JohnnyZ

[Demons of NC] Chapter 74

The Badlands stretched out around us. I could feel the hunger for battle simmering inside me—the need to drown out Michiko’s words in the roar of gunfire. But her voice still echoed in my head as I strapped on my gear inside the trailer.

She’d figured out my involvement in Abernathy’s death. Probably assumed I used David to slip my former boss a unique neurovirus. The most logical conclusion. A hell of a lot more believable than a tunnel through the Blackwall.

Not that I had to worry too much about exposure. Michiko had made it clear that Abernathy had made too many mistakes. So, chances were, knocking her off had actually earned me some credit. Not in the "Good job for whacking Night City’s Counterintel chief!" sense, but in the "Damn, not many people can pull off something like that" sense.

I already had a solid rap sheet—recruiting David, planting the worm in Crystal Palace, saving Tanaka’s secrets. If you added Abernathy’s and Slider’s heads to the list, my record started looking downright legendary.

Then again, sometimes being too good at something was a curse. Just ask Abernathy—she saw my talent and decided it was safer to wipe me out than fire me.

But in the end, talent won. I was still standing.

I doubted Michiko wanted me filing spreadsheets again. That’s why she so easily agreed to my "freelance" status. The only question now was—where the hell would she throw me next? Stir up shit in the NUSA? Steal light bulbs from Kang Tao’s bathrooms?

Whatever it was, I was sure she’d find work for me.

My best bet was still Yorinobu. If his little grand reveal went as planned, Arasaka would have bigger problems than me.

"Choom, you coming or what?" Becca’s voice cut through my thoughts.

"Yeah, yeah, on my way," I said, fastening the last straps on my gear and activating a holo-mask—a red variant of the kind Scavs liked to wear.

For weapons, I had two electromagnetic Kenshin pistols—Apparition and a standard model—along with Nash’s old rifle, grenades, and a monokatana for the absolute worst-case scenario.

It was about five in the evening. Ninety minutes till the convoy rolled in.

I stepped outside under the pale blue California sky—where the ozone layer was thinner than cigarette paper. Even at sunset, the heat was merciless, and the dust made my nose itch.

Scattered among the yellow-brown rock formations were five armored vehicles, tucked out of sight. One belonged to Panam, another to Falco, and the rest were probably borrowed from the Nomads. Each had a turret, and two even had guided missile launchers.

A mismatched crew of mercs and freelancers milled around, all geared up. Even Lucy, for once, was in a light kevlar vest and a full-body armored suit. Like me, she wore a holo-mask.

Above us, a few unarmed drone-cams hovered, catching footage. Someone was blasting club music, and if it weren’t for the ridiculous amount of firepower, it could’ve passed for a Badlands rave.

"Alright, eyes on me! Everyone’s here!" Panam called out, throwing me a nod. "Time to go over my brilliant plan for fucking over a corp."

"Wait, this is the guy we’ve been waiting on?" one of the mercs—big, red mohawk—gave me a skeptical look.

That was Alec Johnson. I just smirked in response.

Funny. Spent my whole morning trying not to impress an absurdly powerful corpo exec—only for her to see right through my act and peg me as dangerous. And now the hired muscle I paid for didn’t seem impressed.

Whatever.

"Yeah, him," Panam confirmed. "He’s our second runner. Now shut up and listen. And Mike—kill the music."

"Alright, alright, I’ll turn it down," muttered Mike Kowalski, aka "Little Mike."

He was the embodiment of old-school Night City—a guy with a Polish last name and no clear racial identity. Somewhere between European and Asian. No nation, no allegiance. Former Tiger Claw, now a solo-for-hire. The only one here with a backstory as Night City as Becca’s.

Panam took a deep breath, then started her briefing.

"In about an hour, give or take, a Militech convoy is rolling through here. Sixteen big rigs, armored escorts, more guards than a Corpo CEO’s wet dream. Just the way we like it. Pull up the map."

A portable projector flickered on, and a 3D render of the surrounding terrain—stitched together from satellite data—hovered in front of us.

"So what do we have lined up for our friends from NUSA? We planted explosives here, here, and here," she pointed with the grip of her pistol, holding it by the barrel. "Hardwired detonation—no network access. Shielded cables. Quick scans won’t pick them up. Plan A is to take out the lead and rear escorts, pinning them in place. Right here—"

She gestured at a section of uneven terrain, full of deep ravines and jagged rocks.

"Bad spot for them—big trucks won’t clear it without rolling over. Meanwhile, this side’s clear. That’s where we come in. Then? Lots of shooting, grabbing what we can, and getting the fuck out. If the underground charges don’t work… Tim, what’s Plan B?"

The tech Panam hired—a guy in an orange jumpsuit—held up four drone bombs. Looked like the ones we’d tried to use on Abernathy.

"We got four kamikaze drones and three recon units," Panam continued. "We also installed a few long-range cameras at the ambush site. They’re net-linked, but offline for now. We’ll only power them up when the fireworks start—for safe runner work."

"So the rest of us get the unsafe work?" Gabe Fuller, a heavy weapons merc, joked.

"No shit," Panam shot back. "This ain’t a job interview for a pizza joint."

"Hey, no complaints, girl. We’re here to shoot people, and I know that."

Three of the five hired solos had machine guns. Mike carried a marksman rifle, and another guy had a sniper.

"If the charges and drones both fail, we have this," Panam added, yanking a tarp off the bed of a truck.

Underneath were four anti-tank guided missiles—old but well-maintained military surplus, probably modified in some Nomad chop shop.

"If we have to use these," she warned, "kiss the loot goodbye."

"Is that all we got?" she asked, then answered herself. "Nope. Not even close. Tim, show them."

The short, dark-skinned tech—probably a Nomad—pressed something on his console. A section of one truck’s chassis slid open, revealing two more launchers. But these weren’t normal.

They looked improvised.

"What the fuck is that?" Becca blurted.

"EMP missiles," Tim said proudly. "Hybrid charges. First pulse fries electronics. Second’s a low-yield fragmentation blast. Downsides? Expensive as hell and not the most reliable."

"Each shot costs eight grand," Panam added before glancing at me. "We using ‘em if shit hits the fan?"

I gave her a nod.

"Yeah. If we have to."

“We’re packing some serious heat,” the third gunner whistled in appreciation. “Damn, I love working with Nomads. You guys don’t fuck around.”

I had to agree.

How do you know you’ve put together a good crew? When you show up and see they’ve already handled everything without you having to micromanage every little detail. It was nice rolling in and finding everything set up.

“Alright, to sum up…” Panam continued. “We’ve got two runners, six solos, and three vehicles for the assault. You—” she pointed at Falco without saying his name, “—plus the girls and that guy over there.” She gestured toward Fuller.

“‘That guy…’” Fuller muttered, slinging his machine gun over his shoulder. “I get it, we’re keeping things low-key. But damn, I was hoping we’d go with cool-ass codenames, like in those old movies. Mister Red, Mister Blonde and shit.”

“Oh yeah, sure. And then you’d spend the whole job trying to remember that shit instead of my plan,” Panam shot back. “The only codenames here are for the cars—First, Second, and Third. Simple. You’ll recognize Militech grunts by their fancy uniforms. Shoot them. Don’t shoot anyone else. Alright, let’s split up.”

Alec Johnson and two other mercs were riding with Tim in the center. Becca, Lucy, and Fuller were with Falco on the right flank. Me, Mike, and Panam were on the left. I’d considered using my rank to position myself next to Lucy, but splitting the runners between flanks made more sense. Panam had the right idea.

“Figure out your firing angles based on where your ride is when we hit the convoy,” she continued. “Escort vehicles? Turn ‘em into scrap. The trucks? Don’t fry them. You, you, and you—take a rocket launcher. The fourth’s mine. Runners—” she looked straight at me, “—our intel says they’ve got two vehicles with grenade turrets. Would be real nice if those turned into smoking wrecks real quick.”

That one was aimed at me. Lucy already knew the convoy’s composition—she was the one who intercepted the intel in the first place.

A few minutes later, we were strapped in, engines running. Two extra vehicles would follow behind on autopilot, acting as backup transport and extra storage for the loot.

Now, we just had to wait.

We were set up in a shallow depression, draped in yellow camo fabric and running anti-scan jammers. Inside the vehicle, it was dark as hell, except for a dim overhead light and the glow of our gear.

“You put this together real nice,” I said, my voice slightly distorted by the modulator in my holo-mask.

My netrunner helmet sat on my lap, ready to swap out when the time came.

“Of course I did,” Panam grinned. “This shit’s my favorite part of the job. Shootouts in the Badlands? Feels like home.”

“You really should cover your face, though.”

“Please. I’ve been on wanted lists for years,” she shrugged. “My face ain’t tits—I don’t mind showing it off. I’ll lay low for a while after this. The suits will chew each other up, find some scapegoat, and forget all about us. Same as always.”

“Choom, no offense, but you give off real corpo vibes,” Mike chimed in. “Tell me I didn’t just sign up for another pissing match between the Japs and Militech? Not that I really care—just curious. Who’s your boss?”

“I’m an alien operative,” I said, deadpan. “An interdimentional entity possessing a human body to manipulate your species and politics.”

Mike groaned. “Oh, fuck off.”

Wanna make sure someone doesn’t believe you? Just tell the truth.

Twenty minutes before the convoy was due, I took a memory stim and slid on my netrunner helmet, linking it to the vehicle’s camera systems. Panam had mounted one of Arasaka’s rangefinders per my request—though she did warn me, “Didn’t have time to install it properly. A single stray shard of shrapnel, and it’s toast.”

Fine by me. The company was paying.

“Oh, and…” Panam hesitated for a second. “Even without those EMP rockets, we may have gone a teensy bit over budget. Like… ten grand over. I’ll cover part of it with my cut of the haul.”

“Don’t sweat it,” I waved it off. “We’re well-stocked. Better to overpay a weapons dealer than a ripper.”

“Fuuuuck!” Mike groaned. “Wish every client thought like that.”

“Most clients don’t fight their own battles,” I pointed out. “Other people’s wounds don’t hurt as much.”

“Alright, enough chitchat,” Panam cut in. “Ten-minute countdown. Time to focus.”

She was right.

Beyond our weapons and gear, we had surveillance covered. A few unarmed drones hovered along potential reinforcement routes, listening in on comms. From intercepted chatter between Maelstrom and Gilchrist, their cyber-psychos had a killbox set up sixty-five clicks from ours. That was if they went straight across the dunes. No way they’d get here fast, even if they noticed something was up.

Then, the signal came through.

Panam slammed her foot on the gas. “Alright, let’s fucking go!”

The vehicle roared forward, leaving the camo tarp behind. We surged out of the shadows into the golden glow of California’s evening sun. Dust kicked up behind us. I cycled through my camera feeds, watching all three assault vehicles tear across the Badlands.

Ahead, just past the horizon—fireballs bloomed.

Drones shot into the sky from our convoy. I jumped my consciousness into one of them.

The feed was crystal clear despite the smoke and dust. Militech’s convoy was crumpling like a squeezed accordion. The explosion from the first two escort vehicles had brought several trucks to a halt, forcing the rest to emergency brake before they crashed into each other.

The massive Kavkaz haulers jostled on the road like whales trapped in a too-narrow channel.

Not bad.

But there was no panic among the guards. Militech soldiers moved with precision and discipline. The four remaining escort vehicles stopped exactly where they anticipated an attack—right in our path.

Troopers in desert-camo disembarked in a smooth, drilled motion. Some took defensive positions. Others deployed turrets and combat drones.

The distance was closing fast. Our turrets had already opened fire. Time for me to get to work.

Panam’s rig was running along the left flank, so my first priority was taking out the grenade turret closest to me. The damn thing had already spewed a burst of shrapnel rounds our way—not a direct hit, thankfully, but enough to send some metal flying. Our armor held.

I shifted my perception into cyberspace. Using the rangefinder relay, I lashed out with a full-force netrunning assault, tendrils of raw ICE-breaking code surging toward the turret. Didn’t matter if my hands went numb or if my body started shaking—this thing needed to go down.

Military-grade ICE was a bitch to crack, even for me, but a turret wasn’t a goddamn Chimera. A second, maybe two—then the ammo detonated inside. Almost simultaneously, the second turret blew. Lucy had done her part.

A burst of machine gun fire rattled against Panam’s Thorton, but the armor held. Mike, jacked into the turret, kept up suppressing fire, while I burned through my remaining memory to reboot the optics of the Militech grunts.

We’d taken out both grenade turrets, but Militech wasn’t out of tricks yet. Three guided missiles were screaming toward us. The corp had come loaded for war. I thought about trying to hack the warheads mid-flight—stupidly risky, but maybe worth a shot.

Didn’t get the chance.

Somebody—maybe one of the mercs running a Sandy, maybe Tim’s turret—fired countermeasures. Two missiles exploded midair, shredded by micro-shrapnel. The third didn’t detonate but went up in flames, burying itself in the sand.

Dust was kicking up like a goddamn sandstorm.

Two of our kamikaze drones got taken out, but the others made it through. Militech’s numbers were thinning fast.

Smart munitions were detonating behind the escort vehicles, wiping out anyone using them for cover. The enemy drones and bots were either frying out from electrical surges or getting shredded by heavy gunfire. The Militech drivers and techs weren’t eager to fight back—they were hunkering down behind the haulers, too scared to move. Some had already ditched their trucks, sprinting toward the dust-covered ravines.

“We’re in!” Panam barked.

The other two vehicles skidded to a stop, doors flying open as our ground crew stormed the convoy. Meanwhile, inside our rig, we swapped roles—Panam took over the turret while Mike unloaded explosive rounds into the stragglers.

I figured I might as well put a few rounds downrange while my memory buffer recharged. Lucy kept up her cyberwarfare assault, running her scripts at full burn. She was clearly using overclocking to push herself—I couldn’t do the same. Not with my Sandevistan. So, pew-pew it is.

Nash’s rifle still kicked like a bitch, and its accuracy wasn’t anything to write home about. Thought about bringing a sniper, but mobility took priority. Not that it mattered—our firepower was plenty without me.

Three LMGs, Becca’s dual SMGs, and the turrets on the rigs—hot lead poured down in waves, hammering across the trucks. Not exactly a lullaby. Unless, y’know, you count the permanent kind.

Fifteen Militech grunts down.

And just like that, their resistance snapped. The last of the guards broke ranks, bolting for the ravines. Those who didn’t run? They weren’t running ever again.

Beautiful.

The whole firefight had wrapped up in a couple of minutes. Coordinated action, heavy weaponry, and a surprise attack had turned an enemy force twice our size into a bunch of corpses and cowards. Not bad.

My personal contribution? Not the biggest. Important, sure, but not the deciding factor. Then again, this whole operation was my money, my plan, and my goal. That’s what real power is—controlling the flow of influence, not just bullets. In this world, it’s not just cyberware that decides things. Money still talks. If it didn’t, Saburo wouldn’t have been running Arasaka. Smasher would.

The ground crew hopped back into their vehicles. We rolled up to the trucks and got to work.

One by one, the armored doors on the Militech haulers blew open, cracked apart by shaped charges.

Inside, everything was pristine. Neat rows of crates, held in place by reinforced netting and straps. Almost looked cozy.

My eyes locked onto several large containers.

There they are.

Those goddamn bots.

“Shit, why don’t we just jack the whole truck?” Becca suggested, eyes gleaming. “There’s so much shit in here!”

“Fuck no,” Panam shot back. “That beast crawls slower than a dead rat, and I am not spending hours ripping out every tracker and bug. We grab what we need and delta.”

The mercs dove into the crates, grabbing anything that wasn’t nailed down. They were owed a cut, so they pounced on the loot like starved dogs, hauling gear into our vehicles.

Me? I moved with patience. No need to rush.

Same for Panam and Falco. Lucy was jacked into one of the trucks, extracting data. The rest—including Tim—had that gold rush look in their eyes.

People were even grabbing shit you could buy for cheap in Night City. Give it a few more minutes, and someone would’ve started pulling the tires off the trucks.

But time wasn’t on our side.

“I grabbed two Bolts,” Falco called out.

Perfect. I grabbed two more. According to the manifest, there was a fifth unit in the convoy, but fuck digging around for it. Four was plenty.

Nine minutes of looting. Not bad.

I was about to call for the pullout—then my optics caught something.

Something big.

Over the horizon, an AV.

Shit. Reinforcements? Already?

I zoomed in, adjusting my optics.

What the…?

Yeah. No doubt.

The emblem on the fuselage wasn’t Militech.

Six blood-red eyes, staring back at me from a fucked up skull.

Maelstrom.

And behind them? A dust storm of approaching vehicles.

Goddammit.

Their ambush was supposed to be sixty-five kilometers out.

Fuck the why.

Right now, we had bigger problems.

Congrats, Becca.

You’re getting your wish.

We’re fighting Maelstrom, too.

Daily Updates (07/02/25)

Apologies, didn't have the time to upload yesterday

- Thursday (yesterday) chapters:

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 68

• Tier 2: Chapter 73

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 38

• Tier 2: Chapter 43

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 35

• Tier 2: Chapter 40

- Friday (today) chapters:

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 46

• Tier 2: Chapter 51

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 46

• Tier 2: Chapter 51

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 51

Sometimes, I really felt like a failure of a cat.

"Tora-chan, are you a spy-cat?" Ino asked for the thirtieth time, still trying to wrap her head around it. I nodded.

"We’re not supposed to expose you?"

"You’re on a mission?"

Kiba and Naruto fired off their questions one after the other. Another nod from me.

And yet, they were still so far from the truth I wanted them to uncover. I had to wonder—was Ino still scared senseless after the last time she used her jutsu to not even mention using it?

"Alright, let’s summarize," Shikamaru sighed, holding up the notes he’d been scribbling down during our hour-long game of ‘20 Questions.’ "Namaiki-chan’s real name is Tora-chan. He’s a ninja cat and belongs to the daimyo’s family. We don’t return him to his ‘owners,’ because that would mess everything up. We also can’t call him ‘Tora-san’ in front of others or mention that he’s connected to the daimyo. Correct?" He looked at me for confirmation. I gave him a solemn nod.

"Moving on. Tora-san is on a secret mission in Konoha. And… he wants us to be friends. Uh… Neji-kun, are you okay with that?" Shikamaru asked, tilting his head toward the Hyuga.

Eight pairs of eyes—including Akamaru’s—zeroed in on him. Neji tensed slightly. I was curled up in his lap but lifted my head just to enjoy the sight of him turning pink.

"Well… I don’t mind," he muttered, fingers automatically threading through my fur.

Hinata let out a quiet breath—so soft that everyone somehow still heard it, and now there were two blushing Hyūgas in the room.

"I’m glad, Nii-san," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Neji’s really strong," Sasuke noted, eyes narrowing slightly. "We should spar sometime."

"Sure," Neji agreed with a nod. "I have a day off coming up."

"But what exactly is Tora-san’s mission?" Ino interrupted, bringing the conversation back to the real mystery. "It’s secret, right?"

Ughhhh… What was I supposed to say to that?! This was why the ancient wisdom of "if you don’t know what to do, take a nap" existed. I was so sick of running in circles, knowing full well that explaining things in a way they’d understand was impossible unless they had some kind of mind-reading jutsu (which they do might I add!). And every time, I still got my hopes up, only for disappointment to kick me in the tail.

Well… at least I got Neji to join the group. That was something.

The next week was a blur of training and last-minute cramming for graduation exams. Naruto was jittery, throwing himself into studying like his life depended on it. The hangout sessions at Sasuke’s apartment mostly stopped—everyone was too busy preparing. Even Iruka had stopped nitpicking at Naruto during class.

Somewhere in the chaos, I totally missed Naruto’s introduction to Konohamaru. Almost blew my cover because I straight-up forgot that was even a thing in the anime.

Meanwhile, Sasuke and Neji did manage to schedule their spar. Naruto wanted to watch, but he had to pick up his stipend and food ration coupons. Everyone promised to wait for him, and I figured he’d be fine on his own. Not a baby, right? Besides, I had to split the pork with Akamaru.

And yet, somewhere between the Hokage’s office and Ichiraku Ramen—right where we were waiting—Naruto managed to pick up a stray.

"Hey, Kaicho(1)! Teach me that cool jutsu you used to beat my grandpa!" Konohamaru hollered, latching onto Naruto’s sleeve with all the grace of a hyperactive squirrel. "Once I learn your jutsu, I’ll defecate the old man and become Hokage!(2)"

"It’s decimate, not defecate,"  Neji corrected absentmindedly, wondering why he even bothered.

"And who the heck are you?" Konohamaru demanded, jabbing a finger at Neji. "I’m gonna tell my grandpa you’re bullying me! Do you even know who my grandpa is?!"

"Oh my god, shut up!" Naruto snapped and smacked the kid upside the head. "These are my friends. If you can’t be polite, then scram. And anyway, wasn’t your creepy, sunglasses-wearing babysitter lurking around? Let him teach you."

"Ebisu’s a dummy," Konohamaru pouted. "He won’t teach me anything cool."

"Naru, what’s this kid even talking about?" Kiba frowned. "What did you show the Hokage?"

Naruto turned an impressive shade of red and shot a quick look at the girls.

"Nothing. Nothing. Adults are just a bunch of pervs," he grumbled.

"Are we going or not?" Ino huffed dramatically. "At this rate, we won’t get anywhere before sundown."

Everyone exchanged glances, looked at the tiny menace that was clearly planning to follow us, and then bolted in opposite directions.

"Hey! HEY! WHERE ARE YOU GUYS GOING?!" Konohamaru spun in circles, then turned to Teuchi like he was an informant (which he is! Can’t convince me otherwise!). "Old man! Where did Naruto and his friends run off to?! Did they say anything?"

Teuchi-san just twirled his ladle thoughtfully and shrugged. No intel from him.

I snickered to myself and sprinted toward the training field where the spar was set to take place. Hopefully, Naruto would never tell Konohamaru about his almost black ops ninja cat.

Graduation day arrived fast—just four days after Sasuke and Neji’s match. Predictably, Neji won. But honestly? It wasn’t an easy win. He hadn’t used his Byakugan to shut down Sasuke’s tenketsu, which was probably the only reason Sasuke wasn’t fuming even more than he already was. Even with the handicap, losing had put him in an awful mood.

Which meant I was now splitting my time between watching two idiots who were one bad decision away from making a scene.

And then Naruto failed his exam.

The theory part had been shaky, but thanks to Iruka’s leading questions, he somehow scraped by. The practical portion, though? A total disaster. Something was off with his chakra.

It wasn’t just bad control—something was wrong.

This was a kid who had mastered the Henge no Jutsu five months ago like it was nothing, and suddenly, he couldn’t even manage a basic transformation? No way.

Someone had clearly decided to stack the deck against him. The real question was how.

Had it been poison? A drug slipped into his breakfast? But we’d eaten at home, like usual. Maybe he was hit with some kind of chakra-disrupting attack—like a tiny needle dipped in poison, shot through a tube like those blow darts in jungle movies.

Or maybe I was just paranoid. But that didn’t change the fact that something was up.

And now I was stuck wondering—was this actually a bad thing?

Naruto was about to find out he was a Jinchuriki, one way or another. And let’s be real—stealing that scroll was going to work out in his favor. If his chakra was out of balance, then that Shadow Clone Jutsu might be the only thing he could perform properly. Plus, if the Hokage couldn’t immediately saddle him with ‘babysitter bestie’, then… what if they declared him dangerous? What if they locked him up, just in case?

Yeah, this could go very wrong very fast.

I flicked my tail anxiously and glanced over at the others.

They were waiting for him. Sasuke and Kiba were muttering about something. Shikamaru was flat on his back in the grass, while Choji sat on the swings, crunching on a bag of chips. The girls were fussing over their forehead protectors, trying to decide the best way to wear them.

Naruto was the last to take the exam. His friends had already gone first.

Shit. Do I… actually have to help the ‘villains’ pull this off?

I didn’t have time to keep worrying. Naruto came storming out, face twisted in frustration.

"Wait, I can’t retake it?" he demanded, looking between Iruka and Mizuki. "There’s something wrong! My stomach feels weird!"

"You know, I could ask around," Iruka offered kindly. "Just wait in the classroom for a bit, okay?"

"Yeah! Thanks, Iruka-sensei!" Naruto brightened immediately.

Mizuki stayed behind while Iruka hurried off.

This is exactly the kind of moment where I really regret not being able to form hand seals or use jutsu. If I could, I’d be tailing Iruka right now to see if he was actually going to bat for Naruto or just hiding in an empty classroom, counting to a hundred before coming back—giving his buddy here enough time to mess with the kid’s head.

"I feel bad for you, Naruto," Mizuki sighed, putting on the fakest concerned mentor expression I’ve ever seen. "Your friends—who are waiting for you, by the way—are about to move on as full-fledged genin. Meanwhile, you… You’ll be left behind. They’ll get placed into squads. Last year, we had a girl who failed her exam, just like you. She had to wait six whole months for a retake and ended up on a team with a completely different set of students. She had friends too, you know. I actually saw the preliminary squad lists. If you had passed today, you would have been in a team with Uchiha Sasuke. A real shame, huh? You guys would’ve made a solid team."

Wow. Just… wow. He really twisted the knife just right. I almost wanted to applaud the technique.

"But…" Naruto’s voice was barely above a whisper. He glanced at the window, looking like a kicked puppy. "I can’t wait six months. I have to pass now. And I want to be on Sasuke’s team!"

"Well… I don’t know if you’re ready for the kind of secret mission that could prove you’re genin material," Mizuki mused, stroking his chin like he wasn’t about to pull the slimiest con job of the century. "It’s an old tradition. Most people don’t even remember it anymore. I’m sure if you ask Iruka about it, he’ll just try to talk you out of it."

Naruto took the bait—hook, line, and sinker. "What do I have to do?"

Mizuki was just about to deliver his grand pitch when Iruka came barreling back into the room, slightly out of breath.

"I talked to Director Michokado," Iruka announced, straightening up. "You can retake the exam next term."

And just like that, we’re at the finish line. Or… maybe the starting line.

Naruto gave a small nod. "I see," he said, before sneaking a glance at Mizuki, who had on the most I told you so face I’d ever seen.

The kid left the classroom, and I watched as he made his way downstairs. I hesitated, debating whether to follow him or stick around to eavesdrop on the teachers. But they were just silently packing up their papers—no juicy conversations. Damn it.

I jumped down and slipped through the bushes toward my little troublemaker and his crew.

"…So you guys go on ahead. I’ve still got this stupid cleanup duty," Naruto was saying, laughing a little too casually. "Gotta stick around for a couple more hours, so don’t wait up for me, alright?"

"Alright," Sasuke shrugged. "But we’re still doing Ichiraku, right? We were gonna celebrate our promotions."

"Yeah, but let’s push it to tomorrow," Naruto hedged, rubbing the back of his head. "It’s almost sunset, and the place is gonna be packed. Better to go when we can just relax, y’know?"

"Fine. See you tomorrow, then," the others waved and started to leave. Sasuke lingered for a second, studying Naruto with a look that clearly said something’s off, but he didn’t push it. He just nodded and walked away.

Naruto sighed, then turned and stared directly at the bush I was in.

"Namaiki-chan, I know you’re there," he called out.

Busted.

I slinked out of the foliage and hopped onto the swing next to him. His blue eyes were steady—no hesitation, no second-guessing. His jaw was set, his fists clenched.

"Don’t tell them, okay?" he said quietly. "I’ll figure this out myself. I don’t wanna be a failure."

I held his gaze for a long moment before finally giving a slow nod.

He settled back onto the swing, watching the Academy entrance. Waiting.

Everything was happening just like before.

And yet, somehow, everything was different.

(1) In the original, Konohamaru calls Naruto Oyabun, a term used to refer to the boss or chief of a yakuza gang. I replaced it with Kaichō, which can have a similar meaning depending on the context but is a more familiar term for anime fans. Another alternative is Aniki which I could use if you find it more appropriate.

(2) In the original the joke goes like this:

"Эй, оябун! Научи меня своей крутой технике, которой ты победил моего деда!" верещал Конохомару, цепляясь за рукав пятнистого костюмчика Узумаки. "Я научусь твоей технике, победю старика и стану Хокаге!"

"Правильно говорить «одержу победу», а не «победю»," машинально поправил эту бестолочь Неджи.

Tbh, I have no clue how to explain this in English, let alone translate it properly.

[Castling] Chapter 51

I didn’t rush to the headmaster’s office, hoping that by the time I got there, Dumbledore would have already wrung the details out of Hermione and Harry. I needed time to think, to figure out how to spin things the right way. I’d been caught up in too many shady incidents lately, and the last thing I needed was for the wrong people to start getting curious. Drawing the attention of the powerful was never a good idea.

"Come in, Mr. Weasley," came Snape’s smooth, measured voice the moment I knocked politely on the door. Brilliant. Just who I wanted to see. Though, to be fair, I’d suspected he’d be here.

My friends sat stiffly at the tea table, exchanging nervous glances, cups clutched in their hands. Dumbledore was hunched over a large stone basin, its rim glowing faintly with runes. Snape loomed beside him like some overprotective vulture, keeping a sharp eye on his precious patron while simultaneously glaring at us lot. He looked more irritated than outright furious, which I supposed was a good sign—at least he wasn’t having a full-blown meltdown, like in the book. But I wasn’t about to relax—his eyes were cold and suspicious, brimming with restrained hostility.

"I see you didn’t hurry, Weasley," he said icily, flicking a hand towards the table. "Sit with the others. And keep quiet. The headmaster will be with you shortly."

I slid into the nearest chair next to Hermione, keeping my mouth shut. A cup jumped towards me of its own accord, filling itself with tea. I sighed and reached for the cream. I wanted nothing more than to question my friends, but that wasn’t happening with Snape right there. So instead, we exchanged wary looks, trying to gauge each other’s reactions. Hermione and Harry didn’t seem too rattled, which was reassuring—but I felt a pit of dread settle in my stomach. What if they’d pulled memories from them? What if they found out about… well, everything? The Ministry, for one. That’d be a nightmare to explain.

In the book, Black had confessed everything to Dumbledore himself. They hadn’t taken anyone’s memories. I clung to that thought as the silence stretched on, thick and suffocating.

Then, finally, Dumbledore straightened up with a satisfied sigh, smoothing out his robes.

"You’re in for quite the spectacle, Severus," he said cheerfully, nodding towards the basin. "I’d be very interested to hear your thoughts. Do have a look, but don’t dally. Meanwhile, I shall remember my manners and have some tea with our brave young heroes."

Snape gave a derisive snort but didn’t argue. Without hesitation, he leaned over the Pensieve and plunged his head inside.

Dumbledore, smiling benignly, made his way over to us.

At his approach, Hermione and Harry instantly perked up, as if Snape’s looming presence had been pressing down on them. With the tension momentarily lifted, the atmosphere lightened. And when Dumbledore casually awarded Gryffindor thirty points for "correctly handling a werewolf," things improved even more. There was a clatter of cutlery as we eagerly tucked into the tea and biscuits.

The headmaster was subtle about his questioning. He coaxed out details in the midst of friendly chatter, seamlessly blending praise with mild reprimands, offering sweets and tea as though this was just a pleasant evening discussion. He kept us on edge, though—never quite confirming what sort of punishment we’d be facing, only making it clear that it wouldn’t be too harsh. I had a feeling he was saving my interrogation for later, once the "bad cop" finished his Pensieve dive and came back swinging the metaphorical sword of justice. Dumbledore liked playing the protector—framing things so we’d see him as the kind, understanding authority figure. The carrot before the stick.

He really was something else.

"Excuse me, sir," Harry asked suddenly. "How did you find out about Black? And everything else? And… is there any way to clear his name, now that Pettigrew’s gone? I mean… Sirius said he’s my godfather, and he… he invited me to live with him this summer."

"Your hopes of having family and a home of your own are quite understandable, Harry," Dumbledore replied kindly. "But I fear not all our wishes can come true. You see, like everyone else, I too believed Black to be guilty. However, a rather fascinating object came into my possession—the Hogwarts Map. And I must say, you three acted with a shocking lack of responsibility, keeping such an artifact to yourselves. Had you trusted a professor with it from the start, Pettigrew could have been captured, and there might have been a chance to clear Sirius Black’s name. But, I’m afraid, that opportunity has passed. It is unlikely that Sirius will be able to take you in this summer."

Harry visibly deflated, his shoulders sagging.

"But don’t lose heart," Dumbledore added, patting his shoulder reassuringly. "Once I am able to contact him, I shall do my best to resolve the matter."

Oh, I bet he would. As soon as Black agreed to let the Order use his house, I thought dryly. Of course, who in their right mind would leave a kid alone in a rundown mansion with a half-mad convict and a deranged house-elf? But Dumbledore was a master at spinning things to his advantage. Frame the man as guilty when convenient, then paint him as a tragic victim when needed. This was how heroes were made—hammered into shape by whatever cause suited.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, brightening slightly as he accepted a biscuit.

"S-Sir, are we going to be expelled?" Hermione finally blurted, clearly the most anxious about our potential punishment. Harry, meanwhile, lounged like he was having a casual chat with a distant uncle.

"I do not believe your recklessness warrants such extreme measures," Dumbledore mused, sipping his tea before flashing one of his knowing smiles. "However, there will, of course, be consequences for breaking school rules. A jelly bean, Miss Granger? Don’t be shy—they’re quite delicious."

Hermione blushed but took a sweet from the dish, murmuring her thanks.

"Now, then," Dumbledore continued, making sure everyone was well-fed before proceeding. "Given that everyone present is now aware of Professor Lupin’s… condition… Professor Snape delivered his Wolfsbane Potion this evening, only to find the professor absent. In his search, he stumbled upon an intriguing map. The full moon had not yet risen, but Remus needed to be found—Wolfsbane must be consumed while hot, and its timing is crucial. The map, naturally, piqued my interest, but I decided to examine its properties later. At that moment, my priority was locating Professor Lupin—and activating a very particular artifact to do so. Surely, you do not think I would neglect my responsibilities as headmaster?" His eyes twinkled with amusement as he observed our startled expressions.

"So, you were spying on him?" Harry asked, his voice tinged with innocence.

"Keeping an eye on him," Dumbledore corrected with a sly smile, clearly amused by Harry’s reaction. "And Professor Lupin was well aware of it. Besides, I never abused his trust. The artifact wasn’t necessary on a daily basis—it was meant for emergencies, like this one. It’s hardly the same as the Marauder’s Map, which reveals everyone in the castle at the whim of its holder. You must understand, Harry, that I bear responsibility for all who reside within these walls. Could I truly afford to leave such a serious matter unattended?"

Harry ducked his head, looking sheepish. Dumbledore’s not-so-subtle hint had made it painfully clear—we had, in fact, been spying on people.

"The enchantments showed me that Remus was in the Shrieking Shack," the headmaster continued smoothly, ignoring the awkward silence. "I sent Severus to retrieve his potion and turned my attention to the map. I got distracted for a moment, but when I looked again, I saw all of you—along with Sirius Black—gathered near the Whomping Willow."

"And you didn’t think to rush in and save us?" I asked, genuinely surprised.

"I didn’t see the need, Ron," Dumbledore replied, pausing to study me with an unsettling intensity. "Your markers and Black’s had only been together for a brief time, and then they started to move apart. That meant he hadn’t harmed you and had left peacefully. And, if I may say so, I do not believe the servant is stronger or more dangerous than the master. Harry faced Voldemort in his first year and did remarkably well, all things considered. I hardly think Black, even as a crimin—"

But he never finished. Snape emerged from the Pensieve, interrupting the conversation.

"Headmaster, if I may?" he said without preamble, striding over to the table. Dumbledore nodded, and Snape immediately turned his piercing gaze on me. "Weasley, I need your memories. The ones involving the rat."

"Alright, sir," I agreed easily, rising from my seat and stepping up to the basin.

"Focus on the relevant memory," Snape instructed, waving his wand in an intricate motion.

I concentrated, picturing myself walking by the castle with the rat in my hand. Then, the moment Black devoured him. I cut the memory off just as I reached the Whomping Willow, where I’d seen the others and Lupin. It had to be precise. If the books I’d read were right, Pensieve memories could be examined from multiple angles. Which didn’t entirely make sense—how could you see what was behind you if you hadn’t actually witnessed it? But apparently, the mind fills in gaps, reconstructing details based on voice tones, atmosphere, and gut feelings. That’s why memories aren’t always reliable—they contain a bit of personal bias. You could only trust what the person had actually seen with their own eyes.

Brains really were a weird thing.

Snape pulled the swirling, silvery strand from my temple, lowering it into the basin. He leaned in, immersing himself in the memory.

He resurfaced almost immediately.

"The recollections are too fragmented," he declared, flicking a glance toward Dumbledore. "You failed to concentrate properly, Weasley."

"Forgive me, Professor," I shot back. "It’s been a rather eventful evening. What with nearly being mauled by a werewolf and watching a supposed mass murderer devour a man—who, as it turns out, was actually a rat in disguise."

A heavy silence followed. I’d bet anything that it had only just properly sunk in for Harry and Hermione—no matter how you looked at it, the rat had still been a person.

"Ahem… I believe we have covered enough for tonight," Dumbledore said at last, breaking the tension. "Severus, would you be so kind as to escort our young guests back to their tower?"

Chairs scraped against the floor as we all stood, murmuring our goodbyes before trailing after our ever-pleasant escort.

"Weasley, you will report to me for detention after dinner tomorrow," Snape announced curtly, a malicious twist to his lips as we reached the Gryffindor entrance. "As for you two, your Head of House will inform you of your punishment. In the meantime, I am deducting ten points from each of you for breaching school rules."

"What?" Harry protested. "But we made it back before curfew, sir!"

"There is currently an emergency situation in this school, Potter," Snape spat. "Leaving the castle after dinner is strictly forbidden for all students, no exceptions. And traipsing around with a werewolf on the brink of transformation—alongside a fugitive, no less—is hardly acceptable behavior. Had you an ounce of common sense, you might have realized that. Perhaps you should have paid more attention to the headmaster’s welcome speech. And for your cheek and insolence, I am removing an additional five points and assigning you detention with Filch. Wednesday evening. You are dismissed."

Harry looked ready to argue, but Hermione tugged urgently at his sleeve, silently pleading with him to let it go.

Once inside the common room, Harry was still fuming, eager to rant about Snape and dissect everything that had happened. But Hermione looked exhausted, and honestly, I just wanted to be alone. Without much discussion, we headed straight for our dorms.

By the next morning, Harry seemed to view our adventure in a new light—exciting, even beneficial. He had a godfather now, after all, and that outweighed detention, Snape’s nastiness, and the lost house points.

Even Hermione wasn’t too upset. Yes, it had been reckless and dangerous, but the end result—saving an innocent man—was worth it. She and Harry bounced off each other, discussing it with something close to glee.

I, however, kept quiet, nodding along while inwardly worrying about my meeting with Snape. He’d seen something in those memories, something that had put him on edge. I wasn’t looking forward to whatever interrogation he had planned.

The day carried on as usual. The new school week had begun, meaning Hermione had us all working through study schedules for upcoming exams. The usual grind—running between classrooms, taking notes, revising.

That evening, just before I left for my detention, I spotted my friends huddled in a corner of the common room with a group of our dormmates. They glanced at me, whispering, before quickly scattering. Judging by the guilty looks, they were plotting something for my birthday next Sunday.

For most people, life went on as normal.

As for Pettigrew… well, I hoped he had a pleasant afterlife.

To my surprise, when I arrived at Snape’s office, I found a small tea table set up—clearly, this wasn’t going to be the usual "scrub cauldrons until your fingers fall off" type of detention.

"Sit, Weasley," Snape ordered, pushing a cup toward me while fussing with the teapot.

Behind him, the Pensieve still glowed faintly. The silver strands inside shimmered softly.

So, he’d been studying my memories in his own time.

I smirked, deciding to take a gamble.

"Sir, these are our memories, aren't they? Would you allow me to take a look?" I asked, nodding toward the Pensieve. "I've heard about them, but I've never actually seen one in action."

Snape studied me for a long moment before answering. "Very well. But do not linger."

With that, he returned his attention to his teapot, as if this was all just another tedious interruption to his evening.

I hesitated, then took a deep breath and leaned into the swirling blue substance. A second later, I was sucked inside, landing in the common room, where Harry had been searching for me on the Marauder’s Map. It was fascinating—strange and a bit unsettling, like I'd suddenly become a ghost, unseen and free to follow people without them noticing.

I walked through the events as they had unfolded for Harry and Hermione, even coming across my own past self. Watching myself from an outside perspective was an odd experience, almost like seeing a stranger. And honestly, I didn’t like what I saw—tall, scrawny, and awkward. I really needed to bulk up, or I was going to be stuck as a gangly loser forever.

Satisfied that the memories taken from Harry contained nothing incriminating, I skimmed through my own, stopping at the part with the rat. Then, I surfaced from the Pensieve, completely at ease. Our secrets were safe. For now.

But I needed to get Snape on my side before he started digging too deep. I couldn’t handle this alone.

"Thank you, sir," I said sincerely as I settled into the chair he'd offered. "That was… unusual, but enlightening. When will you return our memories? And why can I still remember what I gave you?"

"As soon as I deem it appropriate," Snape replied sharply, though he sounded more irritated than hostile. He sighed and deigned to elaborate. "Memories can only be extracted entirely or altered through Legilimency. The spell I used merely creates a copy—a duplicate, if you will. The original memory remains in your mind, but it becomes static, much like words written in a book rather than a living thought. It loses its emotional weight and stops replaying itself over and over in your head. Are you familiar with the way certain memories can haunt the mind, looping endlessly and preventing you from concentrating on anything else?"

I nodded and took a sip of my tea.

"Then you understand the concept."

"Can a copy be copied again?" I asked.

"It can," Snape acknowledged, drinking his own tea. "However, the second copy, or a copy of someone else’s memory, would not be fully immersive—it would be more like viewing events strictly from the perspective of the original person. This is why a memory can only be properly extracted once."

"In that case, if memories can be viewed and stored, why aren’t they used in trials? Couldn’t they be used to prove Black’s innocence?" I pressed.

"They can be forged," Snape said darkly, curling his lip in distaste. The mere idea of clearing Black’s name clearly didn’t sit well with him, even now, when he knew the truth. Old grudges die hard. "And believe me, Weasley, no one in the Wizengamot would take the word of three children and a werewolf."

I nodded in understanding and reached for a biscuit.

"Speaking of Black," Snape continued, watching me closely. "I’d like to clarify a few things. Why, exactly, did you distrust Lupin? You disliked him long before my class revealed that he was a werewolf. Your reasoning when debating Miss Granger was… surprisingly sound. I want to know what led you to those conclusions. You didn’t seem particularly shocked in your memories, unlike the others. And do not lie to me, Weasley—I can spot deceit with ease."

"Alright, sir," I agreed easily, crunching on my biscuit in a way that made Snape grimace. "I’ve got nothing to hide."

"We shall see," Snape said skeptically, setting down his cup and preparing to listen.

"I knew from the start that Black and Lupin were friends," I admitted, meeting his intrigued gaze. "When I got to Hogwarts, I read every newspaper I could get my hands on—everything in the library. School newsletters, the Prophet, anything. The school papers had notes about Quidditch players, top students, and inter-house tournament results. Did you know Pettigrew was once the Gobstones captain? His team only lost twice and won the school championship five years in a row. And Lupin? He was a Prefect, and his academic record was ridiculous.

"Then, just before Christmas, I got detention—you remember, after that scrap with Linson from Ravenclaw? McGonagall sent me to Filch, and he made me sort old disciplinary records. I found Black, Potter, Lupin, and Pettigrew in there constantly. Turns out they were, well… quite the creative bunch. Enlarging people’s heads, giving them extra limbs, sprouting dragonfly wings on first-years and chucking them off staircases. I mean, sure, the castle’s got safety charms in place, but I doubt some poor twelve-year-old Muggle-born, only just learning magic, was thinking about that as they were sent tumbling down the stairs.

"So when Lupin turned up as our professor, I didn’t trust him. Why wouldn’t he help his old mate? And then Black kept sneaking into the castle, into our dormitory, which only confirmed my suspicions. That’s why I kept an eye on Harry—just like we agreed—so Lupin wouldn’t pull the wool over his eyes and lure him straight to Black."

"Interesting," Snape murmured, leaning back in his chair and regarding me with newfound curiosity. "You are full of surprises, Weasley."

"Oh, that’s not the half of it, sir," I said seriously, straightening in my chair. "But I’ll only tell you the rest if you swear a magical oath. No offense, but I don’t trust you, sir. And I certainly don’t trust Dumbledore, even if I do admire him as a wizard."

"Well, well," Snape drawled, arching a brow. "A snot-nosed schoolboy refusing to trust the great Albus Dumbledore. The irony is almost amusing."

"Never underestimate people, sir," I replied evenly. "You haven't even heard me out yet. What if I told you I've known for quite a while that Black wasn’t the traitor? And that I wasn’t just out for a casual evening stroll with my rat near the Whomping Willow?"

"You were too hasty, Weasley," Snape sneered, his expression carefully controlled, though I could sense the tension in him—like a predator poised to strike. "You failed to take an oath from me at the start, and now I’m free to relay all your delusions to the Headmaster. Let him deal with a cocky little pup who fancies himself some great wizard and master strategist. Foolishness must be contagious—you've clearly caught it from Potter. And believe me, one 'special' child is quite enough."

"Seems I misjudged you just as much as you misjudged me," I shrugged and rose from my chair. "With all due respect, sir, you've been a disappointment. The Headmaster has no real power over me—there’s nothing he can do except bore me with long-winded speeches. Legilimency on underage wizards is illegal, and Dumbledore's far too righteous to break the law when it doesn’t serve him any real advantage, especially over a so-called delusional teenager desperate for attention. Farewell, and thanks for the tea."

I’d barely taken two steps toward the door when a quiet, cold voice stopped me dead in my tracks. It was smooth, even—but utterly terrifying, like the edge of a knife pressing against my throat. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

"I don't recall giving you permission to leave, Weasley," Snape said icily. "Sit back down. Unless, of course, you'd like to experience my darker side. I am not the Headmaster, and I do not suffer from an excessive fondness for moralistic speeches."

I swallowed and forced a nervous chuckle. "Didn’t know you had a lighter side, sir." Under his piercing, unreadable gaze, I slowly sank back into my chair.

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 40

Excitement.

Lately, this feeling had firmly settled within Melina. Though it was important to recognize that excitement came in different shades: excitement born of joy or fear. Excitement tinged with resentment. Excitement born from… from…

The girl adjusted her hood, lowering her head.

Excitement born from… pleasant sensations, accompanied by the steady fading of her burns. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was self-conscious about them, reluctant to reveal her scorched hands, let alone the rest of her body. The unexpected aid in healing, despite certain… side effects, had brought her great relief.

Melina had long grown used to the sensation of her soul being burned from within. But ordinary warmth—gentle, soothing, and astonishingly tender—was something she had never experienced.

Soulslike worlds weren’t designed for such comforts.

Her current excitement leaned more toward positive emotions, rather than negative ones—the Grand Lift of Dectus was active once again. The massive statues of the intricately enchanted arch were alive, welcoming their new lord.

Konstantin held the two halves of the medallion as if he had done this hundreds, even thousands of times before. In the future, as king, he would undoubtedly use it many more times.

“It’s hard to believe the lift is active again,” Ranni folded her hands, speaking calmly.

Melina reflexively nodded, but upon realizing who had addressed her, turned her head toward the demigoddess with a displeased frown.

Sellen, meanwhile, mesmerized by the marvel of magical engineering, absently checked if her little crown was still on her head.

Neither the terrifying daughter of Queen Rennala nor the jealous—and therefore even more terrifying—daughter of the Goddess were people she intended to provoke right now.

Her new body still ached.

“Konstantin fulfilled your task. What else do you want now?” Melina asked, her tone cold.

“Am I not allowed to witness the lift’s revival?” Ranni asked calmly, her faintly spectral face showing a hint of surprise. Rested, she had noticeably better control over her emotions and even refrained from pouting… for no reason, at least.

Melina didn’t respond.

The demigoddess’s awakening had made her feel slightly more at ease—now there was less of a chance of dubious individuals, usually lounging brazenly on her shoulders, doing something… questionable.

On the other hand, there were now two witches watching her chosen one as he helped her heal her… spiritual wounds.

Melina retreated further into her hood, unwilling to show her face.

Before meeting Konstantin, she had never imagined she would find herself in a situation like this.

Fortunately, the barely audible, malicious chuckle from the perceptive Sellen went unnoticed by the false Finger Maiden. Ranni, meanwhile, paid no attention to Melina at all, remaining focused on the arch. Her lineage had built it, so it wasn’t surprising that she wanted to see a piece of its former glory.

As for Sellen’s illusion—if Ranni had noticed it at all, she regarded it as nothing more than part of the scenery.

The daughter of Queen Rennala of the Full Moon was naturally calm, but her calmness wasn’t necessarily a virtue. It served more as a mask, hiding the demons lurking deep within her soul.

“Beautiful…”

Millicent stood slightly aside, entirely focused on the marvel before her eyes. She could feel the numerous mechanisms beneath her feet coming to life.

Kosta lowered the two medallion halves, seeing that the process of casual activation had completed. He strode toward the lift with firm steps, unbothered. Behind him followed Millicent, Melina, and Sellen.

Ranni was nowhere to be seen as if she had vanished into thin air.

The red-haired warrior, now standing beside the Tarnished, glanced around in confusion—nothing seemed to be happening. However, she had drawn conclusions too soon.

Even the soulslike veteran himself was taken aback by the unexpected special effects. Instead of the lift simply beginning to ascend… somewhere, a massive magical sigil erupted in a dazzling display.

In the next moment, Konstantin felt his surroundings change. The sky turned golden, the world sank into perpetual autumn—from the golden grass to the trees whose leaves seemed on the verge of falling but, for some inexplicable reason, hadn’t done so in… ages.

Even the air felt different to Konstantin, richer with grace. The very vision of Grace, which had followed him since his arrival in the Lands Between, grew sharper, more intricate.

He reached out, touching the stream of energy.

And yet, though the Lands Between were closer to death than to life, even the most die-hard haters couldn’t deny the sheer aesthetic beauty of its game design.

Konstantin smiled.

Millicent, however, had the most genuine reaction. She had seen nature bloom before, but the view of the Altus Plateau entirely transformed her understanding of what beauty could be.

She took a few tentative steps forward, wide-eyed as she looked around, like a cat seeing snow for the first time. It seemed she could barely believe what she was seeing.

Overwhelmed with emotion, Millicent turned to the man who had made it all possible.

There was no need to once again express how deeply grateful she was. That could no longer be conveyed with words. Only through emotions—emotions Millicent had never been taught how to properly express. She was certainly more open than Melina, but her illness had kept so much locked away.

The red-haired warrior still couldn’t fully believe she might one day be rid of her affliction. It had haunted her since birth, becoming a part of her. Konstantin had already accomplished the impossible and continued to do so. Though a faint hope for another miracle had recently taken root in Millicent’s heart, until and unless that miracle came to pass…

She couldn’t allow herself to fully express her feelings. She wasn’t selfish enough for that.

Konstantin looked around one last time before whistling for Torrent. The spectral steed responded immediately, appearing before him.

Though it wasn’t obvious at first glance, the mount had grown visibly larger, its muscles more defined, even its horns had become more imposing—longer, sharper. The Spirit Tuner had done her work well, transferring spectral energy to the steed, which it could harness far better than mindless creatures. One of the Lands Between’s greatest injustices had been rectified.

The same was true for the Mimic Tear, the jellyfish, and the wolves. The only summon from the bell that hadn’t received a “level up” was the albinauric… but, unfortunately, this method of empowerment simply wasn’t suitable for her(1).

“...I wonder if direwolves live here…”

The barely audible whisper of the equally captivated Latenna lifted Kosta’s mood even more.

He was glad that, overall, at least one of the waifus was pleased with the way things were going.

Kosta helped Millicent onto the steed before mounting himself, his gaze thoughtful as he scanned the surroundings.

“So, Castle Sol?”

Millicent, knowing why he was heading there, lowered her head.

“If you—”

“Sorry for putting this off.”

The red-haired warrior’s eyes darkened. The last thing she wanted was for the Tarnished to apologize to her. She had seen how much he had to juggle, nearly tearing himself apart to handle everything. And yet, he always found time to help her.

Millicent exhaled slowly.

“Thank you…”

Konstantin shrugged nonchalantly.

Who else would take care of the small amount of good left in this cursed world? The light of the waifus was the only thing that had kept him going during the sweatiest and most grueling tries, no matter how many bad endings he faced.

Such was the fate of waifu fans in dark fantasy—likely in any fantasy. They knew what they were signing up for, yet still suffered all the same.

Fortunately, Konstantin now had the chance to fix things, and for that, he was willing to push himself to the brink. Maybe not perfectly, but at least enough to achieve the ending he wanted. His own.

Torrent, energized like never before, snorted contentedly and took off, soon disappearing into the shades of the eternally autumnal region.

Melina and Sellen stayed behind, watching the receding figures.

“What a pair of odd ones…” Sellen commented with a sly smirk.

The false Finger Maiden turned her gaze to the sorceress.

“Have you still not left that shelter?”

“There’s barely anything left of it, my lady,” Sellen replied, removing her miniature crown with a sour grimace. “Am I supposed to live among ruins?”

Melina, adopting some of her Tarnished’s mannerisms, shrugged impassively.

In today’s Lands Between, many lived among ruins—those who still retained some semblance of reason, anyway. The mindless creatures didn’t even warrant mention. As if they had a choice in this half-dead world.

The false Finger Maiden narrowed her eyes in thought.

“You’re not going to… Sellen?”

Melina looked around, not finding the sorceress perched on her shoulder. Either Sellen had fled, or—more likely—she had simply dispelled her illusion.

“She’s hard to control,” Ranni noted from the side.

Melina reflexively nodded, then sighed upon realizing who had spoken to her again. She decided not to continue the conversation.

At the very least, she could be certain that the demigoddess wouldn’t allow anything… questionable to happen. Melina herself still had some matters to attend to—things that needed checking.

Seeing the Goddess’s daughter vanish, descending to wander the lower realms of the spirit world, Ranni allowed herself a faint smile.

She was very interested in observing firsthand how Konstantin healed the scorched maiden.

Of course, her interest was purely academic. Nothing more. Absolutely nothing

But first…

The demigoddess turned her gaze to the side, frowning.

The mechanisms within Blaidd, which she had failed to suppress, were starting to activate(2). Unfortunately, that day had come.

The journey to Castle Sol turned out to be much simpler and faster than Konstantin had initially anticipated. Torrent, now upgraded, reached speeds so astonishing that their figures were practically invisible—merely a fleeting silhouette accompanied by the rush of wind.

Poor Millicent had no choice but to press herself tightly against the Tarnished, lest she be flung off entirely. Only the Outer Gods knew if she could have survived such an extreme landing.

At first, the red-haired warrior tried to keep some distance from Konstantin, fearing that the rot within her might somehow affect him. But Konstantin didn’t seem to notice, instead holding her more securely.

They made rare stops to rest, and Konstantin still needed to touch Grace at intervals. Even so, their journey took less than a couple of days.

For the Tarnished, the entire continent was like the palm of his hand. At this pace, he would eventually be able to jump across the Lands Between at will.

Such casual efficiency was beyond even the supreme sorcerers.

“That was fast. Thank you, Torrent.”

The Tarnished patted the steed’s mane. Torrent snorted, glancing meaningfully at Millicent, then snorted again and flicked his tail.

Kosta raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, thank you for that as well.”

From the moment the whistle that summoned Torrent had come into his possession, Konstantin had felt a strange connection with the steed. This bond only deepened with each upgrade. Sometimes, it seemed as if the mount could speak—just in a different way.

Millicent, catching an odd meaning in Konstantin’s words, felt her ears burn. Over the past few days, she had even gotten used to being… embraced.

Accepting the idea that the Tarnished seemed oblivious to the scarlet rot within her was difficult, but…

Embarrassingly pleasant.

‘Are they… doing this on purpose?’

Her life had not prepared her for this. Killing creatures infected with rot was far simpler and more straightforward.

It seemed this thought, in some form or another, crossed the minds of every remaining sentient being in the Lands Between.

“Castle Sol” wasn’t called that for no reason. In the distance, a mountain loomed, obscuring half of the structure. But that wasn’t the castle’s defining feature.

Kosta inhaled the familiar swampy scent, feeling an unprecedented surge of vitality from the poisonous vapors. At some point, swamps consumed every soulslike player—it was inevitable.

The castle, once grand, was now half-sunken into a toxic mire, with even the air turning yellow from the poisonous mists. An ordinary person had no business being near it.

Luckily—or unluckily (depends on those who they encounter)—both Millicent and Konstantin were far from ordinary.

While Konstantin’s resilience was expected (or not, but everyone was used to it), Millicent, in a sense, had her own immunity to all manner of infections. The aggressive rot within her simply eliminated all potential competitors. However, this didn’t save her from the foul stench.

“The arm… is it really here?” Millicent asked quietly.

What were the odds that a prosthetic suitable for her would be in a random abandoned, poisonous castle on the edge of the Lands Between? Practically zero.

But that chance rose to one hundred percent when Konstantin was involved—a man whose knowledge exceeded the imagination of Millicent, Melina, Ranni, and anyone else.

They had all come to terms with the fact that the man, becoming more human (and inhuman) by the day, possessed knowledge inaccessible to others.

“Yes,” Konstantin nodded absently, lost in thought. “The castle’s warden was obsessed with Malenia. He made several prosthetics for her. One of them should still be here.”

Malenia? Millicent flinched.

The name not only sounded eerily familiar but also felt disturbingly… personal.

Unfortunately, Konstantin didn’t delve into the lore himself, as he didn’t know all the facts.

His focus was elsewhere.

“I need spikes. Preferably thorned vines.”

“Huh?”

“Spikes? For what?”

Konstantin shrugged.

Despite knowing that Millicent wouldn’t understand his reasoning at all, Konstantin decided to reply in his usual manner.

“I want to cover my set with them. It’s important. A matter of respect.”

Millicent blinked dumbly, noting how serious the Tarnished had suddenly become.

The castle was far from deserted. In Konstantin’s eyes, it was a genuine location that required clearing, and he wasn’t about to deny himself the pleasure of hunting down the undead and other creatures infesting the swamp fortress.

Whether it was decaying human corpses, undead dogs, ghosts, or even undead perfumers surrounded by golem guards, none of them posed any challenge to the man, even when he imposed restrictions on himself.

Fortunately, Millicent was there, eager for combat. Konstantin didn’t limit the waifu’s desires, simply observing the events with detached interest.

The most intriguing part awaited them deep within the castle.

A corpse who had survived his own execution, ruling over a fortress that had sunk into the swamps, preserving fragments of reason even in death. Frankly, Kosta had little interest in this undead knight’s backstory(3).

His focus lay on the knight’s attributes, which resonated deeply with someone who had gone (or spiraled) far beyond the limits of a typical hardcore challenge-runner. A figure to admire, though certainly not to imitate.

The undead knight had entrenched himself in the castle hall, seeing no reason to ever leave. Covered head to toe in jagged spikes, clad in heavy armor, his mere presence commanded respect.

Unfortunately for him, Kosta had a tribute to pay.

And Elemer of the Briar was the unfortunate recipient of that respect.

“Are you sure this is comfortable?” Millicent cautiously asked, eyeing him from head to toe.

Clad in armor covered with razor-sharp spikes, the Tarnished gave an impassive nod.

It wasn't his first time fully gearing up in a proper set.

“More than comfortable.”

The red-haired warrior pressed her lips together, clearly harboring doubts.

It took the undead knight a moment to process that someone had entered his rightfully conquered domain—completely wrapped in thorned vines.

Even in death, Elemer still retained a shred of intelligence… which was precisely why he hesitated.

The Tarnished’s bizarre appearance was disturbing.

Even to a dead man.

“What… what are you…”

Elemer took a step back as the madman suddenly began rolling toward him.

The worst was yet to come.

Unsurprisingly, the watching Ranni observed Konstantin’s actions from afar. How could it be otherwise? She had, after all, given him this chance!

To claim that the demigoddess was hard to surprise would be an understatement. She had witnessed sorceries that defied the laws of reality, performed the impossible herself, and her very existence was an embodiment of madness—faking her own death through the use of the conceptual Rune of Death was the mark of either a lunatic or the classic quiet girl reading late into the night in the library.

But what she now witnessed, even by her standards, was…

Too strange.

“Huh?”

It seemed that very thought synchronized in the minds of Millicent, Ranni, and the knight about to meet yet another gruesome end.

With an impassive expression hidden beneath his vine-wrapped helm, Konstantin began rolling at the bewildered undead knight.

This was his strategy for victory.

Elemer tried to dodge the rolling madman, but Konstantin was faster, brushing him with the spikes mid-roll.

Though the undead knight also wore spiked armor, Konstantin didn’t care. The spikes still reached their target.

Great Runes were keys to controlling reality. If the bearer of the Elden Ring declared there was no death, then there would be no death. This law would hold anywhere there was faith in the Ring and the power of an Outer God(4).

But even without the Great Runes, the Tarnished, by virtue of his casually-hardcore existence, was already shattering the boundaries of rationality. But with three reality-altering keys in his possession…

The boundaries of logic bent even further, bowing to the will of a sweaty soulslike player. In the end, this was the essence of soulslike games!

The undead knight swung his sword, lunged, slashed vertically, controlled his blade from a distance, and desperately tried to fend off the terrifying rolls of the spiked madman (the spikes were meant for aesthetics, not this!), attempted to block with his shield, and even resorted to grabbing him.

All to no avail.

Roll after roll. The spikes dug deeper and deeper into the knight’s body, leaving more and more wounds with each hit.

At some point, Elemer, barely able to hold his sword, soaked in blood from head to toe, simply fell. Behind the helm, his face was frozen in genuine confusion and incomprehension.

The next time he rose, whatever remnants of sanity the knight still possessed would likely abandon him completely—a blessing in disguise.

Covered in someone else’s blood, Konstantin stopped rolling and calmly removed his helmet.

For some reason, he didn’t feel like praising the sun. Honestly, he didn’t even feel like a victor.

The air was thick with… awkwardness.

“Yeah… That’s exactly how I imagined this challenge. Completely pointless and absolutely merciless(5).”

Kosta frowned, pondering how all this must have looked from the outside. He turned to Ranni and Millicent, both of whom stood frozen, their eyes glazed over.

For some reason, he felt relieved that Melina hadn’t seen this. Such challenges were too dangerous for her gentle spiritual heart.

Removing the spiked armor, Kosta coughed awkwardly.

“We still need to find the prosthetic.”

Millicent dumbly nodded. Ranni vanished as if she had never been there.

At least the man had paid his respects, albeit in a most unconventional way.

_____________________________

(1) If Latenna’s “Ash” is upgraded by Roderika, her replicas will not work in the Mountaintops of the Giants and the Consecrated Snowfield. This could either be a bug or a marker indicating that this method has… certain side effects unsuitable for all races.

(2) In the game, after defeating Radahn, Blaidd will be unable to explore Nokron with the player. As we later learn from Iji, he is sent on another mission, which turns out to be a containment trap.

(3) There’s no direct mention of him being dead. Instead, it seems he managed to escape captivity and survive. However, considering the peculiar location of his base, it’s reasonable to assume he may have died once or twice. Otherwise, it’s hard to explain why he didn’t leave the castle submerged in swamps—unless, of course, he’s a fan of Souls-like games?

(4) Hints in the game suggest that lands exist beyond the Lands Between, governed by the laws of other Outer Gods. From this, it’s easy to deduce that the Outer Gods have spheres of influence they cannot simply step beyond. Considering how fervently Marika spread faith in the Greater Will and the Erdtree, the conditions for an Outer God’s power to spread seem intuitive.

(5) Source:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXd5Kh4JRPo

[Life is Good] Chapter 43

Fisk paced around her office, irritation rolling off her in waves. The conversation with Mysterio… yeah… calling that screaming match a “conversation” would be a fucking stretch. So much had been fucked up. A massive, inexcusable failure. And no, it wasn’t just about the “cargo” those idiots had lost. There were bigger problems. 

Two people—people who knew too much—had landed in police custody. 

Scorpia was missing. 

No concrete intel, just some early rumors that she was dead. But Fisk needed guarantees. Tailed bitch knew her personally. And knew way too much. 

Some decent fighters were lost, but worst of all? Another blow to Fisk’s reputation.

And those couple million in cash? The ones stored in the safe at that hideout, meant for “delivery” payouts? Not even worth mentioning at this point. Cleaning up the aftermath was proving even more expensive.

Mysterio whined that Scorpia had insisted on defending the place… 

Goddess, why the hell had they even started this shit if that dumbass Coll was just gonna fuck it up? And Mysterio? Fucking idiot. If she’d used her illusions properly, she could’ve extracted the key people, the cash, maybe even a couple of the cuter, younger slave girls, and just left the cops with the dregs. That’s it! No shootouts, no aggravating charges. The right lawyers would’ve spun some bullshit to get minimal sentences for the girls, and Fisk wouldn’t have this raging headache right now.

Instead, she spent the rest of the night and part of the morning micromanaging damage control. Four detainees—two who knew too much and two of the most unreliable—had conveniently dropped dead in their cells. The others? A little “chat” had been arranged. 

The official story: those four were the traitors who sold them out. Dirty snitches. Spineless rats. Backstabbing trash. Nothing riled up survivors quite like the thought of an inside job. And the two “unreliables” being among the dead only made the story more convincing. A simple equation: these four talked = these four are dead. It kept the others from running off to Silver-Haired Bitch for protection. Fisk could stomach a lot, but that kind of humiliation? Absolutely not.

Then there was Scorpia. As of now, Fisk had finally confirmed she was alive. Well. Not completely dead. Did that make things better? Not even remotely. Someone had taken her. 

Who? Where? No answers—yet. Her people were on it. She needed to be retrieved or eliminated. Preferably the former. Too much money had been pumped into her. As mind-numbingly stupid as she was, she was still a rare asset.

This entire goddamn disaster was because of her. Stupid decisions, escalating shit for no reason. Why…

Fisk growled, realizing she’d been stuck in an endless loop of cursing that fucking tailed cretin Coll.

And then there was that Silvermane Cunt… She’d called Fisk, her voice dripping with fake sympathy, asking how she was holding up, whether she needed help. She even asked if she should send over a couple of “pseudo-boys” along with a bottle of high-end contraband liquor to help her de-stress. Fisk would bet her entire empire that the moment she hung up, that damn Sicilian hyena laughed her ass off with her inner circle.

And that damn mutant boy? He’d clearly picked Kingpin as his personal arch-nemesis. Three incidents, all hitting her operations. No wonder the Sicilian bitch was so happy—Daredevil and the Punisher were already tearing through Fisk’s business on the regular, then that new little Spider-Bitch showed up, and now there was this Salamander punk. And the worst part? He worked both solo and with the cops. Fisk got that info straight from her moles in law enforcement and the fucking newspapers.

She glared at the fresh morning edition of the Daily Bugle with pure hatred. J.J. was slobbering all over that little bastard. They put a whole ass interview with him on the front page, turning a dozen sentences into a fucking anthem for the little freak: responsible, blah-blah-blah, a role model for supers, a true American hero. An oppressed but unbroken victim of government experiments! The bigger man, who forgives, who holds no grudge against America!

Jameson went hard on that one. And she sure as hell didn’t forget to throw shade at her former darling, Spider-Bitch. A whole fifth of the article was just “Be like Salamander, or at least stop interfering with people doing their jobs.”

Fisk would’ve laughed if the situation wasn’t making her want to break something.

She’d given orders about the kid after his first hit, but now? Now she was getting personally involved. Time to light a fire under her people’s asses. She needed info on that brat. His weaknesses. His pressure points. 

Superheroes were an unavoidable evil, but here’s the thing—when their attention is scattered, it’s like a lottery. Whoever gets unlucky that day, gets unlucky. But when a super zeroes in on you? That’s a personal enemy. And personal enemies need to be dealt with. Brutally.

I slept at home last night.

You have no idea how amazing that was.

My room. My bed. My pillow. Everything familiar and cozy. Goddamn, I wanted to stay home forever.

Too bad it wasn’t an option. My school was way too far, and even on a car, I’d be wasting way too much time commuting every day. And with my lifestyle, spending three hours of daylight just on travel? Stupid and inefficient.

I rode home from the hospital with my family. Called Xavier, let her know what’s up. Got the day off from classes, with the promise they’d pick me up tomorrow morning. Baldy McTelepath did strongly warn me to be careful with “Fire.” She stressed that word so much that I had zero doubt she meant my Flames.

Charlene… she’s too good for this world. Erika thinks she’s too good, and yeah, sometimes I agree. But someone like her has to exist. Without her? The temptation for mutants to say fuck it, let’s just build our own kingdom with blackjack and hookers would be a lot higher. She’s the angel on the community’s shoulder, constantly whispering: "Let’s not commit war crimes today, guys."

So yeah, I got the best sleep ever—until I was rudely awakened by a solid elbow to the nose. Not painful—thanks to my powers. But terrifying. I bolted awake in a blind panic—not for myself, but for G’s safety. If I’d reacted wrong—even slightly—she could’ve ended up on the receiving end of an explosive mix of fire and electricity.

Ginger was curled up next to me in my bed, sleeping as restlessly as always. Which is how she managed to clock me in the face in the first place. Scary. So fucking scary.

And you know there had to be payback. Swift, ruthless payback.

So I wrapped her up tight in my arms and held her close.

She squirmed, whining about how she wasn’t a little kid anymore and how I should be ashamed of myself. Even weakly punched my chest.

But ten seconds later? She gave up.

And then? She snuggled into me herself.

My little Ginger. My tiny, adorable disaster of a sister.

We just lay there like that for a few minutes. Me, breathing into the wild mess of red hair on her head. Her, softly snoring into my chest.

“Alright, Toby. I gotta pee. Lemme go.”

Reluctantly, I released her. Got a quick peck on the cheek before she darted off, bare feet padding across the floor. The bathroom door slammed shut.

I stayed in bed, smiling like an idiot. This was bliss. No alcohol. No drugs. No meaningless hookups. Just home. And family. Pure, absolute, fucking happiness.

Enjoyed the moment—now time to get shit done. Three important things on the schedule today. First, I called Deadpool this morning and invited her for a bite. In classic "chaos is my middle name" fashion, she spent a solid ten minutes rattling off every possible place we could go, before finally settling on the same park where she once hijacked a taxi—with me inside it. Checked the time… still two hours before the meetup, plenty of time for a shower and some coffee.

Then, Penny. After such a long time apart, I was looking forward to seeing her again. Excited, sure, but not the kind of excitement that makes your heart pound. Not that my feelings had faded, but after everything that had gone down recently… the weight of the moment had dulled a little. Once she arrived, we’d be heading to see Mom Betty together with my family. After that, finally, I’d have some one-on-one time with my girl, no interruptions, just us.

Sophie, one of Penny’s moms, had come into town for the week and brought my Little Black Sunbeam with her so we could spend some time together. We’d already cleared it with Charlene—Penny would be staying at the school for the week, but tonight, she was crashing at my place.

Dragged myself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom for the usual hygiene routine, then straight to the kitchen, where Ginger was already making breakfast. Mom Judy was still asleep but probably wouldn’t be for much longer, so my sister was cooking for three.

Sure enough, the smell of food soon lured out a slightly groggy mom. Breakfast was… more cheerful than somber. Yeah, there were moments when one of us glanced at Betty’s empty seat and felt a pang, but we didn’t let it pull us down. Laughter filled the table—me and Ginger swapping school stories, Mom chiming in with her own comments. We were just enjoying each other’s company.

Finished eating, got ready, and called a cab. Once inside, I took a good look around using my energy sight and, when I found nothing suspicious, relaxed into the seat. The house, though? Different story. Did a quick check before I left and found some tiny little devices in places where they definitely shouldn’t be. Bugs. Probably surveillance. Didn’t say a word to the girls—no reason to freak them out—but I’d be giving Mom Betty a heads-up, carefully.

Honestly, I wasn’t surprised. The "powers that be" had me marked ever since the Striker lab incident. They’d already figured out the connection between me and Salamander. I knew they were watching me, and my family was under surveillance, too. The real question was: who and why?

There were plenty of candidates. No point in guessing blindly, but my money was on either SHIELD or Hydra—or, more likely, Hydra embedded within SHIELD. I had to admit, I’d been debating… who to side with. Yeah, horrible phrasing, but let’s be real here.

Mutants? Sure, I was always gonna stand with them. Keep my connections, help out however I could. But right now, the mutant community was isolated. A closed-off society, except for a few exceptions like Banner. We didn’t have strong ties to outside structures, aside from people like Xavier or Magneto. And even then… it wasn’t much.

And we were too few. That was another reason we stayed hidden.

So yeah, I’d always be a part of the mutant community. I’d protect my own, keep my ties strong, but we had to play the long game. The second the powers that be decided mutants were public enemy number one again? We’d need our people inside the system, not just outside it.

Which brought me to my dilemma: I needed to join something bigger. Not just for my personal power—though, yeah, that mattered—but for the backing of an organization. A place where I’d have resources, intelligence, and muscle behind me. No matter how strong I got, there’d always be problems too big for one person. Right now, there were a few powerful factions in the world. They all had their strengths and weaknesses. The problem? I didn’t want to join any of them.

But I probably had to.

Take SHIELD, for example. If I was a SHIELD agent and found bugs in my house? The next day, I’d be in my boss’s office, laying it all out. The pros would investigate. And if the bugs were SHIELD’s? I’d throw a fit, they’d do some fake groveling, promise to "respect my privacy," and improve their snooping methods so I wouldn’t notice next time. Maybe they’d even give me a bonus as a "sorry." The game would continue, same as always.

And that’s assuming they weren’t already keeping tabs on everyone important in their ranks. I didn’t believe for a second SHIELD wasn’t running at least some discreet monitoring on their own people. Not full-blown Big Brother, but definitely quiet surveillance. Every now and then, they’d do a little shake-up, just to keep everyone on their toes.

And who the hell was I supposed to go to about this now?

McCoy? What’s she gonna do—tell me the brand? Great, super helpful.

Magneto? She could fry them out of existence, sure. But she’d probably have to pull someone from more important work to do it.

Betty? At least she worked in law enforcement, where actual detectives got paid to look into this kind of thing.

And let’s say, hypothetically, we did track the bugs back to, I dunno, the Ten Rings. Then what? Declare war? And when the mutant enclaves ask why they should fight, what do I say? "Because they bugged my house"?

Yeah. No.

This needed serious thought—closer to when I finished school.

Right now, I was leaning toward SHIELD and, weirdly enough, Hydra.

Being openly with SHIELD and covertly working with Hydra might actually be the best way to keep my family safe. It’d let them stay put, no need for relocation, with a decent layer of security on top.

Best strategy for now? Keep doing what I was doing. Work with law enforcement, build a positive rep as a mutant who’s on the side of order. Make myself too valuable to screw over. Sooner or later, someone would come knocking.

“Hello, sir, I’ve been trying to reach you about your car’s — ehm, about your recruitment into SHIELD, blah blah blah. Would you like to save the world?” (1)

And that road? That led straight to Hydra.

Drop a few casual "A unified world under a strong government would be easier to protect" lines in conversation. Let them think it’s just some young idealist shit. Normal people would roll their eyes and move on. But Hydra?

They’d notice.

And they’d reach out.

If I played my cards right, they'd think they were recruiting me—when really, I'd be playing them.

Plans. So many damn plans. My head was starting to hurt.

And what if Hydra actually was wiped out in this world? What if Pierce was a loyal SHIELD director and not a Hydra snake?

Honestly? That’d be the best possible outcome. Would make life so much simpler.

But I wasn’t betting on it… 

Damn. In my last life, when a problem was this big, I’d just gather my buddies, brainstorm some ideas, and come up with a solid plan. Now? It was just me. 

Arrived. Paid the cabbie, stepped out into the fresh air, and checked the time. Got lucky with traffic—showed up a whole forty minutes early. Scanned my surroundings, spotted a bench near the park entrance, and made my way over. It was a weekday, middle of the day, not a lot of people around. Noticed a small coffee stand on the way and changed course. No line—perfect. As the barista performed their caffeinated sorcery, I just stood there, idly waiting.

Still, I wasn’t that relaxed. Last time someone snuck up on me, they sprayed knockout gas in my face, so yeah, I was keeping an eye on energy signatures in my range. Which is why, when someone approached soundlessly from behind, I reacted in the simplest, most effective way—I held my breath. Learned that trick at home. I can go a long time without air, so better safe than sorry. Besides, turning around all paranoid at every passerby? That’d make me look like a twitchy lunatic.

So, I took my double-shot Americano with hazelnut syrup and headed for my chosen bench, flicking a glance at whoever had been behind me. Turned out to be a man. A solid one. Mid-forties, refined features, not a trace of makeup, neat haircut, expensive black leather shoes, classic gray slacks peeking from beneath the tailored hem of his equally gray, perfectly fitted coat. A guy like that? Rare breed.

I actually felt a bit of respect—strictly dressed men were becoming an endangered species. Yeah, I’ve had decent luck with the guys around me, but there’s no shortage of "peacock syndrome" out there. Take that idiot MJ, for example.

Took a few sips of coffee, then tensed up. The guy had gotten his drink and was now casually making his way toward my bench. Even though plenty of others were empty.

Huh. Maybe he just wanted to chat? I wasn’t in a rush, and judging by his calm expression and unhurried pace, neither was he.

Still, my inner paranoia goblin woke up, and I started eyeing my coffee suspiciously. Maybe it was time to invest in a spatial-expansion flask and a backpack full of emergency snacks. Hell, did Marvel have poison detectors? I should check that.

"Hello, Tobias," the man greeted me with a warm, practiced smile. Instinctively, I tensed. "My name is Philip Coulson. I’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind."

Ah, shit. Here comes the car warranty sales pitch, I thought, warily nodding toward the empty space on the bench beside me.

______________________________

(1) If US got “I’ve been trying to reach you about your car’s extended warranty” meme then in Russia that niche is taken by Oriflame, MLM company that sells personal care products.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 73

I felt like a tadpole yanked from its pond and thrown onto a scorching-hot frying pan. That sensation hit me for a split second before I managed to pull myself together.

Besides, Michiko kept talking, almost like she was giving me time to think.

"Your former driver and bodyguard, Lucas Costa, regularly sent reports to the Security Service. There was an interesting note about a visit to a hospital in Santo Domingo. From there, it was just a matter of cross-referencing some records, and it turned out that’s where Gloria Martinez was treated after her car accident."

Shit. Fucking security goon. Even after death, still finding ways to spit in my coffee. 

I had no luck with Brazilians. Then again, they weren’t having much luck with me either.

I had scrubbed my interest in the Martinez family from counterintelligence databases, but I had no access to the Security Service’s files. Hacking into them just for something like this? Not a chance—I had way bigger problems at the time. Abernathy’s sword was hanging over my neck. I was too busy trying to delta out of Arasaka without getting smoked.

"At that time, Mr. Tanaka wasn’t even interested in David yet," Michiko continued, tying up her logic. "I find it fascinating how you managed to show such foresight. Was it intuition? Some undisclosed source of information?"

Hmm… What exactly did she suspect? That I somehow knew about David’s potential ahead of time? Maybe through some kind of physical data tests?

But that would only raise more questions—what kind of tests, and why would only I recognize their significance?

I’d have to lie, and the more you lie, the more holes there are in your story.

Problem was, telling the absolute truth wasn’t an option either. My truth was a thousand times more unbelievable than any well-crafted lie.

Best case? They’d think I was insane.

Worst case? They’d decide to find out what I really was.

Then I’d probably end up in my own personal Kinosura, joining So Mi as a fellow test subject for forced Blackwall excursions.

No, no, no.

I needed a simple, logical motive. Something close enough to the truth that it didn’t require an elaborate cover story. No fake tests—those could be debunked too easily.

"Please, don’t worry," Michiko said gently. "Even if you did something that went against company protocols, that’s in the distant past. Time moves quickly—especially in Night City."

A faint hum made me nearly flinch as the panel in the table slid open. A small, glass bottle of water and a square-cut crystal glass rose from below.

I had no interest in drinking. Least of all water.

What I did want was to get the hell out of here, preferably under a hail of Militech gunfire. That’d be way simpler.

"Some things are hard to talk about…" I said, lowering my gaze, stalling for time.

It was just a trick, but my overclocked brain latched onto it.

The hesitation I pretended to show pulled up real emotions, real memories.

Within seconds, I had the perfect answer lined up.

"Go on, V," Michiko encouraged.

"Alright…" I exhaled. "The truth is, my interest in Gloria Martinez wasn’t about her son. I realize that might be hard to believe. There’s something called hindsight bias—now that we know who David became, we’re tempted to reframe all past events around that fact."

"I agree," Michiko nodded. "But if we remove David from the equation, what remains? What about Gloria drew your interest? Something related to R.E.O. Meatwagon?"

Huh. It was almost like she was handing me the easiest way out.

The dark side of Night City’s healthcare system.

She probably already knew Gloria was stealing implants.

But that version of events would be too easy to verify.

Nope. If I was gonna sell this story, I’d make it a performance.

"My interest had nothing to do with Gloria’s work," I said.

"Then what?"

"First, I need to explain a little about that period of my life," I started, setting the stage. "Then my motives will make more sense.

“Those last few months before my departure were brutal. The conflict between Jenkins and Abernathy was escalating. I was caught in the crossfire—a pawn, unable to change anything on the board. Trying to one-up Susan, Arthur kept sending me on after-hours missions. Some of them—like infiltrating Crystal Palace’s security systems—directly clashed with corporate policy."

"Yes," Michiko nodded. "I heard about that attempt. It was successful, wasn’t it?"

"Yeah. And I nearly died twice while doing it. Then the assassination attempts started."

"Those were Abernathy as well?"

"I believe so," I said, letting my voice crack just slightly.

This wasn’t acting.

I deliberately dredged up every ounce of trauma from my first days navigating Night City’s underbelly.

Even if she was scanning me with a lie detector, it wouldn’t ping.

Because I wasn’t lying—I was remembering.

"I was walking a razor’s edge," I continued. "And I kept thinking about death. What would be on my mind in those final moments? Crunch time at work? Unfulfilled ambitions? Who would even remember me? Arthur? He’d be pissed about losing a useful asset, but he’d move on fast. In the end, what would be left of me besides a name in the company archives?"

"Not many people ask those questions, even when they’ve brushed against death," Michiko mused. "Such deep awareness is both a gift and a curse. But go on."

So I did.

"I wanted real emotions. Something genuine. I even visited a dollhouse once. Booked one of their top-tier… performers. But… nothing. Just emptiness and artificiality. I wanted something real. So I developed a certain… fantasy."

I paused, refining my next words, making sure not to get lost in those old feelings.

In the silence, I could hear the recordings of extinct birds, the artificial rustling of leaves.

Probably meant to be calming.

To me, these Arasaka jungles felt predatory.

I had to keep going before they swallowed me whole.

"I thought… if I found the right woman in a desperate situation and saved her, we’d inevitably form a deep connection.”

"Why Gloria?”

"Her character. I don’t remember exactly where I first saw her—probably some old Academy-related records. But she stuck with me. That selflessness. That brutal fight for her son’s future. I thought of her again when I needed something real. That’s when I started watching her through counterintel feeds. Waiting for the right moment. A point where she’d lose all hope."

"And if that moment never came?" Michiko asked sharply, tracking my every reaction.

"In the end… I would’ve made it happen," I admitted. "But I didn’t have to. The car accident happened. I went to her hospital room. I saw Gloria, unconscious. That dimly lit ward, the stench of death hanging in the air. And that woman lying there on the operating table. So helpless… I felt—"

"A sense of power?" Michiko suggested. "Satisfaction? A secret thrill from controlling the situation?"

"Yes!" I leaned into it, feigning excitement. "It was intoxicating. Everything was going exactly as I planned. I deliberately isolated Gloria—even from her own son. I didn’t think much of the kid. But then that footage of David surfaced. And my focus shifted to him instead. Forgive me for making you listen to all that. It’s… embarrassing."

"Not at all!" Michiko assured me. “Stalking may have a bad reputation, but it stems from the most natural human instincts. It’s an extremely common phenomenon in both Japan and America. And what is stalking, really? Just an expression of interest, paired with an ability to gather intel. In some ways, it’s simply an occupational hazard for detectives—plain curiosity. But I still don’t understand why you didn’t go further with Gloria. Although…"

A satisfied smile played on Michiko’s lips. She narrowed her eyes slightly, as if seeing right through me, and said, "You switched to a new object of desire, didn’t you?"

"Yeah." I figured the whole Gloria situation was settled, but now I had to worry about digging myself into a whole new mess.

"Now the puzzle pieces are coming together. Her name is Lucy, right? The girl from the gang that tried to jack David’s implants?"

"That’s right. We didn’t start off on the best terms, but I managed to thaw things out over time."

"Using Fixer Faraday as part of your little play before you offed him?"

"Doesn’t exactly paint me in a good light," I admitted. "Same as a lot of my past choices."

"You know that old joke? Persistence, determination, and confidence are only virtues if you’re not an idiot. Sometimes, the opposite is true. The base instincts of talented people fuel constructive work—for the corporation, of course."

Michiko’s tone was even, but the subtext was clear.

"Some of your actions could be labeled as abuse of corporate resources, but considering your results? Those can be overlooked. You intercepted a data leak to Militech. Recruited an incredibly promising solo. And those are just the highlights—you handled several lower-priority cases along the way."

"Yeah…" I sighed. "But that period took a lot out of me."

"And then you disappeared, built your own crew, and made…" Michiko’s tone shifted—she was guessing now, testing the waters. "Something like… a million and a half eddies?"

"Well… A lot of that went to ripperdocs, gear, the club," I said modestly. "Hard to calculate the total earnings."

Michiko smirked, her artificial eyes flashing with genuine amusement.

"You’re trying so hard not to impress me," she teased. "Usually, I have to deal with people inflating their importance. But every now and then, someone like you shows up—an interesting exception."

Then her tone shifted again, lighter but probing.

"I had one more question. That girl—Lucy. What do you know about her?"

And just like that, I was back on the frying pan.

How much did Michiko already know? Was she planning to dig deeper? Could I deflect her interest entirely?

"What do I know about her?" I echoed. "Where do I even start? We’ve been working together for a long time. She’s reliable."

"Are you sure?" Michiko narrowed her eyes slightly. "Do you know where she was born? How she ended up in Night City? Who her parents were?"

I kept my expression neutral. "Never asked."

"Interesting," Michiko mused, raising her hands in mock surprise. "So, you know me better than you know her?"

"Not everyone likes talking about their past," I replied smoothly. "But we’ve had plenty of talks about the future. Does she interest you?"

"Not particularly," Michiko said, and maybe she was lying. "I’m also more interested in the future. And I think I finally understand the full drama of the counterintel department. I feel for Susan and the people who died protecting her… but a lot of the blame rests on her own shoulders. Many of her decisions were questionable. Some outright mistakes. One of them… was your termination."

I had a bad feeling about where this was going.

"And how fortunate that I can correct that mistake," Michiko continued smoothly. "Especially since we’re currently short on trained operatives who truly understand the city. I would offer you a position right now, but if you have unfinished business, how about tomorrow?"

Shit. This wasn’t even a question of whether I wanted to return. Just a matter of right now or tomorrow.

"It’s an incredible honor to receive such an offer, especially from you, Michiko-san," I said, carefully choosing my words. "But… my last days in the corporation took a heavy toll on me. Overwork, risk, assassins on my tail. I’m not the same person I was back then. I even have to import expensive meds from Europe—hormonal injections to keep my anxiety and paranoia in check."

"That bad?" Michiko asked, feigning concern.

"Unfortunately, yes," I sighed. "Back then, I ran on adrenaline and danced with death. But now… Now I’m trying to live differently. Quietly. I just want to wake up in the morning without stress and have a glass of milk in the evening."

And right then, my encrypted comm pinged with a message from Rebecca.

"Yo, choom. Let’s go fuck up Militech."

Fuck. Of course this was happening now.

"I don’t want to make new enemies," I kept going, playing up the quiet life angle. "No more victories, no more defeats. Just a peaceful, simple life."

Which, honestly? Wasn’t even a lie, considering how exhausting this conversation was.

"Choom, Lucy said the convoy’s moving early. We gotta hit them before the red-eyed fucks do."

"Minimal violence. Minimal risk," I added, keeping my voice calm.

Bec tried to call me. I blocked the incoming call.

I really fucking hoped Michiko wasn’t reading my messages in real-time.

Judging by the way she was looking at me, though—her expression all smug and amused—yeah. She probably knew exactly what was happening.

"V, we gotta hit Militech. TODAY."

Yeah, yeah, I fucking got it.

"Are you in a hurry, V?" Michiko asked casually.

"Not exactly," I lied. "Just… had some minor plans. Didn’t expect a job offer today. Thought it’d be the usual work inquiries."

"Health is important, of course," Michiko nodded, way too seriously. She was definitely still fucking with me. "I’ll keep that in mind. For now, let’s start with an independent contractor arrangement. No objections?"

Oh, I had plenty of objections.

Not that it would make a difference.

For now, it was better to play along while the conversation was still this friendly.

If I pushed back too hard, the threats and blackmail would come next.

Maybe that’s why she brought up Lucy at all.

There was a chance she already knew everything but was choosing to hold off… for now.

A small part of me felt smug that I was apparently more important to her than Lucy.

The rational part of me knew this was a huge fucking problem.

Looks like I was back in business.

"No objections. Just some questions about the regulations," I said.

"We’ll have time for that," Michiko waved a hand dismissively.

A hidden platform extended from her side of the table. From it, she picked up a black and gold card and handed it to me.

I took it, scanning the intricate pattern of kanji.

"Okatsu Family Tea House. Seven Generations of Tradition."

"Press your thumb on the flower symbol," Michiko instructed. "The nano-device will scan your DNA."

I did as she said. The card instantly transformed—gold fading into red. Next to the Arasaka insignia, my photo appeared. They must have snapped it while I was in the car and cleaned it up in post.

"Vincent Price. Special Assignments Agent. Clearance Level: 3h. Confidentiality Level: S."

Damn. Those were some very solid clearances. Theoretically, I could flash this card at anyone of equal or lower rank and avoid most conflicts on the spot.

"A second press will return it to its original appearance," Michiko explained.

Good. No need to stash it in a cigarette case like the Brazilian spies. Though, for security’s sake, I might still get a disguised holder.

"You’ll receive secured communication data, instructions, and additional materials on your way out," Michiko continued. "Since you’re in a hurry, I won’t hold you up any longer."

"Thank you, Michiko-san," I said, standing up—skipping through yet another barrage of messages from Bec.

"V! WHERE! THE FUCK! ARE YOU!?"

Where? I could’ve answered in rhyme,(1) and it would’ve summed up today’s conversation perfectly. But honestly? I got off easy. There were even a few perks.

Of course, I still needed to go over the exact terms of this "contractor" gig. The devil, as they say, is in the details—especially when dealing with someone like Michiko. But independent secret operatives usually had a lot of freedom.

I really hoped that once Yorinobu finally put his old man in the ground, Michiko would have bigger fish to fry than me and Lucy.

Or, hell, maybe they’d just send us to dig Takemura out of some landfill.

That was a problem for later. Right now…

"One more question, V," Michiko’s voice caught me just before I stepped off the platform. "Since leaving the company, have you killed anyone important besides Abernathy? If so, it’s best I hear about it now."

‘Fuck…’ Moment number two.

"Wilky LaGuerre," I said. "Head of the Voodoo Boys in Dogtown."

"Oh? That was you?" Michiko’s brow lifted in interest. "We thought it was the NCPD. Interesting… A contract from Hansen?" She waved it off. "Never mind. Go on. Otherwise, this will take all day."

"Thanks," I nodded.

"Take care of your health."

And finally, I was out of that fucking jungle.

Before leaving, they handed me several shards with instructions and a case of equipment. The gear wasn’t even Arasaka-branded—no obvious ties. Rare tech, sure, but all of it was findable on the black market. Mostly comms tools, but there were also long-range cameras, scanners, and signal boosters.

Finally, through the underground tunnel, they drove me out of the Arasaka tower.

And there it was—Night City, in all its filthy, chaotic glory. Trash, homeless people, neon ads, and a shootout happening half a block away. Home fucking sweet home.

Bec was calling.

Stepping out of the car, I unblocked my calls.

"V! Finally! You—"

"I’M ALREADY ON MY WAY!" I shouted, finally letting loose all the built-up tension from that meeting. "WE’RE GONNA FUCKING WRECK THEM! GONNA TEAR THEM APART! YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I NEED THIS RIGHT NOW!"

"FUCK YEAH!"

________________________

(1) Russian: “Где? В пизде!” (‘Gde? V pizde!’) 

Translation: “Where? In the pussy!”

Daily Updates (05/02/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 45

• Tier 2: Chapter 50

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 45

• Tier 2: Chapter 50

[Castling] Chapter 50

Hermione and Harry exchanged a quick glance.

"I got back to the common room and you weren’t there," Harry started. "So I checked the Map."

Bloody hell. The Map! I mentally kicked myself. I'd completely forgotten about it. This is how big plans fall apart—little things slip through the cracks. At least I made it in time...

"And I saw Black near the Whomping Willow. But you... you were near the gates. And with you was Peter Pettigrew—the one the Minister was talking about. The one Black was supposed to have killed years ago. That’s when I realized you were right—Black wasn’t the traitor. Pettigrew must’ve killed all those people. Otherwise, why fake his own death? So we ran to tell the Headmaster, to warn him—to save you and Black. Who knows what a murderer like Pettigrew might do? He could’ve killed you both."

"But the gargoyle wouldn’t let us in—we didn’t know the password," Hermione rattled off anxiously. "And we didn’t want to cause a scene, not when Black’s still a wanted criminal. So Harry suggested we go straight to Professor Lupin."

"And the moment we explained and showed him the Map, he went white as a sheet and bolted—didn’t say a word to us, just ran," Harry added. "By then, you, Black, and Pettigrew were all showing up on the Map. Black was near the tree, but then he disappeared. And you were heading straight for him—practically dragging Pettigrew along."

"But when we caught up with Professor Lupin, Peeves slowed him down," Hermione said, wringing her hands. "Vanished a staircase right out from under him—well, not really vanished, it was a spell, a very advanced one, I read about it in—"

"Hermione!"

"Right. Anyway, we managed to get past it and kept running. He caught up with us later. And… well, that’s it."

At that moment, a noise echoed from the passage. We stiffened.

"I think we should check it out," Harry said, determined. Without hesitating, he ducked into the tunnel, and we followed right behind him. As we crept forward, the dim light grew brighter, and the voices became clearer.

"You’re mad, Padfoot!" Lupin’s voice rang out, sharp as steel. I’d never heard him sound like that before. "How could you eat him? Wormtail was the only one who could clear your name! How are you going to explain yourself now? Who’s going to believe you?"

"Explain myself?" Black’s laugh was rough and ragged, almost a bark. "Don’t be thick, Moony. Who’s going to listen? Who cares about my side of the story? There’s a hundred Dementors outside just waiting for me to speak up, just so they can pounce on me with their ‘Kisses.’"

"But you ate someone, Sirius," Lupin groaned.

"Someone?! SOMEONE?!" Black’s voice rose to a near-screech, like a dog whose tail had been stepped on. "Where in that pile of filth did you see a someone, Moony? I killed and ate a rat! A rotten, festering, stinking rat! A cowardly, filthy rat! And now he’s exactly what he’s always been—a pile of steaming shit!"

"Enough, Sirius! That’s disgusting… You’ll regret this. You should have kept him alive—to prove your innocence."

"Enough?" Black growled, low and dangerous. "What do you know, Moony? I dreamed about this for years, locked up in that cell. The only thing that kept me sane was the thought of finding that traitor, tearing into his throat, ripping him to pieces—Lily and James… they were with me the whole time. Watching me. Blaming me. You don’t know what it’s like—to feel their cold, accusing stares, to drown in guilt, to slam yourself against the walls just to make it stop. James… Lily… Harry… They wanted justice. And if this is the only thing I ever do in my miserable life—at least I got my revenge. I got it! And now, even if I die—I can die in peace."

Black sucked in a sharp breath and let out a laugh—wild, broken, cut off with a strangled gasp.

In the dark, we exchanged looks. Harry gave us a quick nod toward the door.

"You’ve lost your mind, Sirius," Lupin said, exhausted. And that was the moment we stepped into the room.

The two men froze, staring at us in shock. Then Black flinched and lunged.

"Harry… Harry," Black croaked, taking an unsteady step toward him.

Harry jerked back, grip tightening around his wand. Black stopped short, raising both hands in surrender, like he was admitting defeat.

"I won’t come any closer, Harry," Black said, flashing a grin that was more feral than friendly, exposing ragged gums and broken, blackened teeth.

"I’m not scared," Harry shot back, swallowing hard. His body tensed, like he was forcing himself not to back away again.

I shifted slightly, angling myself more in front of Hermione—who, judging by her pale face, was one breath away from a full-blown panic attack.

"Bloody hell—you look just like James," Black muttered, his voice distant, eyes locked onto Harry like he was seeing a ghost. "Look, Moony, look… Prongs is back with us… life goes on…"

"Erm… Harry," Lupin finally found his voice, his tone gentle, but cautious. "By now, I imagine you’ve figured out… it was Peter Pettigrew who betrayed your parents. Not Sirius. He’s innocent."

"You sound like mates," Harry said sharply. "Professor, you never mentioned that you and Black were friends. And what does a rat have to do with this? And a dog?"

"We were friends, Harry," Lupin said softly. "That Map you brought me… we made it. James, Sirius, Peter, and I. And the dog…"

"We’re Animagi, Harry," Black cut in, suddenly animated. "James was a stag. I’m a dog. And Wormtail—"

"Pettigrew was a rat," Lupin finished quickly, as if hoping we’d forget to turn the conversation back to him.

"And you the werewolf, Professor?" Hermione blurted out, completely wrecking his plan.

Lupin flinched but quickly recovered. Not that it mattered—Black had launched into another manic ramble.

"Oh, yes," he barked a laugh, pacing the room. "Those were the days… We’d sneak out through the secret tunnels. Unlock Moony’s door. Shift into our animal forms and run wild all night long. It was our secret," he went on, his voice rushed and almost delirious, as if he were completely lost in his memories.

"Sirius, that's enough," said Lupin, "We were talking about Peter."

"Yeah, that rat who betrayed us all," Black growled, rubbing his hands together anxiously. "But don’t worry, Harry, I got justice for your dad—for all of us..."

"Just to clarify, Professor Lupin," I cut in, my voice calm but pointed. "So you also thought Black was a traitor up until now?"

"Yes," Lupin admitted, bowing his head slightly, looking almost relieved by the change in subject. "But when I saw Pettigrew on the Map, I knew Sirius was innocent. The Map never lies."

"Brilliant," I laughed dryly. "That just makes things even more interesting. Let me get this straight, sir," I continued, letting the sarcasm drip from my voice. "You knew Black was a convicted criminal. You knew he was an Animagus. And yet, you never thought to mention it to the Headmaster? Never thought to tell anyone how he might be sneaking into the school?"

"Ron, it doesn’t matter anymore," Hermione interrupted, squeezing my hand in what I assumed was meant to be a reassuring gesture. "Mister Black is innocent."

"Oh, is he?" I scoffed, shaking her off. Was she really that naive, or just playing dumb? "So, your favourite professor spent the entire year watching the teachers turn the castle inside out searching for Black, all while drinking tea with Harry, reminiscing about his parents, and sleeping soundly at night—knowing full well that Black was out there, desperate to get to Harry, and wouldn’t stop until he did."

"Mr. Weasley," Lupin tried to cut in, his voice strained. "I would appreciate—"

"See, Hermione," I cut across him sharply, "turns out being a dark creature scum isn’t just about full moons. It’s a whole way of life."

"Is that true, sir?" Harry asked, his voice quiet, but firm. Black, meanwhile, was glancing between all of us, muttering under his breath like he wasn’t fully in the room.

"But why?" Harry pressed.

"Harry…" Lupin murmured, looking thoroughly miserable as he averted his gaze.

"Oh, come on, Harry, it’s obvious," I said flatly. "Dumbledore trusted Lupin—first as a student, then as a teacher. And what did we just learn? Back in school, instead of staying safely locked up, he ran wild with his Animagus mates, scaring the hell out of the locals. If he admitted to anyone that he’d kept Black’s secret, he’d have been finished. So what did he do? He waited—waited for Black to get caught or killed so he could take the truth with him to the grave. Between protecting his own reputation and protecting you, Harry, he chose himself. Lovely, isn’t it?"

"Harry!" Black suddenly jolted forward, his eyes flickering back to reality. "Harry, I’m your godfather," he rasped, as though that settled everything. "James… James is gone… it’s my fault… but I avenged him," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"Why are you being like this, Ron?" Hermione whispered, shooting a wounded glance at Lupin.

"By the way, Hermione," I said casually, ignoring her. "It isn’t a full moon tonight, is it?"

I wanted to humiliate him, grind him into the dirt until he had nothing left to hide behind. He was no better than Pettigrew—both cowards, both selfish, both willing to let others suffer to save their own skin.

"Mr. Weasley," Lupin finally found his voice, looking up at me with an icy glare. "You—"

"Ron!" Hermione’s panicked screech cut through the air as she clutched my arm. "Ron—it is a full moon!"

"Professor," Harry’s voice was suddenly sharp with urgency. "Did you take your potion tonight?"

Lupin didn't answer. At first, he just froze. Then his face drained of colour, red blotches creeping up his neck. His hand shot to his throat.

For a split second, I thought he was about to transform right there—and if he did, we were dead.

"Harry," I hissed. "Hermione!"

Our wands were up before he could make another move. Every spell Snape had ever taught us came flying.

"Accio, Lupin’s wand!" Harry shouted.

"Incarcerous!" I cast, and the momentarily stunned Lupin was yanked off his feet, bound in thick ropes.

"Petrificus Totalus!" Hermione finished the job, her voice shaky. A second later, Lupin crashed face-first onto the dirty floor, completely immobilized.

"What do we do now?!" Hermione yelped, her hands flying to her face. "We just attacked a professor!"

"Before he attacked us, Hermione," I shot back. "Harry—"

"Harry?" Black had finally caught up, stepping forward hesitantly. "What’s going on? What just happened? Why is Moony on the floor?"

Harry was quick on the uptake.

"Mr. Black," he rushed, as Hermione—trembling, but ever the moral one—used magic to flip Lupin onto his back without actually touching him. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. People like her—so bloody righteous until the danger’s right in their face. "We need to go—now. If he transforms, those ropes won’t hold him."

"Why run?" Black asked, trotting after us as we sprinted toward the exit. "Just seal the tunnel. That’ll do it."

It was the most sensible thing he’d said all night.

"Harry, you’ve got the Map, yeah?" I asked, a bad feeling creeping in.

Harry froze. I crashed into his back.

"No," he whispered, horrified. "Lupin ran out so fast, we followed without thinking—I left it behind."

"If Snape comes to bring him the potion, he’ll see us on the Map. And he’ll see Black. The second we step outside, we’re screwed."

"Mr. Black," Harry spun to him. "Take Professor Lupin’s wand and run."

"But what about—"

"Send it back with an owl," Harry cut him off. "He won’t be needing it for a while."

"Alright," Black agreed, accepting the wand like it was the best gift he’d ever received. "Let’s move."

We emerged into thick darkness. The clouds parted just enough for the moon to break through.

Black turned and flicked his wand at the entrance, sealing it with several layers of magic. He did it so quickly, so confidently, that I knew he’d done this before.

When we had put some distance between us and the tree, Black pointed his wand at the Whomping Willow. With a soft pulse of magic, the great branches sprang to life, thrashing wildly like giant, furious tentacles, ready to strike at anything that came near.

Snape was nowhere to be seen, and Black had pulled Harry aside, crouching down and murmuring something sentimental. Harry nodded along, a bit awkward, with a small, embarrassed smile. Though, for all I knew, his eyes were watering from the sheer stench of the man.

Hermione and I kept a respectful distance, not wanting to intrude on their little family reunion. Not that we could properly appreciate the moment—between the biting cold and the leftover tension, it wasn’t exactly cosy. Hermione’s hand, which had been gripping onto me like a vice, was trembling and ice-cold. Her gaze was distant, like she was a thousand miles away. I cast a quick Warming Charm on her, but I doubted she even noticed.

"Harry, if the Dementors get even a whiff of Black, they’ll be all over us in seconds," I cut in, breaking the soppy atmosphere. "Can’t say I’m keen on another run-in with them, and I doubt Mr. Black would be particularly thrilled either."

"Yeah, Sirius," Harry agreed quickly, snapping back to reality. "You should transform and run for it—head straight for the edge of Hogwarts grounds and Apparate from there. Come on, we’ll see each other again."

"Alright, Harry," Black said, nodding, but he still didn’t let go of Harry’s shoulder, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to part yet. And honestly, I got it—after years locked away in Azkaban, the bloke had probably forgotten what human contact even felt like.

"Ron, yeah? And Hermione," Black turned his hollow gaze on us, his voice rough but surprisingly sincere. "Thank you. Really. And Harry—I’d like you to come stay with me in the summer."

He hesitated for just a second before shifting. The moment he landed on all fours, he let out a sharp, excited bark, wagged his tail, and licked Harry’s hands like some overgrown stray. Then, grabbing a wand from the ground between his teeth, he bolted into the darkness, glancing back at us twice before vanishing into the night.

"Brilliant, that all worked out," Harry chattered brightly as we hurried towards the castle. "I’ve got a godfather! And maybe I won’t have to go back to the Dursleys for the summer!"

"Let’s pick up the pace," Hermione snapped, ignoring him completely. "Curfew’s soon."

"Oh, come on, Hermione! We did it!" Harry grinned, reaching out to drape an arm over her shoulders in an excited half-hug. She immediately shrugged him off.

"I just… I don’t even know what’s going to happen now," she exhaled sharply, rubbing her arms. "We attacked a professor. We helped Sirius Black escape, and it doesn’t matter that he’s innocent—there’s no proof. Do you realise what that means? We could be expelled."

"We’ll tell Dumbledore everything," Harry said stubbornly. "They won’t expel us, Hermione. Don’t worry."

"Let’s talk about it tomorrow," she waved him off, voice tight. "I can’t even think straight right now. I just need to sleep."

"You were amazing tonight," Harry told her, flashing an encouraging smile.

"Absolutely," I agreed, grinning. "And, you know, we did work like a well-oiled machine again. Bet even Snape would be impressed—that was a solid 'Outstanding'."

Turns out, we still had some time before curfew. Harry even managed to dash up to the dorms to grab his Invisibility Cloak and check Lupin’s office for the Map. No luck, though. Meanwhile, I made a beeline for the showers—after standing near Black, I felt like I’d been rolling around in a rubbish bin for two days straight. Took me ages to scrub off that feeling.

And, of course, as soon as I stepped out, freshly dressed, I ran straight into Percy.

"Ron," he started, peering at me like I’d just escaped from Azkaban myself. "The Headmaster wants to see you."

"What, now?" I asked, frowning. "Curfew’s in, like, ten minutes."

"Now," Percy confirmed, lips pressed into a thin line. "Potter and Granger are already there."

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

"Ron… you haven’t done anything, have you?" he asked hesitantly, watching me closely.

"What, me?" I smirked, tugging on my jumper. "Come on, Perce, you know I’m an absolute angel."

"Do you want me to walk you there?" he offered, frowning.

"I’ll manage," I said, waving him off as I started towards the exit.

"Alright… good luck, then," he called after me. "The password’s ‘fizzing whizzbees’."

"Fizzing whizzbees, got it," I muttered under my breath as I jogged up the stairs towards Dumbledore’s office.

Merlin, what was waiting for us now? I just really hoped we weren’t about to get kicked out.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 50

Hinata tried to slip past her cousin with me still in her arms, but Neji frowned and blocked the way.

"Why do you have the daimyo’s cat?" His interrogation continued, eyes narrowing. "I am sure that’s him, I can feel his chakra."

Yeah, so much for playing dumb.

"Nii-san…" Hinata hesitated, glancing down at me, uncertainty all over her face.

I huffed, wiggled out of her arms, and landed gracefully on the floor.

"Come on!" I commanded, making a beeline for what was clearly Hinata’s room. Scent memory never fails. "Let’s go!" I called again, turning back to make sure she was following. To emphasize my point, I lifted my paw and did the little "come here" motion I’d seen humans use.

Neji’s expression tightened. Hinata took a small step forward.

"The kitty-chan wants us to follow him," she mumbled, looking very unsure.

I, on the other hand, was fully committed. With a dramatic flick of my tail, I pushed open the shoji door with my paw and strode inside. Almost immediately, I spotted my prize—a brush, just as promised. By the time the Hyuga duo followed me in, I was already giving it a thorough sniff test.

"You… want me to brush you?" Hinata asked hesitantly, throwing an anxious glance at her cousin.

I nodded, then grabbed the brush’s handle between my teeth, hopped onto the bed, and plopped down like I owned the place. Which, let’s be honest, I basically did.

"Where did you get Tora-chan?" Neji demanded, still watching me like I might sprout a second head.

"He belongs to my… friends," Hinata mumbled, dutifully running the brush through my fur. "His name is Namaiki-chan. Why do you think he’s—"

"A few months ago, my team had a mission," Neji cut in impatiently. "We were ordered to capture and return this cat to his owner. He has distinctive markings on his head, and there aren’t many cats as big or as… well-groomed as this one. I recognized him immediately. And Tora-chan has chakra. You do sense it, don’t you?"

"I do," Hinata admitted, still brushing me.

Well, damn. Can’t even be mad—can’t help being this majestic. But the real issue here was: what the hell do we do about Neji?

"Don’t tell my father. Don’t tell anyone," Hinata suddenly blurted out, her voice quiet but urgent.

Ah. She was worried this would cause trouble for Naruto. Smart girl.

I turned my attention to Neji, sizing him up. He looked a little thrown off, still processing. I gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"Yeah, don’t tell," I echoed, just for good measure.

Hinata finished up my brushing, gave me a final once-over, and patted my back. "We should go. The others are probably back by now."

I nodded and hopped off the bed, sauntering toward the door. But first, I made sure to really rub up against Neji’s bare legs on my way out—just to make sure he was properly marked. He didn’t pet me back, probably because his sister was watching, but I saw him flinch just a little.

Also, side note: dude smelled like sweat. Not in a gross way, but in a just-finished-training kind of way. He must’ve been on his way to bathe when he ran into us. Given their team’s unique sensei, I wasn’t surprised.

"I… won’t say anything," he muttered as Hinata stepped past him.

I paused, locked eyes with him, and gave a single, firm nod.

By the time we got back to HQ, the others had already arrived—Sasuke, Shikamaru, Ino, and Naruto, who looked like he was dying. He was waddling, panting, and cradling his stomach, which was bulging out even through his jacket.

"So, what was the damage?" Kiba asked, eyeing our stuffed-to-the-gills blonde with mild horror.

"Something like twelve hundred ryo," Ino replied. "Naruto ate… sixteen—no, seventeen double servings. And Iruka had a couple, too."

Twelve hundred? Damn. That was literally Naruto’s entire monthly stipend. Wonder if Iruka covered it himself or if someone else was footing the bill.

"Seventeen? Damn…" Choji whistled, munching on a chip. "My record’s fifteen."

"So he out-ate you, huh?" Shikamaru smirked, poking Naruto’s overstuffed stomach.

"Hey, be careful," Sasuke snickered. "Might pop him if you press too hard."

"Wh—hic! Not funny!" Naruto wheezed, looking personally offended. "It all—hic!—digests fast! I’ll be hungry again soon!"

That was it. Kiba lost it, doubling over in laughter. The rest of us weren’t much better. Even Hinata, blushing faintly, was giggling into her hands. Absolute comedy with this kid.

"Alright, spill it," Kiba finally said once everyone calmed down. "What’s the deal with Iruka? What did he want?"

"Eh, just asked about life," Shikamaru shrugged. "How Naruto’s handling things on his own, told him to get serious since graduation’s coming up."

"He also mentioned that he’s an orphan too," Sasuke added. "Said he understands how hard it is to be alone. That when you’re on your own, you act out to get attention. Wasn’t lying. I can tell when people lie."

"Maybe he’s just nervous about the graduation exams," Kiba mused, scratching his head. "Iruka’s a decent guy, just yells a lot. But usually for a reason."

"He’s never had a graduating class before," Shikamaru noted, plopping onto the floor. "Maybe he just wants to make sure everyone passes. Figured talking to Naruto one-on-one was better than yelling."

"I actually walked up to them," Ino said, jumping in. "Like I was gonna grab some food too. He got super awkward. After that, they just ate in silence. He paid for my meal too, by the way, and left right after. Just told us to prepare for the exams."

"That’s it?" Choji muttered, sounding unimpressed. I nodded in agreement. Was I overthinking things? Maybe I was just too paranoid. Maybe Iruka really was just a normal teacher with a soft spot for struggling kids.

That was when I caught a scent coming from the outside, from the balcony.

Neji.

Following us, huh? Or was he just keeping an eye on Hinata? Either way, if he wanted to be sneaky, he should’ve picked a better hiding spot.

I padded over to the balcony, my whiskers twitching as I caught a fresh whiff of my own scent mark near the railing.

Well, well, well. Who do we have lurking here?

"So," I called out loudly, padding right up to his hiding spot, "what exactly are you doing?"

For good measure, I also made sure to refresh my scent mark—just to remind him whose turf this was.

"Tsk…" Caught red-handed eavesdropping, Neji pressed a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. I shook my head. Yeah, no. He wasn’t about to shush me.

"Come on!" I ordered.

Hopefully, he remembered that word. With a sigh, Neji got out of his spot and followed me along the parapet, landing smoothly on Sasuke’s balcony after I did.

"Namaiki-chan, you—oh…," Naruto started, stepping outside for some fresh air, only to spot us. He blinked at Neji, arms crossing over his chest. "Uh, and who are you?"

"Relax, brat," I cut in before Neji could respond. "He’s with me."

The commotion drew more attention. Sasuke, Kiba, and Akamaru, his fluffy little sidekick stepped onto the balcony, eyes flicking between Neji and me.

"That’s Hyuga Neji," Kiba said, narrowing his eyes as recognition dawned. "He was last year’s top rookie. And he’s Hinata-chan’s cousin."

"Oh… So you were worried about Hinata?" Naruto scratched his head, looking a little less defensive. "We just kinda… hang out here sometimes."

Neji squinted slightly, probably about to say something unpleasant, but I wasn’t about to let that happen. Last thing I needed was for him to shoot his mouth off and mess up my grand plans. Before he could open his mouth, I jumped onto his shoulder, making him instinctively shift his weight to adjust.

"What’s with Namaiki-chan?" Sasuke asked, one brow quirking up.

"He’s not ‘Namaiki-chan,’" Neji corrected, glancing sideways at me but making no move to shove me off. "I know him as ‘Tora-san.’ He’s the daimyo’s personal cat."

Naruto’s jaw practically hit the floor. "Wait, what?! You’re messing with us, right?"

"I have no reason to lie," Neji responded, sounding almost offended. Though, with me draped over his shoulder, his usual cool arrogance was slightly undercut.

"For a conversation like this, inside would probably be better," Shikamaru’s voice drawled from the doorway.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flicker of movement. A shadow tendril—thin, quick—retreating from Neji back to Shikamaru. Well, well, well. Looks like Nara played it safe and hooked our unexpected guest in his shadow bind while he was distracted. Sneaky.

"Yeah, let’s go," Sasuke said, stepping aside like the official host.

"Come on!" I urged Neji, right into his ear. He let out another sigh, but followed obediently.

Nyahaha! I really am out here collecting genius prodigies like Pokémon.

"H-Huh?! Nii-san?!" Hinata nearly dropped a plate of onigiri when she saw who had walked in. Her whole face flushed a deep red.

I flexed my claws slightly, pressing my paw into Neji’s shoulder as a silent warning. He tilted his head slightly, catching my eye, and let out a quiet smirk.

I could only hope the guys remembered what I’d told them about forgetting something important. And I really hoped that their friends wouldn’t let them down.

Because if I was right—if I was really close to getting them to remember what happened six months ago—then this was about to get very interesting.

And honestly? It was terrifying to think that six whole months had already passed since everything fell apart…

Daily Updates (04/02/25)

Demons of NC:

• Tier 1: Chapter 67

• Tier 2: Chapter 72

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 37

• Tier 2: Chapter 42

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 34

• Tier 2: Chapter 39

[Life is Good] Chapter 42

This was exhausting, I thought, slumped in the waiting room of the hospital where they had taken Mom Betty.

Judy and G were beside me, the three of us looking like a picture-perfect display of gloom. My little sister’s eyes were red-rimmed, barely holding back fresh tears. The doctors had assured us that Betty’s life was out of danger, but… yeah. We were grateful she was alive, but the fact that she had lost her arm took a pretty big chunk out of that relief.

Getting here had been a whole ordeal in itself. The dead of night bleeding into early morning, first taking a ride to one end of the city where a pissed-off, sleep-deprived Logan was waiting with a change of clothes for me. Then figuring out where the police had taken Mom. Then another cross-city trip to the hospital…

Wolverine had gone back to the school, while I, heart hammering in my chest, had walked into the hospital, running on nothing but nerves. The chaos of a city ER, trying to get someone to tell me where to go, then finally finding Mom and G, exchanging heavy greetings that carried more relief than joy. My eleven-year-old sister in tears, desperately trying to comfort me, even though she was on the edge of a breakdown herself… The only thing that helped was just standing there in silence, holding each other.

We had pressed ourselves up against a wall in the hallway, away from the nurses and orderlies rushing back and forth, and just… hugged. The three of us, clinging on for dear life. And yeah, there were tears. Even mine.

And no, I wasn’t ashamed of them. These weren’t weak tears. This was pain, mixed with overwhelming relief.

I’d had this realization before, but moments like this hit it home: people never truly appreciate what they have until they almost lose it. Or in our case, barely manage to keep it.

Mom had suffered massive blood loss, a mild concussion, a fractured clavicle, a crack in her cheekbone, a dislocated jaw… and a stump where her left arm used to be.

Judy, when she told me all of this, had paused between each sentence, as if holding back either a sob or a string of curses.

She had never liked Betty’s job. Not because she was anti-cop, but because she couldn’t stand the risk—the constant knowledge that the person she loved was putting herself in danger every day. But she’d always handled it tactfully, never letting it turn into fights or drama in our home. Just quiet complaints and playful jabs at our headstrong lieutenant.

So now, we waited.

The sky was starting to lighten outside when a doctor finally approached us. A woman with tired eyes and a no-nonsense demeanor.

“You can see her now,” she said. “Ten minutes. No more. And do not stress her.

“We’ve stabilized her condition, but she lost a lot of blood. She needs rest to regain her strength.” The doctor gave us all a pointed, disapproving look. “Frankly, I wouldn’t let you in at all until at least this evening, but your mother insisted. Loudly.”

She sighed, looking up as if asking some higher power for patience.

“Why is it that some people have no sense of self-preservation or patience?” she muttered under her breath before walking off down the hall, waving off our murmured thanks with an absent shake of her head.

I glanced at her badge. Sullivan. Noted. Not for revenge, obviously—I wasn’t that kind of psycho. No, people like her, the ones out there actually helping and saving others, had earned the right to be tired, grumpy, and a little rude.

I was remembering her name for a different reason—because in my past life, I’d had a tradition.

A thank-you gift.

A real one.

Some high-end liquor, a massive basket of chocolate and fruit, and, tucked at the bottom, an envelope stuffed with cash. All topped off with the biggest, most extravagant bouquet of flowers I could find.

Because I could afford it.

If I couldn’t afford it, I’d find a cheaper way. No shame in that. It’s not about how much you give—it’s about how much you have left after giving.

Inside the hospital room…

Mom’s face was wrapped in bandages, leaving only one tired—but mischievous—eye peeking out at us. The visible part of her cheek was pale.

“Why do you three look like you’re at a funeral?” she asked, voice quiet but teasing. “Did the doctor forget to tell me something?”

That was all it took.

G burst into tears and all but fell to her knees beside the bed, clutching Betty’s right hand with both of hers. She kissed her palm repeatedly, babbling out something through her sobs.

"Mom, I love you, please—"

“Oh, sweetheart, come here,” Betty murmured, shifting her fingers through G’s messy red hair, lightly scratching her scalp. “You didn’t brush it properly again, huh? Ah well. Don’t cry, Ginger. It’s not as bad as you think. Your reckless old mom is still here, still breathing. Yeah, losing the arm sucks… but you’re gonna help me get used to it, right?”

Vigorous nodding from my sister.

“Well, there you go, then,” Betty sighed fondly. “That’s why I insisted on seeing you two. Didn’t want you sitting out there, scaring yourselves with worst-case scenarios.”

I stood beside them quietly, just feeling everything. Letting it sink in.

The worst hadn’t happened. It could have, but it didn’t.

I watched as my sister’s face slowly smoothed out, as the tension faded from Judy’s shoulders. The dark cloud hanging over us was lifting, letting in light again.

The weight pressing on my chest—the one that had been sitting there ever since I first heard Mom was in danger—slowly, but surely, slid away.

I could breathe again.

Watching them, seeing them safe and alive, a stupid smile crept onto my face. My vision blurred slightly as tears of relief welled up in the corners of my eyes.

We were okay.

Everything else, we could figure out.

“Toby, quit standing there grinning like an idiot. Get over here and hug your mother.”

Betty’s voice—tired but gentle—snapped me out of it. And yeah. What the hell was I waiting for?

I stepped forward, bending down carefully, mindful of her injuries. I barely put any weight into the hug—just enough to be there without pressing too hard.

The smell of antiseptic and Mom.

I pressed a light kiss to the patch of skin visible between the bandages.

Her hand smoothed over my head, slow and comforting.

“Thank you, son,” she whispered.

And goddamn it. I sniffled. Loudly.

For a few seconds, I just stayed there, letting myself be a kid for a little longer. Letting her comfort me, even though she was the one lying in a hospital bed, missing a whole limb.

What kind of weak-ass—

No.

No, fuck that.

This was my family. There was no need to put on a tough face here.

The door creaked open behind me, and I glanced up with my energy vision, registering a warm signature before turning around.

The door behind us opened, and through my energy vision, I noticed a figure stepping into the room. A pleasant female voice politely asked us to leave.

We gathered our things, warmly said our goodbyes to Betty’s mom, and walked past a refined-looking woman in a doctor’s coat. She wasn’t exactly young anymore, but she wasn’t old either—just at that perfect in-between stage. Her face had that distinguished, aristocratic quality, and she greeted us with a kind smile.

She even nodded at me, her eyes full of understanding and quiet sympathy behind what looked like a rather expensive pair of glasses—or at least, that was my impression.

Something about her seemed familiar, like I’d seen her somewhere before.

But what really caught my attention—and honestly, inspired me—was her energy signature. The heat silhouette on her right arm blended seamlessly into a network of energy lines, a clear sign of a high-tech prosthetic that was indistinguishable from a real limb.

I’d have to ask her where she got one like that.

The woman watched the departing family members until they disappeared from view, then let out a deep sigh. Reaching for the tablet hanging on the back of the hospital bed, she settled into a chair, her sharp gaze locking onto Elizabeth.

“Well, well, girl. How the hell did you manage this?”

Betty averted her eyes, choosing instead to stare intently at the ceiling. The "doctor" simply smirked and flipped through the medical records.

“Hmm… It’s really not as bad as it looks, sweetheart. Rest up, recover, and you’ll be as good as new.”

Her tone was almost cheerful now, as if reassured by what she read. Betty, in response, slowly lifted the stump where her left arm used to be.

“Oh, please, Elizabeth. Who are you trying to impress?” The woman chuckled, patting her own forearm for emphasis. “We’ll get you a replacement so damn good you’ll want to swap out all your limbs for upgrades. Ha! Oh, don’t give me that look—I’m trying to cheer you up.”

Leaning back in her chair, she examined Betty thoughtfully.

“Don’t rush anything, just focus on healing. Tomorrow, we’ll have you transferred to a VIP room—nice and comfortable. You’ll have high-speed internet, any TV channels you want, and a nurse to cater to your every need. And in the meantime, I’ll figure out how best to frame this situation. You were careless, yes, but there’s opportunity here.

"Greater emotional attachment. A way for a wounded mother to regain a fully functional limb. And I imagine the boy will appreciate it when a certain organization graciously and free of charge provides his dear mother with the means to live a normal life again.”

She narrowed her eyes, a dreamy expression passing over her face, before glancing at Elizabeth again—only to find that the woman had already fallen asleep.

“Well, now. How rude.” The aristocratic woman sighed dramatically, lowering her voice. “If I were fifty years younger, I might have actually been offended. Hmph.”

She lingered for a moment, then, as if debating something internally, moved to the bedside and gently adjusted the slightly rumpled blanket. Standing over the sleeping policewoman, she studied her bandaged face with a look that was almost… tender.

Finally, with a quiet sigh, she reached out and lightly brushed her fingers over the exposed patch of skin.

“Little brat,”(1) she murmured in German, a rare warmth in her voice, before shaking her head and striding out of the room.

There was still so much to do.

Nick Fury scowled at the report in front of him.

At this point, scowling at any intel related to Tobias had become second nature—ever since the little shit managed to hide under Magneto’s skirt.

The first recorded appearance of "Mister Mutant" had immediately set off alarm bells for SHIELD analysts. The girls in the department had even given the kid a nickname: Boilermaker.(2) Because, according to them, he "literally boils brains."

Thermal manipulation. Male.

The chances that this was anyone other than a former lab rat from Stryker’s experiments? Damn near nonexistent.

There just weren’t that many male mutants with this specific power set. Pyro didn’t count—his method of fire control was completely different.

Then came the human trafficking case.

Tobias handled it cleanly—no bodies, no mess. Saved the daughter of a police captain. Big case. High-profile. The rescued victims had even personally made sure their "mysterious savior" got the recognition he deserved.

Then the drug cartel.

Again, silent and efficient. He and Spider-Girl tore through an entire operation—two dozen armed women, no casualties. Handed them over to the cops, and once again, right into the hands of the very same captain whose daughter he’d saved before.

None of this would have meant much six months ago.

But now?

Now, every damn thing a mutant did was headline news.

A male mutant rescuing regular civilians? A male mutant taking down human traffickers? A male mutant busting a cartel? The media was eating it up. And now, this latest stunt…

A full-blown hostage rescue.

A fight with Scorpia.

And a victory.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough, the damn press conference.

And it wasn’t the usual "I’m just a friendly neighborhood superhero!" bullshit either. No, the kid gave answers. Polished. Political. Fake as hell—but exactly what the public wanted to hear.

"One Humanity."
"I am a person first."
"Mutants just want to live their lives."
"The real heroes are police officers, firefighters, and doctors."

Jesus Christ. With rhetoric like that, he could run for Senate.

Even that pain in the ass J. Jonah Jameson had praised him.

PRAISED.

JAMESON.

Fury ran a hand down his face.

That psycho would probably start calling Tobias the Second Coming in his next editorial. And then there was this whole Emperor thing.

Was it a religion? Cult? Sect?

SHIELD had all the data—anything missing had already been requested.

But no records showed any relevant religious figure. No past "Emperors" who could've inspired this level of devotion. A few sci-fi books, maybe, but those didn’t line up with the kid’s profile.

Tobias barely had any interest in fiction at all—books or movies. Which was already weird for his age. Didn’t matter if it was classic literature, mainstream blockbusters, or hyper-masculine action flicks.

The analysts had a theory: either the "Emperor" thing was a joke or an attempt to get reporters off his back.

And God, Fury wanted to believe that.

Because the alternative was some new underground cult, creeping into mutant communities. And mutants had some very powerful people in their ranks.

Now, as much as he’d stopped actively trying to screw the kid over…

If Tobias somehow disappeared off the face of the Earth tomorrow? Fury wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. But the brat had made too much noise. Before tonight, the idea of recruiting him for SHIELD had been premature at best.

But now?

Now he’d taken down Scorpia.

And that?

That made him a serious player.

Scorpia herself was currently clinging to life in a SHIELD medical facility. If it weren’t for the… modifications made to her body, she’d be a well-done corpse.

As it was, she might live long enough to be useful.

And her suit? Junk. Some components had survived, sure, but the finer tech? Completely fried.

A whole lot of questions were piling up about the kid’s rapidly evolving abilities. Heat, light, electricity, energy absorption, physical resilience—it was a long damn list.

And according to SHIELD’s analysts, Tobias wasn’t even close to his limit. He was still adapting to his powers, which meant he was only going to get stronger.

Then there were his connections.

Having a direct link to mutant communities? That was invaluable. Sure, SHIELD could reach out to those communities if needed, but having an insider—a mutant who was part of that world, who had real friendships and attachments? That was an entirely different level of access.

And now, on top of all that, the kid had publicly declared that he was tight with Deadpool and Ghost Rider.

If Fury had hair, it would have turned white on the spot.

One of the most powerful and mysterious supers on Earth had personally given the boy a ride to the scene. And if that wasn’t bad enough, their powers…

There were clear parallels.

Both of them lit up like a damn torch. The only difference? The kid wasn’t a full-on skeleton—yet.

But even that was debatable.

Because, according to the field report from the special forces officer who worked with Tobias, there was a moment during his standoff with the female soldier when: One. His voice dropped into “shit-your-pants” territory. And Two. Under the visor of his helmet, something that looked very much like a “flaming skull” flickered to life.

Yeah.

A lot of questions.

Way too many damn questions.

Alright. Decision made.

They needed to send someone to talk to him.

If they couldn’t recruit him yet, then at least start softening him up.

His performance in this latest operation would be more than enough to convince the right people that putting him on SHIELD’s payroll was a necessity.

After all, once Tobias got involved, there were zero casualties—only a few injuries from the final assault, and he wasn’t even part of it because he was too busy beating the hell out of a supervillain.

And then there was the personal angle.

Fury could use this meeting to cover his own ass—if he framed things right, he could make the kid realize how much trouble he’d caused for "Joseph Black." Not outright blaming him, of course. Just… leading him to the conclusion that, maybe, he owed Fury something.

A little debt.

A little guilt.

Tobias wasn’t stupid, but he was still a kid. And if Fury could paint himself as a martyr in the boy’s eyes?

That would be a damn useful card to play later.

Deadpool twirled around the room, hugging a freshly printed newspaper to her chest.

"My Friend, Deadpool."

Oh, how wonderful!

Her darling Tobi was thinking about her!

Simply fantastic!

The voices in her head were practically singing with joy.

Okay, most of them.

A couple of sourpusses were grumbling, but who cared?

Deadpool was happy.

It was just such a shame she’d been busy that night and only found out about everything after it had already happened.

If she had been the one to save his dear Mommy from captivity…

Oh, oh, Tobias would have been so, so grateful.

He might have even…

agreed to go on a date with her.

A dreamy sigh escaped her lips.

But her perfect moment was shattered by the shrill ring of her phone.

Her first instinct?

To hurl the damn thing against the wall and destroy the vile contraption that dared interrupt her pure bliss.

But then she saw the name on the screen.

Her eyes widened.

For a few seconds—actual, genuine seconds—Deadpool panicked.

Then, taking a deep breath, she snatched the phone up, answering with a voice that was just a little hoarse from excitement, but packed with as much joy and enthusiasm as she could possibly muster:

"Tobias, baby! Oh my God, I’m so happy to hear from you! How’s my favorite little firecracker doing?"

(1) If you do know how to say that phrase in German pls let me know. I’ll replace it.

(2) Help me brainstorm the nick. In the original his nickname is "кипятильник" which directly translates to "heater" or "boiler". I just can't think of a good translation for that

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 39

Just like their previous encounter, the hunter of the undead was grim. He clearly wasn’t thrilled about being intercepted by the strange woman, who had arranged a meeting with an even stranger bearer of two—no, now three—Great Runes.

Had anyone else sought his audience, he likely would have refused. But since it was Konstantin himself...

D could be as reclusive as he pleased, but he wasn’t a fool. Nor was he one of those fearless knights who solemnly raised their swords in the name of the Golden Order over yet another living corpse, grimly ignoring the monstrous being that had, in just a few short… or long…

D furrowed his brow.

…months… or a year… or less than a year…

In short, within a comparatively brief period, this being had sent two demigods straight into the golden light of the Erdtree, while also casually subjugating the entire Academy of mad sorcerers and their lunatic queen using magic.

The list of accomplishments seemed trivial only to a sweaty Soulslike player, who considered such feats a mere checklist for any sufficiently determined (or deranged) gamer. But for the few remaining inhabitants of the Lands Between who still retained a shred of reason, Konstantin was nothing short of a monster.

And now, this monster—who should already have been headed to the capital to claim his rightful title—needed him.

“You sought a meeting with me?”

D tensed further. He had only seen Konstantin once before, and the unflappable man had undergone significant changes since then—whether it was his eyes, now tinged with a golden hue, or something as simple as his height.

D had never heard of any Tarnished, or anyone else in the Lands Between for that matter, growing visibly stronger in such a short time.

Konstantin nodded.

“Yes. Can you take me to Gurranq, the Beast Clergyman?”

D flinched, almost reaching for his sword. Few knew of their connection. To be precise, no one should have known. D didn’t recall mentioning it to anyone aside from his brother. But then again, he and his brother shared a soul, after all!

The monstrous Tarnished became even more frightening in D’s eyes.

However, the knight understood all too well that any attempt to resist would be futile.

“You seek the power of the beast?” D asked, scowling under his helmet.

But why would someone already possessing such overwhelming strength need Gurranq’s power?

Konstantin seemed to understand D’s inner thoughts and sighed wistfully.

‘That’s why I hate going back to old quests over-leveled…’

“I don’t need the power of the beast,” Konstantin said calmly. “I need his hunger.”

The man’s concise response made D blink stupidly.

“Hunger…? The Clergyman won’t speak unless…” 

Konstantin not waiting for D to complete his thought, pulled a Deathroot from his inventory.

“By Marika’s tits, put that thing away!” D exclaimed, recoiling in visible discomfort.

Unfazed, Konstantin handed the required quest item to the hunter.

It seemed Marika’s tits were more popular than he had anticipated.

Was it difficult for D to escort Konstantin to the Clergyman? Not at all. Not only had Gurranq been searching for someone to take on D’s duties, but after asking a few questions, the hunter found the Tarnished’s request noble: the curse under Stormveil Castle truly was a problem, one that wasn’t so easily solved.

Even a warrior and sorcerer as powerful as Konstantin would rather find an expert—a being that consumed the very concept of death for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—than risk stepping into a trap that would fill his status bar and impale him on a spike sprouting beneath his feet. No chance of survival there(2).

The Beast Clergyman resided in the Starry Wasteland, but for two Tarnished, that wasn’t much of a hurdle. The still-unseen Finger Maiden that followed Konstantin escorted the pair directly to the heart of the refuge: a chamber inhabited by one of the most battered beings in all the Lands Between.

Gurranq, the Beast Clergyman—or rather, Maliketh the Black Blade, slayer of demigods, shadow of Queen Marika herself, and her eternal servant.

And at the same time, the epitome of asset reuse. The sheer number of theories explaining the simultaneous existence of Marika’s shadow in completely different locations made even the most desperate lore enthusiasts’ heads spin(3).

Konstantin’s mind involuntarily creaked under the weight of speculation:

‘An illusion couldn’t consume Deathroots, nor would there be any point. Is he some sort of avatar?’

He wanted to dismiss it as “unimportant,” just like many other details he’d ignored, but…

No. Damn it, this mattered!

Konstantin groaned internally as the theories piled up.

Was Maliketh simply moonlighting as the Beast Clergyman in his spare time, running a successful business in the crumbling Farum Azula? Instant long-distance travel was common enough in the Lands Between—why shouldn’t the Goddess’s shadow use it?

Or was it the result of space-time manipulation? Farum Azula existed outside conventional realms, and Maliketh might have split into two entities?

Or…

The mental groaning grew louder as Konstantin, like countless Soulslike players before him, wrestled with the intricate plot crafted by a brilliant game designer.

If he weren’t standing directly in front of Maliketh, he might have been able to push the thoughts aside. But with this embodiment of asset reuse glaring at him, there was nothing he could do!

Thankfully, none of this inner turmoil showed on his face.

“I’ll take my leave,” D said. “You know what to do, Konstantin of the Tarnished.”

Konstantin nodded calmly, still deep in thought.

D sincerely hoped the madman wouldn’t try anything weird. Who knew what might cross his mind?

Now alone in the sanctuary’s hall with Maliketh, even Melina had refrained from following her chosen one, knowing that the Goddess’s shadow would inevitably notice her.

Konstantin held out a root that emanated an unnatural darkness, offering it without fear to the massive wolf-like figure.

Gurranq, sniffing the root, trembled and let out a guttural growl. From beneath his tattered robes, a long arm emerged, reaching for the root.

Konstantin watched as the outstretched hand shook and claws extended, as if ready to attack him at any moment.

Once again suppressing his instincts, the Goddess’s shadow accepted the offering, greedily tearing into it with his teeth. Within seconds, the root vanished.

“More… I am not sated… Give me more… death… Tarnished… and I shall grant…”

“Underneath Stormveil Castle lies something that should interest you. I don’t need your power.”

Konstantin’s calm voice cut the Clergyman off mid-sentence.

It had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him with such tranquility and… neutrality. Most of the Clergyman’s followers, few as they were, feared him—and rightly so.

For the first time, Maliketh, who had scarcely paid attention to the Tarnished’s presence, lifted his head and met Konstantin’s gaze.

Did Konstantin expect the beast to suddenly snap and lunge at him?

No. But that didn’t mean he was opposed to it.

Without hesitation, Konstantin rolled out of the way of Maliketh’s frenzied attack, staring at him in surprise.

For his part, the beast seemed momentarily stunned. His rage gave way to genuine confusion.

“Where… where is your clothing…”

Previously clad in tattered, singed attire, Konstantin now stood before him wearing nothing but a loincloth.

Kosta shrugged nonchalantly.

He took the shadow of the Goddess seriously enough that he couldn’t help but respond. One could even say this was the Tarnished’s way of showing respect.

“I’m still working on that reflex. Don’t mind it. Keep going—attack.”

His clothing reappeared on his body as if it had never been removed in the first place.

Maliketh growled.

He didn’t quite understand what initially provoked his fit of rage. It was extraordinarily difficult to control himself, and something about the strange Tarnished triggered his instincts—caution, even fear.

The casual intensity radiating from Kosta’s very essence couldn’t escape the shadow of the Goddess.

This man was too dangerous.

And soon, the beast was utterly convinced of it.

Maliketh was fast. Insanely fast and ferocious. The slayer of demigods didn’t bear his title without reason, posing a deadly threat even to the mightiest of the Goddess’s children. A shadow of her caliber couldn’t wield anything less.

But it seemed Konstantin hadn’t gotten the memo.

Like a wild animal, Maliketh dashed after the man across the hall, swiping at him with clawed paws and his ceremonial blade—a weapon capable of slicing even divine flesh.

The problem was that to slice something, you had to hit it first!

Even by the standards of the Lands Between, the beastly priest was ancient, having faced hundreds, if not thousands, of the most skilled and absurd warriors and sorcerers. Their techniques were often so bizarre that any attempt to describe them was doomed to fail.

But… the Tarnished’s style was different. Maliketh could have described what was happening but the description would have made the situation all the more absurd.

Konstantin rolled. No matter how perfectly executed, the essence remained the same: rolls. Nothing but rolls! And that encapsulated the entirety of what was happening.

‘What… what is this technique?!’

The hall was crumbling before their eyes. Claw marks scarred the columns, and tiles shattered underfoot.

The beast’s rage, with each failed attempt to catch the rolling madman, gradually gave way to genuine bewilderment. Once again, he swung his ritual blade, confident this time that the Tarnished couldn’t possibly roll away, but…

Instead, too focused on catching the elusive figure, Maliketh crashed headfirst into a pillar.

Bam!

The hall fell into a grave silence.

Completely unscathed, Konstantin approached the dazed wolf, who had just seen countless stars and nebulas. His gaze was contemplative.

“Hmm… I wonder if it’s the poise that broke or the 50% health threshold(4).”

Maliketh peeled himself off the pillar, shakily regaining composure. His muzzle turned awkwardly toward the unflappable… man.

“This is the first… the first time I’ve seen someone… roll through space and time…”

Maliketh slumped onto the cracked floor, his earlier pain and fury now replaced by a sense of surprise and confusion. These fresh, long-forgotten emotions gave him a brief respite from his eternal struggle.

Hearing Maliketh’s words, Kosta shook his head.

“I haven’t gone out of bounds yet(5).”

Naturally, Maliketh had no idea what Kosta meant. Not that Konstantin was particularly seeking understanding.

“Why… why didn’t you attack… my hunger… my sin…”

“We’ll fight someday, just not yet,” the Tarnished replied with a smile.

Maliketh couldn’t fathom where the Tarnished soul’s friendliness came from, let alone what exactly the man meant.

A flicker of interest stirred in the shadow of the Goddess.

“Then… then…”

“I’ll guide you.”

The Black Blade blinked dumbly.

Perhaps the impact with the pillar had been strong enough—or maybe his sheer confusion over the situation was intense enough—that the beastly priest refrained from asking any further questions and simply agreed.

After all, his current form was only a fragment of the whole, and distance was no obstacle for him.

Even shadows of the Gods, having absorbed the concept of death itself, needed to stretch their legs once in a while.

Soon enough, the priest realized why the mad Tarnished had sought him out.

“A relic… death… I cannot forget…”

Something massive, resembling a disfigured head, referred to for some reason as a relic.

Konstantin nodded indifferently. The piles of corpses surrounding it didn’t faze him, nor did the pervasive stench in the air. What bothered him more was that this abomination was destroying the castle—and thus, the home of his waifu.

He wouldn’t have had the strength to deal with this before, but now things were different. If Gurranq refused, Konstantin was ready to deal with it himself. At least, that was the plan.

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that.

As if entranced, the Goddess’s shadow approached the thing that had been ruining the once-majestic castle for years. It didn’t take much guessing to figure out what happened next.

While it couldn’t satisfy the cursed servant of the Goddess entirely, the peculiar dish, at the very least, diversified his diet.

Kosta nodded in satisfaction.

Before long, the residents of the castle noticed the changes. The air became cleaner, the oppressive atmosphere began to lift, and sunlight pierced through the dark clouds. Morale among the castle’s inhabitants improved, and it wasn’t long before they realized what had happened—or at least, those still capable of realizing it.

Aside from Irina’s blindness, only one major problem remained in the castle.

“And where is my morning bath?”

“It’s still heating, my lord.”

Kenneth wrinkled his nose in dissatisfaction.

“Taking too long.”

Bok bowed apologetically, lowering his head.

The heir of Limgrave wasn’t in any rush to leave. To be honest, he didn’t really have anywhere to go. His fort had been looted, most of his servants were dead. It was likely they were now wandering as undead, and it was doubtful they’d obey his orders.

Even if they did, what was the point? Could Kenneth spend his days sitting idly in his ruined domain, surrounded by the living dead? And that’s without considering the effort it would take to rebuild the fort.

Sure, it was possible: he could find new servants, push past his disgust to make the undead work, and begin gradual reconstruction. Limgrave didn’t experience harsh winters, so at least the cold wouldn’t be an issue.

But why bother, when he could just stay at Stormveil Castle?

The castle was better protected than ever, filled with reasonably intelligent beings he could talk to, had no food shortages, and had an abundance of vacant rooms.

And, most importantly, he now had hot baths every morning.

After all, he was the heir of Limgrave. That pitiful Godrick had only been a disgrace Kenneth had reluctantly tolerated.

Now that Godrick was gone (or, if they even kept the corpse—Kenneth doubted it—he was just a decrepit undead sack of meat), Kenneth could focus on what he truly deserved: rest. Permanent rest.

Unfortunately, Kenneth’s flawless strategy had some flaws, and they weren’t shy about making themselves known.

“My lord?!”

Boc’s nasally voice made Kenneth grimace. He was about to turn and demand what the little runt wanted, but the creature suddenly forgot about Kenneth’s very existence and dashed ahead.

It didn’t take the rightful heir long to see who Bok was running to.

Kenneth felt a chill freeze over inside him.

The intimidating Tarnished, walking in his direction with his usual unflappable demeanor, filled Kenneth with a strange sense of foreboding. Adding to this was the dark-skinned woman walking beside him, her sharp gaze scanning their surroundings.

Unexpectedly, Nepheli locked her eyes on Kenneth, who flinched under her scrutiny. A vicious grin spread across the warrior’s face(6).

Although it was still a secret for now, it wouldn’t remain so for long: the rightful heiress, a descendant of Godfrey himself, the first Elden Lord, had come to claim what was hers.

Kenneth swallowed nervously, sensing the problems advancing toward him on two legs.

Boc, entirely forgetting his usual reluctance to show himself to Konstantin, fell to his knees before him.

“May I ask you something, my lord?!”

Konstantin froze.

“Yes.”

Bok sniffled, paying no mind to how the situation might appear to others.

“Do you mind if I call you ‘Your Majesty’? I… I’ve heard that you and o-other Tarnished are competing for the title… the title of Elden Lord! I’m sure the throne will be yours, and… and I’ll be just so happy, for a kinder soul is nowhere to be f-found… W-well…” Boc hesitated for a moment. “W-with the exception of your handmaiden… So please, grant me this. Let me address you as such…”

The man blinked dumbly.

Naturally, Melina stood a little to the side, observing the situation with a stony expression. Hearing Boc’s speech, she barely held back a melancholy sigh, turning her gaze toward the increasingly suspicious Kenneth, heir of Limgrave.

The recently arrived Irina, Edgar, and Gatekeeper Gostoc were yet to grasp what changes awaited them in the castle.

Though the gatekeeper already had his guesses.

“So, my lord, am I allowed to graft him a bit, or not just yet?!”

The Altus Plateau was closer than ever.

(1) Gurranq will not speak to the player unless they bring him at least one Deathroot.

(2) Unfortunately, we know little about the "Death" status effect. Despite its key significance in the Lands Between, the game doesn’t elaborate on it much. Personally, I only discovered the existence of the "special death animation" near the end of the main game—and even then, purely by accident. Example: YouTube link.

(3) While the game doesn’t outright state that Gurranq is Malekith, the number of both subtle and blatant hints leaves even the most skeptical lore scholars without doubt. Unfortunately, FromSoftware doesn’t explain how the player, after completing Gurranq’s questline, meets his "full" version in a space where conventional concepts of time and space don’t exist.

(4) During trading, Gurranq will go berserk and attack the player. By either staggering him or reducing his health to 50%, the beast calms down and resumes trading.

(5) Out of bounds refers to going beyond the map’s limits or clipping through walls using game exploits, often used by speedrunners to shorten playthrough times.

(6) At the end of Kenneth’s questline, he appoints Nepheli as the new ruler of Stormveil Castle, seeing her as a strong and fair leader with, as hinted heavily throughout the game, the appropriate lineage. While Kenneth’s logic is hard to argue with, some details of how he reached this conclusion can be open to interpretation.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 72

“No chance at all?” I asked from the passenger seat.

“None,” Panam answered, irritation creeping into her voice. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have even bothered asking. Aldecaldos have new rules now—no hitting corps, just kissing their ass. For some reason, Saul decided that’ll fix the clan’s reputation. Like if we act all nice and polite, people won’t see us as dangerous trash anymore.”

“Naive,” I replied. “At best, they’ll see you as harmless trash. And that’s way worse.”

“Exactly! The guy’s old as dirt, but now he thinks he’s some kind of visionary. How many cities have we helped rebuild? How many buildings did we pull out of radioactive ruins? Think anyone gives a shit? No, of course not. Whatever. The more I talk about it, the angrier I get.”

So, Aldecaldos were out. That meant I needed to find someone else for the convoy raid—or handle it ourselves. According to the intel Lucy intercepted, the convoy had a forty-one-man security detail. Twenty-five guards, sixteen drivers and techs, all armed. Plus drones. Maybe combat bots. That was serious muscle. Even with the element of surprise, hitting them with just five people was a lot.

But the more people I brought in, the higher the risk of leaks. Aldecaldos would’ve been the ideal pick—tight-knit, isolated from Night City’s usual bullshit—but with Panam saying they weren’t pulling that kind of work anymore, I had to look elsewhere.

Didn’t want to pull in Jackie, either. DeShawn had already told him about looking into buying the bot. Plus, one Wells wasn’t shifting the balance much.

That left hiring outside help. Valentinos? Animals? Getting big gangs involved was another risk—loose lips, power struggles. Bring in too many big players, and suddenly you’re not the one calling the shots.

Maybe freelancers? Build my own team from scratch?

Damn. Starting to think I got rid of Mauser too soon. This was exactly his kind of gig. But he was long gone—no bringing him back from the other side. Only one guy I could drag back from the void, and that was Johnny. But that was a problem for after Konpeki.

For now, I worked with what I had. Needed at least five to seven mercs. Not just any randoms—good mix of skill and implants. Enough firepower to rip through the convoy’s guards in a decisive first strike.

And then, there was the meeting with Michiko. And tracking down the Brazilian operatives. I had too much shit on my plate, and all I could do was hope I didn’t burn out before I finished.

“Fine. I’ll find the crew myself,” I told Panam after a long moment, running through my options. “That means you’re handling weapons, explosives, and setting up the ambush. Here—sixty grand in cash. Get whatever you need. If you need anything specific for firearms, talk to Becca.”

“Sure, I’ll call her, so the little gremlin doesn’t feel left out. But, V… sixty thousand? You sure?”

“Yeah.”

For the first time in a long time, my cash reserves dipped below a million. 967,800 left. If I counted my banked assets, I still had over a mil, but the upcoming expenses would keep draining that fast.

Still, I was confident that aside from grabbing several bots, we’d be able to snatch some extra hardware. Whole convoy was out of the question—sixteen trucks were too much—but picking up additional loot was definitely in the cards.

The rest of my night was spent combing through everything. Data pulled from Faraday’s memories, his files, Mauser’s files, Arasaka counterintelligence reports, even fragments from my deep-dive into the Voodoo Boys’ network.

I was looking for the perfect candidates. People who wouldn’t hesitate to take on a major corp, but also wouldn’t run their mouths about it afterward.

Of course, there was always another option—hire them, then wipe them out when the job was done. But go down that road too often, and people stop wanting to work with you.

“Good evening,” I greeted, dialing yet another number. “Is this Chris Cuomo? No? His mother? Oh… he got shot in a firefight? My condolences.”

Hung up. Back to searching.

"William Hare…" Ex-military. Early signs of cyberpsychosis. Had the right augments, solid experience… but too much time in a Militech division. No telling how a former corporal with a shaky psyche would react to gunning down Militech soldiers. Too risky. Next.

Lucy, meanwhile, was busy hunting down the Brazilian safehouse. Work never stopped in our apartment. Evelyn barely had time to bring us coffee before one of us needed another cup.

Eventually, I narrowed the list down to six. Made calls. Set meetings. These were all mercs—folks from Afterlife and Electric Orgasm. Freelancers. No tight gang ties. Exactly what I needed.

Then, I called Falco and told him to meet them tomorrow.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you did?” he asked.

“I got another meeting at that time. One I can’t reschedule. You’re good at reading people. I trust your judgment.”

“Well, I try to see the best in people… sometimes that bites me in the ass. But alright, I’ll talk to them. See what makes them tick.”

“Perfect. See you tomorrow.”

Michiko set the meeting for eleven in the morning. Was I nervous?

A little.

I didn’t think she’d have me shot on sight or thrown into a blacksite—didn’t fit her usual MO. She didn’t strike me as the type to make rash decisions. Measure seven times, shoot once—something like that.

But I couldn’t afford to relax, either.

If I wasn’t getting killed today, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t tomorrow. Michiko was digging deep into the old Arasaka division I used to work in. She might eventually stumble across some of the… artistic liberties I took with my assignments.

For the meeting, I went as low-profile as possible. Minimal weapons, minimal flash.

Sharp blazer, white dress shirt, dry-cleaned slacks. Looked like a young corpo trying to build his career—except for my expression and my cyberarm. Those definitely didn’t fit the image. Face had the look of a guy life had kicked the shit out of. The combat-grade Dylar-Kendachi arm hidden under my sleeve? That would be a dead giveaway if anyone got a close look.

I had been promised anonymity as an informant—none of my new "friends" were supposed to know where I was going. So, the first stop on my morning trip was a nondescript alleyway.

A black car with tinted windows was already waiting. The door swung open invitingly. Inside, there was only a driver—not security, judging by his gear and demeanor.

He drove toward the Corpo Plaza but didn’t stop to park. Instead, we entered one of the unmarked service tunnels. The gleaming skyscrapers bathed in morning light faded behind dull concrete walls. After the open sky, the cramped, dimly lit ceiling felt oppressive, the red emergency lights flickering overhead like a warning.

It felt like being swallowed by some great beast—a beast I was all too familiar with. I’d crawled out of its belly once. And now, I was stepping right back in.

We arrived at an underground garage guarded by five armed agents and automated turrets. From there, we took an elevator—three, actually—ascending higher and higher until we reached the 76th floor, the so-called "jungle."

The place lived up to its name. Real trees grew here, while the offices were built like platforms scattered throughout the artificial forest. It was a quiet place, reserved for high-level negotiations. Only senior executives, security, and maintenance staff were allowed here, their conversations drowned out by recorded sounds of extinct birds playing over the speakers.

The driver gestured toward a narrow "path" leading deeper into the forest—a suspended walkway weaving through the trees. As I walked, I passed silent guards and netrunners dressed in immaculate white uniforms. They stood still as statues, blank expressions giving nothing away. Wouldn’t surprise me if they were doped up on something to suppress emotions during their shifts.

Two of those ghost-white guards relieved me of my pistol and knife before I passed under an arch of interwoven branches leading to a hexagonal platform. A transparent dome covered it, shielding it from any prying eyes.

Michiko was already there, seated at a sleek, high-tech table emblazoned with the Arasaka crest.

She looked exactly as she did on TV—polished, composed, and radiating a carefully curated aura of authority. Her chrome enhancements were subtle but effective, striking a balance between understated elegance and modern power. A deliberate middle ground. And if her appearance reflected her politics, then she was all about compromise.

"It is a great honor to meet you, Michiko-san," I said, giving a formal Japanese bow. "May I take a seat?"

"Please, let’s not stand on ceremony," she replied with a warm smile. "We’re in Night City, not Tokyo. And there are no cameras watching us here. Sit, Mr. Price. Or… do you prefer V?"

There was something about her tone—just the right amount of hesitation, a carefully placed hint of uncertainty. Some leaders press down hard, making sure their authority is felt. Others use the opposite approach, making themselves seem just vulnerable enough to appear relatable.

With Michiko, it was an act.

She already knew my name, my alias, and a whole lot more. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have bothered with this meeting.

"Whichever you prefer," I answered smoothly.

"You have lived a difficult life, V," she continued with a note of sympathy. "Assassination attempts, unemployment… I don’t often speak with former employees, but I have my reasons for making an exception.

"I have not spent much time in Night City over the past year. Aside from brief visits, I have been occupied with diplomacy and international matters." She waved a hand as if brushing the whole subject aside. "A tiresome duty, but I was preparing to return when suddenly—"

She paused, letting me finish her thought.

"Susan Abernathy’s death."

"Yes," she nodded. "A most unusual crime. The terrorists claimed responsibility, but I know their type too well. They’d take credit for the 2023 bombing, Lincoln’s assassination, and the sinking of the Titanic if they thought anyone would believe them."

Just as I expected—officially, the story remained unchanged. But behind closed doors, a different investigation was already underway.

"I want to understand," Michiko said. "Not just the circumstances of Susan’s death, but her life as well. You are part of that story, V. Which brings us to my first question: What do you think happened to Arthur Jenkins?"

I exhaled slowly.

"Well, I don’t know the exact method… but I assume he was eliminated on Abernathy’s orders."

"You’re certain?"

"Yes," I said after a brief pause. "I’m certain."

The less I lied today, the better.

"I see…" Michiko murmured, folding her arms across her chest. "Their conflict must have escalated significantly in my absence. You were one of the last people to see Arthur alive. Can you recall the details of that meeting?"

"Of course. Hard to forget. Mr. Jenkins was giving me an assignment."

"And what kind of assignment?"

My biomonitor pinged an elevated heart rate. I had prepared for this conversation—had anticipated this exact question—but even so, my system hit me with a sharp spike of adrenaline and cortisol.

"Arthur Jenkins wanted me to find contractors to eliminate Susan Abernathy," I admitted. "Their conflict had gone too far."

"And how did you plan to act on that?" Michiko asked, before adding, "Do not worry, V. No one is going to charge you with anything. The matter is closed. I simply want to understand what really happened."

"I was going to run," I answered honestly. "I didn’t believe we could actually go against Susan Abernathy, and frankly, I wanted no part in that level of corporate warfare."

"You managed to escape, but I imagine it wasn’t easy?"

"No," I admitted, offering a small, rueful smile. "She sent mercs after me. I had to go underground. Took small jobs, kept my head down. Then I heard Susan was killed in an attack. I reached out to Frank to see if it was safe to stop hiding, and next thing I knew, he was recruiting me as an informant."

"Our language is a fascinating thing," Michiko mused, voice drifting into a near-dreamlike tone. "So many emotions, so much risk and history… all condensed into just a few measured words."

"Well, I doubt you’d be interested in my misadventures scraping the bottom of Night City," I replied dryly.

"You are far too modest, Vincent. Misadventures in the gutter don’t usually end with someone buying a club. It seems fortune has favored you. Or was it more than just luck? After all, even before your departure, you weren’t exactly a stranger to the city’s underbelly.

"Take, for instance, your assignments from Mr. Tanaka."

Ah. So she knew about that too.

"I did handle a few problems for him," I admitted.

"You assisted in the ‘Cyberskeleton’ project, correct?"

Shit. Careful now. That’s a trap. I wasn’t supposed to know those details.
Time to sidestep.

"I don’t know what project it was," I said evenly. "Mr. Tanaka presented me with problems, and I solved them. Seemed like he was satisfied with the results."

"Indeed. You eliminated a fixer hired by Militech," Michiko nodded, giving me a knowing smile. "I watched the braindance. You looked much more… imposing. Aggressive. Almost sinister. Something about a dream, a room, and a monster. I don’t quite remember the exact phrasing, but it was quite poetic. A quote from something?"

"Don’t recall," I replied, playing it off. "That was mostly Jotaro Shobo’s idea—one of the Tiger Claws. I just figured… well, a little spectacle wouldn’t hurt. Faraday overstepped, going after a classified project."

"I understand," she nodded. "Unfortunately, in Night City, brute force is often the only language people respond to. I read the reports—Faraday was an unpleasant man. Regularly betrayed his own mercs and even clients. But that wasn’t your first interaction with Tanaka, was it?"

Interesting… We were drifting further away from the subject of Susan’s death. Where was Michiko going with this? Was she just testing me, or was there something specific she wanted?

"Yeah," I nodded. "I gave a lecture at the Arasaka Academy."

"And before that?"

"I helped out a student—David Martinez. He had trouble with a merc crew over a stolen implant."

"David Martinez…" Michiko repeated thoughtfully. "When I saw his name pop up in documents connected to you, I realized I’d heard it before. I have an old friend in Security. A dinosaur from the old days, like me. He writes to me sometimes. Lately, he’s mentioned that name more than once."

I knew exactly who she meant. And she knew that I knew.

"David climbed the ranks fast," I said carefully.

"He even worked security for Susan Abernathy," Michiko nodded, and something cold flickered in her eyes.

Fuck.

V, dodging Abernathy’s mercs. Meanwhile, the kid I once saved ends up guarding her. And not long after, Susan dies under mysterious circumstances.
Hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?

Shit. I hadn’t even considered that angle before.

"David told me his girlfriend died in the attack," I offered.

A small alibi for Martinez. If he had been involved—if he’d helped me—he wouldn’t have let his girl get caught in the crossfire.

"Yes," Michiko shook her head slightly. "A tragic loss. In Japanese tradition, dying in service to one’s duty is an honor, but to me, such deaths are first and foremost tragedies. You and David are still on good terms, aren’t you? He even helped you deal with those athlete-gangsters."

"Yeah. There were problems when I bought the club. David helped me out. I figured he owed me, after helping him once."

"That’s quite the inspiring story," Michiko nodded. "It almost sounds like the perfect PR campaign. A talented counterintel agent rescues a troubled but gifted street kid. Inspired by his mentor, he rises up and becomes a defender against terrorism. Actually… why stop at a book? That’s a movie-worthy story. Just needs a dramatic love subplot to round it out. What do you think?"

Shit. Heart rate spiking again.
Did she know about Lucy? Was she fishing for something, or just talking out of her ass?

I deflected with humor.

"A dramatic love subplot? Just as long as it’s not between me and David."

Michiko chuckled.

"Yes, that would distort the noble message of the film a bit too much. Love is… a tricky substance. Add just a drop in the wrong place, and suddenly it overshadows everything else.

"Still, I’m sure the fans would write that love story for you in their little fiction circles."

"Yeah, well," I shrugged. "Fangirls love to turn male friendship into… well, you know."

"Indeed," she smirked. "In any case, thank you, V, for helping David. I even considered issuing you a post-factum bonus.

"But there’s one little detail I just can’t quite wrap my head around. It’s been bothering me."

Her expression darkened slightly.

"Why were you interested in David Martinez in the first place? It was you who approached Tanaka with an offer to help—not the other way around."

"Yeah," I nodded. "I randomly came across a video. A high school kid using a Sandevistan to kick the shit out of a classmate. He should’ve burned out after something like that, but he didn’t. That kind of implant resistance caught my interest, and, well… things just rolled from there."

"A random video…" Michiko sighed. "V, you’re being modest again. Because you were looking into Gloria Martinez long before David’s Sandevistan incident at school. And I just can’t figure out why.

"Maybe you’d like to explain it yourself?"

Fuck.

Daily Updates (03/02/25)

Hydrargyrum

• Tier 1

  • Chapter 11

  • Chapter 12

• Tier 2

  • Chapter 15

  • Chapter 16

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 44

• Tier 2: Chapter 49

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 44

• Tier 2: Chapter 49

[Castling the Long Way] Chapter 49

On Christmas morning, I was jolted awake by an excited, almost giddy Harry.

"Ron! Ron, wake up!" He shook my shoulder enthusiastically. "Look what I got!"

I groggily turned over and immediately sat up straight. On his bed, unwrapped and gleaming, lay a brand-new broomstick.

The Firebolt was a masterpiece—built purely for speed.

"Harry, if you don’t want them to take it apart twig by twig, tell everyone you bought it yourself," I advised, running a hand over the sleek bristles in genuine admiration.

"Why?" Harry frowned, still stroking the stirrups like they were the most precious thing in the world.

"Because it was Sirius Black who sent it to you," I said, throwing up a silencing charm so certain creatures wouldn’t overhear.

Harry’s face twisted in a mix of disbelief and disappointment. He really didn’t want to give up the broom, but accepting a gift from an alleged mass murderer? That was another thing entirely.

"How do you know?" he asked cautiously.

"Same way I always do," I said meaningfully. "My vision was a bit unclear, but I saw you living in his house, getting on like a dream. He definitely didn’t betray your parents. You wouldn’t be living with him if he had."

Harry hesitated, clearly mulling it over. I was half-expecting him to dig his heels in, but before he could say anything, Hermione burst into the room, probably coming to wake us up.

"Oh, wow, Harry! Where did you get that broom?" she gasped, flicking her wand to dispel my silencing charm.

"Erm… bought it," Harry blurted out hastily. "Ordered it from a catalogue—couldn’t resist. I’ve been drooling over it since the end of summer."

"But that must have cost a fortune!" Hermione frowned at him disapprovingly. "That’s hardly responsible spending, Harry. You’ve still got years of school ahead of you!"

"I’ve got plenty of money, Hermione," Harry shot back smoothly. "My parents made sure I was provided for. Yeah, the broom’s expensive, but I spent years at the Dursleys’, wearing Dudley’s hand-me-downs and never getting a single present. Not for Christmas, not for birthdays, nothing."

Hermione immediately deflated, her cheeks going pink with guilt. "Sorry, Harry," she murmured. "I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in. Of course, you deserve whatever gifts you want. And—thank you again. Both of you. For Stella."

She was still a bit self-conscious about the birthday present we’d given her, but she’d had no choice but to accept it.

At breakfast, of course, Harry’s new broom became the hot topic. Thankfully, most students were still away for the holidays, but even McGonagall asked where he’d got it. He fed her the same story he’d given Hermione.

Hopefully, Dumbledore wouldn’t start poking around, verifying things with Gringotts. Not that he’d technically have the authority to do that. At worst, he’d probably just scold Harry for spending so much.

The rest of the day was brilliant. We took turns flying the Firebolt until we were completely knackered.

At dinner, Dumbledore was in rare form. He passed out Christmas crackers to everyone. Snape, after pulling his with extreme reluctance, found himself suddenly wearing a woman’s hat—complete with a stuffed vulture on top. He grimaced, yanked it off, and shoved it at Dumbledore, who plopped it onto his own head and wore it for the entire feast like it was part of his usual ensemble.

Later, Trelawney joined in, exchanged snide remarks with McGonagall, and, in completely expected fashion, predicted that Lupin wouldn’t be staying at Hogwarts much longer.

And just like that, the holidays were over. The students returned to the castle.

Wood nearly keeled over in ecstasy when he saw the Firebolt. He was even more thrilled when he found out that Harry had lent his old broom to Angelina—not permanently, just for flying practice. Alicia got her hands on a brand-new Cleansweep, courtesy of Ginny and her lot, who had pooled their money to buy their first broom. That pretty much made them heroes in Gryffindor’s eyes.

All in all, life was good—like a brief moment of peace before the next round of chaos.

Hagrid’s lessons had become surprisingly fun—thanks to Hermione keeping him in check. He set up massive bonfires in the clearing and let us toss in fire salamanders, which danced through the flames. We spent the lessons warming our hands and chucking in sticks while the salamanders scampered about.

Lupin, meanwhile, looked worse than ever after his latest disappearance.

"I wonder what’s wrong with him?" Harry mused as we walked to Hagrid’s class. "He looks awful. Maybe Madam Pomfrey’s treatment isn’t doing much."

Hermione let out a very pointed snort.

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Harry shot her an irritated look. "I’m seriously worried about him, Hermione! And you’re sitting there snorting?"

"Oh, come on, Harry," she huffed, practically radiating smugness.

"Lupin’s a werewolf," I cut in before they could start properly arguing, and was instantly rewarded with Harry’s look of utter shock and Hermione’s indignant glare.

"You knew?" she snapped.

"You thought you were the only one who figured it out?" I smirked.

"And why didn’t I know?" Harry demanded.

"You do now," I said, shrugging.

"So that’s why you don’t like him," Harry said slowly as we made our way back up the castle. "Because he’s a werewolf?"

"That’s one reason," I replied.

"Ron, how could you?" Hermione bristled. "Professor Lupin isn’t to blame for being turned! It’s an illness! He’s not a monster! You’re such a bigot! I knew you had an intolerant streak—"

"Right, well," I cut her off coldly, "you’re entitled to your opinion, Hermione, and I’m entitled to mine. I don’t force mine on you, so don’t force yours on me. Yeah, I think Lupin’s a dark creature, and all your self-righteous lectures aren’t going to change that."

"You—!" Hermione gasped, beyond outraged.

"Blimey, Ron," Harry interjected before she could explode. "You could’ve at least said it a bit nicer. Lupin’s a good bloke, you know. He knew my dad. And he’s a brilliant teacher. You don’t have to call him a dark creature like he’s some kind of monster."

"Harry, do you know what separates a human from an animal?" I asked, ignoring Hermione’s furious expression. When he nodded, I carried on.

"Animals are controlled by instincts. They don’t have the choice to resist them. Ever seen a cat during mating season? Or dogs that don’t care who they mate with? Packs of strays attacking children or the elderly—just because they can? Humans have instincts too, but we control them. Whether it’s for moral reasons, religious reasons, or just because the law says so. And the ones who don’t control themselves? Those are the ones we call monsters—murderers, rapists, serial killers."

"Why the hell are we talking about this?" Hermione nearly shrieked, her face turning bright red.

"Once a month, Lupin loses control. Completely. He could tear apart anyone—his wife, a friend, his own child or someone else's. He can’t fight his instincts. He becomes a beast. And he knows it. That’s why he’s a dark creature, and there’s no changing that."

"But it’s not his fault," Hermione shot back heatedly, though with less fire than before.

"Of course, it’s not," I agreed. "But that doesn’t make him less dangerous, does it? Personally, I think letting a werewolf teach in a school is outright reckless."

"But—"

"But what, Hermione?" I snapped. "You think you’re the only one who figured it out? Good for you. But what about everyone else? Why weren’t they given a choice? Or do you reckon the other students don’t deserve to know there’s something dangerous lurking around their kids?"

"Let’s not fight about this," Harry cut in. "Look, you’re both entitled to your own opinions. I don’t see the problem with Lupin teaching when he can teach, as long as he’s locked up properly on full moons. Hermione’s got a right to her views, just like you do, Ron. You’re just overly cautious and dead responsible. And you, Hermione, well… you’re a bit reckless with your whole ‘must protect everyone’ mindset. Now, can we please get moving before we freeze to death out here?"

We didn’t bring the subject up again after that. Well, Hermione tried, but I shut her down straight away—told her she could believe whatever she wanted, but she wasn’t going to force it on me. After that, she finally backed off.

February arrived, and the team was training non-stop for the upcoming match against Ravenclaw.

"You have to catch the Snitch, Harry," Percy pleaded, practically vibrating with anxiety. "I made a bet with Penelope, and I don’t have ten Galleons to spare. I’m counting on you."

"You must catch that Snitch," Wood echoed dramatically. "I need to leave this school with the Cup, Harry."

Even though Cho was batting her lashes at him throughout the match, Harry still managed to snag the Snitch—seven minutes in.

And that same night, all hell broke loose in Gryffindor Tower.

We woke up to shouts and wailing alarms—the ones we’d set up around our dorms just in case Black decided to pay us a visit.

We all scrambled out of bed and rushed downstairs, only to find out that—surprise, surprise—Sirius Black had tried to break in.

McGonagall turned up soon after. We explained the charms, and she questioned the portrait. Funny how the professors hadn’t thought to set up something similar.

"Sir Cadogan, did you let anyone into the tower after curfew?" she asked sternly.

"But of course, dear lady!" the knight declared proudly. "A gentleman!"

"You let someone in?" McGonagall’s voice shot up. "And the password?!"

"Why, he told it to me!" Sir Cadogan announced, puffing out his chest.

Absolute chaos broke out. They locked us in the tower and searched the castle all night, but—once again—Black managed to slip through their fingers.

Lessons were cancelled the next day, and while the others caught up on sleep after breakfast, I pulled Crookshanks aside in the empty common room.

"Crookshanks, you know Black, don’t you?" I asked slowly, staring straight into the cat’s eyes, hoping he’d pick up on my thoughts if he didn’t fully understand the words. "Tell him to set a time and place—I’ll bring the rat. Take him this feather and parchment." I handed over a small bundle, tied neatly with string.

To my surprise, the furball actually understood me. He snatched up the package and bolted out of the common room. Now, all I could do was wait.

Strange thing was, I never saw Black on the Map. I checked it constantly, hoping to catch him and set up a meeting, but nothing. Leaving a note in the Shrieking Shack wasn’t an option—Lupin lurked around there too often.

"Harry, don’t you think we should hand the Map over to the teachers?" Hermione suggested one day. "It’d make tracking down Black so much easier. Not to mention, it shows all the secret passages into the castle! What if the professors don’t know all of them?"

"I’d really rather not," Harry admitted. "If I give it to them, I’ll never get it back. They’d use it to keep tabs on me. Do you fancy living under constant surveillance?"

"But Harry! Ron, say something!" Hermione turned to me for support.

I didn’t back her up.

"They’ll catch him soon enough, Hermione," Harry said confidently.

And that was the end of that argument.

That evening, on his way back from practice, Harry ran into Trelawney. She very dramatically predicted that the Dark Lord’s servant would soon return to his master.

And here I thought I was actually changing things.

I needed to move fast before that prophecy came true.

Harry, of course, laughed it off completely. Hermione rolled her eyes and called Trelawney a fraud. Business as usual.

Two days later, Black sent me a note via Crookshanks.

"Meet me on Saturday at three o’clock."

The scrawled writing was jagged and uneven.

I had to be creative to sneak away from Hermione in Hogsmeade—fortunately, she got lost in a bookshop.

Harry was off having tea with Lupin, not too fussed about missing the trip, but just to be safe, I took the Map with me so no one would spot me and Black together.

Crookshanks led me past the lake, to a hidden cave on the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest.

Inside, a massive black dog was waiting.

The poor thing was so scrawny that any decent animal rights activist would’ve had a full-on meltdown.

The beast bared its yellowed teeth. The stench coming off it was vile—made my eyes water.

"Mister Black?" I asked cautiously.

The dog transformed—into a filthy, half-starved man dressed in nothing but tattered rags.

"Where’s the rat?" he croaked, voice rasping like he hadn’t spoken in years.

"Not so fast, Mister Black," I said evenly, keeping my wand raised. He might not have betrayed the Potters, but he looked utterly unhinged—his eyes gleamed with madness, his movements were erratic. "It’s locked in an enchanted cage in my dorm. And I’m the only one who can get it out."

Black let out a hoarse, bitter chuckle that sounded halfway between laughter and a cough.

"And what do you want?" he rasped.

"I want an oath that no one will ever find out about this deal. That you’ll stick to the version of events I tell you. And I want guarantees—I need to know the rat is definitely going to die."

"Why do you care?" Black asked seriously. He swayed slightly, like he was drunk or couldn't stay still—like he was either restless or being eaten alive by fleas.

"Trelawney made a prophecy," I said flatly. "She said the Dark Lord’s servant would return to his master. And I’d really rather that not happen."

"Fine, but we’ll need a third for an Unbreakable Vow," Black sneered.

"Don’t need an Unbreakable Vow," I smirked. "A magical oath will do just fine."

"Alright," he agreed, pulling up his ragged sleeve and revealing his arm. Nothing there but filth and skin stretched over bone.

"I swear on the blood in my veins," Black muttered after I’d read out the terms. "May it boil and turn to sand if I ever break our bargain. I won’t betray what’s been said—not by deed, not by word, not even by thought. Now, enough of this—when are you bringing me the rat?"

"Next Sunday, when I go to Hogsmeade again," I promised. "But you better stay quiet—keep out of the castle until we lose Hogsmeade privileges or Hogwarts goes on lockdown."

"Alright," he grumbled. "But tell me, kid—how’d you figure out about the rat?"

"Worked it out myself," I shrugged. "We overheard Fudge in the Three Broomsticks—he said you bolted after reading The Prophet. But there was nothing in that issue about Harry, only about my family. Didn’t seem like anything that’d interest you. Then, when the twins gave Harry the Map, I saw Peter Pettigrew on it—right next to my bed, like we were sitting together. Only thing there at the time was my rat, in his cage. And since you were supposed to have killed him ages ago… well, it all added up. If it wasn’t you, then it had to be Peter."

"Right. I’ll be waiting," Black muttered.

The days flew by. Gryffindor smashed Slytherin, and now the House Cup was basically ours. Wood nearly cried from joy. Some scout from Puddlemere United came to watch, and apparently, Wood might be getting into their reserve team. Nothing confirmed yet, but still.

Sunday morning, I dosed Wormtail with a sleeping potion. Then I hit him with a Stunning Spell—just to be extra sure.

To be honest, I almost felt sorry for him. What kind of life had he even had? First, the Marauders bullied him. Then he spent half his life hiding as a rat, shaking with fear. And after he ended up with me, he was stuck in a cage, never seeing the outside world—basically a prison cell. At least I fed him well. At least he got to visit Egypt—probably the first and last time he’d ever see anywhere interesting. Would’ve been smarter for him to run away, hide somewhere warm—live as a man during the day, steal food and gold as a rat at night. Find some abandoned house, settle in. Safe, warm, well-fed. But no—wizards are weird.

After dinner, I snuck out of the castle with the rat in tow and made my way to the Shrieking Shack through the passage under the Whomping Willow.

Black was already waiting, pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

"You got it? Hand it over," he growled, stretching out a trembling hand.

"Not so fast," I said sharply. "I need to make sure it’s actually a person first."

"I know it’s him," Black snapped.

"Well, I don’t," I shot back coldly. "And we haven’t learned the spell to force Animagi back into their human form yet."

Black gritted his teeth but relented.

"Fine. Hold out your wand hand."

Before I knew what was happening, he yanked my arm, twisting my wrist in his iron grip while muttering an incantation.

The sleeping rat on the table shuddered—and morphed into a scrawny, sickly-looking man. His sagging skin clung to his bones like an old, grey rag. His robes were just as tattered as Black’s, and peeking through a torn sleeve was a faded Dark Mark.

Black’s grip on my wrist tightened painfully.

"Convinced?" he rasped, his foul breath hitting my face.

And just as suddenly, he twisted my wrist again—and Pettigrew was a rat once more.

"That’s it. He’s mine," Black murmured, licking his lips like a starving wolf, before lunging at the table.

I thought he’d just use a Killing Curse, maybe throw in a Cruciatus for good measure. I was already worrying about how that might mess with my wand.

But no.

Black shifted mid-leap, his gaunt human form twisting into the hulking black dog, and he—he bit off the rat’s head.

A sickening crunch filled the air.

Then, pinning the lifeless body under his paw, he tore off another few chunks and swallowed them whole.

I watched, frozen in horror, as he slurped up the long, naked tail like a strand of spaghetti.

I nearly threw up.

"I’ll tell Harry the truth—that you didn’t betray his parents, Mr. Black," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. "But you need a home if you want him to live with you in the summer. And stop skulking around the castle—you’ll get caught and executed."

I didn’t wait for an answer.

I turned and left.

I barely made it past the Whomping Willow before I spotted them—Harry and Hermione, sprinting towards me like I’d just come back from the dead. Behind them, charging across the field, was Lupin.

"Ron!" Hermione gasped. "You’re alive!"

"Mate, are you alright?" Harry asked, hands gripping my shoulders like he was checking for broken bones.

"Yeah, I’m fine," I grumbled. "What’s all this about?"

"We thought—" Hermione started, but then—

"Where’s Black, Weasley?" Lupin cut in sharply, almost shaking me.

I blinked up at him, face blank.

"Black, sir?" I repeated, playing dumb. "Hermione’s cat—Crookshanks—scared my rat when I took him outside for a bit of fresh air. The little sod bolted straight for the Whomping Willow, and I had to chase after him. Ended up in some weird tunnel under the tree, and at the end of it—there was this room. And inside was this huge black dog, gnawing on my rat. I panicked, hit it with a Stinging Hex, and legged it before it could go for me too—what if it was rabid? Anyway, there was nothing I could do for Scabbers. He was old and sick, and—well, that’s that."

Lupin didn’t stick around to listen.

He bolted straight for the passage.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" I asked, playing dumb.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 49

Why do I have the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme playing in my head? Oh, right. Probably because the second Iruka left, Naruto got swarmed by his gang of kiddie ninjas.

"So, what did Iruka want?" Sasuke asked, arms crossed.

"He told me to scrub the paw prints off the Academy walls," our local Cinderella shrugged. That set off an immediate uproar of indignation among the group.

"Oh, and Namaiki-chan is here with us too!" Hinata pointed out, activating her Byakugan as she stood watch.

Welp. Busted. I had no choice but to slink out of the bushes and endure an impromptu petting session from Ino and Hinata. The boys, of course, kept their tough-guy act up in front of the girls, but the second we were alone? Total suckers for a good cuddle.

"We're helping Naruto," Ino announced, shooting a pointed glare at the boys. No objections.

There was an entire sack of rags ready to erase the so-called "vandalism." A closer inspection (and a good sniff) revealed that these paw prints weren’t even paint—they were just dirt. Water wiped them right off. A solid rainstorm would’ve done the job. I was starting to suspect that this wasn’t just some prank but rather a setup suggested to the kids by a certain teacher conspiracy. If this had been real vandalism, paint would’ve been a better choice. Dirt? That was just... sad. Cleaning the entire Academy would take an hour, tops—assuming you weren’t afraid of leaping from the third floor and running across rooftops with a wet rag like a proper shinobi.

Naruto looked a little overwhelmed as his friends grabbed rags, dunked them in his bucket, and spread out across the Academy’s exterior.

"But… I was supposed to do it alone," he muttered.

"Yeah, yeah," Sasuke waved him off. "The faster we finish, the faster we go home."

"Iruka said he’d treat me to ramen if I did it. As much as I could eat," Naruto added, putting way too much importance on those last words.

Kiba blinked. "Wait, seriously? Since when does Iruka-sensei even like you? And now he’s feeding you?"

"That’s kinda weird," Shikamaru mused, rubbing his chin. "Doesn’t really sound like him."

"Does he know how much you can eat?" Ino cut in.

Cue collective laughter. Naruto turned red. The kid’s appetite, when given actual food, was legendary.

"I’m growing," he grumbled.

"So let me get this straight," Sasuke said, locking eyes with Shikamaru. "You got held back after class to clean something you didn’t do, and in exchange, you get treated to dinner?"

"Something feels off about this," Shikamaru agreed.

"I heard that’s how they recruit outcasts," Kiba muttered. "My mom says that’s how they train stray dogs—start by feeding them, then get them to do whatever you want."

"Hey, shut up," Naruto snapped, frowning. "I’m not some outcast—right?" His blue eyes darted around at his friends, searching for reassurance.

"For us? No way," Choji said firmly, his easygoing tone smoothing out the tension. The kids relaxed a little, exchanging small smiles.

"I think we need to tail Iruka-sensei," Sasuke said. "But not all of us—too many, and we’ll blow it. Shikamaru?"

"I’m in," the so-called lazy genius said, eyes sharp with focus. "Sasuke and I will head to Ichiraku now and stake out the place. You guys help Naruto clean up a little, then leave before Iruka gets back."

"If you want, you can wait at my apartment," Sasuke offered.

"Hey, what about me?" Kiba complained.

"You and me? We’re too loud for an ambush," Choji pointed out, crunching on a chip. I purred approvingly. I’d underestimated Choji’s smarts. Even Akamaru gave a small bark, looking up at his owner like, See? The big guy's got a point. Kiba, surprisingly, let it go.

"We’re gonna expose Iruka-sensei’s master plan!" Ino declared dramatically. "Now go, boys, and Shikamaru, don't fall asleep in your stakeout."

"Yeah, yeah," Shikamaru smirked at her. "I’ll stay awake, just for you."

I was dying trying to decide where to go. Ino’s scheming expression was very promising, but Naruto was clearly suspicious. Sasuke and Shikamaru were off setting their trap. The tactical part of my brain demanded I follow the guys, but my instincts—sharpened by a lifetime of pettiness—told me I needed to see whatever drama was about to unfold.

"Someone’s coming," Hinata whispered.

A second later, I caught Iruka’s scent. The guy was sneaking—he was straight-up creeping around, checking in on Naruto like some sort of babysitter ninja. Instantly, Ino, Choji, Kiba, and Hinata dropped their rags and ninja-yeeted themselves off the rooftop, landing in the bushes below with barely a rustle. Academy training at its finest. I let out a warning mrow before following suit, diving into the foliage just in time.

Naruto, to his credit, played his part perfectly—scowling, pouting, scrubbing the wall begrudgingly. The best part? Iruka showed up way earlier than planned. Guess he wanted to catch Naruto in the act, or maybe he realized the paw prints were already gone.

"Almost done?" Iruka asked, eyeing the wall.

"Almost," Naruto muttered.

"Remember, I promised you ramen," Iruka said, doing his best nice guy voice. "So keep it up."

And then—oh, oh, this absolute menace of a human—he grabbed Naruto’s bucket of filthy water and dumped it right into the nearest bushes.

Guess who was in those bushes? Guess.

It was only sheer ninja discipline that kept me from yowling like a banshee and turning Iruka into a human scratching post. He barely missed my head, but now I was soaked, filthy, and sitting in a puddle of pure grime. This man has made a mortal enemy today.

Naruto visibly flinched when he realized what happened, but to his credit, he didn’t rat me out. He just kind of… stared at the bush with deep concern.

"Alright, let’s go," Iruka beamed, slinging an arm over Naruto’s shoulder. "I don’t know about you, but I’m starving."

"Oh, totally, Iruka-sensei," Naruto chirped back, smiling just a little too sweetly. And maybe it was just my imagination, but I could’ve sworn I saw the faintest flicker of red in his blue eyes.

Yes, my child. Destroy him. Eat him out of the house and pension.

As they walked off, I slowly emerged from my swampy misery, shaking my paws in disgust. I am vengeance. I am the night. I am one pissed-off cat.

"Oh, Namaiki-chan!" a soft voice gasped.

I turned to see Hinata, looking at me with those big, watery, guilt-inducing eyes. And just like that, my righteous fury turned into self-pity. Yes, I am a hero, but at what cost? My fur was ruined. It clung to me in sticky clumps, my tail a disaster. When this dried, it’d be a nightmare to clean. Oh, how miserable I am!

"Iruka’s the worst," I whined dramatically.

"I came back because we realized you were still here," Hinata murmured, scratching behind my ears. "You need a bath."

She didn’t even hesitate—just scooped me up and immediately staggered under my weight. "Whoa… you’re heavy, Namaiki-chan."

"Yeah?" I grumbled. "You think being a cat is light work?"

“We’ll wash up real quick and head back to Sasuke’s place before the others return. I’ll bathe you at home—it’s about the same distance, and we have clan seal-heaters for the water. You’re going to need… a lot of water. And a towel. A big towel.”

Overcome with gratitude, I planted a kiss on her cheek. What a saint. There was still plenty of time, and hopefully, the others would sort everything out and report back on what exactly went down with Iruka.

Hinata wrapped me up in her coat and casually smuggled me into the Hyuga compound like a seasoned criminal. Their bathroom was massive—spacious, pristine, and downright luxurious. I soaked it all in, absolutely vibing, while she gave me an odd look. Right. Naruto had probably never mentioned that I love baths.

Honestly, I hadn’t had a soak this nice since my palace days.

Hinata didn’t get into the tub with me, but she scrubbed me down with meticulous care, gently working the dried grime out of my fur. And, well… maybe it was the warm water, maybe it was the pampering, but I started feeling weirdly sentimental. I suddenly thought about Sano. I hadn’t had anyone wash me so patiently since—ugh. Nope. Not going there. Back to enjoying life.

Once I was sufficiently rinsed, Hinata laid out a huge towel, and I immediately flopped onto it, letting her pat me dry. Being wet wasn’t exactly bad, but it made me feel kinda chilly.

Finally, when I was mostly dry, she picked me up and carried me toward her room, explaining that she had a brush that would get me back to my usual fluffy glory.

And that’s when we turned a corner and ran smack into trouble.

“Oh… Nii-san…” Hinata squeaked, freezing in place.

Well. If it isn’t Mister Destiny himself.

“Hinata-sa—” Neji started but cut himself off the moment his pale eyes landed on me. I instantly recognized him. And, judging by the way his gaze narrowed, he recognized me too.

“…Tora-chan?” he asked, half-confirming, half-suspicious.

I did the only logical thing. I shook my head—very firmly—and put on the blankest, most brainless expression I could muster.

Just a totally normal cat. Nothing to see here.

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 16

"Rictusempra!"
"Expelliarmus!"
"Incarcero!"
"Finite."

From the outside, it looked almost like a fireworks display. Multicolored beams of magic, especially vivid against the white expanse of snow, shot from three directions toward a single target. They ricocheted off translucent shields that flickered into existence midair, dissipated when colliding with scarlet sparks, or streaked past only to send snow flying in dramatic bursts. Tonks moved with ease, almost dancing in place on a small patch of ground a few feet across, stepping back and forth in fluid, calculated motions. It seemed she was more concerned about getting tangled in her heavy winter cloak than being struck by any of the spells flying her way.

The Auror trainee had declared beforehand that she would only use three spells during this "duel": Impervius, a charm against elemental forces, was applied to her cloak, deflecting the snow kicked up by missed or rebounding spells and shielding her from sharp gusts of wind; Finite, a counter-spell, she occasionally cast to dispel slower incoming attacks midair; and Protego, a standard magical shield, which she maintained wordlessly, weaving together three or four small barriers or combining them into one solid wall.

Kayneth, observing from the sidelines, watched with scientific curiosity. He was seated under a near-transparent shield conjured by Tonks herself to protect him from stray spells. Before the "lesson" began, they had melted a couple of snowdrifts and, mostly thanks to Granger's efforts, shaped the resulting water into a small ice pavilion to shield themselves from the falling snow. Tonks had even transfigured a few remaining chunks of ice into sturdy wooden stools, joking that they'd hold for about an hour. Thus, he could comfortably observe the training without worrying about an errant spell hitting him.

The session itself began with a practical assessment. Tonks had asked the three students to attack her with everything they had, giving her a clear picture of their current skill levels. For several minutes now, the trio had been giving it their all—though their efforts were proving futile.

Not that they posed any real threat. Potter, wearing an oversized and heavily patched jacket, focused almost entirely on Expelliarmus, occasionally tossing in light-hearted spells meant to induce tickling or make legs wobble. While such spells had their uses in specific situations, they were far from effective here. Weasley, clad in an ancient, faded coat that looked like something from the 18th century, fared slightly better but still showcased little more than first-year proficiency. For variety, he sometimes tried to lift Tonks into the air using Wingardium Leviosa, forcing her to create a broad, semi-circular shield since the spell lacked the visible beams or flashes of other incantations.

Granger, the only one dressed appropriately for the season in a neat, well-fitted coat, demonstrated more advanced skills. She alternated between various paralyzing and stunning spells, some nearing fourth- or even fifth-year difficulty, and attempted to obscure Tonks' vision with a fog conjured from melted snow. But even her efforts weren't enough to land a hit.

"Time," Tonks called out after the allotted five minutes. She swiftly reshaped her shields, letting Granger’s Petrificus Totalus rebound and hit Weasley, paralyzing him, while Potter’s latest Expelliarmus ricocheted back, disarming Granger. "Two of you are down, and the third is offered a chance to surrender. That’s it." With a flick of her wand, she added, "Finite Incantatem," dispelling her barriers and unfreezing Weasley. "I’d say five points to Gryffindor, but no more than that. Decent for second-years, but nowhere near enough for your situation."

"Not even Hermione?" Potter asked, rubbing his wrist and shoulder, sore from repeatedly brandishing his wand. His voice was hoarse from shouting spells without pause—a skill he clearly hadn’t practiced much before.

"Not even her. With all due respect to your knowledge, Miss Granger," Tonks replied firmly.

"I’m not claiming otherwise," Granger said modestly, standing up and brushing snow off her coat and hat. Kayneth suspected she might not have been entirely truthful—she had likely hoped to impress the trainee Auror with her skills during the first lesson. However, he was seated too far away to read her expression clearly.

"Accio, Hermione Granger’s wand," Tonks called. She caught the wand midair and tossed it back to Granger before resuming her explanation. "Knowledge alone isn’t enough," she said seriously, adopting a tone that mirrored her senior Aurors. Even her phrasing seemed borrowed from one of her mentors. "You need experience and skill as well. That’s what you’re all lacking.

"In a fight, you can’t stand still—whether attacking or defending. The three of you could have coordinated, surrounded me, or tried to get behind me instead of forming a semicircle. And you should never neglect defense. If a spell is flying at you and dodging isn’t an option, at least try to conjure a shield—any shield, no matter how weak. It might not fully block the spell, but it could soften the blow."

"We… we froze. I know I did," Weasley admitted, looking sheepish.

"I understand, and I don’t blame you," Tonks replied, tucking her wand back into her cloak. Her voice softened as she added, "I just want you to understand what you’re lacking. Some wizards like to claim that Stupefy is the be-all and end-all of dueling magic, the alpha and omega of battle. But in truth, the most important spell has always been, and likely always will be, the magical shield. Protego, Protego Duo, Protego Totalum, and half a dozen other variations—you don’t need to know them all, not on the second year. But you must master the simplest shield spell, be able to cast it as quickly as possible. Ideally, it should be the second incantation you learn to cast without speaking."

"And the first?" Granger asked with interest, likely mentally reviewing the spells she already knew.

"Finite. You won't be able to cast spells normally if you're hit with a silencing charm or anything that affects your teeth, tongue, or throat," Tonks explained. To illustrate her point, she paused and shifted her appearance using her metamorphmagus abilities. She sprouted large, snake-like fangs, a forked tongue, and scales covering her neck. The children instinctively leaned back; the transformation was more unsettling than amusing, unlike her usual harmless tricks like changing her hair color or giving herself a beak for a nose. Hissing unintelligibly to demonstrate her inability to speak clearly in this form, she quickly returned to her usual appearance and continued, touching her throat for emphasis.

"You wouldn't be able to dispel something like that without knowing how to cast counter-spells silently, and without that ability, you can't cast anything at all. It’s as simple as that."

Returning to the topic of shields, Tonks added, "Now, about Protego—I know it’s not in your second-year textbooks, but there’s an important point you should know. The smaller the shield, the easier and faster it is to create. Beginners are taught to conjure shields about two feet by three feet, like a knight’s shield. But a skilled duelist can create one the size of their palm almost instantly, with just a flick of their fingers," she explained, demonstrating by conjuring several translucent barriers of decreasing size in the air.

"With practice, you’ll learn not just to keep a shield floating in front of you but also to deflect spells to the side or even redirect them toward your opponent. And keep in mind, your opponent might try the same. At advanced levels, duelists can ‘bounce’ a spell like Stupefy back and forth between their shields multiple times before it either hits someone or veers off course. Professor Flitwick once told us he managed 28 ricochets in a single duel, though I suspect he exaggerated a bit."

"Can’t the shield be broken, though?" Potter asked, slowly mimicking the wand movement for Protego before rubbing his forehead with his free hand.

"Of course, it can," Tonks confirmed. "A particularly powerful spell might ignore a weak shield entirely or simply shatter it. In those cases, it’s better to dodge than to try to, let’s say, stop a charging erumpent with a blanket. If your opponent is far stronger than you and casts something like Reducto or Confringo, any shield you conjure won’t help. Also, an unattended Protego—one you cast and then forget about—lasts less than half a second. Several weaker spells hitting it in quick succession can break it before you have time to conjure another.

"This is why, in close combat, wizards often use non-lethal or even harmless spells like levitation or sticking charms. These are fast, simple, and can distract or destabilize your opponent, giving you a chance to strike while they’re off balance or unable to shield themselves. I remember hearing about one of You-Know-Who’s followers—some outsider from the Continent—who was a master of this. In duels, he didn’t try to incinerate or explode his opponents outright. Instead, he would use basic school-level spells to make them trip, dance, or stumble, then finish them off while they struggled to dispel the charms. I’m not saying you should emulate him, but you should be aware of what you might face. Clear so far?"

"Yes, absolutely," Granger answered for the group.

"Good. Then let’s try again, but this time, work as a team. Coordinate your attacks—focus on one shield together instead of scattering your efforts. And don’t neglect your defense—I’ll occasionally send spells your way to deflect, but I promise they’ll be harmless. This isn’t Auror training, and I’m not Mad-Eye Moody."

"Won’t you teach us to defend ourselves properly?" Potter asked, adjusting his glasses.

"I will," Tonks replied, her tone softening. "But you need to understand how defense works before you can effectively use it yourself. Watching from the outside can teach you a lot. Don’t just try to hit me—observe what I do and how I do it. Now, no more standing around in the cold. You have one minute to prepare."

Kayneth, sitting under the pavilion, regretted not bringing a notebook. While Tonks wasn’t saying anything groundbreaking—most of it was covered in dueling manuals or even the books by the current Defense professor—it was different hearing it from someone who had been professionally trained to apply these techniques. Her insights came with real-world experience, highlighting practical nuances that textbooks often overlooked.

Beyond the standard wand-based offensive and defensive spells, Kayneth knew there were many other elements to magical combat—apparition, potions, environmental transfiguration, enchanted items, familiars, animagus transformations, silent spellcasting, and even wandless magic. But this training session provided a clear understanding of the basics and how wizard duels differed from the magus combat he was familiar with. The emphasis here was on defense against magic rather than resilience against physical attacks or elemental strikes. After all, a magical shield couldn’t stop a spear or a mercury whip…

"Aren’t you tempted to try your hand at the noble art of magical dueling? Or do you prefer being a spectator?"

"I’m more of an observer, really. Besides, this lesson is for them, not me. Please, take the best seat in the house," Kayneth replied, gesturing politely toward the second stool in the pavilion.

"It’s convenient when there’s only one row, and every seat is the best," quipped the blonde witch as she sat down.

Luna Lovegood, whose house was nearby and who had graciously allowed the lesson to take place on her family’s property, was dressed in her characteristically eccentric fashion. She wore a white hooded cloak made of thick, coarse fabric, adorned with black splotches that made it resemble a soldier’s winter camouflage from a bygone war. Where she had found such a garment in the wizarding world—or why she chose it—was anyone’s guess. Instead of a rifle, however, she held two steaming mugs.

"Hot chocolate?" she offered calmly, unfazed by the Fulgari spell that rebounded off a barrier and vanished into the sky.

"No, thank you. I’m not cold. You’ve already been more than generous, Miss Lovegood," Kayneth replied.

"Luna," she corrected.

"Excuse me?"

"Luna. Moon. Selene. Diana," she listed, her gaze fixed intently on him. "Take your pick. Call me by my name. I don’t want to feel like a stranger, especially when there’s hardly a year’s difference between us."

"Luna, thank you for agreeing to let us use your property for this lesson. You understand how important this is, right?"

In truth, it was Hermione who had suggested asking for Luna's help. In her letters, she had mentioned how poorly magical history was taught at Hogwarts, and how Muggle history wasn't taught at all. As a result, any serious understanding of the subject required either secluding oneself in the library or seeking help from someone knowledgeable. When Hermione needed to trace the origins of a specific spell and found no help in books, she eventually turned to Luna. Likely, she remembered their summer conversation in the bookstore, when Luna had quoted from memory an almost 300-year-old dueling code.

Though Luna had been sorted into Ravenclaw, not Gryffindor, she readily agreed to help with historical research. This led to a kind of academic collaboration between the two girls, if not outright friendship. Their interests differed sharply: Hermione was more focused on practical disciplines like potion-making and transfiguration, while Luna preferred history, magical legends, rare mythical creatures, and unique artifacts of the past.

It also turned out that Ron knew Luna fairly well since their families were practically neighbors. Four nearby wizarding households—those of the Lovegoods, the Weasleys, the Diggorys, and the Fossets—formed a small, secluded community, protected by shared and individual magical barriers. While Ron and Luna weren't childhood friends, they could at least find common topics of conversation. Luna had no objections to the "tutoring" plan—in fact, she welcomed it. Her father, a staunch fan of "hero-Potter," was delighted to have Harry and his friends as guests.

To outside observers, the visit seemed entirely ordinary: Ron and Harry, who was staying with the Weasleys for the holidays, simply went to visit a neighbor, while Hermione and the "tagalong" Murphy had escorted Tonks over from Diagon Alley. Conveniently, one of the Auror training requirements was for trainees to visit all of Britain's magical settlements so they could Apparate there in emergencies.

"I understand," Luna said seriously, her usual dreamy tone absent as her gaze returned to the field where the second-years were struggling to outmaneuver Tonks. "I’ve been to Hogwarts too. I’ve seen how Harry Potter always ends up at the center of trouble. I’ve heard the things people say in the corridors. I know very well that people are often afraid of what they don’t understand."

"Even wizards?" Kayneth asked, intrigued.

"Especially wizards." Her tone grew firmer. "They think they know everything about the world, unlike Muggles. That’s why the things they can’t explain frighten them even more. They can’t just blame it on ghosts, gremlins, imps, or witches. Don’t you think so?"

"I’m a wizard—albeit a new one—but I’m well aware that I don’t know everything about this world. Still, I strive to learn more. I believe that’s what being a wizard is about. Even so, I don’t think a single generation is enough to become a true master of magic, let alone understand the whole world."

"Some think it’s possible. But to know absolutely everything, there’s only one way."

"And what would that be?"

"The Origin."

"What?!" Kayneth turned to her in shock, momentarily forgetting the training session.

"The Origin. The Root of the world. The beginning of all beginnings," Luna explained as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She took turns sipping from the two steaming mugs she held. "It’s a very old wizarding legend, older than the Celts, older than Rome. It might have come from Egypt or even Babylon. It’s the story of a place where magic enters the world and where all knowledge is stored. It’s a beautiful tale, but it’s not one of my favorites, and hardly anyone remembers it now. I’m not even sure how much of it is true—it sounds far too fantastical."

"Why isn’t it your favorite?" the magus managed to ask. To him, and to all magi in the Association, the existence of the Origin was a scientifically proven fact, the subject of countless theses and experiments. Here, however, it seemed to be relegated to the status of a half-forgotten myth.

"Don’t you want limitless power and all the knowledge of the past and future?" he added.

"No. It would be far too boring," Luna replied serenely, as if she weren’t dismissing the ultimate goal of every magus. "If you already know absolutely everything, there’s nothing left to discover. You couldn’t even imagine anything new, because you’d already know everything—what exists in the world and what doesn’t. Take, for instance, the Wrackspurts."

"The what?"

"Wrackspurts," she repeated in a tone suggesting it was shameful not to know. "They have seven eyes and eight legs, can breathe underwater, turn invisible, and love stealing cheese off shelves. Their shells are red, white, and green, with a lovely shimmer. They nest underground near wizards’ homes and bring good luck if you spot one at sunset. They live for 300 years but rarely stay in one place, migrating from one house to another. There must be at least three dozen under our feet right now. And yet, no wizard or Muggle has ever seen one."

"Wait, what?" Kayneth was utterly lost. On one hand, Luna was easier to talk to than Granger because she had grown up in the magical world. On the other hand, her logic was incomprehensible at times.

"They’re not something that is, but something that could be. They might be exactly as I described, or completely different. There are millions of possibilities for what they might look like and how they live. Wizards lack this kind of imagination. Take the kelpie in that Scottish lake—long ago, a Squib must have told Muggles about it. Since then, thousands of people have searched for it, writing books and forming theories about what it could be—from a surviving dinosaur to a dragon from another realm, or even an alien from the stars. Muggles want to believe there’s something near them they don’t yet understand. They invent possibilities, imagining what it might be and how it might live. So why can’t we do the same? Why don’t we, as wizards, want to see something extraordinary or unbelievable in our world anymore?"

Kayneth stayed silent, unable to formulate a response. As a scholar, he valued rationality and the pursuit of knowledge through mystical sciences, but there was something captivating about Luna’s perspective, even if it was entirely alien to his worldview.

He also silently vowed never to mention the Mirror of the Soul or its workings in her presence. That particular mystic code was one of the most powerful, but it required absolute, almost fanatical belief or conviction—strong enough to defy the laws of reality. Someone with Luna’s mindset might actually succeed in creating it. And without the Mage’s Association or its enforcers in this world to keep such a person in check, that could be disastrous.

"Looks like they’ve lost again."

"Who?" he asked, turning his gaze back to the field. There, Tonks was unbinding the second-years from various restraining and slowing spells, shaking the snow off them with a flick of her wand, and leading them toward the pavilion. "Ah, I see. But they never had a chance to begin with."

"Let’s head inside," said Nymphadora as she approached them. "We need to warm up and dry off, then I’ll start explaining magical defense theory. No objections, I hope?"

"For simplicity’s sake, think of Protego as similar to the counter-spell Finite in its abbreviated form. It cancels spells that have just been cast or breaks them apart before they can take effect," explained Tonks. She stood by the window in the Lovegoods’ whimsically decorated sitting room. Harry and Ron, seated on a sofa before her, were trying for the second time to grasp the finer points of this crucial defensive charm. Luna, curled up in an armchair with her feet tucked beneath her, also appeared to be listening, though Kayneth suspected she might be lost in some fantastical thought instead.

"Similarly, Protego deflects magical beams or effects caused by spells, but it cannot block physical objects or pre-enchanted items whose magic is already integrated into their structure," Tonks continued. "For instance, if a wizard is silenced and then uses Finite, the silence spell will end, but their wand, enchanted cloak, expandable bag, self-winding clock, or any magical amulets or talismans won’t be affected. Likewise, Protego will stop a jet of water from Aguamenti, but self-writing quills or a flying broom will pass right through it without harm."

"If Professor Lockhart explained things like that, I wouldn’t need to read upper-year textbooks during his lessons," Hermione said wistfully. She had already grasped the material on her first try and taken meticulous notes, now sitting in a chair slightly apart so as not to distract the others.

"Are all subjects this tricky for them, or is Defense particularly challenging?" asked Kayneth, gesturing subtly toward her friends with a nod. He made an effort to ensure no sarcasm laced his tone—at least, not too obviously.

"It depends," Hermione admitted. "They can learn if they want to. And when they want to. And when there’s no Quidditch match in the next two weeks. One word: boys. Oh, sorry."

"No offense taken," he replied evenly. "I’m just amazed that two heirs to such ancient wizarding families approach magic—the very legacy of their ancestors—with such... superficiality."

"Ron hasn’t found his focus yet—he’s not sure which subject to truly dedicate himself to," Hermione said, defending her friends. "And Harry grew up in the Muggle world without knowing anything about magic until he was eleven."

"As did I. And as did you," Kayneth countered easily. Half of what he said was true. "That didn’t stop us, did it?"

"I don’t know what to tell you. I guess it depends on the person—what interests them. Anyway, what do you think, since you were watching? Do I have a chance against Tonks in the next session if she’s only on defense again?"

"No. You’ll lose a third time," he said bluntly.

"That’s... awfully definitive. No faith in your teacher, young apprentice? None at all?"

"This isn’t about faith—it’s about approach," Kayneth corrected, mildly puzzled by her overly poetic phrasing. "You lack imagination. You rely only on standard spells, direct attacks, and a variety of arsenal that doesn’t matter against a universal magical shield. You didn’t even try enchanting the ground near her, the snow, or the air. She didn’t bother checking for traps on the field because she knew there wouldn’t be any. What if one of your ‘misses’ had laid a slipping or bogging charm on the ground?"

"But what about an elemental shield?" Hermione countered, showing her notebook with the two-layered protection diagram Tonks had demonstrated. "It blocks water, wind, and fire."

"It might stop ice spikes or boiling water formed from snow, but it wouldn’t prevent a slippery surface. Charms like Glisseo or Slide don’t create ice—they impose the concept of slipperiness onto the ground, unrelated to water or frost. And you’re ignoring air entirely."

"Wind spells won’t go through Protego."

"No, but a shockwave will. It’s just compressed air moving at high speed. Create a powerful enough explosion nearby, and the resulting wave will pass through since it’s not magical."

"And Impervius?"

"It can be overpowered or drained, just like Protego, as Tonks explained earlier. A strong explosion or multiple weaker ones nearby could do the trick. But even this is all wand-work. You didn’t prepare for the duel in advance, despite knowing the time and place." Shaking his head, he added with mock disappointment, "Teacher, you disappoint me. I was hoping for at least a draw."

"A wand is a wizard’s primary tool," Hermione argued, voicing an axiom known to every wizard.

"But it’s not the only tool. A knight doesn’t go into battle with just a sword or spear. He has a dagger, a shield, armor, a mace, a horse, and squires. Why should a wizard be any different? Many simple spells can be used on objects. A fall-prevention charm is just a modified Immobulus cast on the floor. Lumos can be fixed in the air, on the ceiling, or carried on your wand. A magical lockpick is an advanced version of Alohomora that’s difficult to perform on the fly. The possibilities are endless, as illustrated right here." He gestured toward a printing press in the corner.

As it turned out, Mr. Lovegood, Luna’s father, was the editor of a small wizarding newspaper and had set up an improvised printing press in their home. The machine worked entirely on its own, powered neither by electricity nor a motor but by expertly applied enchantments.

"These magical conveniences are so commonplace among wizards that they go unnoticed—self-stirring cauldrons, self-fanning fans, and the like. What stopped you from, say, enchanting a coin with Lumos Maxima to trigger on impact or seconds after a spell was cast, then sending it toward your opponent with a kinetic spell? It would pass through both magical and elemental shields without issue. There are countless possibilities, yet you brought nothing to aid in defense, offense, distraction, or creating cover. And you mentioned in your letter that Ron’s brothers craft similar contraptions from random junk in their dormitory just for fun."

"But wizards don’t fight like that. You’re supposed to duel with spells."

"Who cares?" Kaineth countered. "Neither you nor I currently have the strength to break through a shield with a single Stupefy or Expulso, like an adult wizard might, to take down an opponent. If you come across the person attacking others at school, what will you choose—stop them by any means necessary or insist on 'dueling by the rules' only to lose if they turn out to be a fifth- or sixth-year? Magic is still a matter of your skill versus theirs. I’m not suggesting you carry a gun or a rifle."

"Ugh, disgusting," Hermione grimaced.

"Exactly. Are we wizards or not? A wizard should use their mind first, and their wand only second."

"I’d go so far as to say that if you use your head well enough, you might not even need a wand at all," added Tonks, having just finished explaining the material for a second time. "But before we return to practice, I’d like to discuss this whole situation in more detail. First, tell me everything that happened after Halloween—about the ‘curse’ and the attacks. Letters are one thing, but hearing it directly from someone involved is another."

"…So, to sum it up, you spent an entire week secretly following Malfoy everywhere, waiting for him to confess to someone that, yes, he was behind it all? And you learned absolutely nothing except that he ‘acts suspicious,’ ‘is clearly hiding something,’ and ‘might be looking for something in the school’? Can I finally ask why exactly he was your first suspect?"

"He hates and despises all non-purebloods, ma’am," Ron answered after their group account concluded, and Tonks began asking questions. "He even called Hermione... well, you know what word. He laughed when Harry ended up in the hospital wing. He even said outright when the attacks started that ‘it serves them right,’ because only Muggle-borns and half-bloods were being targeted."

"And that’s enough?" Tonks asked, genuinely surprised. "When I was at school, a third of Slytherin and a quarter of Ravenclaw might have acted like that. Luna, no offense. It’s been over ten years since the war, and yet all this nonsense about ‘pure’ and ‘dirty’ blood hasn’t gone anywhere and likely won’t. So what makes Draco any worse—or better—than the rest?"

"When Harry asked him outright last week if he was involved, Malfoy panicked—almost lost his cool completely. That’s not like him. Even if he isn’t the one doing it, he definitely knows something," Hermione reasoned.

"Given the atmosphere in the school right now, anyone would panic at an accusation like that. The real culprit could remain uncaught for who knows how long, and if other students start believing you’re involved, you’d have to constantly look over your shoulder. Haven’t you already learned that yourselves?"

"But it’s Malfoy," Harry insisted, as if this were a decisive argument.

"So?" Tonks said, puzzled.

"How can he not be bad?" Harry asked, genuinely baffled, oblivious to Hermione elbowing him discreetly.

"Why?"

"His father worked for Voldemort!" Harry almost shouted, ignoring similar nudges from Ron on his other side.

From his position as a quiet observer, Kaineth noticed both Luna and Ron flinch at the mention of the name. It seemed Tonks hadn’t been exaggerating when she said that even the name itself had become a source of prejudice, at least among pure-blood wizards. He also thought to himself how odd it was that "the hero of the wizarding world" not only disregarded societal norms but also neglected something as basic as genealogy. For someone like Harry, unlike Hermione or himself, such knowledge should have been deeply personal. This only confirmed Kaineth’s theory: Harry might have been turned into a modern legend, but as a person, he was left neglected, his education and life in the wizarding world dismissed by nearly everyone.

"My uncle worked for You-Know-Who," Tonks said calmly, as if she hadn’t noticed Harry’s friends trying to get him to stop. "Lucius Malfoy is married to my mother’s sister, which makes him my uncle, and Draco my cousin. So what? Or do you propose suspecting every single wizard related to the Malfoys of being a dark wizard?"

"I-I... I didn’t know, sorry," Harry stammered, clearly flustered. "I don’t think you can judge everyone like that. But family ties are family ties…"

"In that case, you’ll have to suspect a huge chunk of the wizarding population—about a quarter of magical Britain, including yourself."

"Me? Why?" Harry looked utterly confused.

"Dorea Potter, nee Black, married Charlus Potter, the brother of Fleamont Potter, your grandfather and James Potter’s father," Luna said serenely, gazing out the window. "In other words, she was your great-great-aunt. Dorea Potter-Black was also the sister of Pollux Black, grandfather to Andromeda Tonks, nee Black, and Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black. Harry, this is all written in the books about you—biographies with detailed family trees. There are quite a few of them."

"So Narcissa Malfoy and my mum were distant cousins, and I’m... what, a fifth cousin to Draco?" Tonks smiled as she clarified for the thoroughly shocked Harry. "Almost all old wizarding families are related to each other in some way, distant or not. That means you have plenty of relatives—some good, some bad. And believe me, Draco isn’t even the worst among them."

Harry nodded in stunned silence, then froze and slowly turned toward Ron, who was sitting next to him. Before Harry could form the question, Luna went to the bookshelf, retrieved a well-worn tome, flipped to the correct page, and announced:

"Cedrella Weasley, nee Black, was Pollux Black’s cousin and Dorea Black’s cousin. She was Arthur Weasley’s mother and Ron Weasley’s grandmother. So, you two are distant cousins as well."

"And you didn’t say anything?" Harry finally managed to ask Ron.

"Believe it or not, I didn’t know either," Ron replied honestly. "And who cares? Honestly, all this genealog—whatever stuff is only interesting to people with way too much free time," he said, shooting an exaggerated look at Luna. "Besides Percy, I don’t think anyone in our family has ever touched that book."

"So Ginny doesn’t know either?" Hermione asked flatly.

"I feel like even if they were full siblings, her obsession wouldn't have faltered," Ron remarked with a shrug.

"What does that have to do with—? You know what, never mind," Harry said, shaking his head in disbelief. "This whole 'relatives everywhere' thing is already more than enough to process for a year. Just… please tell me no one else in this room is part of my family. James?"

"I have no idea," Kayneth replied with an amused smirk. Watching the heir of an ancient magical family flounder over the realization of his own ancestry was more entertaining than he'd expected. "But nothing can be ruled out."

"H-Hermione?"

"I…" Judging by her expression, she considered joking, but realizing that jokes about family ties were likely unwelcome in Harry's state, she just waved it off. "Nope, guaranteed clean. No witches or wizards in my family for at least three generations. Maybe four, though I can’t be sure about one great-great-grandfather—we couldn’t find much about him in the family records."

"Actually, there was a notable potioneer in the late Middle Ages named Hector Dagworth-Granger," Luna chimed in without even glancing at a book. "Though there's no confirmed connection between him and the Potters."

"There are probably plenty of Grangers in Britain…"

"Luna, what about you?" Harry asked, turning to her.

"Our family's only about two hundred years old and never crossed paths with any of the noble houses," she replied with a shrug. "Almost everyone in my family was a half-blood, so we weren't important enough."

"Well, that’s a relief," Harry muttered. "I still need time to wrap my head around the fact that Draco Malfoy is my… cousin. Ugh."

"All right, let’s steer this back to the main topic," Tonks cut in, reclaiming control of the conversation. "The attacks. Considering everything we've discussed, we can dismiss the 'curse' theory. That leaves two possibilities—another wizard or wizards, or some kind of magical creature. Harry, nothing similar has happened to you during the holidays, right?"

"What? No, nothing like that. I mean, I did drop a plate on my foot once, but it was slippery, and—well, nothing magical. No explosions, no falls, no crumbling railings."

"Exactly. A ghost or spirit would have followed you here, unless its sole purpose was to drive you out of school—which doesn’t make sense for such a being. And if it was sent after you, then by who, and why? It does resemble a poltergeist’s behavior, but there’s only one of those at Hogwarts, and it always causes trouble openly, not sneakily. Besides, it doesn’t go that far, even with first-years."

"Could it have been a house-elf?" Hermione asked, raising her hand as if in class. "Harry said one visited him over the summer, muttering about some kind of danger and even stealing his letters."

"Technically, they’re capable of such magic, but a house-elf wouldn’t harm a wizard. They just can’t—they think differently. Stealing letters is one thing—annoying, but harmless. But broken bones and falling off stairs? That’s a different story entirely. No elf would dare to do such a thing; they depend on wizards too much to put themselves and all their kin at such risk."

"So it’s definitely a wizard?" Harry concluded with a defeated sigh. "Someone from Slytherin… or one of the other two houses."

"You’re ruling out Gryffindor?" Tonks asked skeptically.

"I trust everyone in our house. They wouldn’t do that—to me or anyone else. Besides, only one half-blood from Slytherin got hurt, but three Gryffindors were attacked almost back-to-back."

"Strange logic, but let’s assume you’re right. Even then, three houses across seven years—that’s over four hundred students. You can’t investigate them all, especially the older ones. And if you keep stalking Malfoy, Nott, or whoever else you find 'suspicious,' people will notice. And when they do, they’ll start avoiding you even more. Hogwarts has hundreds of surveillance spells invented over the centuries; you’ll get caught eventually."

"So what, we do nothing? Just wait?" Ron asked, disheartened.

"Not at all. First, stop making yourselves targets—don’t wander alone after curfew, for starters. Be prepared for danger—practice your defensive spells and, as James wisely suggested, focus on being prepared. Enchant your belongings to soften falls or absorb a couple of spells. Carry a few vials of healing potions to stop bleeding or treat a concussion. It won’t hurt and might be invaluable. Professors McGonagall and Snape won’t change their curriculums for just a few students, but Professor Flitwick might teach you some useful charms if you ask—he’d probably even praise you for your enthusiasm."

"You’re not Aurors or Muggle detectives. You’re still students. Finding the culprit isn’t your job. Your priority is to keep yourselves safe and help your peers when you can. I’ll talk to my mentors and see if we can arrange an inspection of the school—maybe even assign one or two people for security. That’s only if I can convince them it’s serious enough."

"Any normal school would’ve shut down by now," Hermione muttered under her breath.

"In a normal school, students can’t turn a first-year into a tree or blow up a practice yard during a friendly duel," Kayneth replied dryly. Hermione was clearly talented for her age and background, quick to grasp new ideas, but she couldn’t yet think like a magus. First-generation wizards, no matter how gifted, always took time to adjust. "And no teacher in a normal school would bring a group of third-category magical creatures into class and set them loose on the students. If they still held interschool magical tournaments, you’d see challenges far worse, even fifth-category dangers. Miss Granger, the wizarding world doesn’t operate by the same rules as the Muggle world—you should’ve realized that by now."

He added, with a hint of irony: "A Muggle might jokingly sell their soul with a notarized contract, just for a laugh. A wizard doing the same could face life in prison—or even execution. Different values, different perspectives. You’ll need to stop thinking like a Muggle someday."

"Well, you shouldn’t entirely forget how Muggles think," Tonks interjected, correcting him. "But you do need to account for the difference in values if you don’t want to stand out. That’s part of the reason Hogwarts exists—to teach wizards and witches of different backgrounds to understand one another and view the world in similar ways."

"Wait, hold on, I don’t think I understood something," Harry said, shifting his gaze from Tonks to James, then to Hermione, who didn’t contradict them. He hesitated, placing a hand on his chest as if to steady himself. "Are you saying that the soul… that wizards can actually do something with it? Like, buy it, sell it, trade it? I mean, I didn’t go to a church school or anything, but I’ve seen sermons on TV, and talking so casually about souls like this—"

"They can," Tonks replied simply on everyone’s behalf. "The soul is absolutely real, even if some Muggles refuse to believe in it. But any attempt to manipulate it is utterly forbidden. Tampering with a soul is the most horrific dark magic imaginable. That’s why books on the subject were removed from all libraries years ago—and rightly so. You’ll learn more about it in sixth or seventh year, but for now, it’s too early. It’s an unpleasant topic, and it’s best to address it when the time comes."

She glanced out the window at the gray sky, watching the snowfall grow heavier, before changing the subject. "Anyway, it’s going to get dark soon. Let’s quickly go through another round of practice so you can show me what you’ve learned from today’s explanations. Then we’ll wrap up for now. Luna, James, will you join us?"

"Yes, it’s been fun. I enjoyed watching you all," Luna said with her usual serene smile.

"I’ll join as well," added Archibald. "It’s always fascinating to see new magic. Your lessons have been incredibly informative. There are things books alone can’t teach."

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 15

Apologies, I lost internet right before posting yesterday

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“Good morning, boss. Happy birthday.”

“Good morni—wait, what?”

“You said your birthday was November 3rd. That’s today.”

“I know what I said, but I wasn’t planning on celebrating… Forget it. Lin, are you going to let us in, or should we stand here all day?” the magus asked irritably, gesturing toward the slightly neglected facade of the mansion.

“My apologies. Please, come in,” Lin replied, stepping aside to let them enter. He added politely, “Good morning, Mr. MacDuggal.”

“Hey, uh, Lin, right?” Albert replied, a bit awkwardly.

Once the door was closed, their host led them deeper into the house, stopping at an unassuming wooden door that opened to reveal a staircase leading down to the basement. Archibald unlocked it with a regular key, but a flight lower, they were met with a solid steel door that practically hummed with imbued magic and structural reinforcement barriers. There were no visible keyholes or electronic locks; instead, the magus placed his hand on the metal and recited a long incantation in Latin. The mechanisms responded with a heavy click, disengaging the locks and opening the passage.

Archibald allowed his two companions to enter first, then closed the door behind them and reactivated the barriers. Another flight down, Lin flipped a switch on the concrete wall, illuminating the bunker with ceiling lights. The space was utilitarian but clearly optimized for work: shelves lined the walls, though many were still empty; a workbench and a small array of chemical equipment were neatly arranged; materials were stored in crates, and magical protective circles adorned the floor, walls, and low ceiling. At the far end of the room, a door led to another chamber. Near the staircase stood a plain wooden table with several chairs, where the three of them settled.

“Not bad,” Albert remarked as he surveyed the setup. “Not exactly cozy, but definitely better equipped than the last ‘workshop.’”

“Much better,” Archibald agreed, his gaze sweeping over the shelves and workstations. “Still far from perfect, of course, but this was the best option available at the time. There’s enough space for now, and if necessary, we can expand later.”

“Or burn it down and move elsewhere?”

“That’s the backup plan, yes.”

The relocation and setup of the new workshop had been an ongoing ordeal since August. The day they were both captured, Triad thugs had also raided the rented apartment. While the guards MacDuggal had hired put up a fight, they didn’t last long. Thankfully, Miss Stone—forewarned about the possibility of such an attack—managed to barricade herself inside Archibald’s workshop. Using an artifact specifically designed for a non-magical user, she activated a weak but functional barrier. Archibald didn’t particularly care for her well-being, but he valued her competency and didn’t want the potential fallout from her death to create problems for James Murphy.

The thugs lacked the skill to breach the barrier, and sticking around to deal with police wasn’t an option. When Archibald and Albert returned that evening, they found the barrier intact and Stone unharmed, though the apartment had been compromised beyond recovery.

Over the next few days, as the magical press erupted over the murder of a wizard with "Muggle weaponry," it became clear that loose ends had to be tied up decisively. Archibald spent a sleepless 24 hours packing books and equipment into several magically expanded suitcases, dismantling every barrier to erase any trace of their presence. The apartment was then set ablaze in a controlled magical fire, leaving no evidence behind. Hypnosis and a bribe convinced the landlord that the tenants had nothing to do with the incident. Nearby neighbors, too, had their memories subtly altered, describing the event as a mundane robbery gone wrong.

They temporarily relocated to a house on the outskirts of London that Albert had reserved for emergencies. However, Albert’s troubles didn’t end there. When it became clear that enchanted bullets were being traced by both Aurors and the police, MacDuggal had to vanish entirely, severing all ties to both magical and mundane contacts. This evasion wasn’t cheap—his dealings with certain gangs now ran far deeper than before, though at least these new “partners” didn’t try to kill him on sight.

Archibald himself ventured out sparingly in the following weeks. On September 1st, he made an appearance in the magical world to see off his “teacher” and maintain the illusion of normalcy. Days earlier, he had arranged a meeting with Fletcher to acquire Polyjuice Potion in a hurry. Fletcher charged three times the usual rate, possibly suspecting that Archibald had ties to the Travers incident.

During the meeting, Archibald incapacitated Fletcher with a stunning spell disguised as a harmless Lumos gesture. While eliminating Fletcher entirely would have been the simplest solution, the magus knew such an act would draw undue attention. Instead, he altered Fletcher’s memories, substituting James Murphy’s image and voice with that of one of Albert’s associates. The mental manipulation was meticulous—unlike Obliviate, which crudely erases memories, this subtle reweaving of events minimized the risk of contradictions.

In subsequent dealings, Archibald only approached Fletcher while disguised, and the smuggler began bringing backup to their meetings, possibly sensing lingering traces of tampering. Fletcher also raised his prices, but Archibald grudgingly accepted the new terms—better inflated fees than the risk of betrayal. Fletcher, ever motivated by greed, seemed content to keep things as they were for now.

In September, Archibald finally found a suitable apartment, nearly identical to the previous one. However, with newspapers reporting constant checks and large-scale hunts for "dark wizards" and traces of black magic—even in the ancestral manors of old families—he decided to take a more thorough approach this time. His new workshop would be hidden much more securely, and he would maintain his guise as a first-generation wizard with greater diligence. This led him to purchase a small single-story house with a fully-equipped bunker just three blocks from his new residence in a private housing sector.

The previous owner had apparently been a paranoid prepper terrified of World War III and Soviet missile strikes on London. Under the modest house, they had built a shelter almost equal in size to the property itself, preparing for the apocalypse. With the dissolution of the USSR a year prior and the waning nuclear threat, such properties had plummeted in value. It was the type of house no one wanted—unless, of course, you were Archibald, who found it perfect. Naturally, the purchase was made under the names of unrelated individuals. Archibald had planned to relocate his workshop closer to the time of his enrollment in school, but circumstances accelerated that timeline.

Even so, the endeavor was costly. The Mafia loaned him the money for the purchase, secured by Albert’s promise from his undisclosed hideout and guarantees of exclusive services. As a result, Archibald spent the first half of September abandoning his own research to focus entirely on healing the wounded from gang-related territorial skirmishes and other “operations.” Some injuries were too severe or costly for regular doctors, forcing him to exhaust his magical reserves, ancestral techniques, basic healing spells with local mystic codes, and a variety of potions—both purchased and brewed himself. It was unpleasant, not to mention humiliating, but having a proper workshop was worth the hassle.

For now, he couldn’t conduct meaningful research. His equipment and books remained packed in the refuge, while renovations on the basement of the new house consumed time and money. Walls were demolished, ventilation and electrical systems improved, and doors and walls reinforced to meet his requirements.

At the same time, he realized he needed at least one assistant. MacDuggal was still in hiding, and involving any of James’s acquaintances would compromise everything. Most of them were also out of reach in Scotland. The idea of hiring someone from Knockturn Alley or similar semi-legal London spots was tempting but far too risky.

Working with injured gang members sparked another idea. While wizards were highly visible and interconnected within Britain’s magical society, squibs—descendants of magical families with minimal or no magical ability—were an overlooked resource. Some squibs lived among wizards, performing menial jobs, while many integrated into the non-magical world, often unaware of their heritage. Albert himself had been an example. Among the wounded gang members Archibald treated, he found individuals with one or two magic circuits and faint, almost useless magical talents. Finding the right candidate seemed feasible.

The gang's leader agreed to lend him one of their rookies as a "student," again on Albert’s word and for a price. Two weeks of careful testing and observation—without arousing suspicion—yielded four candidates with latent magical abilities. From them, Archibald selected the one who suited his purposes best.

“Rumor has it,” Albert said, studying the young man sitting across from him, “that you managed to teach an ordinary person magic from scratch in just over a month. Is that true?”

Lin, the young man in question, looked like an average college student—not particularly wealthy, dressed modestly, and utterly unremarkable among London’s thousands. He was just nineteen.

“James, weren’t you the one who told me that was impossible?”

“It is impossible,” Archibald replied calmly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Albert. After two months in hiding, the man looked pale and tired, but otherwise unharmed. He had likely been laying low in basements and warehouses, avoiding sunlight and fresh air. Given how many people were after him, there wasn’t much choice. If the Aurors caught him, they might literally "go after his soul"—a particularly grim possibility under magical Britain’s laws, which allowed for executions by Dementor. Fascinating creatures, those Dementors.

Now that the investigation seemed to have quieted, especially on the Aurors’ end, Albert planned to adjust his appearance with magic and gradually re-enter his old networks under the guise of a distant relative. He still had contacts, after all, and losing them would be a waste.

“Don’t listen to amateurs who don’t know what they’re talking about,” Archibald continued. “This isn’t really magic—not the kind wizards use, anyway. Lin, demonstrate.”

“Got it, boss,” Lin replied. He pulled a short knife with a bone handle from his jeans, adjusted his grip, and concentrated. With a quick slash upward, he unleashed a powerful gust of wind that struck the concrete ceiling between the lights, causing the protective circle etched there to faintly glow. Two more strikes followed from different angles.

“That’s all I can do for now, but a week ago, I couldn’t even manage that,” Lin said, lowering the knife.

“Not bad. You’re improving,” Archibald said dryly. He turned to Albert. “This isn’t traditional wizardry. It’s the physical manifestation of an innate property of the soul—a concept called an Origin. His is ‘Gale.’ It’s useful but highly unpredictable. Since I have some knowledge of wind-based magic, I created a sort of catalyst for him—runes, amplifiers, a spirit of air bound within, and a fragment of his own bone. It took over a week to calculate and assemble. It enhances his natural talent by several orders of magnitude, making it practical. To be honest, there’s more magic in that knife than in either of you.”

"In what sense 'his own bone'?" Albert asked, convinced he must have misheard.

"In the most literal sense," Archibald replied without hesitation. "A piece of his shinbone was used for the inlays on the knife handle. It made focusing the magic much simpler. With the help of some potions, we regrew the bone within a couple of days. Painful, of course, excruciating even, but I think it was worth it. The fact that he, like you, has a very faint magical gift made it easier for him to adapt to the new abilities. That said, it would have been possible to work with a completely ordinary person too, though it would take far longer.

"And to answer your unspoken question—no, it’s too late for you to awaken your gift. Adapting would be much harder, and even if you did, there’s no guarantee your abilities would be useful."

"Too bad," Albert sighed with a shrug. "But I got by just fine without it before."

Lin sat quietly, listening but not participating in their conversation. His full name was Llewellyn Smith, an orphan raised in a shelter like Murphy. Tall, with dark blond hair and brown eyes, he bore no striking resemblance to anyone from the pure-blood wizarding families Archibald had read about—names like the Weasleys or Malfoys. However, the name he was given suggested a magical heritage. Who else but a wizard would leave a baby at an orphanage's doorstep with the name of an ancient Welsh king?

Life hadn’t been kind to him. His impulsive nature—likely tied to his Origin, "Gale"—combined with a childhood full of ridicule for his "impossible" stories about gnomes and ghosts, made him anything but compliant. He cycled through three foster homes, escaped them all, wandered the streets, joined teenage gangs, and eventually climbed his way into the lowest ranks of the Mafia by eighteen.

Winning him over wasn’t difficult for Archibald. It was enough to convince him that he wasn’t crazy, that the magical creatures he'd seen as a child were real. To drive the point home, Archibald even summoned a couple of his own ghosts as proof. From there, Lin eagerly agreed to develop his meager abilities in exchange for becoming Archibald’s assistant. He continued to work for "the family," but now with a slightly elevated rank.

While Lin could never become a full-fledged magus with his paltry and low-grade magic circuits, he could be trained as a competent assistant and bodyguard—someone who could hand over a scalpel or shield him from a spell in combat. Loyalty wouldn’t be an issue, either. Once a person experienced magic, they inevitably came to see the problems of the mundane world as inconsequential.

By October, after the renovations to the bunker-turned-workshop were complete, Lin moved into the house. He kept it clean and maintained Archibald's cover as a "first-generation wizard." After all, what could be more normal than a young wizard occasionally visiting a squib neighbor to discuss their paranormal work—things far beyond the understanding of ordinary Muggles?

"And overall, how have things been without me?" Albert asked, eyeing the workbench where a short sword's blade and its disassembled hilt and guard lay.

"I take it business has slowed, and you’ve focused on… let’s call it local demand?"

"Mostly," Archibald said, glancing at the bench. "Healing injuries, crafting amulets, brewing potions for the 'family.' I even had to deal with a few hauntings—some basements and warehouses where too much blood had been spilled were attracting ghosts and even a phantom. I banished one; it wasn’t particularly useful. But the others I kept. That phantom, in particular, might be worth something."

He gestured toward the dismantled sword. "For now, I’ve paused work on enchanted bullets and adaptive blades to avoid unnecessary attention. Protective bracelets are still in demand, though. I’ll refine the design when I have the time."

"And why’s there been such a fuss, anyway?" Albert asked irritably, slapping the table. "Sure, I shot the guy, and yeah, your bullets are nasty pieces of work. But why all this uproar—why are they turning the world upside down looking for us?"

"It’s simple. We got unlucky," Archibald replied. He walked to a nearby shelf and returned with a stack of magical newspapers from late August and September. Spreading them out in a fan on the table, he pointed to the headlines: ‘Cursed Weapon,’ ‘Dark Wizard,’ ‘Dark Magic,’ ‘Cursed Weapon.’

"The problem isn’t the bullets themselves but the enchantment on them. The British Ministry of Magic has this unhealthy habit of labeling anything they don’t understand as ‘dark magic’ so they can brag about fighting it. They need something to justify their budgets and bonuses," he added with disdain.

"A fifty-pounds wand and the Incendio spell—something they teach eleven-year-olds—can burn a man alive in seconds, and nobody bats an eye. But an enchanted dagger that sets blood aflame? Suddenly, it’s an abomination. Hypocrites.

"And Lin," he added sternly, glancing at his assistant, "don’t go flashing your knife around unnecessarily, especially near anyone from their side. It’s a perfectly innocent tool, but they’d never see it that way."

"Understood, boss," Lin replied.

"And why do they keep claiming this guy ‘fought a dark wizard and won’?" Albert asked, jabbing a finger at one of the headlines. "Right here, it says the fire was so intense there were no remains. So how can they even be sure he won?"

"That’s propaganda," Archibald said with a scoff. "They might want the truth for their investigation, but preserving public confidence and saving face are higher priorities. While the Aurors scour slums and hideouts for us, the Ministry is telling everyone there’s no danger, that the dark magic they’ve been scaremongering about for a decade is no longer a threat."

He sneered. "They’ve backed themselves into a corner. They don’t even know what true dark magic or forbidden arts really are."

“Do you know, boss?” Lin asked quietly. Despite the apparent age difference, he treated Archibald with a measure of respect—a natural result of witnessing the magus's impressive demonstrations and hearing his lectures on the magical world and its fantastical creatures. Archibald hadn’t revealed much about himself, only that he was older than he looked, and that had been enough to cement Lin’s regard for him.

“Of course I know,” Archibald replied confidently, casting a disdainful glance at the moving photograph of the Auror Chief addressing the press. “Remember, Mr. MacDuggal, when you asked why I’m so meticulous about erasing traces of my work? It’s not just a quirk of mine but a necessity, and I can tell you exactly what happens when you don’t. Take, for example, a case from about twenty years ago. A certain wizard decided to conduct experiments on vampires on a remote tropical island. He probably thought that, should anything go wrong, no one would ever find out. Naive…”

Archibald shared a few tales from his home world, detailing instances where breaches of secrecy led to brutal repercussions—entire districts and settlements razed to the ground in retaliation. True, this world lacked the Holy Church’s Executors and their lethal efficiency. Here, the Magical Confederation preferred covering up supernatural events with mass memory erasure rather than obliterating the site of the incident. Still, the effects were far from harmless: people left with permanent amnesia, driven mad, or reduced to "vegetables" due to hastily executed memory-altering procedures often performed by those unskilled in mental magic.

Reiterating the importance of secrecy was a lesson Lin and Albert, both squibs now entangled in the affairs of wizards, needed for their own safety. The warnings also served to curb any overenthusiastic experiments with their newfound magical "toys," a temptation many novices struggled to resist.

Roughly half an hour later, they parted ways. Albert left to "test the waters" before re-establishing connections for his trade network, while Lin headed off on an errand for his Mafia superiors. Archibald stayed in the bunker.

His first task was potion brewing. Consulting a recipe, he carefully combined ingredients following the local methodology. A cloudy solution simmered over a low flame. While he had become adept at brewing standard concoctions by strictly adhering to instructions, modifying recipes—or creating new ones—remained challenging. His failure rate for such experiments was frustratingly high. “Conceptual" alchemy as practiced here—where the potion embodied a specific mystery—required accounting for countless variables: ingredient selection, preparation, and even the process of blending components.

Despite the frustration to his pride as a master alchemist, Archibald had no choice but to treat the process as practice, accepting wasted ingredients and efforts. Occasionally, a successful result justified the effort. Today’s brew, for instance, came from a necromancy textbook he had purchased from Fletcher for thirteen thousand Galleons (after a price hike). The formula, centuries old, was meant to create a barrier that repelled ghosts and spirits. Archibald had attempted a minor modification, shortening the drying time of the applied solution from thirty minutes to five. Only practical tests would reveal if his adjustments had compromised the potion’s inherent mystery.

With the potion simmering, Archibald retreated to a curtained corner of the lab, separated from the alchemical section by a barrier. Settling into a chair, he retrieved Hermione Granger’s latest letter from his coat pocket. The young witch had taken his "student’s" request for updates on Hogwarts life quite seriously, sending regular, detailed accounts every weekend via familiar. While the letters arrived at his decoy apartment rather than the bunker, they painted a vivid picture of life at the castle and its academic environment.

For the most part, nothing unusual stood out. Hermione described her progress in basic alchemy and introductory transfiguration, the latter of which, once she grasped the underlying principles, came remarkably easily to her. Care of Magical Creatures and Herbology were straightforward, though she noted the History of Magic class was, as others had warned, terribly taught despite its importance. Tonks had once made a similar complaint.

Unsurprisingly, Defense Against the Dark Arts posed the biggest challenge. By early October, Hermione admitted with clear frustration in her letter that Professor Lockhart, while perhaps a celebrated hunter of magical creatures and a talented writer, was a dreadful teacher. Archibald had suspected as much but waited for Hermione’s initial infatuation with the "people’s hero" to fade before encouraging her to critically assess his teaching methods.

She described how Lockhart had begun his first lesson by releasing a swarm of minor elementals—a cross between pixies and gremlins—into a packed classroom and telling the students to subdue them. It was a chaotic and dangerous exercise. A fight against unknown creatures in a confined space, without the ability to use area-of-effect spells, would be difficult even for magi trained in close combat. For twelve-year-olds with no magic crests or instant-cast familial spells, it bordered on impossible. Predictably, the students failed to handle the threat effectively.

Lockhart declared the class woefully unprepared for his subject and shifted focus to theory. Using his books as a basis, he lectured on combating various magical creatures, discussing spell combinations, potion preparation, tracking methods, and tactical positioning for confrontations. While the methods themselves were solid—if somewhat dramatic—his teaching fell short. He failed to explain why certain spells were used in specific orders or why he chose one potion over a potentially better alternative. Nor could he justify why, in one scenario, he relied on a combination of freezing and kinetic spells, while in another, he exclusively used elemental magic.

In short, Lockhart presented the students with rigid templates—effective but inflexible—and lacked the ability to break them down into modular components. This deprived his students of the chance to adapt these methods to their own affinities, magical styles, and resources.

Roughly a third of his correspondence with Granger revolved around Defense Against the Dark Arts—dissecting topics that Professor Lockhart either couldn’t or wouldn’t explain. To Archibald’s mild surprise, the young witch had taken an unexpectedly serious interest in the subject. Based on hints in her letters, he suspected that the Travers incident had profoundly affected her. More concerning was her apparent belief that the killer might pose a direct threat to the school, specifically to her house, her circle of friends, or even herself. This fear seemed to fuel her determination to master defensive magic, and Archibald offered advice within the bounds of what a gifted Muggle-born could feasibly accomplish.

Occasionally, as he read her letters, Archibald wondered if the “teacher” was hiding something from him. Did she have a concrete reason to fear an attack? Perhaps something had happened during her first year that made her take magic even more seriously than most pure-blood wizards?

During her clumsy attempt to uncover his secrets, she had panicked and let slip something about a stone and a professor who had turned out to be someone else entirely. According to her, the previous Defense teacher had suffered an unfortunate accident at the end of the school year. Cross-referencing newspapers from that time revealed an obituary for Quirinus Quirrell. Could he have attacked a Muggle-born first-year for some reason—prejudice, perhaps, or something more mundane? And had Granger actually killed an adult wizard in self-defense?

The mere possibility opened a floodgate of questions. Had he been wrong to dismiss the idea of involving her in the library altercation with the gang? Could she have dealt with them on her own if she’d been aware? Though he felt no threat from her despite these speculations, Archibald decided it might be prudent to treat her with a little less indulgence until he learned the full story. What could have happened to make a thirteen-year-old girl seriously anticipate an attack from an unknown wizard?

A soft bubbling sound from the brewing potion drew Archibald from his musings. He quickly finished the letter and found its conclusion unremarkable. Granger described a surprise inspection of the castle, including student dormitories, led by the Board of Governors and Lucius Malfoy, searching for dark or illegally enchanted items per Ministry decrees. The inspection had yielded no significant results. She also recounted a ghostly celebration at Hogwarts, which Archibald skimmed through; as a spiritualist, he regarded ghosts and phantoms as tools rather than personalities, useful for tasks like guarding or spying.

Folding the letter and tucking it into his pocket, he headed to the alchemy station to prevent the potion from boiling over, which could lead to unpredictable consequences. There would be time to write a reply tomorrow. Tonight, he had an appointment in the magical quarter. It was time for James Murphy to officially acquire a mystic code and establish himself as a proper wizard in the eyes of society.

Nymphadora Tonks felt uncomfortably out of place at the table, and Archibald had gone to great lengths to ensure this.

“Would you like more tea, Lady Tonks?” asked Mrs. Stone, her tone overly polite.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Stone. And please, don’t call me ‘Lady.’ Just ‘Miss’ is fine—I’m not from an aristocratic family.”

Archibald observed the exchange with interest. Convincing Tonks to visit had been no easy feat, but it was essential for several reasons. To achieve the desired effect, the atmosphere had to be just right.

“You know, James has spoken so much about you. Without your help, Miss Tonks, he would never have managed to navigate your world on his own,” Mrs. Stone continued, joining them at the table with a cup of tea. Archibald couldn’t help but admit that his "stepmother" earned her keep. For the past six months, her role as a caretaker had primarily been to fool ordinary neighbors, whose memories could be easily adjusted if needed. This time, however, her performance carried far greater stakes.

“I really can’t thank you enough for all your efforts. I know how busy you must be with your studies.”

“No, no, it’s nothing, Mrs. Stone,” Tonks replied, her cheeks turning red and her hair shifting to a bright orange. “In fact, we should be thanking you on behalf of the wizarding community. Taking in a child knowing he’s a wizard is a truly admirable act—not everyone would be so open-minded. Unfortunately, there are still many prejudices and superstitions about magic and ‘evil sorcerers,’ even today.”

“Oh, what prejudices? We’re long past the Middle Ages. How could anyone deny a child a family just because they’re a little different? And James said that magic is strictly forbidden at home anyway, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, until the age of seventeen—that’s Ministry law.”

“Well, tell me, Miss Auror…” began Kaybeth’s assistant.

“I’m just a trainee, Llywelyn,” Tonks corrected, forcing her hair back to its usual violet hue. “It’ll be another year and a half before I qualify as a full Auror.”

“But James said you’ve already participated in patrols and arrests, even as a trainee,” Llywelyn said with genuine admiration. Though he was playing a role, the sentiment wasn’t entirely feigned. Despite his difficult past and involvement in criminal activities, Llywelyn had developed a sincere, almost childlike awe for wizards and their abilities since meeting Archibald. Archibald had used this to his advantage, inviting Llywelyn to the meeting and introducing him as a curious squib neighbor eager to meet a real wizard, especially an Auror. The setup added to Tonks’s discomfort, precisely as planned.

“That’s nothing special,” Tonks said modestly, brushing off the compliment. “It’s just like police work—searches, interrogations, setting up barriers. Trainees aren’t trusted with solo arrests yet; we’re still learning from the senior Aurors.”

“It’s still remarkable. Miss Tonks, can you show us something… magical? You’re allowed to use magic freely now, aren’t you?” Llywelyn asked, his curiosity genuine.

“May I?” Tonks turned to Mrs. Stone, seeking permission.

“Of course, as long as it’s not dangerous or disruptive to the neighbors. Honestly, I’d love to see it too,” Mrs. Stone admitted.

“Alright, I’ll keep it simple.” Drawing her wand, Tonks pointed it at the table and intoned, “Expecto Patronum.”

“Whoa, is that… a rabbit?” Llywelyn asked, marveling at the silvery creature bounding gracefully across the tabletop.

“Where? I don’t see anything,” Mrs. Stone admitted, looking puzzled.

“This spell conjures a protector against dark creatures,” Archibald explained, his gaze fixed on the manifestation. The materialization of emotions into a semi-physical familiar intrigued him. He had read about this kind of magic but had never witnessed it firsthand. While its effectiveness was limited to creatures that thrived on negative emotions, he speculated it might also counter certain cursed objects or trap-based spells triggered by fear or anger. “Unfortunately, ordinary people can’t see them.”

“What a shame.”

“My apologies—I didn’t think of that,” Tonks said, dispelling the Patronus. Her tone lacked sincerity, suggesting the demonstration might have been a subtle test to confirm whether Llywelyn was truly a squib or if Murphy had breached the Statute by revealing magic to a Muggle.

Perhaps to soften the atmosphere, she levitated the empty teacups, making them spin gracefully in mid-air. “Is this easier to see?”

After the impromptu magic show, Llywelyn thanked Tonks enthusiastically before heading home, and Mrs. Stone busied herself with chores. This left Archibald and Tonks alone in his room. One of the main objectives of her visit was to give her a clear view of his living conditions—before anyone at the Ministry decided to investigate what a Muggle-born boy with nearly a year left before attending Hogwarts was doing with a legally purchased wand. Archibald wasn’t certain whether such inspections occurred before acceptance letters were issued, but eliminating any potential risk of exposure seemed prudent. Inviting a trainee Auror to see everything openly lent an air of transparency.

The room itself was deliberately mundane: a bed, a desk with a lamp, a television, and a workout machine in the corner—because even James’s physical form needed development alongside his magic circuits. The few magical items were unobtrusive: an owl cage by the window, a wand on a stand, and a bookshelf filled with introductory texts on magic. Most of these were among the less useful books he had purchased during his first trip to Diagon Alley, alongside textbooks for the first three years at Hogwarts and a few higher-level theoretical works. Some were duplicates of volumes stored in his secret workshop. Anything potentially incriminating—like the older tomes or materials from Fletcher—was securely hidden elsewhere.

“So, you mentioned you wanted to ask me something besides offering thanks?” Tonks prompted, settling into a chair.

“Yes, there’s a problem I’m facing, and I don’t know anyone else I can turn to for advice,” Archibald began, retrieving some parchment scrolls from his desk before sitting across from her. “It’s about a girl I introduced you to on September first—Hermione Granger, a Muggle-born two years older than me. She helped me prepare for school over the summer. We’ve kept corresponding; she asks about news from the Muggle world, and I ask about her lessons at Hogwarts. But about a month and a half ago, after Halloween, she started mentioning some troubling incidents.

“First, one of her friends… it’s like he’s cursed, but not in the textbook sense. There’s no direct spell involved, nor has he touched any cursed items. But misfortunes follow him constantly. He’s on his house Quidditch team and has already been sent to the hospital wing three times. A rogue Bludger broke his arm, his broom nearly snapped in half mid-flight, and another time, a different broom crashed into a wall at full speed. Beyond that, potions explode unexpectedly, basic spells fail for no reason, and he’s constantly tripping or being hit by doors and objects.

“They suspected students from a rival house—apparently, some there really dislike him—but they’ve never caught anyone. And it’s not like these kids could be using advanced invisibility or masking charms that even most adults wouldn’t know. He’s already suffered fractures, concussions, and other injuries. And someone has been leaving him ominous notes in the hospital wing, saying things like, ‘Leave Hogwarts immediately, or you’ll be in grave danger.’”

“Do you think someone’s targeting him? Maybe an older student?” Tonks asked, her tone serious. She herself had endured bullying during her school years, for being a Metamorphmagus, a half-blood, and because of her parents, though it had never escalated to this level.

“I’m not sure yet. But that’s not the worst of it. About a week after his troubles began, something else started happening at the school. Once a week, sometimes more often, first- and second-years have been found unconscious, stunned by a spell. They’re often covered in bruises or cuts, and their magical energy is almost completely depleted. It’s as if someone has been tormenting them, but the victims either can’t remember or refuse to talk about it.

“I’ve seen something similar in the orphanage—though, of course, without the magic. It happened to me this year too—‘accidentally fell down the stairs’ and ended up nearly dead. But this is Hogwarts. Surely the teachers care about their students, right?” He sounded more doubtful than convinced. “There’ve been seven or eight incidents so far. Hardly anyone stayed at the castle over Christmas, but there’s no guarantee the attacks won’t resume in January.

“The worst part is that rumors are linking all of this to Hermione’s friend. People are saying his ‘curse’ is spreading—first affecting kids in his house, then all the second-years, and now even the first-years. If it keeps escalating, they’re saying it could reach the older students next—and eventually the teachers themselves.”

"What utter nonsense!" Tonks exclaimed, throwing up her hands in frustration. "Curses don’t work like that. I say this as someone who got top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts—it’s just not possible."

"I believe you," Kayneth agreed. From his perspective, it sounded like complete rubbish as well, contradicting everything he knew about the theory and mechanics of curses. Still, he understood that children, especially those whose knowledge of magic began only a year or two ago, couldn’t be expected to grasp such nuances. The same likely applied to many purebloods; based on the Ministry’s ban on underage magic outside school grounds, he suspected that family-level instruction here was far inferior to what he was accustomed to.

"I haven’t seen anything remotely like this in any books I’ve read either. And Granger agrees, as do the professors. They think it’s all some cruel, idiotic prank. They’ve been trying to catch the culprits for over a month but with no luck. Classes won’t be suspended over something like this. The problem is, some students believe the rumors, and now they’re openly threatening that boy, shouting for him to leave the school and stop endangering them. It’s possible this is all part of one big scheme, with the attacks on him and others being connected."

"Does anyone have a reason to hate a second-year that much? Is he from a family with a bad reputation?"

"His surname is Potter, Lady Tonks."

"Oh…" Tonks blinked, her surprise genuine. She quickly nodded and said, "That explains a lot, actually. And yes, I can see why some people would hold a grudge. But what does this have to do with you? What exactly were you going to ask me?"

"I was just getting to that. Granger believes—and I agree with her—that eventually the culprits will be caught. The castle isn’t that big, and someone involved will slip up sooner or later. But until then, Potter and his friends, who are also getting dragged into this, need a way to cope—with this so-called ‘curse,’ with whoever is attacking people, and with the students who believe the rumors.

"They tried asking their current Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for extra lessons, but unfortunately, Mr. Lockhart is a much better writer than he is a teacher." Kayneth cast a skeptical glance at a row of books on the shelf. "His practical lessons are far too advanced for children, and his theory lessons focus on memorizing fixed methods rather than preparing for unknown threats. He failed to organize practical sessions outside of class, though he recently made an attempt. Upper years are too busy with exams or their own problems to help. Other teachers are overwhelmed with their own subjects and extra tutoring. And despite their efforts, the staff hasn’t found the culprits after a month. They’ve even investigated the most obvious suspects to no avail.

"That’s when Granger turned to me, knowing I have a connection to you." He left out the fact that he had subtly nudged her toward this idea, steering her away from futile attempts to find the culprits themselves. Looking out the window at the mix of sleet and rain, he added, "Christmas break starts in less than a week. Her group will return to London, and she’d like to request—through me—a couple of lessons on practical defense against magic and curses. Just enough to learn some techniques they can practice on their own back at school. Otherwise, it’s only a matter of time before the injuries go beyond broken bones."

"If it’s this serious, they should turn to someone else," Tonks said after a pause. "I’m not even a full Auror yet, just a trainee. The heads of houses, the headmaster, parents, or the Education Committee should handle this. Maybe they need to add extra lessons or get the Ministry involved to find the culprits. In the worst case, Potter could be moved to homeschooling for his safety."

"That all sounds reasonable, but only because you trust me, and I trust Granger. To the teachers and heads of houses, these are just ‘schoolyard pranks’—nothing worth alerting the Ministry over. Students at Hogwarts are always throwing newly learned spells at each other. Is that a reason to panic? No one’s been seriously hurt. When a cauldron explodes in Potions and a few students get scalded or splashed with acid, does that warrant canceling classes, calling in healers, or seeking Ministry help? Or when someone falls twenty feet off a broom during Quidditch? These things happen. They’ll be patched up in the infirmary in a day or two.

"As for adults, Potter doesn’t have parents. Granger’s Muggle-born like me; her parents’ voices mean nothing in the wizarding world. Weasley’s too afraid his mother will pull him out of school. So these two are left to fend for themselves, alone with their problems. They’ve asked for help where they could but received nothing of real use. That’s why they turned to me, and why I’m asking you for help. They just need to hold on for a while, but they can’t rely on anyone else because no one else believes them."

"Couldn’t they ask a real Auror for help?" Tonks suggested. "Someone who not only knows what they’re doing but also has the experience to teach. You said the current Defense teacher is a good fighter but a poor instructor. I’m not sure I’d do any better."

"Do you think they’d agree? To help a Muggle-born like me who hasn’t even started at Hogwarts? Or Granger, a second-year also born to Muggles? What could we possibly know about curses and spells to gauge the danger? Isn’t that right, Lady Tonks?"

Tonks fell silent. Unfortunately, James wasn’t wrong. Without solid evidence, even if the second-years managed to get a hearing with the Ministry’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement—which wasn’t impossible since one of them was the son of a department head—they wouldn’t be taken seriously. At best, the Ministry would send a query to the school, which the headmaster would promptly reject. They might try the Board of Governors, but with Lucius Malfoy in charge, the trio—"the Boy Who Lived, a blood traitor, and a Mudblood"—would be the perfect storm of grievances for him. He wouldn’t help; he’d probably push to have them expelled.

So what options were left? She could ask someone herself, discreetly. Scrimgeour or Kingsley wouldn’t believe her, and even if they did, they wouldn’t interfere with what they’d see as “schoolyard mischief.” Alastor Moody would jump at the chance, but he was the last person to involve with twelve-year-olds; his idea of training had no concept of restraint, and he’d run them ragged before any villain could.

That left no real alternatives. She could refuse outright, but what if this truly was a case of targeted harassment? If Potter was being punished for his parents’ actions or if someone sought vengeance for fallen relatives? And what if she could’ve helped but chose to do nothing, like so many adults had when she was a student?

"I can show the basics—not even from the Auror training program, just material from the upper years. But nothing dangerous, and certainly no dark magic, not even as examples."

"That’s more than enough," Kayneth nodded appreciatively. Truthfully, he didn’t particularly care about others’ problems, except for the fact that Granger being ostracized could negatively impact her reputation—and, by extension, that of her “student.” But this was also an opportunity to learn at least the fundamentals of the local combat magic system, taught by someone training to hunt down criminals and renegades. That promised a significantly higher level of expertise than the magi he’d encountered in battle so far—brainless thugs or a young aristocratic heir who didn’t know what he was getting into and wasn’t prepared for a real fight. It would be a waste to pass up such a chance, which was why he had gone to such lengths to set this up.

"At the very least, I’d like to speak with them. Maybe this Granger is exaggerating in her letters or taking ordinary pranks far too seriously."

"I’d like that to be the case," Kayneth replied, his tone firm. "But I’m heading there in a year, and I have no desire to wake up half-dead under a staircase... again."

"Believe me, I understand you perfectly." Tonks sighed. "Alright, it’s decided. Two or three lessons during the holidays—just the basics, with a focus on defensive magic. But we’ll need a place where underage magic is allowed."

"I already have a location in mind," Kayneth assured her. "The most important thing is that you’ve agreed to help. The rest is just logistics we can figure out later. You are an exceptional person, Lady Tonks. I’m sure you’ll make a first-rate Auror. And, uh, I hope I’ll be allowed to sit in on these lessons? Purely for observational purposes. I have a feeling that in a year, these skills might come in very handy."

Daily Updates (01/02/25)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 66

• Tier 2: Chapter 71

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 36

• Tier 2: Chapter 41

Elden Ring

• Tier 1: Chapter 33

• Tier 2: Chapter 38

____________________________________

It looks like mass releases on Sunday are inevitable for Hydrargyrum. I just can't manage a more frequent schedule for it. So a min of 2 chapters are coming tomorrow.

[Elden Ring] Chapter 38

No matter how much Konstantin wanted to make the red-haired waifu a little happier by fetching the prosthetic she needed from the depths of the Lands Between, something else gnawed at him: the crumbling Stormveil. If it had been empty, he honestly wouldn’t have cared.

But that place wasn’t just home to a waifu. It had become a refuge for all those who, for some reason, believed in him. It was where he became the boss of the area, crushing trespassing riffraff. At least one, for sure.

Something had to be done about that thing sealed away and cursing the castle, and Konstantin had a good idea of how to handle it. Not through simple destruction, nor by helping Nepheli—he wasn’t even sure about her. No, this needed to be something more advantageous for everyone.

Konstantin wasn’t too eager to visit the Roundtable Hold again, already having a rough idea of what awaited him there. But he couldn’t completely ignore the place either, nor was he willing to give up the opportunity to visit certain other waifu.

So, he had to be more… discreet. Finding an empty room was easy—they were almost all empty for one reason or another. The Hold had long since lost its former glory. To Konstantin’s surprise, Gideon was nowhere to be found, likely off handling his own quests. That played right into Konstantin’s hands.

Now, he just needed someone to help him contact the right people. Luckily, there was someone perfect for the job.

“Who would’ve thought even someone with three Great Runes could be afraid of something,” Roderika smiled hesitantly.

The fearless Tarnished clearly didn’t like being congratulated by crowds. He hated it. Loathed it, even.

Roderika found that unbelievably endearing.

Konstantin hadn’t been around the Hold much recently, which made Roderika a little sad. But her new mentor kept her too busy to dwell on it. Master Hewg was indeed knowledgeable in the unusual field of spirit tuning, introducing her to something entirely unique.

Roderika had always been attuned to spirits since childhood, so she quickly understood what was required of her. What she hadn’t realized was that she could not only communicate with spirits but also… influence their very essence.

She could change them, empower them, and if she wanted to, corrupt or break them. Not that such thoughts even crossed her mind. She simply grasped the possibilities opening before her. They were right there, obvious, plain as day.

Had Konstantin not appeared before her at the right time, not helped her, not found her loyal servants or shown her the path that had been under her nose all along…

Roderika felt her heart race.

Since their meetings were infrequent, she had a clear view of how quickly the Tarnished was changing. How his eyes took on the color of the Sun, how golden energy coursed through his body, how, little by little, he was growing taller.

She’d notice it even more clearly if he didn’t keep showing up fully clothed.

If only he’d… strip again, she could better evaluate just how much he’d changed…

“Is everything okay?”

His concerned voice brought the blonde girl back to herself. Her breathing quickened, and a slightly… peculiar smile crept onto her face.

“Y-yes…”

She couldn’t ignore how he was changing on the inside too, becoming more… human. Almost physically warm. Not gentle, but more… protective, nurturing. How could she not like that? Still, if only he’d come back without his…

Roderika bit her tongue. Hard. Probably drew blood.

“I’ll deliver the message, Konstantin!” she blurted out quickly. (0)

The man gave her a grateful smile.

“How’s your craft coming along?”

Roderika felt like dancing. She was overjoyed that he hadn’t forgotten someone as useless as her—or at least, as she used to be! Her eyes lit up with life.

“I’m happy to report,” she said, curtsying, “that Master Hewg has taught me the noble craft of spirit tuning!”

Her joy didn’t last long, as she suddenly felt a wave of embarrassment.

“I still don’t know what I’m fully capable of yet, but I’ll be more than happy to help if you need me…” she mumbled shyly. “And if there’s even the slightest chance to ease the suffering of my poor soldiers who became ashes… then I must try.”

Catching herself, Roderika took a deep breath, determined to be more confident.

“Roderika, novice spirit tuner. Pleased to meet you!”

Konstantin’s smile grew even warmer.

“Then I’ll need the help of a spirit tuner right now.”

From nowhere, the man produced a bell, ringing it several times. Before him appeared familiar spirits that Roderika recognized: the spectral steed, spectral wolves, the beloved spectral jellyfish that had protected her until the very end, and…

Some strange, frightening ooze that seemed to exist simultaneously in both the physical and spiritual realms. It was clearly artificial.

Roderika hadn’t expected him to request her spirit-tuning expertise so abruptly and found herself slightly flustered.

“I-I might need some help—”

Her eyes widened at the sight of the Ghost Glovewort (1) he offered her. The plant was utterly unique, something her mentor had described as impossible to find in the Lands Between, even with a flame to light the way. Yet here he was, holding it as if it were some random trash picked up in a garden stroll.

Torrent snorted proudly.

They had farmed those resources together.

Moreover, the plants he offered were clearly sorted by… quality.

Tuning something as complex and fragile as spirits wasn’t a simple task. It was a slow, painstaking process where Roderika would need to extract power from the spectral plants and transfer it to the ashes. If the plant was too… potent, its energy could even harm the ashes.

For a moment, Roderika dumbly stared at the plants, realizing how easily he entrusted something so valuable to her. And not just him, but even the spirits—they trusted her. Even the strange… ooze, which seemed mostly indifferent yet still willing to comply.

That profound trust filled Roderika with a newfound confidence.

“Thank you… for believing in me to the very end…”

Konstantin was about to shrug when Roderika suddenly stood on her tiptoes and clung to him, kissing him simply and unabashedly. It was shy but passionate, and… there was something recklessly bold about it.

Pulling away from the frozen man, Roderika, red as a beet, spun around and darted off into the many corridors of the Hold. The ashes, along with the Mimic Tear, exchanged glances and casually followed after her, knowing full well why the Tarnished had brought them here.

Torrent rubbed its neck affectionately against Konstantin before following the others.

Could the steed have anticipated that it too would be given the chance to grow stronger(2)?

Kosta stood at the entrance to the empty, long-abandoned room, watching the fleeing waifu. His mask of composure cracked.

“Quests didn’t prepare me for this…”

Many thoughts flashed through his mind. The Outer Gods themselves couldn’t fathom what this casual hardcore gamer was thinking.

But whatever it was, it wasn’t bad.

Not everyone shared that sentiment, though.

A short distance away, the intangible Melina stood, wide-eyed, her accursed eye glaring in the direction Roderika had fled.

Sellen, perched on Melina’s shoulder, squinted.

‘What a bold girl… You’d never guess just from looking at her… So now she’s ahead? What a surprise!’

Of course, the sorceress couldn’t afford to openly voice her true thoughts anymore—or at least, not all of them. Her body still ached from countless reminders that the hand of the Goddess’s daughter was heavy. Sellen had learned her lesson and wasn’t eager for a repeat.

That didn’t stop her from casting a glance at Melina, whose lips were pressed tightly together in a sulky pout.

She had clearly just had something ‘stolen’ from her.

Fortunately, the illusion still wore her crown, so it wasn’t visible how broadly the sorceress grinned.

Konstantin, regaining his composure, continued walking down the empty corridor. There were still things he needed to finish before departing.

He figured enough time had passed for the warrior waifu to process and accept everything. Although, he truly had no idea how much time had passed—but that’s par the course for the Lands Between.

The important thing was that all the preparations had already been completed.

Kosta wasn’t surprised to find Nepheli in the empty training yard. She was focused, swinging her axes and creating a whirlwind around her, with herself at the eye of the storm.

Amazingly, the storm didn’t damage the surroundings. Then again, this was the Lands Between. Konstantin had, just days ago (or so it seemed), sent a demigod off to grind in some DLC—a demigod who had held back the creatures tied to the stars and the waifu’s fate.

Kosta shook his head.

No, the thoughts swirling in his mind were undoubtedly interesting, but now wasn’t the time or place to delve deeply into them. Another time. Probably much later. His Tarnished brain was itching with questions that grew with every stat upgrade, yet the answers refused to come to him.

Indeed, great and terrible scholarly minds (lore nerds) were cursed in their own way.

“You seem more at ease, Nepheli.”

His voice startled the warrior. She stopped abruptly, turning to look at the faintly smiling man.

He wasn’t asking; he was stating a fact.

“Yes,” Nepheli smiled in return. “Thank you, Konstantin. Or should I start addressing you as the future king?”

The warrior burst into loud laughter.

Konstantin was the first Tarnished to claim three Great Runes.

If Nepheli had ever entertained the thought of competing with him—even in the smallest way—that notion was laughable now.

She understood that she would likely never be able to defeat the Starscourge. Such power wasn’t something a “mere” Tarnished could wield—it was something far greater.

When word of his victory spread, the Hold had once again gathered to welcome their hero. But the man never appeared, clearly busy with something else.

Nepheli would’ve bet anything that the first thought among the Tarnished was fear that Konstantin might follow in the footsteps of Vyke.

Thankfully, this wasn’t the case.

“Konstantin—just Kosta,” he calmly reintroduced himself.

The warrior had suspected he’d say something like that.

“Were you looking for me?”

“Yes. I want to take you somewhere.”

Nepheli raised an eyebrow with curiosity, though her smile was a bit strained.

The time she’d been given to reflect had indeed helped, but she was far from fully recovering. Her life had revolved around faithfully following her foster father, only for everything to crumble suddenly and absurdly.

How could she completely move on? She wasn’t like some Soulslike player, rolling through problems.

“Surprise me, Konstantin the Tarnished.”

Sellen barely managed to suppress her laughter as she glanced at Melina standing slightly to the side. The latter was clearly deep in thought.

Nepheli wasn’t particularly surprised by Konstantin’s ability to move freely between Sites of Grace. She had seen and heard enough to know he hid far more than he let on…

She smirked to herself.

The Tarnished wasn’t hiding anything—there simply wasn’t the opportunity or need to share.

A shame she hadn’t attended the festival.

“The Chapel of Anticipation,” Nepheli murmured as the wind hit her face.

Konstantin didn’t bother explaining anything, simply leading the warrior waifu to the chapel. They climbed a staircase to a small vantage point where Nepheli could see something she likely needed most right now.

The King of Stormhawks(3).

The rush of wind and the majestic bird slicing through the stormy skies captivated Nepheli so completely that she stared at it for minutes on end, watching every flap of its wings, every subtle movement, every gust of wind.

“Ashes… they carry the scent of an ancient storm…”

Kosta extended his hand, pinning the bird with the gaze of a sweaty Soulslike player. The hawk, letting out some indescribable but clearly indignant sound, obediently landed on the Tarnished’s shoulder.

Konstantin’s cold gaze instantly softened.

The hawk clicked its beak in annoyance. It had been flying peacefully around the chapel, bothering no one, summoning storms, and now here came some lunatic…

Konstantin handed the hawk over to the astonished Nepheli. The spirit was about to protest but stopped as the warrior summoned a gust of wind with her bare hand, gently enveloping the startled spirit.

It was clear that the waifu-warrior shared a kindred casualness with the hawk. So much so that the bird, surrendering to the current, began circling curiously around the now brightly smiling woman.

“Thank you,” Nepheli said softly, gazing at the storm swirling around her. “I will gladly accept it…”

She paused for a moment before continuing in a low voice:

“I’m… not like Roderika. I can’t see spirits, nor do I even feel their presence. But these ashes… they remind me of my first hawk.”

Deep in thought, the warrior-waifu turned to Konstantin.

She didn’t know where to go or what to do next. But, as with Roderika, the answer was obvious. All it needed was the right push.

Her next words didn’t surprise Konstantin in the slightest:

“You’ve taken your place in Stormveil Castle, becoming its lord by right of strength. A future lord of the Lands Between! I no longer have anyone to serve. Will you accept me and my axes as your servant, my friend?”

Kosta smiled.

Another quest, albeit with some minor adjustments, had reached its conclusion.

And with every properly completed waifu quest, the burden on Kosta’s soul seemed to grow just a little lighter.

The key was to keep up the pace.

‘I just hope I don’t get handed a Dragon Smithing Stone right now. The bestest quest reward ever…obviously…(4).’

Still, Kosta’s day wasn’t over. He turned his head briefly toward the dark, brooding false Finger Maiden. Something was clearly bothering her.

At least for now.

____________________________________________

Millicent had to admit that she cherished every break they took. Lately… her time with Konstantin had become an endless cycle of events, a constant, clearly deliberate journey toward some goal, accompanied by an ever-present sense of urgency.

Did the journey itself bring joy to a girl who had long since stopped dreaming of seeing the rising sun? Of course!

But there was also beauty in simply stopping for a while. However, with the arrival of usually unseen onlookers, the situation took on an entirely unique turn lately.

Particularly when it came to the false Finger Maiden.

“I’m a little jealous,” Sellen murmured.

Millicent almost reflexively agreed but caught herself just in time.

Though she didn’t see anything truly… improper, the mere expression on the usually neutral, composed maiden’s face sent shivers down her spine.

The golden energy, visible to the naked eye, flowed from the man’s hands into the false Finger Maiden’s, clearly granting her unforgettable sensations.

No matter how much she tried to hide it, Millicent could tell that Melina wasn’t exactly suffering from the man's help—if anything, quite the opposite…

Millicent bit her lip upon hearing just how… unique Melina’s sigh was.

In equal measure innocent and dirty—like she was ready at any moment to fall into the Tarnished’s arms and do things she had never even dared to consider before.

Right now, jealousy—newly awakened though it was—barely concerned her. Nor did the potential onlookers. The sorceress had learned her lesson, and as for Millicent... she wasn’t the type to exploit such...

Weaknesses.

Melina couldn’t remember the last time she had felt this good.

Even though her body was hardly different from that of the living, she was still, in some ways... dead. Yet Konstantine’s power didn’t just gradually heal the wounds left on her soul by the flames—it also reminded her what it meant to be alive.

And that... terrified her.

‘U-unfair…’

Melina barely held back another shuddering breath as she felt her body tremble. From the tips of her toes to the crown of her head, she could feel the Chosen’s power coursing through her.

To feel so whole, so undeniably alive again... it only made the thought of sacrificing herself to the flames that much harder. Selfishness stirred within her once more.

While she had resigned herself to death to restore the Elden Ring and guide the Chosen to the throne, all those wretched women would remain at his side, reaping the rewards she, a forgotten daughter of the Goddess, could never even dream of.

When she was alone, such thoughts never plagued her. Only the goal had mattered. But this had gone too far. Far, far too far.

And then, there was the creeping dread—the fear of what might happen to Konstantine should he fall into her mother’s hands.

Melina had a sinking feeling she knew exactly how that would end.

Thoughts fit only for a heretic—one who had betrayed the Golden Order, her own mother, their Queen, their Goddess. But she couldn’t stop herself.

She had spent too long wandering with the Torrent, searching for a worthy Tarnished. She had seen too much, heard too much, endured too much. And now, having finally found her Chosen... she had gained something she had never even dared to hope for.

Only to throw it all away—to burn herself to ash, offering her soul in sacrifice. And at the very end, she would have to see it.

The infuriating smirk of a wicked sorceress.
The haughty gaze of a demigoddess with unfathomable motives.
The sultry smile of a harlot, always leeching away the Chosen’s warmth.
The reckless spirit-caller who, without hesitation, had gone even further than the exiled witch.

And countless more women, each with their own inscrutable desires and intentions! Who knew how many more would appear down the line? The future king, so hopelessly weak to... waifus, was doomed sooner or later. This was no longer a matter of physical strength, magic, or even divine power.

It was about a force far more terrifying and insidious—one wielded not by waifus, but by women.

Melina squeezed her legs together as fresh tears welled in her eyes. She wasn’t even sure why she was crying anymore.

Meanwhile, Kosta, ever composed, merely glanced at Millicent, who was staring at them, wide-eyed.

Perhaps these healing sessions were best held in a more... private setting.

…Or maybe not.

The next morning, he met with Roderika again. Not only had she seamlessly imbued spirits with newfound strength, swiftly securing her place as an invaluable master within the stronghold, but she had also negotiated with the knight who had recently arrived.

With matters at the Castle nearly settled, Kosta intended to visit Gurranq—or whoever he really was—but to do that, he first needed to meet with D, the hunter of the undead.

Quests wouldn’t wait.

(0) TN: Yep, she says the same thing in the original. Nope, Kosta hasn't said anything that would indicate that's what he wanted from her.

(1) Ghost Gloveworts are materials used to upgrade spirit ashes. Like smithing stones, they come in different grades.

(2) In the game, the spectral steed Torrent, unlike other ashes, cannot be upgraded—which, of course, feels inherently unfair.

(3) To assist Nepheli and progress her questline, the player must find the King of Stormhawks ashes. While in the game the bird doesn’t perform any aerial acrobatics, this didn’t stop our brave Tarnished from being a little creative.

(4) Instead of unique rewards, the game often gives players Dragon Smithing Stones for completing quests. Help Nepheli Loux? Dragon Stone. Side with Jerren at the end of Sellen’s questline? Another Dragon Stone. What about Gurranq’s quest? Or maybe make it a reward for killing a few bosses? Or completing a dungeon?

[Life is Good] Chapter 41

We stepped out of the building to the sound of a shootout dying down in the neighboring house. Huh. That was quick. Then again… they’re just thugs. What else would you expect? Without hostages or a super on their side, what could they possibly do against a well-trained SWAT team?

Oh, never mind. The gunfire roared back to life, and I made a beeline for the Captain. I walked straight into the open, stepping right into the line of fire without a care. No cover, no ducking—what for? Naturally, I was rewarded with a chorus of "Get the fuck to cover, you idiot!" from the cops and a solid ten hits from the gang holed up in the building. Well, well, well—looks like these guys don’t have stormtrooper syndrome. Not that it mattered. The more bullets they wasted on me, the fewer they'd have for the girls. So, I lit up my fist and gave the windows of the fortified thug house a menacing little wave.

The response? Another wave of lead. No damage on my end, but the cops took advantage of the distraction and returned fire with renewed enthusiasm. That’s how I finally made it to Miss Stacy, who was giving me the look. Not an angry look—more like the exasperated patience of a mother catching her kid doing something profoundly stupid. My own mom used to give me that look a lot when I pulled dumb shit.

"Captain, is there anything else I can do to help? Maybe with the assault?"

"Salamander… Look, I’d really rather not send you into the fight, but we’re pinned on the first floor, and the criminals blocked off the breach on the third. And, from what I can tell, you really are bulletproof."

"Got it, Miss Stacy. Though…" I glanced thoughtfully at the megaphone lying on the hood of a car and pointed at it. "Mind if I give it a shot?"

She raised a skeptical eyebrow but nodded.

As I picked up the loudspeaker and strolled toward the "front lines," Stacy was barking orders into her radio. The gunfire started to die down, turning into occasional shots before stopping entirely. I stepped out from the police ranks, walking to about the middle of the open space between the barricade and the building.

"Good evening," I said, my voice calm and a little tired.

From one of the windows, a voice immediately responded, "Go fuck yourself, asshole!"

"Believe me, I’d love to. Thanks to you fuckers, I just missed out on a damn fine orgy, and I am not in a good mood right now. So, be smart about this and surrender. The hostages are free, I personally turned your dear Scorpia into crispy bacon, and you’ve got nothing left to hope for. Also, I’ve got a phone in my hand."

I raised the device for them to see.

"And if you don’t throw down your weapons in the next five minutes, I’m calling my good friend Deadpool. She’s very into ‘highlight reels of dead enemies.’ And after that, we’re coming in together, and you’ll be leaving this place in neatly grilled and expertly sliced kebab portions. You’ve got five minutes to decide."

With the entire battlefield falling into stunned silence, I turned on my heel and walked back to the cops.

Why bring up Deadpool? Well, for one, she had a very unique reputation. And for two—I was absolutely sure she’d back me up. Worst-case scenario, I’d pay her mercenary rates. I had some savings, and if that wasn’t enough, I could always borrow… maybe from Harry Osborn or Magneto.

"You think that’ll work?" Captain Stacy asked, her voice brimming with an ocean’s worth of skepticism.

Then, from behind me, two gunshots rang out inside the building, followed by a third. I turned just in time to see a white t-shirt waving frantically out the window.

"Don’t shoot!" a voice shouted. "We surrender!"

"Seems like it worked," I shrugged, turning back to Gwen’s mom. "Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way."

"Huh. Well, I’ll be damned… Sure thing, Salamander." She still looked a little thrown. "By the way, in case something like this happens again—" she gestured at the building "—can I call you at that number?"

"Of course, Miss Stacy." I nodded. "If I’m available, I’ll help."

"Good. One more thing—it’d be great if you could do some training with our girls. Y’know, to get used to working together. Sybilla swore like a sailor but spoke pretty highly of you. In her own… special way."

"Hmm…" I considered it. "Could you guarantee that no one will try to unmask me or kidnap me? Had some… unfortunate incidents before."

"Guarantee? No," she admitted with a slight smile. "But I can promise to warn you if anything shady comes up. You saved my daughter, pulled my girls out of a bad spot… and my team? They wouldn’t stand for that kind of bullshit. Special forces girls are straightforward—they walk under fire and value trust. Plus, the order for us to work with you came from higher up. I think they’re interested in making this ‘experimental program’ work."

"Let me check with the older mutants and get back to you?" I decided to hold off on answering. This was something worth running by more experienced folks.

I didn’t want to promise anything only for Magneto or Xavier to immediately shoot it down. Not that they’d forbid me outright—we’re not a prison—but they’d argue me into the ground until I was convinced I’d just agreed to be a sucker. Then I’d have to call Stacy back and decline, which would be awkward as hell. But if I could help, I would.

"Sounds reasonable. Deal. Do you need a ride?" Stacy flashed a rare open smile.

"I’d appreciate it if someone could drop me off."

"Alright. Sergeant!" She called out to one of the officers. "Escort Mr. Salamander wherever he needs to go."

"Yes, ma’am. This way, sir."

"Goodbye, Captain." I gave her a nod.

"Goodbye, Mr. Salamander." She switched back to a more formal tone. "And thanks again for your help. Oh, and Gwen says hi."

Muttering, "Tell her hi back," I followed the sergeant, feeling surprisingly good about the day.

Behind me, cops were rounding up the now-handcuffed criminals. Not bad, huh? I did some good work today. More than one good thing, actually.

One hell of a day—enough action to fill a month. Took down a psycho, freed some hostages, fried Scorpia, won a negotiation battle with a bunch of gun-toting gangsters… Damn, just mentioning Deadpool got an entire squad of criminals to surrender without a fight. Wild.

She’s such a sweetheart—why is everyone so afraid of her?

…Yeah, I’m bullshitting. She’s totally capable of turning those guys into a very literal "highlight reel."

I should take her out for coffee. You know, as an apology for using her name. No need for misunderstandings.

Besides, I really don’t want her to hold a grudge. That’s the kind of grudge you don’t survive.

By the way, about Scorpia—was she a female version of Gargan or an actual Elaine Coll? Honestly, the reports never mentioned her real name. Just "Scorpia." Didn’t think too much about it. In the original Marvel, Mac Gargan came first, then Coll replaced him later under the Scorpia moniker. But with this universe’s take on canon being all over the place, for all I know, she could be a completely random chick.

"Mr. Salamander, may I ask you a few questions?"

The fuck? Oh, for—Goddammit. I was so lost in thought that I completely missed the fact that we had just stepped out of the police cordon and walked straight into a pack of piranhas—ahem, I mean, a group of reporters. Holy Khorne, what happened to my radio Alastor Moody powers?! Where’s my CONSTANT VIGILANCE?!

"Sorry, ma’am, but I’m in a hurry." I tried to inject my voice with as much firmness as possible, laced with just the right amount of regret.

"Sir, it won’t take long. Just a few questions for our readers." The one pressing me was a rather cute redhead with mesmerizing green eyes. Well, yeah, of course—journalists. I’m actually surprised they haven’t tackled me to the ground like a rugby team and started milking me for information with their tits…

"Sergeant…" I turned to the officer escorting me, hoping for a lifeline, but either she misunderstood my plea or she was just as eager to eavesdrop, because she immediately delivered the finishing blow:

"I’ll wait, sir."

…Fuck. I stared into the journalist’s eyes, watching her grin widen in triumph, and accepted my fate. Fine. Nobody said I couldn’t squeeze some personal benefit out of this situation, right?

"Alright, but let’s keep it brief, Miss…?"

"Melinda Brown, Mr. Salamander. America Today. Tell me, what inspired you—a man—to take on such a dangerous role assisting the police in fighting crime?"

"Conscience." Short and sweet, baby.

"Could you elaborate a little?" Her smile tightened slightly, and a hint of disappointment flickered in her eyes. I almost felt bad. Almost. Fine, no need to bully her.

"I can. Let’s try an analogy, Miss Brown. Imagine you’re an exceptional swimmer. World-class. The best. Got it?"

Melinda’s eyes lit up, and she nodded enthusiastically, her smile bouncing right back.

"And one day, you’re crossing a bridge over a wide, treacherous river. Up ahead, some poor guy stumbles and falls into the water. You don’t know him. You don’t know if he can swim. You don’t know if he can survive. But you do know that you have the ability to help. Do you jump in or just shrug and keep walking?"

"Of course, I’d jump in!" she declared, almost insulted by the implication.

"Exactly. Same principle here. I have the ability to help, I have the means to help, so I help. Whether I’m a man or a woman doesn’t matter. What does matter is that if I walked away, my conscience would eat me alive. So no, Miss Brown, this isn’t altruism. I act under the weight of my own principles, upbringing, and sense of responsibility."

She let out a short giggle and was about to fire off another question when someone else cut in.

"Mr. Salamander, Daily Bugle, Edward Brock. We just saw the body in the Scorpia armor being carried out of the neighboring building! Was that your handiwork?"

Well, well, well… Brock, huh? How… interesting. I actually hesitated for a few seconds—his sudden appearance was unexpected. Also, the redhead wrinkled her nose when he barged in, but didn’t protest. Professional courtesy, or was she just sharing the opportunity?

"Yes, Mr. Brock. That was Scorpia, and yes—her condition is entirely my doing."

They couldn’t see my face, but trust me, I was grinning. A very unpleasant grin.

"She’s an incredibly powerful supervillain," another journalist chimed in—this time, a third one. Nobody seemed annoyed by the interruption anymore. Guess there was some kind of unspoken rule: one question per person, so nobody leaves empty-handed. "Can you tell us how you managed to neutralize her without causing any major destruction? Past fights with her have resulted in significant casualties and serious damage to the city’s infrastructure."

"Miss…?"

"Helen Winter, New York Observer." The woman introduced herself. Late forties, brunette, nothing particularly remarkable.

"Miss Winter, the success of this mission was thanks to the impeccable professionalism of Captain Stacy’s team. As you saw, I wasn’t acting alone—I was coordinating with a highly trained SWAT unit. The exceptional skill of the officers combined with my abilities allowed us to rescue the hostages and engage a superpowered opponent on our terms, minimizing risk to civilians and property. In the end, only a couple of walls in an abandoned building were damaged, which I’d say is proof that the strategy—‘Team of professionals + superpowered operator’—was highly effective."

Gotta grease the wheels, right? Make the cops look good so they keep treating me even better. And throwing a little extra sugar at the police captain, who already seemed to like me, wouldn’t hurt either. No need to tell them that my actual battle strategy against Scorpia was just a whole lot of WAAAAAGH!!!

"So it’s true that you’re officially cooperating with the police? What led you to that decision? Most superheroes either work solo or team up with their own kind—other superpowered individuals," Brock followed up.

"That’s right, we’re working together. And to be honest, we’re still getting used to each other. This is a new endeavor for both me and the NYPD. Also, I don’t consider myself a superhero." I deliberately emphasized the last part. "Mutant? Sure. Guy with superpowers? Absolutely. But as for the title of hero… I completely agree with your boss, Mr. Brock. Miss Jameson put it best—real heroes are—"

I gestured toward the police sergeant standing nearby, who, after my earlier praise of the officers’ professionalism, was now standing there like a cat that just got spoiled with treats. Her eyes widened in surprise when I pointed her out.

"—them. The police."

I waved toward the ambulances.

"Doctors, paramedics, rescue workers. See, they don’t have superpowers—just bravery, responsibility, unwavering principles, and years of training dedicated to protecting and saving the lives of ordinary Americans. They are the ones who rush into burning buildings, stop criminals, and keep you from dying in some accident. Me? I’m just a guy who, out of nowhere, got some extra abilities beyond what the average citizen has, you know? And I’m extremely grateful to Captain Stacy and her leadership for allowing me the opportunity to work with professionals and gain experience."

Brock opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, Melinda Brown practically vibrated with excitement as she jumped in.

"Mr. Salamander, you mentioned being a mutant! What’s your take on the ‘mutant problem’?"

"Mmm… You know…" I actually took a moment to think about how to answer in a way that would satisfy everyone without bullshitting myself. And then, well, I mentally said, fuck it, and decided to just say what I actually thought.

"Let’s be real, Melinda. Mutants don’t have a problem. Society has a problem. Let me explain," I raised my hands to cut off whatever follow-up question she was about to fire off. "See… some time ago, America decided to actively fight against racial oppression."

I noticed one of the black reporters in the group immediately perk up.

"Racism, discrimination based on skin color—all that started getting condemned. Now, in every walk of life, people are supposed to have equal opportunities, equal rights… unless you’re a mutant. A mutant girl is far less likely to get hired, she’ll be kicked out of college under some flimsy excuse, she’ll have rocks thrown at her from an alleyway, people will spit at her back, she won’t even get served in stores. So tell me: for what? What did a girl do to deserve this just because her eyes turned yellow? What crime did a boy commit just because he suddenly became faster than a cheetah? How can a parent throw their own child out of the house just because they stopped being 'normal'?

"Mutants don’t choose this life, you understand? One day—whether it’s wonderful or horrifying—we just… change. Powers manifest. And in that moment, in the eyes of the majority, we become outcasts. Corrupted. Untouchable freaks. Nazi Germany—our enemy in World War II—performed horrific experiments on mutants. You could call them torture, because that’s exactly what they were. A few decades later, and here we are—Colonel Stryker, under the authority of the U.S. Secretary of Defense, running her own little Ahnenerbe branch on a military base, torturing children in the best traditions of HYDRA and the Nazis… And you’re asking me about the 'mutant problem'?"

My voice, toward the end, was thick with bitterness and disappointment.

"The mutant problem, Miss Brown, is that all we want is to simply live."

For a few moments, silence hung heavy around us. Even the sergeant looked away, suddenly finding something fascinating on the pavement.

"Tell me, Mr. Salamander," Brock again—but this time, there was hesitation in his voice, none of his earlier cockiness. "If things are really that bad… why do you still choose to help ordinary people?"

"Because I am an ordinary person, Mr. Brock. They can slap labels on me—monster, freak, abomination—but at the end of the day, I’m just as human as you, Miss Brown, and Miss Winter. My mother gave birth to me—my human mother. I was raised by ordinary people. I love a normal girl, and I hope that soon, she’ll become my wife. Our children might not even be mutants, you understand? So how could I possibly feel hatred toward my future children? Toward the woman I love?

"I am human, and I can contribute to humanity. A united humanity—not one divided into black and white, mutant and baseline. One way or another, by doing what I do, I feel like my life actually means something."

"That’s… very admirable, Mr. Salamander. Tell me, do you believe in the Goddess?"

What the hell…? That was unexpected from Helen Winter. Probably my whole ‘love everyone’ stance made her assume I was religious, so she decided to ask about my faith. A question I absolutely couldn’t resist making a joke about. A joke only I was going to laugh at, of course.

"I believe in the Emperor, Miss Winter. The Emperor and Humanity."

That’s right, bitches. Forgive me, Goddess, if you’re real, but this was my standard response to every street preacher back in my last life. I just really, really hope that the higher beings in this universe have a sense of humor and that Thor or Loki won’t kick my ass for that one.

After hastily saying goodbye to the journalists—who were still blinking at me like I’d just spoken in eldritch tongues—I turned on my heel and walked away with my equally stunned police escort toward the parked cruisers.

Didn’t think I’d say this at my mental age, but right now? I just really, really wanna go to Mom. I wanna go to Mama Betty so bad.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 71

"Do you hang out with the mayor often?" I asked as Angie and I stepped into a private room inside that same underground club.

The place was dimly lit, the air thick with some kind of vanilla-scented haze.

"Hang out?" she raised an eyebrow. "Never. I just handle business. Rhyne doesn’t spend more time on us than what we can afford to pay for."

Above me, a soft purple-pink glow flickered to life, giving the room a sultry, almost suggestive ambiance.

"Rhyne puts a lot of effort into keeping the city's power balance in check," Angie continued, activating the ambient music and swirling neon projections. "The Brazilians fucked that up. Came in quiet and started fucking with people’s business. Tried to keep it under wraps, but you flushed them out."

Tried to keep it quiet… That was probably why they didn’t want to kill me outright.

Like Angie, they might’ve thought I was some high-level Arasaka asset. If that were the case, my death would’ve drawn unnecessary attention to their op. Their plan was likely to neutralize me, take me somewhere quiet, and flip me. Offer me more money—or use blackmail if I refused. Plenty of ways to get someone on a leash.

With me under their thumb, they could've crushed the betting racket and left for their sunny little homeland without a hitch.

Didn’t work out for them.

"What's next? You still need my help?"

"Of course," she nodded, slipping off her shades and casually strolling around the stage with the pole. "But don’t worry, V. You’re almost at the finish line. Just find them. Find them and send me the address."

"And then your crew of bruisers rolls in?" I smirked. "Careful, Angie. These aren’t your average gangoons or some deadbeat debtors. They’ve got chrome, training, tactics—top-tier corpo squad-level shit."

"Pfft," Angie scoffed, tossing her shiny jacket onto a chair. "Sweet of you to worry about us, but we can handle it. Or what?" She winked, stepping closer. "You suggesting I should hire your guys? Maybe even Smasher?"

She thought I was trying to push Arasaka’s services. Cute.

I let the silence linger for a moment before asking, "Say I do find them, and I decide I want to settle the score myself—for my busted optics. What then? Your guys are loud. They might scare off our little spies."

"Oh? Got a taste for blood now?" Angie murmured, wrapping an arm around my neck. "I thought you were colder than that. Or is there another motive?"

Motive?

Well, for one, I’d like to see what’s rattling around in the head of a high-level foreign operative. And two, I wanted to talk to Lucy about Kiwi first. Decide what to do together instead of just throwing the problem at the Animals.

"What do you really want?" I asked, meeting her gaze.

"I want my business problems to disappear—along with the people causing them."

"Alright," I nodded. "I’ll see what I can do. If I find them, I’ll either call your guys or handle it myself."

"Suit yourself, V. The reward’s the same either way," she shrugged. "Though there is one little exception… If you do take them out yourself, I’d love a working copy of that nasty little virus."

Netrunner malware. Got it.

A small device on the wall beeped before a polite voice came through the speaker:

"Good evening, valued guests. Would you like some dancers, a massage, or any other… services?"

"Thanks," Angie replied, "but I can handle everything myself."

While she was waving off the staff, a message popped up from Lucy.

"Got intel."

Only meant one thing—the Militech rat’s negotiations with Maelstrom had been intercepted. We knew when and where the convoy was rolling.

"Want a little pick-me-up?" Angie asked.

"Not tonight. I need every bit of my dopamine and paranoia in the next few days," I replied. "A lot to do."

"Suit yourself. Guess we’ll have to relax you some other way."

Angie kicked off her shoes and hopped onto the platform with the pole, gripping it smoothly before executing a move straight out of a professional strip routine. It was impressive, but she didn’t seem satisfied.

"Jeans are too tight," she muttered. "Can’t move properly."

She casually undid her belt with one hand and started sliding out of her crocodile-skin pants.

"Hold up," I said.

"What’s wrong, V?"

"Answer something for me first. You source hormones and pharma from Europe, which means you’ve got access to their labs. I’m interested in biomods. They’ve been drying up in Night City lately. What’s the supply like over there?"

Angie sat on the edge of the platform, finally stepping out of her jeans and crossing her legs.

"Yeah. You won’t find biomods in Night City anymore. We’ve switched almost entirely to cyberware. You know why?"

"I have a feeling you’re about to tell me. If I don’t get too distracted."

She smirked. "I’m sure you can multitask."

She pulled her white tank up just a little.

"You always strip during your lectures?" I joked, leaning back into the couch.

"Nope. This one’s exclusive," she teased, standing up and gripping the pole again. "Biomods used to compete with chrome, but cyberware won. Easier to install, easier to replace.

"Why spend years engineering a biological equivalent to a weapon when you can just install one? The chrome world won. Metal was stronger. But the bio-labs didn’t just vanish," Angie continued, hooking her leg over the pole. "They’re still working. Still experimenting. Torturing lab rats and guinea pigs."

The tiny gems on her minimalist lingerie sparkled under the lewd pink glow. The music slowed, the bass pulsing softer.

"Most of the useful advancements got absorbed into medicine—healing gels, nanomachines, stem cells, hormone therapy. Every ripperdoc’s got something. But pure biomods? Those are for purists, fetishists, and people whose bodies reject chrome."

"Your athletes dabble in them?"

"Of course," Angie leaned in, squeezing her chest with both hands. "Chrome restrictions exist in sports, and every fraction of a second counts."

"Same goes for a fight," I replied. "Think you could send me a list of the biomods that aren't available in Night City?"

"You want me to bring you some fancy brochures from Europe?" she teased, pulling her tank top higher. "Fine. Any more questions before your private dance?"

"Nope. You can start," I nodded.

The night was shaping up to be a good one. Thanks to Rhyne, who let us use one of the club’s private rooms. I'd say I'd vote for him, but I doubted he'd live long enough to see election day. And when his career ends, it’d probably be in a place just like this. But that was another story. Not sure if I should even bother getting involved. Peralez was a puppet—one being played by some shadowy group with bleeding-edge tech. He didn’t even know he was being controlled, and that's exactly what made the whole setup so effective. No bribes, no negotiations. Just equipment that rewrote his damn personality.

I stayed with Angie until almost sunrise. When I got home, Lucy was gone. Crashed for a couple of hours before she came back and shook me awake. Apparently, she’d spent the morning checking a few more relays and was back on the Brazilians' trail.

That trip to the abandoned house got us more than just our asses handed to us—it gave us a new piece of the puzzle. Time to start unraveling the web of this little spy game.

"They’ve got a solid crew," Lucy muttered as I chugged my coffee, trying to shake off the exhaustion. "Which means we need to move fast. Otherwise, they’ll erase their tracks or skip town."

"I met Lucius Rhyne last night."

"And?" she raised an eyebrow. "Is he as greedy a bastard in person as he looks on TV?"

"He wears leopard-print briefs and wants us to wipe out Kiwi’s whole team."

"All of them?"

"Yup. Angie said we could just find them and send their location. Then the Animals will do the rest."

Lucy gave me a quiet nod and handed me an inhaler with a smug-looking businessman on the label. Caffeine, nicotine, and God knows what else. I took a deep hit, feeling the artificial rush surge through me.

"We need to hit a server farm," Lucy said. "But it's got security."

"Brazilians?"

"No. Tyger Claws. But it’s best to take them out quietly."

Which meant if we were bringing Becca, it’d only be as backup. Still, after the mess with the Brazilians, I wanted maximum security. So we decided to bring both Becca and Falco. They could sit in the car and wait in case shit hit the fan.

The target was Mega Building H11, down by the southern border of Northside, right next to Trauma Team’s med center in Little China. The Tygers had set up a heavily secured server farm there—part for their own use, the rest rented out. Looked like our friends from Brazil had been using their services.

Sitting in the car outside the tower, I asked, "Listen, do we have to kill everyone? Couldn’t we just buy some server space, upload a virus, and—"

"They set the minimum buy-in at twenty grand," Lucy said flatly.

"Jesus," I sighed. "Well, fuck them, then."

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Lucy wanted to kill someone. Let off some steam. Probably because of the whole Kiwi situation looming over her.

Falco and Becca waited for us in another car. Backup was in place—time to move.

We entered the tower smoothly, took an elevator, then locked it between floors. Lucy jacked in to give us access to the off-limits sections. Her eyes flickered, digital grids reflecting in them as she worked. And yet, she still had the focus to talk to me at the same time.

"Power went out here five days ago. Tygers called in workers. Threatened to break a few legs over it," she said. "Of course, the problem’s with their shitty infrastructure. They cut corners on cooling. I’ll overload the circuits. Kill the power and their comms. We do this in the dark."

"You know, I prefer working with the lights on, but for you, I’ll make an exception."

Lucy didn’t react to the joke. She was too on edge. The elevator moved again. I switched my Oracle to max scan mode. The world around me shifted instantly, revealing faint outlines of equipment and people behind the walls as we passed different floors.

I wasn't used to this yet. Could almost feel my brain stretching to process the extra data.

The elevator stopped. Doors opened. The lights died.

A few meters ahead, a voice swore in Japanese, cursing out the "shitty wiring" and "dumbass technicians."

My new optics adjusted instantly. Lucy pointed ahead, held up two fingers. Then gestured right and held up three more.

I shook my head and held up four fingers. My Oracle showed me four silhouettes, minimum.

Lucy shrugged. Then motioned for us to move.

Time to play boogeyman.

I quietly unsheathed my monokatana. Still hadn’t made it to Dogtown for new tantos, so I’d have to use the bigger blade this time.

I adjusted my cyberlimb wrist in a specific way, resting the katana flat against my shoulder. The implant’s mechanism built up potential energy in its artificial tendons—one good strike, even in these cramped quarters.

In my right hand, I held a Unity pistol with a suppressor. Finally, Falco’s dream came true—his silencers were actually getting used. Still, the gun was a last resort. Even Night City silencers weren’t truly silent. Ideally, tonight would be all about scripts and cold steel.

We moved through the dark. Hunters in the night, in a city that never slept. The sun might’ve still been shining outside, but we made sure our targets had a little taste of darkness.

I lightly tapped Lucy’s shoulder and pointed ahead. Two fingers—then added a third. She nodded and moved in, unwinding that deadly monowire. I veered right.

Up ahead, a flicker of light.

One of the Tygers was coming my way with a flashlight. I immediately ducked behind a rack of equipment.

Step. Another step.

With Oracle, I saw his every move before he made it. The guy was careless, mumbling something under his breath. When he passed my hiding spot, I was already set. He didn’t even register the katana’s swing.

Half a second later, his flashlight hit the floor. And something else was about to follow.

Come on, come on, I mentally urged, stepping back to avoid the spray.

There it was.

The last sliver of skin tore, and his head dropped to the ground with a dull thud. The flashlight’s beam dimmed, turning red—lens coated in blood.

Shit. Should’ve set my implant to record. My kendo instructor, Hash, would've loved this, and Becca? She’d lose her damn mind.

Oh well. I’d get them some content next time.

Flicking the blood off my blade, I moved on. Through the walls, I saw two more outlines stagger, choking on their own blood. Their forms flickered red, then dimmed. That was Lucy handling business.

Up ahead, I heard someone call out in Japanese:
“Yo, Saito?! You fall asleep or what?!”

Yeah. Forever.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t behead this one as easily—he was standing too close to a wall, and I wasn’t about to risk snapping my blade. Instead, I hit him with a Memory Wipe. While he was still dazed, I smoothly slit his throat.

That left two.

They were standing together. Hm. I could rush them and rely on surprise. Or go full Sandie. Or…

I went with or.

Slowly, carefully, I pulled out a small night-vision camera and peered around the corner. Scanned them.

One was heavily chromed. The other? A basic street thug. Ice installed? Something cheap from Kabuki. Perfect.

I hit him with a Puppet script. A second, two—and my mind jumped into his body.

“—so this bitch tells me she needs another week. A week, can you believe—”

His partner stopped mid-rant when I didn’t respond. Annoyed, he slapped my hijacked body upside the head.

“Oi! You listening to me?!”

“Hai!” I responded with a short bow.

That meant "yes." One of the few Japanese words I actually knew.

Not that there’d be much more talking. The grenade I slipped from my host’s belt was about to go off. And my real body? Safely behind cover.

I bailed from the Puppet right before the blast.

Boom.

A scream—full of pain.

The chromed-up Tyger survived. I peeked around the corner and put three rounds in his skull before he could react. His chrome didn’t mean shit against three well-placed shots to the head.

Unity. Becca had picked it out and modded it for me. Reliable little thing.

Seconds later, Lucy was at my side, scanning for survivors. Not finding any, she shot me a look.

"V! What the fuck?!"

"Relax. Nobody’s left." I holstered the pistol. "Doubt the neighbors will call the cops over a little noise from the Claws. Let’s turn the lights back on and dig through their files."

She nodded but stayed distant, detached. Her usual defense mechanism.

Me? I stepped over the blood pooling on the floor and got to work. Lucy was focused on the Brazilians. I was more interested in the Tygers and their clients. Blackmail material, shady deals, financial records—anything I could sell for some extra eddies. Coffee wasn’t gonna buy itself, and I’d been drinking a lot of it lately.

As I combed through their servers, my comm buzzed with an incoming call—from a familiar secure channel.

I answered.

"Hey, Frank. Not the best time."

"V, there’s… a problem at work."

"What, someone microwaved fish in the breakroom?"

"Jesus fuck, V, this isn’t a joke. Listen… At first, your intel was great. Got me a fucking bonus. But then…" He hesitated. "Remember when I told you I met Michiko?"

"Yeah. I could practically hear your balls shriveling through the phone."

"Yeah, well, guess what? She’s been calling people back for round two. Not everyone. Just some. Including me. And you know what? She had a lot of questions about you. About Jenkins. And then about you again."

Ah. There it is.

"Not exactly shocking. My history with Arasaka’s murky as fuck. If Michiko’s cleaning up Susan’s mess, makes sense she’d dig into this mess too."

"She wants to meet you, V. I told her meeting an informant so openly wasn’t smart. She insisted. Said she could guarantee secrecy."

And there it was. That’s why Frank sounded like he was about to piss himself.

"Either show up, or get the fuck out of town and stay out. That’s my advice. You’re slippery as hell, but not even you can wiggle out of this one. Make your call, V. You don’t have much time."

Daily Updates (31/01/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 43

• Tier 2: Chapter 48

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 43

• Tier 2: Chapter 48

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 48

Winter passed unusually fast. A month and a half since “Mission: Impossible” flew by in a blur of snow, rain, blooming plum trees, and other seasonal shifts. Surveillance on Sauron’s Lair—otherwise known as the Hokage’s residence—confirmed that Konohamaru never fessed up about misplacing Grandpa’s all-seeing crystal ball. The kid kept his mouth shut tighter than a captured spy, wrapping himself in that blue scarf like it was some kind of secret-keeping talisman.

The old man didn’t try to replace the artifact either, meaning that what was lost was truly lost. And when two exceptional felines—yours truly and Sumi-chan—helped make sure of it, that meant it was buried deeper than any ANBU retrieval squad could ever hope to find.

Graduation loomed closer, but there was still no word from Shisui or Kushina-san. The only update came through Shijimi, who slipped me some quality snacks and passed along a message that Kushina was alive, well, and still searching. That was the extent of it. At this point, I wasn’t sure if no news was good news or just a reminder of how damn slow everything moved in this world. The shinobi system was fast when it came to stabbing people in the back but agonizingly sluggish when you needed something useful done.

Despite that, my boys were thriving. They had real friends now, a stable routine, and a semblance of normalcy that had been completely absent when I first arrived. Hell, Sasuke had even moved part of his stuff into Naruto’s apartment, making it official that they were, in fact, attached at the hip. Meanwhile, I made an important discovery of my own—canned cat food. This world had its fair share of downsides, but that? That was a culinary masterpiece.

With graduation creeping closer, I was more than a little curious to see how the big "Naruto is a Jinchuriki" reveal would play out. Would they stick to the old "Good Teacher, Bad Teacher" routine from the anime? Would Mizuki—the conveniently white-haired, last-minute replacement for Sarutobi Asuma—turn out to be a traitorous rogue ninja just as he had in canon?

The timing of Asuma’s "sudden illness" was suspicious enough, but his reassignment to the Academy last year? That was the real kicker. It had been the final push that made me go full covert ops and pull off the Great Eye of Sauron Heist. Wouldn’t have had to, if these people weren’t so damn shady. But as the saying goes, live by the scheme, die by the scheme. And if things really played out like the anime, then someday soon, Orochimaru was going to come waltzing in and skewer the old Hokage like a pig on a spit. When that day came, I might just send the snake a thank-you note. Maybe even a gift basket.

If only I knew exactly when it would happen. In the anime, the plot jumped from one major event to another with convenient time skips, but real life didn’t work that way. So far, no one had even mentioned the Chunin Exams, and it was already March 3rd. Instead, Iruka and Mizuki were focused on building up the finals as some terrifying, life-altering trial. They were laying the groundwork for something, and today, Iruka’s behavior confirmed it. 

He kept glancing at Naruto, visibly anxious, like he was working up the nerve to do something he really didn’t want to. Two days ago, I had spotted him leaving the Hokage’s office—not from his usual bureaucratic duty station but from the main entrance. The one reserved for people personally summoned by the old man himself.

Maybe he had gone in to ask for a raise? Yeah, and maybe I was a goldfish. 

No, my instincts were screaming that this was The Big Moment. 

The "Naruto, you’re actually a walking, talking WMD" conversation. 

And that whole "village-wide panic at the stolen scroll" thing? I was starting to think it had never really been about Naruto stealing anything at all. More likely, the higher-ups were expecting some kind of beast-mode meltdown and had an entire rapid-response team ready to shove Kurama back in his cage if things went south. Even worse, I had a sinking feeling this wasn’t just about control—it was about conditioning.

And Iruka? He was the perfect tool for the job.

The Hokage was too busy running the village to personally babysit Naruto, and it wasn’t like he was about to risk his own flesh and blood in this little chess game. Besides, from what I’ve gathered during my nightly stakeouts, there’s a lot more political maneuvering going on here than it seems.

Asuma is already set to be the jonin instructor for the next generation of clan heirs—Ino, Shikamaru, and Choji. Their clans are powerful, well-established, and hold serious influence on the village council. Pairing them with Asuma is basically a way to tie the Sarutobi family even closer to them.

And here, the relationship between students and teachers is something else entirely. A jonin leading the team isn’t just a mentor; they’re practically a second parent—sometimes even more than that. They have more authority over their students than actual responsibilities.

Then there’s the second "clan heir" team—Hyuga Hinata, Aburame Shino, and Inuzuka Kiba—each from the main branch of their respective clans.

And guess who’s getting assigned to them?

Asuma’s future wife.

…Wait.

Does Kurenai even know she’s Asuma’s fiancee?

Because I’m not entirely sure she got the memo.

Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Asuma conveniently "fell ill" just to buy himself some time to lock down that red-eyed beauty. The Sarutobi family clearly has a talent for playing the long game.

And from what I’ve picked up, Kurenai’s appointment as a jonin instructor wasn’t exactly straightforward either.

She already had a student before—but something happened. Either that girl got in the way, or… something else went down.

One way or another, the Third Hokage made sure Kurenai dropped her previous student so she could take over this batch of graduates.

I vaguely remember something like this from the anime—some girl who nearly killed Kurenai and Naruto during a mission. But the details are fuzzy.

I only recalled it after overhearing a conversation.

So yeah.

When it comes to carefully easing Naruto into the "congratulations, you're a village-certified Kaiju" reality, Iruka is the perfect guy.

And he’s clearly 100% loyal to the whole "for the good of the village" cause.

Everything about this screamed setup. This wasn’t just about dropping a truth bomb on Naruto; this was about making sure he had only one adult he could trust afterward. The Sandaime wasn’t just ensuring Naruto stayed loyal—he was making damn sure Naruto's trust was curated.

The thing was, my Naruto wasn’t the same lonely, desperate orphan anymore. He wasn’t the kid pulling dumb pranks to get attention, and he wasn’t falling into obvious traps. Hell, just recently a couple of “men in black” had even set up the perfect bait for him—buckets of paint, left conveniently outside the Academy, just begging to be used for a little monument vandalism. In another timeline, Naruto would’ve fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. This time?

He poked the paint. Sniffed it. Shook his head. And walked away to practice throwing shuriken instead.

Better yet, Sasuke had checked the paint afterward and declared it useless for any of our fashion projects. A clean dodge.

After "Fashion Week in Konoha," the craze for Paw-Style spread like wildfire. Kids from Class A, the parallel classes, and even the younger students started showing up to the Academy covered in paw prints. The only problem? Their versions were clearly fake—painted on with regular dye that washed out in just a couple of days. The real deal, the secret ninja technique of chakra-infused prints, was known only to Naruto, Sasuke, and their friends. 

It wasn’t long before a few girls started offering Naruto money to customize their clothes. Naturally, we had a meeting, and after much deliberation, I graciously approved the expansion of our high-fashion enterprise. A noble cause—promoting style among the future shinobi of Konoha. Also, the cash was good, and let’s not forget the glorious canned cat food.

With our hands full making couture ninja wear, Naruto avoided the obvious prank bait left by the Academy staff. The "Gotcha, you troublemaker!" plan flopped, and instead of getting him into trouble, the conveniently placed paint ended up being used for an actual Academy facelift. The result? Surprisingly decorative. Someone—definitely not us, nope—even snuck back later and added massive paw prints to the walls and rooftops, something that looked like a full-grown tiger had stomped across the campus. But while the rest of the kids were busy leaving their mark on the Academy, Naruto and I were busy raking in money. The entire 6-B Class decided to revamp their wardrobes, and as a side effect, Naruto ended up retraining his chakra control. Now that’s what I call motivation.

At the end of the lesson, Iruka clapped his hands for attention. "Class dismissed." Then, his gaze zeroed in on Naruto like a hawk sighting its prey. "Uzumaki Naruto, stay behind."

Our squad exchanged glances, clearly suspicious. Sasuke and the others filed out last, reluctantly leaving Naruto alone with his teacher. I remained perched on the windowsill, ears twitching. Alright, Stierlitz(1), time for your interrogation. Let’s see how they try to brainwash you.

"Follow me," Iruka ordered, and without another word, he walked out.

Down below, I spotted Sasuke and the rest of the gang lingering near the Academy, pretending to be deep in conversation. If I wasn’t mistaken, Hinata was trying to use her Byakugan—or at least, she had been. She lasted all of two minutes before running out of chakra. Not bad, but Academy students aren’t built for this level of espionage. And considering this was Konoha, there were probably sensory barriers in place to keep anyone from peeking into classified business.

Ten minutes later, Naruto’s voice echoed across the Academy grounds, loud enough to make a few birds scatter. "Why do I have to clean this up?!"

I knew something was up. Sasuke and the others tensed, pointing toward the rooftop. I shot off like a shadow, sprinting up one of the fire escapes and hiding behind the conveniently placed bushes on the roof. Sure enough, there was my blond chick, standing next to a bucket of water and holding a rag with all the enthusiasm of a death row inmate scrubbing the floors before his execution.

"You made the mess, you clean it up," Iruka replied, arms crossed. "You were the first one to wear those paw prints, and now they’re all over the Academy walls. Your love for animals is admirable, but there are limits."

Naruto opened his mouth to argue, then shut it, shoulders slumping with a sigh. Aha. That’s the power of a teacher’s authority. Guilty or not, he wasn’t about to argue with his sensei.

"Alright, enough sulking," Iruka said, suddenly switching to his kind teacher persona. He reached out and ruffled Naruto’s messy hair. "Tell you what—if you clean this up, I’ll take you to Ichiraku Ramen. You can eat as much as you want."

Naruto froze. Then squinted at him suspiciously. "As much as I want?"

Oh, this poor fool. He had no idea how deep of a hole he just dug himself.

"Yeah," Iruka grinned, probably thinking he was being generous. "Even twenty bowls, if you can stomach it."

Naruto’s entire expression did a 180-degree turn into full-blown mischief. "Alright, fine! I’ll clean it up! But you better not be lying about the ramen, Iruka-sensei!"

"I’ll be back in an hour," Iruka promised with a satisfied nod.

As he walked past me, I could feel the smug satisfaction radiating off him. Aha. So that’s the plan? Buy the kid’s trust with a couple of bowls of noodles?

Let’s see how that works out for you.

The Big Game—a.k.a. "The Canon Events"—had officially begun.

(1) Stierlitz is the main character of the Soviet spy novel series Seventeen Moments of Spring (Семнадцать мгновений весны) by Yulian Semyonov, as well as the 1973 Soviet TV adaptation of the same name. His real name is Maxim Isaev, but he operates under the alias Standartenführer Otto von Stierlitz while working as a Soviet spy embedded deep within Nazi Germany during World War II.

He is basically a Soviet James Bond.

[Castling] Chapter 48

October rolled in, and Wood doubled the number of Quidditch practices in preparation for their first match against Slytherin. The team would come back knackered but buzzing with excitement, convinced they’d wipe the floor with them. Meanwhile, I was just counting down the days until the year was over, so I could finally try out for the team myself. I wasn’t Quidditch-mad like Harry, but I enjoyed it well enough. And come March, I’d be turning fourteen—prime time to start making a name for myself at Hogwarts. Not that I had any illusions of outshining my brothers, but at least I could try and even the score a bit. It wasn’t that important to me, obviously… but still, it wouldn’t hurt my ego.

At the end of the month, they pinned up the notice for Hogsmeade weekends, and we all handed in our permission slips to McGonagall. Well, almost all of us—Harry got outright banned from leaving the castle.

By Friday evening, he came storming back into the common room from McGonagall’s office, looking like he was about to bite someone’s head off.

“She won’t let me go with you,” he fumed. “Says it’s too dangerous while Black is still out there. So now I get to sit here like an idiot on my own.”

“Well, she’s got a point, Harry,” Hermione said hesitantly. “It is dangerous. The Daily Prophet said just yesterday that Black was spotted in Hogsmeade—not far from the castle. It’s not worth risking your life over a bag of sweets.”

“Oh yeah, of course,” Harry muttered, scowling. “Much better to rot here alone…”

“I can stay with you, if you want?” Hermione offered, giving him a guilty look and reaching for his hand.

“No, don’t bother,” Harry snapped, yanking his hand back. “Whatever. I get it. Just… it’s always something, isn’t it? First Quirrell, now Black. When am I actually gonna get to live my own life?”

“Oh, like you don’t know?” I scoffed, tossing a stack of magazines onto the table beside him. “Come on, mate, don’t be such a wet blanket. The Dementors’ll catch him soon enough, and then we can all go together. For now, just mark what you want in the catalogues, and I’ll pick it up for you.”

“Fine,” Harry grumbled, rifling through the pages.

The next morning after breakfast, he walked us down to the gates, looking thoroughly miserable.

Hermione and I spent the day wandering through the shops, stopping for a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks. It was nice enough, but Hermione stayed tense the whole time, constantly glancing at the castle like she was expecting it to explode. She was clearly worrying about Harry.

Turns out, she needn’t have bothered.

He met us back at the entrance to the common room looking way too lively for someone who was supposed to be sulking. Without so much as a hello, he dragged us both into an empty classroom.

“Well, you don’t look like you’ve been moping,” I noted as he practically vibrated with excitement.

“How was it, Harry?” Hermione asked, perching on a desk. “Was it awful being stuck here alone?”

“Didn’t have time to be,” Harry said, waving her off. He was practically bouncing on his feet.

“And what exactly did you do?” I asked, dropping his purchases onto the desk.

“Had tea with Lupin. Oh, and I passed my Boggart test.”

“Nice one,” Hermione beamed. “It took me three tries. Mine turned into McGonagall telling me I’d failed all my exams and was being expelled…”

“Please tell me you didn’t put her in men’s clothes,” Harry snorted, biting off a frog’s leg from his chocolate.

“Of course not!” Hermione huffed. “Professor Lupin said Riddikulus only works on childish fears. For more serious ones—like mine—there’s a Vanishing Charm. It’s basically Evanesco. They don’t teach it ‘til fifth year.”

“I know,” Harry nodded. “Lupin taught me too. It’s just that for kids’ fears, you don’t really need it—Riddikulus does the trick. But for proper nightmares, you can’t just joke them away. The charm disperses them entirely. My Boggart was like yours, Ron. Only Lupin barely stopped himself from hexing it when Voldemort stepped out of the wardrobe, looking just like he did on Quirrell’s head. Smirked at me and said, ‘I warned you, Harry.’ Then all the dead bodies appeared. Took me three goes to get rid of it. Oh, and Lupin’s Boggart? The moon.”

“Merlin,” Hermione whispered, covering her mouth.

“Nice to know my best mates are off learning new spells without me,” I grumbled. “I thought we agreed to share anything new we picked up?”

“Sorry, Ron!” Hermione said, looking properly guilty. “So much was happening—I completely forgot! I’ll teach you tonight.”

“I only learned a couple of hours ago myself,” Harry muttered, finishing his chocolate frog. “Don’t get stroppy.”

“Oh, and I nearly forgot—while we were talking, Snape showed up,” he added, wrinkling his nose. “Brought Lupin some potion and watched him drink the whole thing, every last drop. You should’ve seen Lupin’s face—he looked like he was swallowing poison. I tried to warn him, told him Snape’s obsessed with Dark Magic, but he didn’t take me seriously.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re still on about Snape trying to kill people? If the man lost a hair every time you accused him of something, he’d be balder than Filch by now.”

Hermione cut in before Harry could argue. “Let’s drop it for now—if we don’t get moving, we’ll miss the feast.”

Honestly, I’d thought this Halloween would be uneventful for once. Scabbers was locked in his cage, Crookshanks seemed to have finally lost interest, even if he did insist on shedding all over my bed. The lads were having a good laugh about my ‘seasonal molting,’ but I ignored them, or just laughed along. Black had disappeared. People spotted him near Hogwarts every now and then, but he wasn’t making any moves toward the castle.

Turns out, I was dead wrong.

After dinner, I met up with Luna and gave her some sweets from Honeydukes. We chatted for a bit before I walked her up to the fifth floor. That’s where the Prefects found us and escorted us to the Great Hall.

Because, apparently, Sirius Black had attacked the Fat Lady’s portrait.

Slashed it to pieces when she refused to let him in. She managed to escape, bolting up to the fifth floor and abandoning what was left of her ruined painting.

As soon as Dumbledore arrived, he ordered all of us back to the Great Hall. Twenty minutes later, the rest of the students were herded in, looking completely bewildered. They split us into boys and girls, conjured up sleeping bags, and told us to settle in for the night—no chance to wash up or even change.

I’m not exactly the camping type, so I spent ages tossing and turning. The floor was freezing, the sleeping bag was lumpy, and trying to get comfortable was pointless. We weren’t even allowed to whisper about what had just happened—every time we started, a prefect would appear out of nowhere, hovering like a hawk. So we just exchanged silent glances in the dark while the professors combed through the castle.

In the morning, we were told there’d be no lessons that day and were sent back to our dorms, strictly forbidden from leaving the castle. Dementors had been pulled in even closer to Hogwarts, and it looked like the professors were searching the grounds. The only thing anyone could talk about was Black and his attack.

Our common room now had a new guardian portrait—Sir Cadogan, sitting proudly atop a grey pony. He reminded me of that miserable knight from that old animated Alice Through the Looking Glass (1) film. Embarrassing to admit, but I still watched cartoons now and then, even as a teenager. Not exactly manly, maybe, but whatever.

On top of all that, McGonagall called Harry into her office and told him outright that Black was hunting him. He just managed to talk her into letting him keep up with evening Quidditch practice, though now one of the professors had to be present at every session.

The day before the match, we walked into Defence Against the Dark Arts to find Snape looking more sour than usual. Harry nearly got himself detention for demanding to know where Lupin was. And after class, he actually ran to the Hospital Wing to check that Snape hadn’t poisoned him. Madam Pomfrey didn’t let him in, though. That got me wondering—if Lupin was holed up in the shack, then where was Black hiding these days?

So, in Snape’s lesson, we found ourselves furiously scribbling down notes on the differences between a werewolf and a regular wolf.

“I think Professor Snape really hates Professor Lupin,” Hermione observed, oddly insightful for once, as we made our way to lunch.

“No kidding,” Harry snorted. “He spent the whole lesson tearing him apart.”

“Oh, drop it about Snape already,” I cut in, irritated. “We’ve got bigger problems—had another dream. It’s gonna pour tomorrow, and the Dementors are going to get really close to the pitch. Harry, you need to use the Patronus the second you feel them. Got it? Don’t wait until they drag out your worst memories, or you’ll be out like a light.”

“Relax, Ron,” Harry said, far too casually. “I managed fine on the train, didn’t I? I’ll be alright. Anyway, Lupin told me I overreacted back then—the Dementors were just doing a Ministry-approved sweep. They weren’t actually trying to attack anyone, just checking compartments for Black. But still… they’re vile things.”

Turned out, my ‘dream’ was dead on.

The weather was awful. Heavy storm clouds blanketed the sky, making it feel like twilight in the middle of the day. Rain hammered down in sheets, and the wind was so brutal it nearly knocked people off the stands. You could barely see a thing in the sky. Honestly, why couldn’t they just reschedule?

At least it didn’t last long. Ten minutes in, Wood called for a time-out. The game resumed soon after.

About five minutes later, everything dropped—the temperature, the atmosphere. Something was wrong.

Then a flash of lightning revealed them—hooded figures floating high above the pitch. And there were loads of them.

Then, suddenly, the sky exploded with silver light. Harry’s stag galloped across the sky, cutting through the darkness. A moment later, Dumbledore’s phoenix swooped in, circling the stands, sending the Dementors scattering.

And then—Harry caught the Snitch.

No one realised it at first. Dumbledore had to use magic to announce the match was over—Gryffindor had won. It went down in history—not just because of the victory, but because Harry Potter had fought off a swarm of Dementors in the middle of the game. At dinner, the Headmaster personally thanked him. Harry looked over the moon, practically glowing with pride. And, miraculously, neither he nor his broom had come to any harm.

After that, everyone wanted to learn the Patronus Charm. Every day, for an hour, we holed up in an empty classroom, practising.

Skipping ahead a bit, most of us got the basics down, even if not everyone’s took on a solid form. Some people just managed a protective shield or mist. But Lavender summoned a fluffy cat, Kellah got a panther, Dean had a doberman, and Seamus, of all things, produced a fox. So yeah, I’d call it a success.

Next Defence lesson, Lupin was back—but he looked like death warmed up. As for me, after Black’s attack, I liked him even less than before. Harry, on the other hand, started hanging around him more—chatting, venting about Snape, all that.

Meanwhile, my detention with Snape led to a very interesting conversation.

"Mr. Weasley, you remember our talk in your first year?" Snape asked as I scrubbed out cauldrons. "Watch over Potter. Make sure he doesn’t leave the castle. And keep him away from Lupin."

I looked up. "Because he’s a werewolf?"

Snape tilted his head slightly. "Ah. So, you do know how to put two and two together, Mr. Weasley. A rare trait in your family."

"Your clues were blatantly obvious, sir," I shot back. "Same ‘illness’ every full moon, every single month."

Snape sneered. "And yet, to my great disappointment, not everyone is so observant."

"I reckon Hermione’s figured it out too," I muttered, moving to the next cauldron, feeling his eyes boring into my back.

There was a pause before Snape spoke again. "I’d prefer it if, should the worst come to pass, students were at least prepared to defend themselves."

Then, out of nowhere, he changed the subject.

"Tell me, Mr. Weasley—what do you think of Lupin?"

I didn’t hesitate. "I can’t stand him, sir," I said, turning to face him. "And not because of his… condition."

Snape’s eyebrows twitched upward, just slightly.

"Oh?" he said smoothly. "Then why?"

"I have my reasons, sir," I replied evenly. "But I'd rather not say. I won’t lie to you, but I’m not telling you the truth either."

Snape let out a dry chuckle and drummed his fingers against the armrest, his expression unreadable. "Is that so?" He paused for a moment, then said, "You’re dismissed, Weasley. And don’t forget my request."

"Of course, sir," I agreed easily. For once, we were on the same page.

Two weeks before the Christmas holidays, the twins handed over the Marauder’s Map to Harry before heading home.

Bill had promised to stop by the Burrow for Christmas—he was in England on work business, something about transferring between the Egyptian branch and Gringotts’ main office. Ginny and the twins were going home to celebrate with Mum and Dad, but Percy and I were staying at Hogwarts. Which suited me just fine—I had my own reasons for wanting to keep an eye on Black.

So there we were, me and Hermione, sitting in The Three Broomsticks, when something yanked on my leg. Nearly screamed, but then I heard Harry’s voice.

The git had snuck out under his invisibility cloak and was now hiding on the other side of the table, right by the big Christmas tree. Hermione spent the next ten minutes whispering furiously into her mug, scolding him for being so reckless, while I just ordered him a butterbeer and some nuts.

We sat there chatting in hushed voices, thinking about heading back soon, but the blizzard outside didn’t seem to be letting up. So we waited a bit longer.

That’s when the door burst open and in stumbled several figures, covered in snow from head to toe.

McGonagall and Flitwick were among them, followed by Hagrid and none other than Cornelius Fudge. The four of them were deep in conversation, shaking snow from their cloaks as they took a seat—right at the table behind ours. Only the Christmas tree separated us.

Madam Rosmerta joined them, immediately launching into a complaint about the Dementors. And that’s how we overheard a rather fascinating conversation about Black and poor old Peter.

What really rattled me, though, was learning that Dumbledore had always known there was a traitor among the Potters’ friends. He had even offered to be their Secret Keeper. That bit left me with an uneasy feeling.

The walk back to Hogwarts was silent. Tense. Harry looked frozen—not from the cold, but in that Snape-like way, all blank-faced and unreadable. Swear to Merlin, if Black had appeared in front of him right then, he’d have killed him on the spot. Personally, I’d have preferred it if he was at least yelling about it.

Dinner was a miserable affair. Harry barely touched his food, just listlessly prodded at his plate. Watching him put me off my appetite too.

Once we got back to our dorm—completely empty now, since most people had gone home for the holidays—Harry finally snapped.

"I’M GOING TO KILL HIM!" he roared, smashing his fists into his pillow. "I’ll find him and kill him! Black betrayed my parents—he gave them to Voldemort!"

"You don’t actually mean that, do you?" Hermione’s voice wobbled as she spoke. She looked like she didn’t know whether to comfort him or start panicking.

"Why go looking for someone who wants you dead, Harry?" I said calmly. "Just wait. He’ll come to you eventually. But I don’t think he’s guilty."

Harry looked like he was about to explode, but I kept going. "Think about it—if he really wanted you dead, he could’ve killed Hagrid and taken you all those years ago. Just offed him right there and then. Why take you on a motorbike, just to drop you into the sea, when a Killing Curse would’ve been quicker and easier? And why sit in Azkaban for years, doing nothing, if he could break out this easily? What was he waiting for all this time? Nah, something about this whole thing stinks."

"You really believe that, Ron?" Hermione asked hesitantly, before Harry could argue.

"You’re wrong, Ron," Harry cut in anyway, voice tight. "Everyone knows he’s a murderer. You heard what they said."

I let out a low chuckle. "Oh, yeah? And everyone also knows that you, as a baby, defeated Voldemort. Are we meant to believe that’s the whole truth too? Every witch and wizard in Britain will tell you they know exactly what happened that night—down to the finest detail. As if there were hundreds of witnesses just standing around. People believe all sorts of nonsense, Harry. If I were you, I wouldn’t be so quick to trust every rumour about Black."

Harry’s jaw clenched, and he stood stiffly. "But you’re not me, Ron," he said coldly before storming out, slamming the door behind him.

Later, of course, we made up. Harry apologised for snapping, and he spent the rest of the holidays obsessively watching the map, hoping to find Black. He never did. Eventually, he gave up on it altogether.

I asked if I could borrow the map, and he agreed.

Days passed, nothing happened, and soon enough, Harry seemed to forget about Black entirely.

 (1) Alice in the Land in the Other Side of the Mirror (orig. Алиса в Зазеркалье) is the official title of a 1982 Soviet cartoon based on Lewis Caroll’s book. In the story, I replaced the clunky title with a better-sounding "Alice through the Looking Glass". Which is also the title of another adaption of the book.

Daily Updates (30/01/25)

Demons of NC:

• Tier 1: Chapter 65

• Tier 2: Chapter 70

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 35

• Tier 2: Chapter 40

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 32

• Tier 2: Chapter 37

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 37

The hidden treasure of the Eternal City, Nokron—the Fingerslayer Blade. It wasn’t surprising that the moon demigoddess sought it so desperately: with it, she could finally stop fearing the Two Fingers.

Kosta suspected the artifact had the power to sever the connection between the Fingers and their mother, rendering the once-mighty, albeit strange, beings either helpless or at least significantly more vulnerable.

To be honest, the man found it a bit baffling how some Fingers, unable to even scratch themselves, managed to oppose a powerful sorceress. Thankfully, he wasn’t interested enough to dwell on it.

Perhaps some of the Fingers were more independent and just set themselves a challenge. After all, everyone can tryhard.

Konstantin knew exactly where to go and was determined to complete this quest as quickly as possible. Blaidd and Millicent, seeing the Tarnished’s darkened mood after the Mimic’s unexpected actions, refrained from asking unnecessary questions and obediently followed him.

The journey wasn’t short. They traversed not only the city and its many bridges connecting the sprawling underground realm but also spectral forests, dodging various creatures.

All of it led them to a massive crypt teeming with mimics. One wrong step could end disastrously. However, Konstantin was clearly not in the mood.

"I haven’t properly used pyromancy in ages…" (1) he muttered.

The man knelt, placing his hands on the cold floor. The fiery energy within him surged through his hands, spreading across the crypt.

Before his companions could ask what he intended to do, flames erupted from the ground with such intensity it seemed as if a firestorm had been unleashed.

The fire, almost alive, pounced on the mimics, consuming them entirely. The normally radiant power seemed partially tinged with crimson.

"Let’s go," Kosta said grimly, scanning their surroundings as though looking for something unseen. "We’re close."

Blaidd and Millicent nodded quickly.

When they reached the massive corpse seated on an equally massive throne, the man stopped.

"This is it."

Both the red-haired warrior and the half-wolf could barely believe their eyes. Giants existed in this world, even giants among giants, but a dead body so large it rivaled the grand structures of a fallen civilization was still awe-inspiring.

Of course, no one had bothered to remind Kosta about this.

The small bosses were always scarier.

Once again, he glanced around, frowning.

"Come out."

Millicent and Blaidd quickly grasped the situation. The half-wolf, scowling, unslung his massive sword. The warrior woman reached for her shamshir.

Indeed, Kosta was not mistaken: out of the dark corners of the buildings, like living shadows, emerged humanoid figures blending seamlessly with the gloom of the abandoned city. The few remaining descendants of the once-majestic city.

The man had suspected from the beginning that he wouldn’t casually run into Nox swordstresses or, worse, Night’s Maidens around a random corner. But the fact that they had deliberately gathered and observed them from the shadows still surprised him.

Nonetheless, Kosta’s expression remained impassive. After overcoming the shock of the "stolen heart" incident with the Mimic Tear, which now obediently resided in his Spirit Bell, fewer things in this world could faze him.

Of course, unless it directly involved his waifus. That was likely Kosta’s greatest weakness.

And yet, it was also his strength—the driving force that pushed him to tryhard and casually annihilate gods and dragons alike.

The Noxians did not rush to attack. They had seen and heard enough to understand that even all of them together couldn’t defeat the monstrous being in human form standing before them. Until the end, they hoped to avoid direct confrontation, but Konstantin had come too close to the treasure they were bound to protect.

"Konstantin of the Tarnished."

Kosta wasn’t at all surprised by how quiet and cautious the voice of the Night’s Maiden sounded—a high-ranking spiritual figure of the forgotten city.

Perhaps they could’ve had their own questline. At least here, they weren’t dismissed outright(2).

The man didn’t deem it necessary to reply: the Night’s Maiden wasn’t asking but stating. The question was what she intended to say next and whether it was time to start rolling.

Obviously, Kosta was fine with that. The question was whether he was the only one.

"The lands are rife with rumors, Konstantin of the Tarnished," the Night’s Maiden continued slowly. "Why do you seek the blade? Why do you want our treasure? Is the power you already possess not enough?"

Naturally, had they neither known nor seen firsthand the kind of monster that had come for their relic, they wouldn’t have bothered with diplomacy. They’d have attacked immediately, trying to rid themselves of the intruder—even if it were some overconfident demigoddess. But the Tarnished fame echoed throughout the Lands Between, leaving few fools brave enough to attack him without a second thought.

Blaidd, ready to defend his lady’s honor at all costs, was already considering stepping in to speak. However, the Tarnished silenced him with a gesture.

"Not for me. For someone dear to me who desires freedom."

Millicent, despite herself, pursed her lips, feeling slightly out of place. Having received so much from the Tarnished, she would never dare to be greedy, especially in front of those who might help him more than she could. Yet…

A completely absurd fear that Konstantin might simply forget about her crept into her heart. It had first emerged the moment she saw Sellen and Melina. Moreover, Millicent knew that there were others who had also captured the future king’s attention.

The girl exhaled.

An absurd thought. She, someone whom others couldn’t even touch without risking illness, someone who might die the moment the needle was pulled from her body, dared to think of something like this. Didn’t that make her even more pitiful and helpless?

Konstantin waited briefly before adding:

"For me, the power I have is already too much, but for her, it’s still not enough."

Blaidd nodded sagely.

How skillfully his friend had chosen his words! Lady Ranni was precious to them all!

He didn’t yet know…

The surviving Noxians exchanged glances.

"We cannot stop you, Konstantin of the Tarnished," the Night’s Maiden said in the same soft, cold tone. "But we can ask this: please, show mercy and return the treasure once the one you hold dear gains her freedom. We will not stand in your way again."

The Night’s Maiden inclined her head, and the others followed. Not deeply, not in a way that expressed submission, but with acknowledgment.

Konstantin raised an eyebrow, then shrugged nonchalantly.

"Fine."

He doubted his waifu would strongly oppose this request.

Besides, he planned to visit the Greater Will’s envoy anyway. Defeating it should, in theory, sever the Two Fingers’ connection entirely. Kosta was curious whether Metyr (3) could still show something interesting to someone as strong as he was, and who might soon grow even stronger.

Hearing the simple, resolute answer, the Noxians gave brief nods before quietly retreating. Their forms melted into the shadows, leaving no trace of sound. The only sign they had ever been there was a single whisper:

"Beware the Black Knives…"

Kosta smiled.

"I’d actually be glad if they tried to kill me."

It seemed someone among the shadows almost stumbled.

"You shouldn’t joke about the Black Knives, Konstantin," Blaidd warned, frowning as he glanced around. "Those scoundrels…"

"I know," Kosta replied with a shrug. "I’ll never forget that challenge. It ruined so many attempts(4)…"

Blaidd blinked.

Beneath the massive corpse lay a passage, leading to a crypt where they quickly found the blade they were searching for.

To everyone’s surprise, there were no traps. The moment Konstantin picked up the blade, he immediately understood its significance: it was unnaturally cold, alien, menacing, and inherently wrong.

Konstantin squinted with satisfaction.
‘Just what the doctor ordered for a Soulslike.’

“Quest complete,” Konstantin said, turning to Blaidd and Millicent. “We can head back now.”

His companions let out relieved sighs, and, as the Outer Gods and other multi-phase entities could witness, Konstantin understood them perfectly.

They stepped out of the crypt. Konstantin looked up, catching the glint of the moon. It wasn’t visible in the false sky above them, but the moon demigoddess and the Outer God she was linked to clearly weren’t bothered by such trivial details. Perhaps she wasn’t fully observing everything, but at the very least, she had to be aware that Konstantin had succeeded.

It was time to deliver the good news to Ranni.

Describing Ranni’s state with terms like "sleep" or "slumber" would’ve been inaccurate. In a sense, she remained conscious, even while immersed in a dream filled with countless visions.

The plight of Blaidd amused her, though she wouldn’t admit it to him. Their paths might soon diverge; Ranni still hadn’t found a way to save her adoptive brother, her friend, and, only afterward, her loyal servant.

It saddened her, but she had come too far to stop now.

Seluvis had completely disappointed her. She’d tried to give him a chance, but he fancied himself too clever. The puppeteer couldn’t resist his vile tendencies, so…

Soon, she’d ensure the furious Tarnished reached his goal.

Konstantin’s unexpectedly simple yet elegant solution to the problem showcased his better qualities.

She also couldn’t ignore Melina’s behavior. Who would have thought that such a terrifying entity, one of the foundations of the detestable Golden Order, would have such a… relatively ordinary daughter? Moderately selfish, reserved, awkward.

Melina lacked and could never possess the qualities of a ruler of the Lands Between. And that was reassuring.

The images of Konstantin in her visions were the blurriest, the most incomprehensible, and outright… strange. She couldn’t observe him as easily as she could others. Something persistently obscured her vision—a light so radiant that the only way to track the man was through the eyes of others.

Yet this didn’t stop her from witnessing her brother’s liberation.

Undoubtedly, she was a powerful sorceress. One of the most powerful the Lands Between had ever known. Sellen, often called one of the most gifted mages in the history of the Academy, was little more than a brazen child to Ranni—someone she could crush at the slightest provocation. Crush so thoroughly that her very existence would be reduced to a… disco ball(5).

But even her might wasn’t enough. To defeat her ailing brother, raw strength was required. Ranni’s skills lay in intrigue, concealment, mobility, and assassination from the shadows. Against her brother, none of this would have worked. Nor would it have worked against either of her brothers.

Had Ranni felt relief when, at the edge of her consciousness, she sensed her brother Radahn’s death amidst the overwhelming light?
Partially. She felt relief, but for a brief moment, something seemed… off. What exactly, she couldn’t discern.

What she did know, however, was who had retrieved the relic she had long sought.

Despite her power, she was far from omnipotent. Most of her strength was devoted to remaining hidden.

But now…

Ranni opened her eyes, feeling her consciousness clear. The demigoddess could have slept much longer, but for now, a short rest sufficed.

Unlike the strange, burned daughter of the Goddess, who had existed for countless years in a spiritual body as if it were nothing, Ranni was primarily a spirit. This brought both advantages and significant disadvantages.

Still, these weren’t the thoughts occupying the demigoddess’s mind at the moment.

Meeting the gaze of the ever-calm Tarnished, she took the offered blade into her puppet hands, feeling a reassuring cold spread from the hilt—a cold that promised victory.

“So, it was you!” Ranni exclaimed, unable to conceal the excitement in her voice for the first time in ages. “You helped Blaidd. I sensed it, even in my dreams!” (TN: her original dialogue from the game would be out of place here, so I didn’t replace it)

Her emotions were muted, but after her rest—having seen so much (aside from the strange light), having touched the relic she had sought for so long—she allowed herself a moment of genuine feeling.

After all, the daughter of Rennala, the Full Moon Queen, was far from emotionless, no matter what others might think or say about her.

Konstantin shrugged.

The ethereal visage of the demigoddess smiled.

Now she could see how greatly Konstantin had changed—not just physically but mentally. The man’s gaze had become far more focused, filled with emotion.

That the madman had overcome his affliction was undeniably heartening. Once, the thought of someone so dangerous gaining clarity would have terrified her. But now…

Ranni traced a puppet finger along the blade’s edge.

Her mind swirled with thoughts. The time she had prepared for so long had unexpectedly arrived.

Like all who retained their sanity in the Lands Between, she had grown used to time standing still. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months, months into years—and yet, no days seemed to pass.

Who could have imagined that the arrival of a single Tarnished and her own curiosity would change everything so drastically?

“My thanks,” she said, much calmer now. “Finally, all the pieces are in place. Soon must I begin my journey. Upon the dark path only I may tread.”

Ranni allowed herself a small smile.

She was now fully convinced that the power Konstantin wielded posed her no harm. If it did, it would have punished her long ago for attempting to observe him.

And an enemy wouldn’t have stolen her ring—unless it was just to mock her.

Thankfully, Ranni had slept enough not to let herself sulk over such thoughts again.

“And you are bound for a radiant path, one open only to you.”

Konstantin was slightly surprised by the unexpected words from one of the best waifus, but he took it in stride.

Other waifus, in much more precarious situations, still awaited him. The moonlit waifu was exposing herself to danger too, but she, like Melina, was markedly different from the others.

“I ask you to return the blade when it is no longer needed,” Konstantin said stoically.

Ranni hesitated for a moment before…

The Tarnished froze.

Did she… blush? If only for a split second?

“So, you seek another meeting,” the demigoddess’s voice grew noticeably more… businesslike. It seemed she had swiftly reached some internal conclusion. “That can be arranged.”

Ranni extended her puppet hand, and an inverted statue obediently flew into it. She handed the statue to him.

“This is my token of gratitude for your impeccable service,” Ranni declared with importance. “A strange gift, perhaps. But someone like you will find a use for it.”

The demigoddess let out a barely audible sigh—not with her puppet body, but spiritually.

Konstantin couldn’t explain how he even heard it.

"Now I know that fate itself ensured our meeting. And I am grateful to Torrent for this. And… to Melina," Ranni added after a moment's thought. "Now go. Your service was brief but useful."

How could she possibly still consider him her servant?

As previously mentioned, Ranni still remembered how this audacious Tarnished had stolen the chest containing her ring. And with his strength, he had proven that he had the right to do so.

Now, she wanted to see just how far his foresight could take him and whether he was prepared to walk this path to the very end.

Konstantin, glancing at the statue, sent it into some space only he seemed to understand, then nodded, grinned brightly, and headed for the exit.

The quests wouldn’t wait. He still had a few things to take care of, and he needed to find a suitable prosthetic for Millicent.

Once outside the tower, seeing Millicent and Blaidd waiting for him, Konstantin paused in thought.

There were indeed quite a few quests left.

Turning his head, Konstantin noticed Melina appearing, with a sorrowful illusion of Sellen perched on her shoulder.

"We had to step away for a time, Konstantin," Melina said calmly.

The illusion of the sorceress grimaced as if forced to eat something exceedingly sour. However, she didn’t dare speak. The hierarchy had been firmly established by the most effective means.

Konstantin cast a sidelong glance at the massive club Melina held effortlessly in her delicate hand.

The false Finger Maiden straightened slightly, noticing how her chosen one’s eyes lit up. He was clearly pleased with her decision.

She was especially satisfied when her chosen one accepted the gift, looking all the more like an elated boy who had just found the biggest stick in the forest.

As Konstantin examined the gift with bright, eager eyes, he unexpectedly lowered his gaze to Melina’s burn-scarred hands. He suspected that the burns extended far beyond just her hands.

"We’ll continue your healing, Melina," the Tarnished said after a brief pause, deep in thought. Then, unexpectedly, he added, "You won’t be running off so easily now."

Melina froze, her spectral heart feeling as though it had leapt out of her body, her mouth slightly agape in dumbfounded silence.

The miniature illusion of Sellen clenched her illusory mouth shut, tears of laughter welling in her eyes as she struggled to maintain composure. The illusion was impressively lifelike.

If she lost it and burst out laughing now…

Greater Will, the Moon, the Sun, or whoever else bore witness to this moment—this would be the end.

Fate had presented her with far too serious a trial.

(1) Pyromancy has always held a special place in the hearts of both casual and dedicated Dark Souls fans.

(2) Very little is known about the Nox or the Black Knife Assassins. Despite their pivotal role in the lore, there are no speaking characters among them, only a few opponents and an Ash summon scattered throughout the Lands Between.

(3) Mother of Fingers Metyr, a boss from the DLC. According to lore, she was the first fallen star in the Lands Between, birthing the Two Fingers. It was by sheer luck that Marika managed to make contact with her once.

(4) The full hospitality of the Black Knife Assassins can be experienced when trying to enter the secret location in Ordina, the Liturgical Town. Players must light four flames in Evergaols, all the while avoiding the possibility of being backstabbed by some invisible creature.

(5) No definitive explanation is given for why Sellen turns into a disco ball at the end of her questline. There’s a clear hint about the dangers of the magic she studied and promoted, but her sudden transformation immediately after Rennala’s overthrow personally seems… a bit suspicious.

[Life is Good] Chapter 40

While waiting for the team to assemble, she gave me a quick but to-the-point rundown of the situation.

The criminals found by the police were holed up in one of the buildings that served as their “hideout.” It was an old tenement building owned by some woman—who the police hadn’t managed to track down. Judging by the tone of Sybilla’s voice, she doubted the owner would ever turn up. Right next to it, practically sharing a wall, was an abandoned building in desperate need of repairs. There were up to thirty gang members inside, but with Mysterio in the mix, the actual number could be wildly different. They were armed with a mix of weapons, including automatic firearms and grenades—flashbangs, smoke, and even frags.

The cops got lucky. Several patrol cars were in the area, checking out suspicious addresses, so when one team hit the panic button, the others rushed in to help. A shootout broke out but was quickly shut down by the arrival of a SWAT team that had been on standby nearby. The SWAT guys brought some heavy, new-generation firepower, which is what managed to drive off a supervillain in an exosuit—a scorpion-themed anthropomorphic nightmare called Scorpia. She had shown up just a minute or two before the SWAT team arrived. That was when the police lost two officers and Lieutenant Elizabeth, along with three other cops, got taken hostage. If it weren’t for the guys in armored trucks, the villains might have escaped, potentially dragging civilians and hostages along with them.

Sybilla wanted me to give her the most detailed floor-by-floor layout possible, using my abilities, because Mysterio’s drones could easily screw up any other recon attempts.

“Alright, listen up,” the woman started as our group entered the adjacent building through the side windows, making sure the criminals couldn’t spot us. Before that, she pointed to my eyes, gestured around, and, after my silent “all clear,” started briefing the five SWAT members in full body armor, helmets, and face coverings. Each of them had NVGs strapped to their helmets, currently flipped up, revealing their eyes.

“We go floor by floor. Guard the kid, keep radio silence, and do exactly what I say. We might be able to extract our people, but that depends on our luck. No further details—I’m not taking chances in case they’re listening in. If we get into a firefight, call for backup. If the boy starts pulling some weird bullshit—don’t freak out like a bunch of hysterical bitches. He’s a mutant.

Kid, write down everything fast in this notebook. If shit hits the fan, don’t get in the way.”

She handed me a slim notepad with a pen attached.

“Let’s move.”

And move we did.

We cleared the first two floors, while I stuck to the wall of the adjacent building, scribbling everything I saw into the notepad and passing it to Sybilla. Nothing unusual so far. My energy vision picked up heat signatures of gang members mostly positioned around the windows. But then I saw the third floor—and my heart started hammering. I fought the urge to sprint upstairs and kept doing my job.

By the time we reached the stairs, I was focused and ready. The thing was, on the third floor, in a room that shared a wall with both buildings, I saw a cluster of people. And not just any cluster—one that looked disturbingly similar to what I had seen in the basement of a slaver den last time. A tangled mess of heat signatures. And two figures near the door, standing about five feet away—most likely guarding the entrance.

We climbed to the third floor and moved toward the corner rooms. In the first one, I pressed myself flat against the wall, scanning the area with extra care. Not that I had slacked off on the previous floors, but here, I practically fused with the crumbling plaster, making sure I got every possible detail.

Then, on the fourth floor, I spotted something... weird.

An anomaly.

A humanoid heat signature, but covered in a web of thin and thick bluish lines—like someone had wrapped themselves in a net of electrical cables. And the shape? It looked suspiciously like a creature with a tail ending in a stinger.

Took me a few seconds to put two and two together. This had to be the local Scorpion—or Scorpia, as the media called her. Hell, she even introduced herself that way a couple of times when monologuing.

Not much solid info on her. From what I’d caught on the news, she wore an exosuit that looked like something ripped straight out of the old Spider-Man cartoons.

Honestly, I was a little baffled.

Like, seriously—why the hell was that suit a one-of-a-kind deal? How was this not mass-produced? Did her tailor refuse to make duplicates? “Sorry, sweetie, we’re a bespoke villain couture shop, one costume per client!”

Still, she made a name for herself. Her suit kept her alive through absolute hell, giving her armor, insane agility, super strength, endurance, and, judging from news clips, pretty solid reflexes. Not quite Neo levels, but she always managed to dodge the worst hits—as long as they were a tad slower than a bullet. Or… maybe not just a tad? I had seen her leap away from a rocket-propelled grenade mid-flight.

Then there was her “stinger.” It wasn’t just for stabbing, it could shoot stuff too. Acid, poison, even goddamn napalm. Apparently, whatever she loaded into it was what she sprayed. Talk about versatile.

So yeah… I was definitely going to dig deeper into these villains once I got back to school. Sure, I was focused on my own power development, but knowing yourself is only half the battle. You gotta know your enemy and yada-yada, something-something…

…Whatever. Can’t exactly hop back to my past life to Google it now.

All these thoughts ran through the back of my mind while my body practically vibrated with anticipation. No joke.

My mom was in there.

And that… that was hard to process.

I remembered how, in my past life, my daughter had broken her arm. Big, grown-ass man that I was, I shook like a goddamn leaf. Called an ambulance and, until they arrived, barely held it together. My wife had been a hundred times calmer—or maybe she was just better at faking it.

And now? This was like that, but cranked up to an apocalyptic level.

I stood by the wall—behind another wall—and beyond that, a large heat signature. A mess of tangled human outlines—arms, legs, heads. Heat signatures don’t give a clear picture, but I could see enough.

The room we were in was small, maybe fifteen by ten feet. In the corner, there was a pile of rags, an old cardboard box, and a tin can that had been used as an ashtray. Looked like a homeless person had been living here before all this went down. The walls were stripped down to the brick in places. No lighting—except for the faint glow of my own energy.

I turned to Sybilla.

“There’s a lot of people in there, all huddled together,” I whispered as I stepped in close. “It looks a lot like how the slaves were kept last time. Two people by the far wall, probably near the doorway. They’ve got gadgets—most likely phones or radios. I can make an opening in the walls almost silently. Scorpia’s in her suit on the fourth floor. No drones in sight.”

Sybilla stood still. I couldn’t see her face under the mask, but her eyes were thoughtful. Meanwhile, I was a mess. My mom could be behind that wall, and we needed to get her out. I had no idea what I would’ve done if Sybilla hadn’t given a sharp nod after a moment’s consideration.

“Do it,” the SWAT officer said briskly. “Girls, get ready. We go in, grab the people, and get out. Keep it quiet if we can, but if things go south—shoot to kill. Use the special gear on the super. Alright, kid, show us your voodoo-magic bullshit.”

While the SWAT team prepped their guns and took their positions, I approached the wall and placed my hands against it. Heat. My thing. Melting stone into a puddle wasn’t exactly hard for me. The key was taking it slow and steady. I started heating from the top, carefully melting a door-sized opening.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught one of the women muttering a quiet string of curses. Yeah, fair reaction. Watching a stone wall turn into molten lava and pour onto the floor before instantly solidifying at my feet? Even I had to admit it looked pretty badass. Some of the molten rock spilled outward onto the building’s exterior, hardening on the walls.

And the heat? Completely controlled. I wasn’t about to roast my “teammates.” If only I could do something about the smoke—the burning matter in the brick gave off a good amount of it.

Twenty seconds, and the first wall was done. The gap between the buildings was about a meter—maybe a little less. Whatever. I crouched down and pressed my hands against the neighboring wall. Time for a different approach.

I started by heating it gently, just enough to get a feel for the structure, to take control of the area I needed.

Then—bam—instant temperature spike to melting point. I left about ten centimeters of the wall near the hostages cold, while the rest of it poured out with a loud, bubbling splash.

I took a step back, watching the silhouettes of the two guards near the doorway glance at each other in confusion—before I lunged straight through the newly thinned barrier.

Dust and lingering smoke flooded the room with me, screwing up normal vision but doing jack shit to my energy sight.

Two quick harpoon clicks, and the women by the entrance collapsed onto the floor.

Behind me, I heard Sybilla bark out commands as I stepped aside to let the SWAT team in. My eyes scanned the room.

Just a meter away, a tightly packed group of shackled women—just like last time. Among them, I spotted several wearing police uniforms.

No time to waste. I moved toward them, immediately burning through the links in their chains. Probably around twenty people, same as before. Standard “shipment size,” I guessed in the back of my mind while working like a human blowtorch.

Then—I saw her.

Mom!

She was the last one in the row, shackled by her right wrist and ankle.

She was looking at me.

Behind me, SWAT officers were already hauling freed women into the other building. I kept cutting chains, forcing myself to stay steady—not to panic, not to scream.

Mom.

Betty’s eyes were dazed with pain. Her face was a mess—busted up, dried blood caked under her nose and chin, the right side swollen with a massive bruise.

And she was missing her left arm.

Just below the elbow.

A rough bandage—torn-up uniform scraps—covered the stump, a belt cinched tightly around it.

I sucked in a breath.

Energy sight flared.

Four figures were moving toward our location.

Four hostages still chained—including my mom.

I sprinted to her, melting through her restraints before carefully lifting her into the arms of two approaching SWAT officers.

“Four incoming,” I shot at Sybilla while my shaking hands burned through more links.

Two more to go.

But we were out of time.

Only half the prisoners had been evacuated, and those four were going to be here in seconds.

“Go ahead,” I told the last two cops, then bolted for the door.

I could already hear the voices outside—excited, chattering.

They were close together.

Good.

Easier to take them out in one shot.

Ignoring the muttered curses behind me, I kicked the door open and lunged out—sparking like fucking Electro, arms spread wide.

I might’ve miscalculated the strength of the shock a little—but hey, this was a combat op.

Four fried gang chicks was a small price to pay for avoiding gunfire in a room full of hostages.

Not like Sybilla’s girls wouldn’t have filled them with lead anyway.

And it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was absolutely goddamn livid about what these bastards did to my mom.

Nothing at all.

But the problem?

One of those dumbasses had been on the radio mid-sentence.

Which meant the alarm was up.

“Call in reinforcements,” I told Sybilla while torching the last set of chains. “They were talking to someone.”

She turned to me with a look that could’ve curdled milk. Like Lenin staring down the bourgeoisie with the promise of divine punishment.

Not happy I’d acted on my own?

Too bad.

Almost every hostile in my range of vision was now moving toward us.

I bent down, picked up a pistol from one of the unconscious goons, and flicked the safety off.

Sybilla was already barking orders into her radio.

The last hostage was through the gap, and the SWAT team began pulling out.

Only her and I remained in the room.

She jerked her head toward the exit.

I shook mine.

“Scorpia’s about to be here. Go ahead—I’ll cover. She can’t do shit to me.”

Her mouth opened—probably to argue—but I growled, cutting her off.

“Move. You can argue later.”

Her eyes widened.

Then, without a word, she turned and vaulted through the gap.

She isn’t such a hardass, I thought, watching her clear the distance like a damn goat before following her through.

And fuck, I wanted to stay.

Just a little longer.

Light up this whole goddamn place as is proper in the name of the Emperor.

But mom was more important.

Revenge could wait.

Rage simmered inside me, blending with the steady, low snarl of the Flame.

We moved fast, heading for the exit, rushing down the stairwell to the second floor.

Behind me, I heard the crash.

Scorpia.

Her heat signature was closing in fast.

From outside, gunfire erupted.

Looked like Stacy had given the go-ahead to start the assault.

We were all still on the stairs.

If a fight with Scorpia broke out here, casualties would be unavoidable.

If she crashed down on someone in her heavy suit… if the stairs collapsed…

And mom was below.

Since I was the last one out, I just turned on my heel and sprinted back.

If I pushed it, I’d meet her right at the entrance, and from there…

I heard Sybilla cussing me out, but I ignored her and ran full speed.

I just made it.

We stood facing each other. Both of us masked—our faces hidden.

Scorpia’s armor was downright terrifying.

Easily over two meters tall, steel-gray plating, arms massive enough that if she landed a punch, I’d be powder. And judging by the design, there had to be weapons hidden inside. Over her left shoulder, the wicked stinger of her tail hovered, ready to strike.

A joke popped into my head:

“Dad, I caught a bear.”
“Well, bring it here.”
“I can’t—it won’t let me.”

Yeah. This felt like that.

Here she was.

Gift-wrapped and delivered.

And, yeah, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little bit scared.

“Well, well, what a meeting. You must be Mister Mutant.”

Mocking tone, but she wasn’t charging in recklessly. Unknown super? Who the hell knows what he can do.

“Get out of my way, kid.”

She growled, and from her wrists, a pair of brutal, razor-sharp blades shot out. More like cleavers, honestly—massive enough to chop a person clean in half.

Looking at those arm-blades, a question popped into my head, and I blurted it out:

“You the one who cut off that cop’s arm?”

“Yeah. And if you don’t—”

I didn’t let her finish.

The moment she confirmed it, the dam holding back my rage shattered.

This was the bitch who maimed my mom.

AND SHE CAME TO ME.

The Flame inside me roared.

I barely had time to ignite before my hand snapped up, pistol aimed, finger pulling the trigger.

The bullet wasn’t just a hunk of lead—it left behind a trail of fire, a burning round that slammed into her chest with a deafening crack.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something—the gun in my hand was covered in glowing, fiery runes, and my whole body had erupted into flames.

Scorpia staggered back a few steps.

I pulled the trigger again.

A second tracer, even bigger and hotter than the first, blasted her clean off her feet, slamming her into the wall several meters away.

The Flame howled inside me.

I growled right back, unloading every last round until the mag ran dry.

Scorpia lay motionless, her armor covered in deep, dented craters. But I could still see the energy lines flickering across it. The suit was still functional.

I let the pistol drop and stepped forward.

Arrest her?

Throw her in jail?

Yeah, right.

The piece of shit who hurt my family was going to die.

In my head, war drums pounded, and the Flame inside me danced to the rhythm.

Garbage needed to be burned.

I was a meter away when the armor’s tail twitched—then lashed toward me at lightning speed.

I didn’t even have time to react before the sheer force of the impact sent me flying, my back slamming into the wall.

A second’s disorientation—

Then she was already up, charging straight at me.

Harpoons.

I discharged both of them at max power.

A blinding flash—

Two lightning bolts speared into her armor.

I felt my reserves take a nosedive—down to a third of my full capacity.

I’d never hit someone this hard before.

“And for good reason,” I muttered to myself, getting back on my feet.

“Scorpion au gratin.”

I smirked at my handiwork.

Scorpia’s “dangerous but stylish” exosuit wasn’t steel-gray anymore.

It was charred black.

Where the harpoons hit, there were two massive holes—easily twenty centimeters wide.

And through them, I could see the cooked meat underneath.

Right thigh. Left shoulder.

Lucky shots, considering I hadn’t been aiming—I’d just fired in her general direction.

“…You gotta be shitting me.”

Behind me, Sybilla’s stunned voice broke the silence.

Then, she cracked up.

“He actually took her down… Ahaha! AHAHAHA! Holy shit!”

She wheezed through laughter.

“What a fucked up day! A fucking kid took down Scorpia! Oh, Goddess, I can die happy now—I’ve seen everything.”

I had no idea what to say to that.

Not that she needed a response.

She pulled out her radio and called for a team to haul off the body—armor and all.

Not that the exosuit was functioning anymore.

No active elements.

Even the power cells were completely drained.

And the woman inside?

Yeah.

People don’t survive that.

“What about the hostages?” I asked, turning to the potty-mouthed officer.

“All out. Safe and sound.”

Then she frowned, sighing.

“…Except for Betty. That girl got it bad. But thank the Goddess, she’s gonna live.”

I only nodded.

The adrenaline was fading.

The rage, too.

Leaving nothing behind but exhaustion and emptiness.

“Listen, kid… Don’t take it the wrong way.” Sybilla rubbed the back of her neck. “Just… head outside. Our people will handle this.”

“I’ll wait.” I said flatly. “I want to make sure the body’s taken care of. You never know.”

“That’s fair…” She drawled. Then, after a pause “…And thanks, kid.”

She exhaled heavily.

“I still think you shouldn’t be sticking your dick into women’s business—”

(Okay, wow.)

“—but you helped us today. Saved the hostages. Saved my sister.”

She hesitated.

“No telling how long Betty would’ve lasted. And that armored bitch? Taking her down would’ve been a nightmare.”

Under different circumstances, I might’ve appreciated the words.

But right now?

I felt nothing.

So I just nodded and stayed silent.

Waited until the retrieval team arrived—some of them heading for the breach, others dragging the “trophy” out.

Listened to the girls bitching about how goddamn heavy Scorpia’s body was.

And then, finally, I walked out.

It had been, as Sybilla would’ve said, a truly fucked-up day.

Now, I needed to ditch the combat gear, switch to civilian clothes, and find out which hospital my mom had been taken to.

Everything else could wait.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 70

"The optics need to be replaced," Victor announced after the examination.

"That bad?" I asked. "Even the left eye?"

"The bullet lodged in the metalized bone tissue of your skull. That’s what saved you, but the deformation caused a ton of microfractures in the optics. It’ll still work, but the interference isn’t going anywhere. You’re not exactly strapped for cash right now, so I suggest a full replacement. Also, you’ve got localized hemorrhaging near the frontal lobe. Your implants sealed off the blood vessels in time, or you wouldn’t be feeling so chipper right now. We’ll have to clear that up too. And your skull needs realigning… That’ll take a few visits. Need to do it right or it’ll lose durability."

"Sounds like a lot of hassle."

"Yeah, well, tough luck," Victor shrugged. "Bullets to the head aren’t great for your health. They teach that in school. Think about what kind of optics you want, and we’ll get started."

Optics, huh…
Getting shot through walls didn’t sit right with me. I wanted to be able to do that too. That last fight proved that even a single implant could tip the scales. You can’t always rely on external cameras. Your own eyes are just as important.

"Kiroshi ‘Oracle,’" I requested.

Victor sighed, clearly not thrilled.

"You want everything at once, huh? That’s heavy chrome, V. Comes with a lot of extra effects that put strain on your nervous system.

"It scans through obstacles up to 17.5 meters, 35 meters in open space. Highlights people, cameras, devices, and local access points. It’s not just an optical implant—it’s a full-on multifunctional radar. Heaviest piece of civilian-grade optics on the market. Well, ‘civilian’ in the loosest sense. No regular citizen has a reason to get something like this, but it’s technically legal."

"Heavy chrome?" I smirked, my left eye glitching again. "Getting shot in the head is heavier."

"Can’t argue with that."

"Send the bill to Angelica Whelan. She promised to cover today’s festivities."

"Girl paying for both of you? Lucky bastard. Pick your lenses."

"You know what? No lenses."

"Going full raw chrome? Trying out a new style?"

"Something like that."

And so, after all the fun from earlier, I slipped into a chemically-induced sleep, waking up to see the world through new eyes.

"Ease into the scanning modes," Victor warned. "And yeah, I know telling you to rest is pointless, but your nervous system and metabolism are showing some concerning markers. Right now, tumors are easy to remove, but remember Logan Garcia? Guy burned out so hard he had to leave the sport early. There are limits even cyberware can’t fix."

Victor’s words barely registered—I was too caught up in the flood of new sensory input. I couldn’t see through walls, not exactly, but Oracle highlighted key objects and could generate a rough 3D projection of whatever was behind an obstacle. Plastics, plywood, concrete—it all scanned fine. Insulating materials, though, were trickier.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t send quickhacks through walls, but shooting through thin cover? No problem. Just needed a gun with solid stopping power.

I looked in the mirror.
White, featureless eyes stared back. Without cosmetic lenses, the optics looked purely mechanical—more like equipment than part of a living body. It gave me a real chromehead look, especially since my cyberlimb was usually hidden under clothes.

After thanking Victor, I headed home. We had a small crew meeting to discuss our next big job.

Falco arrived first, still half-asleep and loading up on coffee and smokes.

"Where’d you stash Eve?" I whispered to Lucy while Falco was in the kitchen.

Lucy smirked and nodded toward the wardrobe. I cracked the door open.

Parker sat inside, hugging her knees, gazing at me with those shimmering doll-like eyes.

"Can I come out now, handsome?" she purred.

"No. Not yet," I replied, shutting the door.

Great. Now I didn’t just have skeletons in my closet—I had a fully functional set of organs in there too.
Complete package: ambitious escort doll.

Once we wrapped up the meeting, I’d invite everyone to the club so she wouldn’t be stuck in the damn wardrobe all night. Gotta take responsibility for the people you kidnap.

One by one, the crew arrived. Falco, then Panam, then Becca.
Maybe we’d bring in more people later, but for now, this was enough for the first planning session.

"Alright," I started, rubbing my temple. My skull still felt off—Victor had fixed the major damage, but the bone was still healing. "We’ve worked together before. I liked it. Hope you did too."

"Yeah," Becca grinned. "Shit was fun, choom, but I could use more shootouts."

"This one’s gonna be… complicated," I warned. "We’re stealing cutting-edge tech from one of the most dangerous corps in the world. If anyone wants out, no hard feelings."

"Stop trying to scare us, V," Panam cut in. "Just get to the point. What, where, and how?"

I pulled up a holo of Konpeki Plaza and ran through the plan.
Didn’t stray too far from Dex’s blueprint in that other timeline—except this time, I’d secured early access and better cover. All that info I squeezed out of Frank Nostra was about to pay off.

"We’ll have cloned credentials for Arasaka’s network maintenance division. They’ve never been to Konpeki before, so no need for face-matching. We go in as techs, no suspicion if we move through service areas.

"But before we even get inside, we need to steal another piece of cutting-edge tech—Militech’s ‘Flathead’ drone."

I gave them the rundown on what it did and why we needed it.

"The riskiest part is breaching the suite. We need to grab the target from the stash, swap it with a fake, and ghost the fuck out. Sounds simple, but…" I sighed. "Shit happens. We need to decide who’s on what."

"Sorry, V," Falco spoke up. "Maybe I’m still half-asleep, but mind if I ask a dumb question?"

"Shoot."

"Why not just steal the thing with the drone? It’s invisible, moves through vents, and if something goes wrong, no big loss."

"Good idea, but the problem is, we need the drone for controlling the hotel’s local network," I explained.
But… something clicked.

A thought was forming, but Falco beat me to it.

"So… maybe we should just steal two of these drones?" Falco suggested. "One takes out the netrunner, the other snags the chip. Or am I talking outta my ass?"

I sat in silence for a moment, then said, "Alright. Back to the last point—we’re stealing multiple bots from Militech. The bypass tool for corporate encryption should still work, so that won’t be an issue. And after that… same plan, but the bot lifts the chip instead of us."

"Sounds clean on paper," Panam said thoughtfully. "But we need contingencies. You got blueprints for this fancy roach motel?"

"Yeah. Got the full layout, even schematics for the comms systems."

"Good. Hand 'em over. Two drivers in the team is overkill, so I’ll handle the tech side. Gotta see if we can cut power to the hotel if things go to shit or maybe lock down the elevators."

Smart move.

"I’ll try to dig up more intel on Konpeki’s infrastructure—what security measures they have, when the last updates were made."

"What’s up with Maelstrom?" Becca asked. "When do we get to fuck ‘em up?"

"One of the corps is leaking info to them," I explained. "Lucy and I are intercepting that leak and getting to the convoy before the psychos do. So we don’t have to go at it with Maelstrom, but Militech? That’s another story."

No one had any more questions.
If this went well, Yorinobu might not even notice the theft right away. We’d swap the relic with a fake—a hollowed-out dummy loaded with a virus to fool the storage unit. Any serious inspection would expose the fraud, but it’s not like Yorinobu checks his stash every hour.

Another thought—maybe plant a spy cam in the suite? Or rig one of the existing cameras to feed us footage. If we got lucky, we could pull some real leverage.

"Alright, no more questions? Then let’s celebrate at the club."

The vote was unanimous.

I hadn’t had much time to manage the club yet—too busy with Angie’s job and prepping for Konpeki. But after renegotiating the deal with the Animals, the place was finally pulling some profit. Not much, but a solid twenty K had rolled in.

Still had work to do. Needed to hire security, upgrade defenses, renovate the section I planned to live in. But it felt good going somewhere that actually belonged to me.

"You good?" Lucy asked unexpectedly.

We were on a couch upstairs, just the two of us. The others were downstairs by the bar.

"Me?" I blinked. "Never better. Why?"

"Your hand’s shaking. You don’t notice?"

I frowned. Sure enough, my right hand twitched slightly every few moments. I barely felt it—too lost in thought.

"It’s nothing," I waved it off. "Double Sandevistan run and a bullet to the head… takes a toll. I’ll be fine tomorrow. You figure anything out about Kiwi? Think the Brazilians hired her?"

Lucy nodded.

"She bailed, left everything behind," she said. "I’d like to think she was too ashamed to face me, but she probably just heard about Faraday’s death. Figured Arasaka was tying up loose ends. But if the Brazilians offered protection and money… yeah, she might’ve come back."

"Makes sense."

"What’s your next move?"

"Waiting on Angie. She says she’s working something out." I shook my head. "I really don’t wanna go to war with Brazilian intelligence. That’d mean losing everything—" I gestured around the club. "Back to hiding, waiting for the next hit to come outta nowhere."

"If you wanna drop it, I don’t care," Lucy said flatly. "I’m not chasing Kiwi for revenge. Don’t stick with this just because of me."

"Noted."

That night, I took it easy. No hard liquor, kept an eye on my biomonitor.
When I got home in the early morning, Angie called.

"V, how you holding up? From the ripper’s bill, looks like you got fucked up."

"Better today, but still recovering."

Truth was, most of the money had gone to my Oracle upgrade, but Vic had marked it as a simple "optics replacement" and spread the cost across the invoice.

"I got two updates for you," Angie said playfully.

"Bad and really bad?"

"Nope. Good and pleasant."

"Well, that’s new. Let’s hear it."

"Good news—the Brazil problem? Solvable. Pretty much already handled. Just gotta meet someone, they’ll smooth things over. Pleasant news—I want you to come with me."

"Will I need to shoot anyone?" I asked. "What gear should I bring?"

"Shoot? Maybe flirty glances. Just bring an expensive suit and whatever helps you have a good time."

I really hoped Angie wasn’t being overly optimistic. Last thing I wanted was another shootout with Brazilian operatives.

If things went sideways, I still had that number their agent gave me. Could try calling, negotiating a ceasefire. But burning bridges with the Animals was risky too—club was just starting to turn a profit.

After sleeping in, I let Evelyn help me get ready.
Black and gold suit, anarchy pin on the lapel, even a half-decent hairstyle. Didn’t have new monokatanas yet, so I grabbed a neurotoxin knife and throwing stilettos. For guns, I stuck to my usual loadout but added a Lexington to the mix.

Three pistols in total. Smart one, electromagnetic one, and plain ol’ dumb Lexington.

Angie met me near the club. She’d swapped her sporty look for something more refined.

I was actually getting curious about where we were headed.

"You’ll find out soon," Angie said with a wink.

We barely had any security with us—just a driver from the Animals who took us to the outskirts of Watson. We entered a nondescript building in the industrial zone, nothing special on the outside. Inside, though, we were met by three armed guards with no insignia. Angie flashed some kind of card, and they let us through to what looked like a normal elevator.

But when we went down, the whole vibe changed instantly.

We stepped into what could only be described as a high-end dive. Dim pink-and-purple lighting, bass-heavy music, the thick scent of incense and synth drugs in the air. Underground club? That’d be my guess.

Angie took my arm and whispered, "Relax."

Yeah, sure. Kinda hard to relax when just yesterday people were trying to kill me, and now I was being dragged into some underground hellhole.

The place had plenty of side rooms, but I didn’t hear any customers. Just staff and security. Eventually, we entered a room with three cops on guard. Unexpected. And these weren’t your usual donut-munchers—they were kitted out in full tactical gear. Body armor, shotguns, and two security drones parked against the wall.

"Ladies and gentlemen," one of them said, "please place your weapons over here. Blades, too."

"We’re unarmed today," Angie answered sweetly.

I reluctantly started unloading my gear—pistols, grenades, knives.

"Holy shit," one of the cops muttered as I pulled out a fourth grenade. "Where the hell were you going, man? Fifth Corpo War?"

"Just looking to have a good time," I grinned. "If I was expecting a bad time, I’d be packing heavier."

"Fair enough," he nodded. "Go on in. Boss is waiting—before he gets too fucked up."

We were here to meet someone high up in NCPD? Maybe.

A final guard in a sharp suit stood by the next door. He held up a finger to his lips—Wait a sec, boss is talking.

From inside, a voice boomed, drowning out the sound of running water and music.

"You fuckin’ morons! We barely tax these people! The least they can do is pay a decent goddamn bribe! Have some shame!"

The voice sounded familiar. Where had I heard it before?

"No, fuck no, and hell no!" the voice roared. "This city runs on three things—profit, compromise, and my massive fucking patience, which is NOT unlimited!"

Yeah, I knew this guy. But from where?

"Not time to burn it all down yet," he continued. "Maybe they’ll wise up. Give ‘em a hint, Paul. Run an inspection, make them sweat. Alright, I got guests. No, not hookers—those are already here. Later, choom."

The guard in the suit stepped aside, gesturing us in. Angie pulled me forward.

The door opened to a luxurious VIP lounge. Small pool, a fountain shimmering in the dim lighting, and a massive couch where a dark-skinned man lounged with three women draped over him. He was wearing the top half of a suit… and leopard-print boxers. His slacks were on the floor nearby.

The women? Chrome everywhere. Golden or crimson skin, intricate cyberware, one had a transparent panel in her abdomen, showing off her glowing uterus tattoo. Christ. That was some next-level fetish shit.

Their doll-like eyes shimmered as one of them handed the man a cigar. He took a deep pull, letting thick smoke roll from his lips.

"Angie!" he grinned. "Tilda called me yesterday. Shit, you guys got yourselves a situation. And this your guy?"

"V. He’s the one who figured out who’s been screwing with us."

The man snapped his fingers. "Vincent Price, right? Ex-corpo, owns a club now?"

"Honored you know me, sir," I replied, no sarcasm.

"Well, it’s Night City. I know everything I should know."

Angie had brought me to none other than Lucius Rhyne. Still breathing. Still technically the mayor of Night City.

"So, you do merc work too?" Rhyne smirked. "Dirty deeds done dirt cheap?"

I chuckled. "Nah. My rates are high."

"Right answer!" Rhyne laughed, grabbing a whiskey glass from one of his girls. "Who’s gonna value you if you don’t value yourself?"

Yeah. Not much of a politician, this guy. More like a fixer, or even a gang boss.
Which, honestly? Probably the only kind of successful mayor Night City could have.

I’d been skeptical about Angie fixing our Brazil problem. But with this guy pulling strings? It suddenly seemed very possible.

"Already handling your little mess," Rhyne waved a hand. "My friends in MaxTac are very interested in how a foreign agency is pulling netrunner attacks in my sovereign city. Trust me, they’ll be apologizing. Either officially… or how I prefer—financially." He grinned. "Gears are in motion, kids. Don’t sweat it. However… I will need something from you."

"What can we do for you, Mr. Rhyne?" Angie asked.

"Whack that fucker Peralez," Rhyne said, dead serious. "Before the elections, yeah?"

I damn near choked. Angie gave an awkward smile. Rhyne held his stern face for a moment… then burst out laughing.

"Shit, you shoulda seen your faces!" He waved it off. "Relax, guys. That idiot’s got no chance against me anyway. But, on a serious note—"

One of the girls lifted an inhaler to his mouth.

"Ahh—fuck! That’s the good shit!" Rhyne shook his head. "Right, where was I? Oh yeah—find those rats. The netrunners. The spooks. Bury them. Deep. They snuck in here quiet like vermin, so that’s exactly how we’ll deal with them.

"They could’ve come to me, worked out a deal. I would’ve sorted it. Cheap, too. But nooo! They wanna play spies. Find ‘em, and end them. And don’t worry about consequences—I guarantee it. You’re not gonna be the ones killing those fuckers." He grinned wide. "They’re gonna die from their own stupidity and greed."

…Yeah. Kiwi should not have come back to this city.