brazilians set them up as perimeter meat shields."

Fucking hell. The scout team itself wouldn’t be that big. Maybe five or six top-tier operatives, plus netrunners and a few non-combatants. But they filled out their ranks with local mercs. That’d make a stealth op a lot harder.

"Ice, alerts, cameras…" Lucy kept listing off security measures. "Everything’s top-tier. The Claws’ casino will feel like a toy store in comparison."

Hmph. What now? Call in the Animals, let them storm the place?

"Alright," I sighed. "Let’s ignore all the security bullshit for a second. Be real with me—what do you wanna do about Kiwi? Let her go? Kill her yourself?"

Lucy’s glowing optics dimmed. Literally. She stopped working on the equipment and met my gaze.

"For starters… talk to her."

"Why?" I asked, genuinely curious. "She’s just gonna say she’s sorry. That she had no choice. Maybe throw in a really convincing sob story. That’s how it works when there’s a gun in your face—people say exactly what you want to hear."

I remembered Okamura swearing he’d leave the city and never come back. Well… I made sure he never came back—with a couple of bullets. More reliable than any promise.

"Just deal with her—one way or another," I added. "Why waste time on a conversation that won’t mean shit?"

Lucy looked at me for a long moment. Then, instead of answering, she asked,

"What’s the plan for tonight?"

"Rest."

Today had been way too fucking long, and it wasn’t even over yet. I wanted to finish clearing the gear, but rushing could get us killed. A single unchecked tracker and Militech’s spec-ops would be knocking on the door.

But once this was handled? I needed to decompress.

"Good," Lucy nodded. "Let’s stay in tonight."

"Stay in?" I blinked. "Not like you. Wanna be alone together?"

"Yeah."

"Should we send Eve out, or is she crashing in the closet?"

"She won’t be a problem."

About forty minutes later, we wrapped up our part of the work. Panam and Tim spent another half hour scanning frequencies, running tests, and checking for bugs. Finally, the cargo was declared clean. Time to head home.

First, we said our goodbyes to the mercs. Most of them seemed pretty happy with how things had gone.

"We actually got our asses kicked surprisingly little," Mike commented, rubbing his wounded shoulder.

The bullet had been heavy, but it only grazed him. Any ripper could patch that up for cheap.

"Got off easy? That’s no surprise. We had a damn good leader," Fuller replied, nodding toward Panam. "If you ever need to hit another convoy, a bank, a warehouse—or hell, even need a back massage—you know where to find me, ma’am."

"Yeah, yeah. Now fuck off, long day," Panam waved him off, but from her tone, it was clear she was pleased with the operation.

"Alright, enough with the masks!" Becca finally announced once the mercs were gone. "Time to party!"

"We’ve got other plans," Lucy said, looping her arm through mine. "We’ll take one of the cars. That cool, Falco?"

"No problem."

"What!? Are you serious!?" Becca groaned. "We just robbed a convoy! You celebrate shit like that—together! Panam, back me up here!"

"I’ve spent all morning—and most of the night—under trucks," Panam replied. "I’ve got motor oil in places motor oil shouldn’t be, and now there’s sand stuck to it. First, I’m taking a shower. Then I’m sleeping. Drinking can wait till tomorrow, when I’m fresh and happy with life."

"You gotta be fucking kidding me…" Becca sighed, slumping onto the hood of one of the cars. "The perfect fucking day, and y’all just ruined it at the end. Tomorrow won’t be the same. We should be drinking right now!"

But she was outnumbered. Everyone split up and went their own way.

I had no complaints about a quiet night in, but I had a feeling—deep in my gut and just about every other organ—that Lucy wanted to talk. Privately.

When we got to the apartment, Evelyn was waiting, now dressed in a short robe decorated with red and gold dragons instead of her usual silver dress.

"You reek of dust, exhaustion, and death," she announced. "You need a bath—salts and oils included."

"Well, then set it up," I told her. "Initiative fucks the initiator."

"Oh, I will, happily," Eve smirked. "I already ordered a few things."

"Don’t worry," Lucy cut off my question before I could ask. "She’s not using her data for online shopping."

"Still weird you even let her do that," I muttered, setting my bags of dusty gear in the hallway.

Not Militech loot—just our armor and other protective gear.

"She actually knows her shit when it comes to smelly shit," Lucy shrugged. "I didn’t exactly live in luxury these last few years. But now? I’ve got money. I can afford to splurge. Speaking of which, I ordered something for us."

"For us?" I raised a brow. "What, fancy soap?"

"Nope. This."

She unwrapped the package, revealing a white plastic case with a very familiar logo.

"Wait… You ordered these from Europe!?"

"Yeah. Vik recommended them. Said they helped you last time."

"They go for, what, seventeen thousand over there? I could’ve—"

"Drop it, V. My money," she cut me off, taking the case of two hormone injectors from my hands.

"One for me, one for you?"

Lucy nodded.

"I need to tell you something," she said. "And I hope you’ll understand."

"Wow. You think I’m that much of a lost cause?"

"You’re not a lost cause, V," she replied. "You’re sick. We’re all sick in this fucked-up city."

"Can’t argue with that," I admitted.

"You literally worked for Arasaka. That’s hazardous employment."

"I was counterintelligence, not factory work."

"That’s the most hazardous employment," she scoffed, lighting a cigarette. "You were working in bullshit production."

Then she exhaled, flicking ash into a tray before giving me a pointed look.

"Strip," she ordered. "We’re taking a bath and shooting up."

"You know," I smirked, "I really like your plans for tonight."

Daily Updates (10/02/25)

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 47

• Tier 2: Chapter 52

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 47

• Tier 2: Chapter 52

Hydrargyrum

I haven't had the chance to give these drafts to Hind (the Author) so there might be some small mistakes

• Tier 1:

  • Chapter 13

  • Chapter 14

  • Chapter 14.5 (Interlude)

• Tier 2:

  • Chapter 17

  • Chapter 18

  • Chapter 19

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 19

"Boss, isn’t this technically poaching?"

"We’re in a forest shielded by a barrier from regular people, but this area isn’t listed as a Ministry reserve and doesn’t belong to any private individual," Kayneth explained as he walked leisurely along the wide trail, broken branches scattered here and there. "Besides, Lyn, since when have you been so concerned about the legality of your actions? Or are you telling me you legally bought that rifle at an auction? You did say you couldn’t afford it."

"Of course not. Last time it was up for sale, it went for over a hundred grand," Smith admitted, slinging the massive double-barrel rifle over his shoulder. He had to pace himself to avoid outstripping his mentor. "So, I went to Mr. MacDuggal. He hired a couple of muscleheads for ten thousand, and they swiped this and another gun from the last owner. In the end, those idiots were convinced they’d tricked us into overpaying for some rusty junk. Thieves these days don’t know the first thing about antiques. I heard there’s a whole mess brewing around that theft, but I don’t know the details."

"Doesn’t matter. But back to your sudden lawfulness..."

"Oh, I’m just worried we might run into a local ranger," the squib replied, sweeping a hand over the overgrown forest slope they were climbing. "Albert told me about your little adventure—how much trouble it took to take down one proper wizard."

"I have no doubt he exaggerated every detail," Archibald replied dismissively, not slowing his stride. He knew full well that to an outside observer, a fight at superhuman speed looked like nothing more than a blur of motion and streaks of colored light. "Especially considering he spent most of that ‘battle’ cowering under a table. But your caution is noted. Keep your eyes open—if you see someone dressed like they’ve stepped out of the nineteenth century, let me know. And don’t even think about shooting them, even in the legs. Killing people in situations like this is not the done thing. Let’s not break etiquette."

"What do you take me for?" Lyn huffed, shaking his head. Then, glancing at the magus, who was strolling with his hands clasped behind his back, he added, "Also, boss… No offense, but shouldn’t I go first? Or at least, you know, draw a weapon?"

"Believe me, my hapless apprentice, you’ll smell a troll long before you hear one stomping your way. I told you to read the bestiary properly instead of skimming," Archibald sighed. "Besides, I have a specter watching from above—it won’t let anything living get past unnoticed. Right now, I’m more concerned that you might’ve mixed up the ammunition, and our little experiment will be a complete waste."

"As if, boss!" Smith easily lifted the heavy rifle, which weighed a solid fifteen pounds. Breaking it open, he checked the large shells, each carefully marked, then snapped it shut again. "Just like planned—top barrel’s a regular shot, bottom one’s enchanted."

"Good. Now all we need is a target."

The idea of hunting trolls in the Scottish Highlands had come to Kayneth, oddly enough, after reading one of the books by the late Professor (if he could be called that) Lockhart. Several reasons had lined up at once. First, after all the enchantments and rituals, he needed to test the weapon he had prepared for Llewellyn in real combat—not just against stationary targets. Second, with only a month and a half left until September first, a difficult conversation with his current ‘employers’ loomed ever closer.

Yes, they had agreed in advance that he would be absent for nine months of the year, but that had been last September. Since then, the bosses had come to appreciate having a supplier of such rare goods and services, and their plans for him might have changed. So, he needed to soften the break as much as possible, which meant leaving them with a generous stockpile of artifacts and potions they could use—even if they had no understanding of magic whatsoever.

For several particularly potent healing potions using local recipes, troll blood was a key ingredient. Despite their remarkable stupidity, trolls were famously resilient, a trait that could be harnessed for magical purposes.

Getting a map of Ministry-warded areas (as well as a few remote places difficult to reach without magic) where trolls roamed had been easy enough. Such maps were published in regular wizarding travel magazines—for safety reasons, of course. And since Kayneth was after the largest mountain variety, they had to travel to Scotland.

To avoid raising too many questions while booking tickets and checking into hotels, he had even been forced to bring along his ‘stepmother.’ Lyn could have passed as an older companion, but his rather eventful criminal record—including a long history of police run-ins since childhood—made that option less than ideal.

Then, they had to reach a hunting ground far from the city. Eventually, though, they slipped past the Ministry’s diversion wards, which steered regular people away, and emerged onto a densely forested mountain untouched by human presence for at least two centuries. There were no trails made by humans—but there were wide paths through the undergrowth, as if something had plowed through with a bulldozer.

That meant they were on the right track.

"I think I smell something rotten," Llewellyn muttered, bringing the rifle to the ready.

"Told you you’d smell them first," the magus remarked, coming to a halt. Closing his eyes, he viewed the forest through his specter’s perception. "Two of them, approaching. They’ll be here in about three minutes. You’ve got time to hide and cover yourself with branches if you want."

"And you?"

"I don’t need to," Archibald replied, stepping off the trail and casting a simple perception-warding bounded field around himself. Lyn—or any other human—would still see his silhouette, but their gaze would instinctively slide away from it. For the primitive brains of trolls, this was more than enough to keep him unnoticed. "Happy hunting."

For unexpected complications, Kayneth had both his enchanted pendant—linked to Diarmuid—and a watch concealing a hidden spear. But he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Llewellyn, meanwhile, crouched behind a thick pine tree, bracing the rifle barrel against a broken branch. In his old army surplus camouflage—picked up at some clearance sale—he blended well into the forest, the nearby bushes further breaking up his outline. Even the large green backpack on his back wasn’t too conspicuous. The only things that stood out were the long, gleaming barrels of the antique rifle and the silver inlays along the stock.

But trolls weren’t wolves. They didn’t know what firearms were. Not that it would help them if they did.

A few minutes later, when the distant thudding of two large creatures reached their ears, the stench had become unbearable. Kayneth was forced to expend a bit more energy, conjuring a controlled whirlwind around himself to push away the rancid smell—like a stagnant swamp filled with the rotting carcasses of a plague-ridden flock, decomposing for a week. Lyn, lacking such abilities, simply buried his face in the collar of his jacket, trying to breathe as little as possible.

When the trolls finally emerged from around the bend in the path, the squib actually exhaled in relief—only to nearly vomit when another wave of their stench hit him.

The creatures were exactly as described in the bestiaries—only about ten times uglier.

The first troll stood around thirteen feet tall, the second slightly shorter. Both had disproportionately long arms, stubby legs, and tiny heads. Their stone-gray hides were covered in pale scars, resembling chipped granite boulders. One carried a crudely carved club embedded with sharp stones, while the other simply wielded a tree trunk, snapped in half and roughly stripped of its branches. They neither noticed the nearly transparent specter hovering above the treetops nor the hidden men watching them. The trolls simply stomped forward along the path, paying no mind to their surroundings.

The gunshot was deafening.

Every bird in the vicinity took flight, leaves and pine needles rained down from the trees, and even Archibald—standing several steps away from the shooter—flinched slightly at the sudden roar.

But the result was worth it.

The first troll, the one carrying the crude club, was knocked off its feet by the sheer force of the bullet. The massive projectile sent it sprawling onto the second troll, blood spraying in all directions, tufts of hide and shattered ribs scattering across the ground. It was dead before it even hit the dirt.

An impressive feat, considering an adult troll weighed nearly a ton.

Not surprising, though, given that Llewellyn’s rifle had once been used to hunt African elephants—creatures that not only outweighed trolls several times over but also moved on four legs instead of two.

The second troll wailed, grunting and snorting as it flailed beneath the corpse of its companion, struggling to free itself and retrieve its fallen club. When it finally managed to rise, it turned to its dead companion, attempting to speak in its primitive, guttural tongue—perhaps unable to grasp that the other troll was truly gone.

But Llewellyn, stepping out from behind the tree and onto the path, had no intention of giving the creature time to mourn—or to comprehend its situation (if its minuscule brain was even capable of such things).

Raising the rifle to his shoulder, he fired again.

This time, however, the moment the bullet struck the troll’s thick hide, it disintegrated into dust—activating the latent spell sealed within.

The troll howled, tossing its club into the forest—snapping branches in its path—before clutching its chest and head, staggering in pain.

Smith watched, waiting.

The creature continued to wail and convulse, but it remained standing.

"Looks like it didn’t work," he muttered, glancing toward where the magus was hidden.

"I may have underestimated their resistance," Kayneth admitted, dropping the barrier and stepping onto the path. "Still, we’ve gained valuable data for future adjustments."

When Llewellyn had first shown him the weapon he wanted to enchant—an antique elephant rifle chambered for .577 Nitro Express—Archibald realized he had an entire field of magical experimentation ahead of him.

He had successfully applied enchantments to small pistol rounds before, but this rifle fired 750-grain bullets—a solid 49 grams of metal. That was nearly ten times the material to work with, allowing for much more powerful and varied mystic codes triggered upon impact or blood contact.

Theoretically, the enchanted round was meant to boil the blood in a troll’s body upon impact. But due to the creature’s high magical resistance, it had only managed to heat the blood significantly—dangerous, but not immediately fatal.

"Eh, no big deal. We’ll finish it off the old-fashioned way," the squib said cheerfully, breaking open the rifle. With his gloved left hand, he removed the smoldering spent cartridges, tucked them into his jacket pocket, then retrieved a fresh round from the other pocket. Loading it into the chamber, he snapped the weapon shut, slowly cocked the hammer, aimed, and fired.

Another direct hit.

The troll collapsed to the ground, a massive wound torn through its chest. Twigs, dirt, and dark blood splattered everywhere.

Not that a shot to the chest was even necessary, in Archibald’s opinion. A bullet to the arm or leg likely would have sufficed just as well. Because the sheer caliber of the weapon wasn’t the only thing making it deadly—his enchantments played just as much of a role.

Llewellyn hadn’t been lying when he promised to find a legendary firearm. It wasn’t Francis Drake’s pistol, true, but this rifle had certainly built a history of its own.

Originally crafted for African big-game hunting in the 1870s, it had been designed for black powder cartridges. Later, in the early 1900s, it was modified for more powerful cordite-based rounds. Around that time, it had passed into the hands of one of Britain’s most famous big-game hunters—a man who, by the end of his life, had personally brought down over fifteen hundred elephants, perhaps even more.

It was later sold at auction, changing hands several times, but that was of little consequence. What mattered was that it had continued to be fired, to take lives, to carve its legend.

Using a combination of rituals, enchantments, runes, and seals, Archibald had crystallized that long, storied history into a mystic code. And he had succeeded.

It was still far from a True Phantasm, but he had transformed it into a conceptual weapon—one with a property he named "Giant Slayer."

The larger the target relative to the shooter, the greater the damage dealt.

In a sense, every shot was now a magical ritual in itself.

Additional modifications included: enhanced metal and wood reinforcement charms, cooling runes for the barrels, a stock-enchantment to reduce recoil, a curse on the trigger mechanism that would incinerate the fingers of anyone but its rightful owner, and a few other useful touches.

"So, we collecting the blood and heading out?" Smith asked, still holding his rifle in one hand as he set his glass-clinking backpack on the ground.

"Yes. No—wait," Archibald cut in abruptly, shifting his vision back to the perspective of his specter. "We’ve got company. Three more incoming from the mountain—two mid-sized trolls and a smaller one. Either juveniles or a female, I’m not sure. Can you drop all three before they reach us? You’ve only got two barrels, and you might not have time to reload."

Smith smirked, breaking open the rifle again, smoothly ejecting the spent casing before retrieving fresh rounds. With practiced efficiency, he loaded the cartridges, snapped the weapon shut, cocked the hammer, and shouldered the stock.

"Boss, you insult me," he said confidently. "Piece of cake. Just tell me when they get here."

"One and a half minutes, maybe less."

"Perfect," Lyn replied, dropping to one knee in the middle of the trail. Carefully, he placed another of the massive cartridges on the ground within easy reach, then aimed his weapon at the bend in the path, where the creatures would soon appear.

Kayneth couldn’t resist checking his pocket watch, preparing to activate a summoning ritual if necessary. In his current state, magic wouldn’t do much against a troll. Direct attack spells—whether his own or the ones cast via a wand—wouldn’t break through their magical resistance. Calculating the necessary variables for transfiguration, to turn the nearby trees or rocks into weapons, would take too long. And as for a ritual to reanimate a dead troll… that was something that, as far as he knew, no magus in his previous world had ever even attempted. If he succeeded, he’d be the first to claim such a dubious scientific achievement.

The trolls barreled around the bend, huddled together as they examined the corpses of their fallen kin, unsure what to do about the two humans standing nearby. That moment of hesitation was all Llewellyn needed. He took aim and pulled the trigger.

The shot sent one of the creatures crashing into the trees, nearly tearing off its right arm. But Lyn didn’t waste time watching it fall—he simply shifted his aim to the next one and fired again. This time, the explosion was twofold: first, the blast of the second barrel, and then, immediately after, a detonation that ripped the smaller troll in half.

Archibald instantly recognized his own spell at work. One of the test bullets had been inscribed with a mystic code that caused the lead to explode upon contact with blood, sending a cloud of razor-sharp shrapnel outward in a deadly blast wave. If the same shot had hit a human, there would have been nothing left to bury.

The final troll recoiled in terror, dropping the sapling it had picked up along the way. Lyn, wasting no time, snapped open the breach of his rifle, yanked out and discarded the spent shell, picked up the pre-prepared cartridge, loaded it, cocked the hammer, and fired before the troll had even managed to turn toward him.

The heavy-caliber round punched clean through the troll’s makeshift club and buried itself in its skull, sending the creature flying into the underbrush.

"Any more coming?" the squib asked, still kneeling casually, as if he hadn’t just gunned down three towering beasts in rapid succession.

"No. Nothing else in the area," Archibald answered after a pause. "Even the squirrels and boars have scattered, by the looks of it. We can finally get to why we came here."

"What about the tests?" Lyn asked, retrieving the discarded shell casing and reloading the rifle at a leisurely pace. Just in case.

"They can be considered successful. But if you’d chosen a firearm with a higher capacity, things would’ve been much easier."

"Boss, you were the one who said the older and more legendary, the better," Lyn objected, slinging his pack over one shoulder and following the magus toward the fallen trolls. "And back in the nineteenth century, they weren’t exactly cranking out semi-automatic rifles. I could’ve gotten an old Winchester, but that’s American-made, and you told me this one was better."

"Regardless, you’re the one carrying it, not me. It’s one thing to use it for hunting, but another thing entirely if you’re trading shots with some street scum," Archibald pointed out, watching as Lyn tucked the massive rifle under his cloak, where a specially sewn cloth pouch lined with an expansion charm held it securely. "I’ll grant that weight and recoil are less of an issue now, but two shots isn’t a lot."

"Yeah, but imagine the look on some Triad thug’s face when his buddy just… turns into mist from one of these rounds. I’d bet his eyes would be wider than mine," Lyn grinned. "Also, this whole enchantment deal—does it work on vehicles too, or just big creatures?"

"It does. Buildings, no. Vehicles, the same as animals—the bigger they are, the harder they get hit. Why? Thinking of taking out an armored police van?"

"Well, you never know what life’s gonna throw at you," Lyn said vaguely, retrieving a few empty two-liter glass flasks from his pack.

"What would Mr. Sutherland say if he heard you right now?" Kayneth asked dryly, manipulating his elemental affinity to guide the troll’s blood into one of the bottles—each charmed to hold nearly twenty times its usual capacity.

Kayneth had never been much of a hunter in his previous life. At best, he could carry on a superficial conversation about it without much depth. But even he knew of James ‘Jim’ Sutherland—one of the greatest British hunters of African big game. A legendary figure in his field, the most successful elephant hunter in recorded history…

Hell, if the Holy Grail War had ever summoned him as an Archer, he probably could’ve dropped the massive bulls pulling Alexander’s chariot with just a couple of well-placed shots.

"He’d probably be glad his rifle is still being put to good use all these years later," Lyn muttered, pulling his jacket up over his nose, clearly regretting not bringing a gas mask. He also seemed to be silently envying his mentor, who was using wind magic to filter the stench out of the air around him.

"But really, why Sutherland’s rifle?" Archibald asked.

"Saw a TV special about a recent auction where they sold it. After that, it wasn’t too hard to track down the new owner and send some people his way. And really, how much more ‘legendary’ can you get? What, should I have gone after Major Anderson’s rifle instead? Hemingway’s double-barrel? Or maybe… Granger’s?"

"Granger?" Archibald repeated, giving him a look.

"Stewart Granger. Some actor. Supposedly really famous about fifty years ago. Doubt you’ve heard of him, boss—you’re not exactly a movie buff."

"Just a familiar name," the magus said dismissively, still focused on siphoning blood.

Though, as he worked, he was already considering a separate matter—whether his recent package had arrived safely.

After all, school break wasn’t an excuse to stop learning.

A week ago, he had acquired a French-language textbook on wand and wizard compatibility through Deserte and Fletcher, then sent it by owl post to his teacher. The reasoning was simple—since Granger had close relatives in France and spent a couple of months there every year, she must have at least basic proficiency in the language.

And while Lord El-Melloi had been able to read passable French, James Murphy’s knowledge of the language of Dumas and Bonaparte amounted to little more than recognizing the word merde.

So, naturally, it made perfect sense for him to send the book to someone who could read it—and who could help him translate the key passages.

After all, it was long past time to move the discussion of elemental compatibility out of the niche studies of a handful of craftmasters and into practical application in wizarding mysticism.

And that, he could definitely explain to her.

"Why exactly am I the one lugging all of these around when you have a suitcase back at the hotel that could fit all of this and then some?" Lyn grumbled as he shrugged on the now significantly heavier backpack, weighed down with filled flasks. "Is this another one of your secret tests, oh wise teacher?"

"This is proof that someone isn’t paying attention to my lectures, my lazy apprentice," Archibald retorted with equal sarcasm. In another situation, such insolence would warrant a proper punishment, but at the moment, he didn’t have the luxury of being too picky with his students.

As Lyn busied himself securing the bottles inside his pack, the magus took another sweep of the trail and the fallen trolls using a detection spell, searching for any lingering traces of metal. But after multiple previous rituals, all the lead had already been extracted. Satisfied, he turned down the path and spoke as he walked:

"I've already explained magical interference—and why trying to place an object with an expansion charm inside another object with the same enchantment is a very bad idea. Unless the artifact was specifically designed with multiple ‘layers’ in mind, which in this case, it wasn’t. And if that kind of storage is damaged externally, the effects are… difficult to describe. But I can guarantee that you don’t want to be anywhere near it when it happens."

"Alright, alright, I get the general idea."

"Good. But it seems there are far more gaps in your knowledge than I had previously assumed. So, while we make our way back down and your mind is otherwise unoccupied, why don’t you recite for me the theory behind the creation of objects with spatial and weight distortions? I have a feeling you haven’t committed that particular lesson to memory, Lyn."

A sharp knock on the door pulled Kayneth from his thoughts as he paced between three quietly bubbling cauldrons, mentally going over his remaining summer plans. August was approaching fast, and there was still too much left unfinished.

After quickly assessing the state of the cauldrons and ensuring nothing required immediate attention, he made his way to the workshop’s entrance, casting a spell to identify the visitor beyond the protective barrier.

Confirming that it was indeed Llewellyn and Albert, he lowered the ward and let them in before raising it again.

"Good evening," the trader greeted, immediately making himself comfortable in one of the chairs near the entrance and resting his briefcase on his lap. He gestured toward the simmering cauldrons and the numerous vials—both filled and empty—laid out across the workbenches and smirked. "James, your lab is looking more and more like a brewery scrambling to empty its stock before Prohibition hits."

"What can I say? Supplying our friends with fresh potions from inside the school would be… inconvenient," Kayneth replied with a shrug. He had no particular desire to spend hours brewing these lesser concoctions when he could be focusing on his own research. But for now, circumstances dictated otherwise. "I have to stockpile while I can."

"Yes, but it’s two o’clock in the morning."

"And during the day, I have to play the part of a well-behaved child patiently awaiting the wonders of the new school year," the magus said with obvious irritation, glancing at a small calendar on one of the workbenches. July 22nd had been crossed out last, though technically, it was now the 23rd. "So, I’m left with no choice but to work at night. Otherwise, I won’t finish everything in time, and I’d rather not leave any loose ends that might raise questions later."

"Remarkably responsible for your age."

"Very funny, Mr. MacDuggal," Archibald muttered darkly, briefly considering a few simple but highly unpleasant curses.

"Alright, alright, no offense meant," Albert backtracked, picking up on the warning in the younger man’s tone. "Just trying to lighten the mood a little. You look downright grim sitting in the middle of all this alchemy."

"If I wanted to lighten my mood, Albert, I’d go to the theater. Or the opera. This is a workspace, and I’m busy working. Now, do you have what I ordered, or do you need more time?"

"All here," the trader patted the briefcase, then nodded toward the cauldrons. "But this won’t be a problem, will it? Last thing I want is something else exploding in my face. I have no intention of spending the rest of my days as a toad. Or worse."

"Rest assured, Mr. MacDuggal, I am perfectly capable of multitasking," Archibald replied, almost devoid of sarcasm this time. Then, without looking up, he instructed, "Lyn, get our guest some tea. Or coffee. Then come back—you’ll be preparing the next batch of ingredients."

"Tea for me. You know how I like it, Lyn."

"Got it, be right back."

"Now then, I’m listening," Kayneth said, issuing final orders to his assistant before casting a spell with his wand to finalize the transformation of one of the cauldron’s contents into a completed stamina-replenishing potion. The next batch would be a blood-replenishing formula.

For a while now, Kayneth had been meaning to experiment with alternative administration methods—particularly whether such potions would be more effective if delivered via injection rather than the traditional liquid form. But such trials required both time and volunteers. Keeping an eye on the temperature of the second cauldron, so he wouldn’t miss the moment for the next transmutation, he finally asked,

"So. Sirius Black. What did you manage to find?"

"Well… quite a lot and, at the same time, almost nothing," Albert admitted, opening his briefcase and pulling out a slim folder. Inside were old newspaper clippings, several typed and handwritten reports, and even a few parchment sheets covered in elegant quill script.

It had all started in the first week of July.

Magical Britain, which had just begun to settle down after the chaos with the possessed professor, was thrown into turmoil once again. News broke that Azkaban—the supposedly impregnable wizarding prison—had been breached. And not just by anyone, but by one of the most dangerous prisoners in its history.

Sirius Black.

A pureblood wizard from a lineage infamous for their study of dark magic. A man sentenced to life without parole for multiple murders.

The reaction was immediate. Aurors, patrols, and even trainees were mobilized, and once again, magical checkpoints were reinstated across key locations—not to search for cursed objects this time, but to track disguises. Aurors worked tirelessly, casting Revelio and other detection spells to expose illusions and transformations.

Because if anyone could escape unnoticed, it was him.

Black, after all, wouldn’t hesitate to use stolen identities. He could poison or curse someone into a coma, stash their body somewhere no one would look, and take their place with Polyjuice Potion. A mass murderer wouldn’t balk at such a tactic.

And once you started really thinking about it, capturing a wizard determined to disappear was nearly impossible—even for the Auror Office. Apparition, Portkeys, enchanted disguises, local space distortions—there were too many ways for him to slip away.

Things escalated even further when the Ministry made the unprecedented decision to inform the Muggle government.

For the first time in years, they acknowledged the fugitive’s existence to non-magical authorities, involving the British police in the search.

If last year the chaos in the magical world had concerned Archibald only insofar as it threatened to expose his cover, this time he was certain he had nothing to do with it. However, the magical community of a single country was small, and the chances of crossing paths with an escaped criminal were far from negligible.

Rumors were already spreading that Black hadn’t fled just to vanish into the Australian outback—no, his target was reportedly a certain Potter boy. The same one around whom trouble constantly seemed to accumulate.

If the fugitive didn’t manage to get rid of the boy before September, then logically, he might follow him to the school. And once inside, what difference would it make if it was one student or ten? A man with nothing to lose wouldn’t hesitate.

In other words, it seemed Hogwarts had a tradition: if no teachers died and no students were nearly murdered, then the academic year had clearly been wasted.

But Kayneth preferred to approach potential danger with preparation.

Given his current limited power and resources, he was no longer willing to dive into conflicts without gathering information first. Experience had taught him that lesson well. And since all his free time was now occupied with preparing for departure, he had delegated the investigation to Albert, instructing him to gather intelligence through his magical contacts and police informants to get a clearer picture.

"Sirius Black," MacDuggal began, glancing over the documents spread out on the table. "Let’s start with what your lot knows. Sirius Black the Third. Former heir to the Black family. Pureblooded for… however many generations. Born in 1959. Incidentally, on November 3rd—same birthday as you, James."

Archibald raised a brow but said nothing, motioning for the man to continue.

"Enrolled in your school, as expected. Ran with a group of other purebloods. A real notorious bunch, so infamous people still remember them. This was back in the ‘70s, when your civil war was in full swing. From what I understand, he and his friends ended up on opposite sides of the barricade. In the end, he betrayed one of them—gave up his friend’s hiding place to his boss. Then, he personally killed another—right in the middle of a London street. In broad daylight.

"Made a real mess of the place—magic everywhere. Left a pile of bodies and even more people permanently maimed. Had to cover it up as a terrorist attack and wipe the memories of hundreds just to keep it quiet. So, for the murder of one wizard, twelve ‘Muggles,’ gross violations of the Statute of Secrecy, and a whole list of other crimes they couldn’t even prove, he was sentenced to life in Azkaban."

Archibald listened in silence before noting, "Surprisingly lenient. Back home, he’d have been executed on the spot. No trial." Then he added, "Why former heir?"

"Stripped of all rights and disowned before he even finished school. Something about ‘defying his elders.’"

"Llewellyn, bring me the registry on magical families in Britain," Kayneth ordered while finishing the transmutation in the second cauldron. When the thick tome was handed to him, he flipped to the correct section and read aloud:

"The House of Black. Renowned for its strict blood purity traditions and expertise in the Dark Arts. Five heirs in this generation—two brothers, three sisters. One dead. Two disowned. One sentenced to life in Azkaban. The last married off into another pureblood family. And no elders left." He exhaled, closing the book. "Fascinating. All that power and prestige, wasted. Something to think about."

Setting the registry aside, he began calculating the ingredients for the next potion. Almost absentmindedly, he asked, "I understand why the Ministry is panicking—if he’s willing to kill openly with magic in front of witnesses, then secrecy means nothing to him. If his family did teach him anything worthwhile, and he gained experience fighting Aurors in your little civil war, then he could be quite the threat. But why, in this situation, would he care about one child? Is this some misguided attempt at avenging the fall of the so-called ‘Dark Lord’?"

"Officially, they claim it’s personal," Albert replied, flipping through his notes. "The friend he betrayed? Name was James Potter. That friend—and his wife—died. Their son lived. Now Black wants to finish the job and wipe out the family entirely."

"Hm. I wonder what exactly James Potter did to him," Archibald mused aloud. "Seems… flimsy. But I assume this version was crafted by people who’ve studied Black’s life far more than I have in the past five minutes. Fine. Out of curiosity—what’s the version Muggles got?"

"Oh, now that is a masterpiece of nonsense," MacDuggal declared with relish, picking up another sheet. "First off, the general public was told that Black is a runaway convict. A highly dangerous murderer. The usual ‘If you see this man, do not approach. Call this number immediately…’ and so on. No details on why he was imprisoned. No explanation of how he escaped. Just a blanket warning that he’s an armed fugitive.

"As for what they told the police? Even better. Since they can’t outright say they’re hunting a wizard who could kill with a stick from twenty paces—or worse, make officers shoot each other—they had to get creative.

"The story fed to the authorities is that Black is an IRA operative who escaped from a high-security prison. Could be armed with a Browning, an AK, or even a few pounds of high explosives with a detonator.

"And so? The order is: No negotiations. No attempts to capture alive. If spotted—shoot to kill."

"Surprisingly competent for the Ministry," Archibald remarked, stirring his cauldron. "For an ordinary officer, letting a wizard with a wand get close and start talking is practically suicide—some exotic death is all but guaranteed. But bullets? Few of them could block those indefinitely."

"Oh, they really made sure the police are motivated," Albert continued. "Fed them a little extra detail—told them Black was responsible for that terrorist attack in ‘81. Twelve dead. Over fifty injured—including women and children. You can imagine—no one is particularly interested in taking him alive."

"And no one questioned that the IRA doesn’t operate like that?" Llewellyn muttered as he continued chopping ingredients. "Bomb in the middle of a crowded street? No warning call? No demands? Just a random explosion? Hell, if it was a police pub or a military parade, that’d be one thing. But this?”

"The Irish, of course, were outraged when word got to them," Albert agreed. "They made a big show of saying they’d never even heard of any Black and that they had nothing to do with anything in ‘81. But who’s going to listen to terrorists, right?"

"You’ve got contacts there too?" the magus asked neutrally.

"When you consider who we all work for, of course I do. A few acquaintances here and there. And not everyone in the police is an idiot—some of them realize something’s off about all this. But the fewer questions you ask, the better your odds of making it to retirement intact. And from what I hear, this isn’t the first time you lot—wizards—have covered up your own messes by blaming ordinary people."

"Should I be feeling guilty?"

"Somehow, I highly doubt you’re capable of that."

"Boss, about this wizard-criminal—what if we just, you know..." Llewellyn trailed off, carefully setting down the last of the prepared ingredients. "Got rid of him? Would save you the trouble."

"In theory, that wouldn’t be difficult," Kayneth admitted, calculating the possibilities. "The kid lives in the Muggle world—his exact address wouldn't be hard to find. If Black is coming for him, setting a trap there and taking him out wouldn’t be much of a challenge.

"But time is an issue. There’s also no guarantee that in the process, he won’t bring down half the street, which means a quiet resolution goes out the window. And if the Aurors still have any functioning brain cells left—besides thoughts of their pensions—they’ll have already stationed people nearby, assuming this isn’t just a fabricated distraction.

"If they haven’t put anyone on watch? Well, that’s their problem, not ours.

"Honestly, if Black does manage to finish whatever he’s planning before September and then flees, things might actually get simpler for everyone involved."

"And what happened to all that talk about how every wizard is valuable, and you can’t afford to lose people?" MacDuggal asked.

"I don’t recall ever saying anything like that," Archibald cut him off. "And we’re not exactly talking about someone whose loss would be an irreparable tragedy to the magical world. No—let them deal with their own mess. Maybe they’ll finally understand how dangerous excessive leniency can be when dealing with rogue wizards. And if another one escapes tomorrow? What then? Should we just set up shop on the shore and let Llewellyn pick them off one by one as they swim across?"

"Boss, in that case, maybe you should bring a gun to school," Smith offered. "Nothing fancy—just a regular one."

"You doubt my ability to deal with an opponent without one, Llewellyn?" Kayneth asked, gesturing toward the workbench. Under a glass dome, suspended as if in weightlessness, hovered a small drop of mercury—the earliest working prototype of Volumen Hydrargyrum. Even at its current level of completion, the sight of it had left Smith highly impressed.

The problem wasn’t the cost of the metal—mercury was cheap. Nor was it the challenge of reconstructing the formulas and rituals necessary to craft the mystic code.

The real issue was capacity.

His current body had only a fraction of the magical reserves he was used to, and reducing the size of the construct had seemed like the obvious solution—create a sword or whip instead of a massive liquid construct, and he’d already have a formidable weapon, one he had plenty of experience wielding.

Unfortunately, a new limiting factor had emerged—weight.

Any amount of liquid metal incapable of moving under its own power would have to be carried. And mercury was incredibly dense. A ring of it weighing two or three pounds? A dagger heavier than a two-handed greatsword? Without additional reinforcement magic, it was useless in combat.

To put it into perspective—a sphere of mercury less than seven inches in diameter would weigh as much as his entire body in its current twelve-year-old frame.

For now, he had to make do with a much smaller amount—just enough to distribute across his arm to the elbow, forming a thin whip and a palm-sized shield on command.

It wasn’t much, but in the right hands, even that could be a significant advantage in a duel.

And more importantly—it was a start.

"I don’t doubt you at all," Llewellyn said confidently. "But it’s still a good precaution."

"I appreciate your concern, but I’ll manage," Kayneth dismissed the idea. Then he turned back to MacDuggal. "Anything else on this matter?"

"Not much. I’ve given you the main points, and the rest is in the folder," the man said, tapping the stack of reports and newspaper clippings on the table. "If you want to go through the details yourself. But it’s nearly three in the morning. Want a ride home, or are you staying?"

"I’ve got at least forty minutes of work left. Llewellyn will take me back when we’re done."

"Suit yourself. I’ll leave you to your ungodly labors."

"Why ungodly?" Smith frowned.

"By definition," MacDuggal smirked. "'There shall not be found among you any that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For all that do these things are an abomination unto the Lord…' And so on. I don’t think I need to cite the exact chapter and verse, do I?"

"Tch. In a different situation, I’d introduce you to a couple of priests I know," Archibald chuckled, lifting the barrier to let him out. "You’d be very surprised at how flexible their interpretations can get."

"Llewellyn, see our guest out, then get back to work," he ordered. "We need to be done by four AM."

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 18

(TN: Replaced Lin with Lyn)

"Things are going well."

That was how Kayneth would have assessed his current position. He stood on the train platform with his hands clasped behind his back, surrounded by a noisy crowd of witches and wizards eagerly awaiting the return of their children, nieces, nephews, younger siblings. Mid-June—the end of the school year at the country’s only school of magic—also marked the time when Ministry officials braced themselves for an oncoming headache. Six hundred teenagers, all armed with wands and some vague grasp of magic, yet still completely devoid of common sense, ready to test their newfound skills just a tiny bit, outside of regulated spaces.

Not that Archibald had any sympathy for the Ministry’s struggles. From his perspective, they had brought it upon themselves with their absurd restrictions on underage magic, coupled with their overly lenient attitude—turning a blind eye to "minor" breaches of the Statute if it was a first-time offense, accidental, with few witnesses, and so on… He’d love to see these reckless students witness a Church Executor "neutralizing" a rogue magus who thought secrecy didn’t apply to them—that would certainly cut down on the number of reckless violations overnight.

But such issues were the Ministry’s own making and had nothing to do with him. His personal situation, for now, gave him no cause for concern—at least, considering the initially unfavorable circumstances. He had a residence, a reasonably well-equipped workshop, a stable income, and a fair amount of money saved. His stock of mystic codes included a few high-level artifacts, and he had begun to establish some useful connections. By Lord El-Melloi’s standards, this was nothing—mere scraps—but for an orphaned magus with no lineage, it was more than acceptable.

More importantly, he had secured legal standing within this world’s society—an identity that no one questioned. James Victor Murphy might seem an unusual first-generation wizard, given his early introduction to the magical world and his excessive enthusiasm for the mystic arts, but no one doubted his existence. After all, if they had, he wouldn’t have been sold a wand—that alone determined one's status and privileges as a wizard.

Kayneth ran his fingers over the universal mystic code strapped beneath his coat sleeve, smirking wryly at the memory of acquiring it. Unlike Deserte, who had spent an eternity explaining the theory behind every wand he offered, Ollivander—the Ministry-approved supplier of wands in Britain—saw no need for discussion. The elderly wizard barely greeted him before immediately selecting potential mystic codes. Kayneth wasn’t entirely sure if the man had used some diagnostic spell within his shop or possessed an innate talent, but he had identified his elemental affinity almost instantly. After that, he focused solely on matching a mystic code to his Origin, ignoring any input from Kayneth himself.

"The wand chooses the wizard," Ollivander had muttered dismissively, as if the idea of personal preference was irrelevant.

And so, for an absurdly small sum, Archibald had legally acquired a mystic code fully steeped in Japanese tradition—a sakura wood casing (a symbol of youth in Eastern cultures, an apparent reflection of his Origin) with a core of kirin tail hair (a resonator for his primary elemental affinity). If he weren’t confident in his defenses against mental interference, he might have suspected the old wandmaker of peering into his memories just to mock him.

A sharp hiss and a plume of steam interrupted his thoughts.

The old train emerged from the tunnel, slowly rolling into the station.

This was another positive development—as strange as it was, Hermione Granger had managed to survive the school year. Meaning he could continue using her reputation as a brilliant Muggle-born prodigy to his advantage. It was convenient—her death or withdrawal from the magical world after everything she’d endured would have disrupted several of his planned experiments on evaluating his peers.

For now, the game continued.

He could keep up his act as the devoted apprentice.

That was why he had come to meet the train today.

The whole "attacks" ordeal had ended back in May, but both Granger and Lovegood had written very little about it—probably not out of reluctance, but because they had been instructed to stay quiet by their teachers and heads of house.

Which meant he would have to gather details from firsthand accounts. Even the vague mentions in their letters and the heavily sanitized articles in the newspapers—praising the Ministry’s supposed foresight and the Aurors’ valor—had contained a few details that piqued his practical interest.

Finally, among the flood of students pouring out of the train, he spotted the familiar trio—Granger, Weasley, and Potter.

The last of them looked especially grim, his expression one of complete dejection, as if he loathed the very idea of summer vacation. Otherwise, they looked much the same as they had half a year ago during Christmas break—except that Granger was now wearing glasses, matching Potter. A lingering effect of her injuries, perhaps? Something beyond what the school’s infirmary-level magical medicine could immediately heal?

Either way, Kayneth stepped forward, preparing to formally greet his "teacher" and offer congratulations—on surviving, if nothing else.

Conveniently, the trio walked alone.

No one had come to meet Potter.

Granger’s parents waited outside the station.

And the elder Weasleys were preoccupied with their many returning children.

"Harry, stop worrying so much! Summer will fly by before you know it. Just don’t forget about your homework."

"Yeah, easy for you to say, Hermione…"

"Good evening, Miss Granger," Kayneth greeted her, offering a polite nod. "Glad to see you in one piece—"

At that moment, Weasley shoved Potter aside, stepped forward—and punched him square in the face.

"You bloody bastard! This is all your fault!"

The blow sent Kayneth sprawling onto the platform, half-stunned.

The punch wasn’t particularly strong—Weasley clearly had no real training in fighting—but the surprise and the sheer difference in height and age had done their work.

Shaking his head, ignoring the ringing in his ears, Kayneth instinctively opened his circuits, flinging his hand forward to summon a cutting wind—

"Protego Duo!"

A silver barrier materialized between them.

A moment later, Potter recovered and grabbed Weasley from behind, restraining him before he could throw another punch.

Granger, already holding her wand at the ready, leapt between them through her own shimmering shield, arms raised to stop the fight before it escalated further.

"Stop it! Both of you! No fists, no spells. Ron, what’s gotten into you?! James, keep your temper in check."

Hermione swept her gaze over the small crowd gathering around them and added, not very convincingly, "Everything’s fine, just a misunderstanding. We’ll sort it out, no need to pay us any attention."

"Hermione, this is all because of him!"

With Potter still holding him back, Weasley had to jerk his head toward James instead.

"If it weren’t for this arrogant know-it-all and his stupid lectures, you wouldn’t have thrown yourself into a fight and gotten hurt! You’d have run away like the others did, or—or at least you wouldn’t have been nearly killed! What if that Slytherin hadn’t caught you in time? What if he just let you fall? What then, huh?!"

"I see. So this is a formal duel challenge?" Kayneth asked, his tone deliberately even as he rubbed his bruised cheek and slowly got back on his feet. He closed his magic circuits, realizing there would be no fight here—not in the middle of a crowded train station.

"Yeah!" Weasley shouted, though he had at least stopped struggling against Potter’s grip. "Tomorrow, noon, in front of our house."

"Actually, as the challenged party, I decide the time and terms of the duel," Kayneth replied politely, about to outline the proper dueling protocols.

"Oh, I do hope I’m not interrupting," Hermione cut in, her voice forcibly calm—likely mimicking one of their professors.

She stood firmly between them, wand still in hand. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she dispelled the Protego Duo and continued, "But let’s be serious for a moment. Are you actually planning to fight over me?"

"Hermione, you spent a week and a half in the hospital wing, covered in bandages and burn salve. Not to mention four pints of pain relief potions," Ron muttered bitterly, jerking his shoulder in frustration. "And the professors said it could’ve been a lot worse.

"Harry, you can let go of me now. You can see there won’t be a fight."

"I have no intention of ignoring a challenge thrown at me—especially not for such an absurd reason," Kayneth stated flatly.

"Alright, I’ve heard enough," Hermione declared. "Now listen to me, both of you."

She turned on Ron first. "I am so incredibly flattered that you feel the need to defend my honor," she said, twirling her wand in an exaggerated flourish, voice dripping with sarcasm. "But it’s my decision to make—who’s to blame for my injuries, and how much. Not yours. And if James was responsible, believe me, I would have made that very clear to him myself."

"But you—"

"Silencio."

Hermione cut him off with a quick spell, then leveled her wand at his face.

"I wasn’t finished," she said coolly. "Since it’s my right to decide what offends me, your ‘challenge’ is annulled. Now, James. As your teacher, I order you to ignore this ridiculous misunderstanding. There was no insult, no offense, and therefore, no duel. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to defy me and renounce your status as my apprentice?"

"No," Kayneth admitted quietly.

He had to give the girl credit—over the school year, she had clearly dug up some very old books on magical apprenticeship, the kind that detailed the rights of a teacher and the obligations of a student. Or perhaps she had simply spent enough time around Lovegood, who seemed well-versed in such things. If this kept up, in a year or two, Granger might actually have the authority to send him into some ruins if she needed something retrieved.

"I acknowledge my impulsiveness, teacher," he added smoothly.

"Good," Hermione nodded. Then she turned back to Ron.

"Now, you will apologize to him."

"…"

"Oh, right. Finita."

"And why should I?!"

"Did I not make myself clear?" Hermione asked, feigning confusion as she raised her wand again. "Shall I repeat myself?"

"No! No need, I get it."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"I… Look, I… alright, I’m sorry. I was wrong," Ron muttered, glaring at the ground.

"There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?" Hermione said sweetly. "Now shake hands."

"But—"

"But what?!"

Under Hermione’s sharp gaze, the two boys reluctantly exchanged a limp handshake.

Ron knew he had five more years of borrowing Hermione’s notes and checking his essays with her—plus, if his mother ever found out he had been openly fighting with a girl in public, he might not survive the summer.

Kayneth, meanwhile, acknowledged that if he wanted to maintain his role as her apprentice, he would have to comply—she had the technical right to issue such an order. Of course, he could properly educate Weasley on his misjudgment and reckless assumptions later, when it would be far more advantageous. But for now, this resolution left neither of them satisfied.

"Now that we’ve settled that…"

Hermione turned back to James and smiled as if nothing had happened. "Good evening, James. I am glad you came to meet me."

"Could it have been otherwise?" Kayneth replied smoothly, as though the past five minutes had never happened and he hadn’t nearly fired a combat spell at a schoolmate. "In any case, my duty is fulfilled. I won’t keep you any longer."

His tone turned slightly more serious as he added, "I hope we’ll have the chance to speak soon? I have quite a few questions."

"Yes, of course. I’ll be staying in London until July. I’ll write to you—or actually, I’ll call you."

"I would appreciate that. Until then, farewell. Don’t linger here too long—your parents are already waiting outside the station. Potter, Weasley, try not to let your friend—" Kayneth deliberately emphasized the word, as if questioning how true it still was.

He had far more reason to blame them for everything than Weasley had to accuse him.

But he’d make that clear later—and not here.

"Try not to let her land herself in trouble again. Have a pleasant evening."

Ignoring their disgruntled expressions, Archibald turned and walked away, passing through the crowd of familiar and unfamiliar witches and wizards.

Nearby, he caught sight of the entire Malfoy family, which surprised him.

In his own world, he would never have personally come to pick up his heir. He would have sent a servant—along with security, of course. Either the local aristocracy had an appalling shortage of competent magical servants, or there was still much about this world’s traditions he had yet to grasp. As he walked, Kayneth absently touched his bruised cheek, opening his circuits for just a moment to channel spiritual healing. The punch had been unimpressive, but the mark would have lasted a couple of days—and why should he bother dealing with that?

Llewellyn was already waiting by the car when Kayneth reached the parking lot. As soon as he slid into the passenger seat, he turned to his apprentice and asked,

"Notice any differences from our last visit?"

"Yeah, boss," Llewellyn nodded briskly.

Back in January, the squib had already driven his mentor here, and the previous autumn, Kayneth had shown him this station alongside other magical locations within London.

"There’s no security. I mean, no wizarding security. In winter, they were way too obvious—wandering around, staring at everything, not knowing how to answer questions from tourists. Today, I spotted maybe one guy, and even then, he could’ve just been some cheap private detective or a jealous husband tracking his wife. Total amateur."

"Good. And why do you think they’re not here?"

"How am I supposed to figure out what those Ministry types are thinking?" Llewellyn scoffed as if the mere idea of understanding bureaucrats was ridiculous. "They’ve got horse-sized cockroaches running around in their heads, I swear."

"Not ‘your’ Ministry. Ours," Kayneth corrected. "You’re already tangled up in this enough that, if things go south, we’ll be rotting in Azkaban in neighboring cells. Now, any theories? Or have I been making you study the magical world for nothing?"

"Love your optimism, boss," Llewellyn muttered. "As for security… I dunno. Maybe they’re all tied up somewhere else? But there’s been nothing in the papers. And yeah, sure, there’s twice the number of people here compared to January, but no Aurors patrolling the regular train platforms. Maybe a couple inside the station, max."

"Inside, there are exactly two, plus a couple of regular patrol officers. And as for the reason—does the elimination of a dark wizard at school ring any bells? You read the papers, right? They pinned everything on him—Travers’s death, that fire, all the school attacks, and half a dozen other unsolved cases from last year. The criminal’s dead, so security isn’t ‘needed’ anymore."

"As if they only had one criminal in the entire country—" Llewellyn started, then abruptly stopped, turning to Kayneth with a skeptical expression. "Wait, boss. You’re not telling me things are really that bad, are you?"

"More like, I hope I’m wrong," Kayneth sighed. "Either way, we’ll be getting firsthand accounts soon enough."

He nodded toward the groups of wizards and witches emerging from the station—those who had traveled by mundane, non-magical means.

"But for now, let’s go. First, the workshop—we still need to sort out your musket. Then, home."

"You mean to tell me you've never seen Star Wars?"

Hermione stopped mid-step, staring at him in disbelief.

"Is that really so strange?" Kayneth tilted his head slightly.

"Yes," she said flatly. "At least for a Muggle-born. With pure-bloods, sure, no surprises there."

"What can I say? The tellevision at the orphanage was probably old enough to have broadcast Churchill’s speeches, and it only had one channel. And trips to the cinema? Completely out of the question."

"Oh… right," Hermione murmured, her expression shifting slightly.

She prided herself on having developed a good sense of tact after two years of friendship with Harry, but every so often, she still managed to put her foot in her mouth. Awkwardly, she tried to recover, "Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring that up."

"It’s fine. I’ve almost forgotten about it myself," Kayneth waved her off. Moments like this made using James’s background very convenient. "But as you can see, there are some… gaps in my knowledge."

"You have to watch the trilogy! Maybe it’s not the best film series ever made, but in terms of cultural impact, there’s almost nothing like it. And besides, without the proper context, it'll be a lot harder for me to explain the concept behind my spell. Speaking of which—where exactly are we going?"

She narrowed her eyes, scanning the unfamiliar surroundings.

"We’re already here," Kayneth replied, gesturing toward what appeared to be a wide fireplace at the edge of a small square in the magical quarter. Though technically a gateway, the structure had been designed to resemble a fireplace—just enough to ensure the transportation mystery functioned correctly.

He handed Hermione a small slip of parchment. "Here’s the address. They’re expecting us."

"I agreed to this when you said a few incoming first-years wanted to hear about the attacks at school," she said, frowning at her attire—a Hogwarts robe and tie. "But isn’t this a bit formal? I’m not giving some grand speech at an induction ceremony."

"Not at all. You’ll be setting a positive example—showing them what an ideal witch should aspire to be. Every detail matters. And besides, this was how you dressed when we first met."

"That was ages ago. And ideal? You’re exaggerating," she muttered, flushing slightly.

"Not in the slightest. But we’re already running late," Kayneth replied, ending the conversation.

He stepped onto the fireplace platform, took a handful of Floo powder, and clearly announced, "Morris family home, Ireland."

Stepping through the green flames, Kayneth emerged on the other side, casually dusting off his cloak.

Given the nature of magical transportation here, he had quickly made it a priority to apply spells against soot, dirt, and singeing to his clothing. Then had come enchantments for resistance to tearing, impact absorption, and temperature regulation.

Most of the spells were local, but he had supplemented them with a couple of reinforcement techniques from his own repertoire—enough to withstand a weak knife strike.

"Well? Everyone’s been waiting for you," an impatient, freckled boy—slightly younger than James—called out from the sitting room, where the Floo exit was located.

"A few more seconds of patience."

The flames flared again, and Hermione stepped through, her eyes immediately darting around the unfamiliar room.

She reread the address on the parchment, as if still not believing it, then turned to Kayneth with wide eyes.

"Ireland? Seriously?"

"Northern Ireland. A magical settlement near Derry," he corrected smoothly, then gestured between her and their host.

"Stuart Morris, half-blood. Hermione Granger, Muggle-born. I trust you’ll get along."

"Yeah, nice to meet you. Now, let's go," Stuart muttered quickly, already turning toward the door.

Kayneth followed without hesitation, leaving Hermione with no choice but to trail after them. As he politely held the door open for her, she froze for a moment, visibly struggling with the urge to bolt back to the fireplace.

She had agreed, of course. She knew that aside from Kayneth, a few of his acquaintances might be present to hear about the so-called "school maniac."

But now, standing outside on the green lawn, were nearly a dozen children, ten or eleven years old, sitting, standing, or idly wandering around. Including James, that made twelve. And every single one of them was watching her—some with interest, others with skepticism.

"You don’t quite understand something yet," Murphy murmured beside her.

"This whole story spread far and wide over the past six months. We all followed it—getting letters from friends, siblings, older students. We all knew that in a few months, we’d be at that school ourselves, and this could happen to us. So, you can imagine how relieved we were to hear that after nearly twenty attacks, one second-year actually fought back against that lunatic."

"But I lost," Hermione protested, trying to refuse the kind of reputation he was implying.

"Against an adult wizard. One-on-one. After an ambush," Kayneth calmly corrected her. He had expected she would resist, but he also knew it wouldn’t take much to convince her.

"You fought back and exchanged spells with him. As far as I know, none of the others even had the chance to defend themselves before he drained their magic and left them bleeding. You walked away from the fight."

"Through a window. From the sixth floor."

"And what if he hadn’t let them go? What if he had taken more than just their magic? Or done something worse, then erased their memories with Obliviate?"

"You’re not suggesting," he added, voice edged with dry sarcasm, "that we should have just waited and assumed, like Weasley, that ‘nothing too bad had happened yet,’ are you?"

"...No," she admitted reluctantly.

"Exactly. And that’s why all of us want to hear your story and learn from it," Kayneth continued, smoothly reinforcing his argument.

"It would be incredibly selfish of me to keep this information to myself, wouldn’t it?"

Hermione let out a deep breath. "Alright. I’ll tell you. But don’t expect too much from me," she said aloud, addressing not just him but the waiting group as well.

She took a few hesitant steps forward, moving toward the gathered children.

"Oh, don’t worry," Kayneth said lightly, walking behind her. "I have no doubts you’ll give us more than enough."

When Hermione stopped next to the group, uncertain of where to begin, he stepped in smoothly.

"Ladies, gentlemen, my future classmates," he addressed them in a clear, authoritative voice.

"As planned, we have gathered here today at the esteemed Morris residence to hear firsthand the account of recent events at Hogwarts—from someone who lived through them.

"For those who may not recognize her, this is Hermione Granger, student of Gryffindor, second-year—soon to be third-year. A witch whom I have the honor of calling my teacher in magic, even before any Hogwarts professor."

He let that statement hang for a moment before continuing.

"But we are not here to discuss her. We are here to talk about the danger that threatened the school for seven months. There is no guarantee that this will not happen again a year from now—or that next time, one of us won’t be the one in harm’s way.

"Which is why practical knowledge is invaluable to us.

"And so, Miss Granger—the floor is yours."

Then, lowering his voice so only she could hear, he added,

"Just start from Halloween. Give them a general idea of how the attacks began."

With that, Kayneth stepped back and sat on the soft grass behind the group.

If nothing else, the weather was cooperating.

If it had been raining, they would have been forced to gather in the sitting room by the fireplace. That might have created a different kind of atmosphere, but it wouldn’t have had the same feeling of openness, of safety, as this bright summer afternoon.

Hermione cleared her throat.

"As James just said, my name is Hermione Granger. Gryffindor, second—now third-year. If you have questions, remember them or write them down. You can ask them once I finish. Is that clear?"

She waited for a round of nods before continuing.

"Good.

"So. It all started in November, when a Ravenclaw first-year failed to return to his dormitory after curfew. The prefects had to go looking for him..."

As she began recounting the events, Kayneth let his gaze sweep over the gathered children.

Some of them he had never seen before—clearly brought along by others after hearing about the opportunity to listen to this story firsthand.

He had personally invited seven of them, but had also encouraged them to bring others who were interested in their own safety and the study of practical magic.

Setting everything up in just a few days hadn’t been difficult—finding a willing host with an empty house on a secure property had been the easiest part.

And the potential benefits were significant.

If he could subtly introduce a new generation of young wizards to different ways of thinking—through a figure of authority they respected—it could lead to long-term changes in how they approached magic.

Of course, there were drawbacks.

For instance, not a single child from an old noble family was present.

That would have been particularly useful for gauging their reactions to these ideas. There were a few third or fourth-generation pure-bloods, but the majority were either half-bloods or Muggle-born.

For now, though, he would have to make do.

"...At the end of March," Hermione’s voice broke through his thoughts, her tone turning sharper, more focused, "I was working on a new spell and stayed late in the library.

"Afterward, I decided to stop by Professor Flitwick’s office to ask him about a slowing charm I had been experimenting with."

A murmur rippled through the group—they could sense the story reaching its climax.

"But I never made it to his office," she admitted, her grip tightening on the hem of her robe.

"Because I was attacked."

She hesitated before adding, "There’s something I should clarify. I don’t remember the fight itself. At the very end, he cast a memory-wiping charm on me—one that lasted about ten minutes.

"So I remember leaving the library... and then the next thing I knew, I was falling out of a window, everything around me on fire, and someone on a broom was racing toward me.

"To be honest, I was so terrified that I think I passed out before they even caught me."

A collective groan of disappointment rippled through the audience.

"Yes, I know that’s not what you were hoping to hear," Hermione said, raising a hand to quiet them. "But my friends and I did manage to reconstruct most of what happened.

"So, from what we pieced together—

"The attacker waited until I was alone, then ambushed me on the stairs near the sixth floor.

"Judging by the evidence, he used Stupefy first—but the enchantments on my robes softened the blow, so instead of knocking me out completely, it just threw me into the corridor.

"And here’s where things get strange.

"I don’t know why I started fighting."

She looked away for a moment, her eyes drifting toward the open fields beyond the house.

"Thinking back now, I know I should have run. I should have bolted straight to the nearest window and screamed for help. But the version of me that got erased didn’t do that. And I’ll never know how I found the courage to stand my ground."

She exhaled sharply, then forced herself to continue.

"Logically, I must have started by throwing up a shield with Protego, then fired back—probably with Stupefy, Petrificus Totalus, or Immobulus—something to stun or paralyze him.

"But he just blew straight through my shield with Reducto.

"There were clear impact marks on the floor near the staircase where the spell hit.

"It knocked me back again, and he moved in.

"And that’s when I used my new spell—

"Light Saber."

"The Light Saber?" one of the boys repeated, eyes widening. "Like in the movies?"

"Yes. I was trying, with some help from my friends, to recreate the weapon from the film using spells and enchantments," Hermione admitted. "And, well… I got a little carried away. It didn’t turn out that accurate, though. In the original, it’s supposed to be an extended loop of contained plasma, and I don’t think there are any spells capable of producing something like that. So, what we created is really just an imitation, a loose interpretation at best. It doesn’t even look that much like the original."

"Does it glow blue or red?" another child asked—undoubtedly a Muggle-born.

Most of the other kids, Kayneth included, turned toward him in mild confusion, not understanding the significance of the question.

"I wanted it to glow blue, but that didn’t work," Hermione admitted. "So I had to settle for white."

"Can we see it?" MacEvoy, sitting in the front row, asked eagerly, struggling to hide his excitement. Which was understandable. After all, it wasn’t every day that someone their age got to witness a completely new spell. "Just for reference, at least. To visualize how it looked in action."

"Yes, of course," Hermione said, retrieving her wand, which was currently secured in a tightly wrapped cloth sheath. Taking a few steps away from the group, she glanced around and asked, "Stuart, you don’t have any subtle artistic landscaping out here, do you? It’s just grass?"

"Just grass. Cut it, burn it—whatever. My mum’ll probably thank you for getting rid of it."

"Perfect. Alright, everyone—shield your eyes," she warned, adjusting the plain black rectangular glasses perched on her nose.

Then, gripping her wand with both hands like the hilt of a greatsword, she swung it in an arc and called out, "Fos!"

A wide, tapering blade of white light flared to life, extending a few inches above the tip of her wand and sweeping through the air in a blinding semicircle.

Anyone who hadn’t heeded her warning—failing to squint or cover their eyes—was left blinking away bright spots and multicolored halos for several minutes.

Hermione, however, was unaffected—clearly, her glasses were enchanted, automatically dimming to protect her vision from the flash. 

As she finished her motion, the glowing blade vanished, only to reappear with her next swing and incantation. The second and third strikes were aimed lower, and wherever the brilliant edge passed, grass was cleaved away in bursts, leaving behind charred, blackened lines in the soil. After the third swing, Hermione lowered her wand to one hand and added, "That’s more or less how it works."

"So, it’s just a combination of basic spells woven together into a single effect," Kayneth remarked, speaking over the murmurs of admiration. "Probably Lumos, Diffindo, and I assume Incendio. First-year level."

"Lumos Maxima and Incendio Duo," Hermione corrected. "Second-year. But otherwise, yes.

"We modeled it after the levitation safety charm—the one that projects a cushioning field half a meter above the ground. Here, the spells are projected from the wand sheath itself. We didn’t dare try enchanting the wand directly, though we wanted to."

She traced an outline in the air above her wand, sketching the triangular contours of the blade.

"Incendio, followed by Diffindo, then Lumos—projected outward from the wand’s tip to a length of about five feet. The problem is that it requires extremely precise spatial alignment to keep the effects from interfering with one another. After just a second or two, the magic starts to drift, overlapping in the wrong places, and the whole structure collapses. That’s why it can’t stay active continuously."

"Can it deflect spells like blaster shots?" another Muggle-born asked, hopeful.

"We wanted it to," Hermione admitted, absently turning her wand over in her hands, as if it were the hilt of a sword. "We even tried adding a projected Protego field along the flat edges of the blade, but it disrupted the Lumos effect. And stability was already an issue—the shielding layer was always the first thing to collapse. Plus, Incendio and Diffindo would reflect off of it, sending spells flying in all directions... The whole thing just fell apart. Three spells barely hold together—four is completely unmanageable."

"And it wouldn’t work against a magical shield anyway," Kayneth pointed out. "But against someone without a shield? It would be highly effective."

"Exactly," Hermione agreed. 

"That’s what happened.

“Judging by the scorch marks and cuts left in the walls and ceiling, I must have been using the Saber.

“But the maniac blocked with a shield charm.

"Of course, I wasn’t trying to seriously harm him—more likely, I just wanted to scare him, maybe slice through his wand at most.

"But for him, that wasn’t enough.

"When the corridor caught fire, I probably tried to break his shield with Reducto, Bombarda, or some other explosive spell.

"But I must have been too drained, and the blast got reflected—into the walls, a nearby door.

"One spell must have hit the floor beneath me, because the next thing I knew, I was being flung toward the window."

She hesitated before adding, "At that point, I must have decided to run.

"I shattered the window.

"And part of the wall."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small glass sphere, holding it up for the others to see.

"I had this with me—one of the Weasley twins’ ‘prank items.’ There’s a Transfiguration spell called Duro. It temporarily turns anything—cloth, liquid, even air—into solid stone. And then there’s the opposite—Fluidum. It briefly liquefies solid materials—stone, metal, glass. It’s a sixth-year spell. I could never have cast it myself. But the twins sealed it into this."

She rolled the orb between her fingers.

"If you break it while speaking the activation word, the spell affects everything in its immediate radius."

"Why not just blast the window open with Fenestra?" Morris asked. "That way, there wouldn’t even be shards left in the frame."

"I don’t know how to cast it yet," Hermione admitted reluctantly.

"There are lots of ways I could have broken the window, but I was probably panicking by that point and just acted on instinct.

"Either way, they later found traces of Fluidum—‘drops’ of liquefied stone and glass scattered on the ground and inside the corridor. The last thing I managed to do was cast Flagrante. After that… I don’t know. Maybe he hit me with a stunning spell. Maybe part of the floor collapsed under me. But either way, I fell."

She swallowed.

"And then Lucian Bole caught me. For which I owe him my life."

She tried to make light of it, forcing a weak smile.

"I don’t think I’d have enjoyed falling six stories to the ground."

But despite the attempt at humor, her voice was flat.

And no one in the audience was laughing.

"Are you two dating now?" asked one of the girls—Pix, if Hermione remembered correctly.

"N-no!" Hermione shook her head so quickly that her already unruly hair became even more tangled. "He's three years older than me, and besides, I'm in Gryffindor, and he's in Slytherin. What kind of relationship could we possibly have?"

"Does that really matter?" another student chimed in. "Same House or not, what's the difference?"

"Usually, it doesn't," Hermione admitted. "But Gryffindor and Slytherin… that's a special case." She abruptly changed the subject. "Anyway, back to the maniac. A week after the attack, when they finally let my friends visit me in the hospital wing, I asked one of the older Weasleys to use Priori Incantatem on my wand. That's how I confirmed that the last spell I cast that night was Flagrante."

"The burning curse?" someone asked.

"No, but similar," Hermione explained, raising her wand. "Flagrante lets you write in the air with fire." She demonstrated by tracing her initials in the air, the letters lingering in flaming script for a few moments before fading away. "I doubt I was leaving an insult for the maniac before making my escape, so we figured I must have been leaving a message for someone else.

"The problem was, by the time we figured this out, the corridor had already been repaired. We interviewed at least fifty people to reconstruct the scene, even reached out to the ghosts, and—Merlin help me—we had to talk to Mr. Filch and the house-elves who cleaned up afterward.

"But in the end, we found something. Witnesses confirmed that just before I fell, I had burned a few smeared letters into the floor: ‘V. P. L.’"

"'V' must stand for 'Villain'," MacAvoy guessed.

"That was our first thought too," Hermione nodded. "The real trouble was the 'P. L.' We initially assumed I had identified the culprit; otherwise, why would I leave such a cryptic clue? So we sat down and went through the names of every student I knew, trying to find a match. Patricia Lewis, Lyon Parker… we checked everyone with those initials, but it led nowhere."

"And you only figured it out in May—that the 'P' wasn’t a name or surname?" asked one of the Muggle-born students.

"Yes. We…" Hermione hesitated, clearly reluctant to admit her mistake, but she pushed through. "I never considered that the culprit might be one of the professors.

"But I should have.

"Professor Lockhart—we only started watching him out of sheer desperation.

"And imagine our horror when one evening, he just walked out of his office and tried to stun Colin Creevey, a first-year from my House, in the middle of a corridor. As it turned out, the man I had fought that night was our own Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."

"But the newspapers said he wasn’t acting of his own will. That he was possessed," someone pointed out.

"He was," Hermione confirmed. "I saw it myself. That night, he was holding a strange notebook, muttering to himself, and following him was a ghost. But not just floating—walking, noiselessly. A handsome boy, about a senior’s age—maybe even a graduate. He was wearing Slytherin robes. 

"The ghost gave commands. And the professor obeyed.

"He ordered him to attack a kid because ‘more magic was needed.’ And then we intervened.

"This time, no sword," she added with a small, self-deprecating smile. "Stupefy, Expelliarmus, Rictusempra—basic spells, but enough to buy time and make enough noise.

"Upper-year students arrived soon after.

"By then, everyone was already on edge, so people gathered fast. The professor fought them off—he even stunned a few—but he wasn’t trying to seriously hurt anyone, even though the ghost was screaming at him to. Before the teachers and Heads of House arrived, he managed to retreat into the dungeons and disappear.

"Later, we found out there was a hidden entrance beneath the normal corridors and classrooms—leading to a secret laboratory belonging to Salazar Slytherin, one of the school's founders.

"The entrance could only be opened with Parseltongue."

"Professor Lockhart was a Parselmouth?" Pix asked in disbelief.

"No. But the Slytherin ghost was.

"He locked himself inside, and the professors and Heads of House waited at the door for the Aurors, who had already been summoned. They arrived half an hour later—a full squad, at least twenty. From what people saw, they Apparated to Hogsmeade and sprinted the rest of the way.

"After that, the students were sent back to their dorms, and the Aurors went in after the culprit.

"The rest, you probably read in the papers," Hermione said with a shrug.

"Deep in the laboratory, there was a basilisk—an ancient, incredibly dangerous creature that had lived for centuries. Several Aurors were wounded in the battle, but luckily, none of them were killed. They had broken bones and injuries, but at least the basilisk didn’t manage to bite anyone.

"As for the professor…

"He was too dangerous to capture alive while he was still controlling the creature.

"So he was mortally wounded by a powerful spell, and the cursed object controlling him was destroyed. 

"Only then did the ghost disappear.

"And after that, the Aurors finally managed to kill the basilisk."

After a moment of silence, Morris finally asked, "Still… what was that object, if even the Defense professor couldn’t fight against it? Some kind of dark artifact?"

"Probably.

"But we’ll never know for sure—it was almost completely destroyed by fire.

"But my friends and I have some guesses.

"Remember how, alongside the attacks on students, all those weird accidents kept happening to Harry Potter?"

A few heads nodded.

"Well, right after I landed in the hospital wing, barely conscious from all the healing spells and potions, something else happened to him.

"I can’t remember if it was a chair collapsing under him or a door hitting him in the face—something ridiculous. But the important thing was that it triggered a magical outburst. You do understand what that means, right? How powerful emotions can cause spontaneous surges of magic?"

Most of the kids nodded in understanding, and even Kayneth gave a slight, approving nod for show.

"This time, it must have been panic—he probably thought the same attacker who put me in the hospital was coming for him.

"He lost control. And his magic lashed out.

"It created some kind of explosion—or maybe just a massive telekinetic shockwave—and it caught something by surprise.

"Something that had been tailing him for months under an invisibility spell.

"And when it fell, Ron caught it.

"It turned out that, for nearly half a year, Harry had been secretly followed—

"By a house-elf."

"How?!"

"No way!"

"Yes, yes, I know," Hermione raised her hands reassuringly. "For us—especially for Ron—it was just as much of a shock." She could understand the reaction of the young wizards, especially the half-bloods who were more familiar with magical creatures. "But the fact was undeniable."

"But how is that even possible?" MacAvoy voiced everyone's confusion. "How could a house-elf consciously harm a wizard?"

"It was a paradox," Hermione raised a finger in explanation, adopting a professorial tone. However, it was doubtful that anyone truly understood what she meant. "An almost impossible paradox of thought. You see, twelve years ago, when You-Know-Who waged his war, house-elves suffered greatly—his followers treated them like dirt, punishing, humiliating, even killing them for the slightest mistake. Some, especially the older ones, accepted this as the natural order, but others hoped for something better.

"When You-Know-Who was defeated thanks to Harry, many elves rejoiced—Harry became a symbol of hope for them.

"And among them was one elf, a servant of a pureblood family that sympathized with You-Know-Who. This elf overheard that his master was planning to smuggle a dangerous dark artifact into Hogwarts that year.

"When the elf tried to object, mentioning that Harry would also be in danger, his master ordered him to punish himself. Then he gave a direct command—not to help Potter in any way.

"And that's where things get interesting," Hermione snapped her fingers, drawing their attention to what she considered the most crucial part. She clearly took pride in solving this mystery.

"A house-elf cannot harm a wizard or endanger his own kind. But at the same time, this elf could not help Potter—his master’s direct order prevented him.

"So, he decided that the only way to obey both commands was to stop Harry.

"He started sabotaging him, hoping to drive him away from the school—to put him in danger, to leave threatening notes. That way, he wasn’t ‘helping’ Potter—he was doing the opposite. But at the same time, if this forced Harry to leave before he was cursed or possessed, the elf would be helping him—just indirectly, by harming him a little to save him from something much worse.

"A human would never come up with such twisted logic, but elves aren't human. They think in entirely different terms of loyalty and duty. And when Harry refused to take the hint and instead doubled down on his Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons, the elf grew desperate.

"By late March, when the boys caught him, the elf agreed to stop interfering—if they could find and destroy the artifact themselves. In the end, all we managed to do was find it. The Aurors were the ones who actually destroyed that notebook.

"But for the elf, that was enough."

"But how did it even get into Hogwarts?" someone asked. "Everyone said security checks were much stricter at the station last year."

"Yes, but they only seriously checked the students. Think about it—if, say, a second-year's father walked onto the platform with the artifact hidden on him, and then, while saying goodbye, slipped it to his son and told him to leave it somewhere in a corridor where a first-year—preferably from Gryffindor—would find it…

"Then, later, a surprise inspection could be arranged.

"And when they discovered that an incredibly dangerous dark artifact was just sitting in some dormitory while the prefects and teachers had no idea what was happening…

"There would be problems.

"Not just for the students, but for the Heads of House. Even for the Headmaster.

"But something clearly went wrong.

"I don’t know—maybe Professor Lockhart was the one who found the notebook first. Maybe he confiscated it from a younger student. Or maybe some frightened student, realizing what they had been given, handed it over to a teacher instead of keeping it. Though, honestly, that last one seems unlikely…

"But somehow, the notebook ended up in his hands.

"Maybe he thought he could control the spirit inside it. Maybe he didn’t realize the danger until it was too late. But either way, by the time two months had passed, it had completely taken over him. And he started attacking students, draining their magic. Maybe he was feeding it to the ghost inside the artifact. I don’t know for sure."

"And did the elf tell you who the wizard behind it all was?" someone asked.

"He wasn't allowed to. But he was smart about it," Hermione smirked.

"Last week, at the station, when the students returned home, he just appeared next to his master—making sure we saw him.

"He handed something over, probably a message. And then he simply disappeared. His master never suspected a thing."

"So who was behind it?"

"I'm sorry, but I can’t say," Hermione spread her hands apologetically. "I refuse to accuse someone when we have no solid proof. The elf's word wouldn’t hold up in court, and that's all we have."

"How can it not hold up?" MacAvoy frowned.

"The Law on Evidence and Testimony in Court," one of the half-bloods, who had been quiet until now, spoke up.

"The Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures has been a mess since the Ministry was founded—before that, the same department under the Wizarding Council was just as bad. Every ten to twenty years, they change their minds on which beings are classified as ‘Beasts,’ ‘Beings,’ or even ‘Spirits,’ and then they change it back again.

"And by law, only Beings can testify in court—not Beasts.

"But the law can’t keep up with the bureaucratic mess.

"Right now, house-elves are classified as Beings—but in judicial records, they’re still listed under Beasts, meaning they can’t testify.

"Trolls, on the other hand, can."

"This is insane…" someone muttered.

"Who’s arguing with that?" another shrugged.

"Teacher," Kayneth interrupted before the conversation turned into pointless noise, "I think the most important lesson from this entire situation is the necessity of preparing in advance for trouble—and not limiting yourself to standard methods.

"If you hadn’t taken the time to enchant your robes for protection, you would have been knocked out by the first spell.

"If you hadn’t considered weapons, you wouldn’t have lasted as long as you did.

"If you had only carried your wand—do you think you could have held your own against a professor, especially one possessed by a dark entity?"

"I highly doubt it," Hermione admitted. "Though, looking back, I should have carried more than just enchanted items—I should have had potions, too.

"Not just healing balms, but Swamp Fog, which can create an entire opaque cloud from a single vial.

"Or Rattling Potion—the kind that explodes on impact but can pass through magical shields."

"Maybe if you're using a sword that sets everything around it on fire, you should carry a vial of Ice Potion," one of the witches suggested. "And maybe some kind of nuisance potion—like one that causes coughing or sneezing. If you smash it near your enemy and then evaporate it into the air, they'd breathe it in. It's hard to cast spells when you're sneezing three times a second," she added, glancing around importantly. "Trust me, personal experience."

"By the way, that other Flagrante—the curse one—could be applied to the wand sheath, right? Covering the top two-thirds so that even if someone Expelliarmus’ed it away, they'd burn their hand trying to catch it..."

The magus didn't interfere in this discussion, leaving Hermione to dismiss the more absurd ideas and refine the ones that had merit. The specific suggestions weren’t what really mattered. Far more important was the willingness to think outside the rigid framework of a textbook. Hermione was demonstrating exactly what that kind of thinking could achieve. And right now, her authority carried far more weight than his—after all, she was the battle-hardened third-year who had fought off a dark wizard, while he was just another student who hadn't even set foot in the school yet.

Where they would all be sorted in three months didn't matter. He needed allies at Hogwarts, not to play along with the meaningless game of earning House points—especially since the system was rigged anyway.

Later that evening, after returning to Diagon Alley, Hermione asked him on their way to the exit:

"Was all of that really necessary?"

"Yes," the magus replied just as easily. "From what I can tell—based on your stories, too—dangerous things happen at that school all the time. And not just inconveniences—life-threatening ones. Sure, you can treat it as just another part of magical education, but that doesn’t make the risk any smaller. You know that if that troll two years ago had hit just a couple feet lower, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now."

She grimaced but didn’t argue.

"Then it happened again last year," he continued. "And I have no reason to believe that my first year will be any different. If—or when—something happens, I want to know I can count on my classmates."

"And what if one of them decides that, with all these new tricks, they’re suddenly invincible? That now they can start lording over the 'underachievers' however they want?"

"Then that gives the others more incentive not to sit around doing nothing," he shrugged. "By the end of summer, they'll have improved even more. And so will I. Shame we won’t have time to go over second-year material during the break."

"Yeah, my whole family is going to France for the rest of the summer—my mum’s parents live there. But we’ll see each other at school, and we can always talk there."

"Assuming nothing happens before then," Archibald said dryly. "Knowing my luck, I wouldn’t be surprised if the train derails on the way."

"It’s enchanted."

"And I’m a very 'lucky' person…"

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 17

(TN: Replaced Lin with Lyn)

(I haven't had the chance to send these chapters to Hind (the author) so there might be some small mistakes like with names, Fate terminology, etc)

The gusts of wind, and the rustling of book pages were the only sounds breaking the silence of the small testing hall. The room had been split in half by a thick glass partition stretching from floor to ceiling, installed during renovations in September and reinforced with solid enchantments ever since. 

Beyond the glass, inside the training area, Llewellyn was practicing with his primary mystic code, sending bursts of wind of varying strength and form toward the mannequins lined up against the far wall. The barriers of this "testing ground" and a couple of modified magical accumulators absorbed any excess energy, though with his abilities, the squib and his enchanted knife weren’t generating much in the first place.

Meanwhile, Kayneth sat under the lamplight, flipping through a thick book, occasionally glancing up to observe his student’s efforts. He had to admit that, with the reinforcing talismans, enhancement rituals performed over the past six months, and alchemical potions—both local and of Kayneth’s own creation—Smith was now moving nearly one and a half times faster than an ordinary human. He was also stronger and more durable. But it still wasn’t enough.

"Is that… enough… boss?" Llewellyn wheezed after a few more minutes, poking his head out from the training area, practically gasping for air. "I can’t… feel my arms anymore."

"You can’t feel them, but you can still move them," Kayneth countered without the slightest hint of sympathy. "I don’t think I need to remind you just how dangerous magic is, even for the one using it. This weapon must become as natural to you as a punch or a jump, not something that requires deep concentration to execute. Even if you have a high opinion of yourself and your skills, let me remind you that most magical creatures classified as dangerous—let alone lethal—are faster than a human."

He leaned back slightly in his chair, continuing in the same calm but firm tone.

"For example, an old vampire can dodge a burst of automatic gunfire after the bullets have been fired and still have time to count each one. Even facing something as 'simple' as a werewolf, you should be striking first—ideally half a dozen times—before even thinking about why it’s there and where you need to retreat. And all you’re doing is practicing the simplest and strongest gust of wind to knock an enemy off their feet."

"But it… works. I’ve tested it."

"Against humans. That wouldn’t even slow down basic undead. Change up the power, learn to combine attacks," Kayneth instructed. Then, sighing, he set his book aside, stood up, and walked to a separate shelf along the wall—his personal arsenal of mystic codes. He pulled a glove from the collection, its surface inscribed with runes and lined with the feathers of a thunderbird, a tool designed to manipulate storms.

Sliding it onto his left hand, Kayneth stepped forward and flicked his fingers—first the ring, then the middle, then the index. Three narrow streams of compressed air shot across the room, striking one of the mannequins at the knee, stomach, and chest in succession.

"Is this really so difficult?"

"It looks easy when you do it, but I can’t get it right," Llewellyn admitted.

"Then you need more training," Kayneth stated, absentmindedly running his fingers over the glove. The idea of replicating one of his old mystic codes had come to him while designing Llewellyn’s knife. Of course, he no longer had his former affinity for wind magic in this world, so he needed a stronger amplifier. On the bright side, this realm still harbored a variety of mythical creatures—many of whose parts could be harvested to enhance different mysteries.

The results weren’t as potent as before, but they were close.

"I’m not asking you to conjure a tornado in a confined space just yet. But enough playing around—we’re moving on to more serious things. Take a restoration potion, then grab your sword. The vial is on the table."

Remaining by the glass, Kayneth watched as Llewellyn practically dragged himself toward the vial of murky gray liquid. With shaking hands, he uncorked it, gulped it down in one go, and then nearly sprinted toward the weapons rack. Snatching up a sheathed one-handed sword, the squib hurried back into the testing area and cast a questioning look at his mentor.

"Bring it into battle form."

"Impatiens," Llewellyn intoned firmly, gripping the scabbard tightly.

Silvery mist seeped from the sheath, swirling in the air before condensing into the semi-transparent figure of a late medieval warrior clad in a cuirass over an elaborate noble’s outfit. The ghost made no sound as it extended a spectral hand, effortlessly drawing the sword from its scabbard and assuming a defensive stance, hovering just above the ground. The weapon itself bore the same silver-gray translucence, as though it were merely another part of the phantom.

As soon as Kayneth sensed the spirit he had bound to the weapon materialize, he gave a silent command. The ghost swung its sword; Llewellyn barely managed to raise his knife in time to deflect the strike, metal clashing against metal. The blow wasn’t forceful enough to spark, but the pressure behind it was real.

"Not bad, but don’t just stand there," Kayneth instructed, directing the phantom’s movements. The spirit began spinning its sword faster before darting unpredictably around the room, trying to attack from different angles.

The sword itself was entirely real—modern, mass-produced, nothing extraordinary. The real trick lay in altering its appearance with alchemical coatings and enchantments to make it look ghostly. The handle had been treated with a special paint used for inscribing bounded fields  against spirits, combined with a few specific spells to link it to the phantom. Phantoms, unlike mere ghosts, were more powerful, better at interacting with physical objects, and closer in nature to poltergeists.

"This isn’t fair! He’s too fast!" Llewellyn protested, already sporting several minor cuts and bruises from the flat of the blade. He was struggling to both parry with his knife and use wind magic to disarm the phantom—neither attempt was working particularly well.

"Of course it isn’t. A spirit has no muscles, no nerves—its very existence and movement are governed by magic. That was covered in the bestiary I told you to read this week, wasn’t it?"

"Yeah, it was."

"Then isn’t it wonderful to face an enemy you already understand?" Kayneth asked mockingly. But Llewellyn was too busy trying to avoid another attack to respond. "Endure it and improve your technique. If you ever encounter a phantom in some forgotten ruins, don’t expect it to be this merciful."

"And how exactly would I even end up in 'some ruins'?"

"I'll send you there if I need something from them. Isn’t that what apprentices are for? And it was in the contract you signed."

"Damn it!"

In truth, there were quite a few other interesting clauses in that contract—things Llewellyn either overlooked or simply didn’t understand due to ignorance. For instance, the provision allowing "preventive measures for the master's protection," including the use of magic. It wasn’t particularly difficult to slip in a spell like Pain Reflection among the various diagnostic and enhancement enchantments. A rather simple, old curse—one even a child could cast—it transferred any pain or damage inflicted on the master directly onto the servant. And if strengthened properly with additional spells, it became a rather effective safeguard. After all, not everyone would be willing to take the risk when a casual slap across the face, amplified fivefold, could shatter their own jaw into fragments.

Not that Kayneth seriously feared betrayal from Llewellyn, but this was simply how things were done in his family—applied to servants, bodyguards, and apprentices who weren’t bound by blood.

"Alright, that's enough for now," the magus decided, halting the phantom and sending it to the far end of the room near the training dummies. He turned his gaze to the squib, who was breathing heavily and dripping blood onto the floor. "The regeneration amulet will stop the bleeding soon enough, so you can continue practicing your strikes against the ghost. Try adjusting your technique so that the slash doesn’t just generate a wind burst but splits the air into two separate waves."

For demonstration, Archibald opened his magic circuits, channeling energy into his mystic code. Then, with a downward swipe of his gloved hand, he released a wave of compressed air. Half a second later, two powerful gusts shot out in opposite directions, colliding against the walls as if the air itself had split into separate streams.

"It works great for attacking from the side or hitting targets behind cover."

"I doubt I can pull that off."

“Like you have a choice.”

"Still, boss, why not just grab a pistol or a shotgun?" Llewellyn suddenly blurted out, weakly waving his hands for emphasis. He was swaying slightly from exhaustion. "I mean, don’t get me wrong—magic is awesome—but why not combine it with, you know, normal weapons?"

Kayneth let out a long-suffering sigh. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm wasting my time." Removing the mystic code from his hand, he continued, "I’ve already explained this: the problem with normal weapons is exactly that—they’re normal. Magic, by its very nature, is abnormal to the world. The stronger the mystery, the less it obeys physical laws. Sure, you could shoot an augurey or maybe even a billywig—though good luck hitting one—but a manticore or a phoenix wouldn’t even notice the bullet. Pellets won’t harm them. Their very existence is a mystery, an anomaly in the world, and only another mystery can counter them."

"But I run into people far more often than I do gnomes or leprechauns," Llewellyn countered. He mimed firing a gun with his free hand. "And against them, good old-fashioned lead works just fine. Besides, can’t you just enchant a shotgun the same way you did my sword?"

"Technically, yes. But it would be far less effective." Kayneth’s tone turned dismissive. "Firearms haven’t been around long enough to develop the same kind of mystical weight. They’re seen as common, crude, accessible to any vagabond, lacking in nobility and individuality. It’s much harder to reinforce them with an appropriate mystery compared to, say, a bow, a spear, or a sword—things that have been ingrained in humanity’s collective consciousness for thousands of years."

"And what if I find a weapon whose history and craftsmanship surpass most swords?"

"Then I’ll consider it. But in my opinion, it’s pointless. If you’re serious about this, study the books and my lectures on artifacts, magical weaponry, and enchantments, then bring me a concrete proposal. Not just 'I want it to be stronger than everything else.'"

"Got it, teacher. I’ll talk to Mr. MacDuggal and come back with something solid."

"I won’t wish you luck—I think it’s a waste of time—but if you’re willing to bury yourself in books for it, be my guest." Kayneth shrugged, then returned to his chair. Picking up his book again, he added, "Since you're so keen on odd ideas, let’s test your knowledge. Tell me, apprentice, what are the primary mysteries associated with thestrals?"

"They can fly, they’re freakishly ugly, and only people who’ve seen death can see them," Llewellyn replied, still slashing away at the ghost. So far, he hadn’t managed to split the air into two waves—his strikes were still producing only simple bursts of wind.

"At least you’ve opened the bestiary," Kayneth conceded. "Now, suppose you used thestral hair or hide in an enchanted cloak. Would it be useful?"

Llewellyn frowned in thought. "I don’t think so. You’ve said before that flight is complex magic, and discovering a new way to achieve it is difficult. A cloak alone wouldn’t be enough to make someone fly. Invisibility, maybe—but it’d be too unreliable. If you tried sneaking into a place while wearing it, you'd never know who could actually see you. That guy over there? Maybe he once saw a hobo get run over by a bus. That girl? Maybe she watched her grandfather have a heart attack. Now they can see you, and you’re screwed. And let’s not even talk about cops or gangsters—almost all of them would see right through it, so what’s the point?"

Kayneth smirked. "Not bad. You could have phrased it more elegantly, but the core reasoning is correct. Alright, keep practicing."

Finishing his chapter on thestrals, Kayneth set the book aside and pulled a new letter from his pocket—the latest from his ‘teacher’ at Hogwarts. This time, it was brief and seemed hastily written, as if Granger had rushed to get it done before moving on to something else.

Then again, she was busy.

In early January, at the start of the second semester, Tonks had miraculously managed to convince someone in the Auror Office that something seriously wrong was happening at Hogwarts and that a formal investigation was necessary. A team of aurors—mostly trainees—had arrived, inspected the castle, questioned the students… and, of course, found nothing. Classes had continued peacefully for a month.

Then, in early February, the attacks had started again.

Even before that, realizing she, as a first-generation witch, was likely on the mystery assailant’s list, Granger had taken their advice to heart. She'd begun preparing for possible confrontations, crafting improvised mystic codes to aid in self-defense. She’d enlisted Ronald’s older brothers in the effort, convincing them by arguing that without her help, "that idiot will definitely fail his year." As a result, instead of just enthusiasm and half-baked ideas, she now had two passable (at least by school standards) specialists in magical item creation.

In the letter, she enthusiastically reported that the three of them had nearly completed a new combined enchantment called "Light Saber" Only testing remained.

Tonks had clearly meant for them to focus on defensive magic, but—well, as the saying went, let the child amuse itself however it pleases…

If Granger's efforts helped push the idea that magical duels weren’t limited to wandwork, it would make Kayneth’s own time at Hogwarts much easier. More importantly, it would help prevent suspicion toward his more… unconventional methods.

"Alright, that's enough for today," Kayneth decided, seeing that his apprentice could barely lift his arms for another strike. The magus commanded the phantom to sheath its sword and return to its vessel before adding, "Llewellyn, put the weapon back in its place, then you're free until tomorrow. I'll be staying here overnight—only disturb me if something extraordinary happens."

"Are you sure you don't need help with anything, boss?" the squib asked, despite his exhaustion.

"Positive. Just bookwork tonight, no practice."

"Then good night, boss," Llewellyn replied before trudging upstairs to wash off the blood and change his clothes.

Kayneth gave him a silent nod, then reactivated the protective wards as soon as the workshop door shut. He moved toward the bookshelves and his worktable, gathering the necessary references on alchemy, transfiguration, and artifact creation. After all, he hadn’t abandoned his goal of recreating Volumen Hydrargyrum, his masterpiece, using local magical techniques and with significantly lower energy consumption. Animating mercury wasn’t the real challenge—the real difficulty lay in controlling it and constructing an efficient command system.

Before beginning his work, he walked over to a shelf and, for what felt like the hundredth time, studied the small box resting there. Inside was a trophy—a timeworn pendant, split cleanly in two. A golden disk encasing tiny, shattered hourglasses. By now, through books and discussions with shopkeepers in the magical quarter, he had pieced together exactly what it was.

A Time-Turner.

A rare and intricate mystic code designed to accelerate or decelerate time for its user. Strangely enough, it was never meant for combat. It had been created as a scientific instrument, primarily for alchemical research. Useful when a reaction required rapid preparation of fresh components or precise step-by-step observation of a transformation. Or, conversely, when one had to watch a potion brew for hours without taking their eyes off the cauldron—far easier to do when subjective time was sped up.

Like any laboratory equipment, efficiency and durability had been sacrificed for precision. While in use, the mystic code constantly drained the wielder's magical energy, mixing it with ambient mana—much like a wizard’s wand. The rotating mechanism inside the pendant was meant to cheat this limitation by drawing from the surroundings. But even with this function, the device remained a power hog, making it difficult to cast strong spells while it was active.

Kayneth knew this particular Time-Turner was beyond repair. The physical damage was severe, but more importantly, its magical structure had been almost entirely shattered. And given that he already had a different speed-enhancing mystery at his disposal, investing time into another was hardly worth it. Llewellyn, with his mere ‘handful’ of magic circuits, wouldn't be able to use it anyway.

Still, the study of such a sophisticated mystic code had been fascinating.

The rotating mechanism for gathering mana—unlike traditional static wand cores that require physical movement—was definitely worth incorporating into future designs based on the local magic system. However, it wouldn’t be useful for powering Volumen Hydrargyrum. One of the mystic code’s greatest strengths was its adaptability—its ability to shift form freely. Introducing any solid, moving components would only make the entire construct more vulnerable. No, he would need to find a different method.

Kayneth pulled away from his work at around two in the morning.

Books lay open across his desk, surrounding a large sheet filled with intricate schematics—the magical blueprint for his Volumen Hydrargyrum. He rubbed his eyes before making his way to a small door at the back of the bunker’s main hall. Disarming another set of wards, he stepped inside.

The room was bare-bones—a narrow bed, a small wardrobe, a desk with a lamp. A single painting hung on the wall.

A portrait.

A woman, no older than twenty-five, with striking red hair, noble features, and cold, unreadable eyes.

Sola-Ui.

Daughter of the ancient magus family Nuada-Re. His fiancee. The woman who never got the chance to become his wife.

Kayneth had painted the portrait himself—no magic, no rituals, just his own hand. A recreation of how he remembered her. He had finished it two days ago. March 11th.

The anniversary of Sola’s death.

And his own.

But that didn’t matter.

Kayneth stood before the painting, staring at it in silence.

It had been a year since he found himself in this world—a year was enough time to accept many things. The loss of his family. The destruction of his lineage, his ancestors’ legacy, and the life’s work they had entrusted to him. Even the loss of his name, of most of his abilities, his reputation.

But he had never come to terms with Sola’s death.

He had tried not to think about it. Not to remember. He had drowned himself in work, in learning, in calculations, in experiments. The first few months had been spent surviving on scraps of magic, with no time to dwell on the past. Later, the flood of new knowledge demanded every spare moment.

But the memories had never faded.

The betrayal of his apprentice. The treachery of his Servant. His own humiliation—defeated by nothing, by an insect.

And after his failure, she had been forced to take up the fight in his place.

He had brought her into this.

He had dragged her away from the safety of her family’s estate, taken her from civilization into a battle for an artifact he didn’t even need.

Yes, there had been other factors in his downfall. Unforeseen variables. Things beyond his control.

But Sola's death?

That was entirely his fault.

He hadn’t been strong enough to protect her. Hadn’t been wise enough to see the danger. Hadn’t been willing to retreat when he should have.

And this was the result.

A bitter laugh nearly escaped his lips.

Even if he were the most brilliant magus of his time—even if he had spent three decades studying death, spirits, and the afterlife—none of it mattered.

He couldn’t bring her back.

The True Magic that once preserved souls, the so-called Touch of Heaven, had been lost a thousand years ago in his world.

Here, among the wizards, there were whispers of an artifact capable of resurrection—but it was only a legend. Even in myths, it was no miracle; it didn’t restore life, merely mocked it.

Yes, he had managed to create a flawed imitation of that miracle, paying a steep price in the process. But even if he had known then what he did now, he doubted he could have prepared a similar tether for Sola.

A proper spirit anchor required time. Rituals. Agreements between the living and the dead. A level of skill in necromantic mysticism that took decades to master.

Even then, success was far from guaranteed.

There was no way out.

Unless…

Unless this world held a secret that could rival the Touch of Heaven—a lost mystery, a true resurrection.

But the odds of that were infinitesimal.

So he would go on living, knowing he was the reason Sola died.

And knowing there was no way to undo it.

The worst part was that if he truly intended to reestablish his family in this world, then in ten or twenty years, he would have to marry again. He would have to choose a wife based on lineage, personal strength, and potential—to strengthen the family as much as possible and ensure powerful future generations.

Last time, he had been fortunate. Among the candidates was Sola, whom he had genuinely loved. But who could say how things would unfold in this world?

Remaining alone and without an heir was not an option—his duty as a magus would never allow it. Which meant he would have to endure having a stranger at his side, someone he felt nothing for—just like so many other magi of his rank.

Once, fate had granted him the perfect match in every aspect, and he had destroyed that opportunity with his own hands. He would not be given such generosity a second time.

But that was his own fault.

If anything, he should take it as punishment.

And what if Sola was alive in this world? With another name, in another country, perhaps?

What would he do if he met her?

Ten years from now, she would be thirty-five, and James would be twenty-one—not an impossible gap.

But would she wait for him?

What if she was already married?

And worse—what if she was just an ordinary woman, with no knowledge of magic?

So many questions. No answers.

At last, Kayneth turned away from the portrait, took off his cloak, hung it in the wardrobe, and lay down on the bed, staring at the concrete ceiling.

There were countless other questions without answers.

For example—was it possible to return to his original world, where he still had unfinished business and debts to settle?

In theory, it was. Kayneth even knew the name of the method—Kaleidoscope, the Second True Magic, the art of parallel world manipulation.

But the problem was whether its wielder even existed in this reality.

And even if that ancient bloodsucker did exist here, how could he be found among the one and a half million wizards scattered across the world?

Especially when there was no central authority, no single governing body like the Clock Tower to organize the magical world. And even if he was found, how could he be convinced to help?

What could Kayneth possibly offer a vampire who had lived for centuries, possessing power far beyond even the strongest magi of the Association?

There were legends of figures resembling him in wizarding folklore. But none were credible enough to make the search worthwhile.

For now, it remained a theoretical question—something to be considered in the future, when he had more resources and influence at his disposal.

For now, he would continue studying the local magic, gathering strength, and playing his assigned role as a first-generation wizard.

Even if it meant pretending to be the apprentice of a girl young enough to be his daughter.

Even if it meant hiding his heritage—something he had never been ashamed of in his past life, something he had always been proud to declare.

Even if it meant wasting time crafting trinkets to sell to primitive commoners who couldn’t even grasp the meaning of the word magic.

Even if he had to return to school—this time as a first-generation wizard, with no patrons, no respect, not even a shred of authority.

Even if his magic circuits had been reduced to a mere sixteen, of average quality at best. Even if his total magical reserves were now less than a third of what they had been before (and that was without his family's crest!).

Even if his current body couldn't handle unlocking all of them at once, and it would take years of grueling training just to adapt.

None of it mattered.

He would endure it all.

Though, sometimes, he wondered how much easier things would have been if he had ended up in the body of a proper aristocratic heir.

Take Malfoy, for instance—the boy he had glimpsed over the summer.

If he had been reborn in Malfoy's body, money and authority would never have been an issue.

He wouldn't have had to scour flea markets or deal with shady booksellers just to get his hands on rare or restricted texts. He wouldn't have needed to piece together knowledge of the magical world bit by bit from scattered sources.

And if he had managed to convince his "father" that his knowledge could strengthen their family's power—that cooperation would be mutually beneficial—he wouldn't have had to hide his true abilities at all.

But none of that could be changed now.

Sp for now, he would keep working.

If he was going to create another beacon for insurance, he needed to find a better location this time.

Somewhere with far more suitable candidates than a gathering of beggars.

With that thought, Kayneth finally drifted into sleep.

"Is that everything for today?"

"Yeah, that was the last lesson. Let’s go." 

Kayneth walked down Diagon Alley without looking back, listening to the footsteps behind him. Llewellyn followed.

During his first visit to the magical quarter last autumn, the squib had gawked at everything with wide eyes, turning his head in every direction. By now, he had grown somewhat accustomed to magic, but Kayneth still had to keep an eye on him to ensure he didn’t get stuck staring at some shop display. For now, Llewellyn’s interests were limited to mostly useless trinkets—flying broomsticks, enchanted fireworks, that sort of thing. But Kayneth hoped that, in time, his apprentice would learn to distinguish flashy tricks from true craftsmanship. Not that he hadn’t had enough time to wander today. While waiting for his master, Llewellyn had free rein of the area.

Since spring, Kayneth had begun attending private tutors twice a week in three key disciplines—Charms, Transfiguration, and Potion-making. Not so much for theory—he had made solid progress in that on his own—but for practical application.

He needed hands-on experience with his mystic code and local alchemical equipment.

He needed to develop reflexes.

He needed to build a base of spells sufficient to avoid suspicion when school started in six months.

Each lesson lasted an hour and a half—three back-to-back sessions. Which meant Llewellyn had plenty of time to browse the shops. After months of visits, the squib was no longer a novelty to the local shopkeepers. And, at the very least, he respected tradition—he wore a robe when visiting the Alley, unlike some first-generation wizards who stubbornly clung to their windbreakers and sneakers, refusing to adopt the archaic fashion of the wizarding world.

Traveling through the city twice a week was a hassle, though. It had been worse before, when he’d had to endure taxis and their countless inconveniences. At least now, Llewellyn could drive him.

But magical alternatives were still off the table. A proper fireplace couldn’t be installed in a regular apartment—not without drawing Ministry attention. And openly registering his workshop’s location would be reckless. As for portkeys and Apparition…

Kayneth understood how complex spatial magic was. Without a certified instructor and a well-tested training regimen, he wasn’t about to risk it.

Convenient as it was, he knew all too well the side effects and injuries that could result—even for experienced wizards. For now, theory was one thing, but practice? Not until James was at least sixteen. Preferably, not until he could train at school under strict supervision. Until then, he might as well make use of his apprentice. After all, wasn’t that what students were for?

"So, have you picked out a rifle or whatever it was you wanted?" Kayneth asked over his shoulder as they walked.

"No..," Lyn replied, spreading his hands.

"Not surprising."

"But I haven't given up yet."

Kayneth remained silent, merely shaking his head with mild disdain. The younger generation's obsession with firearms never ceased to baffle him. Though, in Llewellyn’s case, it was somewhat excusable—he wasn’t a magus or even a wizard.

For centuries, magi had equipped their servants with various weapons or mystic codes based on them—spears and bows, then crossbows and swords, later muskets and sabers. Nowadays, some had even moved on to automatic weapons, but the Archibalds had always considered that barbaric—proof of a family's lack of true mastery in the magical arts. After all, if their retainers had to resort to such crude tools, it only meant the family's own power was lacking.

But here…

Here, he wasn’t even part of a proper magus lineage.

He had no stockpile of enchanted weaponry, no cadre of volunteers ready to serve as bodyguards. For now, he would have to make compromises. Of course, that was assuming Smith could even convince him that some antique rifle was worth the effort.

They headed toward the market rows of the Alley, as usual, to replenish their stock of potions and browse the latest arrivals in a few bookstores before returning to the workshop.

After that, the only pressing task would be the mail.

Strangely, Granger hadn’t written him anything over the weekend. She was probably too buried in her studies and experimenting with her new spell.

Instead, today—Monday—he had received a letter from Lovegood, which was a rare occurrence.

Kayneth considered maintaining contact with the eccentric enthusiast of magical history and legends quite useful.

The hardest part of reading her letters—or speaking with her in general—was separating fact from myth and outright nonsense.

But it was worth tolerating for the occasional valuable piece of information.

He had brought the letter with him to read later at the workshop—where he could cross-reference any particularly obscure claims with books if necessary.

"How did the last trial go?" Kayneth asked in a low voice as they walked through a deserted alley.

"Oh, brilliantly," Lyn brightened up, eager to boast. "The job was perfect—collecting a debt from a cocky gambler who thought he was smarter than everyone else. He set the meeting at a cafe, thinking that in a public place we wouldn’t dare do anything to him."

"So?"

"I sat down, brought up the money, and he started mouthing off—saying he'd pay after his next big win. Maybe. So I pulled out that notebook, just like you showed me, and set up a Muggle-repelling barrier around his table. Then I just started beating him. Slammed his head into the table, broke dishes over him, went at him with my fists. 

“I think what scared him most wasn’t even the beating—it was realizing that nobody around him could see or hear anything. Blood all over the table, teeth on the floor—nothing. And when I told him I’d break his legs and leave him there, invisible to everyone, with no way to call for help—he cracked. Gave up everything and everyone.

"I still knocked him out at the end, though. Just to make sure that if he ever talked, people would chalk it up to a concussion and shock."

"There weren’t any cameras in the place?" Kayneth asked, focusing on the critical details. "That kind of weak barrier won’t fool security footage. The police could have questions."

"I’m not an idiot—I checked first. No cameras. Otherwise, I would’ve waited for him outside."

"Good."

“Damn electronics. At this rate, in five years, they'd have to develop spells not just for warding off attention, but for blinding cameras.”

"I believe in you, boss," Llewellyn said with absolute sincerity.

"I appreciate the faith, but that’s a task for the Ministry, not lone practitioners," Kayneth remarked with dry sarcasm.

"You really don’t like them, huh?"

"A bunch of bureaucrats. Consolidate all power into their hands, just so they can sit on it and do absolutely nothing—what could be worse for a magus?"

He waved off the topic.

"We’ll discuss politics some other time. For now—" he nodded toward a bookstore a dozen steps ahead "—want to go in?"

"Obviously!"

"Just don’t waste your money on those magic-for-beginners guides again. People like you are considered hopeless cases—not worth training. No one here can teach you more about magic than I can. The pamphlets promising ‘Learn Lumos in Three Lessons!’ are useless to you, and I’ve already explained why. In detail." Kayneth sighed.

"Still worth a shot, though," Llewellyn replied cheerfully, completely ignoring his master’s irritation.

"It’s your money, not mine. But by now, you should’ve learned that when I talk about magic, I don’t make mistakes."

Inside, it was quiet.

No crowds, unlike in summer or just before the start of the school year. Not that Kayneth was looking for anything specific—he always bought books as soon as the need arose. But it was worth spending some time browsing, just in case something noteworthy had arrived. Besides, he had already found that bookstores were excellent places to meet his future schoolmates—those with some intellectual curiosity, at least. After all, he wasn’t going to find suitable contacts outside the broomstick shop.

Not that he had built a massive network yet. But by now, he at least knew the names of about half a dozen students who would be entering Hogwarts the same year as James Murphy. Of course, none of them were from old families. Only first- and second-generation wizards, maybe a few half-bloods. It would be strange to expect otherwise.

"Oh, Jim, hey," a red-haired boy greeted him quietly, lifting his gaze from a textbook on carnivorous plants. He wore a simple robe with no crest or embellishments. By the looks of him, he was about eleven—one of those few acquaintances who would be starting Hogwarts alongside James Murphy.

A half-blood.

His family had no particular reputation, but Charles was already proving to be a serious student, eager to learn magic.

"Good afternoon, Charlie," Kayneth greeted in return.

The name felt too familiar for his taste, but allowances had to be made for their age—"Mr. McEvoy" would have sounded ridiculous, even to him.

Granger was easier.

There, his role as her "apprentice" made his overly formal manner seem like part of the act.

"Anything new and interesting in stock?"

"Mostly Herbology," Charles replied, holding up a textbook. The cover depicted an old wizard in a traditional robe fending off what looked like either vines or tentacles with his wand. "Bushes, lawns, and all kinds of semi-sentient ferns, basically. But never mind that—have you heard what’s happening at school?"

"Teachers are teaching, fifth- and seventh-years are downing calming draughts by the bucketful, athletes are practically living in the infirmary, and once a week, the lunatic sends another student there just to keep things from getting boring," Kayneth shrugged. "In other words, just another regular school year."

"Oh, so you haven't heard the latest?" Charlie nearly jumped in place.

"I only get letters from there about once a week, at best. Something unusual happen?"

"Oh, you bet!" The boy tossed his textbook back onto the shelf and turned to Kayneth, clearly eager to relay the latest scandal, gesturing animatedly with both hands. "My sister sent an owl just this morning, and hardly anyone knows about it yet—you’re not the only one out of the loop. Wanna hear?"

"Go on," Kayneth agreed, leaning against the bookshelf. It was unlikely to be anything genuinely interesting, but refusing outright would be rude. Besides, from a social standpoint, a normal child would at least feign curiosity.

"That’s the spirit," Charles nodded vigorously before launching into rapid-fire speech, desperate to share the thrilling news.

"So, you know about that troublemaker they still haven’t caught, right? He was quiet for a whole week—everyone hoped he’d finally stopped or gotten bored. But then, last night, he went all out. Just picture this: it’s Sunday evening, students are wandering the courtyard with nothing to do, Slytherin’s Quidditch team is heading to the pitch—hadn’t even started harassing anyone yet, which is a miracle by itself—and then, suddenly, a window on the sixth floor explodes, along with part of the wall.

"And out of the hole flies a girl—a first- or second-year! And as if that’s not enough, someone keeps firing spells at her while she’s falling!

"Tell me that’s something you see every day, even at Hogwarts!

"Understandably, everyone freaked out. No one wanted to risk getting involved. But then—Bole, Slytherin’s Beater, grabs his broom and takes off right from the ground to catch her.

"They say he nearly crashed trying to slow down, but he managed to save her.

"And it’s a good thing too, because the girl was already a mess—burns, bruises, multiple fractures, blood everywhere. My sister says her robe was still on fire as she fell—can you imagine?"

"So, the maniac got bored of just beating people up?" Kayneth asked, keeping his tone mildly interested.

"That’s the thing—I don’t know.

"By the time people ran up to that corridor, it looked like a full-blown war zone—walls slashed to bits, the floor still burning, everything shattered, blown apart, light fixtures melted, ceiling cracked in several places, doors turned to splinters…

"No way a second-year could've done that alone, right?

"She’s only a couple years older than us!

"Seems like the psycho decided it’s time to stop holding back—if he’s gonna torment people, he might as well go all in."

Kayenth raised a hand, cutting him off before he could launch into another breathless rant.

It almost seemed like Charles was excited about the whole thing rather than disturbed.

He could probably go on for hours marveling at the school’s latest chaos, but something in his words caught Kayneth’s attention.

"A second-year, you said?"

"Yeah, supposedly from Gryffindor."

Without a word, Kayneth reached into his pocket, pulled out the letter, and scanned the uneven handwriting, the ink blotches—a rushed note, lacking Lovegood’s usual elaborate loops and flourishes.

"Hermione… attack on Sunday… badly injured… hospital wing…"

"How… inconvenient," he muttered, tucking the letter away. He asked, keeping his tone calm, "She survived?"

"My sister says she did. The important thing is that Bole caught her in time—the rest is just details. But she won’t be leaving the hospital wing until April, at the earliest."

"Maybe it wasn’t the maniac?" Kayneth mused. "She could have just messed up an experiment—maybe a spell misfired and launched her through the window?"

"The Healers say someone hit her with Obliviate at the last moment," Charles countered, as if the mere suggestion that it was an accident ruined the entire excitement of the story. "And when the professors questioned her, all she could remember was walking back from the library—then the next thing she knew, she was falling.

"Whoever did this, they definitely don’t want to get caught.

"But they’re also careful not to kill anyone—probably so no one takes their crimes too seriously.

"And they know the school way too well—always attacking in staircases and corridors where there are no portraits, no ghosts, no house-elves.

"Sneaky bastard—that’s why they still haven’t been caught."

Kayenth tilted his head, watching the boy curiously.

"You’re not afraid?" he asked, intrigued by the clear excitement in Charles' voice. "In six months, we’ll be there. We’d both be immediate targets—you're a half-blood, and I’m even worse in their eyes."

"Oh, please—they’ll catch him long before then," Charles waved him off carelessly. "And besides, who’s stupid enough to wander the castle alone with a psycho on the loose?"

"Maybe she thought she could defend herself?"

"A second-year girl?" Charles scoffed, throwing up his hands as if the idea was the height of absurdity. "The lunatic clearly only goes after younger students because he knows he can take them.

"He’s not dumb enough to pick a fight with seventh-years.

"If she thought she was some kind of second coming of Morgana and went looking for trouble, that’s on her.

"My sister says people find her annoying anyway—some Muggle-born who acts like she knows everything, always raising her hand in class.

"Well, there’s her reward.

"No thanks—I might already know a few spells from first-year, but I’m not stupid enough to go up against some psycho seventh-year only armed with a wand."

"I doubt she was using just a wand."

"What?"

"Nothing," Kayneth deflected smoothly, unwilling to betray too much knowledge. "It’s just that, if the House system is really worth anything, then wouldn’t it be strange if all the ‘brave lions’ spent their nights cowering in corners, too afraid to step outside their tower?"

He let the question hang in the air before adding, almost idly,

"Should wizards really fear a lone maniac like common folk? Just sit and wait, wondering who’ll be next?"

[Castling] Chapter 52

Avoiding Snape’s gaze, I reached for another biscuit and calmly finished my tea in silence, idly staring at the crumbs on my plate. Truth be told, I was more than a little rattled, but I was doing my best not to let it show. I doubted I was fooling him—Snape wasn’t some gullible first-year—but keeping my dignity intact was worth the effort.

I was well aware that I wasn’t on the same level as Snape or Dumbledore. I had no real leverage over them, no real power, so my only option was to carve out at least a shred of respect—to make sure they didn’t just brush me off or try to intimidate me into submission. If I wanted to be taken seriously, I had to act like I deserved it.

And right now, by forcing myself to stay calm and hold my ground, I was giving Snape time to settle back into our usual dynamic. I refused to let him pressure me, and that meant he’d have to consider my words properly instead of just dismissing them outright.

"You’re remarkably audacious, Weasley, to think you can demand an Unbreakable Vow from me," Snape finally broke the silence, his eyes still fixed on me. I could feel his stare like a physical weight pressing down on me, unrelenting.

"Oh, come on, sir," I forced a grin, putting on my best innocent expression. "The Unbreakable Vow only frightens those who are afraid of dying. I don’t think that’d be a wise choice in your case—not with your past. I've come across some rather interesting articles about you, sir." I gave him a knowing smile.

His tension faded just slightly, but his gaze sharpened into something truly piercing. Funny thing, that. When Dumbledore looked at me the same way, I always had the urge to leg it. Turns out, darkness and light could be equally unsettling in their own ways.

"Impressive," he drawled, curling his lip in something that was more of a sneer than a smile. Funny how he and Black had that same habit. "I appreciate the effort, Weasley—showing your teeth and claws, even though you know full well I could crush you like an insect with my past... So, what kind of vow are you proposing instead?"

"Oh, just a simple one. Completely harmless. ‘The Vow of Memory.’ Ever heard of it?" I asked, keeping my voice light. "If broken, the most cherished memories start fading away, one by one. Forever. See, most vows can be twisted or worked around, but this one… this one’s universal. Everyone’s got something they’d rather not lose."

For a long moment, he just stared at me, his expression unreadable. There was something calculating in his gaze, as though he was examining a particularly fascinating insect under a glass. His instincts were razor-sharp—I had to give him that.

"And what exactly are you asking of me in return?" he finally asked, his voice quiet but steady.

"That you keep everything I tell you a secret. That you don’t use any of it against me in any way, and that you don’t share it with anyone without my explicit permission."

"Bit much, don’t you think, Weasley?" Snape scoffed, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. "Have you forgotten who I am? And who you are? You think you can dictate terms to me?"

"Not at all, sir," I said smoothly, refusing to be rattled. "I’m perfectly happy to work with you—just like back in first year. But I never signed up to be your informant, and I’m not about to start now. There’s a lot happening in this school that even you don’t know about, and I wouldn’t mind keeping you in the loop… as long as it doesn’t interfere with my own plans. And as long as none of it gets back to the Headmaster."

Snape’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Why are you so set against Dumbledore, Weasley?" His voice was more curious than accusatory. "What has he ever done to you?"

"Nothing," I bit out, my expression darkening. "And that’s exactly the problem. I suppose I might as well tell you why I don’t trust him—no vow necessary. It’s not exactly a secret, and I’m entitled to my own thoughts, even if they do end up reaching someone else’s ears."

"By all means, Weasley," Snape said dryly, leaning back slightly. "I’m all ears."

"During the holidays, we overheard a conversation at the Three Broomsticks. Fudge, McGonagall, Hagrid… actually, why don’t I just show you? You can take the memory if you like. I give you permission."

Snape gave a derisive snort, but I could tell he was intrigued. Without another word, we walked over to the Pensieve.

I focused, gathering the memory in my mind, and Snape drew a long silvery strand from my temple with the tip of his wand before carefully adding it to the swirling contents of the Pensieve.

"Can I come with you?" I asked, though I wasn’t expecting much.

"You’ll manage," he said curtly before plunging into the memory. "Drink your tea, Weasley, and don’t be a nuisance."

I shrugged and went back to my chair, pouring myself another cup. The memory itself wasn’t long—five minutes, maybe—but Snape took his time. When he finally resurfaced, his expression was carefully neutral.

"I fail to see anything particularly shocking in your recollection," he said, settling back into his chair. "And I still don’t understand why you’re so set against the Headmaster."

"Harry’s parents didn’t trust him, sir. So why should I?" I countered flatly. "And the whole business with the Potters—none of it adds up."

"And where, exactly, did you get that idea?" Snape asked, his tone carefully indifferent, though I could tell the topic interested him.

"It’s obvious if you actually think about it," I said. "If we take the Minister’s word for it, Dumbledore was the one who suggested the Fidelius Charm in the first place. The Potters agreed—but for some reason, they rejected him as their Secret-Keeper. Why? Dumbledore was supposed to be the most powerful wizard in Britain. As Headmaster, he was untouchable at Hogwarts most of the year. And even outside the castle, his reputation alone kept him safe. But instead of choosing him, they went with Pettigrew—because ‘no one would suspect him.’ And this was after they’d been warned that there was a traitor among them. They knew someone had betrayed them, and yet, they still didn’t pick the man Voldemort himself was said to fear? Where’s the logic in that? And they never even told Dumbledore who the Secret-Keeper was. That means they didn’t trust him. Maybe they even suspected him."

"Your reasoning, Weasley, is largely speculative," Snape said slowly. He wasn’t convinced—but he wasn’t dismissing it outright either. I could tell I’d gotten under his skin.

Shame I couldn’t tell him everything just yet. About the Horcrux in Harry. About the planned sacrifice. About the Shaman’s words—that Lily was protecting both her son and Snape from beyond the grave. That would’ve been a direct hit.

"Maybe, sir," I allowed, watching him closely. "But there’s no logic in Dumbledore’s actions, either. I know people like him. He’s the type who has to be in control—like Hermione. You know, ‘if you want something done right, do it yourself.’ And yet, he willingly handed control over to the Potters, even knowing there was a traitor among them. He just… stepped back. And that’s not like him. Not in the middle of a war."

"What exactly are you implying, Weasley?" Snape demanded, dropping the pretense.

"Nothing, sir," I shrugged. "But something here doesn’t add up. I’ve seen this kind of thing before—back in first year. Remember when Quirrell was after Harry? They quickly redirected him to the Philosopher’s Stone and the obstacle course guarding it, and suddenly he was too preoccupied with the bigger prize to bother going after Harry anymore. I don’t know why the Dark Lord needed the Potters specifically, but I reckon there was some kind of trap waiting for him in their house. I can’t see any other reason for what happened. There’s no way the Potters and the Headmaster were that careless. The only question is, who set it up? It’s not impossible that the Potters did it themselves, without telling Dumbledore—they were Gryffindors, after all. My dad always said the Dark Lord was on the verge of winning that year, and then, out of nowhere, he dropped everything and went after the Potters instead… only to be destroyed. Seems like more than a coincidence to me."

"That does make some sense," Snape admitted after a pause. "But there's no way to prove it, Weasley."

"I'm not claiming my theory is the absolute truth, sir," I smirked, pressing on. "You wanted to know why I don’t trust the Headmaster? I gave you my reasons. But of course, it's just my opinion—no guarantee it's correct. Though there is one more thing that’s been bothering me..."

"You’re a fountain of fantastical theories, Weasley," Snape snorted, but his eyes were sharp, serious. "Go on, then."

"Harry’s Invisibility Cloak, sir."

"Potter has a cloak?" Snape sneered. "How interesting."

"You won’t be able to take it from him, sir," I waved him off. "Dumbledore gave it to him personally—with a message, no less. And besides, you’ve got the Marauder’s Map now—I doubt Harry’s getting that back."

"Perhaps," Snape conceded. "But don’t get distracted, Weasley. I don’t have heart-to-hearts over tea, not even with the Headmaster. Get to the point."

"Right. I don’t know how the cloak ended up in Dumbledore’s hands. Fudge said the Potters had been under the Fidelius Charm for two weeks before the attack. But then Dumbledore told Harry he took the cloak from his father shortly before he died. So here’s my question—were the Potters already under the Fidelius when Dumbledore supposedly got the cloak? Because if they were, that means only the Secret-Keeper could have let him into their house. Or he’d have needed written permission from them. So how could the Headmaster not know who the Secret-Keeper was?"

Snape was silent for a long time, eyes closed as he thought. I took the chance to finish off my tea.

"I won’t give you a vow, Weasley," he finally said, opening his eyes. "We’ll draft a magical contract instead. You’re too unpredictable, too inclined to act on your own. I’ll admit, you do think through your actions, but that’s not enough for me. You’ll provide me with information, and I’ll keep it confidential. And, if possible, I won’t act on it without consulting you."

"Wait, sir," I frowned. "Are you planning to double-cross me?"

"You’re not an idiot, Weasley, I’ll give you that," he said calmly. "So you should understand that I’m bound by far greater obligations than this little agreement of ours. And I do value my life, despite what you seem to think. I’ll promise not to act independently without discussing matters with you first—but if your plans clash with those of certain… other individuals, I may have no choice."

"Fine," I nodded. "But I want it in writing that you won’t try to interfere with what I’m doing. And I swear I’ll keep you informed, sir. This will be a mutually beneficial arrangement, you’ll see." I smiled genuinely.

Snape rifled through his papers and found a standard potion-supply contract. A flick of his wand wiped the wording clean, leaving behind a blank parchment. We wrote out the terms we’d agreed upon and signed it. The contract flared in the air for a moment before vanishing.

I made sure to specify that the agreement took effect from today and would last for the next four years—until I left Hogwarts. By then, hopefully, the Horcruxes would be dealt with, and I wouldn’t have any further use for Snape.

"So, about Black, Weasley?" my new… partner in crime asked. He looked focused now, while I leaned back in my chair, relieved to have sealed the deal. But I wasn’t about to spill everything just yet—I had to see if he was worth trusting. So I lied without hesitation.

"After we overheard the Minister’s conversation, Harry got the Marauder’s Map. I saw Pettigrew’s name on it and realized Black hadn’t betrayed the Potters."

"And what, exactly, made you think that?" Snape’s tone was sharp with skepticism.

"Well, Black sat quietly in Azkaban for years—then suddenly broke out after seeing that newspaper Fudge left behind. You heard him—'He's at Hogwarts.' I checked every issue of the Prophet from that time, and there was nothing about Harry, nothing about Hogwarts. But there was one article featuring my family—our trip to Egypt. And then, suddenly, Pettigrew’s name showed up on the Map, clear as day. That’s when it all clicked. Later, Harry told me Trelawney ran into him and gave a prophecy—said that the Dark Lord’s servant would return to him. I knew—don’t ask me how—that if I handed Pettigrew over to Dumbledore, nothing would come of it. The prophecy would play out, and Voldemort would rise again. So I made a deal with Black instead—easier, and much more certain."

"You’re an absolute fool, Weasley," Snape snapped, shooting to his feet in fury. "Black had a penchant for bloodshed even as a student! He could’ve killed you the moment he got what he wanted!"

I suddenly recalled how, in the book, Black had been so obsessed with catching the rat that he hadn’t even hesitated to drag Harry along with him. It was Ron—book Ron—who had pushed Harry out of the way, taking the hit instead. Black had broken his leg and dragged him off.

"I took precautions, sir," I answered calmly as Snape stalked back and forth near the fireplace, throwing me contemptuous glares. "My instincts have never steered me wrong. Here, why don’t I just show you? I’m tired of explaining it all."

"Five points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Weasley," he grumbled but moved to the Pensieve. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

I stepped up beside him and focused on my meeting with Black, and everything that followed. Snape extracted the memory and dropped it into the swirling silver mist. While he was immersed in it, I finally got some peace and quiet—enough that I nearly dozed off in the dim light of the office.

"Weasley," a low, irritated growl sounded near my ear, jolting me awake.

I blinked up at Snape, whose expression was torn between exasperation and something that looked dangerously close to reluctant admiration.

"You’re even worse than Potter with his reckless stunts," he muttered darkly. "We’ve been watching the wrong person. What in Merlin’s name possessed you to strike a deal with a wanted criminal?"

"What’s the big deal, sir?" I stifled a yawn and added with a pointed look, "I had something he needed, and he could do something for me that I couldn’t manage on my own—it was a fair trade. Though I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting such a memorable spectacle. Hope they manage to patch him up..."

Snape was silent for a moment before delivering his verdict. "From now on, Weasley, you do nothing without my approval. Understood?"

"Alright, fair enough," I agreed easily with a nod. "Not like I ever wanted to do things alone, sir. I just didn’t have anyone to trust. But now, I’ll happily pass the problem-solving over to you. Sir, can I go now?"

"Go, Weasley," he conceded with a wave of his hand. "But report to me immediately if anything comes up."

"And my memories?" I asked as I got up, stretching my stiff back.

"You’ll get them back in a few days," he snapped. "Now get out—you’re exhausting."

"Look who’s talking," I muttered under my breath as I made for the door.

"Weasley," his cold, measured voice caught me just as I reached it, making me tense. I turned back slowly.

"You have told me everything, haven’t you?"

"Everything you were interested in, sir," I replied with my best innocent face, though I knew he wasn’t buying it.

"Get out," he waved me off, turning back to the Pensieve. I wasted no time leaving, then spent the next hour up on the Astronomy Tower, clearing my head after such a long, intense conversation. Still, I was pleased with the outcome. The groundwork was laid.

After that, things settled down.

Hermione got detention in the library—dusting the books, which, of course, she was over the moon about.

Three days later, we were called to Dumbledore’s office and had our memories returned. Snape, though, handed mine back a day earlier in his own office.

Harry, seizing the opportunity, asked Dumbledore if he could have the Marauder’s Map back, but the Headmaster refused. Instead, he tried to console him with permission to visit Hogsmeade.

"This is undoubtedly your father’s work, Harry," Dumbledore said kindly in response to his hesitant request to reclaim what was rightfully his. "But two of its creators and rightful owners are still alive. And I do not believe it is appropriate for a young boy to spy on others. Trust me, I am doing this for your own good. Besides, what use is the map to you now, when the danger has passed? Or do you suspect, Harry, that someone will be watching you?" He fixed him with a piercing gaze, while Snape, standing behind him, sneered nastily and held Harry’s gaze for an uncomfortably long time, only riling him up further.

"You’re not planning on breaking any more rules, are you, Harry?"

Left with no other choice, Harry assured him he wouldn’t be causing any trouble. And with that, we were dismissed. They asked me a few token questions about my rat, but I just repeated that I’d gotten it from Percy, who’d had it from Charlie, and that I’d never paid it much attention—just kept it alive. If they wanted more answers, they could ask them instead. And that was that.

Sunday rolled around, and we celebrated my birthday. It was a big crowd at the Three Broomsticks—bigger than I’d ever had for a birthday before. Usually, we just exchanged gifts, but after the whole Boggart incident and the Patronus training sessions we’d been holding with the others, more people had wanted to join in.

Everyone pitched in equally for the food and drinks, and Madam Rosmerta even gave me a discount for being the birthday boy—though I had a feeling it had more to do with Harry’s hero status than anything else. Not that I minded. The important thing was that we had a good time. Shame Ginny and Luna couldn’t make it, but I brought them back a box of pastries and a bag of sweets each.

After that, school took over—studying, preparing for exams, and the usual grind.

Footnote from the author:

(TN: excerpt from Harry Potter and The Prisoner of Azkaban, Chapter 17)

But before they could cover themselves again, before they could even catch their breath, they heard the soft pounding of gigantic paws.... Something was bounding toward them, quiet as a shadow -- an enormous, pale-eyed, jet-black dog.

Harry reached for his wand, but too late -- the dog had made an enormous leap and the front paws hit him on the chest; he keeled over backward in a whirl of hair; he felt its hot breath, saw inch- long teeth -

But the force of its leap had carried it too far; it rolled off him. Dazed, feeling as though his ribs were broken, Harry tried to stand up; he could hear it growling as it skidded around for a new attack.

Ron was on his feet. As the dog sprang back toward them he pushed Harry aside; the dog's jaws fastened instead around Ron's outstretched arm. Harry lunged forward, he seized a handful of the brute's hair, but it was dragging Ron away as easily as though he were a rag doll --

Then, out of nowhere, something hit Harry so hard across the face he was knocked off his feet again. He heard Hermione shriek with pain and fall too.

Translator's Note:

While going through the comment section of the original work, I noticed multiple readers asking about the 'Big Bad Dumbledore' trope. So, just as a reminder—in this chapter, Ron has every reason to portray Dumbledore in the worst light possible.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 52

Mizuki came out about ten minutes later, hesitating for a second before finally walking up to Naruto. I stayed put, perched up in a tree, watching.

"How about we take a walk?" he suggested.

Oh, for crying out loud! What is it with these people and walking for secret conversations? Can’t they just talk where they are?! Now I had to wait until they were out of sight before making my move. Should’ve stayed in the bushes! What possessed me to climb this damn tree in the first place?!

I waited until they rounded a corner before leaping down and sprinting after them. But when I turned the same corner—bam! Nothing. Not a single soul in sight.

Oh, come on! Where did they go?! I sniffed the air, trying to catch Naruto’s scent, but the trail just vanished like someone had cut it with a blade. That sneaky bastard Mizuki must’ve used some kind of teleportation technique.

By the time I finished running in frustrated circles, it was already getting dark. Damn it! I’m gonna miss all the action! There was only one thing left to do—head for the Hokage’s office. If this was playing out like the anime, then Naruto would be swiping the Forbidden Scroll from there.

And sure enough, just as I reached the area, all hell broke loose. Ninjas in masks, ninjas without masks, all running back and forth like someone had set their pants on fire. I barely managed to dive under an overhanging ledge before someone shouted:

"Uzumaki Naruto has stolen the Forbidden Scroll! After him!"

Oh, now it gets exciting. Among the chaos, I caught a familiar scent—Iruka. Perfect! If anyone was gonna lead me straight to my little knucklehead, it was him.

Iruka ran on foot, sticking to good old-fashioned legwork instead of using any teleportation tricks. That was fine by me—it meant I could tail him easily. Konoha’s forest at night was practically my domain. Better vision, better hearing, better everything.

And let’s be real, even I could find Naruto faster than these guys. He wasn’t exactly a stealth expert, and now that he’d ditched his neon-orange jumpsuit for my “fashionable” spotted hoodie, he wasn’t glowing like a traffic cone anymore.

Iruka, though… Iruka was running very confidently, barely even looking around. Was he secretly a sensor? Or was he heading straight for the meetup spot, knowing exactly where to find Naruto?

Sure enough, near an old shed in the woods, there was my dumbass little chick with a scroll the size of his entire torso. My paws itched to run up to him, but I held myself back. I had a bad feeling about this.

"I got it, Iruka-sensei!" Naruto grinned. "I completed the mission! So that means I pass, right? I get to be a genin now?"

"You idiot!" Iruka roared, followed by a colorful string of words that I definitely didn’t remember from the anime.

Naruto responded in kind, spitting out a curse that would’ve had any self-respecting mother washing his mouth out with soap.

Still, at least they were on the same page now—realizing this was all a setup. Or Iruka was realizing that. Or maybe he already knew? Or maybe this was part of the plan? I was officially lost in the layers of deception here.

Then, of course, Mizuki showed up.

And then came the bombshell.

He wasted no time spilling the village’s biggest secret right in Naruto’s face. "You’re not just some orphan! You’re the vessel of the Nine-Tailed Fox! A monster! That’s why everyone hates you!"

Naruto froze. His brain short-circuited so hard I thought I could hear it.

And Mizuki, the absolute snake, used that moment to hurl a giant-ass shuriken straight at the poor kid.

I barely held back a scream as Iruka lunged, moving so fast I almost missed it. For a second, my entire body locked up—heart pounding, fur standing on end. Watching this unfold in a cartoon was one thing. Seeing it happen in real life? Holy hell, I was gonna have a stroke.

There was a loud clang, and when I dared to open my eyes, I saw Iruka crouched in front of Naruto. He had blocked the hit, his chunin vest taking the brunt of the blow.

But… wait. Something was off.

Iruka looked surprised. Mizuki looked surprised.

"S-Sasuke?" Naruto stammered, crawling out from under his teacher.

I turned and—oh-ho-ho, now things were getting wild.

There he was. Sasuke. Standing a short distance away, eyes glowing red.

Oh. Oh, damn.

He awakened the Sharingan?! Wasn’t that supposed to happen later? Like, way later? With Zabuza, on the bridge, and all that drama? What was he even doing here?!

"Sasuke!" Naruto called out.

Without a word, Sasuke sprinted straight at Mizuki, kunai in hand.

Oh boy. Please tell me he knows what he’s doing.

Meanwhile, Iruka grabbed the scroll Naruto had been holding. "This scroll contains important village secrets, Naruto. It has to be protected at all costs!"

Naruto didn’t hesitate. "Then I’m counting on you, Iruka-sensei!" he declared, before bolting after Sasuke. "I’m gonna help him!"

Of course you are, I thought, already dashing after them.

Branches snapped. Metal clashed. Boom! Something exploded ahead.

What the hell?! These two were out here blowing things up?!

I crashed through the undergrowth like a goddamn bear and skidded to a stop just in time to see the aftermath. The clearing was a wreck. Scorched earth. Torn-up grass. Trees with kunai sticking out of them.

And there, at the center, was Mizuki—knocked out cold, tied up with ninja wire, looking real worse for wear.

Naruto stood surrounded by dozens of shadow clones.

Oh, man, I missed it?!

A rustling behind me signaled Iruka’s arrival. He landed in the clearing, panting. "You guys… What the—" His gaze swept over the destruction, then zeroed in on Naruto. "Wait. Did you… use the Shadow Clone Jutsu?!"

Naruto grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. "Uh… yeah?"

Iruka’s eyes darted between him and Sasuke, who was wiping some dirt off his cheek like this was no big deal. "You two just beat a chunin…" He exhaled slowly, then gave Naruto a long look.

"If you did all this because you want to be a genin…" He hesitated, then smiled. "Then I guess it’s yours."

He pulled off his forehead protector and tied it around Naruto’s forehead.

Naruto lit up like the damn sun. "YOUR HEADBAND?! IRUKA-SENSEI, THIS IS SO COOL!" He started hopping around, full of energy like he hadn’t just wiped the floor with a grown man five minutes ago.

Sasuke, ever the buzzkill, crossed his arms. "Aren’t forehead protectors engraved with the ninja’s personal number? You’re not supposed to give them away, sensei."

"Uh…" Iruka looked caught. "Well… we’ll swap it out tomorrow when they do team assignments. I just wanted Naruto to have one now."

"THANK YOU, IRUKA-SENSEI! YOU’RE THE BEST!" Naruto beamed, adjusting his new headband.

And then, just as I was starting to relax, I felt a lot of unfamiliar chakra signatures closing in.

From the trees, from the bushes, from everywhere, shinobi in gray vests and animal masks poured into the clearing.

Leading the charge? Hiruzen Sarutobi.

"Uzumaki Naruto," the Third Hokage intoned gravely. "How could you steal the Forbidden Scroll?"

I almost laughed. The dramatics! The theatrics! It was like watching the final act of a stage play. Like any actual genin could just waltz into the Hokage’s library and yoink a classified document.

But before I could start rolling my eyes, Iruka immediately jumped in, waving his arms. "It wasn’t his fault, Lord Hokage! Mizuki tricked him! Naruto only wanted to pass the exam—he thought it was a test!" He held up the scroll. "Here, it’s safe!"

The Third took a long drag from his pipe, exhaling thoughtfully. "I see," he said at last. "That changes things."

Then he nodded to the ANBU.

"Take him," he ordered, gesturing at Mizuki.

The masked shinobi grabbed the unconscious traitor and vanished into the night.

"What’s gonna happen to him?" Naruto asked hesitantly.

"He’ll be imprisoned with other high-risk criminals," Hiruzen replied.

Oh-ho, really? So the guy who nearly got the village’s jinchuriki stolen is just… going to jail? In a military village? What exactly do you have to do around here to actually get executed? Or maybe they’ve got these prisoners doing something useful for the village, like… I dunno, forced labor? Building roads? Chopping wood like those old prison camps?

If this was just another one of the Third’s long-winded chess games, then man, I almost feel bad for Mizuki.

After giving Naruto a half-hearted scolding and tossing Sasuke some praise for "helping his friend," the Hokage sent them both home. The clearing emptied in a matter of seconds, leaving just the two of them standing in the dark.

"How did you even know to come here, Sasuke?" Naruto muttered, very deliberately not looking at him.

Sasuke scoffed. "Like I don’t know you. Anyone with half a brain could tell you were lying."

Alright, that was my cue. I darted out of the bushes and ran straight toward them.

"To— Namaiki-chan!" Naruto brightened up when he saw me and scooped me into his arms.

"Naruto…" Sasuke’s voice was quiet, serious. "Is what Mizuki said true? Are you… the vessel for the Nine-Tails?"

Naruto flinched. His grip on me tightened so much I let out a startled mrowr. Then I felt it. He was shaking.

And—wait. Something warm and wet dripped onto my fur.

Shit.

I sneezed from the sting in my nose. Is he… crying?

"I… I think it’s true," Naruto choked out. Then, with no warning, he hugged me even tighter and bolted, sprinting away from Sasuke like a bat out of hell. His silent tears, flung off by his speed, kept landing on me.

I dug my claws into his shoulder to keep from falling, catching a final glimpse of Sasuke. He had stepped forward at first—like he was about to follow—but then, for some reason, he stopped.

Damn it. This was the last thing I needed.

Daily Updates (08/02/25)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 69

• Tier 2: Chapter 74

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 39

• Tier 2: Chapter 44

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 36

• Tier 2: Chapter 41

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 41

Millicent couldn’t believe how well the prosthetic worked—it felt as natural as a real hand. She could even feel through it. It was nothing short of a miracle.

Casual technologies, absurd as they were, worked flawlessly.

Kosta’s curiosity, upon seeing the iron hand for the first time, got the better of him, and he furrowed his brows, trying to understand how this marvel of casual ingenuity even functioned.

The answer, however, was quite obvious.

“Magic…” Kosta sighed, feeling how his own energy resonated with the strange power within the prosthetic.

In the future, he wanted to take a closer look at how exactly it worked. Unfortunately, now was not the time.

The hand almost seemed to cling to him, but first, he already had a full set of hands, and second, the prosthetic truly responded only to Millicent’s power, treating the Tarnished himself with a certain… indifference. Like a well-trained pet, it immediately attached itself to the stump of her missing arm and didn’t even wiggle. At least, not unless Millicent willed it to.

Clearly, this prosthetic made no distinction between Malenia and her… daughter.

The heart of a true waifu fan swelled with joy, seeing just how happy the girl was as she once again grasped a sword in familiar grip. Usually reserved in her emotions, now Millicent was practically glowing with happiness.

But the joy did not last long.

Now that the main part of her quest was complete, it was time for a farewell.

“You’ve done more for me than anyone else in my life,” Millicent smiled sadly. “If there were any meaning in it, my sword would have long belonged to you, but… there is no meaning in that.”

She turned her gaze away.

She was too weak. The usually unshakable man before her was on an entirely different level, and the only ones who could truly threaten him were those who would cut her down without even noticing. Even with the prosthetic.

Konstantin remained silent, listening to her carefully.

“I see how busy you always are,” Millicent spoke softly. “And how many wo—quests you need to complete before you become the true Elden Lord… Now that I can reach my full strength, I… I n-need to…”

She didn’t want to leave him. But at the same time, she knew she had to. At least for a while. And it wasn’t just because the man had to focus on more important things, but because, as a warrior, she wanted to fully experience battle.

Being at the Tarnished’s side, the red-haired warrior subconsciously understood that she was always safe. She liked that feeling, but it also limited her, preventing her from growing.

And Kosta himself understood this, despite all his concerns.

“I understand,” Konstantin nodded sternly, supporting her. “You have your own quests too.”

Millicent latched onto his words with an iron grip.

“Yes! Quests! I need to finish my quests before we meet ag…”

She had been about to say something, but then… she felt it. His power coursing into her.

And once again, the unyielding warrior-woman faced a trial of pure willpower.

The Tarnished was doing everything he could to help his waifu. In particular, suppressing the rot inside her as much as possible—filling her with enough inner light that the infection, restrained by that evil little boy’s needle, wouldn’t be able to spread for days. Training on the dragoness had helped him piece it together.

The rot was a manifestation of an Outer God’s power. And while curing an afflicted dragon was as simple as expelling the infection and healing the body…

Millicent’s case was different. He had to sever the rot’s link to its Outer God first. Only then would he have a real chance at curing her completely.

He knew when and where that would be possible.

“Our quests will cross paths again soon,” the Tarnished said, surprisingly tenderly, staring into Millicent’s darting eyes. “Maybe we’ll even do some farming together. Sounds good?”

“Y-yes…”

The voice of the as-red-as-a-lobster unbroken warrior was so quiet that, if not for the man’s absurdly good hearing, one might think she hadn’t spoken at all.

It seemed this was the most romantic moment in the life of a casual hardcore player.

Konstantin slowly let go of the barely-standing waifu, giving her some time to recover.

“Why…” the girl suddenly whispered. “I’m just… a rotting…”

Konstantin frowned.

If some heretics had dared to insult a waifu, that would have been simple and straightforward. But when the waifu insulted herself, that was an entirely different challenge.

A challenge far harder than any trial he had ever faced—far beyond the sweatiest of runs that had pushed Kosta beyond all limits.

“If I cared only about outward appearance, I could never call myself a true waifu fan,” Kosta said, more serious than ever. “You are one of the few truly beautiful things in this world.”

If not for waifus, he would never have tried this hard. The light of waifus had forged his spirit in a way nothing else had. What an idiot he had been, separating his inner waifu fan from the sweaty Soulslike player!

Those two aspects had always complemented each other.

Hearing such an unexpected compliment, Millicent wished she could sink into the ground.

She never considered herself beautiful in any way. A rotting, dying body, nothing more. Even she struggled to see herself as a woman—so how could anyone else?

But as she felt the warm, gentle energy filling her with strength and an still unfamiliar sense of hope, the warrior smiled more happily than ever before.

For so long, she had fought the Rot inside her without a reason. Life just for the sake of existing. But now she had a purpose!

‘Too bad Melina isn’t here to see this,’ Ranni thought absently.

Watching from afar as the unusual Tarnished awkwardly deepened his relationship with the red-haired warrior, who looked like a stray kitten, was quite entertaining. Ranni had barely interacted with the girl, but she had already formed a good impression—Millicent had barely reacted to her first appearance, simply accepting it as a given.

Then again, after traveling with Konstantin, was it really that strange to see a living puppet?

Perhaps, if she wasn’t a fragment of Miquella’s Blade(1), Ranni might have even considered making Millicent her servant.

But there was one thing that bothered the demigoddess about this situation…

…Or maybe not just one…

Ranni didn’t even realize she was pouting.

‘Appearance doesn’t matter,’ the demigoddess thought, lowering her gaze to her puppet hands.

Hearing that was nice. After all, even if she was a little insane, Ranni, like any girl, had desires—not just grand dreams of altering the cosmic order and indulging in adolescent rebellion. More earthly fantasies haunted her as well.

More importantly, she had given this womanizing Tarnished a chance. The more his madness faded, the more it became clear—his bizarre pull toward women hadn’t disappeared. In the grand scheme of things… that was probably a good thing.

That wasn’t the problem.

“Aren't you the least bit interested in studying my gift more closely, Konstantin?”

Kosta, still watching Millicent disappear into the distance, blinked dumbly before turning his head toward the waifu who had suddenly materialized before him.

Ranni’s doll-like face remained impassive. But the spectral one—the one that reflected her true emotions…

…was ever so slightly puffed up, like a child desperately trying to hide her frustration. Unfortunately for her, Kosta was way too perceptive.

“I’ll definitely visit your family’s library, but a little later.”

Hearing his answer, the girl’s mood immediately improved.

“Then you know the path forward” Ranni clasped her hands together. “That is enough for now, Konstantin. But do not keep me waiting too long.”

Her voice grew much firmer, her gaze sharper.

Normally, she could afford patience. But this Tarnished had sped up time itself in the Lands Between. And for the first time in decades—perhaps centuries—Ranni felt something she hadn’t in a very long time.

A sense of urgency.

A terrible, forgotten feeling. And yet—strangely refreshing.

Satisfied with his answer, the demigoddess vanished, leaving a stunned Konstantin alone.

One of the best waifus just approached him with a quest, directly and… efficiently.

The man stared at the spot where she had disappeared, suddenly feeling that it had been far too long since he last visited Merchant Kale.

And this was far from over.

"Has Lady Ranni left, my teacher-student?"

The whisper of the ever-sly sorceress made Konstantin turn his head toward his shoulder, where a miniature Sellen sat, suspiciously glancing around. Her face-concealing crown was absent.

He had noticed her from the very beginning but preferred to pretend otherwise. Obviously, the waifu would have revealed herself had she wished to.

"She probably noticed you."

"I know," Sellen huffed. "But the Lady would appreciate that I didn’t go out of my way to annoy her."

The sorceress looked around once more.

Even after the bea… hierarchy had been established, Sellen found Melina far less terrifying than Ranni. The first was much simpler and more comprehensible by nature, whereas the second…

Only the Moon, or whatever entity the demigoddess’s lineage worshipped, knew what was going on in her puppet mind.

"Is she really not nearby?"

Now it was Konstantin’s turn to look around, carefully tuning into his inner senses.

The waifus loved keeping an eye on him. He had understood that for a long time. The question was, did it bother him? Not really. He knew that they knew that he knew, but everyone was content with the arrangement.

Honestly, even back in the game, Kosta could tell that some waifus had… odd inclinations when it came to covert observation.

"No."

"Ah…" Sellen once again glanced around. "And the jealous girl?"

"The jealous girl?" Kosta furrowed his brows, thinking. "You mean…"

"Meli-Meli!" Sellen smirked.

The man actually straightened his posture.

"She’s not nearby either."

Sellen looked even more pleased.

"You’ve surrounded yourself with strange people, my teacher-student… Where are you heading next?"

The miniature woman’s gaze took on a suspicious glint.

Kosta raised an eyebrow.

"If you need help, just say so."

"I’m just happy to see how quickly my teacher-student is regaining his senses," Sellen smiled gently.

And it also reassured her that certain fruits, in their attempts to claim him, wouldn’t end up tearing him apart. Handling the personalities of royal daughters was nearly impossible without overwhelming strength—and more importantly, keen intelligence—even with terrifying foreknowledge.

The influence of the Outer Gods had always been indirect and highly limited. Those who carried their power weren’t necessarily destined for greatness. Most followers had fallen, and with them, their faith. How many Outer Gods had the Lands Between already forgotten? And how many more would be lost?

"Not exactly help," Sellen continued, pondering. "More like I need a companion to safely reach a certain place. It turned out to be far more dangerous than I had anticipated."

The man thought for a moment.

"I have quite a few places to visit, but right now, I plan to head toward Mt. Gelmir."

"Really?!" the miniature sorceress exclaimed.

The stars truly favored her! With some caveats.

Konstantin stared at Sellen in confusion. Though, he quickly pieced together the cause and effect—this side quest had, so to speak, been generated by his own actions.

The waifu-sorceress wanted to meet the Primeval Sorcerer Azur in person, her first teacher. As for finding Lusat—after Konstantin’s biome-clearing efforts, that was no longer an issue. The search for her first mentor, however, had proven trickier.

Naturally, Konstantin had no objections to escorting Sellen. He needed to hurry if he wanted to complete all the quests in time, but in this case, their paths aligned.

And, to be fair, he didn’t mind the company of the waifu-sorceress, even if she had some… disagreements with Meli-Meli.

"I’d be very grateful, Konstantin," Sellen smiled. "Have you ever heard of the Hero’s Grave on Gelmir? I’ll be waiting for you there."

She sighed.

"My illusion won’t be able to stay with you, my teacher-student. Have you heard what kind of mess foolish Seluvis got himself into?"

"A mess?" Konstantin frowned.

"Did you really think Gideon Ofnir wouldn’t go hunting for the fool who tried to drug and abduct his precious tool using none other than the famed Tarnished?" Sellen raised an eyebrow with ironic amusement.

Well, actually, Kosta had thought that. (2)

The man shrugged indifferently.

"What a weirdo…" the woman huffed. "Unfortunately, I keep my word, Konstantin. Seluvis asked for my help…"

And Sellen would have helped, if not for… certain developments. Now, she couldn’t contact him. Normally meticulous in her dealings, she was now simultaneously handling her own affairs while trying to locate him—a task that is proving to be challenging, as Professor Seluvis was surprisingly good at running away, skillfully evading his old enemy and his hunters across the Lands Between.

"I suspect we may soon encounter him in person," Sellen said with distaste.

She really did not want to meet that scoundrel in person.

"What do you mean?" Konstantin asked in surprise.

"Somehow, he can track the location of my new body," the sorceress’s illusion shrugged her miniature shoulders. "Where else would a desperate, cornered sorcerer flee? The Lady won’t save him, and he knows it."

"I see," Konstantin nodded grimly.

"Be prepared for more lessons when we meet, teacher-student," Sellen raised a finger in mock instruction.

With that, the illusion of the sorceress vanished completely, as if she had never been there.

More and more quests were becoming intertwined, whether Konstantin wanted them to or not.

In any case, this wouldn’t affect his route too much.

He had wanted to visit Volcano Manor for a while now.

Melina had been right: the moment Konstantin set foot on the lands of the Altus Plateau, a tail followed. At a distance, it remained just outside her chosen one's abnormal perception, but the false Finger Maiden was anything but ordinary.

She had known from the start that her brother wouldn’t let Konstantin go so easily. That he would make his move.

So, she wasn’t surprised when he did.

Though she doubted it would help him.

Melina materialized before a seemingly ordinary commoner. Gaunt, pale, clearly someone who had died more than once yet continued wandering despite it all.

Unfortunately for him, such a disguise wouldn’t fool her. (3)

"I kept waiting for the servants of the Dread Omen to reveal themselves, but they never appeared."

The commoner stared blankly into the void for a moment before…

…Before her stood an illusion of her brother: tall, covered in protrusions—not the Dread Omen, but the King of Omens.

Yes, subtlety had never been Morgott’s strong suit.

The man frowned in irritation, realizing how much of a fool he looked.

"I… have abandoned my foolish ambitions. My servants will accomplish nothing against this monster—they would only throw away their lives in vain. I will do this myself."

The Omen King had heard the rumors. And they terrified him. The Tarnished’s pace was monstrous. Absurd. Beyond reason. His retainers, even if they had tried, simply hadn’t had the time to be an obstacle.

It was entirely possible that Konstantin had killed a few of them along the way without even realizing they were supposed to be fearsome agents of the Dread Omen.

It was shameful.

"Your illusion won’t fool the Tarnished," Melina stated confidently.

"You are just as vile a traitor as the rest, Melina," Morgott growled. "Do not think I have forgotten that."

Melina shrugged impassively.

"My chosen one will recognize you easily."

"Impossible!" Morgott seethed. "The illusions of the Golden Order are flawless!"

It wasn’t widely spoken of, but their lineage was famous for its illusions. The best of the best. Stable, carrying echoes of the original's true power and grandeur. (4)

Melina had now become a full-fledged heretic and traitor.

"Wanna bet?" the girl smirked under her hood.

"Fine, we’ll bet!" Morgott exclaimed. "But do not think I will forget your betrayal, Melina!"

Once again, the girl merely shrugged indifferently.

"The Black Knives may be nearby. Be careful, brother."

Morgott, caught off guard, seemed about to say something, but his sister had already disappeared without a trace.

Despite the Marika bloodline’s greatness, and the inherently cold relationships among the Goddess’s children, some of them could, at times, be just a little less indifferent toward one another.

The projection of the King of Omens remained alone. Sighing heavily, Morgott cursed under his breath before his body, woven from the power of the Golden Order, once again took the form of a commoner.

He refused to believe that the Tarnished would recognize him! Impossible!

(1) Of course, this is just one of many assumptions. Theories regarding the birth of Millicent and her sisters vary greatly, from speculation that the Erdtree itself came into contact with Malenia’s Rot, to the idea that Malenia’s daughters are a manifestation of Marika’s (and possibly Miquella’s) ability to split into independent entities.

(2) There is no mention in the game of any action taken by Gideon when the player gives him the potion, warning him of his longtime enemy’s scheme.

(3) The player can encounter Morgott disguised as a commoner on the way to the capital. If approached, he may suddenly attack. Interestingly, I personally never stumbled upon this commoner in my own playthroughs. ಠ_ಠ

(4) This is never explicitly stated, but digging into the lore, it's not hard to conclude that Marika’s lineage has a penchant for illusions, projections, and other deceptive tricks. Morgott’s projection is just one example. Even the seals the player encounters when trying to access certain locations without fulfilling quest conditions are in-lore illusions. And let’s not even get started on the Realm of Shadow, which is concealed by none other than Marika’s twisted divine illusion. The Erdtree? Probably best left unmentioned. This topic is a debated one anyway…

[Life is Good] Chapter 44

Phil Coulson… One of my favorite characters in S.H.I.E.L.D. 

No, really, I always liked him—charismatic, sharp, level-headed, definitely not an idiot. 

Just my opinion, but I always thought he’d have made a much better Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. than a certain one-eyed, baldy. And now here he was, sitting right next to me, thoughtfully sipping his coffee from a paper cup.

"Tobias, let me start by saying that the people I represent operate legally and officially, even if not always openly. The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division—S.H.I.E.L.D.—exists to protect both the United States and the world. We’re an international organization, and our primary goal is the safety of humanity." He waited for me to nod before continuing. "Today’s meeting, Mr. Salamander, doesn’t obligate you to anything. I was simply asked to have a conversation with you." 

Phil hit me with a smile that, if we were in a real-life RPG, would have landed a "+100 Charisma" buff. "We’re just going to talk about the future, opportunities, possibilities. If you’re okay with that, of course."

"Mmm… Mr. Coulson, I don’t mind per se…" Think, brain, or I swear I’m buying you a hat! Not that I need one—I don’t even get cold! "…but I’ve never heard of this S.H.I.E.L.D. of yours. Would you mind showing me some credentials? It’s just… I’ve had some unpleasant experiences with so-called 'legal and official' organizations before. The army, for example." 

Seriously, how was I supposed to know this was legit? Or was this a test—see how gullible I was, or how much information mutants had?

"Of course." Coulson pulled an ID from the inside of his coat and handed it to me. I scrutinized it thoroughly, then shot him a skeptical look, comparing his face to the photo. The guy straightened his expression, stiff as a brick wall, trying to match the serious mugshot, then cracked into a ridiculously charming grin. Friendly bastard. But I wasn’t folding that easily—if we’re playing a game, we’re playing it all the way. I pulled out my phone and, under Coulson’s mildly amused gaze, went to the U.S. government’s database of federal agencies.

"Strategic Homeland…" I muttered as I typed.

"Intervention," Coulson corrected smoothly, then started dictating himself. "Enforcement and Logistics Division. Hyphen right there, yeah. ‘Enforcement’ with an 'E,’ not an 'A.’ There you go."

"Found it," I nodded in satisfaction, clicking on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s barely-there official description. I compared the emblem on the website to the one on his badge, nodded again, and handed it back. Coulson glanced at my screen with genuine curiosity, as if he hadn’t seen it himself before. "And you’re sure talking about Salamander out in the open like this is a good idea?" I gestured vaguely at our very public surroundings.

"It’s fine. No need to worry." Coulson raised his coffee cup with a knowing smile, while tucking his badge back into his coat. "As for privacy—our conversation is secured. We’ve got S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel monitoring the perimeter, ready to step in if anyone tries to interrupt. A little bit of… spycraft, if you will." His smirk was downright amused. "So, we can speak freely, Mr. Salamander. Your recent activities have drawn our attention. In a good way." He smiled again—light, warm, encouraging. "I’ve gone through the reports—excellent work. Simply outstanding. Three high-profile cases, all successful. Minimal casualties, zero collateral damage, objectives fully met. That’s an impressive track record for a fifteen-year-old."

"Thanks, sir, but I was only up against common criminals." I cast my gaze downward, playing it modest, buying myself some time. Needed a minute to pull my thoughts together. I came here expecting to grab a bite with a completely insane woman in spandex, and instead, I got an ultra-smooth operative from a shadowy government agency. "None of my opponents had any real combat training or significant abilities, except Scorpia. And even with her, I just… had the advantage thanks to my powers."

Coulson took another sip of coffee, scanning the area like he was enjoying a casual stroll. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he looked back at me. And damn, the friendliness radiating off him was next-level.

"Tobias, let’s skip the formalities. Call me Phil. We’re both men here, I think we can afford to be a little more… straightforward. Besides, I get the feeling you’re someone who prefers to carve out his own future, same as me." His grin was downright charming. "That sound good to you?"

"Uh… yeah, sure, Phil. Let’s keep it simple. Call me Toby, I’m more used to that." Something about that "let’s keep it casual" line actually gave me a weird confidence boost. "So, since we’re being honest, just lay it out—what’s the real goal of this little ‘casual chat about my future’? And don’t dance around it. Just give it to me straight. Like I said, I’ve had some bad experiences, so your whole ‘you’ve caught our attention’ thing makes me a little… uneasy."

Coulson took a slow sip of coffee and gazed at the sky.

"Yeah, that was a disgraceful situation," he admitted. "You don’t have to believe me, but we weren’t aware of Stryker’s project." That project in particular? What about others? That little thought hit me immediately. "But we’re not interested in you as some test subject. Let’s be honest—any organization is always looking for strong, capable people. If I put it bluntly, you’re exactly the kind of talent we want to recruit. Not today, not tomorrow, but down the line? You’d be an excellent fit for S.H.I.E.L.D." His smirk was knowing. "You’ve already got some fans in our ranks, by the way. I’ve heard it firsthand. And just to be clear—no unethical experiments. Just safe ability assessments, and only if you consent."

"And what exactly is S.H.I.E.L.D. offering?"

"The same thing every agency like us does. Full benefits package, insurance for every situation, a solid paycheck. And most importantly—security for your loved ones. Surveillance to ensure their safety, emergency evacuations if needed, even full identity changes if things go south. Kind of like witness protection, but with way more resources and options. On top of that, our people can provide assistance in…" He waved a hand vaguely. "Various complicated situations, if you catch my meaning. Anything from smoothing over minor legal issues to offering high-quality medical aid for your family."

Ah, there it is—the real bait. I didn’t even try to hide my interest, my eyes locking onto Phil.

"Would that include high-end prosthetics for my mother? Not just a hook or some useless chunk of metal—an actual, functional prosthetic she could use like a real hand."

"It would." Coulson nodded without hesitation.

"The price? How much is this gonna cost me?"

"Right now, I can't say," Coulson replied smoothly. "I simply don’t have the necessary information." Yeah, sure, buddy. Swear to God, he’s lying like he breathes. There’s no way in hell he walked into this "casual chat" unprepared, and my mom’s condition? The perfect bait to hook a young guy like me. "It’s possible we could arrange things in such a way that your mother’s prosthetic wouldn’t cost you anything at all." Aaand there it is. The metaphorical carrot, dangling right in front of my nose. 

Whatever goodwill I had for Phil? Instantly gone. Look, I get it. It’s not like they wouldn’t try to play this card, but it still left a bad taste in my mouth. They’re banking on me getting worked up, stressing about my mom, desperate to help her—then, just when I’m at my limit from the uncertainty, they’ll swoop in like, bam! Wearing white, all noble and righteous, helping a poor, struggling teenager… just gotta sign right here—and, oh yeah, here—and, uh, a quick drop of blood here… 

Yeah, fuck that.

I nodded to myself, lost in thought. Coulson must’ve misread it as actual concern because he gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder and even winked at me like some wise, benevolent mentor.

"Can I think about it?"

"Of course, Toby. And relax—no one’s gonna drag you into this against your will. Like I said, we’re just talking. I just wanted to lay out some possibilities for the future." He smiled that disarming, casual smile of his. "For now, keep doing what you're doing. And on our end, I can promise you that S.H.I.E.L.D. won’t interfere with your Salamander activities. In fact, we’ll help facilitate things when it comes to dealing with bureaucracy. Your collaboration with the police? Great idea. Solid experience-building. We do have our own academy, which you’d probably have to go through, but real combat experience? That’s invaluable. And even if you decide not to join us, having a superpowered officer in law enforcement wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world." He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me. "Here’s my contact info. In case you ever run into trouble. And, you know…" He hesitated briefly. "If you happen to see, say, an actual alien spaceship or a zombie army? Call me immediately."

Yeah. Only in Marvel does an official government agent say something like that with a completely straight face.

Coulson tossed his empty cup in the trash, gave me a final nod, and strolled toward the park exit, leaving me sitting there, staring after him, trying to process… everything. On the surface, it wasn’t a bad conversation. I basically got an unofficial thumbs-up from S.H.I.E.L.D. to keep doing my thing, and some bureaucratic support would actually be helpful. But still… there was a slimy aftertaste left by the way they dangled my mom’s health like a prize to be won. I get it. It’s all business. It’s a negotiation. But damn, did they really have to be so textbook about it?

And let’s be real—just because Coulson walked away didn’t mean they’d stop watching. If anything, they’d probably crank up the surveillance now, trying to gauge my reaction. So I kept my expression neutral, serious, thoughtful. Everything had gone more or less how I expected, though I figured they'd wait a bit longer before making their move. Still, they weren’t trying to shove me straight into the Avengers—Coulson mentioned an academy, which meant they were thinking long-term. That was actually kind of a relief. It meant they weren’t looking to toss me into some suicide mission next week. And knowing for sure that S.H.I.E.L.D. was positively inclined toward me? That was useful information. Plus, them making my police collaboration easier? Definite win.

My train of thought derailed when I sensed a group of familiar signatures heading straight for me. Looking up, I saw a small squad of four girls making a beeline in my direction—one of them being Flash Thompson. Oh, right. The other three were her usual girl gang. Holy shit, I actually missed Flash. Hell, I missed all my school friends.

A huge grin spread across my face as I jumped off the bench, heading toward them. Flash was grinning just as wide.

We met in the middle, laughing, immediately launching into a mess of half-shouted greetings like, "Flash, I missed you, you busty dropout!" and "Toby, long time no see, you little shit!"

"Hey! Who you calling little, you overgrown giraffe?! I’m practically your height now!" Seriously, I’d shot up. Guess all that training worked—or maybe it was the energy absorption thing.

"Once a shorty, always a shorty," Flash smirked, ruffling my hair before pausing and gasping dramatically. "Tobi, where the hell is your fancy-ass hairstyle? What, you enlisting?"

"Decided to change it up. Thinking about going full military-style, actually. You know, blank fatigues, combat boots with the fur—"

"Why the hell fur?"

"Because it gets reactions like that!" I cackled. "But seriously, what about you guys? Still skipping class? Feels like a lifetime since I last saw you, but some things never change!"

I could see it in their faces—even without words, their expressions said it all. Genuine happiness. Real excitement. Well, except for one. One of the girls stood slightly apart, face scrunched like she’d just bitten into a whole lemon. But that was normal. Carla was a hardcore, no-compromise, ultraconservative feminist. In her worldview, all men were just walking dicks whose sole purpose was to sit at home and bang their wives. According to Flash, she was actually a decent person—just a total asshole to guys. Flash had even decked her once over it, and they’d been in a month-long cold war afterward. Since then, she mostly ignored me and Harry, expressing her distaste through sheer facial expression.

Did I care? Nope. Neutral ignorance all the way. Honestly, there was one moment that made me cut her some slack—a schoolyard brawl where she’d jumped in alongside the rest of us. And during that fight, she actually covered me a couple of times. So, yeah. Could’ve been worse.

"Same old, same old," Flash sighed, hands on her hips. "Studying, sports… skipping class, yeah." Her expression shifted into something weirdly soft. "Harry’s gonna nag me about it later, of course, but he’s so cute when he complains." Her squad immediately burst into giggles. "So cute." Flash herself had a dumb, happy smile, and the other girls had zero shame laughing at her over it. "What about you? How’s the new school?"

I exhaled. "How do you think? It’s a closed boarding school with full-time residence. I live there. Barely ever get to leave. But the education’s top-tier. I’m planning to graduate early. Good people there, too. I do miss you guys, though. But, hey—I’m actually getting some free time soon!" I remembered Yuriko’s promise. "I’ll post in the chat. We have to get everyone together. Penny’s visiting for the week, so we should definitely go out and do something!"

"Now that is a plan," Flash declared, grinning. "Flash Thompson never turns down a good party! But what about right now? What are you doing here all alone?"

"Got a meeting. Waiting on a friend." I checked my watch—almost time. "She should be here any minute now…"

"Alright then, Toby, we won’t keep you." Flash, catching onto my brief hesitation, smirked and gave me another firm hug. I keep telling you—she’s not stupid. "We’ll head out now. Hit me up when you figure out the date! Have a good one!"

"Have a great day, Flash, girls!" I grinned at all of them, getting a chorus of "Later, shorty!" and various cheeky farewells in return. Even Carla muttered something that wasn’t an insult and managed a half-assed smile.

They walked off, chatting excitedly, and just as they were about to disappear from earshot, I caught a gem of a comment: "Damn, our little guy’s grown up. Wonder if he’s grown everywhere?" That was immediately followed by an explosion of laughter and a solid smack to the back of the head. "Thompson, you’re out of line, you big-titted dumbass!" I actually snorted.

There it was—the unseen hand of the Emperor at work. Someone tried to ruin my mood, so he sent me a good friend—maybe even a real friend—who, despite it being a fleeting meeting, still managed to cheer me up. I was cracking up at the thought, imagining some cosmic deity with nothing better to do than send girls my way to lift my spirits. Whatever the case, I felt lighter.

Sipping the last of my coffee, I turned my attention to the woman approaching me. A slight sense of exhaustion crept in—I could already tell she was probably about to start hitting on me. Oh well, nothing new. I’d just let her know I was busy and not in the mood for small talk.

That being said… she wasn’t bad at all. Light makeup, a refined, delicate face with a straight nose and lips just a little on the thin side. Blue eyes framed by rectangular glasses, blonde hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. Her outfit was sharp—a pencil skirt that perfectly highlighted a pair of long, toned legs encased in simple, sheer black tights. The tailored blazer over her figure did wonders for some very inviting curves. It was that classic hot teacher look—the kind that makes every guy in class sigh longingly. Damn. Damn. I actually liked this style. Hell, I bet half the dudes in the world shared that opinion.

For a split second, I regretted that I was busy. This was definitely someone worth getting to know… maybe even someone who could tutor me a little… in geometry, of course. Yes, geometry! I had a weakness for it. I could already picture it: this woman locking the classroom door, walking slowly toward me, her voice husky and teasing—"Well, Tobi… it’s just you, me… and geometry." Mmmm—cough cough—okay, hold up, maybe I got a little too into that fantasy, because suddenly, her smile looked way too pleased, and her hips had an extra bounce to them as she walked. Shit. Did I let my face slip for a second?

"Hey, Tobi," came Wanda Wilson’s unmistakable voice, full of playful energy as she flashed me a dazzling grin. "Been waiting long?"