JohnnyZ

Daily Updates (29/01/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 42

• Tier 2: Chapter 47

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 42

• Tier 2: Chapter 47

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 47

Shisui made sure Sasuke was okay, a little baffled that he hadn’t noticed his little cousin right away. But then again, he probably hadn’t expected to find him so easily. I can imagine it—sneaking into Sasuke’s apartment, only to find an empty, ice-cold bed that clearly hadn’t been slept in for ages. There were some faint signs of life, but nothing concrete, and definitely nothing that suggested Sasuke had been there recently. And on top of that, the traces left behind weren’t even all from one person. No wonder Shisui got worried. He must’ve checked Naruto’s apartment too, but with Hokage’s spies and ANBU lurking around, he probably didn’t dare search too thoroughly.

Or maybe—and this was just my personal theory—he couldn’t sense Sasuke because of me and our synchronized nighttime “chakra circulation.” And considering how slow it was, maybe it acted like a natural stealth jutsu? Who knows. Either way, Shisui trailed me and the boys all the way to the Academy before vanishing into the unknown. Probably for the best—leaving Kushina-san alone for too long in her current state wasn’t a great idea. Plus, I was nervous about someone catching Shisui snooping around. So when he finally took off, I could breathe a little easier.

The boys met up at the Academy, talking about something as they headed to class.

It was honestly a miracle that our little gang hadn’t been broken up by Konoha’s so-called “protectors.” Then again, the kids in our group weren’t just any kids. Their parents were powerful shinobi—people smart enough to push past whatever prejudices the village had tried to drill into them. They probably realized that befriending a jinchuriki like Naruto was very beneficial. The adults either weren’t interfering or were being kept from interfering, but the kids? The kids had been left to “figure things out on their own.” Meanwhile, the Hokage was still playing his little game—making sure he remained the only adult Naruto could trust.

Like clockwork, every week, Naruto waltzed into the Hokage’s office like it was his second home. And honestly? It kinda was. Well, aside from the fact that Sasuke had finally broken his habit of kicking the door open like he was raiding enemy territory. The Uchiha was strict about these things—disciplined, even. He played the role of responsible big brother so convincingly that Naruto barely even argued about it anymore.

The next two months, I dedicated myself to my next brilliant plan. And today? Today was the grand finale. Mwahaha! I could practically explode from how proud I was of myself. I mean, come on! A simple cat like me had pulled off the impossible! If this were some kind of RPG, I’d have hit level 80 in grand theft and strategic looting. I was unstoppable!

But credit where credit’s due—shoutout to my partner in crime, Sumi-chan. Without him, our blatantly shameless act of burglary wouldn’t have succeeded.

Living inside an anime world is weird. Knowing that your actions actually change things, that what you do could get people hurt or save their lives—it changes how you look at people. How you judge them.

After Shisui reminded me about Hokage’s Peeping Tom Orb, I became obsessed with the idea of stealing it. That little crystal ball was dangerous—both for me and the boys.

So, naturally, I broke into Sarutobi’s house.

Which, by the way? Was a freaking palace.

Unlike the Uchihas or the Hyugas, the Sarutobi clan didn’t have one single, tightly packed compound. No, they lived large. Why settle for a single district when you could spread out, enjoy luxury, and make bank while you’re at it? Most of the Sarutobis actually lived in Otakuku or the capital.

From what I gathered, only the Third’s family—and a few branches—were active shinobi. The rest? Merchants. Shop owners. Logistics and supply chain managers. And sure, just because they weren’t ninja didn’t mean they couldn’t use chakra. But let’s be real—these guys had a sweet deal. Let someone else do the fighting while they raked in the profits. Maybe I was being cynical, but after all the gossip I overheard while staking out the Hokage’s place? I think I earned my right to be judgmental.

Now, in the anime, I never really paid much attention to Sarutobi’s grandson, Konohamaru. Just some loud-mouthed brat tailing Naruto for comic relief, right? But holy catnip, actually watching this kid in action? What a nightmare.

This little gremlin had grown men waiting on him hand and foot. It was like babysitting him was a national pastime. And the worst part? He screamed about being Hokage all the damn time. Like, actually believed he could take down his grandpa and steal the title. And everyone just… played along.

I watched this circus unfold and thought, Yeah. This is my way in.

And, my whiskered friends, it worked like a charm.

Not that I didn’t suffer for it. I have never been so humiliated in my life. If I ever have to do something like this again, just throw me into the nearest river. Seriously.

Let me set the scene: Sumi-chan and I infiltrated Konohamaru’s bedroom. Stealth mode. Maximum fluff factor. We weren’t just cats. We were mystical, shadowy creatures of the night. Our fur, carefully darkened with soot, shimmered under the moonlight. And in our paws? A cheap glass ball we stole from some random trinket shop in Otakuku.

Then? We performed.

Rolling, flipping, chasing our “magic orb” like it was the greatest treasure in the world. And Konohamaru? Hook, line, and sinker. Kid sat there, mouth open, enchanted by our ridiculous show.

And every night, we upped the stakes.

For three whole days, we repeated our performance. Hypnotizing him. Training him. Conditioning him. Until finally, we pulled our masterstroke—showing up without our little magic ball.

Cue sad kitty eyes.

And wouldn’t you know it?

The little goblin himself decided that if we needed a real magic ball, then Grandpa’s obviously would do.

Hiruzen wouldn’t notice, right? And even if he did, what was he gonna do? Punish his precious grandson?

Perfect. Just purrfect.

So, after Konohamaru swiped the crystal ball, we gave him a breathtaking show, complete with spinning, chasing, and little cat acrobatics. Then, once he conked out for the night, we stuffed the thing into our carrying bag and ninja’d our way out of there.

Success!

Of course, actually destroying the damn thing didn’t work, so I went with plan B—hiding it.

First, I thoroughly marked it to wipe any lingering Sarutobi scents—just in case they tried to track it with ninja dogs. Then, I buried it. Deep.

Throwing it into the river was an option, but… what if I needed it later? Yeah, yeah, I know—I’m a cat, but sometimes, I channel my inner packrat.

“Sumi-chan, it’s done. My treat,” I declared, triumphantly stamping down the dirt over our hiding spot.

Sumi-chan, already in the middle of grooming, flicked his tail. “That was fun.”

Then, the little furball turned and proceeded to groom me—scrubbing all the soot off my fur until I was spotless.

I guess even legendary thieves need a good bath.

And just like that, I felt light. Free. Like a weight had been lifted off my furry little shoulders. Messing with Hiruzen had been incredibly satisfying, even if it had taken nearly two months to pull off. But now, at least, I didn’t need to keep such a watchful eye on my boys. They had friends again, a proper routine, and things were finally stabilizing. Sasuke had even moved some of his stuff into Naruto’s place—practically official at this point.

And then, out of nowhere, it started snowing.

The first snowfall of the season, even though it was already late January.

I’d been in this world for over a year and a half now, and I’d picked up a lot about local culture and symbolism. Snow, for example, meant renewal. A fresh start.

And honestly? It felt fitting.

Maybe the Cat Gods really were watching over us, throwing me a little cosmic nod of approval.

Sumi-chan and I shuffled under the eaves of the roof, watching the slow, gentle snowfall. He sat beside me, warm and solid, purring as he leaned against my side. It was peaceful. Comforting. And for the first time in a long while, I felt sure—sure that things were gonna be okay.

For Naruto and Sasuke.

For Kushina-san and Shisui-kun.

For Shijimi and Minoruhi.

For me.

For Konoha.

In two months, the boys would be taking their graduation exams. And this time, I knew things would go differently than what I saw in the anime.

“It’s nice,” Sumi-chan murmured, flicking his ears as a snowflake landed on his nose.

“Yeah,” I agreed, smirking to myself as a realization hit me.

There was no way anyone was ever finding my hamster-hoard of stolen treasure now.

— END OF PART TWO —

[Castling] Chapter 47

Luna gently pulled my hands away from my face, her touch firm but soothing. I let out a weary breath and leaned my forehead against her shoulder. She didn’t hesitate, just wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close.

“Tell me,” she said, not asking but demanding. And so I did—rushed, stumbling over my words like a fevered confession, spilling everything about the Boggart…

“…That was when I realized—there’s no excuse anymore,” I muttered, words tumbling out in a messy stream. “I could’ve kept quiet, let things run their course, but no—I had to be arrogant enough to think I could handle it. I did something, made a choice. And now, if it all goes wrong, there’s no one else to blame.” I swallowed hard, my voice shaking. “All those deaths, flashing by like a twisted kaleidoscope… Dumbledore, Harry, Ginny, Lupin, you, Snape, Hermione… Faces I know, faces I don’t… I’m terrified I’ll lose control and let it all happen. But I’ve no idea what I’ll do if my plan fails.”

“I think you’re torturing yourself for no reason, Ron,” Luna said with that quiet, unwavering certainty of hers, her fingers combing gently through my hair. “There’s always a way to solve a problem—you just have to find it. And you will, Ron, I know you will. You’re not the kind of person to take on responsibility unless you’re sure you can bear it.

"You can’t control the storm at sea, but you can steer your ship. And you can bring it to safety, along with everyone who chooses to sail with you. There’s no need to worry about the passengers—you’re on that ship too, after all. Either you all sink, or you all make it. Maybe not everyone, but those who are meant to. So why blame yourself for deciding to captain your own ship instead of boarding someone else’s? If your companions don’t like the journey, they can always switch to another boat.

"Don’t let fear of what might be stop you from seeing clearly. It’s blocking your view of the path ahead. Trust me—it will be alright. I’m sure of it.”

“You’re a wonder, Luna,” I murmured against her hair, a real, tired smile finally breaking through. “You know that?”

“I have my suspicions,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Ron, show me your Patronus?”

Reluctantly, I pulled away. The night outside the window was too dark to make out more than Luna’s faint silhouette. I looked at her, at the way she simply existed in the moment, and it struck me again how lucky I was to have her. My mind, oddly, leapt to Shrek of all things—how he told Fiona he’d always thought he was rescuing her from the dragon, only to realize it was the other way around.

Had I thought, back when I pulled Luna out of that freezing puddle, that she’d come to mean this much to me? That she’d do so much for me without even trying?

The comparison to an ogre made me chuckle, and I realized with surprise that the anxiety had loosened its grip on my chest.

Raising my wand, I cast the spell. The Patronus burst forth—its silvery form twisting through the air before settling on the windowsill beside Luna. It was a bird.

“A hawk, I think,” I guessed, feeling oddly pleased it wasn’t something ridiculous like a rat or a beetle.

“No,” Luna corrected with quiet confidence. “It’s a falcon. I’m sure of it—I have an album at home, I’ll show you… I wonder what mine will be? You’ll teach me, won’t you, Ron?”

The soft glow of the falcon lit up Luna’s face, catching the pale gleam of her eyes and giving her an almost ethereal look. My Patronus flapped its wings once and then faded, plunging us back into darkness.

I let out a disappointed sigh before instinctively pulling Luna back into my arms. She nestled against me without hesitation, her cold nose pressing into the crook of my neck.

“You’re freezing,” I said, alarmed, shifting back—but she wouldn’t let go.

“Stay like this a little longer,” she murmured. “It’s… nice.”

We stood there, still and silent, wrapped in the moment.

Then—

“Well, well,” came a voice from behind me, smooth and cutting. “While the professors are running themselves ragged searching for a runaway, it seems Mr. Weasley is tucked away in an alcove, groping some girl who isn’t exactly burdened with a sense of propriety.”

I jerked back from Luna, spinning on my heel, heart hammering with rage. How dare Snape say that about her—!

But as the dim light from his wand fell across Luna’s face, something unexpected happened. Snape hesitated. His gaze flicked from her to my furious expression, and, rather than double down, he actually… backtracked?

“My apologies, Miss Lovegood,” he said, his voice still sharp but lacking its usual venom. “I didn’t realize it was you. Nevertheless, I suggest you hurry along—dinner begins in seven minutes, and your Head of House will expect you there.”

Luna didn’t react beyond a small nod, but I could tell she’d already moved past the insult. I, however, was still fuming.

Wordlessly, I helped her down from the windowsill. Whatever warmth the moment had held was gone. If Snape had been sent to track me down, things were bad. Dumbledore was bound to get involved now. Not that I had much right to complain—I had caused quite the scene.

“See you later, Ron,” Luna said breezily, tugging on my tie until I bent down. She kissed my cheek, swift and sure, and left me standing there dumbfounded as she picked up her school bag and strolled toward the exit. “Goodbye, Professor Snape,” she added as she passed him, not waiting for a reply.

For a moment, Snape simply stood there, studying me in the dim light. His expression was unreadable, his face in shadow. Then, without warning, he extinguished his wand, plunging us into total darkness.

“Come, Weasley,” he ordered curtly, turning on his heel and striding off without looking back.

I followed, expecting to be marched straight to Dumbledore’s office, but as we climbed higher instead of lower, realization dawned.

We were heading to the Hospital Wing.

And when we arrived Madam Pomfrey was already waiting for me.

She wasted no time, casting diagnostic spells with practiced efficiency before pulling a privacy screen around a bed and summoning a set of hospital pajamas.

“Change into these and get in bed, Weasley,” she instructed, waving her wand toward the wardrobe as the garments floated out.

Snape, meanwhile, stood with arms folded, watching me like I might bolt at any second. The moment I so much as reached for the pajamas, though, he turned on his heel and stepped behind the curtain.

I wasn’t given any answers. Instead, Madam Pomfrey fed me a meal, forced down a series of potions, and before I could argue, the world went black.

I woke up early to hushed voices.

“…He’ll be fine,” Pomfrey was saying, her voice firm but gentle. “When I got the report, I feared he might tear the place apart—but by the time Severus found him and brought him in, the magical disturbance was gone.”

“But it was there,” Snape’s voice cut in, edged with something that sounded almost like unease. “The boy fed so much fear into that Boggart, it nearly transformed into something beyond a mere specter.”

“But how?” Mum’s voice trembled. “My boy…”

“Could Ron really be that magically powerful?” Dad asked, and I could hear the mix of doubt and barely concealed worry in his tone.

"Of course not, Arthur," Dumbledore interjected gently. "No wizard, no matter how powerful, can manifest a malevolent spirit into physical form—let alone a child his age."

"But I’m telling you," Snape countered sharply, "the girl was solid. I personally checked for a pulse, Albus. And yet your Lupin just stood there like a statue, not even attempting to take control of the situation. I’ve voiced my concerns about his appointment more than once," he added, with a touch of smug satisfaction.

"You’re mistaken, Severus," Dumbledore replied calmly, the faint rustle of fabric suggesting he was settling more comfortably into his chair. "Remus is an excellent teacher. He simply didn’t expect such overwhelming fears from a student and was caught off guard when he saw all of us—including himself—lying dead. By then, it was too late. The Boggart had gained too much power, feeding on the collective fear in the room. Lupin, like everyone else, was paralyzed by its influence. It was sheer luck that you returned for your book when you did—who knows how it might have ended otherwise?

"Boggarts are far from harmless creatures, which is why we introduce them in third year—before children reach an age where their fears become… more dangerous. Conducting the lesson with multiple students also mitigates the risk, as their individual fears dilute the Boggart’s power. But once they all saw themselves dead, their fears aligned into a single overwhelming terror. That’s what strengthened the Boggart enough to ensnare the entire room, feeding on their fear.

"Fear shared by many is always stronger—it breeds panic, which is precisely what we saw with young Mr. Weasley when he broke free. But what concerns me most is the boy himself. These aren’t the usual fears for someone his age."

"This is our fault," my father’s voice came next, thick with regret. My mother’s quiet sobs followed.

"When Ron was seven, he had a near-death experience and spent a month in St. Mungo’s recovering. It took him months to fully come back from it. We thought he’d put it behind him…"

"My poor boy," Mum choked out, her voice breaking.

"It makes sense," Madam Pomfrey interjected with the certainty of someone who had just solved a puzzle. "After going through something like that, he must have developed a deep fear of death—his own, at first. But as he grew older and became more aware of how fragile life is, he transferred that fear onto others as well. He’s no longer just afraid of dying—he’s afraid of anyone he loves dying. That’s why his Boggart took such a severe form."

I nearly choked. What? That’s what they thought?

"It does seem plausible," Dumbledore mused, the room growing tense with his thoughtful pause. "The Dementors came too close to the castle last night—they must have intensified those fears, pushing him into panic. What puzzles me, however, is why there was no magical outburst afterward. Severus, you said you felt a strong magical surge. The boy was on the brink of losing control. But you, Poppy, claim he was completely fine when he arrived."

"He found an anchor," Snape said simply.

"A what?" Mum asked, still sniffling.

"She stabilized him," Snape clarified. "His magic settled, and the residual energy dissipated."

"She?" Mum echoed warily.

"Miss Lovegood," Snape confirmed. "She was the last vision he saw—her lifeless body. That was when he lost control and conjured a nonverbal Patronus, driven purely by instinct. And I knew he would run to her, to make sure she was alive. I sent Flitwick a note, so he could assess the situation himself. He determined that Weasley posed no danger to her and let them go. She was his anchor. She brought him back to himself."

"You handled that remarkably well, Severus," Dumbledore said, his voice tinged with approval, though Snape only scoffed in response. "Keep an eye on Mr. Weasley. He and Remus may have some tension between them after this. We don’t want any further incidents—his magical instability combined with his sensitivity to the Dementors is a dangerous combination.

"Speaking of which, how is Remus?" he asked Pomfrey.

"He’ll be fine," she assured him. "But he should take some calming draughts—he was shaken more than the boy. Lupin has suffered real losses, seen real death. His fears aren’t imagined, they’re lived. The shock hit him harder than Weasley."

I frowned at that.

Lupin, being a werewolf, had likely spent years fearing the day he’d lose control and tear his friends apart. He must have pictured it over and over—waking up to find their mangled bodies, knowing it was his fault.

And in a way… I wasn’t so different. I’d stared at those dead faces, feeling responsible. The more bodies I saw, the heavier my guilt became.

The realization made my stomach churn. I didn’t want to have anything in common with him. I didn’t want to be weak.

"You can go, Severus," Dumbledore said, breaking the silence. "I’ll check on the boy later. Poppy, see if he’s awake. Molly, enough tears—let’s not distress the child further. He’s already been through enough. And Arthur—congratulations. Your son is a remarkable young wizard. A Patronus at his age… It’s extraordinary.

"Frankly, the children in his year are shaping up to be exceptionally talented. I wouldn’t be surprised if half of them master the Patronus Charm by Christmas." He sighed, the warmth of a smile evident in his tone. "Good evening to you all."

The voices faded as people began to leave.

Then, the curtain around my bed rustled, and my mother peeked in.

I never thought I’d be so relieved to see her.

"Ronnie, sweetheart, you’re awake?" she fussed, immediately sitting beside me. "Did we wake you? You look so pale—so thin, my poor boy, nothing but eyes now—" She sniffled, smoothing the sheets over my chest with frantic energy. "I brought you something from home… Oh, my love…"

Some things never change.

They let me go after dinner.

I figured they did it so I wouldn’t have to walk into the Great Hall under everyone’s stares. Better to face my dorm first—deal with my classmates in private before the inevitable rumors spread.

Not gonna lie, I was dreading it. The last thing I wanted was people treating me like some nutter.

That said… the pile of sweets stacked neatly on my bedside table was encouraging.

Apparently, Pomfrey had turned visitors away, but the fact that people had come at all gave me hope.

Turned out, I didn’t need to worry.

Percy intercepted me halfway up the stairs, out of breath and clearly flustered. He fussed over me like a mother hen, patting me down as if to check I was still in one piece, then pulled me into a firm hug. For the rest of the way up, he bombarded me with well-meaning platitudes about family, friendship, and how "everything would be alright in the end"—the kind of comforting nonsense he probably picked up from one of Mum’s howlers.

Then the twins found us just before we reached the Fat Lady’s portrait. They practically tackled me, clapping me on the back and ruffling my hair. Fred cheerfully suggested setting off enchanted fireworks in the girls’ dormitory—complete with white mice—just to lighten the mood.

But before I could even attempt a response, Ginny appeared in the passageway. Looked like the Fat Lady had tipped off Lady Camille from the common room portraits, and my little sister had come running to meet us.

The moment she saw me, she threw herself at me, clinging to my neck and sobbing. The lads went uncomfortably silent, suddenly finding the floor very interesting, unsure of what to do with themselves.

I won’t lie—it all got to me. But I was relieved when Ginny finally started calming down. I could never handle seeing girls cry, let alone my little sister. The twins took charge, suggesting she take a few laps on her broomstick to clear her head. She flat-out refused to step back into the common room looking like a blotchy mess, and honestly, I couldn’t blame her. Percy, looking sheepish, adjusted his glasses and muttered something about prefect duties before scurrying off, and with the Fat Lady sniffling melodramatically behind me, I finally stepped inside.

To my surprise, the common room wasn’t crowded. Only my year mates had gathered there. Dean and Seamus immediately flanked me, steering me towards a sofa like I was some sort of fragile relic. They didn’t even let me veer off towards Harry and Hermione, who were sitting in armchairs by the far end of the room. But we caught each other’s eyes, exchanging a look that said later.

The girls immediately started chirping away with reassuring nonsense, stuffing chocolate into my hands, while the lads kept up a steady flow of chatter, trying to keep the mood light. I had not expected this kind of reception. And when I finally registered that it was Lavender warbling away next to me, I was completely thrown.

"Of course, I was so scared at first," she was saying breathlessly, "but then I thought about it, and honestly, it’s so sweet—"

"You think it’s sweet that I imagined you with your throat torn open?" I interrupted, utterly baffled.

"Obviously not, you dolt," she huffed, playfully swatting at my arm. "But the fact that I was in your vision means you care, doesn’t it? I had no idea you were so thoughtful, Ronald." She batted her eyelashes at me and slipped a Chocolate Frog into my hand like some sort of peace offering.

When the chatter finally died down, everyone just looked at me, clearly expecting an explanation. So, I launched into the same story I’d given Dumbledore and the professors—the tragic tale of my childhood near-death experience and my deep-seated fear of losing people I cared about. It had satisfied the staff, so I reckoned it would do for my dorm mates as well.

The girls got misty-eyed, and everyone solemnly swore that the whole thing would never leave the Gryffindor common room. Oddly enough, the incident didn’t cause as much of a stir as I’d feared. If anything, most of the school was still too busy talking about me legging it through the castle with Ginny and Luna, assuming it was just some sort of dramatic teenage rebellion. To my shock, the girls actually liked that idea.

And, honestly? Everyone had their own stuff going on. I’d worked myself up for nothing.

Hermione fussed over me more than anyone—she even offered to check my homework so I could get more rest. Harry, meanwhile, got it in a way no one else could. Ever since he’d learned about the prophecy and started having those eerie mind-link moments with You-Know-Who, he’d been terrified of the same thing. That Voldemort would come back and take everyone he cared about. That he’d see all their deaths in his nightmares first, only to watch them happen for real.

Time passed, and everything gradually went back to normal. And honestly? I don’t dwell on things. I’d scared myself more than anyone else, that was all.

Two days later, I got summoned to Dumbledore’s office for what turned out to be a completely pointless chat. He offered his sympathy, advised me not to hold a grudge against Lupin, and rambled on in his usual grandiose way.

"So that’s why you let me overhear your conversation in the hospital wing?" I asked bluntly. "So I’d understand him better? So I wouldn’t think he was a rubbish teacher?"

Dumbledore studied me for a moment, then got straight to the point. He expected me to keep my issues with Lupin out of the classroom. No sabotaging lessons. No open hostility.

"Professor Lupin has suffered many losses, Ron," he said. "He has endured things no one should have to face. Like all of us, he has his weaknesses. But I would ask you, my boy, not to be so harsh as to hold them against him."

That was that.

From then on, Lupin and I mutually ignored each other. I turned in my essays on time. He graded them and never called on me in class. Simple.

When Snape substituted for him, I finally got to redo my Boggart test. This time, I stuck to my original plan—Alien from the Muggle films. Passed with no trouble.

The detentions, by the way? They were scrapped. Apparently, "severe psychological distress" was punishment enough.

Neville, for some reason, insisted on doing his test privately with Lupin. What he saw remained a mystery.

But somehow, word reached Snape that Lupin had planned to put him in a dress in front of the whole class. Considering that it was the only part of the lesson that our lot still found hilarious—something they openly cackled about in hallways, often when Snape was conveniently within earshot—it was bound to get back to him eventually.

Snape did not take it well. Now, when he looked at Lupin, it wasn’t just with his usual sneering disdain—there was a new glint in his eyes. Something vengeful.

Ancient Runes turned out to be interesting. It was considered a more "primitive" form of magic, mostly used by craftsmen—enchanting objects, tents, household items, even creating magical portals. But most wizards preferred wandwork—it was quicker, less room for error. Still, runes were reliable. You could trust them to work. Unlike spells, which could misfire if you were distracted or exhausted, runes were steady. Predictable. Hermione and I both took a liking to them.

Hagrid’s lessons had improved dramatically. We spent two weeks studying unicorns, then moved on to these dog-like creatures—looked a bit like Jack Russells, but with two tails. Crups, they were called. Absolute chaos. They tore around their enclosure, yapping and chasing each other, and within minutes, half the class wanted one as a pet.

Nifflers were a hit too.

Knarles—essentially magical hedgehogs—were decisively not. Might’ve been the whole "getting yanked out of hibernation" thing, but they were not pleased to see us.

Still, Hagrid was turning out to be a solid teacher. Probably thanks to Hermione keeping him in check.

Divination, meanwhile, was driving Harry up the wall. Every lesson, Trelawney would clutch her heart, get all weepy, and dramatically predict his death. It was infuriating.

I mean, really—who does that to an orphan?

Not to mention it was her bloody prophecy that got his parents killed, and now she had the nerve to mess with his head?

Eventually, Harry snapped. He just stopped going.

We figured a "Troll" in Divination wasn’t exactly going to ruin his life.

McGonagall tried talking sense into him. Even dragged him to Dumbledore. But we backed him all the way. Hell, we even got Percy to send a formal petition to the Headmaster, signed by half of Gryffindor.

In the end? Harry got an exception. He switched to Muggle Studies with us.

Life went back to normal. And I couldn’t have been happier.

Daily Update (28/01/25)

Demons of Night City

• Tier 1: Chapter 64

• Tier 2: Chapter 69

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 34

• Tier 2: Chapter 39

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 31

• Tier 2: Chapter 36

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 36

Sellen was undeniably talented: simultaneously managing both her illusion and her true body was nearly impossible for an ordinary person—or even an extraordinary one.

But she wasn’t called the most gifted sorceress in the history of the Raya Lucaria Academy for nothing, was she?

Now that she had a physical body, she could address matters she had been unable to resolve before. Chief among them was finding the Academy's founding fathers. Sellen was so gifted that only the founders themselves could teach her something truly intriguing and unique. Naturally, the exiled sorceress longed to seek out the teachers who had long since left the Academy.

However, this was no longer strictly necessary. What she needed most of all was knowledge, and Konstantin seemed to possess everything she sought—perhaps even more than the founders themselves. Even without mastering theoretical knowledge, he could execute spells in practice with a finesse unmatched by any sorcerer. For Sellen, this was more than enough to deconstruct powerful spells into their components and, eventually, master them herself.

The problem lay elsewhere.

It wasn’t just Kosta who was influenced by those around him. The people who surrounded him also changed, perhaps subtly, in ways not immediately obvious—but they changed nonetheless. This was inevitable. They were altered by the Sunbearer who rolled through space and time, the one who held the keys to reshaping reality. How could it be otherwise?

At first, Sellen simply wanted to acquire the knowledge she needed. Now, however, she felt an urge to express her gratitude personally. Could there be a sillier reason to traverse half the continent? The man who had inspired Sellen, who extended a helping hand to women he didn’t even truly know, thought differently.

They might not have bodies. They might be deceitful, duplicitous, or afflicted with a plague that twisted both body and soul. But none of that mattered to the Tarnished. He simply did what he wanted—because he could.

And Sellen wanted to follow his example.

Still, she first needed to set up a sanctuary somewhere—perhaps in the depths of a dungeon, catacombs, or a burial site. The Lands Between had no shortage of such places.

Unfortunately, the sorceress, despite planning her journey carefully, overlooked one detail.

“I can’t say I’m pleased to see you, Seluvis.”

Sellen had not expected an iron-clad bird to suddenly swoop down upon her.

Of course, after regaining her body, the sorceress checked to ensure nothing was amiss. Finding nothing critical, and distracted by Konstantin’s adventures, she completely forgot about the possibility of a tracking beacon. Passive and devoid of obvious signals, it could have easily gone unnoticed.

‘I’ll have to inspect this body more thoroughly later,’ she decided without much disappointment. After all, it was her own fault for not taking the matter seriously enough. The Tarnished had made her relax too much. A pleasant but foolish feeling. Perhaps that made it all the more pleasant.

Although she couldn’t see it under the projection of her old acquaintance, the sorceress was certain the puppeteer had grimaced.

“I see you’ve quickly adapted to your new body.”

Luckily, Sellen wore her favorite crown, so her own grimace remained hidden. Seluvis’s tone was as condescending as ever.

“All thanks to your craftsmanship, Professor.”

“Indeed,” the arrogant sorcerer accepted the praise with ease. “There’s still a debt between us, Sellen. Do you remember it?”

His voice turned tense and… fearful. He was clearly worried she might refuse him.

“And what trouble have you gotten yourself into, Seluvis?” she arched an eyebrow.

If one looked closely, they might notice the sorcerer’s phantom looked dirty, as if he had recently been rolling in the mud. A piece of his mask was broken off, as though something heavy had struck him. Sellen’s gaze lingered on his singed hat.

Despite her disdain for the vile puppeteer, Sellen calmly acknowledged that he was quite powerful. His main strength lay in his loyal puppets, an army he had amassed over the years. His minions ranged from monstrous creatures to skilled warriors and sorcerers.

And of course, his beloved marionettes, adored by magicians everywhere, were in a league of their own.

“I was set up,” Seluvis’s voice distorted. “Gideon has declared a hunt on me! A filthy Tarnished delivered a potion to him! That loathsome peasant, that wretched worm, that dimwitted…”

“I get it,” Sellen interrupted with a slightly predatory smile.

She really did get it.

Apparently, the one who had brought her such a necessary ray of sunshine had found time to deliver the “gift” meant for the savage girl to her foster father.

Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing, could be as slippery and treacherous as he wanted, but none of that negated his power—if anything, it complemented it. More importantly, it didn’t negate a certain attachment to his foster daughter.

Who would like discovering that the tool they had spent years honing was being claimed by a swindler—and an old enemy(1), no less?

Sellen didn’t know the full details, but she could imagine the kind of feuds that might occur between two scoundrels. Of course, Konstantin could have crushed Seluvis himself, especially now that he possessed the rune of one of the most powerful demigods in the history of the Lands Between.

But that would have put him at odds with the puppeteer’s mistress. She had made it clear she didn’t want conflicts between them.

So, the Tarnished hadn’t laid a finger on the sorcerer. He had simply warned the doting father that his daughter was in danger.

Given the demigoddess’s character and her usual way of solving problems by delegating them to others, Sellen was sure the Tarnished’s actions would have pleased her.

A shiver ran down the woman’s spine.

Unlike the surprisingly modest daughter of a goddess, Sellen had no intention of provoking Lady Ranni—except, perhaps, just a little, when she was in a good mood.

“I need your help, Sellen,” Seluvis said, somewhat calmer now.

Sellen didn’t want to agree. Seluvis was entirely to blame for his predicament—who in their right mind assigned such tasks to the first person they met?

There hadn’t even been a single “fetch quest” as a prelude!

And yet, she couldn’t outright refuse him. A deal was a deal. The only thing that could force her to abandon the quest thrust upon her would be some urgent matter of her own.

For instance, if someone were to try and kill her—or something along those lines.

“I understand,” the woman sighed quietly. “I need to know whe…”

The sorceress flinched as she felt the defensive wards at her refuge’s entrance shattered by a powerful burst of energy.

“Sellen?”

Seluvis frowned, noticing how the sorceress suddenly became alarmed and began looking around. She seemed about to say something, but then the puppeteer heard something explode behind her, followed by a different woman’s voice:

“…we need to discuss something, Sellen…”

The last thing Seluvis saw before the connection was severed was a cloaked figure with a massive club hurtling toward the barrier shielding the sorceress.

Something definitely exploded.

"Marika's tits!" Seluvis cursed.

Or didn’t curse. It depended on your perspective.

He doubted the sorceress would be able to help him anytime soon. Could she have orchestrated this?..

Still, he didn’t have time to ponder. Like the exiled sorceress, Seluvis jerked upright as he felt the protective wards of his latest refuge shattered. Rapid footsteps echoed closer.

"Marika's tits…"

It seemed he needed to flee once again.

Blaidd couldn’t express how overjoyed he was to see Konstantin. The half-wolf couldn’t even recall the last time he had hugged someone so tightly. Kosta’s warrior companion piqued his interest, but he was far too ecstatic to ask questions.

Especially when he had such an interesting topic to discuss!

"You won’t believe what I saw, my friend!" Blaidd exclaimed. "The explosion was so loud, I thought my ears would fall off—ha-ha! It was awful!"

Konstantin unexpectedly felt a pang of guilt.

"I didn’t think about that. I’m sorry, Blaidd."

The half-wolf’s grinning face froze.

"What?"

Kosta’s story wasn’t long: he’d arrived, participated in a festival, and casually defeated a demigod…

Konstantin wasn’t one for dramatic storytelling; truthfully, he didn’t see the need. Even his brief summary was enough to make Blaidd’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets.

"Y-you defeated the Starscourge?! Stars above, how can you talk about it so casually?!"

Blaidd clutched his snout.

"While I was stuck here, you were fighting a demigod for Lady Ranni! How could I miss that?!"

The wolf raised his head and howled loudly.

Millicent felt a genuine pang of sympathy for Blaidd. As a warrior herself, she would’ve loved to participate in such a challenging battle. But deep down, she knew there was nothing she could’ve done.

"You wouldn’t have been able to do anything," Millicent murmured softly, exhaling deeply as memories of the fight surfaced. "It was terrifying… When the demigod took to the skies, and the meteors—"

"Awooo!!!"

Millicent stopped mid-sentence, startled by Blaidd’s even more desperate howling.

"How could I have missed this!!!" his mournful cry seemed to say.

Konstantin, watching the wolf’s distress, didn’t know where to look. Outwardly composed, he was inwardly consumed with guilt.

"We can hunt the stag together if you want…" he offered hesitantly.

"Awooo…"

Of course, Blaidd couldn’t wallow in self-pity for too long. Grinding his teeth, he swallowed the bitterness that overwhelmed him. Perhaps he’d howl at the moon later in private when no one could see him.

After all, they still had a mission to complete.

That said, Blaidd didn’t decline the offer of a stag hunt. The spectral deer had been a thorn in his side during his navigation woes, and he was more than willing to settle the score.

Without needing to search for and ignite beacons(2), the process was much smoother and faster. Before long, a determined Blaidd and Millicent set off on their hunt.

An albinauric joined them soon after. Upon arriving, she looked sorrowfully at Konstantin, stroking the spirit wolves that now served as her legs.

"I thought you’d forgotten about me…"

The spirit wolves howled mournfully alongside her.

"Everything would be much easier if you didn’t all love fighting so much…" Kosta sighed.

The man’s unexpected conclusion made Latenna smile faintly.

She had noticed how the Tarnished was slowly, almost imperceptibly, changing. As his emotions and feelings grew more pronounced, he became more human. With his increasing strength, it seemed he was shedding invisible constraints.

It was fascinating to watch. In some ways, he reminded Latenna of herself, having undergone her own long transformation.

"You’re hardly one to talk, Konstantin of the Tarnished," the archer said, smiling as she drew the string of her bow.

Konstantin remained impassive, turning his gaze toward the massive stag that Blaidd and Millicent were already charging toward.

"Let’s just hope it doesn’t clip through the textures like its counterpart(3)…"

The albinauric glanced at Konstantin, outwardly unflinching.

What once had seemed like madness now felt more like calculated mockery.

She didn’t want to know what he truly meant.

Sighing, she patted her wolf’s mane, giving it a command. Her spectral companions rushed forward to assist Blaidd and Millicent.

The beleaguered spirit, fending off the relentless half-wolf and warrior, let out a plaintive wail as it saw the approaching archer and her wolves. Clearly, the spirit was no tryhard eager for challenges. The stag’s fate was sealed.

The victory over this minor boss lifted Blaidd’s spirits, as it would any true Soulslike enthusiast. The now more cheerful half-wolf considered bringing the wandering merchant along, but…

"Are you sure you don’t want to come with us, merchant?"

The merchant merely waved lazily, continuing to play his favorite instrument.

"Come… come if you want to buy something, dear customers… I’ll stay here…"

Blaidd scratched his furry chin.

"Suit yourself, friend…"

To say that Ranni’s loyal servant and sworn brother was astonished by Konstantin’s ability to traverse the Lands Between with such ease would be an understatement.

Already not in the best of moods (though the stag hunt had improved his spirits slightly), the wolf grew visibly more sullen.

He knew Finger Maidens could assist the Tarnished in traveling great distances, but the fact that Konstantin could do so himself…

Later, he would need to howl at the universe’s unfairness for a bit longer.

The scale of sprawling Nokron amazed both the red-haired warrior and the moonlit demigoddes’ servant. The massive stone structures of this long-forgotten civilization filled the subterranean realm, their eerie grandeur leaving them awestruck.

Millicent never imagined she would find herself in such a breathtaking place. Accustomed to the many shades of rot, it was difficult for her to grasp that somewhere nearby, there was an entire world untouched by the dreadful curse.

Unlike the others, Kosta remained largely indifferent to the sights around him. His mind was elsewhere.

"The Pillar of Casualness is near…" he muttered darkly.

The ominous tone of his voice made his companions instinctively tense up.

"The Pillar… of Casualness?" Millicent whispered.

Kosta nodded grimly.

"The Mimic Tear. A Tear that fights against those who summon it…"

His cold, ominous words left Blaidd and Millicent even more on edge. They exchanged uneasy glances.

Nokron loomed over them. Its oppressive grandeur, cold stone walls, eternal subterranean night, and false stars created a foreboding atmosphere. Any one of these elements alone might not faze a Soulslike inhabitant, but together…

"Let’s find the blade and get out of here," Blaidd declared resolutely.

Millicent nodded quickly. She didn’t fully understand what blade he meant, but she wholeheartedly agreed with the sentiment.

They were quickly forming a strong bond.

Konstantin shrugged.

The Sites of Grace were present even here. The local atmosphere didn’t deter him, which meant that soon, he could return and… do some light farming.

Of course, Nokron wasn’t completely deserted. Aside from the innumerable spirits, the fallen city in every sense of the word boasted an abundance of tears. Kosta, who had only recently expressed an interest in the path of a scholar (a lore enthusiast), had a vague understanding of what they actually were. He knew they were some sort of casual experiment, but that was the extent of his knowledge. What he was certain of, however, was how utterly irritating they could be.

The formless silver masses that inhabited Nokron could mimic attacks and even take the forms of their opponents. On their own, they might seem harmless, but that was only until they cornered you in a group, like the most treacherous of casuals.

Millicent would long remember being chased by a silver woman with a crossbow who seemed to ignore all their attacks.

...Or was it a silver man with a zweihander?

While they ultimately posed no real threat to Konstantin, the atmosphere remained no less unsettling.

It became particularly eerie when they encountered…

A ball.

"Why did you stop, Konstantin?" the half-wolf asked, leaning casually against the sphere.

"Balls…" Kosta squinted. "Their treachery is the stuff of legends… Step away from that thing. Slowly."

Millicent blinked.

Blaidd scratched his snout, already about to ask what the Tarnished meant when suddenly…

The ball he was leaning on moved.

Lady Ranni be his witness, Blaidd was brave—nearly fearless. Of course, he experienced the full spectrum of emotions, and fear was no exception, but at that moment, in the forgotten city under the artificial stars, filled with strange mimics, when that cursed ball moved…

The once-silent city echoed with half-wolf howls, growing especially loud as the ball gained speed, rolling after its fleeing prey.

In truth, the danger wasn’t all that significant. At least not for the Tarnished who had defeated three demigods.

Boom!

The massive sphere shattered into pieces as it collided with Konstantin’s fist. His cold glare, forged by the hardships of life and loathing for these accursed balls, bore into the shattered remains of the monstrosity, perfectly conveying his feelings about the treacherous contraption.

"I’ve dreamed of this moment for so long…" Kosta admitted.

Millicent blinked again, glancing at the ball’s scattered remains.

The massive half-wolf, who had somehow managed to hide behind Konstantin, hiccupped.

"I… I wasn’t scared at all…"

If Melina and Sellen had been observing, they undoubtedly would’ve had some comment, but unfortunately, they were a bit occupied at the moment.

Kosta shrugged.

"Let’s move on."

Someone was watching them. Konstantin knew it. But after he smashed the treacherous ball with his fist, the potential threats vanished as if they’d never been there.

Back in the Starry Wastes, he’d grown accustomed to potential farming targets fleeing before he could act unless he actively pursued them. Now, however, the fear had reached a whole new level: opponents didn’t even try to show themselves anymore, preferring to disappear entirely before the powerful psycho could so much as glance their way.

He had long since come to terms with this. But that didn’t make the situation any less depressing.

The path he’d walked, the well-being of his waifus…

Everything demanded a price.

And this became especially evident when they finally stumbled upon one of the pillars of casual power.

The Nokron presented to Konstantin was much larger than the one he had seen in the game. Far more expansive, with a multitude of pathways and routes. Only by knowing the general direction, possessing the supernatural sense developed by Soulslike players navigating without guides, and, of course, thanks to Grace, did he have a rough idea of where and how to go.

So, it wasn’t entirely surprising that the appearance of the Mimic Tear caught him off guard.

It began to coalesce before them suddenly. On yet another bridge, one of the many shapeless blobs distinguished itself subtly from the others. Kosta sensed it.

"You-Who-Strips-Casuals-Bare(4)… So, we meet at last."

Millicent and Blaidd once again cast nervous glances at the man.

He stepped forward, patiently waiting for the opponent to finish its mimicry.

Surprisingly, the Tarnished could feel something unseen… as if it were scanning him. Trying casually to extract information, adapt to him, mimic him.

It was a strange sensation he wouldn’t have noticed without his leveled perception, but Konstantin had been leveling up for a long time.

The Tarnished frowned, noticing the Mimic Tear hesitate. It trembled strangely, struggling to assume a form but only managed to produce an odd "blorp." Then again. And again. And again.

"Maybe it’s not feeling well?" Millicent whispered.

Blaidd scratched his snout.

Kosta, feeling his brow twitch, approached the great and terrible Mimic Tear.

"Don’t disgrace the pinnacle of casualness," he said, his voice alone cowing the Mimic Tear. "Come on, you can do it!"

The creature, seemingly nodding eagerly with its gelatinous body, hastily began taking Kosta’s form, mimicking him.

Soon enough, a perfect replica of the man stood before him. Except, instead of the stoic composure it should’ve displayed, the copy trembled, staring at him as if he were a monster.

Clearly, the Mimic Tear was intelligent in its own way.

"You…"

The Mimic Tear, shattering Kosta’s mind further, unexpectedly knelt before him, extending its hand.

Konstantin stared blankly at the mimic.

"HEART… STOLEN(5)?… No, n-no, not this…"

Blaidd and Millicent froze, trembling, for the first time seeing a flicker of panic cross the face of the bearer of three Great Runes.

Truly, Nokron was terrifying. So terrifying that it could instill fear even in the unflinching Tarnished.

Defeating one of the mightiest demigods was child’s play in comparison. Melina and Sellen, busy with their own matters, could never have imagined what they were missing.

Meanwhile, the blade was drawing closer.

_________________________________________________

(1) It’s mentioned in the game that Gideon and Seluvis were once quite friendly. Fortunately for the rest of the Lands Between, they ended up becoming bitter enemies after failing to settle a dispute over a woman.

(2) Reaching the boss isn’t easy: the player must light eight beacons, which first need to be found. Honestly, if it weren’t for online videos, I’d never have even known about this boss—or about the majority of other bosses, for that matter ಠ_ಠ.

(3) For some reason, an enhanced version of the boss can fall through the textures and die. According to discussions on Reddit, this issue is systematic and, to this day, remains unfixed. Source: YouTube Link.

(4) Since the boss completely copies the player’s gear and abilities, the community quickly discovered a way to turn the enemy into a punching bag: simply strip down before entering the arena and re-equip your gear once inside. The boss will appear completely naked, completely unprepared for such a trick.

(5) “HEART STOLEN” — this is the message the player sees if they fall under Miquella’s charms twice, sending them to the loading screen.

[Life is Good] Chapter 39

The real fun started when the bike roared into the city. The bolide—dubbed after my terrified ass and Miss Blaze's bony butt—zigzagged through traffic like a bat out of hell. The weaving and jerking were intense enough to make me question my life choices. I only stayed on the bike thanks to the skeletal "rails" that were Joan’s arms on either side of me. Fear wasn’t even an issue anymore; I was way too busy trying not to puke my guts out. And with the way things were going, I realized I desperately needed some physical enhancements alongside my energy powers. Also, a quick-release mask system might not be a bad idea because, at this rate, I was about to lose my dinner and dignity.

I didn’t even realize we’d stopped at first. The world stopped spinning violently, and my entire focus was on not spewing everything I’d consumed in the last six hours. It wasn’t until about ten seconds later that I registered Joan tapping my shoulder and noticed the noise and commotion around us.

I glanced around—or rather, I moved my eyes, because turning my head still felt like a risky move. We’d landed in one of those neighborhoods where hope came to die. Everything looked rundown, with broken or missing streetlights making it as dark as an asshole. What little illumination there was came from police floodlights and the flashing blue-reds of squad cars. Barricades surrounded a pair of four-story buildings, and a ton of stunned eyes were locked on us.

Joan had, in all her wisdom, parked her flaming inferno of a bike right in front of the police line. Perfectly discreet, obviously. Cops, bystanders, reporters—somehow even at this ungodly hour—were all staring. To their credit, the cops didn’t immediately freak out and aim their guns at us. Most kept their weapons pointed down or up, with only a couple of trigger-happy types looking particularly tense.

So there we stood: her on her demonic hellcycle, me a blazing silhouette as stiff as a board, partly because I still felt queasy and partly because, well, style points. Just picture it—a flaming bike, a skeleton biker in full-on infernal gear, and a dude radiating flames but frozen in place like he was posing for a magazine cover.

Two figures approached, one in a police captain’s uniform and the other in SWAT gear. Slowly—very slowly—I turned my head toward them. Judging by the slight ripple of movement from the cops, a couple more guns had been raised in response. Even the SWAT officer hesitated mid-step. Great start.

As the flames around me died down, I dismounted the hellcycle with deliberate care, making no sudden movements. The fire didn’t just extinguish—it felt like it withdrew into me, curling up into some seething, angry little knot inside my "container." I could feel it there, all hot and malevolent, almost purring like a satisfied predator. Somehow, it liked me. No clue why, but hey, I’ll take the compliment.

I started walking toward the two women, trying to project calm despite my shaky legs. Thank God for Yuriko’s training; otherwise, I’d have face-planted by now. Behind me, Joan’s bike roared to life. She was turning around to leave, no doubt eager to get out of here. Not that I blamed her—she’d done me a solid, and Ghost Riders weren’t exactly known for sticking around for small talk. Judging by the general air of relief from the cops, nobody was going to stop her. In fact, they looked like they’d thank her for leaving.

Finally, I stopped a couple of meters from the two women, separated only by a temporary barricade.

“Good evening, Captain Stacy,” I greeted, nodding respectfully at the tall, striking blonde who was clearly Gwen’s mom. Her sea-green eyes held a mix of curiosity and confusion. “I heard about the situation with the traffickers and hostages and came as fast as I could. My name is Tobias, but you might know me by the alias Mister Mutant. Call me Salamander, though—sounds better. How can I help?”

The alias had popped into my head just now, and honestly? Not bad. Salamander had a nice ring to it—connected to both my powers and a whole bunch of badass fictional characters, from Hanzo and Natsu, to the Salamanders of Warhammer 40K. Plus, it sounded way friendlier than “Nemesis,” which I reserved for, well, less public-friendly activities.

“Salamander?” Captain Stacy raised a brow but relaxed slightly, her posture softening as a friendly smile tugged at her lips. “It’s nice to meet you in person, though I wish it were under better circumstances. We could certainly use a super’s help…”

“Stacy, what the hell can this kid do?” The SWAT officer interrupted, her tone dripping with disdain. She shot me a look that could curdle milk. “He’s a goddamn teenager. Fresh off mommy’s tit, and he’s playing dress-up? What are you even doing here, kid? Go wag your dick at some middle-school girls. You’ve got no place in a fight.”

“Of course not,” I replied, voice calm but laced with sarcasm. “We should just leave the fighting to professionals like you. Meanwhile, kids like me should be back in underground labs, being tortured, shocked, and pumped full of chemicals by the ‘professionals’ you’re defending.”

Her sneer wavered as I stepped closer, my voice rising.

“Where the hell were you, ‘hero,’ when they dragged us out of our beds? When they beat us for refusing to sit quietly in their electric chairs? When they killed a ten-year-old girl because she cried too loudly? Tell me, where were your principles when the Secretary of Defense signed off on all that shit and then blew her own brains out when it went public?”

I was practically nose-to-nose with her now, voice low and venomous, loud enough for the journalists to hear.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So, kindly shove your opinion where the sun doesn’t shine, because I’ve had about enough of self-righteous assholes telling me where I belong.”

"Alright, calm down! Sybilla, stop it!" Captain Stacy barked, her voice sharp enough to cut through the tension. Her colleague, whose face was as red as a tomato, looked ready to unleash a barrage of colorful language, but the captain's glare was enough to shut her up. With a quick glance at the breath-holding reporters, Stacy sighed and turned to me, her tone calmer now. "Let’s go, Mr… Salamander. I need to know what you can do and how you might be helpful to our team."

Miss Julia pivoted sharply, her stride toward the police command area exuding an unspoken warning: Don’t even think about starting drama. Sybilla spat on the ground but followed her, clearly still fuming. I shrugged, nodded at the group of journalists like a good sport, and trailed behind the women.

Honestly, I don’t know what I’d have done if the Ghost Rider hadn’t dropped me right in front of the police line. Probably something reckless and stupid, like trying to save my mom all by myself. I wasn’t in the most rational headspace, to say the least. If anything, the only reason I wasn’t already halfway to a bad decision was the experience of my past life keeping me somewhat grounded.

I love my mom. Really, I do. It’s impossible not to love someone who showers you with care as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. In my past life, I was a regular kid—one who sometimes hurt his parents’ feelings in that thoughtless way teenagers do. Did I regret it? Hell yes. Especially after they were gone.

In this universe… I’ll admit it: for the first few months, I couldn’t see Judy and Betty as my parents. It felt like I’d be betraying my family from my previous life. But then I thought, “Dude, the only difference between you and any other orphan is that you remember your past. These moms? They’re real. Their love is real.” And with every hug, every kind word, every warm smile, I found myself melting. I began to love them, respect them, crave their affection. There’s nothing like the overwhelming, unconditional love of a parent, and I soaked it up like a sponge, a starved man finally finding sustenance.

So, walking behind those officers, I kept my emotions in check with sheer willpower. The last thing I wanted was to mess things up because of impatience or inexperience. I wasn’t here to be some hotshot kid in tights. I was here to help. To support the professionals so the hostages—my mom included—could get out safely. My personal feelings took a back seat.

By the time we reached one of the armored trucks, I had my game face on. A map of the building was spread across the hood of a car, accompanied by a couple of cardboard coffee cups. Captain Stacy gave Sybilla a pointed look. "Sybilla, keep quiet for now, alright? And you," she turned to me, "let’s hear the details. What exactly can you do? The more we know, the better we can use your abilities effectively."

I raised my right hand in response, aiming it at a nearby light pole with a broken lamp fixture hanging over the car. Electricity sparked along my arm, pretty but not too flashy—enough to draw their attention. Stacy raised an eyebrow; Sybilla rolled her eyes and spat again.

Ignoring them, I carefully aimed the electricity, pretending I was just showing off when, in reality, I was targeting something specific. The shot from my arm hit its mark with a sharp zap, and a second later, something fell onto the hood with a metallic thud.

"Is that…" Stacy leaned closer, her eyes narrowing at the smoking, futuristic-looking gadget that now lay on the car. It resembled a high-tech rice cooker with cameras and projectors bolted onto its sides. A drone. Mysterio’s, probably. Or at least it was.

I grabbed one of the coffee cups from the hood, handing it to Captain Stacy as casually as I could. "By the way, saved your coffee."

Sybilla let out an offended huff. "That was my coffee."

Stacy glanced at the cup, then at Sybilla. With a sigh, she took a long sip before handing it over. Sybilla gave her a look that could’ve curdled milk, shook the cup slightly, and grumbled something under her breath. Stacy, ever the professional, ignored it and focused on the smoldering remains of the drone.

I scanned the area with my energy vision, double-checking for anything suspicious. Finding nothing within an eleven-meter radius, I spoke up. "No more gadgets like that in the vicinity."

"And if it had been our tech?" Stacy asked, her tone speculative.

"Then I’d have said, ‘Oops,’ and apologized." I shrugged, palms up. "But I figured you wouldn’t hang an invisible drone above your command post. Want me to continue?"

She nodded, so I laid it all out—what I could do, my strengths, my weaknesses, and how my powers worked. I left out the stuff about the Sketchy Man, though. Some things are best kept to yourself.

Now, some might wonder why I’d spill so much. Sure, I was revealing a lot about myself, but here’s the thing: you can’t just show up at a police operation, say nothing, and expect them to trust you. Besides, it’s not like my powers are a secret. After a few missions, the word spreads. Thugs from earlier encounters have probably already gossiped about my electric punches and fire tricks. So, it’s better to be upfront and look cooperative. The only thing I truly hated revealing was my energy vision, but with the drone incident, it was already pretty obvious I had some kind of edge.

"So, you can see people through walls?" Sybilla asked skeptically, arms crossed.

"I can see people, electrical devices, heat sources—basically anything with energy," I confirmed with a nod.

"And you can melt anything?" Captain Stacy asked, her tone probing.

"Anything except a certain metal you’re not likely to find here," I replied. "It’s… conceptually indestructible, as far as I can tell. But even if someone shows up in full adamantium armor, I’ll just bake them inside it like a potato."

"I’d… prefer if you didn’t jump into a fight," Julia said hesitantly. "But I do have an idea, Salamander."

"You’re thinking he should scout the neighboring building?" the special ops officer—Sybilla—said thoughtfully, glancing at her superior. Stacy nodded and turned her focus back to me.

"Here’s the plan. Sybilla, you’re going with him. Take your team, but no radios—keep comms silent. If drones like that one are buzzing around, intercepting our communications would be easy. It’s too risky. We don’t know how many of those things the enemy has, or if they’re ready to rain grenades on us." She shot a wary look toward the sky before continuing. "You’ll sweep through the neighboring building. Salamander, your job is to assess the situation in the building where those bastards are holed up. Count their numbers, see if you can get a sense of their equipment, even just a rough idea. If you find the hostages and see an opportunity to extract them without significant risk…"

She turned to Sybilla, her voice firm. "You don’t need me to tell you what to do. Cover our… guest specialist, and if there’s a chance, get our people and the civilians out. One more thing: if things go south, screw radio silence and call for backup."

"Got it," Sybilla replied, giving a sharp nod. Then, turning to me, she flashed a toothy, mocking grin. "Alright, let’s hop to it, bright eyes."

"Let’s hop," I replied flatly, ignoring her sense of humor. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except making sure this worked. Emperor, protect Mama Betty, and I’ll handle the rest, I thought, following Sybilla as she gestured to someone in a matching uniform to join us.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 69

An EMP grenade. Non-lethal but a complete pain in the ass—especially for someone loaded with chrome like me or Lucy. The moment I saw its casing slide into view through the door, I hit Sandevistan. In the slowed-down time, I had a million things to do. No choice but to nail it all.

I darted away from the door, firing at the grenade mid-motion. Twisting, I grabbed Lucy, pulling her down and covering her as we both dove toward the far side of the room. My shot hit the grenade dead on. The enemy didn’t manage to toss it fully inside, but the electromagnetic pulse still hit me, and hopefully, them too.

A wave of painful spasms racked my body. The smell of burning plastic filled the room as the EMP fried some of the surrounding equipment. My Sandevistan glitched—time sped up, then slowed erratically. A harsh ringing filled my ears, but I shoved it aside and focused.

I twisted back around, firing toward the doorway, unloading shot after shot into the corridor. My Apparition rounds shredded through the peeling plastic walls like butter.

Then came the return fire—a suppressed pistol with that distinctive metallic click-click. I felt two rounds slam into the body armor under my jacket. The shooter had a precise read on my position. I needed to move out of their line of fire, but before I could, Lucy grabbed me from behind.

While I’d been busy shooting, she’d climbed atop one of the equipment racks and punched a hole through the damaged ceiling panels. Now she was pulling me up after her. I didn’t resist, even helped as much as I could. We were way too boxed in down there.

Just as I hoisted myself up, a bio-grenade went off below. Green smoke churned and billowed beneath us. Lucy and I quickly moved across the second floor. Every step had to be precise—the rotting floor was riddled with holes, but that also gave us an advantage: we might be able to ambush them from above.

Lucy whispered her assessment: three of them.

The old building groaned under our weight—broken glass and plastic—but the bastards moved quiet, too quiet. Their professionalism had me on edge.

I reloaded my Apparition and shifted it to my cyberlimb while my right hand drew the Yukimura—a sleek pistol that wasn’t powerful but could be swapped for a grenade if needed. I had two EMPs and two frag grenades left.

“Falco’s not responding,” Lucy whispered, barely moving her lips. “They’re jamming us.”

Damn. They weren’t screwing around. Moving carefully, I kept peering through the gaps in the floor, hoping to spot a shadow or a movement I could target with a script.

We reached a narrow window overlooking the street. Our car was parked about twenty meters from the building behind a crooked fence. Nearby, a black SUV stood ominously. Falco was either neutralized—or worse.

Damn it.

Should we make a break for the car? No, too risky. They’d gun us down before we got there. The only option was to take these guys out, even though we hadn’t seen a single one of them yet.

I tried connecting to the camera on Falco’s car. No response.

Lucy tossed a spy-cam through one of the floor gaps, aiming for the ground level. If it landed right and didn’t get stuck in the junk, we’d have eyes on the ground floor.

The metallic click of a silenced pistol shattered that hope—the cam was destroyed instantly. These guys weren’t amateurs.

Now Lucy was holding a pistol in one hand and an EMP grenade in the other, a rare sight. She hated relying on weapons, preferring scripts or melee combat, but right now, she didn’t have the luxury of choice.

Time crawled as I listened intently, every sense on high alert. Lucy tapped my shoulder, making me jump. She pointed one finger further down the corridor. Someone was there, waiting. Near another hole in the floor.

I started shifting my position, hoping to catch a glimpse of them through the gap. And then—Kerenzikov.

A gleaming dart zipped toward me, its shiny metallic tip carrying a familiar payload—a tranquilizer like the one they’d hit me with before New Year’s. Time slowed further, the dart hovering mere centimeters from my face. I jerked my head to the side just in time, narrowly dodging it.

I squeezed the trigger on the Apparition, aiming through the floor. There—an outstretched arm, a flash of tanned skin, and the faint reflection of black-tinted goggles.

Soul Rip, Reboot Optics, I unleashed scripts, hoping they’d spread to any nearby enemies.

Before I could follow up, the target shifted, vanishing from sight. Frustrated, I unloaded bursts of enhanced rounds from the Apparition, punching through the floorboards and sending up clouds of dust.

No memories surfaced. My first script had been countered by some implant. They’d prepared for this.

A metallic clang.

My vision flared with static, pain lancing through the right side of my head. My optical implant flickered, then went completely dark. My right arm refused to respond.

Another shot tore into the crook of my elbow, sending up a spray of dust. An electromagnetic revolver, shooting through the floor. I hadn’t even heard the first shot, too stunned by the hit to my head.

My reinforced bones and subdermal armor saved my life, but the damage was bad.

A third shot missed, shattering a mercury lamp above me. Why? The enemy had been spot-on before. Then it clicked—Reboot Optics had worked. The virus spread through their systems, disrupting their enhanced aim.

We had one chance before their vision recalibrated.

No time to explain. My right arm dead, I dropped the Apparition, using my cyberlimb to pull a grenade from my rig. Double-clicked the primer to shorten the timer. Tossed it around the corridor’s bend.

Boom!

The explosion punched through the rotted floor. Good—enough space to drop through.

I jumped down, priming another grenade mid-air. Tossed it into the corner where the enemy was clustered. Another explosion.

But all three were still standing.

One had been thrown against a wall, but the others were just scuffed—torn coats, white bloodstains on their chrome. They weren’t down. Their augmentations were tough as hell.

I activated Sandevistan again, drawing my monoblade. I wasn’t the only one. Two of them triggered Sandevistans, while the third moved with Kereznikov. Great—a goddamn Matrix fight.

I darted forward, weaving out of their firing lines. Smoke and static obscured most of my view, but I threw scripts at the farthest one while slashing at the nearest.

Short Circuit. Soul Rip. Contagion. Short Circuit.

The closest enemy lunged at me, but my blade slashed across their throat. A shot hit my left leg—another suppressed round. Even with the scrambled optics, they managed to clip me.

My strike to the enemy’s throat was caught mid-swing. White blood spurted as a few of his fingers hit the floor, severed cleanly by the blade. But he managed to grip the tanto, holding it fast. I let go and struck like a viper, jabbing a tranquilizer needle into his neck before extending my nail-blades and slashing across his eyes.

Two more shots slammed into my right shoulder. The vest caught most of it, but I was feeling it now. At least my position behind the enemy I was grappling with shielded me from the others. It was a deliberate tactic, using his bulk as cover.

Sandevistan burned out—on both sides. The world snapped back to full speed for a moment before plunging me into the icy clutch of Kerenzikov. My nerves were fried, my body teetering on the edge of collapse. I dove sideways, crouching low to keep both remaining enemies in my sightline.

Short Circuit, Contagion, Soul Rip, Reboot Optics.

I hammered one of them with scripts, focusing on the one I hadn’t targeted yet. Memory fragments trickled in, replenishing me. I hurled an EMP grenade down the corridor with my cyberlimb, hoping to snag both of them.

Time resumed its normal flow. Only adrenaline kept me upright. My body felt like ice, but my nervous system burned, threatening to melt its way free and abandon the cold husk. I couldn’t move—every muscle locked in a painful spasm.

The injuries, the EMP, two Sandevistans in quick succession... my systems were maxed out. My right optic was completely offline, my left flickering with blue interference.

“Caralho! Filho da puta!” a guttural voice cursed close to my ear.

Spanish? My translator was fried, but the tone was clear—this guy wasn’t happy. He fumbled blindly with his left hand, while his right gripped an RT-46 Burya electromagnetic revolver. As soon as his vision cleared, I was toast.

Then his body convulsed and collapsed. Another Short Circuit. Lucy had come through, right on time. She pressed an inhaler to my face, and within seconds, I could breathe again. My chest loosened, and the stabbing pain in my heart began to ebb.

“Haven’t taken a beating like that in a while,” I muttered. “My head’s wrecked, huh?”

“You could say that,” Lucy replied dryly. “Your right optic’s dangling by wires and nerves.”

“Great,” I sighed. “Vik’s gonna love this. He never shuts up about me not taking care of myself.”

She handed me a reloaded Kenshin. “Think you can hold on? I’m gonna check on Falco and maybe call Panam or a cab.”

“Yeah. Biomonitor says I’m not dying—at least not fast.” I managed a weak laugh, slumping against the wall and gripping the pistol tightly.

Lucy disappeared from my limited field of vision. I fumbled under my jacket for the neural shock injector and jabbed it into my side. Warmth spread through me as the drug kicked in. For the first time in minutes, my head started to clear.

One of the downed enemies stirred. Tough bastards.

“Move, and I’ll blow your head off,” I warned, leveling the pistol with a trembling cyberlimb.

Just to be sure, I hit him with another optics reset.

“I’m not moving,” the guy rasped.

“Who the hell sent you?”

It was obvious these three weren’t random attackers.

“Left chest pocket of my coat. Cigarette case. There’s a hidden compartment with my ID,” he said.

Lucy returned.

“How’s Falco?”

“Out cold behind the wheel,” she quipped. “Though I’m guessing someone helped him along with a little prick.

I gestured toward the downed man. “He says to check his cigarette case. Hidden ID. Left chest pocket. Be careful—if there’s any surprises in there, I’ll fry his brain.”

The guy stayed silent as Lucy nudged his gun away with her foot before reaching into his coat. She found the cigarette case, flipped it over, and removed a small plastic card from the hidden compartment.

“Any traps?” I asked.

“None,” she replied, examining the card. “But we’ve got a surprise. Look who we’ve been shooting at.”

She held it up for me to see. My vision blurred, but I managed to make out the name and details.

“Is this for real?” I asked.

“It’s real,” the guy groaned.

“And what the fuck do you want with us? This all over some sports betting?”

“Yeah. Orders were to take you down and bring you in for a chat.”

“A chat? Right. A Burya round to the head makes for a great conversation starter.”

“You were too dangerous,” he admitted. “Had to shoot to kill.”

Can’t argue with that. They had started with non-lethal methods, trying to grab me alive, but once things turned south, all bets were off. At least they didn’t kill Falco. Small mercies.

“Let’s get out of here, Lucy,” I said.

“What about him?”

“I’ll knock him out with a script. Don’t want him calling for backup.”

I wasn’t going to kill the agent. With all three alive, there was no reason for this to escalate further—at least for now. If we crossed paths again, though, all bets were off. Before passing out, the guy sent me a contact number. Desperation, maybe. But it was too late for friendly chats.

A few minutes later, I hobbled out into the street.

“Ready to go?” Falco asked, yawning.

“Yeah, but you’re driving on autopilot,” Lucy insisted. “No dozing off again.”

“I’d be offended, but I’m too tired to care. Hey, V, you think you can hold out until we get to the ripper?”

"Yeah, I’ll make it. Might even chill in the waiting room for a bit," I chuckled, leaning back in the seat. "It’s just the eye…"

"I know," Falco muttered. "It’s dangling."

Sitting in the back of the car, I called Angie. I made sure to put my face on display so she could fully appreciate the masterpiece of my beatdown. Not that she’d lose any sleep over it, but maybe I could squeeze some extra eddies out of her later for this hell of a job.

“Holy shit, V, are you even alive?” Angie’s voice cracked as she got a good look at me. Clearly, she was impressed.

"Still breathing," I muttered.

“You’ve got…”

"I know. My eye’s hanging out. On my way to the ripper. Got two updates for you."

“Good news and bad news?”

"More like bad and worse. The bad news—either I’m walking away from this job, or we need to seriously renegotiate the terms given the risk level. And the worse news—I figured out who’s fucking with your operation."

“That’s solid intel?”

"It is. I literally saw the guy’s ID."

The pieces were falling into place. The curses I’d heard earlier? Not Spanish. Portuguese.

"It’s the Brazilian Intelligence Agency," I said. "They sent three highly chromed goons after me."

“And you handled them?”

"For now. But there’ll be more. It’s a government agency, Angie. Once they’re on your tail, they don’t let go. I’ll need to go underground again. I can do it, but I hate it. And there’s politics to consider…" I added, with a hint of something more. "I can’t just go around gunning down intelligence agents left and right."

Angie believed I was working for Arasaka. Let her keep thinking that—it worked in my favor.

“Got it. Give me a couple of hours,” she said, suddenly sounding more upbeat. “You’re a real pro, you know that? Now that we know who’s behind this… we can fix it.”

Sure, I thought. Can’t wait to see how Animals declare war on Brazil. Hell, maybe Angie knows something I don’t.

"Why would they mess with your operation, anyway? Trying to push their own athletes?"

“No, I’ve got a hunch. We have a few Brazilian clients laundering their finances through our events. This might be a move against them.”

"Let me guess—cartel or terrorist ties?"

“Sorry, V,” she replied with a sweet smile. “That’s not something I can share, even with you. Just give me a little time. I’m confident we’ll sort this out. Send me your ripper bill, and stay in touch. Ciao.”

"So, not Arasaka?" Falco asked, yawning.

"Surprisingly, no. Go figure. Here I am planning to rob Saburo’s golden boy, and meanwhile, I’m nearly killed over some sports betting bullshit. Life’s a weird joke, Falco. One minute you’re scaling a wall, next thing you trip on a curb and crack your skull."

"Message Panam and Becca," I told Lucy. "Once Vik patches me up, we need to discuss an important plan."

Daily Updates (27/01/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 41

• Tier 2: Chapter 46

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 41

• Tier 2: Chapter 46

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 46

I woke up to someone calling my name.

“Tora-san! Tora-san!”

The window was slightly ajar, which was odd because I remembered Naruto closing it after airing out the room. It was already that awkward local “autumn-winter” season—late November. The temperature had dropped to about 15 degrees (60 F), maybe lower, not that I noticed much. I’ve got a built-in fur coat, after all.

I slid off the bed, leaving Sasuke behind. He’d all but moved in with us at this point and had developed a habit of using me as a personal space heater. Kid was always cold. Ever since we declared “Fashion Revolution!” five weeks ago, Sasuke hadn’t spent a single night at his own place. Instead, his apartment became HQ for our growing circle of friends.

With the chill setting in, the boys spent a couple of hours there after class playing board games, cards, and something resembling ninja dominoes. They’d chat, do homework (sometimes), and even get Kiba up to speed—though that was an uphill battle with how dense he could be. The girls handled cooking for everyone, turning it into a whole event.

In the mornings, Sasuke and Naruto trained together. I often joined them, though I had to practice separately because my moves were just too mesmerizing. Every time, they’d stop what they were doing to watch me flip and twirl like I was on a ninja gymnastics team.

Over the last two months, Naruto’s chakra system had nearly stabilized, but his reserves still ran absurdly low—lower than even mine. Based on the chakra fluctuations I could sense, I figured most of his energy was being sucked into maintaining that infamous seal wiped off the Fourth Hokage. Thanks to Sasuke, though, he was slowly learning control. In the evenings, they’d meditate and practice chakra exercises.

I padded over to the window and sniffed the air. Who was calling me? Couldn’t be Sumi-chan. The black cat had been keeping watch over our stash, which we’d already depleted quite a bit—especially the potatoes. Last weekend, the whole gang hit up the pond where the “two loners met.” We roasted potatoes, hauled a backpack full of snacks, and I put on an encore performance catching fish. Akamaru even fell into the water and tried to burrow under Kiba’s jacket for warmth, making both of them nearly climb into the fire to dry off.

Kuromaru once explained to me that nin-ken like Akamaru have a long “childhood” phase. They grow to about the size of a 3-month-old puppy, but it can take years for them to fully mature. During this time, they gain experience, develop their chakra systems (sometimes with a little medicinal help), and learn to work in perfect sync with their human partners.

I joked with Akamaru that until he could tell Kiba a good joke, he wouldn’t grow any bigger. Pretty sure I sent the poor pup into a minor existential crisis.

Lately, I’d noticed something interesting: when I spent nights lying on Sasuke, I seemed to sync with his chakra system. Our flows would align, beating in time like a shared rhythm. Maybe in a couple of years, he’d even be able to understand me. Or was this just some other Uchiha thing?

“Pssst! Tora-san!” The voice came again, this time from the roof. It was human.

Could it really be...?

In the dim moonlight, I spotted a figure with red eyes beckoning to me before disappearing into the shadows below. I leapt down to follow.

Shisui, dressed in a half-mask that left only his eyes visible, extended a hand. I sniffed his fingers—always good to confirm it wasn’t some imposter—and accepted the treat he offered.

“Came prepared, huh?” I purred, savoring the smoked eel. My one true weakness.

Shisui chuckled. “That’s the last one, sorry,” he said, wiping his hand quickly. “I’ll take you somewhere safe so we can talk. Hold on, Tora-san.”

Next thing I knew, he scooped me up like precious cargo, holding me firmly against his chest as we sped across rooftops under the cover of night. It was very ninja drama—swift, silent, and totally over-the-top.

Naturally, Shisui deemed the Uchiha district our “safe location.” Over the past month, the boys had thoroughly combed the place. We’d stashed some supplies in an old boiler room I pointed out and left other loot scattered across the district. They’d found weapons, cash, scrolls, explosive tags, and even some usable clothes. But the main family’s house? Still untouched. Sasuke hadn’t been able to set foot in Itachi’s room, and they’d stopped trying to disturb it.

When Shisui finally brought me to the temple courtyard, dawn was just breaking. Inside, he activated a seal with a wave of his chakra-filled hand, sending greenish ripples across the walls.

“This is where the clan held its meetings,” he explained. “No one could eavesdrop or spy on them—not even with techniques like long-distance vision jutsu.”

That sparked a memory. The old monkey—Third Hokage—had a crystal ball he’d use to spy on Naruto. Oh, crap. My fur bristled. What if he’s been watching us this whole time?!

“Relax,” Shisui said, clearly reading the panic on my face. “The technique only transmits visuals. And sure, some shinobi—Sandaime included—can read lips, but that’s about it. Plus, it requires a rare artifact made from a special mineral, and it burns through chakra fast. He’d need a solid connection to your chakra to even locate you.”

Phew. At least my act as an ordinary cat was holding up. Cuddly, sociable, but with the aloof dignity only felines can manage. Nothing to raise alarms.

“Alright,” Shisui said, settling in. “We can talk here without worry.”

“Good,” I replied with a firm nod.

“I couldn’t find Sasuke,” he admitted, removing his mask. “Tora-san, do you know where my little brother is?”

“He was with me!” I exclaimed, shocked.

How did Mr. Sharingan Supreme not notice Sasuke? Was it because we’d been tangled up in one of our infamous cuddle piles, syncing chakra flows?

“Do you know where he is now?” Shisui asked, watching me carefully.

I nodded again.

“He’s at my place!”

“Wait, Sasuke’s at the daimyo’s palace? But I just came from there!” Shisui sounded genuinely confused.

I groaned and slapped a paw over my face.

“Alright, I get it,” Shisui sighed. “You’ll have to show me.”

I nodded and leapt onto his lap, kneading lightly as an idea formed. Maybe syncing my chakra with his would finally get us on the same wavelength.

“Alright, spill it, what you’ve been up to?” I demanded.

“Hmm… You want to hear about our adventures with Kushina-san?” Shisui mused, scratching behind my ear.

I nodded eagerly. Was he just that sharp, or was my syncing trick actually working?

__________________________________________________

I was practically dying from a lack of information, and in the end, the info I got was about as much as I could squeeze out of a dry sponge. Turns out, Shisui only came back to the village because he couldn’t hold back his worry any longer. He and Kushina-san were both losing sleep over the boys.

Apparently, the two of them had been searching for Tsunade-san, hoping she could both heal and remove that pesky seal. But the Senju princess was proving impossible to track down. To make things worse, Jiraiya was also MIA. Considering this world doesn’t exactly have bullet trains—or even reliable maps, apparently—it’s no wonder finding anyone is like trying to catch smoke. Add in days of questioning locals in every backwater town, and it’s just a giant pain.

I get it now. That three-year training arc Naruto had in the anime? Yeah, it makes sense now. It’s just a massive, boring hiking trip. Slow as molasses. On top of that, Kushina-san couldn’t travel as fast as she used to, thanks to her chakra block. She was constantly worrying about Naruto, and Shisui? Well, he was just as anxious about Sasuke.

They eventually decided Kushina would stay put in a town called Hotto, located in the Land of Hot Springs, right near the border with the Land of Fire. Shisui figured he’d make a quick trip to Konoha to check on the boys. Just a simple wellness check—nothing more. For now, he wasn’t ready to reveal himself.

“We have to wait until they graduate from the Shinobi Academy,” Shisui explained when I let out an indignant yowl. “Once they’ve got the freedom to leave the village, we can meet without interference or Hokage spies breathing down our necks. Think about it—if they find out too soon, the boys might do something reckless. They’re young. They’ll act before thinking. And if Sandaime catches wind of it…

“We’d be hunted. They’d mark the boys as traitors—or worse. They’d ‘re-educate’ them until they were drooling idiots. Sasuke? They’d turn him into nothing more than a breeding tool for a new Uchiha clan. And Naruto? They’d brainwash him into a mindless weapon, loyal only to the Hokage. Right now, his behavior is exactly what the old man wants… but if something shifts…”

“Got it,” I sighed, the weight of his words settling on me. “Time to rethink the game plan.”

And I had a pretty good idea of where to start.

[Castling] Chapter 46

On Thursday, Potions was our first lesson of the day.

To be honest, I didn’t expect anything good from Snape this year. With Dementors hanging about, everyone in the castle was on edge—irritable, short-tempered, and prone to snapping over the smallest things. Arguments that might’ve blown over in minutes were now ending in full-blown brawls. By the end of the first week, half the upperclassmen had already been through the Hospital Wing for scrapes and bruises. And if regular people were this bad, what could you expect from Snape, who didn’t need Dementors to be a total git?

My gut feeling was spot on. Snape was an absolute nightmare. He deducted points left, right, and centre, nitpicking over the tiniest things. He didn’t resort to personal insults, but he regarded everyone with irritation and threw scathing looks of undisguised disgust at Potter. Poor Neville, though, got the brunt of it. He was sensitive at the best of times, and the tense atmosphere in the classroom had him so rattled he kept making mistakes.

“Orange, Longbottom!” Snape’s voice rang out from behind me as I added rat spleen to my cauldron. “You’re hopeless. Wipe your eyes and look at the board. Two drops of leech juice! One spleen! When will you start paying attention in my class? You’d think we were brewing Alchemical Mastery-level elixirs instead of the simplest potion with four ingredients. Troll for the lesson, Longbottom, unless you start over. And just to motivate you, I’ll test your finished potion on your toad. Perhaps when it dies, you’ll finally learn some responsibility. Take your cauldron to the back and start again. And if I hear a single word from Miss Granger—our resident know-it-all—I’ll dock fifty points from Gryffindor. The clock’s ticking.”

With a flick of his wand, Snape emptied Neville’s cauldron, then swept over to the Slytherin side, robes billowing behind him. Neville, bright red and trembling, dragged his cauldron to the back table, while the Slytherins snickered. I caught a glimpse of Hermione weighing out fresh ingredients and swapping trays with Neville as he passed her. Hopefully, he’d manage not to muck it up this time.

“Now,” Snape said, pacing back to the front, “your potions should have settled by now. Bottle your results and bring them to my desk.”

He made a beeline for Neville, stopping dramatically beside his cauldron to draw everyone’s attention. Neville’s potion had turned blue instead of green—not great, but at least it wasn’t orange. Still, it didn’t look promising for Trevor.

“Gather round,” Snape sneered. “We’ll test Longbottom’s latest masterpiece on his toad.”

Neville froze, clutching Trevor to his chest like a lifeline. Snape held out a hand, his expression cold and expectant. “Your toad. Now.”

Neville looked ready to burst into tears. The Slytherins were howling with laughter, and even some of the Gryffindors avoided meeting his eyes. No one wanted to step in—not against Snape.

I didn’t want to either, to be honest. But then Neville’s panicked gaze locked on me and Harry, pleading silently, and I cracked. I moved faster than Harry—thank Merlin—before he could lose his temper and earn himself a month of detentions. He wasn’t handling the Dementors well, and even Malfoy had been steering clear of him for fear of a punch.

“Excuse me, Professor,” I said, stepping forward and silently cursing my sense of duty. I positioned myself between Snape and Neville, subtly nudging the poor bloke back towards our group. “But, with all due respect, Trevor is Neville’s personal property. And as far as I know, there’s nothing in the school rules allowing teachers to damage students’ belongings, even for the sake of a demonstration.”

The Slytherins fell silent, staring at me like I’d just grown another head. Then, slowly, their faces twisted into gleeful smirks, clearly anticipating Snape’s retaliation. Behind me, the Gryffindors rallied, forming a protective wall around Neville. When he reappeared in their midst, Trevor was nowhere to be seen.

“There is, however, a rule allowing me to punish insolent students at my discretion,” Snape said icily, his eyes glittering with malice. “It’s a shame corporal punishment has been abolished.”

I braced myself. “Detention with me tonight at eight, Weasley. And every night until next Saturday. Thirty points from Gryffindor for disrupting my class, and another ten from Longbottom for botching his potion. And you, Longbottom, will report to Filch for detention on Saturday. Dismissed.”

With a dramatic swirl of his robes, Snape disappeared into his storeroom. We all exhaled in relief, hurriedly packed up our things, and escaped the classroom under the jeers of the Slytherins.

By the time we reached the Great Hall, my housemates had rallied around me. Lavender gave me a wink, Kelly thumped me on the back of the head with a grin, and Hermione fussed over my plate, making sure I got the best cuts of meat. Only Neville got on my nerves, endlessly thanking me and whining about Trevor. Honestly, why did he bring that toad to class anyway?

I didn’t mind the detentions, not really. But outside, the sky was darkening, and the creeping cold from the Dementors was starting to get to me. It was going to be a long week, especially with Defense Against the Dark Arts and that boggart coming up next.

We filed into the Defense classroom, waiting quietly as Professor Lupin entered. His clothes were just as shabby as the first time we’d met, which only deepened my unease. Looking at him, I couldn’t help seeing a version of myself I hated—the scruffy, directionless Ron who let life kick him around. Even Snape, for all his faults, commanded respect. But Lupin? I couldn’t bring myself to trust him.

“Good morning,” Lupin greeted us warmly. “Put your books away. Today’s lesson is practical. All you’ll need are your wands. Ready? Follow me.”

We marched down the corridor as a group, following Lupin. On the way, he had a run-in with Peeves and sent him packing with hardly any effort. By the time we reached our destination, Lupin had already become a bit of a hero.

He opened the door to the staff room and ushered us inside. Sitting in one of the chairs was Snape, engrossed in a book. At the sight of him, we froze, while he curled his lip in distaste.

"Well, I think I'll take my leave," he drawled, standing. "What follows promises to be most unpleasant."

He made his way to the door, and I nearly sighed in relief when he paused and turned back.

"I should warn you, Lupin," he said icily. "Among your students is one Neville Longbottom. I strongly suggest you avoid giving him any task requiring even the most basic competence. His inadequacy puts everyone around him at risk." With a cold smile, Snape swept out, not waiting for a response.

"Strange," Lupin said thoughtfully, turning to Neville with a kind smile. "I was just about to ask you to help me with a demonstration. I’m certain you’ll do brilliantly."

Neville turned beet red and gripped his wand tightly. At the far end of the room, a large wardrobe began to tremble, making us all freeze.

"Oh, don’t worry," Lupin said soothingly. "That’s just a Boggart—a shape-shifting spirit that takes the form of your worst fear."

That didn’t exactly put anyone at ease. But Lupin carried on, explaining the nature of Boggarts and asking questions as he went. He had a way of making the topic genuinely interesting. Still, I barely listened—I’d read up on Boggarts with Hermione before class. Instead, I found myself wondering what mine would look like.

I mean, I’m not fearless, but I’m not exactly a coward either. Snakes are unpleasant, sure, but after the basilisk? Not so much. Spiders? Only if they’re bigger than me. Mummies and whatever else—meh.

Whales, though—they’ve always given me the creeps. Once, in the Bay of Biscay, this massive one surfaced right next to our little boat, sending water everywhere. Scared the life out of us. But to actually fear one? Not really. Where would I even run into a whale on land?

Honestly, I kept picturing the alien from Alien. Not because I’m still scared of it, but as a kid, it was the scariest thing I’d ever seen.

I doubted it’d be Voldemort—I’d never even met him. Dementors, maybe? If I’d experienced them the way Harry did. But I hadn’t—not properly.

"Now, Neville," Lupin’s voice interrupted my thoughts, "imagine Professor Snape in your grandmother’s clothes."

I snorted, earning a round of stares.

"Something funny, Weasley?" Lupin asked, though he didn’t seem offended.

"Just the thought of someone being afraid of Professor McGonagall," I said, grinning. "Picture her in men’s boxers, a stretched-out T-shirt, and a pint of beer in hand. And Snape, finding out about the dress—he’d hex poor Neville into next week. Then there’s Neville’s gran, furious he borrowed her clothes for a bloke…"

Laughter rippled through the room, starting with stifled chuckles before bursting into full-on belly laughs. Even Lupin joined in, while Neville went from pale to crimson.

"Professor," I said when the laughter died down, "couldn’t we do this one-on-one? You never know what someone’s fear might be. I’m not sure my eyes are ready for some of the sights."

"Fair point," Lupin said with a chuckle. "Perhaps we’ll wait on Neville. But the rest of you—we’ll proceed. I’m here if anything goes wrong. Line up, everyone. Remember the spell?"

"Riddikulus!" we all shouted in unison.

What followed was chaos—but the good kind. A mummy morphed into a banshee, then a snake, then a skeletal figure. Kids’ imaginations are wild. No wonder Freud had a field day with stuff like this.

Finally, it was my turn. I shook off my grin and focused, picturing the skeleton turning into the alien from Alien. I could already see the laughs when I slapped it with Christmas lights and skates. But things didn’t go as planned.

The skeleton vanished in a swirl of grey mist. Then, sharply, the figure of my mum appeared—collapsing sideways, her lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, a thin trickle of blood running down her chin.

I froze. My brain knew it wasn’t real, but my body didn’t get the memo.

The vision held for a moment, then shifted. Fred, broken like he’d fallen from a great height. George, lying in a pool of blood. My dad, his chest ripped open, wearing the kind of naive expression that somehow made it worse. A charred, unrecognizable heap of flesh that I knew was Charlie. Ginny—oh God, Ginny—covered in blood, her face twisted in a terror I’d never seen on her before.

The images flickered faster, each one more vivid, more horrifying. I didn’t need to see the details—my mind filled in the gaps all on its own.

Then came Luna. She looked like she was sleeping on snow. No visible injuries, no blood—just her empty, lifeless stare. And the pain hit like a curse, draining me completely.

"What’s going on here?" Snape’s sharp voice cut through the nightmare.

The familiar irritation snapped me back to reality. Snape swept past me, heading for the Boggart. Before he could reach it, I let out a low growl, raised my wand, and focused on one thought: I had to protect her. And I felt the Path, clearer than ever before.

And I felt the magic surge through me, raw and unrelenting.

Snape’s voice cut through the haze. “What the devil is going on here?” He jerked back, startled, as the girl’s body he had been about to check for a pulse shimmered and began to shift.

From my wand, in response to my will, burst a silver cloud of light. As it neared the Boggart, it shaped itself into a bird—a luminous, graceful thing that hurtled forward and collided with the now amorphous Boggart. Together, they vanished into the wardrobe with a resounding slam. The door quivered, light seeped through the cracks, and then… silence.

Everyone stood frozen, as though hit with a Full Body-Bind. The silence felt tangible, heavy enough to slice with a knife.

“Weasley, are you alright?” Snape’s voice broke through the fog in my head. He shook my shoulder lightly, and I blinked up at him. He looked... worried. Behind him, the clock showed less than five minutes had passed, though to me it had felt like hours.

"You didn’t seem in much of a hurry to step in, sir," I croaked, my voice rough as if I’d been yelling at a stadium, lifting a weary gaze to Lupin. Words caught in my throat, choking me, unable to fully express the storm within.

“I…” Lupin stammered, his shock apparent as he glanced down at the wand clutched in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time.

“Come with me, Mr. Weasley,” Snape commanded, his grip firm on my shoulder as he steered me toward the exit. The other students parted for us like I carried the plague, their wide eyes fixed on me.

That’s it, I thought bitterly, catching the horrified looks on their faces. I’m the school’s new pariah. Who’d want to be friends with a paranoid freak seeing blood and guts where none exist?

Passing Hermione, I caught the mix of fear and pity in her expression. Harry didn’t look much better, and something inside me snapped. Anger bubbled up, sharp and hot.

“Leave me alone,” I snarled, shrugging off Snape’s grip. “All of you, just—leave me the hell alone!”

Ignoring their shouts, I ran, panic driving me through the halls with no clear destination. All I could see were the lifeless faces of Ginny and Luna, replaying over and over in my mind. I had to know they were alright.

My feet carried me to the Charms classroom. Bursting in, I scanned the room, locking onto Ginny seated on the third tier of the lecture hall.

“Mr. Weasley,” Flitwick began in his measured tone, unfazed by my sudden appearance. “Is there something you need?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, my voice distant as I climbed the steps toward Ginny. “I need Ginny. Just for a moment.”

“Ron, what’s going on?” she whispered urgently, throwing embarrassed glances at the other students.

“Nothing,” I said, managing a faint smile as I reached her. “Just… felt like I needed a hug.”

Before she could respond, I pulled her into an embrace, pressing a light kiss to the top of her head. For a moment, I buried my face in her hair, hiding the turmoil etched across my features. Then, straightening, I turned to go.

“Professor, mind if I borrow Luna too?” I asked as I noticed Luna calmly packing her things, while Flitwick read a note that had floated in from the side.

“Not at all, Mr. Weasley,” Flitwick replied serenely. “She’s already completed her test. But do see that you both make it to dinner—regular meals are important, especially at your age.”

“Understood, sir,” I replied. Luna joined me without a word, slipping her hand into mine as we left.

Once outside, I broke into a run, pulling her along. Two flights down, we ducked behind a dusty curtain into a small alcove with a window. It wasn’t exactly hidden, but it would do. I helped Luna up onto the windowsill, laying my robe beneath her, and leaned my forehead against the cool stone frame, clutching her hand like a lifeline.

“You’re not yourself, Ron,” Luna said softly, her fingers threading through my hair. “It seems I’ll need to craft something stronger than my usual charms against Nargles. My amulet hasn’t helped much. Look.”

She freed her hand and tugged the cord around my neck, pulling out her homemade charm. The radishes on it had shriveled, blackened like dried husks. Oddly, the sight didn’t surprise me.

Luna untied the cord, her gentle fingers brushing against my neck. The steady, deliberate motions soothed the storm inside me.

“What happened, Ron?” she asked, her hands cupping my face and drawing my gaze to hers.

“We faced a Boggart today,” I admitted.

“Ah, I see.” She pulled back slightly, her eyes distant. “We had one in the house once—lived in a wardrobe. I always saw my mum. I didn’t tell Dad; if he got rid of it, I wouldn’t be able to see her anymore. What did you see?”

“All of you,” I said hoarsely. “Ginny, you… everyone. Dead.”

“Then we fear the same thing,” she said, her lips curving into a sad smile. “Losing those we love.”

“No, Luna,” I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “I’m terrified I made a mistake… and that your blood will be on my hands.”

Daily Updates (26/01/25)

Hydrargyrum

• Tier 1:

  • Chapter 8

  • Chapter 9

  • Chapter 10 - extra

• Tier 2:

  • Chapter 13

  • Chapter 14

  • Chapter 14.5 (Interlude) - extra

Both Tiers are now caught up with the planned +5/+10 chapters. With one extra for both.

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 14.5 (Interlude)

"Hermione, you're unusually quiet today. You’re not feeling unwell, are you?"

Granger turned away from the passing fields outside the train window and looked directly into her friend's eyes. Whether it was the glasses reflecting the light or just the honest sincerity of his gaze, it was clear the question was genuine, without any hidden meaning.

"Are you trying to say I usually never stop talking, Harry?"

"Not exactly, but I thought I'd spend half the journey hearing about every book you read over the summer," Ron chimed in, completely unfazed by Harry’s sharp elbow jabbing his side. "Hey, didn’t you say the same thing?"

"I’ve always admired your honesty, Ronald Weasley," she said dryly.

"Well, you’re welcome, I guess. But seriously, what’s up with you? And, for the record, it’s not like we don’t want to listen to you."

"That was almost sweet of you. I'm just thinking about how I must be a terrible teacher."

"Oh, come on, don’t take it so seriously. It’s not like you’re getting paid for it. What’s the deal with that kid anyway? Why do you care so much?"

"Ron, are you jealous?" Hermione gasped theatrically, her eyes wide with mock surprise. She glanced at Harry, who had turned away to hide a grin, then returned to her usual tone. "And for your information, at least James wants to learn and takes school seriously—even before he’s actually started. Unlike some people, who barely made it to the train five minutes before departure. What would you have done if you missed it? I doubt you’d hop on a plane or catch the next train, and the next bus there only runs late in the evening."

"But Knight Bus only runs at night, right?"

"A Muggle bus, Ronald. Muggle."

"Alright, alright, stop nagging us. This time, it wasn’t even our fault, okay? We left early, but then we had to go back because Fred forgot his broom. Then we had to turn around again because George forgot his fireworks—or maybe it was the other way around. Anyway, we got to the station twenty minutes before the train left, but there was this massive line because Aurors and patrols were checking everyone's trunks. You know, new rules. You were there, you saw us being searched."

"Sure, but that doesn’t excuse either of you."

Hermione, always cautious, had arrived at the station with her parents as early as ten in the morning, aware of the mandatory checks introduced last week. Worried that her Muggle parents, carrying plenty of non-magical items, might be held up at the entrance, she said her goodbyes outside and headed to the magical platform alone.

As expected, an Auror trainee in a robe had politely asked her to open her trunk and submit to an inspection for enchanted items. From what Hermione observed, adults were given a cursory glance, while most of the scrutiny was reserved for students—especially older ones, mainly from Slytherin. Those who protested loudly about the "outrageous invasion of privacy" were swiftly silenced by pointing to the freshly framed decree from the Ministry titled "On Enhanced Security Measures and Combating Dark Magic." After that, they had little ground to argue.

The rules weren’t draconian, though. Most confiscations involved enchanted Muggle items like mirrors, lighters, or glasses. Brand-name products purchased from reputable shops in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley were typically returned.

James Murphy, who had indeed come to see her off, arrived about ten minutes after her, oddly dressed in his school uniform. He passed through the checkpoint effortlessly, carrying nothing but his house keys. As he approached, Hermione noticed him exchanging a few polite words with another Auror trainee patrolling the platform.

"Hello, Murphy. Sorry, but I need to check something with a spell first," Hermione said briskly, grabbing his arm and leading him to a quieter corner of the platform. She hesitated before touching her wand in its holster. "Do I have your permission?"

"Good morning," he greeted calmly, showing no surprise at her assertiveness and allowing himself to be led away. "If it's safe, go ahead."

"Thank you," she replied, drawing her wand and raising it before her. She uttered a spell she had practiced over the summer: "Revelio."

James watched her movements warily at first, his body tensing as though ready to flee or fight back if the spell turned out to be hostile. But when nothing happened, he waited a few more seconds, shrugged lightly, and asked curiously:

"Practicing second-year material already? Impressive. Or is there another reason for this?"

"The times are uneasy. You’ve read the papers; you know what’s going on," she said nervously, nodding toward the Auror checkpoint. She tried to sound casual. "I was worried someone might try to attack me by disguising themselves as you, now that everyone knows you’re my ‘student.’"

"Really? Do you think someone would go to the trouble of impersonating me just to target a first-generation witch with no family debts or blood feuds, who’s only starting her second year of school?" he replied, his tone overly polite, though his gaze held a faint hint of amusement. "Are you hiding something, Miss Granger? Do you have worthy enemies already?"

"N-no, of course not! What enemies would I have?" she stammered, hurriedly putting her wand away and raising her hands defensively. "It’s just a precaution. Reasonable caution, that’s all."

"Is it?" James tilted his head slightly, studying her as though seeing her for the first time. "It feels more like an excuse. Maybe you’ve been wanting to try something like this for a while, and now the opportunity conveniently presented itself?"

"And why on earth would I do that?" Hermione’s voice rose an octave as she attempted an awkward defense.

"I don’t know. Maybe you find it unsettling to think that someone younger than you might know a little more about certain things?" James suggested evenly, shrugging once more. "And without being some sixty-year-old wizard who’s long since graduated and taught their own students. Do you think it’s impossible for someone to read just as many books in a few months and actually understand them enough to know about magic? Or am I wrong?" he asked suddenly, sharply meeting her eyes. "Perhaps I should ask someone older to use Revelio on you, just in case? It often seems to me that, for a first-generation magus, you know far too much…"

"No, no, no… wait!" Hermione exclaimed, feeling as though the ground could swallow her whole. His words struck uncomfortably close to her own thoughts, hitting their mark with painful precision. "Let’s just take a deep breath and calm down… Okay, slowly, calmly, without panicking…" She hesitated, then admitted, "Yes, you’re right. I’ll admit it—I did doubt whether you’re really just a Muggle-born who only learned about the magical world half a year ago. I wanted to confirm it. I’ll admit it was unfair… Very unfair of me. But, in my defense, you do know more about magic than any first- or second-year student I’ve ever met. Not that that’s much of a defense."

"Except you?"

"Maybe…" she stammered, caught off guard by the unexpected question. "In some things. I don’t know!"

"Trust between a teacher and their student is the foundation of a successful relationship. A lack of it can cost one their magic—or even their life, Miss Granger," James said distantly, his tone devoid of anger or resentment. That only made Hermione feel worse. "Was trusting you a mistake?"

"No! I… I don’t know anymore. Everything’s so confusing—these rumors, the inspections, a murder in broad daylight, the stone and its theft! I don’t know who to trust anymore, except my friends. What if anyone—even a professor—could turn out to be someone they’re not?" she cried, her voice breaking as she fought not to cry. She knew she’d overstepped, but she hadn’t expected it to spiral like this.

"It takes time to truly appreciate the value of advice like 'don’t trust strangers,' doesn’t it?" James replied. "I’m not angry you suspected me of something. We’ve only known each other for a couple of months, and you know little about me—just as I know little about you. In fact, I’m even flattered that you thought I might be some secretly skilled wizard. It means I’ve managed to impress you at least a few times."

"You’re not angry at all?" Hermione asked, genuinely surprised. His calm tone had kept her from spiraling into a full-blown panic, but she’d been bracing for accusations—angry, justified ones—not this.

"No," James said simply, shaking his head. Then, adopting a more instructive tone, he added, "If someone else had been in my place, your suspicion might have saved your life. In the magical world, where appearances can often deceive, those who trust too easily don’t last long. Perhaps that’s why they teach Revelio as early as the second year."

"I’ll admit, I’d never thought of it that way. Well, in any case…" Hermione hesitated, then extended her hand awkwardly. "Can we just forget about this? Peace, my student?"

"Peace, my teacher," he replied, shaking her hand easily. "But in the future, I hope for a little more trust—at least toward me."

"Of course. I won’t use that spell on you again without a real reason."

"I’m glad we cleared that up. But I wouldn’t abandon it altogether. During the war, they say dozens—if not hundreds—of people were placed under Imperius. It’s not as though all of them were cursed by their best friends; some could have been impersonated. Vigilance never hurts."

"Yes, yes, I’ll keep that in mind. So… um…" Hermione’s eyes darted around, searching desperately for a way to change the topic. Even the most awkward distraction would do; she couldn’t feel any more mortified than she already did. And then she found one. "I see you’ve had a haircut. Was that for today’s ‘special’ occasion?"

"And? Does it suit me?" James asked with mock seriousness, as though their prior conversation hadn’t happened at all. He even turned his head side to side for effect.

"Maybe it’s not for me to say, but the front looks fine. The back, though—it’s like the scissors exploded halfway through."

"Clearly, the barber was inexperienced. I’ve already decided never to set foot there again. Anyway, that’s trivial. What’s more important is that the new school year is starting—and apparently, your most important subject will be taught by… a writer."

"You’re still doubting Professor Lockhart’s competence?" Hermione asked, a touch of indignation in her voice. Under different circumstances, she might have been genuinely offended by such open skepticism toward her new idol. Instead, she settled for a quiet huff. "Just because he writes books in his spare time?"

"If he turns his work into novels rather than monographs or articles for reference guides, that’s his business," James replied indifferently, waving a hand. He’d already mentioned before that he’d read one of Lockhart’s books and found the writing unimpressive. "He’s not an official hunter of dangerous creatures, so he needs to make a living somehow. An enthusiast with extensive personal experience might have a lot to share, but I’m skeptical he’ll be able to present the material effectively to students. Different years require different approaches, and, judging by the biography in his books, he’s never trained as a teacher."

"You sound like you’re planning to teach at Hogwarts after you graduate."

"I wouldn’t rule it out entirely. In any case, I hope to hear from you on this once classes start. If Mr. Lockhart turns out to be a talented instructor with deep knowledge of his subject, I’ll be delighted. After all, that would mean I wouldn’t have to self-study the entire Defense curriculum next year—unlike with Quirrell, whose competence in that field was… questionable, to say the least."

They continued chatting about various topics while they had the time—conceptual magic, the protective barriers around the train station and railway, and whether the new Defense professor would last longer than a year or fall victim to the infamous curse on the position. When they returned to the train, Murphy casually introduced her to Tonks, the Auror trainee who had first introduced him to the magical world. According to Tonks, under the new Ministry decree, all patrols and trainees had been reassigned to protect magical settlements. Hogwarts, however, remained unaffected. The headmaster had declined additional Ministry protection, insisting that the school’s wards and staff were sufficient.

Hermione listened with skepticism—she’d already learned last year that the so-called infallible protections of Hogwarts were far from perfect.

Fifteen minutes before the train’s departure, Murphy gave her a formal, almost overly ceremonious farewell until winter, reminded her once again to write, and returned to Muggle London. On his way out, he passed the sizable Weasley family, accompanied by Potter. The arrival of such a large group practically paralyzed the "customs" process, especially since at least two of the students were guaranteed to have pockets full of enchanted items not on the approved list. As a result, Ron and Harry only managed to reach Hermione moments before the train’s departure, with more students still filtering onto the platform. It was a wonder the train wasn’t delayed by hours.

“You’re thinking about him again.”

“What?” Hermione realized she’d been sitting with Lockhart’s book open in her hands, reliving the morning’s events without actually reading a word.

“I said, you’re thinking about that kid again,” Ron repeated, watching her. “You’ve got it bad, taking this professor thing so seriously. You’ll stress yourself out over someone else’s studies so much your hair will stick up on end—and stay that way.”

“My hair is perfectly fine,” she snapped, reflexively smoothing it with her hand. “And why are you so fixated on him?”

“I just don’t like him. His eyes… they’re cold. Detached. Remember when Draco’s dad came over to sneer at us in the shop? He has the same kind of look.”

“Oh, honestly, what ridiculous nonsense you’re spouting. Aren’t you embarrassed to talk about someone like that behind their back?”

“Are you defending your students now?” Harry chimed in, finally joining the conversation after silently listening. “Next step, learning to turn into a cat.”

“What? Oh, I get it. But no, I won’t. I love cats, but I’m not about to turn into one—no offense to Professor McGonagall. Ron, you should be ashamed. You don’t even know James, not really, and here you are saying all these things.”

“I’m telling you, something’s off about him,” Ron insisted. “What if he’s using you to get to Harry? You-Know-Who’s still got plenty of followers left, no matter how many get caught.”

“If that’s the case, why hasn’t James asked me about him?” Hermione countered. “He hasn’t brought Harry up, not even once—not like Quirrell or Snape. The one time we talked about him… Don’t take this the wrong way, Harry, but James said, ‘The boy’s done his duty; the boy can go.’ Not literally, but—”

“Come on, I went to school too, even if I wasn’t great at it. I know that saying,” Harry interrupted, clearly annoyed. “You think we’re all clueless?”

“Sorry, Harry. Anyway, he thinks you just got lucky, being in the right place at the right time. That it wasn’t really up to you at all. You-Know-Who destroyed himself through his own magic, triggered by some kind of ritual, magical phenomenon, or a mix of overlapping causes. Basically, James believes that after that night, you are just an ordinary wizard, not someone especially valuable to anyone. His words, not mine.”

“What does he know?” Ron snapped, bristling on Harry’s behalf. “You didn’t tell him about the stone or anything else, did you? About how they tried to kill Harry—or the warning he got this summer?”

“No. That was our business, no one else’s. I understand your point, but listen to me, too—Harry’s not important to James. He just wants to learn early, and I’m helping him because I wish someone had helped me like that last year. We met entirely by accident in a bookstore. I approached him first and didn’t let him walk away. Happy now?”

“I still don’t trust him.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” She threw up her hands in frustration. “Harry, what about you? What do you think?”

“If we’re being honest,” Harry began, “we’re focusing on the wrong thing. Even if this first-year somehow has ties to Voldemort, he’s not a threat to anyone for a long while. But this—this is happening right now.” He placed a newspaper on the table.

The now-infamous August 24 issue of The Daily Prophet featured a large, motionless photograph of a wizard and a bold headline: Francis Travers Found Dead in Diagon Alley! Hundreds of Witnesses, Widespread Panic! Where Was the Auror Department?

“I didn’t want to ruin the start of the year, but we can’t ignore it. There’s a dark wizard out there killing people.”

“The son of a Death Eater,” Ron corrected.

“And that makes it fine?” Harry shot back.

“Like father, like son…”

“Ronald Weasley!” Hermione scolded sharply.

“All right, all right, I’ll stop…” Ron muttered.

This was the topic they’d been avoiding all day, the one dominating conversations for the past week—the reason the Ministry had tightened security in magical areas and imposed inspections at the train platform.

A week earlier, while Hermione was working at the library, a bloodied, severely wounded wizard had apparated into the middle of a crowded Diagon Alley. By the time the screams subsided, the crowd scattered, and a few healers pushed through to assist, the young man was already dead. His face was so disfigured and bloodied that it took Aurors at St. Mungo’s to identify him as Francis Travers, the heir to an old wizarding family and son of Martin Travers, who was serving a life sentence in Azkaban.

Even under normal circumstances, such an incident would have caused a public outcry. But this one involved more than a hundred witnesses, the sheer brutality of the murder, and, most disturbingly, leaks from the hospital or Ministry hinting that the wizard hadn’t been killed by a mere curse—not even an Unforgivable—but by a cursed weapon. A weapon wielding the kind of dark magic the Ministry had claimed to have decisively defeated.

“Do you think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did this too?” Hermione finally asked after a long silence.

“I’m not sure,” Harry admitted. “But he didn’t completely die. We know that now. So anything’s possible.”

“I don’t think it was him,” Ron unexpectedly interjected. “That Travers bloke was killed with Muggle weapons. You-Know-Who would never stoop to something like that.”

“So the rumors and the articles in the papers weren’t lying?” Hermione pressed.

“No. Dad tries not to talk about it, and he’s barely been home all week. But Percy said Dad’s pay was bumped up overnight, and they assigned four recent graduates to his department for training. If someone’s decided to curse Muggle weapons to kill wizards, then his department suddenly becomes really important, doesn’t it? That’s probably why the Ministry passed that decree and confiscated enchanted Muggle items at the station. Not that it’ll do much good now, but they have to look like they’re doing something.”

“And the rest?” Hermione pulled out a different issue of the newspaper from her suitcase. It was from the 27th, featuring a moving photo of charred ruins in Muggle London, surrounded by Aurors keeping watch and casting spells to disperse Muggles. The headline read: Francis Travers — Modern Hero or Tragic Victim?

“Rita Skeeter’s sunk her claws into this case. I don’t know who she bribed or how she got access, but she’s written in detail, citing some ‘anonymous Auror,’ about the use of Muggle weapons and the fact that the place Travers Apparated from was, excuse my language, a Muggle drug den. The last spell recorded on his wand was Incendio, and the site itself was burned to the ground with dark magic—some variant of Fiendfyre.”

“I haven’t heard about that,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Dad didn’t mention anything like that to us. And seriously, what would a pure-blood be doing in a Muggle drug den?”

“That’s not my term; it’s Skeeter’s,” Hermione clarified. “As for why he was there… The Ministry wants people to believe he was a hero who went there to fight a dark wizard and protect Muggles. For some reason, he didn’t warn the Aurors or any experienced wizards. He just went alone, defeated the evil, but couldn’t save himself.”

“You don’t believe it?” Harry asked, noticing her skeptical expression.

“Not entirely,” Hermione admitted, shaking her head. “There’s no evidence he actually defeated anyone. But the Ministry needs to calm people down—to say there’s no dark wizard threatening them because an unknown hero already dealt with him, someone who renounced his father’s ways and chose to protect Muggles, even at the cost of his own life. Personally, I think it’s the opposite. Travers was working there, and a dark wizard attacked him. Who knows what they were fighting over.”

“A pure-blood? A Death Eater’s son? Working with Muggles?” Ron sounded incredulous.

“It’s just my theory. Think about it, though. He was almost twenty, graduated from Hogwarts a couple of years ago, and hadn’t worked anywhere in the wizarding world. With his background, he wouldn’t have been able to get a job here anyway. Sure, Malfoy got off scot-free, but Travers Sr. is in Azkaban for life, no parole—You-Know-Who’s closest lieutenant. Meanwhile, his son has to make a living somehow. Not all pure-blood families…” She trailed off, realizing where she was heading. Ron and Harry had already decided to avoid this sensitive topic, and she didn’t want to stir it up again. “Well, you get the idea. With the head of the family in prison for eleven years, Travers had nothing to lose. Muggles would pay a wizard willing to work with them handsomely, I’m sure, even a former Hogwarts student. And Travers passed his NEWTs.”

“If you’re right, I can only imagine the scandal this caused among the pure-bloods,” Ron said, grinning. “Malfoy probably had a fit. The heir of an ancient family working for ‘those worthless Muggles’? Hermione, no offense. Compared to that, all their talk about our so-called ‘betrayal’ is a joke.”

“But it’s just my theory. We don’t know what really happened. If I’m right, though, You-Know-Who would definitely have killed him as soon as he found out.”

“With Muggle weapons?”

“Maybe just to make a point—in his own twisted style.”

“I doubt he even has a sense of humor,” Harry muttered darkly, likely recalling the end of their first year. “And the real question is, what do we do now? If there could be two dark wizards loose in Britain, or even more? Dumbledore told me Voldemort wants me dead, but he wouldn’t say why. Just this vague ‘you’ll understand when you’re older.’ What if this affects all dark wizards? If one of them wants me dead, what if the others do too? What if they start competing over it?”

“What do we do?” Hermione repeated. “The answer is obvious. Study.”

“Oh, of course! Why did I even ask?”

“Can’t you be serious, for once?”

“I. Am. Completely. Serious,” she said, standing up and staring down at their disgruntled faces. “For us, knowledge is power, far more than for anyone else. For instance…” She pulled a quill from her robe pocket, placed it on the compartment table, then drew her wand. Closing her eyes to concentrate, she waved it in a half-circle, then pointed it at the quill. A moment later, she picked up a slim rapier that now lay where the quill had been.

“Well, who said the pen is mightier than the sword?” she asked with a sly smile.

“Uh…”

“Um…”

“Oh, that was rhetorical. Edward Bulwer-Lytton, but that’s not the point,” she said, setting the rapier in a corner and hoping no one would walk in for at least a few minutes. By her calculations, the transfiguration wouldn’t last much longer. “My point is that, unlike regular schools, the knowledge we gain here really can keep us safe. If you didn’t realize that after first year, you should have. Knowledge can protect you from curses, creatures—even bullets. And we have an amazing opportunity this year—Gilderoy Lockhart himself teaching us Defense Against the Dark Arts. A renowned slayer of monsters, with experience from all over the world. If, after this,” she gestured at the newspapers, “you two don’t take this seriously and waste the chance, I’ll be very disappointed in you both.”

“You know, teaching isn’t doing you any favors. You’re starting to treat us like complete idiots…”

“What did you just say, Ronald?” Hermione’s hand twitched toward her wand for emphasis, but she restrained herself.

“I said I’ll attend Lockhart’s classes,” Ron repeated. “No point in spending so much on his books otherwise, right? But if he ends up teaching us rubbish like Quirrell did, we’re going to have a talk about it.”

“Oh, I can’t wait for that conversation. Harry?”

“I get it. Study hard, or we’re doomed. Magic’s the problem, and magic’s the solution.”

“Less fatalism, please. I’m not asking you to master the mechanics of conceptual influence and recite it back to me. All I want is for you to take lessons seriously, especially the ones that might save your life.”

“You know, Hermione, right now you sound more like Snape than McGonagall.”

“For all his faults, especially toward our house, Professor Snape is an incredibly skilled wizard, particularly for his age. I could almost take that as a compliment.”

“How old is he, anyway?” Harry asked, curious.

“I’m not sure. Maybe fifty-five?” Ron guessed with a shrug.

“Thirty-two, Ronald. And if you don’t want me repeating that in front of him, you’d better stay awake in Potions.”

“I can already tell this is going to be a rough year…”

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 14

“Goodbye, James.”

“See you on the first of September, Miss Granger. As an apprentice, how could I not see off my mentor on such an important day?”

“Oh, come on, that’s unnecessary. People will laugh at me again.”

“Well, that’s their loss. Fools who fail to recognize the importance of the bond between master and apprentice won’t get far in our craft.”

“You know, you take this way too seriously…”

“We’ll meet again next week, Miss Granger.”

Leaving Hermione to wrestle with her sense of responsibility—which wouldn’t let her outright refuse this “honor” and avoid what she considered an awkward situation—Kayneth slowly walked down the quiet corridor of the library toward the exit. It was already August 23rd, marking the last of his “lessons” with the first-generation witch, at least until December. The information he’d gathered about the school and the magical world in general was sufficient for now, and Hermione had largely served her purpose in his plans. However, she remained a valuable source of current information about wizarding society.

Earlier that day, he’d casually inquired about the latest news and rumors in magical Britain. To his quiet satisfaction, there was no mention of Wells or heightened security measures like those in the spring. Additionally, the response to his letter to Tonks, which he’d sent covering a range of topics, had arrived within the usual timeframe. This indicated no new panic or Ministry alerts involving heightened Auror patrols or cadet deployments.

In other words, the recent operation he and Albert had conducted to summon a spirit for the healing of another wealthy yet hopeless patient had gone unnoticed—or at least the investigation hadn’t progressed beyond Cardiff (assuming the Aurors even had a branch there). 

More than a week had passed without the kind of frenzied and poorly explained Ministry response that had accompanied their earlier work. Operating in the countryside, far from urban centers, had proven to be a wise choice. This time, Albert had handled the logistics and preparations at a steady pace, leaving Kayneth to focus solely on the medical and magical aspects. After analyzing a patient’s anonymized file, conducting his own diagnostic rituals, and adjusting the summoning to match local “pricing” for sacrifices, the process had gone smoothly, with no incidents or rushing. He’d left his fees unchanged and was confident Albert would deliver the promised sum in a month and a half. Judging by the skimming MacDuggal likely did, Kayneth suspected Albert’s cut was significantly higher. Perhaps next time, it was worth charging more himself…

A soft cough interrupted his thoughts as he approached the exit.

Kayneth turned, irritated at being disturbed—and froze in near shock. The hallway wasn’t as empty as he’d assumed. Sitting against the wall in one of the visitor chairs was an Asian man dressed in black, pointing a revolver directly at him. For a split second, Kayneth felt a pang of sheer panic—it almost seemed like him.

But the rush of fear quickly dissipated when Kayneth realized this man was shorter, clean-shaven, and wearing a standard dark business suit rather than a dramatic coat. The gun in his hand, however, was very real. Meeting Kayneth’s gaze, the man nodded slightly, gestured with his free hand for silence, and pointed toward the door.

As if on cue, another man entered—this one of Pakistani descent, also in a dark suit. Unlike the first, he didn’t draw a weapon but positioned himself in front of the exit, one hand casually resting in his jacket pocket.

The irrational fear subsided, leaving only a calculated sense of danger. These weren’t Aurors or police; no, these were the gangsters MacDuggal had warned him about. That meant they didn’t need to be spared. Unfortunately, their timing was perfect. Caught off guard, Kayneth hadn’t anticipated an open confrontation in a public place and had no contingency plans prepared.

Hypnotizing both men simultaneously wasn’t feasible without engaging them in conversation or keeping both in sight at all times. Killing them outright wasn’t particularly difficult, even in his current weakened state, especially since he’d started carrying several mystic codes on trips into London after Albert’s warning. Among them were a bracelet that could block bullets and his illegally obtained wand—a potent weapon on its own.

But eliminating them quietly and without leaving evidence was another matter entirely. Gunshots would draw attention, and bloodshed would raise countless questions. Even if Hermione somehow managed to erase the memories of every staff member, visitor, and passerby—a near impossibility—she’d undoubtedly ask why gangsters were after a boy and, more importantly, how that boy had killed two armed adults without a wand.

The Asian man, seeing Kayneth’s hesitation, slowly pulled a grenade from his jacket, slipping his thumb into the pin. He made an exaggerated motion toward the open door farther down the hallway.

Kayneth froze again, momentarily caught off guard. A grenade? He hadn’t expected common gangsters to wander the streets of London with such weapons, unconcerned about the police. The threat was clear: the man had overheard the tail end of Kayneth's conversation with Hermione. If the grenade went off, it would be aimed at the hall where the girl remained.

The blast might not kill her outright—the library’s size and the distance to the librarian’s desk could minimize the damage—but the explosion would still cause chaos. The noise and ensuing questions would be impossible to avoid. Hermione herself could be injured, even if she survived…she is still useful.

Calling Hermione for help was out of the question. Though armed with a wand, she was unlikely to kill two men; she wouldn’t have the skill or resolve. And if these gangsters were willing to detonate a grenade in central London, they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her to tie up loose ends.

Looking the Asian man directly in the eye, Kayneth nodded, clasped his hands behind his back, and began walking toward the exit. The "Pakistani" opened the door, then grabbed his shoulder firmly and guided him toward a van parked at the curb. The second man followed close behind, preventing any attempt to slow his steps. Within thirty seconds, they’d shoved him into the van, climbed in after him, and the vehicle started moving.

Before Kayneth could take in his surroundings, his mouth was taped shut, a black sack was thrown over his head, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. He was then pressed onto the hard floor and subjected to a rough search.

“Don’t move,” one of the men advised as he pulled Kayneth’s wand from its concealed holster beneath his sleeve and a small knife from the inner pocket of his coat. “We’re taking you to the boss. He’ll get answers out of both of you.”

He then turned to his partner. “Did you see the way that rich kid bossed us around before this? ‘Don’t let him speak, watch his hands’—seriously, what a drama queen. And this one? Just an ordinary brat, cocky for his age. Didn’t even realize the grenade was fake.”

“As if he’s the first,” the other replied.

“Yeah, it always works on these rookies. Bet he nearly wet himself thinking we’d blow up his girlfriend.”

Kayneth ignored their chatter, lying motionless on the van floor. First, speaking wasn’t an option with his mouth taped shut. Second, fury burned in his chest from the humiliation, and he’d already cursed his decision to cooperate a dozen times over. In such a state, any words he managed would likely be invocations of combat spells or mystic code activations. Lastly, the rational part of his mind reminded him that if they were taking him to meet their boss instead of dumping him in the countryside or the sea, it likely involved the crime lord whose son had been injured by their "products." That meant Albert would likely be present too if the gang had taken their warnings seriously. It might be possible to resolve the situation all at once—one way or another.

For now, Kayneth refrained from taking action, focusing instead on running through potential scenarios in his mind and reviewing the arsenal of spells and tactics at his disposal if the main plan fell through. He also made a point to memorize every detail about his captors' appearances. He intended to revisit this meeting with them under very different circumstances in the future.

The journey didn’t take long—less than half an hour. Judging by the steady noise of the streets, they were likely still in the city center. Kayneth was hauled out of the van, dragged through silent corridors, and even yanked down a flight of stairs by the scruff of his neck. Eventually, they deposited him on a hard plastic chair in a windowless room. Only then was the sack pulled off his head, and Kayneth squinted in the dim light of the bare bulbs hanging in the large, cluttered space that resembled a storage room.

The first thing he noticed, after his eyes adjusted, was Albert MacDuggal sitting on a chair beside him, also cuffed and looking worse for wear. A large bruise marred his face, and his suit was filthy—clear signs that his capture had been even rougher. Kayneth’s gaze swept the room and the people in it.

The space resembled a smuggler’s den. Piles of miscellaneous goods—electronics, tools, counterfeit porcelain vases, rolls of fabric, paintings, furniture, even a bundle of cheap souvenir katanas—were scattered across the concrete floor, filling shelves, crates, and tables. The air reeked of mildew and old oil.

The obvious leader was a man of about forty, Chinese, dressed in an expensive suit, sitting in a plush chair behind a metal table. His cold, disdainful gaze was locked on the new arrivals. Next to him stood a young man, European, clad entirely in black. Though seemingly unarmed, the aura of menace he exuded was palpable to Kayneth, even if its source remained unclear. The rest of the room’s occupants were a dozen armed thugs, most of Asian or South Asian descent, carrying pistols and shotguns.

One of the two men who had abducted Kayneth stepped forward, placed the boy’s confiscated wand and knife on the leader’s table, then left the room without a word. The leader nodded and cast a significant glance at the man in black, before hiding the mystic tools under the table. Noticing Kayneth’s gaze, he offered a polite, almost accentless explanation.

“I’ve seen Return of the Jedi, you know. I’m not stupid enough to leave weapons in your sight. Take the tape off him,” he ordered one of his men. Then, with a sharp bark, “Not the kid, you idiot—the redhead.”

“Got it, boss.”

“Good day, Mr. Cheng,” Albert greeted as though they’d bumped into each other at a formal event. “A pleasure to see you in good health.”

“And you as well, Al,” Cheng replied, as if exchanging pleasantries at a dinner party. “How’s the family?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it. My own son, however, is in the hospital. No idea when he’ll get out, and I haven’t even calculated the cost yet. But more than that, it’s just disgraceful when a high-end establishment on neutral territory allows some gutter monkey to pull a knife on you. That’s bad for business, Al. Surely you agree?”

“I don’t think my insignificant opinion matters here,” Albert said humbly. “I’ve paid all my dues to Patrick, and I believe he sent representatives to resolve this unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“Oh, he did,” Cheng said with mock regret. “Unfortunately, we failed to reach an understanding.”

Cheng reached for a pistol resting on his desk—one Kayneth recognized as Albert’s—and approached them with unhurried steps.

“Their offer was frankly insulting. Under normal circumstances, I’d call it humiliating. But what else can you expect from the Irish? Your actions didn’t just harm a member of my crew or even one of my lieutenants—they hurt my own son. My eldest son. Family, Al, is everything, as you know. Your people have a history of blood feuds, don’t they? So tell me, how am I supposed to settle for such a pathetic apology? A token share in a minor operation? A shop on some borderline territory? Monetary compensation? Offering me money for my son’s blood—don’t you think that’s vulgar, Al?”

“With all due respect, Mr. Cheng,” Albert began carefully, mustering every ounce of his rhetorical skill while staring up at the man, “I must point out that it wasn’t I who gave the reckless order to attack your heir. Nor was I the one who carried out that dreadful act, brazenly violating the agreements among honorable individuals. You’re a man of great stature, Mr. Cheng, and I’m just a humble man trying to provide for my family as best I can. I deeply sympathize with your loss and would gladly offer, free of charge, several special formulations that could alleviate your son’s pain and quickly heal his injuries, even scars, if he so desires.”

“You’re not getting it, Al,” Cheng said coldly, his tone both patronizing and threatening. “It’s precisely because of the goods you sold that this attack was even possible. Every other option was sealed off. Don’t take me for a fool. You handed those scum a chance no one saw coming—one that broke agreements and nullified every safeguard in place. Do you still not get it?”

Cheng stepped closer, his voice dropping into an almost conversational tone, though the menace behind it remained clear. “And now, as compensation, you’re offering me ointments and powders? My people sell ‘miracle remedies based on the Emperor’s healers’ recipes’ on every corner in the West End—most made from crushed cockroaches and rat droppings. Don’t tell me I don’t know the worth of a snake oil peddler. I’m glad you’ve carved out a nice little business for yourself, but it’s causing problems for decent people. Wouldn’t it be fairer for everyone if your pitiful trade went back to following the rules and stopped interfering in others’ affairs?”

He raised the Browning pistol and pressed the barrel against Kayneth’s forehead. “Maybe then you’ll realize not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong or take on more than you can handle.”

“Mr. Cheng,” Albert interjected, his voice calm yet firm, “everyone knows you’re a man of business, respected for it. Wouldn’t it be shortsighted to turn away truly exclusive services and rarest items, even after such a regrettable incident? I understand the value of family honor and avenging one’s own, but unique opportunities—unavailable anywhere else—could bring far greater benefits to your family and your enterprise than the blood of someone only tangentially involved, with no ill intent toward you or yours. Yes, a mistake was made—a tragic one—but mistakes can and should be turned to greater advantage, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think so,” Cheng replied coldly. “My reputation is worth more than your money, and your ‘special services’ won’t erase the disgrace.” He cocked the pistol with a deliberate, audible click and pressed it harder against Kayneth’s head. “Blood must be paid with blood. Perhaps remembering this pathetic scene will teach you to think twice next time. And your attempts to buy my forgiveness are laughable…”

The sentence ended in a guttural gasp as Cheng suddenly convulsed, choking and jerking violently. Thin, gleaming metal wires, now slick with blood, had erupted from his throat and neck in multiple places.

“Bloody hell, James! We were practically there!” Albert groaned in genuine exasperation as the triad boss gurgled and twitched, struggling to breathe.

Kayneth had endured long enough. He had tolerated the farce of their negotiation, the strutting theatrics of a self-important thug waving a gun like a badge of power. Even the moment when the barrel of the gun was aimed directly at his head had not pushed him to act; their survival had seemed to hinge on the bluster and pretense of bargaining.

Perhaps Cheng hadn’t intended to kill him—merely to use the threat as leverage in the deal, perhaps even to angle for a cut of their business. All the talk of honor and revenge could have been nothing more than posturing. It made sense. But the sound of the cocking pistol brought back too many memories of betrayal and loss—the image of Sola’s fate, his own death. It was the last straw.

By sheer force of will, Kayneth activated his magic circuits, reshaping the molecular structure of the steel handcuffs binding his wrists. The metal liquefied, pooling into his right palm as a dense, cold drop. Timing it perfectly as Cheng resumed taunting Albert, Kayneth sprang from the chair and thrust his hand forward, simultaneously swiping the pistol aside.

Cheng reflexively pulled the trigger. The gunshot roared near Kayneth’s ear, deafening him temporarily on one side as the bullet whizzed past his head. But it was too late for the triad boss. The steel drop had shot forward, elongating and dividing into fine, sharp threads. They pierced Cheng’s throat, twisted inside his neck, then burst out again, forming a half-dozen tight spirals of metallic wire, each wound multiple times.

“Don’t move!” Kayneth snarled, ripping the tape from his face with a sharp hiss. “Right now, I’ve avoided damaging any nerves or arteries, but one wrong move and your ‘boss’ will lose his head—literally. If you try to shoot me, the steel will extend and do the job without my control. And you,” he added icily, locking eyes with the young man in black, who had whipped out a wand from under his coat, “try casting mental magic, and I’ll boil your tiny brain inside your skull. Afterward, I’ll reanimate your corpse and send it as a gift-wrapped ghoul to your family.”

The black-clad wizard froze, his wand still trained on Kayneth. While his calm demeanor suggested experience, Kayneth noted the subtle twitch in his hand. He wasn’t as unshakable as he pretended.

With no one making sudden moves—aside from the occasional shout of indignation, which Kayneth ignored—he reached out with his free hand to retrieve the pistol from the trembling hand of Mr. Cheng. Tossing the gun dismissively into a pile of rolled-up carpets in the corner, Kayneth then extracted a pocket watch from his coat. The oversized watch barely fit in his hand, but its surface gleamed faintly with embedded enchantments. He pressed a bloodied finger against its sharp edge, letting a drop of crimson seep into the grooves before flipping it open.

The pocket watch’s mechanisms clicked into place, activating its secondary function. The space within expanded, unfurling into a small, contained dimensional rift. From it emerged a gleaming yellow spear, nearly four feet long—almost as tall as Kayneth himself.

“Verite ad me, bellator,” Kayneth intoned the aria of the spell. It seemed the young wizard who had organized this ambush had done a remarkably poor job of preparing his men. Otherwise, they would have confiscated more than just his wand and knife—any object capable of serving as a mystic code, no matter how inconspicuous. Neither his pocket watch, medallion, nor bracelet had been taken. Their incompetence was their undoing.

As the familiar presence stirred at the edge of his consciousness, the magus began to move, relying entirely on the instincts of Diarmuid while directing them toward his immediate goals. First, he released the steel wires. In his possessed state, he couldn’t use other spells anyway. As the coiled springs of metal unraveled, tearing through Cheng’s neck in what seemed slow motion, Kayneth snatched the falling spear. Without missing a beat, he kicked Albert’s chair into the corner near the discarded pistol. The landing wouldn’t be soft or painless, but the squib needed to be out of the line of fire if Kayneth wanted to avoid finding a new business partner.

The medallion designed for summoning the shadow of a heroic spirit was only half as effective as the prototype, barely reaching an E-rank, but even so, it temporarily enhanced Kayneth’s physical abilities to five times those of an ordinary human. With this amplification, he could easily kick an adult man a dozen feet across the room. Assuming everything went as planned, he had at least thirty seconds of real-time to act.

Continuing his motion, he grabbed his chair with his left hand and hurled it at the head of a thug near the far wall. Without waiting to see the result, Kayneth launched himself toward an Indian man standing behind him with a shotgun. His body moved instinctively, guided by Diarmuid’s honed techniques, polished over thousands of repetitions.

Three quick steps closed the distance. He halted abruptly, channeling his momentum into a thrust that drove the spear through the man’s liver. Wrenching it free in one swift motion, he pivoted, gripping the spear closer to the blade to use the shaft as a club. The end of the pole smashed another thug’s pistol-wielding hand aside before a follow-up jab collapsed his windpipe. Without hesitation, Kayneth shifted focus to the next enemy.

“Ex… pel-li…”

The shouted incantation rose above the cacophony of screams and clattering weapons, forcing Kayneth to spin toward the sound mid-stride. A wizard was finishing an aria while gesturing sharply with his wand. In his other hand, he clutched a pendant glowing with magical energy, shrouding him in a faint conceptual aura. The young wizard moved twice as fast as any of the others in the room, far beyond mere reaction speed. Kayneth had seen something like this before—in his previous life—and the memory didn’t bode well.

“…ar-mus!”

The disarming spell shot from the wand with uncanny precision, but Kayneth darted toward the nearest thug, using his small stature to thrust the spear upward. The blade tore through the man’s throat and shattered his jaw. Twisting violently, Kayneth used the collapsing body as a shield against the incoming spell. The thug’s arm snapped backward, dislodging the sawed-off shotgun and likely breaking a few fingers in the process. However, the wizard, the gun was flying towards, didn’t bother to catch it. Instead, he stepped to the side and made his next wand motion.

Ignoring the fallen weapon as well, Kayneth yanked his spear free and smashed its shaft into another thug’s kneecap, splintering the joint. His second strike sent the man flying backward with a sickening crunch. But these actions were perfunctory; his primary focus was now on the wizard—far more dangerous than the hired muscle.

“Incarcero!”

The binding spell shot toward him, but Kayneth evaded with inhuman speed, sidestepping and closing the gap. The wizard shouted his arias, his wand movements sharp and deliberate, despite the clear signs of fear on his face.

“Impedimenta!”

Kayneth snagged a nearby roll of fabric with his spear, tossing it into the air to block the spell. The bolt froze the cloth mid-flight, creating an impromptu barrier. Exploiting his diminutive stature, Kayneth slid beneath the suspended roll, executed a quick roll, and sprang to his feet. But the wizard had already repositioned.

“Depulso!”

A gaudy vase painted with dragons hurtled toward Kayneth’s head. He sidestepped it with ease, preparing for a final lunge. The next spell, Reducio, missed its mark entirely, detonating the vase instead. The explosion sent shards flying, tearing through Kayneth’s robes and leaving cuts and bruises across his shoulders and neck. Enhanced endurance from the heroic spirit mitigated the worst of the injuries, but the attack left him staggered—a window the wizard exploited.

“Stupefy Tria!”

With no time to dodge, Kayneth hurled his spear as a last-ditch effort. The throw didn’t hit the wizard’s throat as intended, grazing his shoulder instead. But it disrupted the spell, sending the stunning bolt off course. A thug screamed as the errant spell slammed him into a wall, and chaos erupted as bullets ricocheted wildly.

Unfazed, Kayneth lunged forward, snatching a decorative sword and flinging it at the wizard’s head. The man deflected it with a spell just in time, but the distraction allowed Kayneth to leap over a table, reclaim the spear, and aim a thrust at the wizard’s face. The wizard managed to dodge, jerking his head to the side. Kayneth, however, didn’t repeat the same attack. Instead, he swung the blade in a downward arc, slicing through the pendant around the wizard’s neck.

The enchantment broke with a crackling snap, and the wizard staggered, his movements visibly slowed. Smirking, Kayneth drove the spear into his abdomen, twisting the blade before yanking it free. Preparing to end the fight with a decapitating strike, he raised the spear again.

At that moment, a bullet struck Kayneth square in the chest, slamming him into the wall as the sharp crack of gunfire filled the air. The first shot was deflected by the air shield from his bracelet, the shockwave amplifying the destruction in the room. Two more bullets hit the wall, but the fourth lodged itself in his ribs. The force disrupted his intended strike; instead of hitting the wizard’s neck, the blade grazed his face. With a cry, the wizard collapsed to the floor.

Kayneth survived only because the reinforcement of his body by the heroic spirit prevented the bullet from penetrating his lung. It merely embedded itself in his rib and left a painful fracture. Even so, the impact was brutal.

Subjectively, the entire fight had lasted less than a minute, but that meant over ten seconds had passed in real time. Even the remaining dimwitted thugs had enough time to stop gawking at the "miracles" unfolding before them and open fire on the man who had killed their boss. Unfortunately, with his current level of synchronization with the heroic spirit, Kayneth couldn’t replicate Diarmuid’s feats from the Grail War. Deflecting bullets with a spear was out of the question.

He had two options: close the distance and force another melee engagement or be riddled with bullets. No magic would save him if that happened.

Staying low, he darted through piles of scattered junk. Bullets and buckshot tore through rolls of carpet, smashed boxes, shattered televisions, and exploded ceramic vases, but none hit their target. The gunmen weren’t skilled enough to lead their shots against his speed. Sliding behind the gang leader’s desk, Kayneth placed his spear on the floor. Summoning all his strength, both his own and borrowed, he heaved the desk into the air. It arced ten feet and crashed down into the thugs, scattering them. A couple were thrown aside with broken bones. The momentary chaos gave Kayneth the opening he needed.

With three rapid strides, he reached them and impaled the nearest opponent.

The next ten seconds felt like an eternity. For Kayneth, the fight became a relentless, deadly dance. He wielded the spear with brutal precision, guided by Diarmuid’s battle instincts. A strike with the shaft here, a dodge from a knife thrust there. A kick to unbalance one opponent while absorbing a grazing bullet to his shoulder. A swift twist of the spear to knock a shotgun aside, sending its blast into one of the shooter’s allies. Seizing the red-hot barrel, he pulled it toward himself, delivering a fatal thrust to another thug’s throat.

Even with superhuman capabilities, Kayneth avoided targeting hardened areas like the chest or spine where the spear might get stuck. He focused on soft, vulnerable spots to maintain his speed and fluidity. At one point, reinforcements burst through a door, drawn by the noise. The first was immediately felled by a thrown cleaver, splitting his skull, forcing the others into close combat.

Amid the chaos, Kayneth noticed one of the thugs glance behind him. Instinctively, he rammed his spear shaft into the man’s chest, breaking ribs, and spun around.

The wizard stood there, his polished composure now shattered. Bloodied and disheveled, he clutched the wound in his abdomen with one hand while aiming his wand with the other. He moved with the same determined precision, his spell nearly complete.

Kayneth caught only part of the wand’s movement, not enough to recognize the incantation. The magical blast was nearly invisible, which at least ruled out the Killing Curse. But the risk was too great. Trusting Diarmuid’s reflexes, Kayneth spun and hurled his spear with the force of a whirling drill, simultaneously leaping sideways to take cover behind a shelf.

The spear met the spell midair, igniting in bright flames. “Incendio,” Kayneth identified as he scrambled for something to throw.

The wizard flung a body into the air to block the burning spear, sending it and the corpse crashing to the side. Then he froze, his gaze turning inward as if focusing on something else. Kayneth, gripping a porcelain plate he’d found intact, smashed it against a table and readied a shard to throw.

Before he could act, the wizard seemed to blur, distorting the space around him.

“Apparition. Damn it!”

Three bullets struck the shimmering silhouette, disrupting the spell, but the wizard vanished before the fourth could connect. Spinning around, Kayneth saw MacDuggal standing from cover, holding his Browning. Despite his age and unassuming build, the squib had shown impressive agility, freeing himself from the chain linking his handcuffs, retrieving his weapon, and targeting the most dangerous opponent.

When the wizard disappeared, MacDuggal turned to the remaining thugs, calmly executing one who was crawling toward his gun with three precise shots.

“Revertemur,” Kayneth murmured the aria to end the mystic code’s effects, his voice tight with pain. “Damn it!” The moment the connection broke, a wave of exhaustion and agony overwhelmed him, nearly dropping him to his knees.

Cuts from shrapnel littered his back, neck, and head. Bruises and broken ribs throbbed, deeper lacerations bled profusely, and his right thigh burned from embedded buckshot. His cloak was reduced to tatters unfit for even rags. The mystic code’s power had allowed him to endure, but the price was steep.

“You’re absolutely insane, James…” MacDuggal’s voice broke through the ringing in his ears. Despite his injuries, he managed to sound exasperated. “Everything was going fine! Sure, he was showing off, and yeah, I played along, but we could’ve worked something out—this wasn’t the first time. Was it really necessary to turn this place into a slaughterhouse?” He grimaced at the sight of a thug crushed against the concrete wall, blood pooling beneath him. “You’re crazy enough not to fear death, but what the hell got into you just now? Don’t tell me you’ve got some kind of gun phobia.”

“What?” Kayneth muttered, straightening with effort. He was too focused on using spiritual healing to staunch his bleeding and mend the worst of his wounds to pay much attention to Albert’s complaints.

“Irrational fear of guns”

“Oh, you have no idea how rational my fear of firearms is,” Kayneth replied coolly.

“Seriously? That’s the whole reason?” Albert sputtered, clearly holding back a more colorful outburst. “Well, hell, what else can I even say to that?”

“Better tell me what you were shooting with,” Kayneth interrupted. “Was it my bullets or regular ones? That wizard’s taken a beating, but he might survive long enough to bring reinforcements.”

“No, he won’t,” Albert replied. “I’ve been using the ‘special’ rounds exclusively for the past month, and not one client has complained so far.” He stooped to retrieve a spare magazine that had fallen during the fight, reloaded his pistol, and slipped the half-used one into his pocket.

“Well, that’s one problem solved.” Kayneth approached the overturned table, opened a drawer, and retrieved his dagger and wand before turning to his spear. “Finite. Glacio.” With practiced precision, he extinguished the magical flames and cooled the weapon until it was safe to handle.

Searching under a corpse, he retrieved his pocket watch, opened it, and began slotting the spear back into its mystic storage. The mechanism clicked shut with a satisfying snap. “We have maybe ten or fifteen minutes before the Aurors show up. I’d rather not be here when they do. If there’s anything you need from this place, grab it now, and then we’re leaving.”

“Oh, we’ve got bigger problems than your magical Men in Black,” Albert retorted. “Cheng wasn’t just some random thug—he ran a branch of the Triad. Sure, it was the fourth in size London, but it’s still not just a gang of burglars. If the higher-ups don’t see this as a calculated move on our part, I’m skipping town to Seattle tonight, and you’d better lock yourself away in your cursed elf country for at least five years. Got it?”

Kayneth shrugged nonchalantly, which Albert interpreted as agreement. Fishing a bulky phone out of his pocket—remarkably left untouched by the gang—Albert dialed a number. His tone turned falsely casual when the line connected.

“Larry, hey, long time no see. Listen, do me a favor and put Patrick on. Yeah, it’s urgent. No, I haven’t lost my mind. Larry, we’ve known each other for five years; you really think I’d ask for this if it weren’t a matter of life and death? No, it’s not just about me. Yes, I get it, but we’re on the verge of getting wiped out here…”

Kayneth ignored the exchange, focusing on his own task. He knelt and began drawing runes and a small magic circle on the floor with blood. Most of his standard rituals had already been recalculated to suit this world’s conditions, so his movements were methodical and precise.

“Praying to your Lucifer or whoever it is you warlocks worship?” Albert called out, sounding notably more cheerful. “Well, good news. Our ‘umbrella’—” he snorted at the slang—“understood the value of dismantling a leaderless pack. They’re already gathering fighters with our neighbors to take over Cheng’s territory and flush out anyone left. No coordination means no real resistance. We’ll need to lay low for a few days until it all settles. So what the hell are you summoning now?”

“Just cleaning up the evidence,” Kayneth said evenly. He moved to the wall and picked up a shattered medallion, resembling a tiny hourglass encased in a golden disk on a chain. Slipping it into his pocket—his cloak was too shredded to be of use—he returned to his circle. “The Aurors will get here before the police or any gangsters. They don’t need to see any of this. So everything will burn. Burn so thoroughly there won’t even be ashes left. The spell isn’t complicated, but the sacrifices will amplify it to that level.” He gestured to the bodies scattered around the room, some of which still twitched faintly.

“Wait…” Albert paused, visibly unsettled. “Alright, fine, I admit it. You’re completely insane. You’ve got an unhealthy obsession with erasing crime scenes down to nothing. But we’ll discuss that later. Hang on.” He crouched beside Cheng’s body, rifled through the pockets, and extracted a garishly decorated silver pistol, a notebook, some keys, and a handful of other items. Stuffing them into his own pockets, he stood. “Okay, now we can go. I’ve never been here before, but I’ve heard about this place. We’ll take the corridor, then stairs. There’s a Chinese restaurant upstairs. We cut through the backrooms to the alley, and if we’re lucky, the car they brought you in will still be there.”

“Let’s hope for the best,” Kayneth replied with a predatory smile, clearly anticipating the opportunity to settle scores with a few overeager gangsters. Extending his hand, he activated his magic circuits and began chanting a six-line Latin spell. As his voice rose and fell, the large pool of blood on the floor began to evaporate, forming a red mist that hovered nearby.

“What the hell is that?” Albert asked warily.

“Just insurance.” Kayneth smiled faintly. “Armis.” The mist condensed almost instantly, solidifying into a pinkish ice wall before him. “Haze.” The wall dissolved back into mist. “Ferrum.” This time, the mist surged toward a corpse, transforming midair into six slender icy rapiers that impaled the body. “Haze. See? Simple.”

“Actually, that’s not bad,” Albert admitted, pocketing his pistol and hefting a shotgun from the floor. “Now stick close and try not to cause any more trouble. We’ve already exceeded our quota for the next six months.”

“And whose fault is that? I had other plans for tonight too,” Kayneth shot back, still smirking. “But alas, fate had other ideas.”

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 13

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his "laboratory," Kayneth methodically worked through a sequence of spells with his newly acquired wand.

“Aguamenti… Glacius… Leviosa… Diffindo… Evanesco…”

With a measured focus, he conjured a small amount of water in a bowl from a recently purchased alchemical set, froze it into solid ice, levitated the frozen block, sliced it into smaller pieces, and finally made the fragments vanish without a trace. The process was slow and deliberate, but it required only a minimal expenditure of his magical energy.

Letting out a sigh, Archibald set the mystic code aside and opened his own magic circuits, bracing against the familiar pain. Stretching his palm over the bowl, he murmured:

“Gradation Air.”

Once again, he created water, froze it, levitated it, and then made it vanish. Materialization posed little difficulty—manipulating his elemental affinity for ice was coming to him naturally. Telekinesis, however, proved trickier; compensating for all the external forces acting on an object "manually" was far more challenging. When it came to slicing, the task became downright arduous.

Among magi of the Association, the preferred method for cutting was to form a tangible blade with magic—air, sand, ice, water, metal, or even light. Rarely did they resort to curses or conceptual attacks designed to sever the target directly. By contrast, dematerializing an object to reclaim some of the energy expended in creating it was a relatively simple task.

The core of his issue was glaringly clear. Kayneth was an adult magus with an established style and a set of honed mysteries deeply ingrained in his consciousness and reflexes. While he was open to exploring new forms and methods of magic as a researcher, learning to execute them instinctively was another matter entirely.

Everything about this process was alien to him—the gestures, the mindset, the energy manipulation. Archibald wasn’t a "one-trick pony" magus, as some were. He was a master of three distinct disciplines, with a broad enough knowledge base to competently teach others, but the way magic was channeled and utilized in this world clashed with his existing repertoire. Simply integrating local techniques wasn’t feasible.

“Aguamenti,” he repeated.

A clear image of the desired outcome formed in his mind. He followed with a precise gesture, the mystic code drawing ambient mana to the spell. A short incantation stabilized the process, allowing the magic circuits to interact seamlessly and complete the mystery. Once more, water filled the bowl.

Fundamentally, the spell was akin to "Gradation Air," materializing magical energy into a tangible, familiar form. The difference lay in its limitations—it could produce only water. Drinking it was pointless; the liquid would either dissipate or pass through the body without effect. However, it could be frozen into ice, fashioned into a weapon, or used to douse flames and break obstacles.

For over a week, Kayneth had been experimenting with the local mystic code, which was ubiquitous in this world. The results were... mixed. As a mana concentrator and amplifier, the wand was exceptional, rivaling relics from the Age of Gods. With it, Kayneth could execute mysteries effectively, but the process was painfully slow. Each spell demanded prolonged concentration, leaving him vulnerable in any potential duel or combat scenario.

If he wanted to pass as a local wizard and establish himself in the magical community, he would need to rebuild his reflexes from scratch. This meant selecting a core set of spells to master first, a daunting task given the vast repertoire even within the British school of magic. Creating his own spells was another possibility, but first, he needed to adapt.

However, part of him resisted. The idea of conforming to the local methods felt like surrender, as if he were erasing what little remained of his former self. Kayneth had already lost nearly everything—his fiancee had died in his arms, his noble family was likely in ruins, and their crest, crafted over centuries, was obliterated. His magical power was reduced to a fraction of its former strength. His wealth, status, influence, and even his face and name were gone.

All that remained were his knowledge, skills, and the remnants of pride as Lord El-Melloi, the ninth head of the Archibald family, a scholar and instructor of the Clock Tower. That sliver of pride, which he had once cast aside, now anchored him. It was the only thing stopping him from ending it all—from throwing himself off a bridge or freezing his blood with a short aria.

The refusal to yield to circumstances a second time, however faint, kept him moving forward. Even as a "Muggle-born," a "mudblood," despised and powerless in this society, he persisted.

Had he been born into even a modestly respected family, his path would have been less arduous. Presenting himself as the heir to a minor lineage would have made navigating the social hierarchy far easier. But no such opportunity existed. The global magical community was too small for an unknown seventh-generation pureblood to emerge from nowhere. Any fabricated lineage would quickly be exposed by the Confederation of Wizards.

And so, he had to maintain his facade as an eager novice, quietly amassing knowledge and strength for his eventual ascent. Anything less was unacceptable.

He picked up the wand again and stared at it with grim determination. If he was to play the part of a wizard, he would become one of the most talked-about wizards on this island—at the very least. Anything less was beneath him.

“Aguamenti… Glacius… Mobiliarbus Aqua… Engorgio… Waddiwasi… Evanesco…”

Late into the night, Kayneth’s work was interrupted by the arrival of MacDuggal. The squib stepped into the library, a large, empty sports bag slung over one shoulder. Kayneth hadn’t activated the barrier on the door, allowing MacDuggal to enter unimpeded. Without looking up, the magus gestured toward a "demonstration" table, where a collection of trinkets and small metallic objects were already prepared for him.

MacDuggal obediently began filling his bag, but instead of leaving immediately, he dropped onto a low stool near the desk and spoke with deliberate weight:

“Don’t mean to interrupt, James, but we’ve got a problem. There’s trouble brewing, and it could land right on our doorstep.”

Kayneth, seated amidst five open books, reluctantly paused his calculations and looked up. “What sort of trouble?”

“Nothing solid yet, just whispers. But from reliable sources. Word is, someone knifed a big shot’s son at an exclusive club—one of those fancy places with top-tier security, cameras everywhere, bouncers who’ll pat you down like prison guards. The kind of place where you can’t sneak in so much as a hairpin. What’s got people talking is the weapon. The wound was likely made with one of your blades—the ones I sold. Only problem is, it ended up in the hands of some bumbling idiot who couldn’t even finish the job properly. Unless that was the plan all along, and it’s the work of some lunatic,” MacDuggal shrugged.

“None of that matters. The real issue is the aftermath. People are looking for answers, and the trail’s leading back here. Right now, it’s just the club’s ‘management’ sniffing around—they’re embarrassed it happened on their turf, so they’re scrambling to save face. But if that kid’s father decides this was a personal attack on him, things could escalate fast. That’s when we’ll have real problems.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. MacDuggal,” Kayneth began with feigned politeness, his irritation clear, “but isn’t handling clients, orders, and misunderstandings entirely your domain? And since when is a weapons dealer responsible for how a buyer uses the merchandise? This isn’t law enforcement we’re dealing with.”

“In theory, you’re right,” MacDuggal admitted, leaning back. “And just so you know, we’re not out here naked with a bag of goods. I pay my dues to the people who matter—a tidy ‘tax’ for the privilege of doing business, even with the esoteric stuff. And we’ve got protection—one of the stronger ‘umbrellas’ in London. They take care of competitors and the police if they dig too deep.”

“Then why am I listening to this?” Kayneth asked sharply, his patience thinning. “Why waste my time with something outside my interests, especially when it’s already being handled by the people you’re paying for that very purpose?”

“I said ‘in theory,’” MacDuggal repeated patiently, as though explaining to a child. He’d learned over the past few months that James’ understanding of certain things could be… detached. “Everyone would want to say that agreements between bosses are ironclad, unbreakable. But in reality? The powerful break rules whenever they want if they think they can get away with it.

“No one knows exactly what went down or how serious it was, which means no one knows what the fallout could be. Worst case? They’ll come at us, ignore all the rules, maybe try to pressure us. In other words, they’ll lean on us hard, maybe even threaten us, ignoring any agreements. If they see it as the lesser evil to protect their reputation, they’ll do it. I’m small-time—my operation isn’t big enough to warrant a sit-down between the bosses. They’d rather squash me, pay my ‘umbrella’ an apology, and move on. They’re not starting a gang war or shaking up alliances over someone at my level. They’ll resolve it between themselves, but by then, I’ll already be out of the picture.”

“What exactly do you want from me?” Kayneth asked, his head beginning to ache from the constant barrage of underworld slang. “More weapons? Defensive items? You already have a bracelet with an air shield, and I doubt you even take it off when you sleep.”

“No. We wouldn’t stand a chance in a real fight—not even with all your fancy tricks,” MacDuggal replied bluntly, ignoring the glare Kayneth shot him. “I’ve already informed the right people, and hopefully, they’ll settle things at their level. But we still need to be prepared for something underhanded. They might send a couple of thugs with nothing to lose—to silence us quietly.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Kayneth asked again, more tired than angry now.

“Just be cautious. James, whether you’re really who you claim to be or not, you’re an ideal target for kidnapping. If they’re tailing me, they might not even know your role in all this. Hell, they could think you’re just my mistress and her kid stashed in a flat,” MacDuggal said dryly. “Kidnapping you would be a great way to pressure me.”

“Even better than you realize,” Kayneth muttered darkly, memories of hostage situations flashing through his mind.

“Glad to see you’re catching on,” MacDuggal said, not entirely missing Kayneth’s tone. “If you can’t limit your trips to Whittington, at least take someone with you. Like the driver I had pick you up after that explosion—he can keep an eye on you until this blows over. We’ll see where things stand once the higher-ups finish their talks.”

“It’s unnecessary. I can take care of myself,” Kayneth said firmly, rejecting the offer of a guard. “Especially when it’s not a matter of life or death. Haven’t I already shown that I’m more than capable of protecting myself?”

“Situations can vary. Besides, you’re not allowed to use magic in front of witnesses,” MacDuggal countered.

“And your thug is allowed to pull out a gun in the middle of London? This isn’t Somalia,” Kayneth replied with a sharp edge.

“As I said, situations can vary,” MacDuggal repeated patiently. “At least think about it.”

“If I have the time, but I doubt I’ll come to a different conclusion,” Kayneth dismissed the warning with a wave of his hand.

“Fine… If you’re so confident in your abilities. But I’m assigning someone to guard this apartment regardless. Even if you can lock yourself in here, Miss Stone remains unprotected, and she knows things. Don’t argue.”

“If it makes you feel better, what can I do? Just keep them out of my affairs, and I don’t care otherwise.”

“Good. The guard will start tonight. If you need an escort, just call, and I’ll send someone immediately.”

“Fine, fine. If I need one, I’ll let you know,” Kayneth replied, exasperated.

“Good to hear. Well, with that settled, I’ll take my leave.”

“Wait,” Kayneth said, stopping him. His tone turned serious. “Answer one question first. I need more data for my analysis.”

“Yeah? What’s it about?” MacDuggal asked, intrigued.

“What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word ‘wizard,’ Mr. MacDuggal?”

“You’re kidding, right?” MacDuggal stared, incredulous. After all the serious discussion about threats and danger, this was the follow-up question? Maybe he’d misjudged James’ maturity after all.

“This is an important question. Take it seriously. I’ve already asked Miss Stone and a few others through her, but I need a larger sample.”

“…Why?” MacDuggal asked, still bewildered. But then he recalled how James never engaged in idle chatter with his ‘stepmother,’ sticking strictly to business. If he’d discussed this with her, it must be relevant to some arcane aspect of his research. “Fine, whatever. A wizard, huh? Okay… An old guy in a robe and pointed hat, usually with a long beard. He’s got a staff or a wand. Alternatively, maybe a broody gothic type in his twenties, dressed in all black, but that’s more of a ‘sorcerer’ or ‘warlock.’ Both can do all kinds of magical stuff—summon fire, make things disappear or appear out of nowhere. Turn people into frogs or tree stumps, curse them, or heal diseases. They show up out of nowhere, babble some cryptic nonsense, and then vanish again. Usually, they carry a magic book or scroll. And they live alone in a tower.”

“Interesting. And what about ‘witch’?”

“A hag. Old, ugly, covered in warts, maybe with a hunchback. Or the opposite—a stunning young woman, usually a redhead or a brunette,” MacDuggal replied without much hesitation. “Wears a black cloak or dress, sometimes a pointed hat, flies around on a broomstick. Brews nasty stuff in a cauldron—mushrooms, fingernails, whatever. Keeps a talking black cat or an owl. Can curse people too, but their magic is weaker than a wizard’s. They live in forests or swamps, places no one in their right mind would go.”

“Fascinating. So far, this aligns pretty consistently. Thank you, Mr. MacDuggal. You’ve been helpful. I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Sure, no problem,” MacDuggal replied with a shrug. As he left, he thought again about how peculiar the magus was. On his way out, he asked Miss Stone if James had actually talked to her about something like this. Meanwhile, Kayneth, oblivious to the exchange, had already plunged back into his thoughts.

Since his conversation with Granger, he had become genuinely interested in how wizards and witches were perceived in the mundane world. It seemed trivial at first glance, but it might hold the key to an answer that had eluded him.

In the Clock Tower, two mechanisms for amplifying magical power were often discussed: secrecy and openness. A spell or ritual could grow stronger the fewer people knew about it—hence why the most potent mysteries were family secrets, confined within a single bloodline. Conversely, certain disciplines like alchemy or exorcism became more powerful the more practitioners studied and refined them.

For non-magical people, the activities of the Association remained a mystery. Any incidents or breakthroughs were swiftly erased by enforcers or executors of the Church, relegated to rumors or urban legends. But here, it seemed wizards had chosen a different path. They either shaped their lives and image to match popular folklore or manipulated cultural depictions to align with their reality.

It wasn’t hard to imagine the Ministry of Magic being incapable of such subtlety, but wizards in the U.S., where much of the world’s films, TV shows, and books were produced, might have actively curated their portrayal in mass culture.

The goal, as always, would be the same: enhancing their power. The beliefs and perceptions of ordinary people might carry less metaphysical weight than those of magi, but there were far more of them. This principle was similar to how Heroic Spirits summoned for the Holy Grail War grew stronger based on their renown in history and myth. The more famous and embedded a figure was in the collective consciousness of the current generation, the greater their abilities.

If the local wizards—deliberately or not—harnessed this mechanism to strengthen certain mysteries, it could theoretically explain much. The proliferation of flight, the astonishingly low "cost" of teleportation, the hundreds, if not thousands, of familiar-like owls capable of near-instantaneous travel, and other phenomena suddenly seemed less fantastical.

Perhaps even the enchanted fireplaces were connected, though no one he’d questioned had mentioned them yet. Maybe their function tied back to some larger ritual structure…

To validate these conclusions, Kayneth knew he would need to conduct a series of experiments. First, he would attempt to recreate commonly used magical mysteries without their external trappings and then compare their effectiveness, calculating the theoretical influence of human belief as a coefficient. But that was a project for the future. For now, the basic hypothesis was sufficient for planning the application of "popular" mysteries like instant teleportation and flight, as well as exploring their integration with other spells and rituals. These experiments would also yield the necessary practical material to refine his theoretical framework. 

Perhaps in the future, he might involve other wizards in this research, assuming he could pique their interest in the idea. Magi born to non-magical families might be more receptive—it would be far easier to persuade them to brew potions in aluminum pots over a Bunsen burner, under electric lights, dressed in lab coats, and recording the process on camera, than to explain to an aristocrat what a video camera even was or how the aforementioned burner didn't run on elderwood twigs.

Speaking of magi born to non-magical families—today was July 16th. That meant in two days, on Saturday, he had his third scheduled meeting with Granger to discuss the magical world and magical theory. So far, this arrangement had proven productive. In exchange for explaining various mechanisms of magic, Hermione eagerly shared information about British wizarding society—its concerns, its trending topics, albeit from her personal perspective and limited by her interests. She also provided advice on practical uses for wands in spells, classroom settings, and even for entertainment, along with insights into the daily life of magical school students. Granted, her perspective was significantly biased against pureblood families, but her reasons for such views were not without merit.

The next step in his plan was approaching. Hermione had mentioned that at the start of August, after receiving her mandatory letter, she planned to invite friends and go shopping for school supplies along with many other students. This was a moment Kayneth couldn’t afford to miss. He fully intended to accompany her, even if it meant swallowing his pride and "inviting himself along." The chance to observe the current generation of wizards up close was far too tempting to pass up.

Closing the notebook he'd been using to study the theory of "cultural influence" on the amplification of magic, Kayneth considered what might capture Granger's curiosity next time. ‘Perhaps I could introduce the concept of partial materialization,’ he mused, his gaze falling on a dagger hilt lying among his work tools—its guard intact but its blade missing. Then again, during their last discussion, she had surprised him by asking if a conceptual spell could be used on an object with the same concept to enhance rather than overwrite it. He hadn’t expected her to draw such a conclusion but had confirmed that it was indeed possible. Perhaps their next session could focus on the mystery of Reinforcement, and they could explore how to adapt it for use with wands.

If someone had told him six months ago that the heir of the Archibald family would be experimenting with spells alongside a first-generation magus, he would have laughed in their face. Yet here he was. If he wanted to achieve anything from his current, precarious position, he would have to accept such realities.

“Mr. Granger. Mrs. Granger. A pleasure to meet you.”

“So, you’re the new friend Hermione’s been talking about? James, right? She’s not forcing you to listen to all her thoughts on her latest books, is she?” her father asked in a mock-serious tone, shaking the boy’s hand.

“Your daughter was kind enough to help me prepare for school, Mr. Granger. A remarkably generous gesture on her part,” Kayneth replied smoothly.

This polite exchange played out near the entrance to the magical quarter, where Kayneth waited for Hermione, who had chosen to shop for her school supplies with her family. It wasn’t as though she needed them to come along—she frequently visited Diagon Alley alone and paid for her books herself. Her parents couldn’t offer much practical advice here. Perhaps it was their way of showing interest in their daughter’s life? Kayneth couldn’t say. Growing up in an old magical family, he had little idea what it was like to live among people utterly ignorant of magic. Wizards and non-magical people led such different lives, facing vastly different challenges.

“Alright, enough with the teasing! Let’s go!” Hermione said, blushing as she grabbed her parents’ hands and practically dragged them toward the door, making sure they didn’t veer off under the influence of the barrier. Kayneth followed them at a leisurely pace, saying nothing.

“I can never get used to this,” Mrs. Granger remarked, not for the first time. “Your legs want to go one way, but you’re supposed to walk straight ahead. Such an odd sensation!” She handed a bundle to her daughter. “Here’s your robe, sweetheart. I don’t see why you need to wear these in this heat.”

“It’s tradition,” Hermione replied glumly, quickly pulling the black fabric over her sweater and adjusting it so her house crest was prominently displayed. Then she turned to James. “And you’re going dressed like that?”

“I don’t see why not,” Kayneth replied, looking over his outfit. Back in July, preparing for a "public appearance" and growing tired of the stares his “non-magical” jacket drew in the magical quarter, he had ordered a custom-made coat from a boutique in Diagon Alley. It was a copy of his favorite cloak—thin, with wide sleeves and long tails, in dark blue (adjusted for his current size, of course). In his opinion, it was stylish enough not to draw attention in either mundane London or its magical counterpart. If anyone failed to appreciate the understated elegance of a well-tailored garment, that was their problem, not his. “I doubt I’ll stand out in the crowd.”

“Hermione, maybe you should consider a dress styled like a robe? It would look lovely with your uniform,” her mother suggested.

“Mum, don’t start.” Hermione groaned. “Besides, something like that would cost a fortune.”

“Better to spend that money on books…”

“What was that, Dad?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Their first stop was the bank. Hermione wasn’t accustomed to carrying large sums of wizarding gold and exchanged her pounds for galleons each time she visited. Kayneth stayed slightly behind, letting Hermione explain everything to her parents. What held his attention was the sheer chaos in the normally bustling quarter. Children and teenagers of all ages—except the very young—filled the streets, accompanied by their parents, older siblings, or guardians. Narrow streets and small shops, never designed to handle such crowds, only added to the congestion. Kayneth shuddered at the thought of what this place must be like in late August, when procrastinators rushed to complete their shopping at the last minute.

Besides exchanging currency, the bank was also the designated meeting point for everyone else.

“It looks like we’re the first ones here. I don’t see anyone else yet,” Hermione remarked, glancing around. She quickly dashed up the small steps to the bank’s entrance, trying to get a better view over the crowd.

Kayneth sighed, watching her. At the moment, even a twelve-year-old girl was half a head taller than he was. Adjusting to a height below six feet had been almost as difficult as adapting to weaker magic circuits and the loss of a family crest. He had somewhat acclimated to the changes, but it was still a struggle to look up at everyone around him. Fortunately, he’d grow out of it with time, though enduring several years like this would still be a trial.

“Harry! Over here!” Hermione suddenly called out, waving excitedly and disappearing into the crowd.

Taking her place on the steps, Kayneth noted that the elevated position indeed offered a decent view. He watched as Hermione ran toward a messy-haired boy wearing glasses, who stood next to a towering figure over seven feet tall, with a thick beard that nearly obscured his eyes. The man’s appearance matched her description of a school employee descended from both humans and giants. In a different time and place, Kayneth would have eagerly studied such a hybrid in detail. The combination of immense strength, resilience, high magical resistance, and even rudimentary human intelligence offered fascinating possibilities. 

In his original world, giants, ogres, and other jotunn hadn’t survived the Age of Heroes, apart from a few rare relics. Hybrids like this simply didn’t exist there. With such a base, one could craft anything from chimeras to high-quality undead, especially if enhanced further with magic and rituals. The potential for creating a familiar with human-like size, excellent magical resistance, high combat abilities, and decent trainability was tempting to say the least.

Kayneth’s thoughts were interrupted when a group of wizards joined Hermione. Most of them had bright red hair, and their clothing, while clean, was old and patched—surprisingly so, given the existence of household spells for repair and upkeep. Meanwhile, the half-giant departed, cutting through the crowd with ease. Hermione led the group toward the bank, where a round of introductions began. Her parents, apparently meeting her school friends and their families for the first time, were being introduced to everyone.

“These are my parents, Thomas and Michelle Granger. And this is Arthur and Molly Weasley,” Hermione began, introducing the adults first before moving on. “This is Percival, Fred, and George—or is it George and Fred?—Ronald, Ginevra Weasley, and Harry Potter.” She pointed to the lone dark-haired boy among the group of redheads. Then, as if remembering belatedly, she added, “Oh, and that’s James Murphy, my acquaintance.”

“I prefer the term ‘apprentice,’ Miss Granger,” Kayneth corrected politely, descending the steps toward them. “There’s no need to shy away from calling it what it is. After all, the work of a teacher, though challenging, is noble.”

“Oh, young lady, you’re taking on students after just one year of school?” Arthur Weasley quipped, pretending to be astonished as he noticed Hermione turning red. “It seems Professor McGonagall needn’t worry about finding a worthy successor.”

“Seriously, Hermione, I knew from your letter that you were busy with your studies, but I didn’t think you’d gone so far as to start teaching others. That’s over the top, even for you,” Ron chimed in, sounding entirely sincere.

“I’m only helping him prepare for our school!” Hermione exclaimed, her cheeks glowing. She pointed at Kayneth with an almost accusatory finger. “He’s a Muggle-born like me and knows practically nothing about our world or how it works. And don’t tell me that Ministry pamphlet counts as a proper introduction to the magical world… Oh, sorry, Mr. Weasley.”

“It’s quite alright,” Arthur dismissed her concern with a wave. “I’ve always said we need to be more welcoming and open toward Muggle-born wizards. It’s not the Dark Ages anymore. But unfortunately, the Ministry is full of people who love flaunting their names and lineage—like the Malfoys…”

“Speaking of, I just saw Lucius Malfoy and Draco in a shop in Knockturn Alley,” Harry interjected.

“Did you?” Arthur immediately grew serious. “What were they buying?”

“Actually, it looked like they were selling something…”

Listening intently to the conversation about the fraught relationships between the Ministry and pureblood families, Kayneth quietly stepped away to avoid drawing attention. Half his objective was already complete. By August, he had concluded that he’d been fortunate to encounter Hermione Granger. By first-year standards—and especially as a first-generation magus—she was remarkably gifted. More importantly, she possessed a relentless curiosity about magic. There might be students even more talented among the hundreds of those entering Hogwarts, but expecting to find such a candidate would be tempting fate—something Kayneth had learned not to do. Hermione knew an impressive amount for her age and was eager to share it with anyone who showed interest. If he maintained contact with her, then in a year, when it came time for him to enter the school, no one would question how this so-called Muggle-born had acquired so much knowledge. Advanced magical theory might still raise eyebrows, but at least the basics would have a plausible foundation—he could always cite books, just as Hermione did.

Meanwhile, the group split up. The Weasleys, along with Harry, descended to the lower levels of the bank to access their vaults, while the Grangers stayed upstairs to exchange their pounds for wizarding gold at the goblin counters. Kayneth mused on how goblins—mythical creatures thriving in the heart of 20th-century London—had become so ordinary to him that they no longer provoked the same awe as when he first arrived. Although he wouldn’t pass up the chance to dissect a few goblins for academic purposes, the opportunity wasn’t likely to present itself. He could only hope that advanced years at Hogwarts included a detailed study of magical creatures, perhaps with anatomical specimens for hands-on work. But that, he admitted, might be asking too much.

As soon as the wizards returned from the bank’s lower levels, the group began splitting up. The red-haired twins darted off toward the shops, Mr. Weasley pulled the Grangers toward the nearest pub to chat about "Muggle matters," and the others found their own activities. Mrs. Weasley, determined to bring some order to the chaos, stepped in to organize the group.

“In an hour, everyone meets at the bookshop to buy school supplies,” she instructed firmly. “And no wandering into Knockturn Alley—this applies to all of you.”

“James?” Hermione, about to head off with Ron and Harry to browse the shops, paused and gestured for him to join them.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude on a reunion of friends, so I’ll let you go on your own,” Kayneth replied. He turned to Mr. Weasley instead. “Mr. Weasley, if it’s not an inconvenience, may I accompany you?”

“Not at all! The more Muggles, the merrier. With my job, I rarely get a proper conversation with even one, let alone three. Come along, let’s not linger.”

In the dimly lit pub, illuminated only by candles and a few weak magical spells, Kayneth was seated at an old wooden table. Before him was placed a glass of soda, while Mr. Weasley fetched an oddly colored beer for himself and the Grangers, firmly refusing their attempts to pay. Manners came first, even in the face of modest means. Arthur immediately launched into a barrage of questions, starting with what Muggle bars were like, what drinks they served, and then jumping to Muggle sports and politics—topics that seemed common subjects for bar conversations, as well as causes of the occasional chair-throwing brawl.

Kayneth mostly stayed quiet. Playing the part of a young boy unfamiliar with bars, football, or parliamentary debates came easily. Mr. Granger ended up fielding the bulk of Arthur’s enthusiastic curiosity. Kayneth couldn’t help but feel irritated by the segregation enforced by the Statute of Secrecy and the magical community’s disdain for technological progress. But Arthur’s wide-eyed interest in the Muggle world—his almost childlike delight in hearing about the Conservative Party’s victory over Labour in April—softened that irritation. It was so genuine that Kayneth briefly considered what might happen if Arthur learned that Muggles had also invented mustard gas and carpet bombing. Would his fascination survive the revelation?

“…You know,” Arthur said wistfully, “I often dream of taking all the unused vacation days I’ve accumulated over the last decade, then arranging for someone to find me unconscious on a beach somewhere. They’d take me to a hospital as a John Doe with amnesia, and I’d have six glorious months of asking endless questions. I’d learn how everything works in the Muggle world—why they do some things one way and not another. But where would I find the time? I can’t even take a week off, let alone months.”

“If you’re serious about such a ‘vacation,’ I could help,” Mr. Granger offered earnestly. “I know plenty of doctors. The treatment a hospital gives a random vagrant versus a distant relative of a colleague with memory loss is worlds apart.”

“Mr. Weasley, if I may,” Kayneth interjected, seizing a lull in the conversation to steer it toward something more intriguing, “you work at the Ministry, don’t you? May I ask what your role is? Are you, perhaps, an Auror?”

“Ministry, yes. Auror, no,” Arthur replied with a dismissive wave. “We’re on the same floor, sure, but my job’s far less glamorous. I head the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

“Oh, fascinating,” said Kayneth, the magus who profited from such misuse, feigning genuine interest. “So you’re the head of the entire office?”

“Well, it sounds impressive,” Arthur admitted with a self-deprecating smile. “But it’s just me and one other person. I’ve been asking Amelia for additional staff for years, but it’s a low-priority department. We’re not chasing Dark artifacts or hunting rabid werewolves. No, it’s all about cleaning up after some joker enchants a staircase in the Underground to act like a slide with a ‘Glisseo’ charm. Two dozen Muggles break their arms and legs, but hey, they didn’t die. A few days in the hospital, a bit of Skelegro and they’re back on their feet. No harm done, right?”

“Muggles don’t have Skellegro, unfortunately,” Mrs. Granger pointed out dryly.

“True, true. But my superiors don’t care about those details. Or take that case of the student who enchanted his walking stick to act as an umbrella. Great idea, right? Except someone nicked it at the train station. We spent two days running around London trying to track it down before any Muggles saw it in action. Otherwise, Obliviators would’ve had to work overtime erasing memories.”

“How does it even work?” Kayneth inquired, growing more interested. The more he learned about the Ministry’s inefficiencies, the more reassured he felt about the safety of his and MacDuggal’s ventures. “If you’re part of the ‘Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office,’ does that mean there’s such a thing as approved use? Say I wanted to enchant a fountain pen so it never runs out of ink—would that be legal?”

“There’s a guidebook, Compendium of Permitted Enchantments and Charms, about this thick,” Arthur spread his fingers to illustrate its size. “It covers all sorts of things dating back to Arthurian times, if not Roman chariots. Anything listed there, wizards can enchant however they like. But of course, they can’t pass it on to or display it to Muggles—unless it’s to a trusted Muggle like you folks. For anything not in the compendium, you’d need to file for approval or lobby to have the item added. Otherwise, it’s a fine and confiscation.”

“Hermione mentioned that wizards have both a train and a bus service,” Kayneth noted.

“Correct. Both are Ministry-run, so they gave themselves permission to enchant them. It’s far harder for individual wizards to get approval. But you’re interested in enchanting, young man?” Arthur asked kindly.

“For now, only in theory,” Kayneth replied. “I can’t even buy a wand yet. But I’d like to give it a try when I start school.”

"Write if you need advice. I’ve seen enough charms in my line of work to fill a couple of guidebooks. I won’t pretend to be modest—I know my way around them," said Arthur.

"I’d be most grateful, sir," Kayneth replied sincerely.

“By the way, aren’t we running late?” Mr. Granger asked suddenly, checking his watch.

When they arrived at the bookshop, they were indeed late. A massive crowd had gathered in front of the building, something Kayneth had never seen before. Apparently, a popular author from the magical world was making an appearance today, and their fans were swarming the store in a near frenzy. The bright red hair of the Weasley children could already be spotted inside through the windows, meaning the rest of their group had arrived earlier.

The four latecomers made their way to the door, only to cross paths with a tall, blond wizard emerging from the crowd. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black robe adorned with silver accents and carrying a cane topped with an ornate silver handle, he exuded an air of superiority. Despite the dense throng, he moved gracefully, as if gliding through, his gaze sweeping over everyone with a palpable sense of disdain. Behind him followed a younger boy, who bore a striking resemblance to the man—likely his son or nephew. The boy’s similarly expensive robe didn’t help him navigate the crowd with the same poise as his elder.

“Lucius…” Arthur Weasley’s voice dripped with hostility as he faced the blond man head-on.

“Arthur,” Lucius Malfoy replied coolly, giving him a disdainful glance. “I see you’re keeping busy, no time to get out and about? I hear there’s quite the commotion at the Ministry again—these raids on homes and shops. Do they even pay you overtime for that? Judging by what I’ve seen,” he added with a pointed look toward the shabby appearances of the Weasley family visible inside the shop, “I’d guess not. Hardly worth tarnishing a wizard’s name for.”

“We have very different ideas about what tarnishes a wizard’s name,” Arthur responded coldly.

“Of course,” Lucius said with a faint sneer, his gaze shifting to the Grangers with the same condescension.

“Mr. Malfoy, what an honor to meet you,” Kayneth interjected smoothly. This was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up—a chance to speak with a member of one of the old magical families face-to-face.

“An honor?” Lucius repeated, raising an eyebrow with mild amusement.

“‘An honor?’” Arthur echoed in disbelief, clearly less impressed by Kayneth’s declaration.

“Of course,” Kayneth continued, his tone as earnest as he could muster. “To see the head of a family with nine centuries of history, whose members have made remarkable contributions to various fields of magic—how often does such an encounter happen?”

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, young man,” Lucius said, tilting his head slightly, his expression tinged with curiosity. The boy’s plain attire made it difficult to place him—was he part of the Muggle contingent, or not?

“James Murphy, sir. A wizard in the first generation, so it’s unlikely you’ve heard of me. But I’ve read much about your family. Your ancestors’ achievements in potioneering and alchemy are particularly impressive.”

“For a Muggle-born, you show a hint of knowledge and manners. But unfortunately, your choice of company ruins it,” Lucius said, his gaze sweeping dismissively over Arthur’s worn and faded robe. “What’s the purpose of this? Realized you’ve chosen the wrong side and decided to beg for protection from someone more… appropriate?”

“Would you even consider it? Offering patronage to a first-generation wizard, not even third or fifth?” Kayneth inquired with feigned naivety.

“Of course not,” Lucius scoffed. “I’d refuse a third-generation wizard just as easily, or even one from the fifth. I’m merely curious what’s running through your mind. Still, at least one of your kind understands their place and recognizes the importance of bloodline. That’s refreshing. Perhaps Britain isn’t entirely lost yet. Keep aligning yourself with the right priorities, and one day, perhaps someone important might not find it beneath them to speak with you. But that day is far from now. Come, Draco—we’ve wasted enough time here. See you at the Ministry, Arthur,” he added icily, walking away without so much as a nod. The Muggles nearby were treated as if they didn’t exist.

“Another Mudblood. Where do they all come from?” Draco muttered loudly enough to be heard as he passed. His disdainful tone made it clear he barely considered Kayneth worthy of acknowledgment. It seemed the only thing keeping him from physically bumping into Kayneth or stepping on his foot was the unwillingness to dirty himself.

“My apologies for that,” Arthur said to the Grangers after the Malfoys departed. “Unfortunately, the magical world isn’t perfect, and some relics of the past still linger. But we’re fighting against it, as you’ve probably noticed. And James…” Arthur turned to Kayneth with a mix of concern and frustration, placing a hand on his shoulder. “What were you thinking? Were you seriously trying to align yourself with the former followers of You-Know-Who?”

“Of course not,” Kayneth replied calmly. “He wouldn’t have taken me anyway—I’m far beneath his notice. I just wanted to understand what kind of man he is. It might be useful in the future. I’ve never spoken to a pureblood like that before. Not like you, but… a real pureblood.”

“And? Did you learn anything?”

“Yes. It was very enlightening,” Kayneth admitted honestly. He hadn’t been merely fooling around; he’d played the part of a first-generation magus as the old families would expect—deferential, humble, and eager to align with authority. Malfoy’s reaction had been roughly what Kayneth himself might have given not so long ago: not outright hostility, but condescension. ‘Come back when you’ve proven yourself worthy, child.’ It was a mindset Kayneth could work with. Either Malfoy was also playing a role, or the goals of his side in the past civil war were far more complex than mere indiscriminate slaughter.

“All in all, it’s best to avoid crossing paths with old families unless absolutely necessary.”

“I’m glad you figured that out so quickly,” Arthur said with visible relief. Straightening, he glanced at the crowded entrance to the bookshop. “Well, enough about that. More pressing question: how are we going to get inside?”

“I’d prefer to wait out here,” Kayneth said. “I doubt any of us are desperate for the author’s autograph, and they can manage to buy a few schoolbooks on their own, can’t they?”

Daily Updates

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 63

• Tier 2: Chapter 68

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 33

• Tier 2: Chapter 38

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 30

• Tier 2: Chapter 35

Hydrargyrum

Chapters are still being edited but tomorrow we should have at least 3 chapters ready

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 35

Power. Oceans of power. The stream of runes flowing into Konstantin was so dense it felt like his body was ready to burst from the sheer energy. Normally, he would instinctively allocate his runes at a Site of Grace, but this time was different. He had to abandon another convention, by assigning… metaphorical stats directly on the battlefield.

But regular runes weren’t the main reward for the victor.

The third Great Rune. Konstantin became the first Tarnished capable of housing so many Great Runes—keys to rewriting the very laws of reality in the Lands Between.

Radahn’s Rune radiated fire, enveloping Konstantin’s entire body. He felt an abnormal surge of vitality.(1) It was a sensation reminiscent of obtaining Godrick’s Rune. Interestingly, Rennala’s Full Moon Rune didn’t evoke such a physically tangible effect. It was there, but far less… noticeable.

Countless thoughts swirled in his head, but understanding that now wasn’t the time or place to ponder the mechanics of conceptual tools capable of rewriting reality, Konstantin pushed them aside.

Kosta exhaled, strolling leisurely toward the other festival participants.

Only in the calm aftermath did the Tarnished fully comprehend the destruction their battle had wrought. Numerous craters and chunks of earth, some larger than himself, were scattered across the battlefield, leaving a truly intimidating impression.

Konstantin had naively thought he had over-leveled.

A satisfied smile crept onto his face.

Thankfully, he was wrong.

For a while, Jerren silently regarded the Tarnished. Without a word, he removed his pointed hood, revealing the face of an elderly knight, and, to Konstantin’s surprise, deeply bowed.

“Thank you… You… you are more deserving of the title of king than any other Tarnished, Konstantin.”

The castle steward spoke with such raw emotion that Konstantin internally flinched. As if that wasn’t enough, Millicent suddenly rushed forward, practically throwing herself into the Tarnished’s arms and hugging him tightly.

Only after pressing her entire body against him with her single arm did Millicent realize:

Kosta was still practically naked.

Again. Only through the incredible willpower of a true warrior did Millicent manage to keep herself from screaming across the Wailing Wastes. Instead, she stammered softly and bashfully:

“S-sorry…”

She had given in to her emotions too much. Guilt gnawed at her—the rot hadn’t left her body; it had merely stopped spreading for now. She was a walking plague, a vile creature. Millicent was horrified by the very thought that her cursed body had touched his skin.

Just as she was about to pull away, Millicent froze again, barely suppressing a squeak. The Tarnished, completely unafraid of the curse within her, hugged her tightly in return. As if that wasn’t enough, she felt his power flow into her body, filling her with sensations she had never experienced before.

The will of the unyielding warrior-woman could crumble at any moment.

Konstantin, noticing that his waifu had quickly forgotten her self-deprecating thoughts, turned his gaze to the other festival participants. If any of them wanted to comment, they wisely kept silent.

Well, almost all of them.

“And how do you manage to succeed everywhere, my friend?” Patches laughed, his tone utterly insincere.

Millicent froze in Konstantin’s arms like a statue. The Tarnished’s eyes turned into twin voids of nothingness.

Alexander tactfully coughed into his hand.

“He dead.”

It seemed like this thought occurred to every festival participant simultaneously.

Sensing something, Patches laughed even louder, his voice dripping with fake cheerfulness.

“Buddy, I think I’ll just… take a walk, yeah? Look around a bit. You know how it is—business doesn’t run itself. I’ll be going now, alright? Bye!”

Without waiting for a response, Patches darted off. Konstantin silently watched the retreating figure of the scoundrel.

Perhaps next time, he’d have to knock him down from somewhere again.

The observing illusion of Sellen clicked her tongue.

“What a dangerous individual…”

Melina turned her head toward the witch, who had once again taken up residence on her shoulder. However, the False Finger Maiden had no intention of arguing with Sellen’s assessment: the charm of the red-haired warrior was overwhelming, leaving no room for competition.

Melina lifted her gaze toward the now-vanished moon.

It seemed Ranni had seen everything she wanted.

Though perhaps not the malicious little boy.

Somewhat unexpectedly, the festival came to an end. Soon, all of the Lands Between would hear of the Tarnished’s latest feat. And if anyone still had thoughts of trying to seize his Great Runes…

After the defeat of a once-invincible demigod, even the boldest and most daring lunatics wouldn’t dare challenge the monster in human form.

Well, most wouldn’t.

What Kosta didn’t expect was the feast Jerren prepared after the victory. Before his eyes, the castle seemed to come alive. The once cold and rot-ridden soldiers now moved about with joy, their faces no longer grim and resolute but filled with a newfound sense of relief and happiness—temporary though it might be.

Some played musical instruments; others sang cheerfully (or so it seemed) in monotone voices. Still others merely hummed contentedly, unable to contain their emotions.

Very few things in the Lands Between could unsettle Konstantin, but what he saw here was so out of place in the sweaty, punishing atmosphere of a Soulslike world—where even death offered no solace—that the Tarnished…

…simply sat through the entire celebration with a stone-cold, impassive expression, nodding at the appropriate moments during conversations and congratulations.

He knew full well it wasn’t a cutscene, but Kosta still chose to treat the whole ordeal as if it were an unskippable one.

It was easier that way.

Otherwise, at this rate, aside from mindless, aggressive creatures, he’d eventually run out of enemies to farm entirely.

As wonderful and horrifying as that thought was, grinding wasn’t eternal.

Kosta pondered this throughout the celebration. And even after it ended.

He snapped out of his thoughts only when everyone began to disperse.

“How’s Fia?”

Lionel the Lionhearted, one of the festival participants and guardian of the waifu who comforted grieving Tarnished, brought her up unexpectedly. Konstantin hadn’t thought Lionel would mention his foster daughter(2).

The Tarnished shrugged.

“The quest is still in progress.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s alive and well.”

‘For now,’ a grim thought flitted through Kosta’s mind. ‘The quest is still in progress…’

“What a relief…” The elderly knight truly sighed in relief. “She hasn’t contacted me in a long time. I can’t reach the Roundtable Hold myself, Lord Tarnished…”

“She remembers you.”

Lionel smiled faintly, without malice.

“That means the world to me, Lord Tarnished.”

“Just Kosta will do.”

Anyone who had extended a helping hand to a waifu, adopted her, and genuinely cared for her deserved at least minimal respect, despite not having a questline. Even Edgar, the father of the blind waifu—though he had his critical shortcomings—deserved some credit.

“Oh, no, Lord Tarnished,” the knight bowed his head. “Thank you for your kindness.”

The strength Konstantin had displayed created an insurmountable wall between them, whether the Tarnished wanted it or not.

In the end, he spoke not only with Fia’s adoptive father but with nearly everyone else—whether it was the swordsman from the Land of Reeds, the kind-hearted giant with a massive hammer, or Alexander.

To be honest, Kosta wasn’t even surprised when the samurai asked him with genuine curiosity how often he cut himself with his absurd regeneration and whether he could bleed himself on command.

For blood-loss fans, this was undoubtedly a significant topic.

The Great Horned Tragoth, the kind-hearted giant with the hammer, merely wished Konstantin luck on his journey, sincerely asking him to use his power for good and occasionally help those in need.

Waifus, in Kosta's eyes, were the most in need of help. With all the seriousness of a stoic warrior, he made a solemn promise, putting the other warrior at ease—Tragoth believed him.

With Alexander, it was more challenging. The jar warrior clearly felt empty, emotionally drained. Strangely enough, it was Konstantin who initiated the conversation:

“When we meet again, I want to duel you.”

If Alexander had eyes, they would have widened.

“But I’m just—”

“You’re a great warrior. I know that. You just need to level up a bit. Everyone goes through this.”

Alexander couldn’t contain himself, wrapping his long, clay arms around the Tarnished. The hug was so strong that it would have crushed an ordinary person against the jar’s surface, but Kosta barely felt inconvenienced.

“Yes, you’re right, my friend!” Alexander’s motivation surged. “I won’t let you down!”

He was already planning to return to the battlefield. Though Konstantin and Radahn’s fight had wreaked havoc on the area, finding the remains of powerful warriors wouldn’t be an issue.

Alexander promised himself he’d be stronger the next time they met. And, most importantly, he would prepare a gift for the Tarnished to mark their next encounter! Something deep inside him whispered that they would meet again soon.

The puppet-like Finger Maiden didn’t attempt to speak to Kosta, and the Tarnished made no move to engage with her. Seluvis’s quest wasn’t particularly long, and Kosta had already resolved to move past the relentless farming of anything and everything in sight.

His farewell with Jerren was surprisingly warm—or so it seemed at first.

“Where will you head next, Konstantin?”

“To complete waifu quests.”

Did Konstantin realize that beings unfamiliar with him wouldn’t understand a word of what he said?

To him, it was as clear as day. But…

Seeing the old man’s face wrinkle in confusion, Kosta allowed himself a fleeting smile.

Being crazy had its perks in the moment.

Unsurprisingly, the Tarnished’s antics hadn’t escaped Melina’s notice. Once again, she found herself unsure how to react to her observations.

The madman had learned to weaponize his madness. Was this controlled insanity, or…

Was he simply mocking everyone?

Melina could feel a headache beginning to form.

“I see,” Jerren replied, though clearly understanding nothing. “In any case, I can now leave the fortress. I have… unfinished business. From days long past, you might say.”

The False Finger Maiden rose slightly onto her toes and whispered something to her chosen one.

Not a single muscle moved on Konstantin’s face.

“The business Iji mentioned? The old man asked me to tell you to visit him more often and send his regards.”

“Oh, is that so?” Jerren’s expression brightened. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Konstantin. I’ll be sure to—”

“I won’t let you kill Sellen, Jerren.”

The elder knight’s smile froze, his body flinching as he locked eyes with the Tarnished.

This was the last thing he had expected to hear from the slayer of his lord.

Sellen could never have imagined, not even in her wildest dreams, that the man would so openly stand up for her.

It was an oddly pleasant feeling. The Tarnished, armed with his foreknowledge, undoubtedly knew how dangerous a sorceress she was. The exiled witch freely admitted that the fear, hatred, and assassination attempts she faced were more than justified. She had few allies, and even they…

…were either minor figures from the Academy, largely ineffectual, or Seluvis, whose character she found thoroughly repugnant. If not for his obsession with those revolting puppets, she’d never have trusted him with creating a new vessel for her.

Konstantin’s existence felt like a ray of sunlight piercing through endless darkness. Deep within the glintstone shard that housed her soul, Sellen felt herself drowning among corpses, sinking further into impenetrable gloom. Only her research and ambitions kept her afloat, though they also made her…

Fanatical in some areas.

Jerren’s previously warm gaze turned icy. Standing off to the side, Millicent fidgeted, unsure where to place herself.

…Perhaps she should excuse herself for a walk?

“So, you know Sellen, Konstantin…” Jerren’s voice grew wary. “You must not know, but she—”

“I know exactly who she is,” Konstantin replied evenly. “And I won’t let her quest end in another disco ball or anything like that.”

The elder knight didn’t evoke negative emotions in him. Jerren was honorable, steadfast in his beliefs and sense of duty. Kosta hoped, if not to reconcile him with his waifu, then at least to make him abandon this so-called “unfinished business.”

Konstantin felt he was capable of this.

Jerren froze in confusion, unable to grasp what the Tarnished was even talking about, but Konstantin had said all he wanted. Turning back, he headed toward the next quest. Time was still against him.

Watching her doom’s expression crumple, the sorceress’s illusion smiled with surprising tenderness.

Such a pleasant feeling. Warm, comforting. Sellen allowed herself to relax, confident she wouldn’t be betrayed and that the Tarnished would never lose. Not ever. 

Naive? Not in the slightest. Well, maybe just a little. But what could she do? She wasn’t a daughter of a Goddess or a demigoddess. It wasn’t in her nature to control everyone and everything.

A dash of fatalism wouldn’t hurt the Lands Between, or even Queen Marika the Eternal herself.

How unfortunate that the man was always so busy. Sellen would’ve loved to spend more time with him, teaching him magic properly and learning a thing or two herself. They could’ve built a wonderful relationship as teacher and student. And vice versa.

Sadly, even if Konstantin had the time, Sellen herself had been preoccupied lately. At least her illusion had far fewer concerns, leaving her filled with a sea of amusement and positive emotions.

“Don’t relax too much, redhead,” Sellen suddenly whispered to the startled Millicent.

The red-haired warrior, still unused to the usually invisible presence, furrowed her brows in confusion.

“Relax? What do you mean?”

The miniature illusion shot a sly glance at Konstantin’s back.

“You’re not the only one here. I also want some of Konstantin’s attention. But most of all—there’s one jealous Maiden.”

Melina flinched as if struck.

The sorceress smirked, watching the rot-afflicted girl’s face turn the same shade as her hair. Millicent seemed ready to say something, but Sellen’s illusion vanished before she could.

Konstantin reached the nearest Grace, settling down beside it. He felt a deep connection with this energy, one that had only grown stronger. Millicent carefully sat next to him.

They were preparing to move forward.

“Where are we going now?” Millicent asked softly, lost in thought.

Kosta glanced at the warrior, barely suppressing a weary sigh.

His perception had become too sharp. He couldn’t physically miss Sellen’s presence.

More than anything, he feared that interactions between the waifus—no, the women—might spawn quests so convoluted that even he wouldn’t be able to complete them before the world inevitably destroyed itself.

The Lands Between would plunge into darkness and someone would rekindle the fire(3) before Kosta managed to complete all the potential quests born from waifu interactions.

Kosta sighed heavily, unable to hold it in any longer. However, he quickly collected himself and fell deep into thought.

“I need to fetch the half-wolf and hunt the deer. Then, Nokron…”

“Nokron?” Millicent blinked.

Immersed in his musings, Kosta extended a hand toward her. Millicent stared at it, puzzled.

Konstantin belatedly realized he had never used this… ability in front of the red-haired warrior. There simply hadn’t been a need.

“Take my hand.”

Millicent opened her mouth to protest but stopped herself, recalling their recent embrace. Her heart began to race slightly as she hesitantly reached for Konstantin’s hand. However, any trace of shyness vanished the moment Grace’s energy enveloped them and whisked them away.

Whether it was her naturally reserved nature or the unyielding will of an indomitable warrior that kept her from screaming,no one knows.

The False Finger Maiden watched as the Tarnished disappeared along with the red-haired maiden. The illusion of the exiled sorceress was likely to follow. As for Melina, she wasn’t planning to join Konstantin just yet.

The False Finger Maiden opened her accursed eye.

She had held back for too long, tried to manage with half-measures, hoping the sorceress would tire of this game. But her patience wasn’t infinite.

It was time to locate the slippery sorceress’s physical body and have a more… direct conversation. They definitely needed to establish some kind of hierarchy. Just because she couldn’t strike her down didn’t mean Melina would forgive her every word.

The blacksmith should be finishing the gift for her chosen one.

Nothing would happen if…

She tested it first, right?

(1) When activated, Radahn’s Great Rune increases maximum HP, FP, and stamina.

(2) There’s virtually no information about Lionel the Lionhearted, nor does he have a questline. However, his phantom defends Fia at the end of her questline.

(3) There’s a half joking theory suggesting that the Lands Between is a prequel to the Dark Souls universe.

[Life is Good] Chapter 38

I walked over and sat down with the girls, introducing myself. Ellie’s friends were named Kelly and Kendra, and they turned out to be sisters. Two lovely blondes with green and blue eyes, their familial resemblance apparent in their features. They welcomed my company with enthusiasm. Like me, the ladies were drinking whiskey—well, except for Ellie. She stuck to a single bottle of beer, sipping it infrequently. When I asked why, she admitted that she wasn’t much of a drinker (earning a teasing snort from Kelly, which made Ellie blush). Turns out, tonight was her turn to play the designated driver for “these two alcoholics.” That, I gathered, was the real reason behind her near-sobriety.

The girls weren’t regulars at this bar either. They had a tradition of exploring out-of-the-way spots, hoping to meet interesting people, make new memories, and expand their “booze map” of New York State.

Conversation flowed easily, with all three radiating positivity and charming smiles. Ellie and Kelly, in particular, unleashed the heavy artillery of their sparkling eyes, directing the full force of their attention at me. My ego, understandably, was preening under the spotlight. Despite knowing I wasn’t exactly in top form—buzz-cut hair, barely grown eyebrows, and eyelashes that probably looked odd compared to the world’s polished men—it didn’t seem to matter. Youth and an athletic build appeared to tip the scales in my favor.

After about half an hour of chatting, Ellie, the most sober of the trio, asked the inevitable question about my age. I didn’t flinch and answered truthfully: “I’m finishing school next year.” Technically true, since I did plan to graduate. People here usually finished school at eighteen or nineteen, so my answer satisfied her.

“Toby, aren’t you a bit young to be drinking?” Kendra, the green-eyed blonde who was sipping the fastest, asked tipsily. “You know the legal age is twenty-one, right?”

“Hey, just don’t tell my mom, and we’ll be fine,” I quipped with a smirk. “And like you waited until your twenty-first birthday to take your first shot! Besides, no cops here, right?”

That got Kelly and Ellie laughing while Kendra playfully threw up her hands in mock defeat. By this point, my attention had shifted squarely to Ellie. Petite girls always caught my eye, and she ticked all the boxes—slender, cute, and shorter than me. Her smaller chest didn’t bother me; I was an equal-opportunity admirer of all breasts, as long as they weren’t attached to a guy.

With that thought firmly in mind, I scooted my chair closer to Ellie’s. She shot me a pleased look, while her sisters exchanged surprised glances.

“What? She’s practically not drinking—someone’s gotta make up for it,” I said with a cheeky grin, earning a light touch on my knee from Ellie. “Besides, she promised to let loose a bit but doesn’t seem in a hurry to keep her word.” I turned a mock-reproachful gaze on her, and she blushed furiously. So much for the confident flirt who invited me over.

“Oh, so that’s how it works…” Kelly mused, staring into her glass. “You endure hardship for your friends, and guys are drawn to your heroic aura! Smart move, Ellie. You’ll go far. But tomorrow, I want all the deets!”

“Hey, me too!” Kendra chimed in.

“You’ve got a fiance, and you guys already get up to plenty, yet you’ve never shared any stories!” Kelly shot back with mock indignation. Despite the teasing tone, there was a hint of disappointment in her voice. That explained Kendra’s relative lack of interest in me—she was just here to drink and relax, while Ellie and Kelly were clearly up for more.

“I did invite you to join us; you know he wouldn’t mind,” Kendra teased, wiggling her eyebrows, clearly enjoying her sister’s grimace. “You’d have no need for stories if you’d just see for yourself.”

“I don’t like your Zachariah. He’s not my type,” Kelly retorted, her expression clearly showing what she thought of the guy. “His only remarkable trait is how greedily he sucks money out of you.”

Meanwhile, Ellie had slid in closer, her flushed face turning to me with an approving glance as my hand casually rested on her leg. I, on the other hand, was trying to figure out how to bring Kelly into whatever might happen next. Not because I’m some insatiable perv—well, okay, maybe a little tonight. If the stars align, why not go for it?

Ellie leaned in and whispered loudly enough to interrupt her bickering sisters, “You wouldn’t mind if we invited Kelly, right?” Her breath was hot against my ear.

“Not at all,” I replied just as audibly, pretending to be discreet. “In fact, I’d be all for it.” The impromptu performance didn’t go unnoticed by the sisters. Kendra burst out laughing and clapped Kelly on the shoulder.

“Guess you’ll both have a story to tell me tomorrow,” Kendra teased, only to be interrupted by the sudden ring of her phone. All four of us turned to glare at the offending device. Kendra frowned at the screen, muttered an apology, and stepped outside to take the call. Ellie and Kelly watched her leave with a mix of apprehension.

“Fuuuuuck, I just hope they don’t call us back” Ellie groaned under her breath, slumping slightly. Kelly nodded, her face clouded, while I glanced between them, puzzled.

“What’s going on?” I finally asked, channeling my best Yuriko-trained inquisitiveness.

“We don’t know yet,” Kelly sighed. “It’s a work call. They don’t usually bother us on our night off unless it’s important.”

“But you’ve been drinking! What kind of work lets you show up buzzed?” I asked, frustrated at the interruption. Ellie, who had been soft and pliable just moments ago, suddenly seemed tense and deflated. Kelly just shrugged, her expression saying anything could happen.

A few tense and silent minutes passed as we waited for Kendra to return. My mind wandered to a similar moment from my past life when I’d been pulled out of a restaurant dinner with my wife because of work. That earned me days of silent treatment and, most tragically, a ban on her homemade borscht. A karmic loop, it seemed—universal justice catching up with me in a new life. Finally, the bar door swung open, and Kendra stomped over with a furious expression.

"Alright, girls, I think we need to head back," she said, her voice tight. "There was a superhuman brawl in the city. Two of ours are dead, three more, and Lieutenant Elizabeth, are being held hostage—along with a couple dozen civilians. Not that we’d be much help, but I can’t sit here and drink after hearing that. Captain Stacy's ordering everyone to check in, so they called us, too. Tobias, we can drop you off in New York if you want." Her gaze sharpened. "Tobias?"

I felt like someone had hit me in the head with a sledgehammer. Captain Stacy… Lieutenant Elizabeth… That’s my mom, Betty!

"Yes," I said quickly, barely stringing words together. "Yes, please."

We settled the bill—well, they did, refusing to let me chip in, and for once, I didn’t insist. Normally, I’d make a point of being self-sufficient, but this wasn’t the time for that. My brain was stuck in a loop, calculating how long it had taken Yuriko and me to get here. Hours. Hours while my mom was in danger. I tried to extract more details as we left, and Kendra, seeing no harm, filled me in.

Apparently, Captain Stacy had uncovered something about the human traffickers. When they checked out a few addresses, it led to a shootout involving criminals, police, and supervillains on the bad guys’ side. Reinforcements had arrived, but the situation turned into a barricade standoff when the traffickers grabbed hostages, including the captives they’d been holding. The police had the building surrounded, but with civilians inside, they couldn’t act decisively. To make things worse, the supervillains—Kendra didn’t know their identities—were throwing a wrench into everything.

As we stepped out of the bar, I spotted someone I’d definitely not been excited to see earlier—the biker woman. But now, her bike screamed speed, the kind of speed I desperately needed.

Without a second thought, I rushed toward her, leaving the girls behind with confused looks. She was just dismounting her bike, irritation clear on her face.

"Good evening, ma’am!" I called, nearly breathless.

"Evening…" She raised an eyebrow, clearly annoyed. "What do you want, kid? I’m not exactly in the mood for company." She rubbed her temples, then looked at me more closely. "Wait… We met earlier tonight at that diner, didn’t we?"

"Yes, ma’am," I confirmed, nodding rapidly. "I need your help. I need to get to New York—fast. My mom’s in serious danger."

Her irritation softened, but only slightly. "Kid, just have your friends drive you," she said, jerking her head toward the car where Kelly and Kendra stood. Ellie was already behind the wheel, warming up the engine. "They’re right there. You’ll get there eventually."

"I need to get there very fast," I insisted, trying to convey the urgency. "And I know you can do it. Please! I know you’re not an ordinary person."

That got her attention. Her brows furrowed as suspicion crept into her expression. "How do you know that, kid? And who the hell are you?"

"Tobias," I said quickly. "I’m a mutant. Please, ma’am, I’m begging you. I don’t have much to offer, but I’ll repay you someday, no matter what. I’m still growing stronger, and I promise I’ll be useful to you in the future!"

She crossed her arms, studying me with a mix of interest and irritation. "You’ve got guts, Tobias. I’ll give you that. But do you even know what you’re asking? My bike’s fast—too fast. You wouldn’t survive the heat or the G-forces. And even if you got there, what could you do to help your mom?"

"I can handle it!" I shot back, practically shouting now. "My power absorbs all energy except kinetic, and that gets dispersed. Bullets don’t scare me. I’m strong in close combat, I’ve got energy vision, I can hit with electricity, blind people, and generate heat that melts almost anything except adamantium!" At this point, I’d have offered my soul if it helped. I silently prayed my abilities could handle Hellfire if it came to that.

Her eyes narrowed as she tilted her head. "Heat, huh? You’re sure about that?" There was doubt in her voice, but I didn’t care.

"Positive," I said.

She sighed, then motioned to the bike. "Alright, but if you sit behind me, you’ll get blown off. Hop on the front. I’m Joan Blaze, by the way. Where are we headed?"

Relief flooded through me as I climbed onto the bike. I quickly explained where we needed to go and mentioned stopping to grab my suit. She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse but helped adjust my position, showing me where to place my feet.

As the bike roared to life, I glanced back at the girls, waving goodbye and shouting, "My aunt’s giving me a ride home!" before Joan gunned the throttle, leaving their bewildered expressions behind in a cloud of dust.

Once we hit the road, I called Yuriko to explain the situation and let her know I’d be meeting up with her soon. She responded with a curt, "Understood," before hanging up. Classic Yuriko.

The speedometer maxed out, and the bike roared as it accelerated beyond anything I’d ever experienced. The wind whipped against my face, but my power dampened it to a tolerable level. Heat radiated from the bike and Joan, but I felt it flow into me, absorbed without issue. Still…

"Ma’am!" I yelled over the wind. "Can we go faster?"

The bike launched forward like a rocket, slamming me into the woman’s chest. The heat cranked up significantly, and I noticed my clothes starting to smolder. I managed to control the heat around my head, boots, and the phone tucked under me—it wasn’t time to go bald again—but I let the rest of my outfit burn. After all, I’d be putting on my suit soon anyway, and anything outside the narrow temperature-controlled zone would be toast in seconds. With a mental shrug—"if the barn’s on fire, let the house burn too"—I decided to set the rest of my clothes ablaze myself, sparing them the suspense. At her muffled curse behind me, I shouted, "It’s fine, ma’am! Burn as much as you want—I don’t care about the heat!"

The bike roared as it transformed into its demonic form. The engine’s howl shifted into a demonic growl, and suddenly I wasn’t pressed against soft curves under a leather jacket anymore but hard ribs. The speed... I could barely register what was flying past us. It was terrifying—heart-racing, gut-clenching terrifying—but I wanted to scream with exhilaration. The insane velocity hurtling us toward New York filled me with equal parts fear and thrill.

Breathing was another matter. The wind slammed into me so forcefully that it felt like my lungs were being ripped open. If not for the energy I was absorbing from the Hellfire, I probably would’ve ended up splattered across the highway in artistic little bits. Thankfully, the energy was pouring in so fast I filled my internal reserves and still had enough to radiate heat outward, matching the temperature of the Ghost Rider herself.

The bike was… mesmerizing. With one hand gripping the handlebars, I ran the other cautiously over the flaming metal. The tactile sensation was indescribable. It felt like the Spirit of Vengeance itself was enjoying the ride—metal trembling like a purring cat, its roar echoing pure excitement.

Within minutes, our speed dropped as we approached the car where Yuriko was waiting, leaning casually against the trunk and smoking a cigarette. My partially opened case lay beside her.

I jumped off the bike, immediately dampening the heat radiating from me. To my surprise, I noticed I wasn’t just glowing with heat—I was literally on fire. Somehow, I hadn’t even realized it in the midst of all the flames. Curious, but something to think about later. Barefoot, with ash flaking off me, I grabbed my phone, bolted to the case, and quickly suited up. With my boots secured and mask clipped in place, I nodded at Yuriko. She flicked her cigarette away, returning the nod without a word, and I dashed back toward the blazing skeleton on the bike. On the way, I took control of the area around the suit to make sure I didn’t burn it too.

Sliding into position on the bike, I heard the haunting voice behind me.
"Nice suit, kid. Hold on tight."

We shot forward, faster this time. Joan didn’t hold back, or maybe she was testing me. The acceleration didn’t just slam me into her ribs—it embedded me there. It took me ten full seconds to catch my breath and at least thirty to stabilize myself. Once I had, I restarted the energy absorption cycle, noticing how the flames spreading over me made me look like a living elemental. The fire felt strange, not normal heat. Could I be radiating Hellfire? Her Hellfire? Another mystery to add to the pile for McCoy to test later.

Behind me, her voice broke through the roar of the wind and flames, casual as if we weren’t tearing across the world at insane speeds.
"When you’ve handled your business, Tobias, I’ve got a few questions for you. Like why some psycho ended up with his brain fried, or why I keep dreaming about some creepy, drawn-looking dude showing me visions of a faceless, naked boy who’s packing a dead ringer for your equipment, roasting heads. You clear that up, and maybe we’ll call it even."

Despite the heat, a chill ran down my spine. I nodded, not trusting my voice, and immediately began strategizing how much to tell her—and how to spin it so I wouldn’t end up on the receiving end of her flaming chain. Or worse. What had seemed like a clever idea—pinning Cletus’s death on the Penance Stare—was suddenly looking a lot less brilliant. And… Hey! What’s she staring at my dick for?!

[Demons of NC] Chapter 68

"Wait, seriously?! Dead?!" I shouted, nearly jumping off the couch, snapping the cigarette I’d just lit in two. “Was there an autopsy? What did it say?”

"All clean, V. They cut her open every which way," Angelica replied. "Three different ripperdocs took a look. It was definitely an overdose. Sure, someone could’ve dosed her on purpose, but the cameras didn’t catch anything either."

"Fuck…" I muttered.

"Two weeks from now, Hughes is fighting. The stakes will be way bigger. We cannot screw this up."

"Angelica... I’m a little busy myself, you know. I’ve got things going on. Important things.”

I tried flicking the broken cigarette into the ashtray but missed slightly. The cheap tobacco—or whatever the hell it was supposed to be—spilled across the table.

"Vincent, please. This is really, really important," Angelica pleaded, sounding genuinely desperate. "It’s life and death. There are going to be some huge bets… If these people lose their money, I could lose my head. Sixty thousand, okay? And my eternal gratitude."

"Fine, fine. Toss in a couple of those shots while you’re at it—the good stuff. Send me the autopsy results and everything you’ve got on her last days. Where she was, who she drank with. I need every detail.”

"Done! You won’t regret it."

"I really fucking hope not," I sighed, cutting the call.

"Athletes again?" Lucy asked, sitting at her terminal, typing something on a virtual keyboard.

"The very same. Right before New Year’s, Vik found a neurovirus in a judo fighter. I was planning to question her on the 31st, but they talked me into taking a break. Know what happened? Two days ago, they found her dead. Supposed overdose." I scowled, searching for my favorite lighter but couldn’t find it anywhere. It had just been in my hand. Fucking nerves. My white shirt clung to my back, damp with sweat. The biomonitor showed an elevated heart rate.

A crimson glow suddenly lit up in front of me, chasing away some of the apartment’s usual gloom. I leaned forward to light the cigarette and nodded.

"Thanks, Eve.”

"Don’t overwork yourself, V," Evelyn advised with a graceful stride as she headed toward the bar counter, where Lucy was seated.

Evelyn’s short dress shimmered faintly in the dim light, the same one she’d worn the night she was taken. She set a steaming cup of coffee in front of Lucy and gently tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"She’s moving more gracefully now," I observed.

"I updated her program," Lucy replied, removing her visor. "I don’t know much about doll tech, but it’s simpler than it seems. You can buy presets for everything in Kabuki. Housekeeping, dancing, massages, you name it.”

"You getting into this?" I smirked.

"It’s kinda funny," she admitted. "I’ll say this: I judged your plan at first, but after I downloaded her full logs… We’re genuinely doing her a favor.”

"Yeah. Her plan was absolute bullshit.”

"Forget her plan. The Voodoo Boys would’ve flatlined her. No question.”

"Not every joytoy gets to be Lizzie and take on this city," I mused. "And even Lizzie didn’t live long after her revolution.”

Evelyn started to wander off, following some preprogrammed task, but Lucy snapped her fingers, calling her back.

"Did he sleep with you?" Lucy asked, gesturing toward me.

"Once," Evelyn replied calmly. "He specifically requested me and caused a scene with the administrator. Made threats about his connections.”

Lucy burst into bright, unrestrained laughter.

"That is so you, V. And how was it? Worth the eddies?”

"It started okay. Then some Voodoo Boy hacked her.”

"Did you notice immediately, or… keep going?”

"Immediately. Kinda hard not to.”

Lucy sat Evelyn on her lap and connected to her port. Both their eyes began to glow faintly, though Lucy’s was noticeably brighter. She was probably tweaking the doll’s settings or pulling some data.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t shake the damn athletes from my mind. Something about this whole situation felt off. Angelica had been stressing how bad things were, but according to my future knowledge, she should still be alive in ’77. Maybe she was exaggerating, pulling at my emotions. Or maybe things really were that bad, and she’d still manage to pull through. Or…

There was a third possibility—my interference. The butterfly effect. But sports betting? That wasn’t something I’d ever been involved in before. I think. Shit. I needed to get to the bottom of this.

Lucy disconnected from Evelyn and gestured at the coffee.

"Drink it yourself. And bring me…”

"Absinthe?" Evelyn offered.

"Sure. Want some?" Lucy asked me. "You’re wound up tighter than a netrunner on speed. Need a massage? Or should I tell Eve to handle it?”

"The more I think about this case, the more holes I see," I admitted.

"Like what?

"Somebody’s fucking with the Animals’ fixed fights, but they’re not profiting from the results. They’ve checked every time—no surprise jackpots. What’s the point? What’s the angle?" I vented. "Unless it’s…”

"About sabotaging the Animals’ business," Evelyn finished for me, emerging from the kitchen.

"Ooooh. Criminal mastermind at work," Lucy quipped, walking up to Evelyn and giving her a sharp slap on the rear. The doll let out a sultry sigh, winking playfully at her new mistress.

"Is that part of her programming?" I asked.

Lucy shrugged and gave me a detailed explanation anyway.

"It’s trickier than with robots. The chip interacts directly with her brain. Yeah, surprise—she’s got one. I’m trying to lift as many behavioral restrictions as I can, leaving only the essentials. So she’ll follow orders and forget everything once we let her go.”

"Otherwise, she’ll think like normal?”

"Ideally. And the best part—she’ll have access to all her memories. No need to interrogate or extract anything. Just ask.”

Evelyn handed Lucy a glass filled with a greenish drink and plenty of ice.

"I messaged her boss, saying she wouldn’t show up for work," Lucy continued. "Some asshole called back, threatening hellfire, but Eve brushed him off. When Yorinobu sends her a message, it’ll come to us. Naturally, we’ll scrub all traces after.”

"Good. Tomorrow we’ll regroup and finalize the plan. Tonight, though, I need to swing by Vik’s, then hit Lizzie’s. Got a meet with an informant there. After that, how about helping me chase down leads on this sports mess?”

"Don’t know…" Lucy stretched, then glanced at Evelyn, lounging on the couch. "I was planning to stay in tonight. Relax. Recharge.”

"They bumped the reward to sixty. C’mon, your help would really come in handy.”

"Fine. Wait for me at Lizzie’s. I’ll take a quick shower and head over.”

I didn’t spend long at Viktor’s. He started with questions about my symptoms after using the Sandevistan. I didn’t lie but tweaked my answers, leaving out how damn good it feels in the heat of action.

After the Q&A, Vik sat me down and reconnected the Kerenzikov in under two minutes—no anesthetic. It made me feel a hell of a lot more confident, especially with the challenges ahead. I really hoped things at Konpeki wouldn’t go hardcore, but who knew?

Next, I headed to Lizzie’s to meet with Frank Nostra. At the bar, I spotted Jackie Wells nursing three empty shot glasses and looking gloomier than usual.

"You alright?" I asked, taking the seat next to him.

"Yeah, mierda’s just fucked lately. I got this decent gig from Dexter DeShawn, can you believe that? So I pulled in T-Bug, another nomad buddy of mine, and…”

"What happened?" I feigned curiosity.

"Client bailed, that’s what.”

"What a tragedy," I said, shaking my head.

"What’s with the extra-smug face today, mano?”

Honestly, it was hard not to smirk. Watching someone mope about dodging their own funeral? Priceless.

"Just a pain-in-the-ass gig with pro sports. Got a heap of trouble dumped on me," I deflected.

"Well, if you ever need—” Jackie started, a hopeful edge to his voice.

"I’ll let you know. But no shooting for now. This is more investigation—neuroviruses, suspicious deaths.”

"Eh, not my thing,” Jackie nodded. "Anyway, Wakako’s been after me to call her. Some corpo chick went missing. Maybe this one’ll pan out.”

"It will,” I said confidently.

Probably about Sandra Dorsett. Then again, corpos vanish in Night City all the time.

I eventually found Frank. He was still on edge, visibly nervous.

"So, how’s Michiko?” I asked. "Easier or harder to jerk it to than Susan?”

"Fuck off, V. You know… she talked to me. Should’ve felt proud, I guess, but she talked to just about everyone in the department. Everyone but the janitors.”

"Jealous?”

"I said, fuck off. Don’t throw me off track.” Frank cracked his knuckles anxiously. “She’s… calm. Friendly, even. Asks the most innocent questions. ‘How’s it going here? Any challenges?’ But it’s unnerving. She’s clearly not the type to make snap judgments. She’s observing, analyzing. That thoroughness? That’s what’s got me sweating.”

"We’ll tread carefully,” I assured him. "That intel I passed on the Voodoo Boys—useful?”

"Absolutely! No one likes those assholes. Some of it went to archives, some was shared with Nightwatch. And yeah, I bragged about it to the new boss.”

"Perfect. Might even get you a promotion. And the info I asked for?”

Frank handed me a file. “Hotels again, plus some data on Militech and Maelstrom. What the hell are you cooking, V?”

"Might’ve accidentally set up a threesome, but that’s not confirmed yet.”

"Spare me the details. I meant the intel.”

"Everything you need to know is already in your hands,” I smirked, slipping him a slim folder. "Here’s something extra. Fresh dirt on the 6th Street scuffles with Kang Tao. Might come in handy.”

After trading info, I killed some time reviewing the files while waiting for Lucy. Maelstrom hadn’t hit any Militech convoys yet, at least according to Arasaka intel. Might need to grab drinks with Jackie and casually dig for updates—see if Dex had ordered the bot from Maelstrom yet.

The booth door opened. I’d only given access to Lucy.

"Should we chill first?” she asked. "Or head out now?”

"Up to you.”

We hung around Lizzie’s a bit longer before heading to the first lead on the dead judoka. The trail led to a bar called Electric Orgasm. At the entrance stood a familiar figure. I made a deliberate effort to act like I didn’t know him, handing Solomon Reed a printed photo of the deceased.

"Afternoon. This girl drop by on New Year’s?” I asked.

"Afternoon. You two don’t exactly look like cops,” replied the former FIA agent and ex-mentor of So Mi, the woman he once recruited to the NUSA. The man she’d been ordered to kill. Now a humble bouncer at a dive popular with mercs.

"Correct. We’re not cops. Hired by her sports manager. Look.” I showed him a copy of her contract.

Reed nodded and answered in detail:

"I remember her. Hard to forget someone who tries to break your nose.”

"Seriously?” I blinked. "She overdid it?”

"Big time. By midnight, she was picking fights with other patrons. Her friends tried to rein her in, but she was already too far gone. We had to drag her out. She tried to throw a few moves on me, but it’s tough when you’re barely standing.”

And when your opponent’s been through real combat training—not the sports kind.

"Mind if we check the cameras?” Lucy asked.

"Sure. I’ll show you the footage. Henry, cover me for a few minutes,” Reed called to a colleague, then turned back to us. "What happened to her? She missing?”

"Dead,” I replied.

"Got it. Let me pull up the footage.”

Reed ended up sharing not just the New Year’s footage but several previous visits from the judoka as well. Turns out, she was a regular here, though she usually stuck to her regimen and didn’t drink.

Honestly, the thought of recruiting Reed crossed my mind—he’s got skills—but I know his type too well. Despite what NUSA did to him, the moment Myers gives him a nod, he’d be back at attention. Better to keep my distance.

Back to the investigation.

"Most likely, someone slipped her or sold her something with a higher concentration of active compounds,” I suggested after reviewing the footage. "She didn’t take much, but it hit her like a freight train in half an hour. Not even solid chrome could save her.”

Next stop was her "home"—a rented flat in one of the megabuildings. Standard one-room coffin. Mess everywhere, energy drink cans scattered, and women’s clothing tossed around like confetti. What we cared about was her computer.

I pulled out a small flashlight and shone it across the old keyboard in different spectrums.

"Any foreign prints?” Lucy asked.

"Better than that,” I said with a smirk. "Her own prints are almost non-existent. Two options: either she decided to type in gloves before New Year’s, or someone else was here. Let’s dig into the deleted data.”

We set up with two laptops, trying to recover what had been erased. Normally, you can at least get fragments back, but this time we were stonewalled.

"Clean sweep,” I sighed.

Lucy gestured for silence, her brow furrowed in thought. Then she spoke:

"Let’s check the roof.”

At the top of the building, Lucy sifted through cables and network devices, running scans. It took about fifteen minutes before she pulled up a list of IP addresses.

"Radio, news, braindance sites, porn… more news, more porn, and… a secure channel. Interesting,” I mused, comparing it with data from the memories I’d lifted off the Slider. "Could be she was remotely updating her implants. Not critical systems, but maybe software for braindances. They could’ve used that to send her the virus.”

We followed the signal trail to its relay points, hailing a cab to avoid any ambushes like last time. The first stop was an abandoned building near the Biotechnica flats. Inside, we found a hidden room packed with equipment—generators, batteries, a relay, and several computers. Everything was neatly set up.

I shot Angie a quick text:
“Start celebrating and count your eddies. I’ve got a juicy lead. Details later.”

We got to work examining the setup. Sometimes in stories, the hero recognizes someone’s work by their scent or some subtle, personal touch. I’ve read that in a few detective novels. Right now, staring at the lines of code, I felt something similar—recognition. The encryption, protocols, even the extra programs…

"Lucy…” I said quietly. "If you were in on something like this, you’d tell me, right?”

"Relax, V,” she replied. "I get it. It does look like my work. But… no. It’s not mine. There’s only one other person who comes to mind.”

"Hm. Fate’s got a sense of humor, doesn’t it?”

"Yeah,” she said coldly. "She’s back in the city. And she’s not alone. Kiwi was never a specialist in neuroviruses. That thing Viktor found? Neither she nor I could’ve done that.”

"So someone hired her. Her, and a few other runners, to pull off this op. Kiwi’s probably their local guide for Night City netrunning. They’ve got a separate expert for the viruses. What will you do if you meet her?”

"Don’t know,” Lucy replied in the same flat tone, then gestured first to the hidden entrance we’d used, then held up three fingers.

Got it. My whole body tensed, ready for a fight. I couldn’t hear any footsteps, but I trusted Lucy’s upgraded hearing. Gotta get similar implants for myself one of these days. Carefully, I started drawing my weapon while keeping my tone casual.

"Think it through ahead of time. Personally, I don’t give a shit about Kiwi, but she’s a serious threat to you.”

The hidden door cracked open slightly. Someone tried to toss in an EMP grenade.

Daily Updates (24/01/25) + Anouncement

To the new patrons: Here’s how I update my translations. I do this to keep automatic notifications to a minimum (I manually turn them off for each chapter, but sometimes a few slip through). Every chapter listed is a link that’ll take you straight to the post where you can read it.

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 40

• Tier 2: Chapter 45

Mad Tiger

Mass release. To keep the gap between public release and advanced chapters consistent

• Tier 1:

  • Chapter 36

  • Chapter 37

  • Chapter 38

  • Chapter 39

  • Chapter 40

• Tier 2:

  • Chapter 41

  • Chapter 42

  • Chapter 43

  • Chapter 44

  • Chapter 45

Hydrargyrum

Unfortunately, there’s still no consistent schedule, as 6k-word chapters take a lot more time than I expected. However, you can expect a couple of chapters this weekend.

I am still committed to +5/+10 scheme though even if updates will be sporadic.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 45

"Remember this, Akamaru: a good soldier stays close to the kitchen and far from the higher-ups," I declared solemnly to the pup.

Ah, teaching bad habits—and enjoying it. While the boys were unpacking, Akamaru and I committed a daring heist, liberating a bag of chips from Choji. We retreated with our spoils to the kitchen, where the girls were busy cooking.

"Keep it together, don’t start drooling before we’ve even divided it up," I warned the pup, side-eyeing his wagging tail and barely-contained excitement. "How are we splitting this? Fairly or honestly?"

Akamaru froze, scratching behind one floppy ear with his hind leg as he processed my question.

"Uh… what’s ‘honestly’?" he asked cautiously. Smart kid—he’s learning.

"Well… honestly means proportional. Think about it. You played the decoy, faking undying love for our Butterfly and nearly knocking him over with slobber, while I handled the actual theft. Clearly, I deserve the lion’s share—let’s say, 80%. You get the remaining 20%."

"Is 20% a lot?" he asked, sniffing the bag suspiciously.

"Let me put it this way: imagine our loot split into five bowls of food. I get four, and you get one."

The pup’s face scrunched as he thought it over. His floppy ears twitched, and his little brow furrowed. It was like watching someone solve a jigsaw puzzle in their head.

"Usually, one bowl of food is enough for me…" he said hesitantly.

"So you’re good with 20%?" I asked, feigning innocence.

Not that I intended to scam him—this was about the principle! He studied the bag of chips again. I’d picked the bacon-flavored ones, but the bag wasn’t exactly the biggest.

"But this bag doesn’t look like five bowls of food…" he said, eyes narrowing in suspicion. "If we divide it into five parts, it’s barely anything!"

"So, how are we splitting it?"

"Let’s just go 50/50," he decided finally.

"Alright, you pull," I said, biting down on one corner of the bag. With a satisfying pop, the bag split open, releasing the heavenly aroma of fried potato and bacon.

Ino’s head popped into the kitchen.

"Oh, so this is what you two are up to!" she said with a grin.

"Yep, we’re feasting on chips," I replied smugly, tossing her a look as I divvied up the spoils.

Once we’d polished off the ill-gotten chips, I rejoined the others in the main room. Temptation whispered for me to snag something from the girls’ prep table, but I held back—taking food from kids just felt wrong. Besides, I was curious to see what Hinata and Ino would whip up. Hinata, to my surprise, was the real star in the kitchen. I hadn’t expected much from the quiet Hyuga, but she handled everything with grace and efficiency.

Through their chatter, I learned that Hinata’s mother had passed, and she’d taken on cooking duties for her father, little sister, and occasionally her older brother—and my new acquaintance—Neji.

Back in the main room, the boys were hard at work. Kiba’s gray jacket was spread on the floor, and Akamaru was sniffing a saucer of ink with intense curiosity. The pup had devoured his chips faster than me, so I sent him scouting to keep him busy.

"Can you control your chakra?" I asked him. "These inks need a chakra seal to set."

Akamaru tilted his head in confusion. I demonstrated by extending my paw and channeling chakra into my pads. The boys gasped in awe.

"Look at that! That’s definitely chakra control!"

"Namaiki-chan’s incredible!"

The praise was well-deserved, and I soaked it in. I dipped my paw in the ink and pressed it to the jacket, sealing it with a faint burst of chakra.

"So that’s how he did it!" Naruto exclaimed. "I told you, Namaiki-chan’s a ninja cat!"

"Akamaru can’t do that yet, huh, Kiba?" Shikamaru mused, noticing the pup’s dejected look. "You’ll either have to settle for cat paw prints or train your nin-ken better."

"Well, uh… honestly, I kinda like Namaiki-chan’s prints," Kiba admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "They’re pretty cool. Can we put some along the edges of my jacket?"

I nodded, and the room buzzed with excitement. Akamaru added his own, smaller paw prints above mine, and I sealed them in place with chakra. Then Hinata stepped in to help, using her Hyuga-style precision to enhance the designs.

By the time we finished, everyone had personalized items: Kiba’s jacket, Choji’s scarf, even Shikamaru’s vest got a stylish border of prints. Hinata, inspired by the creative energy, requested a few paw marks on her beige coat too.

Lunch, prepared by Hinata with Ino’s enthusiastic assistance, was amazing. Ino even brought a special bento for me with smoked eel—my absolute favorite. I let her pet me as thanks and even rolled over to offer my belly, earning delighted squeals.

After we ate, we resumed our fashion endeavors. Ino sketched out designs for her outfit, and though I hoped she’d use her clan’s jutsu to communicate directly with me, she stuck to verbal instructions. So, Hinata and I handled the details while the others watched.

By the end of the evening, everyone went home sporting "Namaiki-chan Originals." Even the perpetually lazy Shikamaru couldn’t resist adding some flair to his vest, and Sasuke allowed me to leave a subtle pattern on his pants.

The next day, the Academy was in uproar. Almost every elite kid from A-Class showed up flaunting their "modifications." The sight of Ino sauntering into class and casually telling Ruri, "Oh, this? We were at Sasuke’s yesterday…" was priceless. Whatever she said after that was drowned out by squeals and chatter.

I perched on a beam, watching the chaos below with a satisfied smirk. The kids had grown used to me by now and kept my presence a secret from the teachers, who were far too busy (or self-important?) to notice.

A new week had begun. Kuromaru was due back from his mission in a few days, and I was eager to see my shaggy friend again. It had only been a week since Shijimi "recaptured" me, but it felt like an eternity.

Soon, it would be a month since the "Complete Cat-tastrophe." I wondered how Shisui and Kushina-san were faring. Had Kushina broken free of that curse seal? Was Shisui still searching for Itachi? Where were Tsunade, Shizune, and even little Tonton?

Shijimi had said it might take a couple of months for news to arrive. Ugh, feels like "Snail Mail" USPS competitor is running this operation.

"Sasuke-kun, is it true you helped Ino with her outfit?" Sakura's shrill voice yanked my attention back to the classroom.

"No," Sasuke answered calmly. "Namaiki-chan and Hinata handled it just fine on their own."

"That's right! Hinata-chan has the same designs!" came the excited whispers from the girls.

"Sakura-chan, go on a date with me, and I'll ask Namaiki-chan to jazz up your clothes too," Naruto piped up, ever the little hustler.

The pink-haired girl hesitated for a moment, clearly torn, before scoffing and walking away from my boys' desk.

Looks like Naruto really does have a thing for her.

Lunch was a delight. Kiba brought meals for Sasuke and Naruto, while Ino—bless her sneaky little heart—brought me my own bento. I perched on her lap, clearly the VIP of the group. Our little "fashion club" had morphed into a full-on secret society—The Cat Mark Brotherhood, if you will—with everyone sporting my paw prints as their badge of honor.

Hinata was shy at first, but eventually, she pulled out a batch of sandwiches that sent the group into fits of laughter. Somehow, they were shaped like Naruto’s head, complete with jagged slices of bright yellow cheese sticking out like his spiky hair. Kiba immediately dubbed them "Narutowiches."

I hadn’t seen my little chick this happy in ages. Surrounded by friends, Naruto practically glowed, grinning like a kid who’d just discovered a ramen buffet. Even during class, when Iruka-sensei tried to cut him down to size with snide remarks, Naruto didn’t let it faze him.

What shocked me the most was the class’s reaction. The kids didn’t laugh or pile on when Iruka threw out jabs. They just stayed quiet, their expressions unreadable. I could’ve cried from sheer pride. It wasn’t open rebellion, but it was clear where the leaders of the class stood—and they weren’t siding with Iruka. Even Ruri-chan, the usual teacher’s pet, kept her mouth shut.

This is getting interesting.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 44

Before the operation, which the boys dubbed "The Bento Mission," I flawlessly executed the neutralization of Akamaru. We bumped into the pup and his blissfully unsuspecting owner, Kiba, on the way to the Academy.

"Hey, kid, got a minute? I’ve got something really cool to show you," I said, oozing intrigue.

Akamaru barked, wagging his tail, and dutifully followed his senior and oh-so-wise companion—me, obviously. I led him away from Kiba and strategically positioned us on the Academy’s window ledge, right outside the classroom for the soon-to-be graduates. The poor pup needed a little help getting up there, so I grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him up.

"Watch and keep quiet," I instructed with the gravity of a ninja sensei. "This is advanced shinobi knowledge, and you’re a future ninken. Wrap it around your mustache.”(1) (TN: it means take notes)

"Uh… I don’t have mustache to take notes on," Akamaru muttered, glancing at his muzzle before shooting an envious look at my glorious whiskers, which I flicked for emphasis.

"Then just pay attention and soak it in," I said sternly. "You’re responsible for your master, got it? He can’t take a step without you, so don’t mess up."

"Got it, Tora-san!" Akamaru yipped, his tail wagging excitedly. I smacked a paw over his head to keep him from drawing attention.

A few moments later, Sasuke entered the classroom, followed by our carefree target. Nyaa-ha-ha!

Another few minutes passed, and Naruto strolled in—disguised as Tsume Inuzuka, Kiba’s mom. He slammed the door for dramatic effect, instantly silencing the classroom. The tension? Palpable.

Naruto had the sense to keep his distance from Kiba, so the boy wouldn’t sniff out anything suspicious. Tsume-san’s voice is distinct—deep and growly—so we’d agreed Naruto would keep quiet.

"Kaa-san?" Kiba’s eyes bulged as "Tsume-san" narrowed her "wolfish" eyes, radiating the fury of a very angry mom.

Naruto nailed it. Honestly, I think some subconscious memory helped him channel a convincingly terrifying maternal rage. Even Akamaru flinched. "Tsume-san" growled and raised a fist at her pale-faced son.

"It wasn’t me! Your favorite mug broke itself!" Kiba yelped, stumbling back.

Ah, silence. The best interrogation tool. You learn so much when you just stare dramatically.

We hadn’t planned on a confession, but Sasuke and Naruto adapted to the unexpected turn brilliantly. "Tsume-san" planted her hands on her hips and growled again—panicked pantomime for the win!

"Ahem, Tsume-san," Sasuke cut in, drawing attention. "You should know that, starting today, Kiba will be bringing extra bento lunches for Naruto and me."

"Huh?!" Kiba’s jaw hit the floor.

"Gotcha!" Naruto yelled, breaking the transformation technique and laughing.

The look on Kiba’s face was priceless. Even Akamaru snickered at his master’s expense.

"I get it now, Tora-san!" Akamaru said, suddenly serious. "My master totally fell for a simple trap! Without me, he’s hopeless."

The class erupted in laughter. To Kiba’s credit, he wasn’t mad—in fact, he laughed the loudest.

"Man, Naruto, you almost made me pee myself! That was awesome!" Kiba admitted, grinning.

The kids buzzed with excitement, and a few clapped Naruto on the back.

"Hey, Naruto, what’s with your outfit?" Ino suddenly asked. "It’s… unique. Did someone—?"

"It’s all thanks to Namaiki-chan," Naruto replied with a grin. "Sasuke said that ninja cats think it’s super stylish and cool."

By the end of the week, everyone in class knew that "Sasuke and Naruto shared a cat." Some even claimed to have seen me and gave detailed accounts to others. I made a point to stay out of sight from adults and teachers, sticking to my favorite spots: the windowsill and the big oak by the sports field.

I don’t know if it was the magic combo of "Sasuke," "stylish," and "cool," but by lunch, the class buzzed with curiosity. During the break—after Kiba treated my boys to ramen at Ichiraku—Ino approached Naruto with a request.

"Um, Naruto-kun…" she began, bashfully avoiding his gaze. "Do you think… maybe… your cat could make some of my clothes stylish too? Please?"

I’m positive Naruto’s face contorted into the epitome of dumbfounded confusion. Standing behind him, I could only see Ino, who wore a pleading expression.

And then it hit me—what if Ino used her clan’s mind-transfer jutsu on the boys? Could that unlock their memories?

I darted out of the bushes like a furry missile.

"Say yes! She could be useful!" I commanded, forgetting for a moment that Naruto couldn’t understand me.

"Oh, Namaiki-chan!" Naruto knelt down to pet me. "Why are you so worked up?"

"So this is your famous cat?" Ino smiled, kneeling as well.

I stared her down, mentally screaming, Use the jutsu! Talk to me! Let me explain everything! But no. Instead, she scratched under my chin like I was just an ordinary cat. Some "mind specialist" she turned out to be.

The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch.

"Let’s talk after class, okay?" Naruto said diplomatically before they both ran off.

The idea of pawprint-themed clothes spread like wildfire. Even Kiba jumped on the trend, claiming Akamaru needed to learn from a "master of textile design" like me. Yeah, sure. I think he just wanted to hang out with old friends, filling the void left after losing touch with Naruto. Their past friendship had revolved around him, and when that was severed, Kiba ended up as the odd one out.

The day after Naruto’s double shock to the class was a weekend, so the kids planned to meet up.

The unofficial "fashion headquarters," decided by near-unanimous vote (Sasuke being the exception), was Sasuke’s apartment. It was centrally located, convenient for everyone, and close to shops and markets where they could buy inks, fabrics, and food. Ino, as payment for her custom "fashion upgrade," even volunteered to cook for the group.

Naruto, by the way, had never been to Sasuke's apartment before. His usual hangout was closer to the Uchiha compound, and Sasuke often ended up eating and sleeping at Naruto’s place instead. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the three of us cramming into one bed—though, to be fair, I claimed most of it, while the boys clung to the edges. Sasuke made up for it by always buying groceries, which Naruto cooked. They lived off a combination of Sasuke’s purchases, whatever they found in the Uchiha district, and occasionally… what I pilfered. After "merging their resources," it became easier to stay fed. Plus, it made keeping an eye on them much simpler, and they enjoyed each other’s company, even in silence.

Sasuke only put up a token resistance when Naruto invited the group over to his place. Honestly, I think he just liked hanging out in Naruto's cozy little den. But his reaction when Naruto finally saw the Uchiha’s two-bedroom apartment with its massive balcony overlooking the stadium? That was something. Naruto was immediately impressed and made sure everyone knew.

We arrived early to prepare. The boys pushed the bed aside, rolled up the rugs, and scrubbed the floors together, clearing space for my "creative endeavors."

Tail puffed and a song in my head, I strutted around supervising. Who’d have thought I’d end up as a fashion designer? But hey, art brings people together, right? Now I just needed a brand name... Tiger Paw School? Classic-Nya? Cat’e-Style? Art of Meow?

My deep thoughts about branding were interrupted by a knock at the door.

It turned out the guest list had expanded. Along with Kiba and Ino, Choji, Shikamaru, and Hinata Hyuga had shown up.

"Hinata-chan, let’s go!" Ino chirped, taking charge immediately. "We’ll handle lunch while the boys unpack everything!"

"O-okay, Ino-chan," Hinata squeaked, blushing as she carried a bag brimming with greens past Sasuke and into the kitchen.

"We wanted to see the cat," Choji said around a mouthful of chips, gesturing to the enormous snack bag in his arms. The enticing smell of junk food wafted through the room, and Akamaru, perched on Kiba’s head, twitched his nose and swallowed hard.

"Hn. Come in," Sasuke said, stepping aside. "The cat’s right there. Namaiki-chan, they’re all here to see you."

I puffed out my chest and purred with pride. Not quite like the old days, but oh, we’re getting close…

_____________________________________________

The phrase "мотай на ус" can be translated as "Take note of this" or "Keep this in mind", depending on the context. “Ус” is translated as a mustache but can also mean whiskers

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 43

Man, watching Kiba's brain short-circuit was so satisfying. Two points to me, if we’re counting, including our dramatic first encounter when I arrived in Konoha. That was, what, just over six months ago? Feels like a lifetime.

“Hey, Akamaru, why’re you still so tiny?” I asked the little fluffball, generously sharing the meat I swiped.

Sixty-forty split—pretty generous, if you ask me. Especially considering the flea-ridden runt spent the last ten minutes yowling and spinning in circles outside Ichiraku Ramen like it was his life’s calling. Meanwhile, I used the opportunity to practice chakra control with my claws, slicing my portion into neat, bite-sized pieces. Classy, right?

I waited until the three boys got their bowls of ramen—complete with that heavenly pressed pork—before starting my own operation: “Swiper is swiping.” By the way, props to Teuchi-san for being prepared. Maybe our past “adventures” taught him to always keep a secret stash. Smart man.

And credit where it’s due, he didn’t show any aggression toward Naruto. Polite, even. Though I couldn’t help but notice something off about him. There was chakra there—hidden, subtle, and well-masked. If not for his lack of malice toward my little blond chick, I might not have caught it at all. Maybe my old suspicions about this place being a front for some ANBU operations weren’t so far off. Either way, the pork’s still the best in the village. Sorry, Tonton.

“What do you mean ‘tiny’?!” Akamaru barked indignantly a full two minutes after I’d asked, nearly giving away our hideout in the bushes.

I swallowed my last piece of meat and shot him a slow, judgmental look.

“Since our first meeting, I’ve grown a bit, put on a few pounds, and I’m almost an adult now. I’m a year and a half old. What’s your excuse? Why aren’t you growing?”

“Uh…” Akamaru looked genuinely stumped. “How do I even know how old I am? But I am growing! Kiba takes me somewhere, they measure me, and he says I’m getting big.”

“By all the feline gods, I miss your dad,” I groaned dramatically. “When is Kuromaru coming back from his mission?”

“Next week,” Akamaru offered, as if that could ease my despair.

I swear, these nin-dogs must trade brain development for growth spurts. Or maybe they stay small because they’re busy growing a brain first? In the anime, Akamaru seemed way sharper. Then again, that timeline is still five months away, and visually, he doesn’t change much between now and then. Maybe chakra plays a role in developing their intelligence first and their bodies later. Shisui once said chakra is about consciously directing energy within yourself. Makes sense. You’d need self-awareness first to even start directing it. Either way, I’ve got some questions for Kuromaru when he gets back.

Meanwhile, the boys finished their ramen, and Kiba called Akamaru over with some kind of bone that looked suspiciously like it was made of compressed sawdust. The pup waddled over, gave a contented belch, and then proudly brought the bone to me.

“Uh, no thanks,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Eat it yourself. Especially since it’s been on the dusty ground.”

Even I have standards. I’ll put up with a lot as a shinobi’s cat, but eating slobbered-on junk covered in dirt? Absolutely not. Akamaru whined pitifully, even pulling the classic “guilt-trip dog move,” covering his face with his paws. It made Naruto burst out laughing.

“Look, Sasuke! Akamaru-chan’s bowing to Namaiki-chan, and Namaiki’s just turning up his nose!” Naruto grinned.

“Surprising you hang out with someone like Naruto, Uchiha,” Kiba suddenly said, his tone sharper. Oh, now I see. Guess he’s still salty about me brushing off his precious pup, or maybe the ramen hit him too hard.

Both my boys froze. Naruto opened his mouth, but Sasuke cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“What makes you think Naruto’s a loser?” Sasuke asked quietly, his tone so icy it sent shivers down my tail. If looks could kill…

“Uh… well, he’s bad at school, and today his jutsu was the worst in class,” Kiba mumbled, realizing too late he’d stepped on a landmine.

“By the end of the week, Naruto will have that jutsu perfected, better than anyone,” Sasuke growled, his voice so low it was practically a threat.

Even I was expecting his Sharingan to activate any second now.

“Wanna bet?” Kiba asked, eyes darting to a very quiet Naruto. To his credit, my chick didn’t lash out or yell—good boy.

“If Naruto wins, you’re bringing me and Sasuke lunch every day for a month!” Naruto countered, the gears in his head finally turning. My influence is clearly rubbing off. Proud moment.

“And if you lose?” Kiba grinned, trying to regain his footing. “I get your cat.”

Akamaru let out the saddest little whimper, clearly mortified by his human’s stupidity.

Oh, sweet summer child. Me? Your prize? As if. I stalked over to a nearby tree, extended my claws, and slowly dragged them down the bark, letting my chakra carve deep gouges. The sheer audacity. Both Kiba and Akamaru stared, eyes wide as dinner plates. The pup yipped something at Kiba, probably warning him that messing with me was a terrible idea.

Sasuke and Naruto exchanged glances and smirked in perfect unison. Kiba finally looked like he realized he’d just made a huge mistake.

Aaah, life is good again.

In hindsight, Kiba did us all a favor. The bet lit a fire under Naruto, and Sasuke practically moved in with us for the week, training him nonstop. By the end of it, they were closer than ever. The entire class knew about the bet, but somehow, the adults stayed blissfully unaware. Kids are sharper than you think.

Even Ruri, the class tattletale, kept quiet. Since she had a crush on Sasuke, she extended some begrudging goodwill toward Naruto too. The constant whispers about avoiding Naruto? They all but stopped.

The best part? I finally put an end to that orange monstrosity of a jumpsuit. Let’s just say… accidents happen. Unfortunately, that thing was ridiculously tough and stain-resistant. It might’ve been invincible if it weren’t so offensively orange.

Ah, but even in the direst of situations, a clever cat will always find a way! Nyaa-ha-ha!

Yesterday, Naruto, in his infinite curiosity, decided to "try copying" an explosive tag seal. Turns out, for fuinjutsu, you need special chakra-reactive ink—durable, responsive, and able to hold elemental chakra when the seal gets charged. Lucky for him, we found some in the Uchiha District, and that's what sparked his sudden obsession with seals.

Unlucky for him, he left those precious inks in a spot easily accessible to yours truly.

I worked hard. Oh, the effort I put in! Dipping my paws in the ink, I spent the entire night practicing my artistic walking technique all over that offensively orange jumpsuit he dared to call "shinobi gear." Carefully, I infused each paw print with chakra for a delightful, permanent effect. Once I finished one side, I flipped it over and did the front. By the time I was done, I was exhausted. Out of chakra. Out of energy. A true artist suffering for their craft.

As dawn broke, Sasuke—who had crashed with us again—caught me mid-pawprint. He snorted, grabbed a glass of water, and sat down to inspect my masterpiece.

"Nice work, Namaiki-chan," he muttered, scratching behind my ears. "I didn’t like that color either." He traced a finger over one of my carefully placed paw prints and smirked. "You finished?"

I nodded, chest puffed out with pride.

"Alright, let’s go wash your paws," he said, scooping me up.

Fifteen minutes later, after I’d dutifully played the role of a raccoon, Sasuke scrubbed my paws with a brush, dried me off, and tossed me back on the bed to nap.

Our morning kicked off with an ear-splitting scream from Naruto.

"AAAAHHHH! MY COSTUME! NAMAIKI-CHAN!"

Ah yes, the screams of recognition. Sasuke, hiding me under the blanket, stifled a chuckle as Naruto’s panicked stomping echoed around the room.

"LOOK AT IT! WHAT HAPPENED TO MY COSTUME?! IT WON’T WASH OUT!" Naruto wailed, holding up the once-blinding jumpsuit now adorned with my artful pawprints. For a moment, I thought his hair might channel Kushina-san’s and start floating with rage. No demonic chakra, though—looks like Kurama was still too traumatized from being yanked out of Kushina and sealed into Naruto.

"Calm down," Sasuke said evenly, shutting down the chaos with one sentence. "It looks better now, and it’s less noticeable. We’re shinobi, remember? You used to be visible from a mile away in that thing. Now you won’t stand out like the sun. Ever seen another shinobi wear something like that?"

Naruto paused, thinking it over. "Well… yeah, I guess not. Since I started washing it, the ink kinda spread and stained the fabric, so now it’s this rust-brown color with… uh, black paw prints from Namaiki-chan."

"Exactly," Sasuke said, nodding with the authority of someone who knew exactly how to play his friend. "Remember Ryu, the village where the ninja cats live? Everything there—clothes, curtains, furniture—had paw prints. Must be a fashion statement for cats. Namaiki-chan just wanted to make you the most stylish ninja in the village."

I couldn’t stay hidden any longer. I wiggled out from under the blanket and stood tall. "Exactly!" I declared, as regal as possible.

Both boys burst out laughing.

"Well, in that case—thanks, Namaiki-chan!" Naruto grinned, his mood flipping like a light switch. "You really went all out!"

"Today’s the end of the week," Sasuke reminded him, smirking. "You ready to show Inuzuka what you’ve got?"

"Definitely!" Naruto said, his grin turning mischievous. "He better be ready to pack double bento for us!"

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 42

‘Well, if nothing else, seeing Sasuke’s face made Naruto’s neon-orange disaster of a jumpsuit worth it,’ I thought as we met the Uchiha at the crossroads on the way to the Academy. His usual stoic, emotionless expression cracked, leaving him gaping like a fish, eyes wide as if he’d just seen the Daimyo himself drop from the sky. I, feeling smug and a bit mischievous, decided to skip the backpack ride today and strolled alongside on my own four paws, savoring the moment.

"What’s with you, Sasuke?" Naruto asked, noticing the shocked look on his friend’s face.

"Where did you even get that?" Sasuke managed after a solid minute of goldfish impersonation, pointing at the offending outfit.

"You mean this?" Naruto tugged at the sleeve. "The old man—uh, Third Hokage—gave it to me this morning. I mentioned yesterday it was for my birthday, remember?"

Sasuke blinked, nodded, and then coughed to cover his reaction. He didn’t say another word about the hideous orange monstrosity, bless his tactful little heart. Sure, there’s that saying about not looking a gift horse in the mouth, but this… this needed intervention. Luckily, I’d already started brainstorming a few ideas.

Leaving the boys to their journey to the Academy, I veered off to find Kiba and his loyal furball, Akamaru. I knew their routine—morning playtime in the park near the memorial to burn off enough energy so they wouldn’t turn the classroom into a zoo. Following the sounds of happy barking and laughter, I found them mid-game: Kiba was tossing a stick, and Akamaru was chasing it with his tongue hanging out, pure bliss plastered across his face. Honestly, it’s good to be a cat. I’d be a terrible dog.

Unable to resist, I crept through the bushes and waited for the perfect moment. The stick landed about a meter from my hiding spot, and just as Akamaru barreled toward it, I made my grand entrance. In my head, I was dressed in pristine white like a hero from an old folktale. Akamaru skidded to a stop, tail furiously wagging to keep from crashing into me, looking like something straight out of a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Classic.

He sniffed me all over, then let out an excited bark and tried to slobber all over my fur. I held his snout firmly with my paw, giving him my best "you dare?" glare.

"Tora-san!" Akamaru yelped between attempts to lick me. "You’re back! I missed you!"

"Control yourself, pup," I sighed, shaking my head. "Do I need to report your behavior to your dad?"

"Dad’s on a mission," Akamaru replied sheepishly, sitting back with a big doggy grin.

Kiba jogged over, stick in hand.

"So, have you gotten through to your handler yet?" I asked Akamaru. "Does he understand you now? Or are you still stuck in ‘MTL’ (TN: apologies could resist) territory?"

Akamaru hesitated, his ears twitching nervously. "Kiba’s great, but… yeah, we’re still working on it."

Figures.

"Wait, you know this cat?" Kiba squatted down, eyeing me curiously.

Akamaru barked affirmatively. It seemed like they had their own basic yes-or-no communication system going, kind of like me with Naruto and Sasuke.

"Well, aren’t you interesting," Kiba murmured, reaching out to pet me. I allowed it—always good to have allies in high places (or low ones, as the case may be).

"Nice cat," he muttered. "You’re someone’s pet, huh? Who do you belong to?"

"Naruto and Sasuke," I answered, deliberately slow and deliberate. It wasn’t just a meow—it had meaning.

Kiba froze, his eyebrows shooting up. "Did he just talk?"

Another affirming bark from Akamaru.

"Is this cat a ninneko?" Kiba joked, scratching behind my ears. Akamaru barked again, and I saw the kid’s eyes go wide. Bingo! Lucky guess, but spot-on.

"Wow, that’s nuts!" Kiba exclaimed, standing up.

"Sorry, buddy, we’ve got to get to the Academy," he said, whistling for Akamaru.

"Are you coming to the Academy, Tora-san?" the pup asked, torn between following Kiba and staying to chat with me.

"Yeah, we’re heading the same way," I replied, padding along beside them.

By the time we reached the Academy, Akamaru and I had already had a mini-workout, chasing each other around and stretching our legs. It was a nice change of pace. I’d been so busy lately, I hadn’t had time to keep up with my own training.

Once the boys went inside, I took my usual spot on the windowsill to observe. Naruto had seated himself next to Sasuke, who looked slightly less broody than usual. The class was noticeably smaller than before. I’d overheard teachers mentioning some sort of aptitude tests during a recent mission, which had resulted in a bit of "weeding out." Of the original thirty-six students, only twenty-seven remained. It was starting to feel like that old mystery novel—And Then There Were None. I guess this is how we end up with the twelve from the anime.

Most desks now had two students sharing, though a few had three. Shino sat alone, which wasn’t surprising. Even from the window, I could smell his bugs. It was… unsettling—like a mix of decay, bitter herbs, and flowers. The kind of scent that made your fur stand on end. No wonder no one wanted to sit near him.

Meanwhile, a gaggle of girls were whispering furiously about Sasuke and Naruto. Apparently, sitting next to the brooding Uchiha was a scandal. Their giggles turned into harsher whispers about Naruto: "Why would anyone sit with him?" and "My mom said to stay away from him." Typical. My poor chick was doing his best to ignore them, though his ears twitched in annoyance. Thankfully, Iruka entered, putting an end to their chatter.

"Today we’ll be practicing the Transformation Jutsu," Iruka announced, his eyes lingering on Naruto for a moment. "You’ll be tested on this technique in a month."

___________________________________________

I couldn’t bear to watch the way they were treating my kid anymore! Completely drained, I slunk off to my oak tree near the sports field. It wasn’t the time to make a scene, but oh, how I wanted to storm into that classroom and give that excuse of a teacher a piece of my mind. Naruto’s problem wasn’t laziness or lack of effort—it was his chakra control. The boy had chakra reserves that could fuel a small country, but it all fizzled out like a soggy firework. What he needed was specific training, not mockery and dismissal.

I just hoped Sasuke wouldn’t cave to peer pressure and start treating Naruto the same way the rest of the class did. If that happened, I’d personally smack that Uchiha scowl right off his face with my paw. Preventive measures and all.

My righteous indignation lulled me into a restless nap on the branch, but it didn’t last long. High-pitched squeals and chatter snapped me out of it—recess. Looked like it was lunchtime. I scanned the playground and spotted my two troublemakers. Good. They were sticking together. For now, I’d let Sasuke off the hook—no paw slaps today.

I noticed Naruto fidgeting nervously while holding two meal tickets.

“I’ve got two ramen vouchers for Ichiraku,” he said, almost shyly, as he approached Sasuke. “Wanna grab lunch there? Oh, hey, look! Namaiki-chan’s coming!”

Sasuke turned just as I bounded over, catching me effortlessly in his arms.

“Hey, Uchiha, is that your cat?” Kiba’s voice cut in hesitantly. He walked up with his usual swagger but paused when he reached us, clearly unsure if he’d crossed some invisible line. The air between them was so awkward you could slice it with a kunai.

Of course, it was up to me to take charge. I addressed Akamaru, who was snoozing on Kiba’s head like a floppy hat.

“Hey, pup! Stop snoozing up there, jump down, and you’ll see what real fun looks like!” I barked in my most commanding tone, signaling Sasuke to put me down.

Akamaru opened one bleary eye, let out a sleepy yawn, and leapt down from his perch, wagging his tail like an over-caffeinated squirrel.

“That’s Namaiki-chan,” I heard Sasuke say coolly as we started heading toward the ramen shop. “Naruto and I share him. He’s our cat.”

Damn right I was.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 41

Maybe the boys just need time to process everything? I mean, it does feel a bit cruel to blow someone’s mind so suddenly. What if the shock was too much? What if Sasuke couldn’t handle it? I’m no doctor or therapist, and I definitely don’t specialize in psychology. It took me weeks to fully remember everything that happened, and even then, I wasn’t as close to the ones I lost. They weren’t my parents, my siblings, or even my best friends. Still, it hurt. It hurt that they were gone.

Sasuke couldn’t bring himself to step into his brother’s room—the brother he believed wiped out their entire family. And let’s be real for a second: the idea that a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old Itachi managed to single-handedly take down a clan of elite shinobi is kind of insane. Even at seventeen, when he went after Naruto, he couldn’t exactly overpower everyone. Sure, maybe he wasn’t aiming to kill, but still. No matter how skilled a ninja is, there’s no way they could handle a mob of equals alone.

But logic and hatred don’t go hand in hand, do they? I get it, though. Watching the anime, I hated Itachi too. The guy wiped out his entire clan and left his kid brother with a lifelong vendetta. That’s a lot to stomach. But now, looking at things up close, it’s clear that Sasuke wasn’t there when it all happened. By the time he arrived, everyone was already dead. It was dark when he found them, but the Uchiha clan wasn’t exactly a “lights out at 7 PM” kind of group. There was something calculated about it all—a massacre, not just an ambush.

Honestly, I doubt Itachi acted alone, even in an alternate reality where he truly was behind it all.

It’s that pursuit of strength that drove Sasuke to leave the village, isn’t it? The thirst for vengeance. I wonder what that really led to… But I already know things here aren’t as simple as the anime made them seem. It’s like the author got a glimpse of this world and wrote a story based on the “official version” of events. But reality? It’s got layers. For one, Kushina’s alive. So is Shisui. And honestly, if Orochimaru does take out Hiruzen, I’m not sure it’s even the tragedy I once thought it was.

Sasuke stood frozen outside his brother’s room, trembling slightly. Naruto bit his lip, looking back and forth between Sasuke and me, unsure what to do. For once, even I didn’t have a plan.

“I can’t remember his face,” Sasuke said quietly, his voice void of life. “It’s like I never had an older brother. One day, someone with red eyes—someone everyone called my brother—showed up and killed everyone. My mom, my dad, Grandpa Sawada, Aunt Keiko, my cousin Yumiko, my third cousin Kazuki, Uncle Matari, Aunt Inabi, Sora-san who sold sweets, Goro-sensei who taught us clan techniques… everyone. If I can’t remember his face, it’s because he wasn’t my brother. He couldn’t have been. It wasn’t Itachi.”

Sasuke slid down the wall in the hallway and hugged his knees. Naruto sat down beside him, mirroring his posture.

“Then let’s not go in there,” Naruto said softly. “Maybe someday… or I could go in alone if you want?”

“No,” Sasuke muttered, shaking his head.

I padded over and rubbed against their legs. Both boys reached down to pet me, their movements slow and heavy with thought.

Alright, I guess my plan is technically ahead of schedule. The boys are looking out for each other now. Sasuke’s not as emotionally frozen as he was, and they’re making sense of things, little by little. It’s only been two days since I got them to reconnect. I can keep working on this. Maybe it’s better to drop the big revelations later when I can actually talk. I mean, what would I even do right now? Tell Naruto his mom’s alive? He’d just ask where she is, and I’d have no answer. And Sasuke? Shisui could tell him the truth about Itachi. He was there; he knows. Plus, he can actually speak like a normal human.

From what I remember, Sasuke wouldn’t meet Itachi for at least another year—not until that whole town incident with Jiraiya and Tsunade. It’s practically next door to Konoha. Funny enough, Shijimi stopped there for her buns. Here’s hoping we can sort everything out before that showdown even happens.

For now, I’ll stick to what I’m good at. Planting seeds. The things these boys are learning now might not make sense yet, but when the time comes, they’ll reinforce whatever Shisui or Kushina has to say.

Oh Feline Gods… What the heck is this monstrosity?

Early the next morning, Hiruzen himself showed up at Naruto’s place with his usual stash of groceries and… an orange jumpsuit. In the anime, it didn’t seem so bad, but now? Either my cat eyes pick up colors way more vividly, or this thing is just straight-up nuclear. It’s practically glowing! Hiruzen must’ve had this thing custom-made because I’ve never seen anything like it in Konoha. This isn’t even a village outfit. Most shinobi gear is dark green, black, navy, or camo—stuff that makes sense in a forest. Even the Hyuuga clan sticks to pale lilac or beige. But this? This is on another level. It’s like they wanted Naruto to be visible from space. Subtlety? Zero.

Naruto, bless his heart, loved it. I watched from under the bed as he beamed at his new clothes. Well, it’s not like he has many other options. He even convinced Sasuke to take a few shirts and pants yesterday. Guess his mom taught him to be practical, even if she didn’t spoil him.

“I arranged for you to eat at Ichiraku Ramen,” Hiruzen said, handing Naruto a stack of meal vouchers. “They’ll feed you three times a day. You’ll also get a weekly allowance until you earn your genin headband.”

“Whoa! I’ll have money?” Naruto’s face lit up.

Yeah, too bad he won’t have anywhere to spend it. At least not right now. Still, he’s got a brain. He knows what money is and how to use it. Hopefully, he’ll figure out that Sasuke could buy things for him if needed. It’s not rocket science. They’re twelve—they’ll piece it together eventually. Probably. I hope.

"You can pick up your money at the Hokage Residence," Hiruzen drawled. "Twelve hundred ryo a month—that’s two hundred and fifty per week. You’ll also get your meal vouchers there."

What’s this? Did the old man finally get tired of delivering ramen packets himself? Or is he just that confident Naruto’s memory is still shot? Well, at least now he won’t have an excuse to swing by all the time. I’ve been worried he’d catch Sasuke hanging out here after their little escapades, and that would be… not ideal. But it’s like Naruto could sense my anxiety—Sasuke headed back to his own place after their adventures yesterday.

Two hundred and fifty ryo a week! What a cheapskate! Even with three meals a day (which I bet are laughably small portions), it’s peanuts—especially for a growing kid. What about weapons? Gear? Clothes, for crying out loud? Looks like my poor chick is doomed to keep running around in that blinding orange monstrosity.

"Here’s your first week’s allowance," Hiruzen added, placing a handful of coins on the table. With that same cherubic smile, he made a swift exit from Naruto’s apartment.

Seriously? No shame at all, huh? The guy orphans the kid, takes away his mother, his father (insome sense), erases his memory, and now he’s tossing a few coins at him like it’s some grand gesture. S-stupid old monkey! And don’t even get me started on that jumpsuit. It’s like the Hokage wants people to hate him. The second Naruto shows up with new clothes—heck, even if he "borrows" something from the Uchiha compound—it’ll raise all kinds of unwanted questions. Questions that could lead to another round of brainwashing.

I crawled out from under the bed, jumped onto the dresser where the coins sat, and hissed my frustration.

"What’s up?" Naruto asked, his head tilted in curiosity. "You think it’s not enough?"

I gave a slow, deliberate nod. Naruto pulled out his little frog wallet and started counting the coins as he dropped them in. Ah, that wallet. It’s the only thing he still has from his old life. Guess they didn’t think a wallet was an important "clue," so they left it. Everything else he owns now is new. Or maybe they simply missed it?

Back then, he used to brag about that wallet. Said his mom made it for him. He wanted to sign a summoning contract, but Kushina-san told him he didn’t have enough chakra for that yet. She promised to sign the contract later and gave him the wallet in the meantime so he could save up for treats to offer his future summons—because frogs love to eat, apparently. She even placed some seals on it, so it wouldn’t tear and would expand as it filled with money.

"What can we do, Namaiki-chan?" Naruto sighed, shaking the frog and listening to the coins rattle inside. He looked over the meal vouchers next. "Ooh! Extra-large pork ramen, my favorite!"

Favorite, huh? This kid doesn’t even think to question how something he supposedly never ate became his favorite. Sigh…

"I’ll swing by after class," he said, slipping one of the vouchers into his wallet. After a pause, he added a second one. "Maybe with Sasuke."

I climbed into his backpack. It’s time to get some things straight at the Academy. Hiruzen’s not watching him too closely right now, and I intend to take full advantage of that. First up? Kiba and Akamaru. Let’s see what we can stir up.

[Castling] Chapter 45

When I returned, Lupin was gone, but the compartment was packed with Harry, Neville, Seamus, and Dean. Their loud, animated chatter echoed down the corridor, and I could hear them before I even got close.

The moment I slid the door open, their voices cut off—they must’ve thought Lupin was back. Then, realising it was me, they yanked me inside, plonked me on the edge of the bench, and resumed their noisy retelling, all speaking over one another. It was cramped, chaotic, and deafening.

“The lights went out,” Seamus began, his tone full of drama.
“Yeah,” Dean chimed in eagerly, “and it got freezing, and Neville stomped on my foot!”
“I didn’t mean to!” Neville stammered, his cheeks flushing.
“Anyway, they came into our compartment,” Harry added, grinning.
“Exactly!” Dean nodded. “We wanted to see what was going on, but it was terrifying wandering the corridors in the dark. And there was something out there—something awful…”
“So we ducked into the first compartment we found…”
“And then something came up to the door…”
“I nearly wet myself, mate!”
“Same here, honestly!”
“And that bloke, the one who was here, lit up his wand…”
“The door opened, and there it was…”
“A monster, I swear!”
“It was like Death itself had come for us…”
“Yeah, it was like everything inside me froze over…”
“Exactly! Me too…”
“It tried to get in, but Hermione did something, and it felt a bit better…”
“Then Harry said something, and this stag showed up…”
“Yeah, this massive, brilliant stag… Harry, you’ve got to teach us!”
“I want one too!”
“It charged at the monster, and it just vanished! And then a massive glowing raccoon ran down the corridor. But when we ran out to look, it was gone.”
“Well, I was just sitting with my sister and didn’t see a thing,” I admitted, which earned a round of laughter from Harry.

The story was repeated endlessly, each version growing more exaggerated until Hermione finally returned.

“Hermione, where on earth have you been?” I asked, pouncing on her the moment she stepped in.

“I’ve been with Percy, handing out chocolate,” she replied, practically glowing with excitement. “Oh, Ron, it was amazing—”

Before she could finish, the door opened again. Lupin stepped in, paused at the sight of the packed compartment, and hesitated at the threshold.

“You should head back to your compartments and get changed,” he said with a kind smile. “We’ll be arriving soon. Here—take this.” He handed Neville a large chocolate bar. “Share it with everyone.”

“Thank you, sir,” Neville mumbled, blushing furiously. “But Hermione already gave us some.”

“Did she now?” Lupin raised an eyebrow in surprise and stepped aside to let the others file out. “Well, all right then.”

He moved further into the compartment, set the chocolate bar on the table, and said, “I suppose a little extra chocolate never hurts. Take it—better to have more than less.” His gaze swept over us, warm and approving. “You’ve all done well. And you, Harry—a Patronus at your age? That’s remarkable.”

“It’s nothing special,” Harry muttered, though he couldn’t hide the pleased look on his face. “Ron and Hermione can do it too.”

Lupin’s eyes widened in astonishment as he turned to us, clearly intrigued.

“Well then… impressive. I’ll leave you to it—don’t forget to change,” he said before stepping out.

“I think we’ve lucked out with this Defence teacher,” Hermione said, shrugging on her robe.

“Yeah, seems like the most normal one we’ve had,” Harry agreed, pulling on his own robes and slumping back into his seat. “Shame he won’t last past the year.”

“What?” Hermione gave him a sharp look.

“Oh, come on, Hermione. The curse on the job hasn’t gone anywhere,” Harry shot back with a smirk.

“You lot were brilliant,” I said interrupting, settling next to Hermione and gently pushing her cat off my lap. The furball stubbornly climbed back up until I relented. “Everything went like clockwork.”

“Yeah, Harry was great, but I…” Hermione trailed off, looking thoroughly dejected. “I couldn’t cast a full Patronus. I was so scared it just came out as a wisp—and not even a strong one.”

“But it helped me get mine out,” Harry interjected. “The moment you cast it, I felt better, and that’s when my stag appeared.”

“Really?” Hermione brightened visibly.

“Absolutely! You saw how frozen we all were,” Harry said emphatically.

She blushed slightly and changed the subject. “Ron, your brother is amazing,” she said, turning to me. “His Patronus cleared out Dementors in two other carriages. A raccoon—can you believe it? So adorable. Then we handed out chocolate to everyone. It felt so good to be helpful and know what to do. I think… I think I want to become a Healer. Well, maybe. There’s so much to learn in magic, and I want to try everything!” She was talking a mile a minute, her excitement spilling over. But I could tell she was still shaken—keeping busy was probably her way of holding it together after the Dementors.

“You’ll be brilliant at anything you choose, Hermione,” I said softly, slinging an arm around her shoulders and giving her a light squeeze. “With your brains and determination? Piece of cake.”

“Thanks, Ron,” she said, her eyes shining with gratitude.

By the time we got off the train, whispers had already spread. The tale of the Dementors being driven off the train had taken on a life of its own. Not that I should’ve been surprised—Dean and Neville couldn’t keep a secret to save their lives. Percy was nowhere to be seen—probably already reporting to Dumbledore—and Harry was left to fend off the stares of admiration and curiosity, even from the older students.

Before the feast began, Dumbledore introduced two new professors. The hall broke into applause, and students immediately started whispering among themselves, speculating about the new arrivals. Snape, for his part, shot Lupin a look of pure disgust, though with all the excitement, I doubt anyone else noticed.

Dumbledore’s tone grew serious as he launched into a speech about security measures and Dementors. Percy was practically glowing, beaming like a shiny new Galleon, especially when Dumbledore singled him out for praise and asked him to step forward. Now the school had two heroes—here’s hoping Hogwarts could survive the pair of them.

Back in the dormitory, Harry gave another demonstration of his Patronus for our lot after endless pestering. The lads wouldn’t let up until he promised to teach them how to cast one.

We shared sweets, swapped summer stories, and exchanged gifts. No dragons this year—unfortunately—but Harry and I had brought back fangs and claws on chains as keepsakes. The boys loved them. In return, we got lucky charms. Seamus handed over a "chicken god" (1) charm, saying it warded off nightmares. We hung it on the headboards of our beds.

Neville, blushing furiously, gave each of us a dried sprig with colourful berries. He called it something unpronounceable and said it was a magical plant that repelled evil spirits. That went on the headboards too—couldn’t hurt, especially with Dementors lurking about.

Seamus had nicked a two-litre keg of ale from home, so we saw to that and then crashed for the night.

At breakfast, Harry’s new-found fame caught up with him. The chatter quieted when he walked in, and even Malfoy turned up his nose dramatically. As we made our way to the Gryffindor table, a tall, grumpy-looking seventh-year girl stepped in front of us.

“Potter,” she said firmly, ignoring the rest of us. “Is it true you can cast a Patronus?”

“So what if I can?” Harry shot back, frowning. We’d stayed up late, and he was in no mood for this.

“Show me,” she demanded. Harry looked like he was about to argue, but I noticed how many people were watching. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

“Oh, just show her, Harry,” I sighed, before he could start a row. “Might as well get it over with, or they’ll be at you all day. And can we eat already?”

Harry, seeing us settle down with our breakfast, raised his wand. A silvery stag leapt from the tip, bounding around the hall to admiring gasps before vanishing.

“That enough for you, or do you need more proof?” Harry grumbled, clearly irritated.

“Brilliant!” the girl said, her scowl melting into a grin. “Didn’t expect that from a kid.” She turned and sauntered back to the Hufflepuff table, leaving Harry muttering under his breath.

Not much else happened after that, though Hagrid did stop by, holding a dead ferret. He looked a bit dazed and confided that he’d always dreamed of teaching but was nervous about messing it up. Of course, we encouraged him, though we all breathed easier once he left. Swinging a dead ferret near our breakfast wasn’t exactly appetising.

After breakfast, the others went off to Divination while Hermione and I headed to Muggle Studies. It was fascinating hearing about Muggles from a wizard’s perspective. There were only five of us in the class, and Professor Charity Burbage, a pleasant but tired-looking blonde in her forties, led the lesson.

She explained how wizards use spells to preserve the Statute of Secrecy. To my surprise, spells like Confundus, Obliviate, and Muggle-Repelling Charms were all fair game, and they’re taught in fifth year. Every student has to pass these specific exams separately to graduate—no exceptions. Wizards don’t have Muggle paperwork, and they rarely venture into the Muggle world, so in emergencies, they simply use these spells. If the wizard messes up and the Ministry’s Obliviator Squad has to step in, the wizard is fined heavily, especially if they work for the Ministry. Even casting Obliviate on another wizard doesn’t get you in trouble; it’s assumed that any wizard worth their wand can protect themselves. If not, well, tough luck.

Afterward, we joined the others outside the Transfiguration classroom. Harry looked irritated and downcast.

“What happened?” I asked, taking a spot beside him.

“Nothing,” he muttered, brushing me off. “Bloody Divination…”

Before I could press further, the door opened, and we all filed inside. McGonagall started her lecture, but the class was unusually subdued. Not even her transformation into a cat drew the usual gasps of amazement.

“What’s wrong with all of you today?” she asked curtly, her sharp gaze sweeping the room. Every head turned towards Harry, and Lavender raised her hand hesitantly.

“Well, Professor,” she began, “we had Divination first period, and…”

“Ah,” McGonagall interrupted with a grimace. “Who got the death prediction this time? You?”

“No,” Lavender said quickly, shaking her head for emphasis. “It was Harry…”

McGonagall turned to him, her expression softening, and gave him a reassuring speech that seemed to lift his spirits. The lesson carried on as usual after that.

At the end of class, Harry stayed behind to ask McGonagall if he could switch from Divination to Muggle Studies. Unfortunately, she explained he’d need to stick with Divination until year-end exams. He could only switch subjects if he passed the other class’s test or had signed up for three electives initially. Frustrated, we told him not to let the old fraud get to him. Privately, I was considering sneaking a laxative into Trelawney’s sherry if she kept winding him up.

After lunch, we trudged off to Hagrid’s lesson. The weather was perfect—clear and warm, though still a bit damp from the previous day’s rain. The crisp morning frost had given way to sunshine that made the air feel summery. It was the kind of day where you just wanted to flop onto the grass, soak up the sun, and listen to your friends bicker in the background.

Hagrid’s lesson didn’t get off to a great start. He led us to a large paddock and, amid Malfoy’s snide remarks, tried to explain the day’s topic. Poor bloke was so flustered he kept losing his train of thought.

Eventually, he gave up, muttered something under his breath, and disappeared into the forest, leaving the Slytherins plenty of time to sharpen their wit. Naturally, our lot couldn’t let their jabs slide, and things were about to get physical when Hagrid returned, leading a group of creatures that made everyone freeze in their tracks.

The hippogriffs burst into view, held back only by the chains in Hagrid’s hands. Whatever squabbles we’d had evaporated as we all instinctively stepped away from the paddock, eyeing the creatures warily.

For ten minutes, Hagrid gushed about how “lovely” these creatures were. Then, for another twenty, he tried to coax someone into stepping into the paddock to “get up close and personal.”

“Well? Any volunteers?” Hagrid asked, looking from one pale face to another. “Harry? Ron?” His hopeful eyes landed on us, and Harry, to my horror, looked like he might actually say yes.

“Not a chance, Hagrid,” I cut in quickly. “Why don’t you show us how it’s done? You’re the professional, after all. You’ll handle them way better than we could, and, well… we wouldn’t want to mess up and get someone hurt, right?”

Even the Slytherins didn’t have a snarky comeback for that. Everyone stayed silent, clearly unwilling to get anywhere near those unpredictable creatures.

“I was hoping you’d have a go at riding them,” Hagrid admitted, sounding disappointed. The very idea made the entire group flinch in unison.

“Probably not the best idea,” Hermione interjected, pulling out a notebook. “Why don’t you tell us more about them instead? We’ll take notes.” Her suggestion was met with enthusiastic agreement, as everyone hurriedly fished out parchment and quills, giving Hagrid their full, undivided attention.

Hagrid hesitated but eventually launched into a surprisingly informative lecture about hippogriffs. By the end, we’d all heaved sighs of relief and made a beeline for the castle.

“He’s off his rocker,” Malfoy ranted as he and his cronies passed us. “Bringing those monsters to a lesson. I’m writing to my father…”

Hagrid, meanwhile, looked crestfallen. “I just wanted it to be exciting,” he muttered. “Thought you’d like it…”

“Hagrid, it was a brilliant lecture,” Hermione said kindly, handing him a few pages of her meticulously neat notes and a sketch that vaguely resembled a hippogriff. Hagrid’s face lit up.

“Blimey, is that all from what I said?” he asked, sounding genuinely impressed.

“Of course,” Hermione replied, nodding earnestly. “You’re a natural teacher. A real professional. Maybe just stick to creatures we can pet for now?”

“But hippogriffs—” Hagrid started, only for me to jump in.

“No way, Hagrid,” I said. “They’re stunning, sure, but we’re not ready for them. How about unicorns, nifflers, jarveys, pixies, or phoenixes? Something cute and fluffy. You’re strong and brilliant with animals, but for us, your ‘puppy’ might as well be a cerberus. You wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt, right? Imagine if Malfoy wrote to his dad and the governors got involved. They’d sack you as a professor, and then where would we be?”

“Ron and Hermione are right,” Harry added. “No point risking it. Maybe in sixth year, I’d feel ready for something like that.”

“Fine,” Hagrid sighed, finally relenting. “Unicorns it is.”

“You nearly derailed the whole lesson, Ron,” Harry muttered as we walked back to the castle. “I could’ve handled it. That hippogriff seemed calm enough.”

“Sure,” I shot back with a grin. “And what if you slipped off and broke your neck? Hagrid doesn’t even have a wand—what would he do? You’d be a pile of bones, and Hagrid’d be sent straight back to Azkaban.”

“Ron’s right,” Hermione chimed in. “What if it had hurt someone? Did you see those claws? And there were over a dozen of them in the paddock. Hagrid couldn’t have stopped them all if they’d gone berserk.”

“Fine, fine,” Harry grumbled. “But I’d still like to meet one properly someday.”

“Then ask Hagrid for a private session,” I teased. “He’d love that.”

Hermione let out a little snort, and we all laughed. Personally, I was just relieved I didn’t have to rescue Malfoy—or a hippogriff—for once.

_________________________________

• https://slovene.online/beliefs-of-slavs/what-is-chicken-god/

“Chicken God” – this is how a small stone with a natural hole in it is called in Russia. People believed that it protected poultry and livestock from curses and evil spirits, stimulated their fertility, and kept them within their yard.

Daily Updates (23/01/25)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 62

• Tier 2: Chapter 67

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 29

• Tier 2: Chapter 34

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 32

• Tier 2: Chapter 37

[Life is Good] Chapter 37

We pulled up to the bar—nothing fancy, but not a total dive either. It was the kind of place with a small motel attached, designed for people just passing through. In the car, I peeled off the suit and neatly packed it away in the little case alongside the mask, leaving myself in regular clothes and boots. From a distance, I might still pass for just another customer, but inside the bar, I didn’t want to risk anyone noticing the unusual gear. The parking lot hosted a few motorcycles and a couple of cars, all exuding a certain... presence. A pristine '67 Ford Mustang even made me pause and feel a pang of admiration mixed with envy. A beauty like that, clearly someone’s cherished possession.

Inside, it was dimly lit, hazy with smoke, and surprisingly stylish. The walls were adorned with photos of local metal bands, a few guitars, and—hanging above the bar on chains—an old Harley without its wheels. Booths lined the edges of the room, each with low tables, while the main floor had simple wooden tables and heavy chairs. A slow rock tune played in the background. Authentic vibes.

Under the curious stares of a dozen women, I slid into a booth in the corner while Yuriko went to get drinks. She returned shortly with a bottle of whiskey and two square glasses. As she set everything on the table, the bartender, a woman in her forties, brought over a small bucket of ice with tongs and a plate of dark chocolate shards. She gave me a curious glance, then shot a disapproving look at Yuriko, who, of course, didn’t care at all. She was too busy opening the bottle, her face as indifferent as ever.

Pouring us each a couple of fingers of whiskey, Yuriko added two ice cubes to hers and gave me a questioning look. I glanced at the ice, then at the whiskey, and after a brief inner debate—mostly wishing she’d gotten vodka instead—I exhaled sharply and downed the whole thing in one go. Yuriko looked mildly surprised as I followed it with a sniff of my sleeve and a piece of bitter chocolate to chase the burn. The whiskey warmed me up nicely, but the taste? Ugh. Not my thing. Back in my previous life, I’d been a simple man: beer to chill, vodka to party. Fancy drinks like cognac, scotch, or whiskey? Not my style. White Georgian wines were my go-to for a nice dinner with my wife.

At the next table, someone let out an impressed grunt, but I didn’t even glance their way as I poured myself another round. "The more the good guy drinks, the less the bad guys get," right?

"..." Yuriko said, staring at me meaningfully.

"..." I shrugged in response.

"..." She shook her head.

“I didn’t enjoy it,” I admitted with a sigh. “But even knowing that, I wouldn’t have done anything differently.”

“A normal person wouldn’t enjoy it,” Yuriko replied, taking a small sip from her own glass. Then, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her pocket—something I hadn’t known she did—she lit one. Noticing my surprise, she just shrugged and waited expectantly for me to speak.

“Disgust. Spite. Relief. Emptiness,” I said, ticking off each feeling on my fingers. “And a sense that… it was the right thing to do.”

“It was,” she confirmed simply, exhaling a plume of smoke. “You did exactly what you believed was right. I didn’t tell you how to act; I left the decision entirely up to you. If you’d done something else, that would’ve been fine too—right, in its own way. For you. People might disagree, they might judge you, or they might side with you. 

“You’re... an unusual guy, Tobias. Sometimes you come across as a clueless kid, and sometimes you seem like someone who’s walked this earth for ages. I’m curious to see what you’ll grow into. The most important thing…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes taking on a sharper, angrier edge that wasn’t aimed at me but at something in her own past. She sighed, took another sip, and continued. “The most important thing is to make decisions you can live with. Consider your surroundings, the laws, the consequences—but in the end, make them your own.”

“I’ll remember that,” I murmured, taking a solid gulp from my glass and chasing it with another piece of chocolate. From the next table, someone muttered, “Kid’s got a strong stomach, but downing the first shot like that? That’s how you drink vodka, not whiskey,” earning a few grunts of agreement. I just smirked. Even Yuriko’s lips twitched upward at the corners.

The buzz crept up slowly, my young body unaccustomed to alcohol. A few more rounds, and I’d probably be out cold. Not that it mattered. But passing out right away? No way. Despite Yuriko’s reassurance, my mood wasn’t lifting. I wasn’t depressed or wallowing in regret—just bitter. The images that flashed before my eyes in those last moments before I fried Cletus… they were the worst animated comic I’d ever seen across both my lives. And the worst part was that they weren’t some fictional nightmare—they were real.

As I added ice cubes to my glass, mimicking Yuriko, I shivered, thinking back to that dream with the shadowy figure. The Sketched Man was real. I didn’t know what he really looked like, but he was definitely something far beyond human. Way beyond most mutants, even. Now, thinking about it, I remembered our two meetings.

Both times, the "dream" had been far too vivid. I remembered the details as clearly as if I’d met someone in real life. And the "conversation"? Was it telepathic? I don’t know; I’ve never talked to a telepath using their powers before. It was more like mutual understanding, on a level so far above anything I’ve ever experienced. Honestly, I’ve never understood myself as well as I understood the Sketched Man.

And that “phrase” about dojutsu… there’s no Naruto in this world. So where did he get that word? Did he pull it straight from my head? The memory of me whining about not having chakra, a bankai, or magic—just plain nothing—came rushing back. Maybe he used it just to mess with me. To keep me guessing. Because if he’d wanted me to understand, he could’ve made everything crystal clear—how it works, what it does, the conditions for activating it. But no. He didn’t want that. Probably because he found this way funnier.

From him, I could feel... amusement, satisfaction, curiosity. And he didn’t want to make anything simple! Even the ability itself—it’s vile. Sure, it’s useful as hell—no guilt or hesitation about roasting Cletus alive—but watching that psycho murder his victims twenty-nine times? Disgusting. Even though it was all in a pencil-drawn style, it was gut-wrenchingly unpleasant. Add the fact that I couldn’t intervene, and it became this festering, helpless kind of pain.

I stared at the glass of dark liquid in front of me and took a small sip, hoping to drown the sour aftertaste of memory. Better to pace myself, drink in moderation. No need to make an idiot of myself in front of Yuriko—or puke all over the car on the way back. A nibble of chocolate helped, and I let my eyes wander around the room. We weren’t drawing much attention. Sure, a few women glanced our way now and then, but mostly, people were occupied with their own stuff—talking, shooting pool at two tables in the back, or just drinking quietly. Nice place. I made a mental note to come back here when my soul needed it, though the drive was kind of a pain.

Now, about the ability… After that “dream,” I looked people in the eyes, especially those who’d killed. I’ve locked eyes with Yuriko, and she’s not called Lady Deathstrike for her good manners. Logan, too—he’s not out there beating villains with the power of friendship and fluffy kittens. So, what does that mean? Before I saw those “snippets” of Cletus’s murders—it’s important to note, it was only murders. No abductions, no thefts, nothing else. Just the moments where life ended. Each scene lasted maybe twenty subjective seconds, but when I came to, it felt like no time had passed. Is something like that even possible for a human brain? If not… then how the hell did I see it?

I took another sip, shelving that thought for later. The mechanism had kicked in when I locked eyes with pre-barbecued Cletus and mentally asked myself something like, “Has he killed?” I can’t even recall the exact wording. I was holding his head, preparing to end him, but there was this moment of doubt. Was it that hesitation that triggered it? I stole a glance at Yuriko, calmly sipping her drink. No way in hell was I testing this on her. There are things about people’s pasts you’re better off not knowing.

I chuckled into my glass. Funny thing—she’s become someone close to me. Not like Mom, G, or the girls, but still. She trains me, pushes me. A while ago, I would’ve called her “Sensei” with a smirk and a dose of irony, but now she’s firmly my Teacher. And I respect her enough to acknowledge that her past might not be pretty. Hypocritical of me? Sure. But I’m no paladin of virtue—just a selfish guy trying to be decent. In my selfishness, I’m not about to dig into Yuriko’s history. Plus, I’m in no rush to revisit that horrific movie theater in my head. No, this ability is getting tested on some random low-life. Hopefully, they’ve got a smaller graveyard in their closet, I mused grimly.

Another sip. I turned my attention back to Yuriko. She lounged back, smoking a cigarette. For a second, I had the urge to ask for one, but I squashed it. In my previous life, smoking had caused me all kinds of health problems as I got older. No regenerative abilities in this one, so no thanks. I’d pass on future vascular issues or hypertension. Instead, I closed my eyes, letting the buzz of alcohol creep over me. In the background, the music shifted to something aggressive but still melodic.

The sound of the door opening caught my attention. Three women in their early twenties bounced in, laughing and chatting, still sober but clearly planning to change that soon. I sighed wistfully, nostalgia washing over me. There was a time when I’d roll into bars like that with friends—claim a table, joke around, share life stories. I had years to go before anything like that would happen here. And finding guy friends? That was another task entirely. Maybe I could drag Harry here sometime? Sure, his mom would chew him out for it, but that’d be later—I’d have plenty of time to get him drunk first.

The mental image of Norma Osborn scolding her son for letting Tobias take him drinking in the middle of nowhere made me laugh out loud. Yuriko raised a curious eyebrow, and I explained, still chuckling:

“I was thinking I should bring a friend from Midtown here. Good guy, and this place... it’s solid. Great crowd.” I raised my glass slightly in salute to one of the new arrivals, flashing her a friendly smile.

“You’ll be getting here and back on your own,” Yuriko said, giving her trademark eerie chuckle. She glanced at the girls who’d giggled at my gesture, nodded slightly to herself, and then looked back at me. “Think you can manage that?”

“What’s there to manage?” I grinned, showing all thirty-two teeth. “Any ride will do if you’ve got cash. And if trouble comes up, I’ll handle it.”

“Good.” She nodded, pulled out her wallet, and slid some cash across the table. “I suggest you head out in the morning, Tobias.” Standing, she gave me a serious look, then winked. “Be back at school tomorrow evening,” she said, walking toward the door.

Uh… What?

I stared at her retreating back, my slightly tipsy brain grinding away. My first instinct was to follow her, but that instinct alone stopped me. When I thought about it, these past fifteen years had been lived under a constant watchful eye. A gentle one, sure—my family and caretakers always had my best interests at heart—but still, it was there. Now, with every step Yuriko took away, I could feel the freedom settling over me.

It wasn’t that I resented the oversight—any normal parent or guardian wouldn’t let a teenager run wild. But inside, there was a part of me that was older, that had been waiting for this. And now? Now I was spreading my wings, reveling in the smell of independence. Like a soldier on leave, I thought with a wry smile.

With Yuriko gone, I noticed the occasional glance at my now unguarded table, but I felt great. Until the question hit me: What now?

“Feeling lonely without your girlfriend, handsome?” A woman’s voice near my ear startled me. Looking up, I found myself face-to-face with the same brunette I’d smiled at earlier. Petite, even shorter than me, with warm brown eyes and a mischievous, cheeky grin.

“Lonely, yeah,” I replied, flashing her a smile to match. “And she wasn’t my girlfriend, just a travel buddy. I’m heading to New York, and she’s taking a different route. So, here I am.” Lies flowed from my mouth as easily as air into my lungs. I mean, why not? Sleep alone in a motel or see where the night takes me with a pretty girl—or maybe more than one—the answer is obvious. And explaining the intricacies of my relationship with Yuriko, or whatever her current plan for me was—reward, test, who knows?—felt like way too much effort. Lying was just simpler.

“Oh, really,” she said, tilting her head, clearly thrown off by my answer. But she quickly recovered, her grin turning dazzling. “In that case, why don’t you join us? Don’t worry, we’re civilized ladies. We won’t push any boundaries.”

“Now that’s no fun,” I said, giving her my best fake-disappointed look. “Gorgeous women like you, and you don’t push boundaries? What’s the world coming to?” Then I added a devilish smirk for good measure. Her eyes widened in surprise—not because she hadn’t seen this kind of banter before, but because guys around here were scarce, and one openly looking for fun was even rarer.

“Well,” she said, leaning in with a sultry grin of her own, “that rule is… open to negotiation. By the way, you can call me Ellie, or Elise, whichever you prefer. So, coming?”

“Absolutely,” I said, standing with a grin that mirrored hers. “I’m Tobias. Call me Tobi. And I’m very glad to meet you, Ellie.” I grabbed my glass and the bottle, while she, beaming with pride, scooped up the plate of chocolate and the ice bucket.

As we walked toward her table, I noticed her two friends whispering excitedly, stealing glances at me. My mood couldn’t have been better. Thank you, wise and calculated Sensei, for your unorthodox brilliance. Crispy Cletus Kasady? Mysterious Sketchy Guy? Cold-blooded murder? To hell with all of it. Three lovely ladies at a bar? That’s what mattered to slightly buzzed Tobias right now.

Fingers crossed, and unless some Unforeseen Nonsense™ decides to show up, tonight’s looking like it might end in a threesome—or better.

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 34

“You’ll get used to it… like I did…”

Blaidd was ready to howl at the moon—not willingly or with any pleasure, but out of sheer despair.

Of course, the half-wolf was glad to find a friendly merchant amidst this nightmare (what was he even doing here?!), but the problems weren’t getting any smaller.

He was lost. Completely and utterly lost in the Siofra River.

In the distance, Blaidd could see the towering city of Nokron, right in front of him, yet he had no idea how to reach it. He had tried every possible path, inspected every bush, struck a few suspicious stones out of frustration, and even stumbled upon some oversized, terrifying stag. None of it brought success. Worse yet, the poor half-wolf had wandered so deep into the wilderness that…

He forgot where the entrance was.

Blaidd had even tried contacting that cursed Seluvis, but the sorcerer was preoccupied with his own issues. Apparently, some old enemy had decided to hunt him down, forcing Seluvis into hiding for the time being.

Considering how well Ranni’s territory was defended, this enemy must have been incredibly dangerous.

The sworn brother of the demigoddess wasn’t all that surprised—knowing Seluvis, the man had definitely done something to deserve it. Serves him right!

But there was a catch.

What was Blaidd supposed to do now?!

Going to Iji was too embarrassing. The old giant had often warned him since childhood to be cautious when wandering off alone. At the time, Blaidd had found it insulting…

"Awooo…" — he let out a sorrowful howl.

"You’ll get used to it," the merchant repeated serenely, continuing to play his musical instrument. (1)

Blaidd covered his snout with a hand.

It still stung, even now. He wanted to let out an indignant whine, but his pride wouldn’t allow it—not in front of Iji. How could he ever look the old advisor in the eyes afterward?

Usually, Lady Ranni could help in situations like this. She never laughed at his… peculiarities. But she was resting after her long vigil, and while she could still watch over events in some capacity, she refrained from intervening. Blaidd couldn’t bear to trouble her during her recuperation.

"Awooo…"

The merchant nodded in satisfaction, his tranquil tune continuing. The mournful howling of the half-wolf added a surprisingly fitting undertone to the melody.

Blaidd had no idea what to do. At first, he’d held onto some hope that his new companion—recently and fatefully sworn into Lady Ranni’s service—might join him, but the man never showed up. Either they had somehow missed each other, which seemed unlikely, or…

No, Blaidd had seen enough of the Tarnished to know that calling him inconspicuous was laughable.

At the very least, that oversized stag wouldn’t have dared act so brazenly. In fact, it would probably be hiding somewhere by now, praying to all the Outer Gods that the undressed warrior-sorcerer wouldn’t find it.

Blaidd gazed up at the false stars of the immense underground city.

He could only pray to the universe for a sign. Any sign at all, dammit!

"I need a hint! Anything will do!"

Did Blaidd actually expect the universe to answer him? Probably not.

But it did.

For a brief moment, Blaidd thought he heard something—a distant sound growing closer. Maybe it was just his imagination.

But it wasn’t.

The last thing Blaidd managed to say, as he saw a massive celestial object tearing through the false stars deep underground, was:

"Huh?"

BOOM!

Meanwhile, the merchant didn’t stop playing. The arrival of the meteorite made an excellent addition to his tune.

The Wailing Wastes. That was the name befitting the place where the festival’s organizer had led the participants. A dead land where no grass would grow for hundreds of years. A battlefield filled with countless corpses, endlessly feeding the mindless demigod who had lost the last shreds of his sanity.

At the center of this hellscape, Kosta felt more comfortable than ever. The same couldn’t be said for the others.

"This fight won’t be easy."

Melina observed from the sidelines. She hadn’t felt this tense even when her Tarnished stormed Stormveil Castle alone. Back then, she knew she could pull him out of any danger. The Academy…

The Academy was better left unmentioned. His journey there had been far too peculiar.

Now, however, the stakes were different. If Kosta were to fall, Melina doubted she could help. Radahn was far too powerful. Not only was he an exceptional warrior, but he was also a master of magic (unsurprising, given his lineage), wielding gravitational sorcery like no one else.

He might not see her or even sense her presence, but gravity didn’t care. It would crush her spectral form without a second thought. She could use her “trump card,” but even Melina couldn’t predict the consequences of such an act (2).

‘Dangerous. Unbelievably dangerous.’ Melina’s spectral heart pounded as it never had before.

"Why do all these self-important big shots always want to keep everything under control?"

The relaxed voice of Sellen’s illusion, perched as usual on Melina’s shoulder, made the servant’s brow twitch.

"Your illusory form doesn’t let you perceive the world as I do. This place… is dangerous."

Melina bit her lip, feeling an invisible weight pressing down on her shoulders. Gravity itself seemed to bear down on her. From somewhere far off came an ominous howl and dreadful growling.

Sellen adjusted her illusory crown, gazing skeptically at the daughter of the Goddess. She opened her mouth to respond but paused, then smiled—a soft, knowing smile that only a woman could manage. Her voice dropped to a silken whisper:

"Ah, you’re right… Your emotions must have peaked when that mighty warrior and sorcerer sent his energy coursing into you… Perhaps the echoes of those feelings still linger, don’t they? How unfortunate that I can’t fully experience the same sensations right now…"

Sellen clearly anticipated a reaction from Melina, deftly leaping from her shoulder just in time to avoid the servant’s iron grip. Given Melina’s frazzled state, it would’ve been easier for Sellen to dispel her illusion entirely rather than risk capture.

But she wouldn’t miss this spectacle for the world. Unlike Melina, who was desperate to control the situation, Sellen harbored no doubts about the Tarnished’s victory.

After all, he had brought that charming red-haired maiden with him to the battlefield. The exiled sorceress didn’t believe Kosta would have done so without reason. It wasn’t madness—it was purpose.

Melina huffed indignantly and pulled her hood back up.

She couldn’t afford to let emotions overwhelm her. Not just because she had promised to watch over Millicent if needed, but for another reason entirely.

Through the crimson, rotting sky, a faint lunar glow was visible. Melina could sense the subtle presence of a power that could belong to only one witch. Ranni didn’t even try to conceal her unseen watchfulness.

She had to bear witness to her brother’s potential liberation, sending her regards through slumber.

And she had arrived just in time, as the festival participants reached their destination.

"We’ve arrived."

The voice of the castle castelan, a loyal retainer of the demigod, was heavy with pain and unshakable resolve.

Through the miasma of rot, they saw a silhouette consuming yet another corpse. A true giant, seated on a tiny, half-rotted horse that somehow persisted in its miserable existence.

How many countless soulslikers had laughed at the image of General Radahn, only to be utterly humiliated by him after endless attempts?

Sure, the fight with the general could be trivialized with the summoning of allied phantoms, but even the most casual players understood that without help, they wouldn’t stand a chance against him (3) . Eventually, no one laughed at the infamous general anymore.

Konstantin never laughed—whether he was a sweaty hardcore player or a sweaty casual.

“Wait here.”

Kosta stepping forward caused everyone to look at him in surprise—everyone except, perhaps, Millicent, who only gave a faint smile.

She had known from the very start he would say something like that.

“I never doubted you, buddy,” Patches raised his thumb in a nervous chuckle. “We’ll just… hang back over here, yeah?”

Stepping onto the battlefield seemed to have completely drained Patches of his initial enthusiasm. He had shown up hoping to scavenge something useful, but now… well…

Let’s just say he had slightly underestimated the danger of the situation.

“Madman,” rumbled the warrior with the massive hammer slung over his back. There was no disdain in his voice, only a genuine attempt to help. “I’ve heard of you, but not even your strength will be enough to take down the general on your own.”

Kosta shrugged.

In truth, the warrior who had spoken was, by all accounts, a good guy—a helper to countless Tarnished.

A shame he didn’t have a proper questline(4). It probably would’ve been interesting.

“It’s his right,” rasped the swordsman from the Land of Reeds with a dry laugh. “It’ll be fun to see how the demigod’s magic turns him into a bloody smear…”

Millicent’s expression darkened.

The swordsman’s laugh grew more unhinged, even giddy.

‘Typical bleed build,’ Kosta thought calmly, shrugging again.

The rumors that bleed build players had a higher than average percentage of madness weren’t just rumors.

“Are you sure about this, Konstantin?”

Kosta turned his head to Alexander, understanding how important it was for the Iron Fist warrior to participate in this fight.

“You’re not leveled enough yet.”

Alexander, if he could, would have slumped in shame. Somehow, he felt the weight of the man’s words, and they cut deeply.

“You think I… I’m not strong enough?”

“You’ll understand,” Kosta said solemnly. “Leveling up matters too. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, friend.”

“...Hey, that’s my li—”

Millicent clamped her hand over Patches’ mouth with such force that he nearly fainted.

“Friend?” Alexander’s voice wavered as he grew emotional. He hadn’t expected such kindness from the mighty warrior-mage.

After all, they had only met once. And though Kosta claimed Alexander had given him valuable advice, the jar warrior still didn’t think he had done anything extraordinary.

He didn’t even realize how much he meant to the Soulslike community.

“Yes, we’re true friends now, Konstantin the Tarnished… Fine, I, Alexander the Iron Fist, will trust you and wait! But if I think you’re struggling…”

“I’ll gladly accept your help,” Kosta nodded.

“Deal!”

Neither the silent knight in rounded armor nor the Finger Maiden reacted to Kosta’s words. But Jerren, the castle castelan, furrowed his brow.

“Without you, defeating the general will be very difficult, Tarnished. I respect your courage, but…”

Kosta’s gaze sharpened.

“You think I’m going to mess up in front of my waifu?”

Millicent, whether she wanted to or not, shyly looked away.

Her benefactor embarrassed her far too often.

Jerren, for his part, didn’t fully understand the Tarnished.

“You…”

“I said I won’t lose.”

The cold, unwavering tone of Konstantin’s voice left Jerren with no choice but to fall silent and ponder for a moment. Eventually, he reluctantly nodded.

“Have it your way, lad.”

If need be, they would intervene. As long as the Tarnished didn’t die immediately. Surely, someone who held two Great Runes wouldn’t go down so easily, right?

Konstantin strode forward with resolute steps, not a trace of fear on his face.

And yet…

“Armor could be a hindrance. This set’s nearly falling apart anyway.”

Melina opened her accursed eye. The moon in the sky flickered… strangely. Millicent’s face flushed crimson as Kosta casually stripped down, leaving himself clad only in a loincloth, before striding even more determinedly toward the demigod.

Sellen chuckled gleefully.

How this loincloth had survived all of his rolls was a mystery even to the Outer Gods, but one thing was clear—now, the Tarnished was dead serious.

Losing—even if it meant annoying some of the waifus (but not all!)—was not an option. He’d get dressed after he won.

The mindless demigod didn’t take long to notice the approaching Tarnished. Interrupting his feast, Radahn sharply turned to face Kosta’s unflinching form.

At times, Melina couldn’t help but marvel at Konstantin’s unshakable composure. Even if it was madness a hundred times over, his courage was something even the mightiest warriors would envy.

Radahn was terrifying—his appearance, his strength. Even the bravest, most fearless warriors could barely endure the gaze of the rot-consumed demigod.

Unfortunately, no one thought to mention this to Kosta.

Radahn’s steed rose up beneath him, turning in place. Barely able to stand, it always found its footing again, promising to fall for the last time only when its friend was defeated.

They had sworn to die together in battle.

The mad demigod, driven by instinct, slung an ancient, massive bow from his shoulder and reached for equally colossal arrows. While his movements might have seemed clumsy and slow, that assumption would be a fatal mistake.

“Run!”

Melina didn’t know if she had shouted the word aloud or not. Though she understood she couldn’t reach her chosen Tarnished in time, she still subconsciously stretched out a hand, and…

Thankfully, her help wasn’t needed.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze.

Kosta, watching as an arrow accelerated by gravitational magic hurtled toward him at unimaginable speed, unexpectedly bowed—a nod to his favorite tradition.

Then, springing upright, he leapt into the air and summoned Torrent.

Mounting the spectral steed mid-jump, Kosta narrowly dodged the arrow, as if he had anticipated it all along.

To his mild surprise, no second arrow followed. Instead, the Tarnished locked eyes with the demigod. For a fleeting instant, something flickered in Radahn’s gaze—an ember of surprise breaking through the all-consuming rage.

Radahn was a warrior to his very core. He might have lost his mind and started feasting on the corpses of his allies and enemies alike, but his essence hadn’t changed. Something deep within him compelled him to remain on the battlefield, to see this fight through to its inevitable conclusion.

And now, this once-noble warrior who had valued honor and strength above all else had, instead of greeting his opponent properly, attacked dishonorably. Yet the one who had challenged him didn’t flinch, didn’t flee, didn’t rage at his actions.

He simply bowed, as if he hadn’t even noticed.

The demigod, consumed by fury, cast aside his bow and arrows, drawing his massive curved blades from his belt. Lifting his head along with his trusty steed, they howled in unison, greeting their opponent.

No—opponents. After all, Kosta had Torrent by his side. Unlike with others, the Tarnished had no intention of refusing his companion’s help.

After all, Radahn himself was with his loyal friend. It was a matter of mutual respect, not some two-hour boss-killing challenge with bare fists at level one.

In Kosta's hand appeared the symbol of casual mastery—a staff that he pointed at his opponent. Rocks nearby began spinning, lifting into the air.

He was determined to defeat the one who held back beasts embodying the stars with the power of gravity—using gravity itself. This was the boldest challenge Konstantin could ever make.

And Radahn appreciated it, letting out an even louder howl. His rage shifted to anticipation for a glorious battle.

It’s hard to pinpoint the exact moment when the two warriors on their loyal mounts charged at one another. Perhaps it was immediately after the general's battle cry, or maybe they allowed themselves to savor the fleeting calm. But one thing is certain—the ground beneath the witnesses of the battle began to quake.

Then, what followed was something even those who had witnessed the Tarnished’s power from the very beginning could not have anticipated.

The two masters of gravitational forces clashed, creating fractures. Chunks of decayed earth exploded outward, scattering across dozens of meters and forming craters.

“Horizontal strike.”

Torrent, obedient to his rider's will, pushed off the air, disregarding the ground crumbling beneath his hooves, and darted to the side, ending up directly behind the demigod.

Torrent was too fast.

“Vertical strikes. Whirlwind combo. Vertical strike, whirlwind…”

The landscape transformed. Craters continued to appear one after another. Flattened pieces of earth, controlled by gravitational magic, lunged toward the combatants, only to be intercepted by opposing forces, repeating the cycle endlessly. The destruction came so rapidly that, soon enough, the entire battlefield—over which the riders sped on their loyal mounts—became a chaotic mess of jagged chunks of land torn apart by monstrous magic, leaving not a single flat patch of ground.

“Madness…”

Jerren felt as if he were watching the clash of two demigods once more. But this time, the opponent of his lord was… a mere Tarnished?

Patches, choking on the dust that had risen, coughed.

“Couldn’t the guy be a bit more careful…”

The warrior with the massive hammer glanced at the bald bandit hiding behind him and shook his head.

He didn’t mind helping someone in need, but this one was… slightly irritating.

“Unbelievable…”

Alexander clenched his fist, realizing that his friend hadn’t asked them to stay back simply because he didn’t want to seem like a casual.

It was because the demigod wouldn’t have left them a chance.

One hit from a blow like that, and Alexander would’ve shattered, his insides spilling out…

He clenched his fist even tighter, glancing around.

They were surrounded by the corpses of fallen warriors—hundreds, thousands.

“You’ll see, my friend. My strength will grow even greater! Just wait until our next meeting…”

The swordsman from the Land of Reeds said nothing, merely observing the battle. The same could be said of the lifeless Finger Maiden and Millicent.

The gravitational distortions clashing with one another made it nearly impossible to discern any of the warrior-mages’ movements, turning the scene into an incomprehensible, destructively chaotic maelstrom.

Yet it gradually became clear that this battle was far from equal.

With every passing second, Radahn's gravitational field weakened. At first, tiny pebbles began slipping through, pelting the demigod at incredible speeds.

Then larger stones—miniature meteors, hundreds, thousands of them, summoned as if from the cosmos itself.

They tore into Radahn’s body, embedded themselves in his bones, and some even pierced straight through, burying into the ground behind him. Yet the mindless demigod paid them no mind, consumed not by madness… but by the battle.

The greatest battle of his life.

Kosta could have easily taken out the weakened steed of Rennala’s son, leaving Radahn without his loyal companion. But the Tarnished refrained. Not a single spell targeted the demigod’s friend—they were all aimed solely at the warrior himself.

To the very end.

Radahn could not have asked for more.

At one point, the combatants stopped, facing each other from opposite ends of a small island that, by some miracle, had remained untouched by their battle. Only during this brief pause did it become evident that Kosta’s body was covered in numerous cuts from the flying debris. But these wounds, almost mockingly, healed right before their eyes, leaving no trace of blood. Konstantin’s body glowed with the light of the Sun.

Even so, it was the first time he had sustained actual injuries. This opponent was far more formidable than he had expected.

And that only excited the Soulslike player within him.

Clearly, Radahn—born with the spirit of a true Soulslike player—felt the same way deep down. And he wanted to show it, to unleash every ounce of strength he had left. The pinnacle of magic he had achieved through years of training.

Could Kosta insult his opponent by not revealing another pinnacle of casual magic—the one old casuals whispered about to their grandchildren, trembling as they recalled spamming Azur’s comet?

Of course not.

“I have to show him the apex of casual gravitational magic, Torrent,” Kosta murmured, patting his steed’s mane.

Torrent, content with the battle into which the man had drawn him, obeyed, returning willingly to the whistle.

He had gotten more than he could have hoped for, almost breaking his spectral hooves. What could be better?

Radahn, patiently waiting for the Tarnished’s spectral steed to vanish, crossed his swords. Then, leaning forward, he gathered all the strength he could muster…

And, atop his tiny steed, he ascended into the sky, disappearing into the crimson clouds.

Millicent’s mouth fell open.

“A?”

This “A?” is what every small casual and hardcore player utters the first time they see the gigantic demigod ascend on a miniature horse.

However, Kosta was entirely unfazed. He raised his staff and slammed it into the ground.

A glowing, casual seal ignited beneath him.

“What magic is that?” Melina frowned.

Had Sellen been nearby, she could have answered. But she was as far away as she could be, hiding her illusory face in her hands, having a strong sense of just how horrifying the spell Kosta intended to cast truly was.

Casual magic that could surpass even Azur’s comet. One of the most terrifying casual spells ever bestowed upon mages.

THE METEORITE OF ASTEL.

From the heavens, like a falling star, the demigod descended toward the unflinching Kosta. Without Torrent, there was no way to evade—but the Tarnished didn’t intend to.

At the very moment when the demigod, atop his tiny steed, collided with the earth…

Roll.

Explosion!

Dust erupted, obscuring the scene. For a few agonizing seconds that stretched into eternity, it seemed as though the Tarnished had fallen. But…

By rolling, Kosta became invincible.

The dust settled, revealing the figure of the unflinching, entirely unharmed Tarnished, having rolled through space, time, and logic itself.

Radahn’s eyes widened. He had no time to act before Kosta slammed his staff into the ground once more.

And for the demigod, this meant the end.

In the sky, directly above the Tarnished, golden glowing portals appeared. Absurdly massive, they blanketed the entire firmament. A power no mortal could wield.

Unless, of course, they over-leveled.

"Git gud. Level up for the DLC."

Kosta earnestly hoped that the vengeful little boy, most likely watching the proceedings, would help fully restore his sanity.

This was the last thing the demigod heard before the golden meteorites began hurtling out of the portals at immense speed, consuming him entirely.

Boom!

Boom!

Boom!

BOOM!!!

Countless meteorites obliterated the battlefield, already ravaged by the two warrior-mages, leaving an eternal imprint of their clash on the Starscourge Wastes and all of the Lands Between. The sky, once blanketed with rot, cleared to reveal the radiance of the Sun.

Konstantin, his body literally aglow with casual energy, leisurely stowed his staff into some space only he understood. Then, under the heavy, suffocating silence, he waited for a moment before raising his arms to the Sun, which now outshone the surprisingly large, luminous Moon. Stars began to fall from the heavens.

"PRAISE THE SUN!!!"

Melina belatedly realized that she too had raised her hands to the Sun. As had Sellen and Millicent (though with only one hand), as well as everyone else who had witnessed the battle.

...except for Patches, of course.

Another mighty foe, long deserving of rest, had been defeated.

Somewhere in the distance, a sorrowful howl echoed—a mournful cry from the half-wolf.

______________________________________

(1) “Nomadic Merchant's Tune”: Link to YouTube video

(2) In the lore, it’s never explicitly stated what this cursed eye does or how it works, though FromSoftware emphasizes its significance in the Frenzied Flame Lord ending. Why, what, and for what purpose—these remain mysteries left to the interpretations of loremasters, who have many and varied explanations.

(3) General Radahn is the only boss in the game who can be defeated with a team of allied NPCs.

(4) Great Horned Tragoth. Technically a hostile NPC, who can be killed by completing another questline, he is officially described as a noble warrior aiding those in need. Unfortunately, that’s all the information available about him.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 67

Falco stood up and grabbed an extra chair from a nearby table. Lucy sat down beside me, crossing her arms and legs—a body language textbook for "stay the hell away."

"Hey there!" Jackie greeted her with a wave. "This is Lucy, for anyone who doesn't know. She and V are... well, they're together."

"I’ve heard about her," Mama Wells replied. "And so has Gloria. Jackie, you and V might be very different, but you share one thing in common. Elección dudosa."

That roughly translated to “questionable taste.” It was a subtle jab, likely referencing Jackie’s relationship with Misty. Apparently, the story of how David and Lucy met had become a local legend, with its dramatic climax where the poor kid nearly ended up disassembled thanks to his new "girlfriend." Funny how fate works—I’d intervened at just the right time to derail what might’ve been love or friendship, turning it into cold animosity. At least on Gloria’s side; David looked indifferent, like he couldn’t care less. After everything he’d been through, this kind of drama probably felt trivial.

"Didn’t expect anyone else to join us," Gloria added curtly.

Lucy seemed entirely unbothered by the frosty reception. In fact, she might’ve even enjoyed the negative attention in some twisted way.

"Falco texted me," Lucy explained, cool as ever. "Said you were attacked. Figured I’d meet up with you sooner."

"You were attacked?" Mama Wells gasped, alarmed. "Was it in Glenn? Do you know who those bastardos were?"

"No, it happened far from here," I said, shaking my head. "It wasn’t exactly brutal. No headshots, no punches to the face or kicks to the nuts. Just tranqs, scripts, and a little electroshock. Whoever it was, they clearly wanted a chat."

"Or maybe a date," Lucy quipped.

The joke didn’t land with anyone but me. Judging by their reactions, it wasn’t supposed to. Lucy wore her cold, indifferent mask well, leaning into the role of the ice queen. Ironically, the attackers had used the same neurotoxin I’d once suggested to Faraday for use against her. Hardly a coincidence—Zf12 was renowned for being highly effective with minimal long-term side effects. Another clue they weren’t trying to kill me.

"It’s fine," I assured everyone. "Dangerous job, y’know? I’ll just be more careful until I figure out who’s tailing me this time."

"Less of the gloom, parientes," Jackie cut in, raising his glass. "It’s a celebration. We’re alive and well. Let’s enjoy it."

Jackie’s words worked their magic, and the tension eased as conversations picked up again. Mama Wells began asking Viktor about his work, and I felt utterly hammered. My body was still processing the neurotoxin, Sandevistan, and a cocktail of custom scripts, but my nervous system was slowly adapting. Maybe I’d have enough in me for the club scene later tonight.

"Rebecca coming?" I asked Lucy, slurring slightly.

"Yeah, she’ll show up later," Lucy replied.

"Cool..." I muttered, grinning drunkenly.

Oh, great. I’d need to make a quick exit. My two circles of friends didn’t exactly mix well, which, honestly, felt appropriate. It mirrored the duality of my entire existence.

Jackie was mid-story, something about a car and a dumb customer, when David cut in, pulling out a tablet.

"Hold up, I’m gonna listen to something," he announced.

"Oh, it’s the New Year’s address, right?" Gloria asked. "Turn it up so everyone can hear, if that’s okay."

"Just this once," Mama Wells allowed. "Though I never thought I’d hear corporate speeches in my bar."

David turned up the volume, and the room filled with the voice of Saburo Arasaka, delivering his annual address in Japanese.

"To our valued employees and all who hold the Arasaka Corporation dear," Saburo began. "We bid farewell to the year 2076. Soon, it will become a part of the long and proud history of the Arasaka family. Together, we must move forward, creating a brighter future. This past year, we worked tirelessly and achieved much. We celebrated successes, took pride in our accomplishments, and stood firm in defending our corporate interests, values, and traditions that are the bedrock of our strength. Thank you all. I look forward to what we’ll achieve together in the coming year."

The speech ended, and silence lingered for a moment before Lucy spoke up, swirling her drink in its tall glass.

"You know what’s always struck me?" she asked, her tone casual but cutting. "No matter how many of Saburo’s speeches I hear, I’ve never found one remotely interesting or memorable. Just nauseating platitudes—blah blah loyalty, blah blah hard work. How does someone so dull rise so high? Or is that the mask, hiding the devil underneath?"

Gloria looked like she was ready to snap, but David beat her to it.

"The world needs people who actually say, and more importantly, do those simple things," he said. "Most are just trying to cut corners and screw someone over."

"Exactly," Gloria agreed, with a firm nod.

I was about to step in and play peacekeeper when a commotion erupted downstairs. Mama Wells rose from her seat, ready to call security, but before she could, Rebecca burst onto the second floor.

Her hair was a mess, her outfit partly undone—her bra and gun harness both slightly askew. She looked half-drunk and completely wild.

"Oh, hey! Lucy! V!" she called, waving like nothing was wrong. "They didn’t want to let me in, so I just sped past on Sandy. Oh! Hi, doc!" she added, spotting Viktor. Then her gaze landed on David. "Wait! You were at the arena?! Holy shit! That was insane! You wrecked that guy! Head turned to mush, and then... snap!" She mimed snapping a neck for effect. "Oh, and Falco’s here too! Let’s get outta this dump and hit somewhere decent!"

"Dump?!" Mama Wells bristled.

"Arena?!" Gloria exclaimed, horrified.

Before anyone could respond, Lucy stood up, pulling my drunk ass with her.

"We’re leaving," she declared firmly. "V has urgent business at his new club."

"Yeah! Let’s delta!" Rebecca chimed in, grabbing my other arm. "What about you?" she asked David, turning with her usual reckless energy. "Why stick around here with the old-timers? We could swap you out for Falco—he’d fit in better here."

"I’m coming with you," Falco cut in, standing up from his seat. "Not up for discussion."

"Pleasure meeting you all," he nodded toward Mama Wells and Gloria.

"The pleasure was ours," Mama Wells replied, though her tone carried a hint of concern. "Take care of V, and don’t let him get torturado por todo tipo de perras."

"‘Tortured by all kinds of bitches.’" Classic Mama Wells diplomacy. I gave her a sloppy, drunken wave. "Happy New Year, everyone... friends!"

My voice was way too slurred to be taken seriously. As we exited, a few Valentinos bouncers closed in, likely to keep the peace.

"We’re leaving already!" Rebecca snapped at them, clearly unimpressed. "Yeah, yeah. We’re outta here."

Not long after, we were crawling through the festive gridlock in Falco’s ride. I slumped in the back seat with Lucy, while Rebecca sat shotgun, window down, hurling colorful insults at the city’s drivers.

"Blow your horn up your ass, dipshit!" Rebecca yelled, hanging halfway out the window. "We were here first! You wanna step out and prove me wrong?!"

Meanwhile, Falco had "Let It Snow" playing softly in the background—a surreal contrast to Rebecca’s tirade.

"You know... he’s kinda right," I muttered, turning to Lucy.

"Who? That asshole who called us ‘freaking losers’?"

"David," I said, shrugging. "He’s right. There really aren’t many people you can trust these days."

"Someone’s got his brain washed, V."

A knock on the window interrupted us—a homeless man in a grimy Santa hat, with a scruffy beard and a three-colored rat perched on his shoulder like some diseased parrot.

"Happy New Year, friends!" he croaked, holding out a cup for change. "Spare some eddies for Santa? I need to buy gifts for the good kids. All my cash went on coal for the bad ones. Night City, y’know?"

Rebecca tossed a crumpled bill into his cup, pointing at his "pet."

"Whoa! What’s your buddy’s name?"

"My buddy? What bud—AAAHH, FUCK!" the man screamed as the rat clung to his beard. He swatted at it while we drove off, leaving the scene behind.

"And yet, he’s still right," I repeated, turning to Lucy. "Let’s make a deal. No matter what happens, no matter what kind of asshole I have to become, I’ll never abandon you or see you as just a ‘resource.’ Can I count on you for the same?"

"I’m an elección dudosa, remember?" she teased. "Can you really trust me?"

"They don’t know you," I replied. "They just see the mask. But I do. Just say it. Say you’ll be on my side. It might sound cliche, but I need it to be true."

Lucy was quiet for a moment, then softly whispered, "I’m on your side. I’m with you."

"I’ll rip out every single one of your ribs so you can suck yourself off!" Rebecca screamed out the window, flipping the bird and flashing her pistol at someone. "Yeah, you, goat-faced asshole! You probably think the mirror’s a damn plastic surgery ad for losers like you!"

"Best New Year’s ever," I muttered under my breath before leaning in to kiss Lucy.

INTERLUDE: Yorinobu Arasaka
Tokyo, January 1

The family New Year’s gathering was, as always, revolting. The same monotonous performance, with dozens of supposedly rational adults dancing attendance around a rotting mummy.

Even during his years in exile, Yorinobu had stayed in touch with Hanako through the Net, trying to convince her that their father’s methods were outdated. Stuck in the ‘90s—or even the ‘80s. Now, he understood how wrong he’d been. Saburo’s methods weren’t just outdated—they were fossilized, relics of a bygone era. He was a walking corpse, a necromancer animating the decaying body of Japanese feudalism.

"Family corporation," Yorinobu scoffed, staring out the panoramic window at Tokyo’s rows of orderly skyscrapers.

The heir of eternal Saburo had seen plenty. He’d watched his father crush promising candidates to ensure no one could rival the Arasaka bloodline. He saw him choose spineless puppets and dimwits, people trembling at the mere sound of his voice.

Every time he listened to Saburo’s speeches, Yorinobu felt a deep sense of shame and contempt. Shame that his name and nation had become symbols of an eternal stagnation. Sacrificing the future for the past. The corporation’s vast resources were poured into this—erasing lives, waging wars, brokering peace—just to ensure nothing ever changed. The man who should’ve been long buried kept delivering the same speeches to his aging children, who were destined never to control their own lives.

"Not for much longer," Yorinobu thought.

A soft chime interrupted his musings—an incoming message.

"Hey. You left so fast last time. I wanted to see you. –E."

Yorinobu smirked at his reflection in the glass. Ah, Evelyn. A charming, empty-headed little doll. He’d encountered dozens of women like her over his long life. She thought she was clever, sneaking glances over his shoulder, fumbling with his computer when she thought he wasn’t looking. He let her, indulging her illusions of secrecy and trust. Then, he’d undercut her pride, only to lure her back with whispers of secrets shared in her presence. The small victories puffed up her ego like a wilting flower catching a rare rainstorm.

He began typing his response:

"I’ll be back soon. Missed you. Let’s meet. I’ll be staying at Konpeki Plaza for a week or two. I’ll message you before I leave."

Perfect. Timing was everything. Evelyn knew something valuable would soon be in his possession. If his allies in Night City were right, she’d already hired Dexter DeShawn, who was securing credentials to infiltrate the hotel. They’d succeed—just in time for Saburo to arrive, ready to punish his wayward son.

Silverhand. That bait would be too tempting for his father to resist.

"J.S." That’s how Saburo referred to him. Rarely writing the name in full, as if he resented wasting even a fraction of his eternal time on such an insult of a foe. Even in death, Johnny still haunted him.

Ironically, even in death, Johnny Silverhand might get a shot at delivering the fatal blow to his old enemy.

Another reason Yorinobu had no doubts about his father’s personal visit was the man’s obsessive “familial” approach. A typical corporate head would have simply ordered security to dispose of a troublesome subordinate. But not Saburo. His children could only be punished by his own hand. No one else was allowed to step on the Arasaka name—only the stern father himself.

Saburo would likely arrive with a couple of bodyguards. Even if he dismissed them from the room, Yorinobu had Adam Smasher. That guy didn’t give a damn about family names. Yorinobu knew exactly what that… creature wanted—war, violence, the chance to destroy everything in his path. Yorinobu could provide that opportunity, and for it, Smasher would even turn on his former master. Adam wasn’t a samurai; the old codes meant nothing to him.

Of course, working with someone like Smasher was revolting, but Yorinobu had long since burned away any excess idealism. At 82, he’d learned to forgive treachery, cruelty, and betrayal, as long as they served a meaningful purpose. Arasaka’s problem wasn’t its viciousness—it was the absurd, empty goals all that ruthlessness was aimed at.

Yorinobu had to end his family’s eternal stagnation. Only he could do it.

"Arasaka’s been bombed before. It didn’t work. Silverhand couldn’t pull it off. I’ll go further—I’ll become the bomb myself."

It would all end soon.

INTERLUDE: Evelyn Parker
Night City, January 3

Evelyn had stopped caring about New Year’s a long time ago. For her, it wasn’t about trees, tinsel, or gifts—it was drunk corpos storming into Clouds, loud and vulgar, ready to start fights over nothing. And there was Woodman, always trying to sell her time and body for the highest price.

The doll chip was like an elegant, insidious drug. Money seemed to flow out of nowhere, bringing all the pleasures it could buy. A job where you weren’t even really present—it sounded like a dream if you ignored morality. But every session stole hours of her life. One, two, sometimes five or more. Life without you in it. That didn’t sound like much of a dream. Still... it would all be over soon.

A few more days, maybe a week, and Yorinobu would grace this wretched city with his presence once again.

Yorinobu...

So serious, so full of gravitas, yet as naive as a child. Relaxing in the back of a taxi, Evelyn could picture his stern face. Could she have ever truly loved him?

‘Maybe,’ she thought, ‘and that would’ve been incredibly stupid.’

She knew perfectly well she was just a high-end toy to Yorinobu. He had made it clear more than once. “We can’t be seen together, especially not in Japan,” he’d said. “The age of fairy tales about princes and Cinderellas is long gone.”

Evelyn smirked bitterly, pulling a cigarette case from her purse.

The great Yorinobu Arasaka. Rebel, genius, heir to an empire. She would give anything to see his face when he realized the truth—when it dawned on him that the pathetic doll had risen against him, played him, outwitted him.

‘Maybe he’ll regret not seeing me as more than just a doll?’ she wondered, lighting her cigarette, only to chastise herself for such naivety.

‘Get a grip, Eve. He won’t regret anything. He’ll just hate you for it.’

She knew she was betraying her lover—or more accurately, her client—but what other choice did she have?

‘Idiot,’ Evelyn thought again. ‘He could’ve pulled me out of this mess. Not as a lover, fine, but at least as a corporate employee. He could’ve taken me with him. Would that have been enough? Probably.’

Stepping out of the taxi, Evelyn took in the familiar scents of the city: damp, chemicals, the promise of rain. She had another call with Dex tonight. The plan was ready, and it seemed like he’d already found his team.

‘I hope they’re competent.’

She headed to the storage locker where she kept her notes. Time to destroy everything—wipe away any incriminating evidence. The area was quiet, lonely even, with only the distant hum of traffic. Evelyn instinctively slid her hand into her purse, gripping the handle of her A-22B Chao. Sleek, deadly.

For a moment, she thought one of the surveillance cameras shifted to follow her movements. Was she imagining things? She glanced around. Nothing.

‘Stay calm, Eve. Get it together. The chance of a lifetime is falling into your hands. Just one more step…’

Darkness suddenly clouded her vision, static rippling at the edges. Her ears were useless; all she could hear was a deafening hum.

"What the—" she started, drawing her pistol. But where was she supposed to aim? The blackness before her eyes offered no answers. Then came the sharp sting in her neck. She spun, fired blindly—but there was no sound, not even the crack of gunfire.

"Warning: Neurotoxin Zf12 detected in your system," her biomonitor announced. "Please seek immediate medical assistance."

Numbness spread rapidly. Her fingers could no longer grip the trigger.

Evelyn realized it was over. Over for her dreams, over for her life. All she could hope for was the mercy of waking up again. The thought of dying offscreen, in silence, terrified her more than any pain. But deep down, she knew that was exactly how she’d go.

Death without you in it.

Evelyn Parker lost consciousness.

Daily Updates (21/01/25) + (22/01/25)

Apologies, the new medication knocked me out for the whole day.

Updates for (21/01/25):

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 61

• Tier 2: Chapter 66

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 28

• Tier 2: Chapter 33

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 31

• Tier 2: Chapter 36

___________________________________

Updates for (22/01/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 39

• Tier 2: Chapter 44

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 35

• Tier 2: Chapter 40

Hydrargyrum

• Tonks' Interlude (Chapter 7.5)