JohnnyZ

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 7.5 (Interlude)

Nymphadora Tonks hated her name. Among witches and wizards, ancient or flamboyant names were hardly uncommon, especially within the old families long detached from the Muggle world. Take her mother’s side of the family, for instance—Regulus, Bellatrix, Narcissa. Who names their children that unless they harbor some deep resentment toward them? Apparently, her mother hadn’t been tormented enough growing up with the name Andromeda to consider sparing her own daughter with something simple like Jane or Susan. Worst of all, no one around seemed to care how absurd her name sounded or how much of a tongue-twister it was for everyone to say it. Tonks had gotten used to it over the last twenty years, but really, did they have to make it so hard on themselves?

“Nymphadora, that report should’ve been on my desk two hours ago!”
“Sorry, Mr. Shacklebolt, I’ll have it ready in five minutes.”

“Nymphadora, a dragon in your handbag, have you checked the archives, or does my order mean nothing?”
“Apologies, Mr. Moody. I’ll get the report to you within thirty minutes.”

“Trainee Tonks, you’re joining O’Neil’s group for an operation in Knockturn Alley in twenty minutes. Understood?”
“Understood, Director Scrimgeour, sir!”
“Not so loud, trainee, though I admire your enthusiasm. And try not to drop those files on me—they’ve got ten pounds of dust alone.”

The head of the Auror Office pushed past Tonks, who was struggling with a stack of folders piled higher than her head, and marched off to issue more orders for the upcoming raid. Tonks sighed softly as she watched him go. Scrimgeour might be an egotistical careerist, but his habit of addressing people by their surnames was oddly endearing. Barely managing to avoid spilling her dusty stack of files—some of which appeared to be centuries old—and narrowly sidestepping a doorframe, Tonks reached the corner designated for trainees.

Now, she had three minutes to finish the report for Kingsley (with a quill, no less, in what was almost the 21st century!) and another fifteen minutes to prepare for the next inspection. Considering her unique talent for getting tangled in her official robes, even after straightening their folds, a quarter of an hour wasn’t much time. Someone once told her that American Aurors had been wearing 1930s-style Muggle trench coats for the last fifty years. Lucky them.

The chaos engulfing the Auror Office had lasted for two relentless months. Veteran Aurors claimed they hadn’t seen such a frenzy since the height of You-Know-Who’s reign. Even old Moody had stopped complaining about his never-ending retirement plans—a sign of just how dire the situation was. Tonks herself hadn’t seen the sun for days at a time, living in a relentless cycle of “home-fireplace-Ministry dungeons-fireplace-home.” This was certainly not what she’d envisioned when she signed up for Auror training during “peaceful times.”

Her last proper day off had been in March when she’d encountered a Muggle-born orphan in a park and introduced him to Diagon Alley, explaining the basics of the wizarding world as best as she could. Not long after, the usual routine of dull lectures, occasional hands-on practice, and mundane patrols of London’s stations and outskirts had been thrown to the proverbial three-headed dog.

It started one night in early April with the blaring alarm of an all-hands call across the second and third floors of the Ministry. As the story went, a massive enchanted map of London and its surroundings—shared between the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes—had flagged a powerful but unfamiliar magical signal in a forest near London, at the edge of their jurisdiction. It appeared to be the site of a dark ritual accompanied by a significant magical surge.

The intern on overnight map duty, one of Tonks’ classmates, panicked and triggered the alarm, waking everyone up. By the time the Auror Office figured out which department was responsible, assembled a team of five seasoned Aurors led by Moody, and had them Apparate to the fields outside London before flying to the site, the moment had passed.

They arrived at an abandoned village of about ten houses, only to find a spreading fire and not a single living—or non living—soul. Once it became clear there would be no battle with dark wizards, possibly remnants of You-Know-Who’s forces, half the department was summoned to the scene. Aurors extinguished the flames, patrolling officers set up a perimeter—not so much to keep Muggles out (though they had to redirect a Muggle fire crew later) as to ward off nosy journalists—and the remaining Aurors secured key locations, fearing terrorist attacks like those eleven years ago. Thankfully, nothing happened, and most of the team was withdrawn after a few days. However, strengthened patrols remained.

Once the initial chaos was over, the fire doused, and the smoke cleared, the Aurors began searching for evidence. Unlike Muggle police, who would’ve scoured the area on hands and knees, collecting ash fragments with tweezers, the Aurors had far more efficient methods. After photographing the burned-down house and village from every conceivable angle—both from the ground and the air—they moved on to the wondrous spell “Reparo.”

Trainees weren’t allowed near such delicate work, so Tonks watched from a neighboring yard as a few experienced Aurors restored the charred ruins into a complete, albeit shabby, cottage in a matter of minutes. The result wasn’t perfect—some wood planks, floorboards, and upholstery were missing, as if a few puzzle pieces had been lost. But it sufficed for their investigation. The radius of the spell was limited, and much of the material had been reduced to smoke and ash, scattered by the wind. An exact replica wasn’t necessary.

Unfortunately, any magical traces from the ritual had been obliterated by the fire and subsequent reconstruction. There had likely been a ritual circle drawn on the floor, evidenced by smudges of blood, chalk, and soot, alongside bowls and cages placed at equal intervals. The cages contained small animals and birds—dead, of course. No spell of repair, healing, or restoration could bring them back to life.

That discovery immediately escalated the level of alarm. Moody, in his usual paranoid fashion, almost issued orders to patrols to attack any suspicious shadows in the city on sight—he was barely talked down. Rumors had long circulated, whispered among the Aurors, that You-Know-Who wasn’t entirely dead and that the so-called “innocent” Death Eaters, who had escaped trial by blaming potions or Imperius, might attempt to bring him back. What if this unknown ritual, involving sacrifices and summoning a powerful otherworldly entity, was just such an attempt? Worse, what if it had succeeded?

Scrimgeour, however, dismissed this as an overreaction. He pointed out that the scale of magic and sacrifices involved was insufficient to resurrect a dark wizard of that magnitude. But as a test run, a trial for a larger ritual? That was plausible. His response was swift and decisive: “Track down every suspect or witness involved with dark magic or necromancy in the last thirty years.” Azkaban, Tonks thought, must not have seen such a pilgrimage of investigators in decades…

“Nymphadora, no sleeping on the job! We leave in three minutes!” The sharp voice right by Tonks' ear yanked her from her thoughts.

“Trainee Tonks, ready to go, Auror O’Neil, sir!” she reflexively reported and tried to jump to her feet but got tangled in her robes and nearly hit the floor. Fortunately, the Auror caught her with a quick spell, setting her upright before motioning for her to follow him to the elevator, where the rest of the group was already packed in.

It was mid-May, and these inspections of shady shops and even shadier craftsmen in Knockturn Alley and similarly dubious locations around the country had become an almost daily routine. In the past month and a half, they had confiscated more contraband than in all of the previous year. If it weren’t for space expansion charms, the evidence storage would have overflowed long ago. Yet despite all the effort, the main investigation’s results remained the same—one giant, glaring zero.

No leads, no evidence, not even a decent suspect. Someone even proposed the bizarre theory that the culprit could have been a visitor from the continent—perhaps Apparating in from Portugal, conducting some dark ritual to avoid leaving traces at home, and then vanishing back. The Department of International Magical Co-operation had sent out a careful inquiry to nearby countries, asking if they’d noticed any malevolent entities or strange activity in their reports, but the responses were all negative.

Against this backdrop, incidents that would have occupied the department for a week in the past now barely registered. A couple of wizards disappeared from Knockturn Alley, but disappearances there were a routine—especially considering the “methods of competition” common in the area. All they found was one wand washed up on the Thames, which painted a grim picture of those wizards' fates.

On another occasion, a call came through to Scrimgeour himself (a rare event) from Muggle intelligence services. Moody had drilled it into the trainees during lectures that magical law enforcement’s relationship with the Statute of Secrecy could be... unique. Muggle police were instructed that if they ever encountered something truly inexplicable—something that defied all logic and was utterly impossible—they were to report it to their superior. If that superior was convinced, they would report it further up the chain, until, finally, the top brass—someone practically on the level of the Prime Minister—would contact the Aurors for help.

The reverse was also true. When dealing with Muggle criminals who had somehow learned about the wizarding world, Aurors could request assistance from the police. However, such interactions were exceedingly rare—maybe once or twice a decade.

This time, with the entire department working non-stop, Scrimgeour had only managed to spare one senior trainee to investigate. The trainee dutifully went to London and returned with a report: someone had bombed a Muggle dealer or a thug (the distinction wasn’t significant on either side of the Statute) in their home. However, there were no traces of gunpowder, dynamite, or any other explosive materials. 

The trainee had thoroughly searched the ransacked office, checking every corner, but found no evidence of magic capable of causing such destruction. The damages didn’t match spells like Expulso, Reducto, Bombarda, or any other known explosive charms. The general magical background in the area was slightly elevated, but that could easily be explained by strong emotions or the presence of wizards or squibs among the victim’s associates.

Ultimately, the Muggles were left with nothing, returning to their scientists and experts for answers, while the trainee came back with amusing tales of how “quirky” Muggle investigators were and how their operations differed from “normal” procedures.

Captured vampires, foolish wizards casting spells in front of Muggles, or the notorious fraudster Fletcher selling a case of mandrakes at an exorbitant price to an “anonymous potioneer” now became a unimportant routine,  handled by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when time allowed.

Reflecting on the chaos of the past two months, Tonks obediently followed all of O’Neil’s orders—don’t get in the way, confiscate the shop owner’s wand to check for recent spells, inspect that suspicious chest for curses, scare off a boggart that popped out of the basement, and again, don’t get in the way. It was a typical inspection with a predictably minimal haul: a vial containing traces of a particularly potent love potion from the Ministry’s restricted list. Hardly a significant find.

They returned to the Auror Office empty-handed. Tonks had just settled down to finish the report Moody was still waiting for when the battered Auror himself stomped into the trainees’ room, his staff thudding against the floor. He scanned the room, his mismatched eyes—one real, one magical—landing on Tonks as she slumped into her seat.

“Mr. Moody, the report will be ready in about ten minutes…”

“Forget the report, Dullahan stomp me sideways” Moody interrupted, dropping heavily into a nearby chair and propping his staff beside him. “Nymphadora, why didn’t you tell me you had a boyfriend?”

“I have a… WHAT?!” Tonks was so startled she dropped her quill. Her hair turned bright red with yellow stripes, and wolf-like ears sprouted from the top of her head.

“A young man. A fiance. A boyfriend. Or whatever you kids call it these days.” While you were out, an owl delivered this,” he tossed a letter onto the table. It was a minor miracle that the famously paranoid Auror hadn’t opened it himself to check for poisons, curses, or threats.

“I don’t have a…” Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the letter and read the sender’s name, written in plain ballpoint pen. “Redirected from the Leaky Cauldron. From “James Murphy”… Who’s that?”

“Oh, you’ve got so many you can’t keep track? Andromeda will be thrilled!”

“That’s not what I…!” Tonks’ hair bristled as her frustration nearly triggered a transformation into a gorgon. Perhaps her subconscious was hoping to turn her mentor to stone? But she quickly calmed herself, reverting to her usual appearance. “Wait, hold on! I remember now. That’s the boy I brought to Diagon Alley—the Muggle-born orphan. I told you about him.”

Seeing Moody’s smug grin dim slightly, Tonks tore open the envelope and read the brief letter.

“I told him that if he ever had trouble, he could ask me for help. Let’s see… He says he’s been adopted, has a family now, is being homeschooled, and managed to get some books on magic. He’s trying to learn about the wizarding world, and he likes Diagon Alley, but there’s still a lot he doesn’t understand. And since he doesn’t know any other wizards, he’d like to meet and ask me some questions. Next week at the Leaky Cauldron… I’m guessing you’re not going to let me…?”

"You're free," Moody snapped his fingers, and the calendar on the wall rustled its pages before settling on the appropriate date. "May 23rd. You'll have the day off."

"And the investigation?" Tonks asked skeptically, carefully folding the letter and tucking it back into the envelope.

"To Mordred with the investigation, may Rhongomyniad crack its spine," Moody replied bluntly, waving his hand dismissively. "I'll explain it simply, like to an adult. Fudge is tired of it. You know our dear Minister and his stance—'Everything's fine in London, all's well in Britain. Dark wizards? Surely not. We don’t have such horrors here, do we?' And as for the dozen or so we lock up every year? 'Rumors and journalistic nonsense, that’s all!'

"So, he's decided to shut the whole thing down and send us back to patrolling train stations and arresting goblins without permits. Rufus is holding out for now, clinging to the idea that potential glory as the vanquisher of a dark wizard is better than simply following orders. But that’ll last only as long as he believes it. Even he’s starting to cave—within a few days, they’ll start pulling people off the case and loading them up with routine tasks. By summer, this entire mess will be shoved into some damned archive." Moody cast a disgusted look at the dusty stacks of folders. "At best, it’ll be filed as a 'failed attempt to resurrect Voldemort.' More likely, it’ll be written off as a 'random incident of unknown nature.' Disgusting.

"But neither Fudge nor Rufus seems to realize that while this case will get archived, the scum who caused it won’t disappear. And they might try again. And again. That’s why—"

"Constant vigilance, sir!" Tonks shouted, cutting him off before he could bellow it in the confines of the small office. Her ears had suffered enough ringing for one lifetime.

"Ah, you’ve learned well in less than a year. I’m proud. There’s hope for the youth yet, not just a bunch of slackers. So, wrap up your current tasks—finish that ghoul-bitten report—and prepare to return to patrol duty. Oh, and write back to that boy. Let him know you’ll meet him. Did you at least explain how wizarding post works?"

"Oh… Morgana! I told him where to buy owls but didn’t explain why he’d need one. I thought it was obvious..."

"Figures. Write to him at the Cauldron, or wherever he’s expecting your reply. Or just show up at the time he suggested and explain it all then."

"Couldn’t someone else go?" Tonks drummed her fingers nervously on the desk, her nails transforming into curved cat-like claws. "What if I forget something again? We weren’t exactly trained for this. Wouldn’t it be better to call someone from Hogwarts? Professor McGonagall, maybe?"

"In May? Right before final exams? If I suggest that to Minerva, she’ll shred the letter with her claws, then neatly tuck the pieces back into the envelope and send it back without a word. And if I were to ask Snape… let’s just say you don’t know half the words he’d use to respond.

"Look, an Auror’s head isn’t just for deflecting spells. I’m old, and in ten years, you’ll be the one teaching new recruits the difference between Imperius and Confundus and why one lands you in Azkaban while the other doesn’t. You may as well start preparing now."

"If you say so..."

"I don’t just say it—I know it. From what you’ve said, you seemed to get along with the lad. And we need every wizard we can get right now. If this filth really is coming back..."

Tonks understood. She understood better than most her age. She had been born three years after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named transitioned from speeches to murder and terror. When he died and the war officially ended, she was eight years old.

During the war itself, she had been too young to grasp its horrors, but she remembered vividly the aftermath—the tallying of losses, and as her father grimly put it, "the punishment of the innocent and the rewarding of the uninvolved." Over the course of that sluggish and lethargic decade-long civil war, about a thousand witches and wizards had died, not counting mercenaries from the continent or overseas. Another thousand were cursed, maimed, or driven mad—people who lost everything and were left burning with a desire for vengeance at any cost.

Some managed to rebuild their lives, but many didn’t. The death toll, in proportion to Britain’s small magical population, far exceeded the losses the Muggle UK suffered during World War I or II.

As for the Muggle casualties? No one bothered to count. Memories were Obliviated en masse, and angry calls from the Prime Minister’s office were met with curt responses of, "It’s none of your business; we’ll handle it." If Voldemort hadn’t fallen in 1981, and his followers hadn’t been swiftly dealt with afterward, the Ministry might well have faced a war on two fronts—against the Death Eaters on one side and enraged Muggles on the other.

Nearly two thousand magical lives lost or shattered weren’t just numbers. Each was someone’s husband, parent, uncle or a friend… Or a wife, an aunt, a daughter - no fewer women participated in that massacre, both among the Death Eaters and among Order's "phoenixes" and the Aurors. 

Tonks had lost a cousin to the war; another relative and an aunt were imprisoned in Azkaban. Yet another aunt had married a man who’d allegedly "bought his way out" and walked free.

Even after Voldemort’s defeat, the magical world had endured five more years of turmoil—revenge killings, arrests for past crimes, fugitives eluding capture. The community had shrunk by several hundred more.

As a child, Tonks had often wondered whether Aurors would one day come knocking on their door, arresting her family "on suspicion of dark magic and ties to terrorists," or if the remaining Death Eaters would show up to slaughter them for refusing to side with their leader. Fortunately, neither happened.

When she went to Hogwarts, those fears receded, but her family’s complicated ties to Voldemort’s inner circle haunted her. Her lineage, part of a family that hadn’t supported the rebellion but was deeply intertwined with its leaders, was a frequent target of insults—both at school and in the Ministry. But insults, at least, weren’t Avada Kedavra.

If history repeated itself... Britain’s magical community might need to be repopulated from scratch.

"I can see from your face that you understand," Moody said gravely. He couldn’t read minds, but his years of experience meant he rarely needed to. "You grasp the depth of the crap... the trap we might be walking into. Every wizard matters now. And when you speak to that boy, make sure you set his head straight. Let him know, gently, that joining those psychopaths is never an option."

"He's Muggle-born. To them, he is a 'mudblood,' even worse than me."

"Are you going to tell me that this self-styled Fuhrer didn’t have Muggle-borns and half-bloods among his lackeys?"

"There were some..." Tonks admitted reluctantly.

"Exactly. So don't make their mistake—don’t divide people into good or bad by their blood. It’s all red all the same. It's up to each person to decide who they'll fight for."

Moody groaned as he grabbed his staff and hauled himself to his feet. "But I’m not your father, here to lecture you. You’re grown enough to understand what’s what. Just... felt like grumbling a bit. Thinking about all the filth from back then. Anyway, you can leave on time today instead of staying past midnight. You’ve got studying to do—exams are coming up soon."

The Metamorphmagus stared in surprise at the door as it swung shut behind the old Auror. Shaking her head, she reached for her quill to finish the report... and swore when she saw nothing but shredded parchment on the desk.

She must have absentmindedly turned her fingers into claws while lost in thought and shredded the document without noticing.

With a resigned sigh, Tonks grabbed her wand and muttered, "Reparo. Merlin, take it…"

The pieces reassembled themselves—but she had overdone the spell. The parchment had "repaired" itself so thoroughly that the last two paragraphs were gone entirely.

"Great," she groaned, tapping her wand against her temple. "Now I have to remember what the bloody hell I wrote."

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 40

"Tora-chan, my baby!" Shijimi exclaimed theatrically, smothering me in a storm of kisses. I barely dodged them all.

The shinobi from the mission commission and the gung-ho genin team that “captured” me sent me looks of sympathy. Lucky for me, Monkey-sama had already disappeared to deal with his Hokage business. After a few minutes of intense cuddling, Shijimi finally allowed me to retreat into the cat carrier. I was this close to shutting the door myself—she was really committing to the role. But honestly, it seemed like she had genuinely missed me. After all, it had been a while since we last saw each other.

While I sat in the carrier, I had plenty of time to contemplate. It was almost lunchtime, and Naruto and Sasuke wouldn’t be out of class for a few more hours. We had plans to sneak back into the Uchiha district later. Now with Shijimi’s surprise visit and my “capture,” how would this fit into the equation? Could I still make it back in time? I mean, escaping the carrier wasn’t exactly rocket science. Chakra’s a wonderful thing, after all.

First, though, I needed to figure out what Shijimi wanted, then plan my next steps. After paying Neji’s team for the mission, Shijimi and I left Konoha.

“Tora-chan,” she said softly once we were in the palanquin, releasing me from the carrier. Her expression turned somber as she leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I know Kushina survived. Kobo-san contacted me secretly and asked me to check on you. I’m so glad you’re alive, Tora-chan! And I know you’ve been helping. You’re such a good boy.”

My eyes widened. Whoa. That’s… unexpected.

“Is Naruto-kun struggling? Poor boy,” Shijimi said, nervously biting her lip. “Unfortunately, I can’t even get close to him. Minoruhi and I are practically hostages to the Sandaime. Even our son…”

Wait, what? They have a son?

“Shisui-kun told me to hold on for a few more months. They can’t contact you—it’s too dangerous. The search for outside help might take longer than we expected. Can you manage until then?”

I nodded solemnly.

“I knew I could count on you, my sweet boy,” she said, stroking my fur. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You’d never abandon your friends in trouble… I wish I could do more, but I’m constantly under watch. Even Mamoru-san isn’t fully on my side.” She cast a meaningful glance toward the gruff bodyguard.

I nuzzled her cheek, trying to comfort her.

“I believe we’ll figure it all out,” she said with a faint smile. “The most important thing is that I can let Kushina know her son is safe. You’re looking after him, aren’t you?”

I nodded again, firmly this time.

Then, to my utter shock, Shijimi formed a series of hand signs. A perfect copy of me appeared next to her. I stared at her, dumbfounded. Wait… what?

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she said, clearly amused by my reaction. “I’m not a full-fledged shinobi. My chakra reserves are tiny, and my circulatory system is barely developed,” she explained, rolling up her sleeve to reveal a fading seal. “But… there are ways to seal chakra for emergencies, even for civilians.”

My clone gave an exaggerated yawn—classic me—and hopped into the carrier.

“I think this will suffice for a while,” Shijimi mused. “I can feed it small amounts of my chakra to extend the jutsu’s duration.”

I nodded again. This plan wasn’t foolproof, but it was solid. It would deflect suspicion from the daimyo’s family and give me a perfect alibi.

“Mamoru-san,” Shijimi called out from the palanquin, “let’s stop by Lady Hanya’s shop in Otakuku. Her poppy seed buns are absolutely divine.”

“As you wish, my lady,” the bodyguard replied.

Half an hour later, I slipped out of the palanquin unnoticed, darted into an alley, and made a beeline back to Konoha.

I made it just in time. Classes had ended, and I perched on a tree near the Academy, keeping an eye on the doors. Familiar faces from Class 6-A trickled out: Ino, locked in a heated argument with Sakura; Ruri, flanked by her usual cronies. Hinata left with an older Hyuga escort. Then came Sasuke, looking as broody as ever. A flock of fangirls immediately surrounded him, chirping away—some weren’t even from his class! Sasuke huffed and quickly made his escape. But where was Naruto?

I peered into the classroom window and spotted him. He was still inside with Shikamaru, Choji, and Kiba. Judging by Iruka’s irritated lecturing, they’d been kept after class. But as soon as Iruka turned his back, Kiba yelled, “We’re outta here!”

The four of them bolted, diving out the window like a well-practiced escape crew. Naruto brought up the rear, clearly caught up in the thrill of the moment. The group stuck together until they reached the playground, where an unspoken barrier of awkwardness suddenly descended. Shikamaru and Choji waved goodbye to Kiba and headed toward their clan compounds. Kiba went his own way. Naruto was left standing alone, his shoulders drooping.

“Hey, Naruto,” a quiet voice called from above. Naruto spun around, looking confused, and spotted Sasuke perched on a tree branch.

It seemed Sasuke had shaken off his admirers and circled back to wait for his old-new friend. Warmth swelled in my chest—my boys were really growing on me! I padded over to Naruto.

“Namaiki-chan!” Naruto exclaimed, scooping up his backpack and offering it to me. I hopped in gracefully. Stealth mode: activated.

“Looks like our cat was waiting for us,” Sasuke observed. No kidding, Captain Obvious.

“Should we head out now?” Naruto asked, all business.

“Yeah,” Sasuke said tersely.

Back in the abandoned Uchiha district, the boys let me out of the backpack. Sasuke hesitated for a moment before taking a deep breath and heading down the main street. Naruto and I followed closely behind.

“So this is where you lived?” Naruto asked, glancing around at the imposing estate that loomed before us. His voice broke the oppressive silence. Sasuke nodded and slid the door open.

I darted inside first—someone had to set the tone. Sasuke’s scent still lingered faintly, and I easily found his room. On the dresser was a photo of his family from when he was around eight. No newer photos. I scratched at the closet. Time to find the boy some proper pants!

Sasuke scanned the room with a frown, then slid open the closet door. His brows furrowed as he took in the neatly folded clothes.

“Didn’t think you were so big as a kid,” Naruto muttered, holding up a T-shirt I had pulled from the closet. “This would fit me just fine…”

“It’s my brother’s,” Sasuke said, his voice cold, his gaze drilling into the shirt.

“But this is your room,” Naruto said, puzzled. “Why would your brother’s clothes be in your closet?”

“I… don’t know,” Sasuke admitted, looking genuinely thrown.

“Looks like the whole closet is your size,” Naruto said, rifling through the clothes and pulling out pants and more shirts. “Are these your brother’s too?”

“I don’t remember this one… or this one either,” Sasuke said after a moment of thought, spreading the clothes out on the bed.

“Do you even have a lot of stuff… you know, back home?” Naruto asked. “I’ve got hardly anything. Just a couple of T-shirts, shorts, and my ninja academy uniform. Hokage-sama said he’d get me a proper ninja outfit for my birthday. Maybe he’ll bring it tomorrow…”

“Not really. I don’t have much,” Sasuke replied slowly, gripping a T-shirt in his hands.

“Then take it,” Naruto said with a grin. “This is all your size, anyway. Who knows, maybe we’ll even find some armor or a shinobi outfit here?”

“I didn’t say—” Sasuke sat down on the bed, his voice growing quieter. “My brother killed everyone. If these are his clothes… I…”

“Your brother?!” Naruto’s eyes went wide as he interrupted. “But…”

“No!” I barked, loud and clear. “Itachi has nothing to do with this!”

“Namaiki-chan’s trying to tell us something,” Naruto whispered loudly, watching me pace the room with my tail flicking in irritation.

Ask the right question already!

Naruto, deep in thought, picked up one of Sasuke’s folded shirts and brought it to his face.

“What are you doing?” Sasuke asked, momentarily distracted from me.

“Sniffing it,” Naruto said matter-of-factly. “I mean, I’m not Inuzuka Kiba, but… This is weird.”

“What’s weird?” Sasuke asked, his tone tinged with annoyance.

“It smells like clean laundry. Like… freshly washed. Nice, even,” Naruto replied. “And… if you think about it, there’s hardly any dust here. Same with the other houses. I know dust doesn’t build up as quickly in empty houses, but… laundry doesn’t keep smelling fresh. It changes after a while, you know? Gets kind of… stale.”

“Yes! Exactly!” I practically danced with joy.

Sasuke skeptically brought the shirt to his nose and sniffed.

“You’re right…” he murmured, his voice barely audible. When he lowered the shirt, I noticed his eyes glistening. “Mom used to add herbal infusions to make everything smell like this… soothing.”

Memories are tied not just to facts but to associations. My experience with memory loss taught me that even the strongest blocks can sometimes be bypassed—through scents, actions, or that nagging sense of deja vu. The right trigger can bring memories rushing back, even subconsciously.

“So that herbal mix made the scent last this long?” Naruto asked, his curiosity unrelenting.

“Maybe…” Sasuke muttered, quickly wiping at his eyes to hide the tears.

“No! No! No!” I exclaimed, unable to hold back.

Why do humans always look for logical explanations instead of daring to guess at something truly bizarre? Well… to be fair, their guess would have to be pretty out there. But I wasn’t about to give up. I had another idea.

“Follow me!” I commanded, and without waiting, I bolted off to find Itachi’s room.

[Life is Good] Chapter 36

Cletus Kasady. So, he’s here too. In the original Marvel universe… wait, one of the original ones? Or was it in several? Eh, doesn’t really matter. Point is, he was the host for Carnage. And here, in this world, he’s also a guy. The billion-dollar question then: has he already become the symbiote-loving butcher we all know and loathe? No mention of Carnage or anything red in the news or online so far, and Venom’s been off the radar since that one incident. Let’s check the article.

Well… what can I say… He’s a psycho and a pedophile. The man’s got a body count of nineteen rapes and murders, including four underage girls. Officially deemed insane and locked away in a psychiatric hospital—until a few days ago, when he busted out. His "parental rating" has been set to zero, all his registered offspring have undergone rigorous checks, and his genetic material has been pulled from circulation. Kasady himself got a temporary vasectomy, just in case they manage to "cure" him, though there’s talk of permanent chemical castration. That’s one thing I’ve got to give to this version of the U.S.—if you’re a sick bastard, they don’t let you breed.

His backstory? Not exactly moving. A psychotic mother who lost custody when he was two, and then he was raised in a good family that practically kissed his ass? That’s supposed to be his sob story? His "trauma"? Give me a break. I’ve known orphans who came out decent despite some seriously rough childhoods. Hell, I’ve even known a couple of genuine gangsters in my previous life who wouldn’t stoop to the shit Kasady’s done. Look, I’m not saying everyone has the same start in life, but being a monster is a choice—unless someone’s brainwashed you like Bucky Barnes. So no, stories about his tragic past don’t stir an ounce of sympathy in me.

And let’s not even try to pin it on some "heat of the moment" bullshit. Nineteen victims, spaced out over time? That’s premeditation, not temporary insanity. Plus, rape in this world? Utter stupidity. If you’re horny, you can walk into any club solo and practically guarantee a good night. Hell, the odds of ending up in a threesome are higher than just a basic one-night stand.

No mentions of Carnage or Venom, and nothing about supers—just a garden-variety psycho who happened to get caught by the cops. Maybe the "big K moment" hasn’t happened yet, and Ooyama’s just dragging me along to catch an escaped lunatic and boost mutants’ public image a bit more? Although, she did mention additional materials—maybe there’s more useful intel in there. Anyway, no point guessing. I turned to my homework. Doing it in a moving car wasn’t ideal, but I figured the teachers would forgive my messy handwriting—this wasn’t exactly my choice of study space. At least I didn’t have to worry about lighting, thanks to my powers. Just light up whatever part of my body I needed, and boom—problem solved. Three hours later, I was done with my assignments, and around 10:30, we stopped at a roadside diner. Sensei wanted coffee, and I wasn’t about to turn it down either.

While we slowly sipped some surprisingly decent coffee, the TV in the corner ran a segment on Iron Lady, who’d just made her debut in our country. Well, looks like we’re keeping things relatively canonical here. At least something’s familiar.

Now, Iron Man… mixed feelings about the guy, honestly. He tried to do good for humanity, sure, but he lacked control—especially over himself. Too much flair, too much of a showman. And judging by the news, this universe’s Stark wasn’t much different. Eh, whatever. The Avengers and their ilk aren’t in my league—I’d be way out of my depth on their missions. Although… having one of those Iron Man suits wouldn’t suck. Maybe if I could figure out how to extend my powers beyond my body without frying the suit into a puddle of molten scrap…

Lost in thought, I felt a jab from Ooyama and followed her nod toward the exit. Grumbling about how minors shouldn’t be subjected to such abuse, I left the diner under her amused smirk. I nearly bumped into a woman on her way in—mid-thirties, maybe forty, dressed in a killer black leather jacket with metal studs, jeans, heavy boots, and a no-nonsense expression. I muttered an apology, got a slight smile and nod in return, and headed for our car, hearing Ooyama’s footsteps behind me.

As I walked, my thoughts drifted to how sneaky Sensei could be. Those steps? Practically silent when she wanted. It always amazed me how “super-agents” got caught with their whole "predator walk" shtick. Ooyama, on the other hand, was the perfect chameleon. In her downtime, she looked like any average person—no intense stares, no “aura of death,” just a resting expression of utter apathy.

Anyway, back to the parking lot. As we approached the car, my eyes landed on an absolute beast of a bike parked near the diner. Wow. I don’t even care much for motorcycles, but this one? Pure art. A gorgeous Harley, an older model but clearly maintained and tricked out to perfection. I actually stopped for a few seconds, whistling under my breath in admiration. God, it looked familiar, but the sound of our car door slamming snapped me out of it. With one last wistful look, I hopped into the car.

Speaking of vehicles… I really need something of my own. Sure, Iron Man’s suit would be the dream, but until then, what could boost my mobility? A bicycle? Nah, there’s already a hero on a bike—Mumen Rider from Saitama’s chronicles—and I couldn’t outshine his adamantium-grade balls. A motorcycle, though… that’s tempting. Too bad you can’t get a license here until you’re sixteen. Although, who needs a license when you’re playing the secret identity game? Still, I’d need to learn to ride first. I should bring this up with McCoy tomorrow.

There are some more… unconventional options, too. Like getting some gear like Felicia Hardy’s grappling system or sweet-talking Norma into lending me a glider. Hmm… a glider would be awesome, honestly. But those things are typically controlled mentally, and my powers tend to disrupt tech that interacts directly with my mind. Then again, they only cancel out stuff that’s perceived as a threat, so maybe it could work? How would I even convince her to give me one? Beg Harry to gift me one for my birthday? Hah. Just imagining his face at that request is worth it.

On that note, I did once try to save Norma from the whole Goblin Serum fiasco. Sent her an anonymous email from a shady internet cafe, telling her to steer clear of OZ serum because someone who “foresees the future” had warned of terrible things in store for her. I mean, what else was I supposed to write? “Hi, I watched a movie where you turned into a raving psychopath”? Not exactly persuasive.

Honestly, I never bought into the movie’s canon of a businesswoman like her diving into supervillainy firsthand. It’s just not practical. What, there aren’t enough mercenaries around? The comic version, where it’s an accident, makes way more sense to me. Anyway, after the email, I followed up with a couple of texts from burner phones. Just in case. Will it help? No idea. But the notion that someone out there knows about Oscorp’s secret projects should at least give her pause. Assuming those projects even exist. If not, she’ll probably just dismiss it as nonsense.

Norma’s a sharp lady, though. Let’s hope she dodges this bullet. From what I remember of her comic counterpart, even with his ruthlessness—or outright cruelty—Norman Osborn was still a rational person when not under the Goblin influence. Sure, not exactly a paragon of morality, but hey, in the world of big business, that’s practically standard.

The rest of the drive was spent in silence, as usual. Yuriko focused on the road while I leaned back in my seat, trying to catch up on the sleep I didn’t get last night. I woke up to a folder landing square on my chest and Sensei’s curt voice: “Go through this. We’ll be there in half an hour.”

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I cracked open the folder. The first few pages were all about Cletus Kasady—his background, upbringing, personality. But something felt off. The Cletus I remembered from the Marvel universe was a violent, raging psycho who wore his broken self proudly for the world to see. This version? He was a snake—a calculated, manipulative charmer who never showed his real emotions. Sweet smiles, no aggression, nothing but positivity. Until, of course, you found yourself tied up with a gag in your mouth, staring into the abyss of his true self. A Dexter type, but without principles or limits. And here’s the kicker—no mention of symbiotes. A mix of relief, disappointment, and petty satisfaction washed over me. Relief that I wouldn’t have to face Carnage yet. Disappointment because it seemed there’d be no combat trial tonight. And satisfaction because I might be able to stop Carnage’s rise altogether.

The next section detailed his victims, complete with photos—before and after Kasady got his hands on them. The first two cases I skimmed mechanically, still digesting the earlier revelations. But as I kept going, I couldn’t help but focus. A 22-year-old college student. A 30-year-old mother of two. A 17-year-old high schooler. Nineteen lives stolen. Nineteen stories cut short. Nineteen families left to grieve. And then, the last case: Claire Manchester, a thirteen-year-old girl with bright blue eyes and a wide, playful grin. The next photo was her mutilated body, her throat slashed. When the gravity of what I was seeing finally hit me, my mind went blank, consumed by a searing rage. Hatred boiled in me, demanding release. I wanted to grab Kasady and burn him to ashes, to let my fury obliterate his existence.

I snapped out of it with a sharp punch to my cheek. My hands, I realized, were smoldering, about to ignite the papers. I pulled the energy back, gritted my teeth, and asked in a low voice without turning to Yuriko, “How much longer?”

“Not far. He’s in that motel.” Her hand stayed on the wheel as she pointed ahead to a colorful sign about a kilometer away.

I looked up and saw it—a roadside motel, the kind where people go to sleep off their road trips or, sometimes, to never wake up again. I had no intention of letting Cletus Kasady leave that building alive. I wouldn’t need my "Mr. Mutant" persona for this. This wasn’t a mission for recognition. This was retribution.

We parked a couple of hundred meters from the motel. Yuriko pulled her hoodie up, as did I. I didn’t fool myself into thinking she hadn’t orchestrated this perfectly. Showing me the victims’ files so close to our arrival was no coincidence. She wanted me to feel this rage, to let it simmer and guide my actions. This wasn’t a lesson in restraint—it was a lesson in killing. And she was an excellent teacher for someone like me.

I didn’t see myself as a murderer. I’d killed before, yes, but it was in the heat of battle, against those who would have killed me if they could. Kasady? He was different. He preyed on the innocent, the helpless. Tonight, I’d ensure he’d never do it again. If I turned him in and he escaped to kill again, their blood would be on my hands. I couldn’t live with that.

“Room seventeen. No cameras, except at the entrance,” Yuriko said quietly, stopping by a chain-link fence.

I jumped, grabbed the top rail, and hauled myself over. Hood pulled low, hands in my pockets, I strolled along the motel’s perimeter, glancing at the room numbers. Just a guy taking a walk. Nothing suspicious. Any noise from the fence? Could’ve been anything—a bump, a kick. Who would suspect some random guy of sneaking into a motel to commit a crime? Men don’t climb fences for theft. Too much effort.

I reached room seventeen. Inside, a silhouette lay sprawled on the bed. The only powered device was a heater. Kneeling by the door, I lit the lock with a faint glow from my fingertip and worked it with a pick. Click. The door opened silently, and I slipped inside, closing it just as quietly behind me. My footsteps were noiseless as I approached the sleeping figure.

For a split second, I almost lost control. The urge to kill him on the spot was overwhelming. But I steadied myself, touching him lightly and delivering a shock. He was out cold. Dragging his heavy frame from the bed, I tied his hands and feet, securing him to a chair with zip ties. His socks went into his mouth, held in place with a shirt tied around his head.

Pulling up another chair, I flipped on the nightstand lamp and sat across from him. The folder was on my lap. I opened it again, forcing myself to look at every face, every story. Each photo, each detail, stoked the flames of my rage until it roared inside me.

Kasady stirred, his eyes fluttering open. I grabbed his hair with one hand and his jaw with the other, forcing him to meet my gaze. His eyes were wide with fear and confusion—no rage, no defiance, just the terrified bewilderment of a man who knew he was about to die.

Could someone with a look like that really commit cold-blooded murder? The question flickered through my mind—and then, everything went black.

The room around me wasn’t real anymore—it was a crude pencil sketch, drawn in harsh black and white. The lines formed the cramped trailer, Cletus Kasady, and a young girl. She was entirely naked, battered, and broken, but I recognized her. Claire Manchester, his last victim. Above her head floated a speech bubble, scribbled with desperate pleas for mercy.

The entire scene was rendered in stark, lifeless lines. Above Cletus, another speech bubble appeared: “It’ll all be over soon, sweetheart.” His face showed nothing but genuine sympathy as he gently dragged a knife across the girl’s fragile neck. Black, inky blood spurted out, and she convulsed, her tiny body writhing in agony. I wanted to scream, to rip that bastard apart, to save her—but I couldn’t move. I was frozen, forced to watch.

Then, it happened again. And again. Twenty-nine times, I watched him kill. Twenty-nine victims, each death as vivid as the last. And in every scene, Cletus wore the same expression—not hatred, not malice, but regret. He cried during the first few, his face twisted in sorrow. But he kept going. The final sketch revealed his first victim, his adoptive sister. Their conversation made it clear: this was where his path of blood began.

When the visions faded, I was staring into his eyes. A storm raged inside me—hatred for him, horror for what I’d seen. People like him don’t deserve to live.

“You’re guilty, Cletus,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “And I’m your executioner.”

His eyes widened, fear twisting into sheer terror. “There’s innocent blood on your hands,” I continued, leaning close to whisper in his ear. “Feel their pain, you bastard.”

I let his head drop, lifeless now. His brain was seared, his eyes charred and blackened. A mask of frozen agony and pain etched across his face. I’d tried to drag it out, to make him suffer, but even as he burned from the inside, his death had been too quick. Regretfully, I incinerated the case file in my hands, letting the ashes scatter over his corpse.

“In mortem convertēbar, in vastatōrem hostem,” I murmured, twisting a line from the Exterminatus litany: I have become death, the destroyer of my enemies. Tonight, I was vengeance. Tonight, I avenged twenty-nine souls.

But tonight, I also learned what kind of cursed gift I’d been given. This… whatever ability I had, it wasn’t just a power. It wasn't the dojutsu of my dreams. It was a nightmare.

As I climbed back over the fence and made my way to the car, I felt hollow. Satisfaction warred with apathy and unease. Yuriko’s words from earlier, about memories you wish you could forget, echoed in my mind. She was right. Those twenty-nine scenes weren’t leaving me anytime soon. I suddenly wanted nothing more than to drink myself into oblivion.

“I know a bar about an hour from here,” Yuriko said calmly as she started the car. “No one there will care about your age. Should we stop?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, forcing a crooked smile. She’s one hell of a woman—careful, or you’ll fall for her, I thought, chuckling bitterly at myself.

As we drove, a motorcycle roared past, moving at a breakneck speed. I only caught a glimpse, but it looked like the same gorgeous bike I’d admired earlier at the diner. This time, though, the rider gave off an intense heat signature. Could it be… Ghost Rider? Maybe. Didn’t matter. If anything, it was fitting. I’d tried to kill like Johnny Blaze in the first movie—with righteous, burning vengeance. If the local Spirit of Vengeance was cruising by, then hey, let people think it was him who came for Kasady.

[Elden Ring] Chapter 33

If anyone least expected a visit from Melina, the spectral attendant of the Fingers, it was Iji, the loyal counselor and servant of Lady Ranni.

In the Lands Between, legends had long circulated about the mysterious spectral attendant, riding a ghostly steed in search of a Tarnished worthy of becoming the next Elden Lord. Iji, having lived through countless eras, knew more about these tales than most.

He knew of the bodiless, long-forgotten daughter of a Goddess, wandering in search of her chosen one.

It seemed she had found her candidate.

“I never thought you’d reveal yourself to me, Melina,” Iji said, setting aside the massive book he had been reading. “It is an honor.”

The giant closed the tome, one he had read countless times over the years. Unfortunately, it was one of the few books of appropriate size left to him; the last time he could place an order for books suited to his stature, Godwyn the Golden had still been fathering children.

Melina removed her hood, her serene gaze meeting the giant’s.

“I have a task for you,” she said plainly.

“As a servant of Lady Ranni?” Iji asked, his tone curious.

“For Konstantin, the Tarnished,” Melina replied, her voice growing subtly colder.

Iji chuckled softly, nodding. “For Konstantin, the Tarnished. Shouldn’t this request have gone to Hewg?”

It struck him as odd that the Tarnished hadn’t come himself. Clearly, this was Melina’s initiative. As a blacksmith of no small renown, Iji knew of Hewg, the master smith working in the Roundtable Hold. It would have made far more sense for Konstantin to approach him.

“Hewg is already crafting a weapon for him,” Melina explained, her voice calm. “I want you to create a temporary substitute.”

“That explains the club, then,” Iji said, clearing his throat awkwardly. He had been trying not to focus on the massive club resting in Melina’s deceptively delicate hands, but his curiosity had been gnawing at him.

Melina, however, seemed unconcerned with his reaction. Over time, the eccentricities of her chosen Tarnished had stretched the boundaries of what she found strange.

Why should only waifus influence the Tarnished, after all?

“This will be an interesting challenge,” Iji admitted, carefully taking the club in his enormous hand to inspect it. “Let’s see here…”

The old blacksmith froze mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing as recognition dawned.

“This is…”

“A branch from the Erdtree,” Melina replied evenly. “Only it can withstand his strength for now. I want you to make it sturdier—and deadlier.”

Iji’s gaze shifted, his expression becoming far more serious.

The club was a sacrilege. It wasn’t a matter of where she had acquired it. The true question was how she had dared to do so. To wield a branch of the sacred Erdtree in this way was to desecrate the very symbol of the Golden Order.

He knew how devoutly loyal one of the queen’s elder daughters was, yet here she was, handing over this blasphemous weapon with an unsettling calm.

Had her years of wandering truly changed her so much? Or was it that this Tarnished had somehow become more important to her than the doctrines of the Golden Order?

The thought was absurd. Yet Iji, having observed this Tarnished from afar, could admit—albeit reluctantly—that Konstantin was unlike any Tarnished he had ever seen. A man whose sheer absurdity seemed capable of bending the will of not only a daughter of a Goddess but perhaps even Lady Ranni herself.

It was unsettling.

Still, the giant counselor and smith could only trust in the decisions of his lady—and now, it seemed, the decisions of the Goddess’s daughter.

“Never would I have believed a man could bring together women with such… conflicting histories.”

For most families, fratricide would create irreparable divides. But the lineage of the Golden Order was far from ordinary. The queen’s children rarely felt warmth toward one another. They didn’t feud, no, but neither did they share the bonds of affection common to mortals. How could they, given who—and what—their mother was?

Iji sighed, scratching at his helm in thought.

His little mistress had grown into a full-fledged adult. He still remembered when she was just a child, playing in the garden with Blaidd, unaware of the weight of her future. It felt like only yesterday.

And yet… how many decades, centuries, had passed since then?

“Miracles…” he murmured, glancing back at Melina. “But why a club?”

Melina pressed her lips together. She had asked herself that same question. It seemed her Tarnished simply liked clubs.

His fists were already stronger than any club, yet he still picked up random sticks as if he were a bored child. Never mind that they broke after a few swings—he enjoyed them regardless.

She could only adapt to his peculiar tastes.

And craft him a temporary gift.

Seeing her expression, Iji nodded in understanding.

“Very well. I’ll need time.”

The giant lowered his gaze to the sacred branch, his brow furrowing. To imbue even a unique piece of wood like this with the properties of metal required an entirely different process.

This would indeed be a challenge.

“I’ll gather the stones,” Melina said. “You’ll receive the runes now, blacksmith.”

Iji looked at her thoughtfully.

“Rumors have been spreading lately about a Tarnished wandering the Scarlet Wastes.”

“They’re true,” Melina confirmed.

Indeed, rumors spread as quickly as wildfire.

“If you get the chance, please send my regards to Jerren. Whether through yourself or Konstantin, it doesn’t matter to me. The old knight hasn’t visited in ages.”

Iji chuckled, the sound deep and resonant. At times, he felt he might die of boredom.

Melina allowed herself a faint smile.

“I’ll see to it.”

And with that, she departed.

Her next stop was Stormveil Castle, where the demi-human seamster, Boc, resided.

While Konstantin explored the Scarlet Wastes, the castle slowly transformed. More knights bearing the Sun emblem appeared, the grounds grew cleaner, and repairs continued, despite the lingering curse that tainted the area.

Melina had been deeply impressed by Boc’s work. Beneath his modest, trembling demeanor lay the heart of a true master tailor. Unfortunately, her attempt to encourage him had backfired.

“My apologies, milady,” Boc stammered, clutching a piece of fabric in his hands.

It was no ordinary fabric. It gleamed faintly with golden light, a relic of the ancient demigods. Melina had scoured Leyndell to find such material, determined to clothe Konstantin in garments worthy of his status.

But Boc’s confidence was as fragile as ever.

“T-this is cloth of the demigods!” Boc cried, trembling. “Mother once said royal tailors could work with it in minutes, b-but I—”

Melina sighed.

The universe itself seemed to conspire against her efforts.

As she turned to leave, Boc called out hesitantly.

“M-milady… Lord Haight… he still hasn’t left. He asks for a warm bath every day…”

Melina narrowed her eyes dangerously.

“You’ll have to endure his presence a little longer,” she replied curtly. “Until Konstantin returns.”

“Of course! It is an honor to warm a noble’s bath, truly!” Boc exclaimed, though he looked like he might collapse from exhaustion. “I just thought… you should know.”

“Disgraceful,” Melina muttered under her breath.

The aristocracy had indeed fallen far.

Tracking down Konstantin in the Lands Between was never an easy task, even with her connection to Torrent. Melina had spent enough time with the spectral steed to know she could always locate him eventually.

But even then, there were limitations. She had to wander for a time, knowing only the general direction to travel, and along the way, there were always… obstacles.

Lately, however, the Scarlet Wastes had grown eerily quiet. Far too quiet.

‘’Farming’ has become terrifying,’ the thought crossed her mind again.

Perhaps one day, the term "farming" in the Lands Between would become synonymous with "genocide."

The Redmane Castle loomed before her. It had been many years since she last visited. The battle between Malenia and Radahn had devastated many beautiful places, and Redmane Castle was no exception. Once grand and reflective of a demigod’s immense power, it now stood as a shadow of its former self.

No, the entire continent was now but a shadow of what it once was.

Among the loyal servants who had survived the battle of their lords was the steadfast Castelan of the Castle, Jerren.

It was he who organized the Festival of Combat. Melina respected the old knight, who sought to grant his master the only release fitting for a true warrior—death in battle.

‘The festival hasn’t started yet,’ Melina thought, raising her gaze to the sky. The festival always began when the stars aligned. ‘So why do I feel like…’

She instinctively opened her cursed eye, realizing she had arrived just in time.

Her chosen one, not bothering to wait for the festival to begin, had already launched his assault on the castle (1). To her mild amusement, he had left an astonished Millicent standing on the bridge.

Riding Torrent—who seemed infuriatingly happy—Konstantin charged across the impassable bridge, dodging catapult fire with ease. It took him little time to reach the other side.

Melina allowed herself a small, proud smile.

Her old friend bore the title of the fastest steed in the Lands Between for a reason.

To her surprise, however, Konstantin didn’t fight the castle guards. He simply ignored them. Just as he ignored the castle’s locked gates. Instead, he patted Torrent on the mane, said something to him, and the steed, as if fueled by newfound motivation, leaped.

One jump led to another in midair, then another, and another.

Torrent quite literally soared over the walls, treating them as no obstacle at all.

Melina thought she saw Konstantin smile—broadly and with satisfaction—but only for a moment.(2) Lately, he had been showing more emotion than ever before.

At the very least, he had grown noticeably more… gentle.

Her cheeks flushed, and she decided it was best not to dwell on that.

Noticing that Millicent was accompanied by the illusion of a certain sorceress, Melina headed into the castle herself. What she found was a battle unlike any other.

The Castlan of Redmane Castle, Jerren—an old knight and Radahn’s most loyal retainer—stood clad in colorful, eccentric armor. His face was obscured by a pointed hood that, despite its odd appearance, didn’t seem to hinder his vision.

The two men—Konstantin and Jerren—stood surrounded by knights who had parted to witness their duel.

Anyone watching could see that Jerren was a formidable and experienced knight. His movements were quick and precise, and he wielded both blade and staff with skill. The latter summoned spells faster than most sorcerers, leaving Konstantin with far less room to maneuver.

Spell-slinging swordsmen were, without question, deeply annoying opponents.

Yet Jerren’s movements weren’t without a peculiar theatricality. It was as though he were performing for an audience, savoring the attention. He sought to turn their duel into a spectacle, and Konstantin didn’t oppose him. Instead, he fully adapted to Jerren’s style, even mirroring the old knight’s techniques.

When Jerren cast spells at him, Konstantin responded with identical spells. When Jerren sent a stream of flames toward him, Konstantin retaliated with a more potent and unforgiving torrent of fire.

And Jerren loved it.

The knight understood that Konstantin could end the fight in an instant if he so desired. Yet he chose not to, engaging the Warden in a battle that had the surrounding crowd utterly enraptured.

“Enough.”

Jerren abruptly halted, and Konstantin’s massive greatsword stopped just short of taking the old knight’s head. Without a flicker of emotion, Konstantin lowered his weapon and stepped back.

He glanced around thoughtfully.

“Did I come too early?”

‘Is he joking?’ Melina thought, stunned.

Konstantin cast her a glance, a faint smile gracing his lips. The spectral maiden shivered.

Jerren, meanwhile, laughed heartily.

“Do you think we greet festival participants with catapults and locked gates, Tarnished?”

Konstantin shrugged.

“A preliminary selection process. Not just anyone can defeat a demigod.”

The Warden’s laughter grew louder.

“Yes! Yes, you’re absolutely right! Welcome to the refuge for the vanquished,(3) Tarnished!”

“Konstantin.”

“The Konstantin? The Tarnished? That explains much!”

Konstantin sighed, prompting another laugh from Jerren.

Melina had often worried about Konstantin’s position should he become Elden Lord. She feared he might be reduced to a tool of the Queen, discarded the moment his usefulness ended.

The tale of the first Elden Lord was all too telling. He had been the perfect conqueror, but not a ruler. In the short term, Melina suspected her mother would relish having someone capable of defeating even demigods, but what then? Would the Queen truly allow someone so dangerous to remain by her side?

It seemed her fears were unfounded. Konstantin’s strength was growing, but so too was his character. Where once she had been apprehensive, she now felt only pride and warmth.

The festival was nearly upon them.

Despite its grand name, the "Festival of Combat" didn’t draw many participants. This wasn’t just because there were few warriors in the Lands Between strong enough to face Radahn, but also because this wasn’t the first festival.

No one could say how many times Jerren had organized it, always with the same result.

As a consequence, those who dared come were either incredibly strong, hopelessly insane…

Or complete fools.

“Buddy!” Patches’ face contorted in dismay. “Didn’t expect to see you here! What a delight!”

‘Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?!’ the rogue thought, his eyes darting around nervously.

The last thing he wanted was to run into the half-naked lunatic again. He had told him so! So why were they meeting again?!

The former bandit forced a laugh, patting Konstantin on the shoulder and praying the man didn’t remember his previous words.

Konstantin, for his part, had genuinely doubted until the very end that he would see him here.(4)

Fortunately, the sight of an actual friend quickly eased his mind. A friend who had helped him embrace the philosophy of casual hardcore.

“Can you believe it!” exclaimed Alexander, the living jar, clenching his clay fists. “I get to face the greatest hero of the Shattering, a demigod in the flesh… I was so hoping to meet you here, Konstantin!”

His voice remained as refined as ever.

Konstantin brushed off Patches’ hand with a smile.

“I’m glad to see you too.”

The living jar tilted slightly in acknowledgment.

“To be honest, I’m nervous. Radahn has a fearsome reputation.”

“He’s just a true souls-like player,” Konstantin replied calmly.

How many times had Radahn tried? He even embraced casual mechanics to keep going, proving himself the ultimate sweaty souls-like warrior.

Strangely enough, Kosta had a positive impression of Radahn.

“Exactly!” Alexander exclaimed, not quite understanding but agreeing nonetheless. “But fear only convinces me further that this trial is worth enduring!”

“Absolutely, my friend!” Patches chimed in with forced enthusiasm.

Alexander glanced uneasily at the bald rogue.

“Do you know him, Konstantin?”

“He’s renowned in certain circles,” Kosta replied calmly.

“Of course!” the rogue laughed proudly, rubbing his bald head. “Who hasn’t heard of Patches the Untethered?”

“Never heard of him,” Alexander admitted honestly.

“You didn’t have to specify that, you know?” Patches raised an eyebrow. “Were you never taught tact, you oversized clump of clay—”

Patches froze mid-sentence as an impossibly strong hand clamped down on his bald head. The pressure made it feel as though his skull might be crushed like a watermelon. The rogue chuckled awkwardly, shifting his gaze to Kosta.

“I-I was just joking, you know…”

Nearby, Millicent stood slightly apart, gazing around with childlike wonder. The sky glittered with bright stars, she was surrounded by warriors so unique they felt otherworldly, and her heart raced with excitement.

A silent warrior in peculiar, rounded armor and a sharp hat stood a short distance away. Beside him was another man, carrying an enormous hammer on his back. Despite his unusual weapon choice, he radiated a surprisingly friendly aura. That was more than could be said for another participant further down the line—a swordsman from the Land of Reeds.

The masked warrior bore a visage resembling an unseen beast, unsettling but oddly captivating. Millicent thought she heard him call himself a “Bloody Finger.”

Standing further away was an actual Finger Maiden. Dressed in concealing robes and making no effort to interact, she was vastly different from the companion following Millicent’s benefactor. Yet, for some reason, this maiden seemed… strange.

No, that wasn’t it. Of course, Finger Maidens weren’t ordinary by any measure, but this one…

She resembled some kind of… doll? No matter. (5)

And then there was the peculiar bald rogue and the towering, living jar who seemed to be on friendly terms with her benefactor.

‘I never thought I’d have the chance to be part of something like this,’ Millicent’s heart beat faster.

She vaguely recalled a dear person telling her tales of lords who fought alongside loyal warrior maidens.

The more she reflected on her journeys with Kosta, eradicating the creatures afflicted by rot, the more she saw echoes of those stories.

Millicent no longer wanted to leave the man who could destroy more monsters in a single day than she had in months of hunting.

She wanted to watch Konstantin’s rolls and the rare parries with his shield until her very last breath.

“How peculiar… Your expression doesn’t match the occasion.”

The gentle, resonant voice startled Millicent, making her turn her head toward her shoulder. A faintly visible figure of a diminutive sorceress appeared there, wearing a crown resembling the heads of sorcerers.

Noticing how flustered the otherwise composed warrior maiden seemed, the sorceress giggled playfully.

Unfortunately, her mood was far from joyful.

Selen turned her gaze toward the festival’s organizer and the one who had once vowed to claim her life. The doom that would seek her out once fate began to stir.

The show was about to start, and everyone knew it: the festival participants, the illusion-disguised sorceress, Melina, and even she who was supposed to rest.

Bodiless, lacking even the semblance of a spectral form, Ranni couldn’t ignore what was about to unfold, observing from the edges of her consciousness.

“Champions, welcome!” Jerren’s voice rang out. “The stars have aligned! The festival is nigh! General Radahn, mightiest demigod of the Shattering, awaits you! Champions, prepare for battle! Defeat the General, claim glory, and grab that Great Rune! A celebration of war! The Radahn Festival! Are you good and prepared, young chum? The festival begins!”

The scattered participants let out fierce war cries.

Kosta, however, remained silent.

He was thinking about something else entirely.

‘Would he postpone the festival if I told him ‘Not now’?’ (6)

Kosta allowed himself the faintest smile, brushing aside the idle thought.

Just another unheard joke.

_______________________________________

(1) Redmane Castle can be accessed via two routes: the bridge or a portal. Until a specific point in the game, no one is waiting to welcome the player with open arms.

(2) In the game, Torrent can perform no more than two jumps in midair.

(3) Jerren genuinely refers to the castle as “a refuge of the defeated,” clearly not considering Radahn the victor in his battle with Malenia.

(4) Patches can be summoned as an ally to fight Radahn, provided the player hasn’t killed him earlier. However, with one small catch: after the first hit, Patches will flee.

(5) Seluvis sells “puppets” as part of his questline. One of them is a Finger Maiden participating in the festival.

(6) To start the fight with Radahn, the player must speak to Jerren and choose the corresponding option. If there are unresolved matters, the player can opt to delay the battle.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 66

‘Thirteen minutes late already,’ I thought, sitting at a small cafe on the edge of the business district.

I was halfway through my second cigarette, and my espresso was almost gone.

“Excuse me, could you turn it up a bit?” one of the customers, a guy in a cheap office suit with a “Kang Tao” badge, asked the mustached man behind the counter.

The man fiddled with an ancient remote, and the old TV crackled to life with a familiar voice all of Night City would recognize.

“Good morning, I’m Arif Iqbal, and you’re watching WNS News. On this beautiful morning of the last day of 2076, we’re discussing the upcoming visit of Michiko Arasaka to Night City. After celebrating the start of 2077 in Tokyo with her family, Michiko-san will be flying here tomorrow. WNS reporters in Japan managed to secure an exclusive interview, and I’m pleased to present it to you now.”

The anchor vanished, replaced by a woman of indeterminate age dressed in neo-kitsch style: blue hair, a shimmering gold dress with a daring cut, and just enough chrome to make a statement without overdoing it.

“I want to thank the people of Night City,” Michiko began, her tone friendly and refreshingly free of the usual Japanese corporate pomp. “I appreciate your attention, but I don’t quite understand the excitement surrounding my visit. This is my hometown. I spent many happy years here and am delighted to return, whether for a month or a year. That this coincides with company business shouldn’t be surprising. After all, I…”

Her words were abruptly cut off as the screen was overtaken by a grotesque face made of digital static.

“Hey, you! Yeah, you! Who’re you voting for? Revolutionaries? Federalists?” a distorted voice demanded. “Actually, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Our votes don’t mean shit! Both parties are shoving the same garbage down your throats. Gangster capitalism, libertarian dystopia, no ideals, no hope, no compassion. And you’re just supposed to slave awa—”

The cafe owner cut the TV off with a sigh.

“That bastard never shuts up,” he muttered, adjusting his graying mustache. “Been spewing the same shit for over fifty years.”

“I doubt the original Dr. Paradox is even alive,” a younger customer speculated. “It’s probably just corporations and political parties using his mask for smear campaigns or black propaganda.”

“I heard it’s an AI created by Bartmoss himself,” another chimed in. “That’s why it’s been going strong for decades, just running its program.”

“Conspiracies about a conspiracist,” I quipped, finishing my coffee.

I remembered watching early episodes of Mister Freeman (1) on a beat-up laptop in a dorm room back in another world. That kind of anonymous content was novel back then. Later, we found out the virtual figure was just some quirky venereologist character from an Interns (2) sitcom. The problem with these exposers is that the system isn’t what it is because people are ignorant. It works just fine even if most people know exactly how it operates.

That’s the first level of understanding. The second is realizing that even if a rebellion wins, sooner or later, new corps and governments will rise from the ruins, gradually mirroring the old ones. But whatever. I was veering off into the weeds of political philosophy, and while the broad strokes are clear, the details can tangle you up faster than the alleys of Kabuki.

Michiko…

What role is she stepping into this time? Auditor? Crisis manager? Special investigator?

Maybe Tokyo HQ noticed how much “interesting” shit has gone down in Night City lately. A financier vanished with a fancy car, an important counterintelligence officer died, the head of that division became the target of a bombing spree downtown, and then Abernathy herself mysteriously pancaked onto the asphalt. Officially, the blame all fell on the Crimson Harvest. Those terrorists happily owned up to it, hanging the blame like trophies on their walls.

No one would challenge those conclusions publicly, but the central office could easily launch a covert investigation.

Bottom line:
Best case, Michiko’s here to mediate between warring factions at Night City HQ and personally pick a new head of counterintel.
Worst case, she’s here to dig into my handiwork.

I didn’t share Frank’s panic, but I wasn’t dismissing the danger either. Michiko is a serious threat. She ran one of the world’s top detective agencies for years with an impressive track record. Hell, she even dated Smasher at some point. I can’t imagine how that went down, but that’s ancient history now.

My thoughts were interrupted by a slightly overweight, rumpled man reeking of booze. A city official.

“Mr. Price?” he squinted at me. “Good afternoon. Sorry I’m late. Damn New Year’s parties—corporate events, drinking with the bosses. Couldn’t say no.”

“No problem,” I nodded. “You brought the building plans and the estimate?”

“Yes, of course. Here, let me just get my tablet…” He fumbled with the device. “Which space were you looking to rent?”

“Both,” I replied. “Lease with an option to buy, and I’ll need them rezoned as residential.”

“Alright, let me calculate…”

He quoted me sixty-four thousand eddies. Steep, but I liked the idea of living right above my club too much to pass it up. Of course, I’d have to pour a ton of eddies into renovations. Here’s hoping Michiko-san doesn’t completely fuck up my relatively stable business. If she does, I might have to go back to hunting and gutting shady types like Jack Mauser.

While I was finalizing paperwork with the bureaucrat, I got a call from a rising star in the art of flashy ass-kicking.

“You V? Angie gave me your number. Said you’d check out my chrome or something.”

“Yeah,” I replied, signing a document. “Let’s meet at my ripper’s place.”

“Alright, cool. But let’s do it early. It’s New Year’s, and I’m planning to get wasted and high tonight.”

“What about your training?” I smirked.

“Twice a year, chumba: New Year’s and my birthday. I already made a deal with Angie. Send me the address and don’t waste my time.”

I sent her Vik’s address and reminded her how much cash to bring. I wasn’t paying for every athlete’s maintenance. Let Angie bankroll her proteges.

Ending early sounded fine to me. Jackie was hosting a gathering at El Coyote Cojo, and I wanted to swing by before heading to my club—and maybe a few others—for the night.

After parting ways with the bureaucrat, I called for a cab but had it pick me up a bit further away from the cafe. Decided to take a short walk.

Surprisingly, the city hadn’t changed much in preparation for the New Year. No Christmas trees on every corner, no Santa Clauses, none of the typical holiday clutter. Some ads had been swapped out for seasonal holograms, a moderate amount of decorations appeared in malls, and a few mom-and-pop shops displayed battered old ornaments or handwritten signs advertising discounts.

From what I could dig out of V’s memories, that’s just how it’s always been. The Sixth Street gang were the only ones who really went all out with decorations, clinging to the traditions of the old U.S. Japan Town and, of course, Little China preferred celebrating the Lunar New Year with fireworks, parades, and dragon holograms.

As I strolled, my eyes wandered, searching for signs of the looming calendar switch from six to seven. It was a pointless distraction that still kept me sharp enough to not get caught off guard.

A sleek black Chevillon Trax 388 Jefferson, shiny like raw oil, screeched to a halt beside me. At the same moment, a crushing pain stabbed into the back of my skull—a script attack. My vision dimmed, but my resistance was enough to keep me from blacking out completely.

The car doors burst open. The driver stayed behind the wheel while two men in sharp black suits jumped out like devils from a jack-in-the-box. Dark sunglasses, immaculate hairstyles. One had a sparking stun baton.

We activated our Sandevistans almost simultaneously. No idea what model he had, but he moved just a fraction faster. Too bad for him I’d been training with Hash and had the chrome to back it up. In a single motion, I sidestepped and drew my monotanto, slicing at his arm. A few stingy drops of synthetic blood rewarded me.

The guy raised his other hand, revealing a small, shiny gun that looked almost like a toy. But I knew better than to underestimate it—it was a dart gun, loaded with something nasty. Probably poison or tranquilizers.

My next swing aimed to sever the weapon—and his hand along with it. Didn’t go as planned. The blade clipped a finger but glanced off the chrome in his arm. The tanto snapped.

I was already drawing my Apparition with my right hand while hitting his partner with a Short Circuit and Overheat. The second guy, who was fumbling to draw a similar dart gun, froze in place. I tossed a Reboot Optics script at the driver for good measure.

By the time my Sandevistan timed out, I’d partially charged my electromagnetic pistol.

A flash, a deafening crack, and the round tore through the car’s body. The first attacker dodged using Kerenzikov, but the shot still punched through the vehicle. Not ideal. My Kerenzikov wasn’t active.

Then came the sting—a cold jab in my neck. A sudden numbness began spreading through my body.

“Warning. Neurotoxin Zf12 detected in your system,” my biomonitor announced. “Initiating emergency countermeasures.”

They got me. But I managed to lock eyes with the wounded bastard holding the broken tanto. Sent him a Soul Rip and a System Collapse for good measure. Then I threw the broken blade with my cyberarm, aiming for his neck.

A scream echoed—maybe from my throw, maybe from the scripts.

My vision blurred. I fired off a few wild shots while retreating into an alley. Ripping an EMP grenade from under my coat, I primed it and tossed it back. My cyberarm still worked decently, but my flesh arm was going numb.

Time to find the injector. Got it. The press of a button delivered my favorite cocktail of three different drugs into my veins, flooding me with warmth. My vision cleared slightly.

I leaned against the wall, panting. Somewhere, police sirens howled. I needed to move fast—dealing with cops in my state wasn’t an option.

No one followed. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the black car vanish.

“Guess we both got our asses handed to us and called it a draw,” I muttered, holstering my empty pistol.

I yanked the dart out of my neck and stashed it in my pocket for later analysis. Then, forcing my body up the fire escape, I ascended one painstaking step at a time. Ten steps—inhale. Another ten—pop a pill.

“Just one small drop in a big-ass ocean of drugs,” I smirked, quoting Mauser, before inhaling another hit from my trusty stim.

Eventually, I stumbled onto a quieter street. My condition stabilized somewhat—I wouldn’t pass out anytime soon. But my head spun, my hands felt like ice, and my legs wobbled with every step.

Another hit from the stim and I collapsed onto the backseat of a waiting cab. At the same time, I sent out a distress signal to Falco, asking him to pick me up somewhere discreet.

Lying there, I couldn’t help but think:
“Just when I thought Vincent Price could walk around Night City in peace… something has to go to shit. Again.”

Preliminary conclusions?

This wasn’t some random mugging—it was a deliberate attempt to abduct me. Abduct, not kill. Hence the non-lethal gear: scripts, stun batons, dart guns.

They were pros. Their plan was simple—take me out with the scripts, toss my unconscious body into the car, and drive off without a fuss. My unusual resistance to quickhacks threw a wrench in their plans, so they switched to Plan B: incapacitate me by force.

The implants and combat training saved my ass. In the end, it was a draw. Or maybe a win on my part since the kidnapping failed.

But who the hell were they?

Not your average mercs—that much was clear. They felt more like corporate hounds or agency operatives. The fragmented memories I pulled from their systems showed flashes of a night shootout by the ocean and a jungle march, but it wasn’t enough to pinpoint who they worked for.

Still, it was obvious these weren’t your run-of-the-mill street samurai.

Could it be Michiko-san? Or someone else from my former job wanting a "private" chat? Seems likely.

The car stopped in a dead-end tunnel where Falco was already waiting.

“Any new holes in you?” the former nomad asked, leaning against his ride.

“Just a tiny one. Nothing serious,” I replied, climbing in. “They gave me a free dose of expensive shit and tried to take me for a ride, but I made it clear I had other plans for the evening. Mind dropping me off at Vik’s?”

“Sure thing.”

By the time we reached Vik’s clinic, the cocktail and adrenaline had mostly worn off. The exhaustion hit, and all I wanted was sleep.

“Hey, Vik,” I greeted as I plopped into one of his chairs. “Got jabbed with some Zf12. Fun times.”

“Not the best choice. That one can leave your muscles aching,” he joked while prepping his equipment. “Next time you want to get high, try a ten or a nine.”

“Real funny,” I muttered. “What about Clementine-whatever-her-name-is? The judo chick with the nose ring?”

“She came by earlier,” Vik said, attaching a line to my arm. “Already left. Rushing to get shit faced before the New Year.”

“Damn it.”

“Relax. I checked her out. Neurovirus, just as we suspected. Nasty stuff. It activates when certain chemicals in the body reach a specific mix, then causes a temporary implant failure.”

I nodded as the fluids began to flow through the catheter leading to my vein. “Athlete’s body is depleted by the finish line. They make one last push, hormones and lactic acid running wild, and bam!”

“Exactly. Muscle spasms, loss of balance, or some other delightful hiccup. Then the virus self-destructs. Rare as hell. Took me three scans to figure out where it was hiding. But she’s clean now. Kept a sample for research.”

“Any idea how long ago she caught it?”

“Not long. Two, three days tops.”

That caught my attention. Finally, a lead. I needed to figure out where she’d been, who she’d been in contact with, and what she’d connected to. Maybe check her devices for suspicious files.

“Thanks, Vik. I’m feeling better already. Gotta go track her—”

“Whoa, hold up,” Vik interrupted. “Gloria’s coming by any minute, and we’re all heading to El Coyote. You’re coming too.”

“But—”

“No buts. What, you’re gonna spend New Year’s Eve chasing a drunk girl through clubs and dives? I saw her eyes. She’s probably halfway through a second bottle of tequila by now. You’ll get nothing useful out of her tonight.”

I sighed. “Fine. Just frustrating to finally have a solid lead and let it wait.”

“Rest is important too, doc’s orders. And yes, you can drink tonight—but in moderation. Your body’s been through the wringer. A couple of shots, and you’ll be flying.”

“Got it. Guess I’ll save some eddies on booze.”

Soon enough, Gloria arrived, radiant in a sparkly dress with sequined shoulders and an equally dazzling smile. She kissed Vik on the cheek, greeted me warmly, and generally seemed in the mood to celebrate.

“Mom Wells called,” she said. “Everything’s ready over there. Shall we grab a cab?”

“V’s got a friend nearby who can give us a lift,” Vik said, gesturing toward Falco.

“And he’s coming in with us, right?” Gloria asked.

“I’m sure he’d be happy to join,” I said. “He’s all about a good time.”

Within minutes, we were crawling through Night City traffic in Falco’s car. The sun dipped toward the horizon, casting its last rays of light off the towering skyscrapers that swallowed it whole.

“David’s working tonight?” I asked Gloria.

“Yeah, but he promised to make it soon,” she replied, her voice filled with pride. “I used to tell him as a kid that he’d conquer this city one day, especially when times were tough. I don’t know if I believed it myself, but I said it because I wanted to believe in something better. And now... it’s really happening. It’s unbelievable.”

Vik met my eyes with a pointed look, as if to say, We both know what kind of work David does for Arasaka. I nodded subtly in return.

When we got to the bar, the place was buzzing with Valentinos and drunk Glen locals. Surprisingly, nobody gave us any trouble. In fact, the vibe was almost friendly. A few recognized Viktor, and to my surprise, some even recognized me.

“You’re V, right?” a dark-skinned guy with a skull tattoo on his neck stopped me. “Cesar couldn’t shut up about that fight at Extreme. Was Smasher really there? Like, the Smasher?”

Before I could answer, another Valentino stepped in, grabbing the guy by the shoulder and moving him aside. From behind them came a calm, measured voice.

“My son, don’t bother Vincent. He’s clearly tired and came here to relax with friends, not answer a thousand questions.”

I nodded gratefully to the voice’s owner—none other than Sebastian Ibarra, the fixer of Heywood. The man knew everyone worth knowing, and apparently, that included me. No surprise—knowing the right people was the hallmark of a great fixer, and Ibarra was one of the best.

We headed upstairs, where Jackie and David were already seated. Misty wasn’t there; Jackie probably planned to meet her later, away from his mom, who wasn’t exactly thrilled about their relationship.

“Viktor! V! Get over here!” Jackie called out, waving enthusiastically. “We haven’t even started yet. Gloria, you’ll let your son have a little beer for New Year’s, right?”

“He’s old enough to make that decision himself,” Gloria replied, amused.

David gave me a firm handshake but stayed silent. He sat between Jackie and his mom, looking composed, maybe even a little tense. Not long after, Guadalupe Wells joined us.

“I’m so happy to see you all here,” she said warmly, her voice carrying the perfect mix of maternal pride and hospitality. “Old friends and new—mi casa es tu casa.”

I threw back my first shot of tequila, and it hit me like a freight train. My nervous system, still shaken from the neurotoxin and Sandevistan overdrive, didn’t even try to put up a fight.

“You good, V?” Jackie asked, noticing my wince.

“Someone gave him a little something earlier,” Viktor explained.

Jackie shook his head, grinning. “Man, don’t take random shit from people. You wanna drink, you come here.”

“I didn’t take it,” I muttered. “They ‘gave’ it to me. Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly thrilled about it.”

“Ah... Well, just be careful, mano.”

I tried sipping another shot but started coughing. Great. My body felt fine, but my nerves? Like someone had crushed them in a vice and stuffed them back in place. I zoned out for a bit after that. The others were laughing, chatting, toasting—it was a calm, easy vibe. Falco and I sat quietly in a corner, more observers than participants in the celebration, which was fine by me. I needed to unwind.

At some point, I noticed the noise around us had died down. I looked up, and Gloria’s face was tight with concern, her eyes fixed on someone standing behind me.

“You here for him?” she asked, her voice sharp. “We don’t know you.”

A cool hand rested on my neck, and a familiar voice answered.

“I know him.”

It was Lucy.

Now I understood Gloria’s tension. She didn’t know Lucy personally, but she clearly recognized her from David’s stories—or maybe from mine. David, too, seemed uneasy. For the first time that evening, a heavy silence fell over the table.

___________________________________________________

• Mr. Freeman is a Russian animated web series named after its main character. The series appeared on YouTube on September 21, 2009 and got considerable popularity in Runet. The main content of the series is monologues which in a harsh manner criticize the lifestyle of modern everyman.

• Vadim Demchog - Russian actor who played a venerologist in a Russian sitcom “Interns” and voiced over the character of Mr Freeman

[Castling] Chapter 44

We were sitting on the rug by the fireplace, interrupting each other as we discussed our operation, occasionally sipping from mugs of butterbeer—a fizzy drink with a mild, fleeting effect that mimicked tipsiness. Kind of like soda, but not as sweet and with a buttery toffee flavor. They say it’s served hot with spices in winter.

“That was incredible, Ron,” Harry said, still breathless with excitement. “And Hermione, you were brilliant. Collecting that dust from the neighboring shelf and sprinkling it on our decoy was genius. It looked completely authentic.”

“Oh, stop it, Harry,” Hermione protested, her face turning pink even as she basked in the praise. “You were the one who remembered to stick that scrap of parchment with the date and initials onto the fake.”

“And me? I didn’t do anything at all, apparently,” I said, pretending to sulk and taking a long sip from my mug.

Of course, they started reassuring me otherwise until the adrenaline wore off, and we all began to calm down.

“You know,” Hermione admitted, “I really liked how well we worked together.”

“Me too,” Harry agreed, grinning. “It was such a brilliant adventure—and so dangerous!”

“Yes, but let’s hope we don’t have to break the law again,” Hermione said, trying to sound serious before breaking into a contented smile.

Later, I walked Hermione to the bus stop. Harry wanted to come along, but we both insisted he stay behind; there was no point risking it. It wasn’t far—just to the end of the street. I made sure she got on the bus safely and then headed back to our room. It was still early, but I was too drained to bother with spellwork, so Harry and I wandered through the shops instead. We picked up the last of our school supplies, gawked at the “Firebolt” in the window, and, under the weary gaze of the shopkeeper, I bought Hagrid’s biting textbook, a couple of old Care of Magical Creatures books from previous years, and a fresh set of textbooks for my other subjects. We restocked potion ingredients at the apothecary too.

Dad had given me twenty Galleons before he left, the most I’d ever gotten from him in one go. Luckily, we’d already bought most of the big-ticket items in Romania.

“Wait, Ron,” Harry said, suddenly looking puzzled as we sat at a table in Fortescue’s with our bags piled on the spare chairs. “Didn’t you take Divination?”

“Why would I?” I replied with a shrug. “If you don’t have a knack for it, it’s a complete waste of time. You’re not going to see anything in that crystal ball except fog, same as with tea leaves. Why bother suffering through it, especially with exams at the end? Besides,” I added, “I’ve already picked my career. Runes, Care of Magical Creatures, and Muggle Studies will be useful for that. Divination’s just fluff. Don’t worry, though—Hermione’s taking Divination. You could’ve picked Runes and Muggle Studies too, you know,” I said, teasing him. “Then we’d have been in the same classes.”

“No chance,” Harry said, wrinkling his nose. “Muggle Studies is boring, and Runes are too complicated—even if they’re useful. That’s Hermione stuff, really.”

“You’ve not seen Arithmancy yet—that’s the real headache,” I quipped, marking two types of ice cream and a cherry shake on the floating menu. It flapped its cover like wings and zoomed off toward the kitchen. Harry sighed and made his choices too.

The next morning, Hermione stormed into our room to wake us up. Ignoring our groggy protests, she launched into a lecture about our lack of discipline and tried to yank the blankets off us. Harry clung to his like a lifeline but fled to the bathroom once she turned her attention to me. Left with no other defense, I let go, stretched luxuriously in my boxers, and smirked.

Hermione flushed bright red, dropped the blanket, and stormed out, slamming the door and calling me an idiot on her way.

By the time we went downstairs, she was still sulking. But after we took her shopping, had breakfast at a cafe, and returned to our room, she seemed to have forgotten—or at least pretended to. I did promise to set an alarm for the next morning, though.

Later, once we’d layered the room with every silencing charm we knew like seasoned conspirators, I frowned and admitted, “I had another vision last night. Dementors will be on the train.”

“That’s awful,” Hermione murmured, her face pale. I could see she wouldn’t let it go until we’d mastered the Patronus Charm.

We spent the rest of the summer practicing. It was grueling. The spell demanded a perfect balance of focus, intention, and raw magical strength.

“I don’t know what memory to use,” Harry lamented one evening, looking utterly drained. “None of them feel right.”

“Same here,” Hermione said, her eyes wet with frustration. We could produce solid shields of silver light, but neither of us could conjure a proper Patronus.

That’s when it hit me. “I think we’ve misunderstood the point,” I said, sitting up straighter. “It’s not just about memories. It’s about the feelings behind them—the light they bring. You have to feel it in your heart, not just think about it. Try imagining the freedom and joy of flying on your broom,” I suggested to Harry. “And Hermione, think about the magic itself—not the spell, but the connection to your magic. You can feel that, right?”

Harry succeeded almost instantly. Hermione managed on her third try.

Harry’s Patronus was a magnificent stag, just as I’d expected—graceful and proud, with sprawling antlers. Hermione surprised us, though. Her Patronus wasn’t an animal but a bird—a wise, majestic owl. As for me, my Patronus remained a shimmering, protective shield—stronger than ever, though it still didn’t take shape.

“Ron, why didn’t yours form?” Hermione asked hesitantly, as if embarrassed by her success.

“I asked Charlie about it,” I admitted. “Sometimes, when someone’s focused on protecting others rather than themselves, their Patronus stays like this. It’s supposed to turn into a sphere of light that spreads out to protect everyone around you. I just don’t have enough magical strength yet to pull it off. Someday, though, I’ll get there—and it’ll be something real, like yours.”

Harry and Hermione kept themselves entertained by sending messages through their Patronuses to each other—and me. Hermione’s serious-looking owl delivering messages in her voice was absolutely priceless. Later, when I gave them a detailed account of what I’d seen in my vision, we came up with a proper plan to protect the first-years on the train.

We also decided to share spells we’d learned. I taught them some cleaning charms and a few basic healing ones I’d picked up from Mum’s books before Hogwarts. I’d only ever used them on Snape and tidying up my room, but still, useful stuff. Honestly, Tom’s room had never sparkled so much.

About a week before my family was due back, I popped over to the Burrow to grab my broomstick.

“Oh, and these books,” I said casually when I returned, handing a stack to Harry and Hermione. “They’re brilliant for clearing your mind and might even help with Dementors. Harry, they’ll also help you get a handle on your emotions when they’re running wild.” I then explained a bit about mental magic and Legilimency. Hermione copied the pamphlets using a duplication charm and taught us the spell while she was at it.

She dove into the material with her usual enthusiasm. Harry, on the other hand, struggled through a couple of exercises, fell asleep during one, and declared it all too much work. He was a good bloke, but let’s be honest—he only liked things that came to him easily. Hermione, though? She’d keep at it until she cracked it.

Three days before summer break ended, Hermione dragged us to the pet shop.

“I’ve saved ten Galleons,” she announced, “and I’m going to buy myself an owl for my birthday.” It made sense—being as independent as she was, she hated borrowing Hedwig from Harry whenever she needed to send something.

At some point, I casually mentioned I knew about her Time-Turner. She admitted that, after our Ministry tour, she’d written to McGonagall saying she’d decided against using it. She’d also decided to drop Divination. Honestly, Hermione was ridiculously ambitious, always aiming to outdo herself. But after trying (and failing) to interpret tea leaves in our cups, she’d declared Divination nothing but a sham for bored old spinsters. Said it’d never be useful in real life.

Dropping the subject left her with a more flexible schedule, though McGonagall hadn’t been thrilled about her “flighty” student, and Hermione was still a bit stressed over it.

In the pet shop, Hermione spent ages inspecting potential owls and even settled on a small grey tawny owl—until, completely out of the blue, she walked out with a cat.

“I couldn’t leave him there,” she explained sheepishly, though her grin said otherwise. “The shopkeeper said Crookshanks has been here his whole life. No one ever wanted him, but he’s so clever, aren’t you, Crooksy?” she cooed, scratching his ginger fur as we carried his carrier and some food. “You don’t mind me leaving him with you for now, do you?” she added as she settled him into a chair. “I need to introduce him to my other cat—or he’ll eat him.”

The cat was hideous, no point denying it. Looked like a Persian, only the size of a small dog. Definitely not all Kneazle, though he had the build. Still, I liked him—especially since, when Hermione wasn’t around, he always came to me. He’d jump on my lap, purr like a ruddy tractor, and occasionally knead my legs with his claws. Those things were massive. I had to keep a blanket handy, or my trousers would’ve been shredded. Harry thought the whole thing was hilarious—ginger Ron and his ginger cat. Comedy gold, apparently.

As for me, I didn’t get anything at the pet shop. I didn’t need an owl, and my rat’s cage was already enchanted by Charlie in Romania. No way Wormtail could escape, and no way Crookshanks—or Black—could snatch him. As for the owl Hermione had wanted, Harry and I chipped in five Galleons each to buy it for her birthday. We even arranged for it to be delivered to her right on the day. A nice surprise.

The day before the holidays ended, Hermione arrived at the inn, and so did my family. Mum and Dad looked fantastic—tan and glowing. The twins were mercilessly teasing Percy, who kept pretending to be too mature for their antics.

Ginny, meanwhile, was practically glued to my side. Her excitement and obvious affection were, well, really nice. Her and Percy gave both me and Harry Sneakoscopes as a gift. She also gifted me a silver bracelet to hang my dragon fang and claw pendants I got as souvenirs from Romania. In return, I gave her some fancy hairpins and another diary. She’s a sweetheart, really. In a few years, I’ll probably have to start fending off suitors with my broomstick.

Mum was her usual self, fussing over how much taller I’d grown and piling food onto Harry’s plate while ordering patty cakes and treacle tart from the kitchen. She’d even brush my shoulder as she passed, quietly tearing up when she thought I wasn’t looking.

Dad gave me a bit of a scolding for moving into the Leaky Cauldron without telling them, but he didn’t push too hard. He knew the Minister had planned to bring us there anyway. Still, he seemed tense, though he tried to hide it.

Later, Harry overheard Mum and Dad talking.

“They think Black’s gone mad and wants me dead,” he told me quietly. “Do you reckon it’s true?”

“I don’t know yet,” I replied. “But they’re not wrong. You’ll be safe at school—Dumbledore’s there. Though I doubt they’ll let you visit Hogsmeade. Honestly, I’m more worried about the Dementors. They really mess with your head. Even without Black, this year’s going to be rough.”

I couldn’t tell him the truth about Black yet. If he knew about Wormtail, he’d go looking for Black and ruin everything. Harry’s too soft-hearted and impulsive. He’d never let me deal with Wormtail properly, and that rat needed to be gone before he could run back to his master. Better to keep quiet—for now.

The next morning was the usual chaos. We quietly ordered sandwiches from Tom for the journey, filled a thermos with tea, grabbed some butterbeer and juice, and headed for the station.

We got to the station via Floo powder. I’d read in the books that they took cars to the platform, but apparently not this time. Instead, someone enlarged the fireplace with a spell, and we all went through at once.

We couldn’t find an empty compartment, just like in the books, so we ended up settling with Lupin. He was out cold, like he’d taken a sleeping draught. I didn’t like him from the get-go. No clue why—just a gut feeling. Maybe it was how overly shabby he looked. Compared to him, I could’ve passed for Malfoy in a fashion show. And that suitcase of his, tied up with knotted string…

Sure, wizards aren’t all-powerful, but it’s not hard to fix up magical clothes unless they’re falling apart completely. And even then, you could conjure a rope instead of tying it up with actual string. It reminded me of the time Mum handed me a scruffy old robe, though even then she’d at least tried to patch it up first. Yeah, we wear hand-me-downs, but they’re never falling to bits. Except for trousers, I outgrow them so fast they’re always a bit short, even when I buy them new from Muggles. Anyway, Lupin seemed dodgy.

Hermione’s cat didn’t trust him either. Maybe it was because he’s a werewolf, or maybe the cat just didn’t like him. Crookshanks plopped himself onto my lap and stared at Lupin with those unblinking yellow eyes. Hermione didn’t mind—Crookshanks was far too heavy for her lap, anyway. She sat beside me, chatting while scratching his ears. All I could think about was how, if Lupin woke up and Crookshanks pounced, my new trousers would end up in tatters, and I’d spend the evening in the hospital wing getting claw marks patched up.

Crookshanks kept an eye on Scabbers too, who, to be fair, looked even more mangy and thin than usual. I figured the cat must’ve sensed he was an Animagus. But with the magical wards on the cage, there was no way he could get to him. I wasn’t giving Scabbers any more of that rat tonic, either—just a calming draught. No point in torturing the poor thing; at least this way, he’d stay quiet.

We didn’t talk about anything important, not with Lupin there. Mostly just debated where we’d go on Hogsmeade weekends.

The snack trolley came by at one point, and Hermione wanted to wake Lupin, but he stayed committed to his role as Sleeping Beauty.

A couple of hours later, we got some unwelcome visitors.

“Well, look who it is,” Malfoy drawled lazily, stepping into the compartment. “The rejects of magical society. A half-blood, a blood-traitor, and a Muggle-born upstart.” Crabbe and Goyle chuckled like clockwork behind him. “I heard your dad finally stumbled across some gold for once,” Malfoy continued, smirking at me. “What, did your mum die of joy?”

Strangely, he didn’t make me angry the way he usually did. Maybe it was the way Dad had talked about him—it left me feeling more annoyed than anything. Not enough to knock his teeth in, but enough to give him a proper verbal slap. And the git must’ve picked up on it because he hesitated.

“Well, heir of Malfoy,” I said smoothly, matching his tone and grinning in a way that wasn’t quite friendly. “What joy is there in a handful of Galleons for a poor, overburdened family? Us Weasleys, we couldn’t possibly die in peace without raising a ceremonial toast to the demise of the Malfoy line, could we?”

Malfoy stepped back, going pale for a second, but then his expression twisted back into a sneer.

“Let’s get out of this hovel,” he muttered, turning on his heel and strolling off. His cronies followed, casting confused glances over their shoulders as the door slammed shut behind them.

“What was that, Ron?” Hermione asked, her voice full of concern as she met my gaze.

“Nothing,” I replied with a smile. “Just the usual spat with the Prince of Slytherin. Don’t worry about it, Hermione. What time is it? Should I head to Percy yet?”

“Not yet,” she said, though she still looked uneasy. “Maybe we should have some tea first.”

She busied herself setting the table. I wasn’t really thirsty, but I drank to ease her nerves. Oddly enough, it helped. Maybe the Dementors really were nearby.

“You both understand, right?” I asked before leaving. They nodded in unison, and I headed off to find Percy.

I tracked him down in the prefects’ compartment. The windows outside had darkened, and my unease was only growing.

“What’s up, Ron?” Percy asked nervously. He must’ve felt it too—or maybe I just looked as off as I felt. “Something happened?”

“Got something to tell you,” I said tersely, sitting across from him. He watched me with worried eyes, and for a moment, I thought how lonely he must be, even in our family. Apart from Mum, no one seemed to care about his successes. We sat in silence for a bit before I stood to leave.

“Where are you going?” he asked, grabbing my arm. “What did you want?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said casually, pretending to hesitate. “Probably just me being stupid…”

“Tell me,” he insisted, pulling me back into my seat.

“Well,” I began, “Harry overheard Mum and Dad yesterday. They were talking about how Black escaped Azkaban and how Dementors are going to guard the school. I read somewhere that those things love feeding on happy thoughts, and I couldn’t stop wondering—what if they decide to attack the train? Sure, they probably wouldn’t actually suck the soul out of anyone, but they could still scare the first-years senseless. I’m heading to Ginny and Luna’s compartment now. Harry and Hermione are staying behind—we’ve been practicing the Patronus charm all summer with Charlie. But what about the others? Honestly, I don’t know much about Dementors at all. We started learning the Patronus charm as a way to send messages and only found out later it works against Dementors too.”

Percy considered my words seriously, much to my surprise.

“I think we should seal the compartments with charms,” he suggested, practically echoing my own thoughts. I’d been about to suggest it myself but hadn’t figured out how to bring it up. “Dementors can’t get through physical barriers, so the students will be safe. I’ll handle it. Nothing will happen to anyone in the next half hour before we arrive.”

“And you just trust me, just like that?” I asked, surprised.

“Of course,” Percy replied with a smile. “You’re a natural strategist, Ron. You beat McGonagall at chess and helped save Harry and Hermione. Besides, better safe than sorry.”

“Right, then,” I said quickly, opening the door. The feeling of being watched made me shiver. “I’m off to Ginny.”

“Percy,” I called as he followed me, “can you cast a Patronus?”

“Of course,” he replied calmly. “They teach it in sixth year, but it’s not on the exams since not everyone can manage a corporeal form. Most of the time, it’s just a shapeless mist, but even that works as protection.”

“And what’s yours, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A raccoon,” he said with a small grin. “But don’t tell the twins, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He started systematically checking each compartment with first to third years, informing them that the doors would be sealed until we arrived. He then cast some unfamiliar spell, leaving the doors covered in what looked like a glowing, translucent film.

I found the compartment with Luna, Ginny, and their little summer fan club. I’d asked Ginny earlier to sit with Luna so I wouldn’t have to run around gathering everyone up later.

“Ladies, got any tea for a weary traveler?” I joked as I locked the door behind me and plopped down beside Luna. I couldn’t put into words how much I’d missed her—it had been so long since I’d seen her. She seemed just as pleased, setting aside her magazine and leaning lightly against me. Her magic brushed against mine, quiet and comforting. We didn’t talk much, though—it felt awkward with the others there, so we left proper catching up for later.

They fed me and filled me in on their summer gossip. The mugs from the shop were selling like hotcakes, though mostly with generic inscriptions like “To Mum with Love”. I listened, nodded along, but the unease in my chest only grew. My hand tightened nervously around my wand, though I tried not to let it show.

Then, without warning, the lights went out. The train jerked violently a few times before coming to a halt, and frost crept across the windows. The girls grabbed onto me in the darkness, jumping to their feet. No one had time to truly panic, though. The train gave another jolt, there was a loud commotion in the corridor, and a dazzling light shone through the gap under the door. A moment later, the lights flickered back on, and the train resumed its journey as if nothing had happened.

Five minutes of frantic chatter later—What just happened?!—the door slid open to reveal a very satisfied-looking Percy.

“I’d recommend getting changed,” he said officiously. “We’ll be arriving in ten minutes. Oh, and take these—you need to eat them now.” He handed each of us a small piece of chocolate, even me. That meant Hermione must’ve already slipped him the little bag we’d prepared. Good girl. Everything had gone exactly to plan.

“Well, I’ll head back to my compartment,” I said with a relieved smile. I threw Luna a warm glance before stepping out and shutting the door behind me.

Daily Updates (20/01/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 38

• Tier 2: Chapter 43

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 34

• Tier 2: Chapter 39

Hydrargyrum

• Tier 2:

  • Tonks Interlude (coming soon)

  • Chapter 8

  • Chapter 9

  • Chapter 10

  • Chapter 11

  • Chapter 12

Note:

Hydrargyrum chapters typically run around 6-7k word chapters, so unlike the rest of the stories I can't guarantee a consistent update schedule for it. That said, while the gap between public releases and advanced chapters may fluctuate, you'll still receive +5/+10 chapters on average.

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 12

"Miss Granger."

"What? Oh, you’re here already," Hermione looked up from her eighth-grade physics textbook and saw James standing before her. He was dressed exactly as he had been during their first meeting on Diagon Alley. The cool, quiet lobby of the public library was otherwise empty.

"Yes. Looks like I didn’t get the address wrong after all," he replied, his tone carrying a faint note of doubt.

"I work here during the summer. Well, part-time. My aunt is the manager so she lets me." she explained, closing her textbook and standing up. She motioned for him to follow her. Her attire was as plain and unremarkable as ever—a skirt, blouse, and jacket, with no robes or wizarding garbs in sight. "Decent books on... our field don’t come cheap, and I’ve already gone through everything for the first few years. I can’t keep asking my parents for money. At least this way I get to buy them on my own and help out from time to time."

She led the way further inside, adding, "Besides, it’s important to keep up with regular subjects during the holidays. And since it’s the off-season here, hardly anyone comes in. I manage one of the sections by myself, and it’s only part-time. Plus, it’s close to home."

"And you plan to discuss your school here?" James asked skeptically.

"Sunday mornings? There’s no one here except the staff. No one will bother us," she said matter-of-factly as she guided him into the academic section and locked the door behind them. "We have at least two hours, probably more, before anyone shows up. Take a seat—I’ll get the materials."

"Materials?" he echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"I wasn’t going to show up empty-handed, was I?"

As Hermione walked off toward the librarian’s desk, Kayneth took a moment to observe his surroundings. Shelves lined with textbooks, manuals, encyclopedias, and dictionaries; the faint smell of dust and paper; wooden furniture with study lamps—it was a perfectly ordinary library, yet he felt a pang of nostalgia. The selection in Diagon Alley’s shops always felt so limited and shallow. He couldn’t imagine finding an entire section, let alone multiple shelves, devoted exclusively to something like runic magic.

Settling into one of the low chairs designed for children, he noted that while it was comfortable, the size somehow irritated him. He couldn’t help but feel faintly impressed by Hermione’s methodical approach. Their agreement hadn’t included strict obligations—she could’ve spent thirty minutes summarizing her thoughts on Hogwarts, and the deal would’ve been complete. Yet here she was, prepared with notes and materials. Perhaps she was determined to repay her debt thoroughly—or maybe she simply enjoyed teaching others.

"Right, let’s begin," Hermione announced, returning with a large, square bag that looked like it weighed half as much as she did. She began unloading books, scrolls, and notebooks onto the table. In front of her, she laid out a stack of stapled pages, likely notes or a draft. James noticed there wasn’t a trace of magic on the bag—she had carried the full weight herself, without enchantments.

"I decided to focus on the first year. That should be enough for now. Eight textbooks for eight subjects. Well, technically seven—there’s no manual for flying lessons, which I think is a mistake. The theory book is supposed to cover all subjects—or at least, it’s supposed to."

"Alright, the books and notebooks make sense. What about the scrolls? Magical contracts for enrollment?" he asked, his tone laced with sarcasm.

"No, there aren’t any contracts involved. These are just a few of my essays returned with teacher feedback and grades. I thought they’d serve as examples. Unfortunately, the school requires us to use parchment and quills for graded assignments and exams. And before you ask, the notebooks are my personal notes from non-class time."

"That’s odd," Kayneth remarked. Writing with a quill didn’t particularly bother him—he’d done it before, albeit rarely—but it felt unnecessary. "I’ve heard electronics don’t work at Hogwarts, but ballpoint pens have been around since the 1950s. Why not use those?"

"The most terrifying thing in magical Britain," Hermione said darkly as she flipped through a notebook, "tradition. 'It’s customary' to write with quills. 'It’s customary' to wear robes and use lanterns. 'We’re not Muggles,'—" she mimicked someone with exaggerated disdain.

"That can’t be the only reason. There has to be more behind it," Kayneth countered. He had spent time pondering the peculiarities of wizarding traditions, but the answer always boiled down to "backwardness." "But let’s get to the main point—the school. Skip the tourist brochure bits. I’ve read Hogwarts: A History; I know who founded it, when, and how many towers the castle has. What I’m interested in is how things work now."

"Fine," Hermione agreed reluctantly, flipping past a couple of pages in her notes. It was clear she had planned to spend the first fifteen minutes playing tour guide: ‘To your right, in the courtyard by the elm, there was a famous magical duel in 1734 that captivated all of Europe…’

"Let’s start from the beginning," she continued. "Invitations to first-year students—or transfers—are sent out on July 31st, along with a list of textbooks and supplies. For students like us, the first letter is usually delivered in person by the head of one of the houses, who explains to the student and their parents that magic is real. Shopping happens on Diagon Alley throughout August, though you already know about that. Travel to the school happens from King’s Cross Station on September 1st..."

Kayneth listened attentively, taking notes in his notebook. On a separate sheet, he jotted down questions to ask later. Hermione lacked professional teaching experience, but for an amateur, she was doing reasonably well. She had a clear outline and managed to stick to it without veering off course. It wasn’t perfect, but for a middle schooler, it was good enough—even if relying on such a source left him uneasy.

As Hermione moved on to describe year-end tests, exams, the process of advancing to the next grade, and the tallying of House points—including summer homework—she paused, took a breath, and, mimicking the tone of one of her professors, asked:

“So, are there any questions?”

“Yes, a few,” Kayneth replied, pulling a sheet of questions closer to him. “First—the station and the train. Why go to such lengths, exposing the secrecy of magic to constant risk and wasting nearly an entire day traveling, when there are at least three… options for instantaneous transportation? That would be much faster and safer.”

“Apparition, Floo Network, and Portkeys, right?” Hermione said thoughtfully. “I’ve wondered the same thing, but I found a couple of books on the subject in the Hogwarts library. The explanation is as follows: before the 18th century, every student traveled to Hogwarts on their own—flying, riding magical creatures or horses, or even walking. It was dangerous. Some didn’t survive the journey, including those who ran into Muggles. After the Statute of Secrecy was enacted, such ‘mass migrations’ every year became impossible.

“But Apparition is forbidden in and around Hogwarts. Apparently, the school has incredibly powerful magical protections against everything under the sun, and, as one book put it, anyone trying to bypass them would ‘be smeared across the landscape.’ Besides, Apparating hundreds of students two or three at a time would be exhausting and time-consuming. Floo travel is also restricted. As far as I understand, the fireplaces can be activated or deactivated for transportation, but since the Floo Network is shared, anyone who knows the address could potentially enter. In the past, the school was attacked many times through them during conflicts with Muggles and rival wizard factions, so they sealed that route.

“As for Portkeys, they require effort to create, usually operate on a strict schedule, and the teleportation can cause unpleasant side effects like nausea and disorientation. For about half the students, it would knock them out of their lessons for a week. Initially, the solution was to use magical caravans—essentially trains of carriages accompanied by adult wizards for protection against Muggles. Then, about 150 years ago, someone decided to borrow the Muggle invention of the steam engine and enchant it.”

“And also the station and the railway,” Kayneth added. “It all makes a certain amount of sense, at least within the framework of this magical community. But it’s still incredibly risky. And the sheer amount of magical energy expended on trivialities here… well, I’ve come to terms with it, but it’s no less absurd. Consider the layers of obfuscation: concealment spells on a busy train station, folded space hiding an entire railway platform, and hundreds of miles of track running parallel to Muggle lines, cloaked so it’s invisible to airplanes and nearby trains. There’s secret maintenance for all of it, requiring significant magical resources and years of work to establish, not to mention the annual upkeep.”

“Yes, it was a massive project,” Hermione agreed with a touch of pride. “But it ensures the safety of both the school and the students. Traveling together might be slow, but it minimizes the risk of exposure. Plus, the train makes a few stops along the way to pick up students from Wales and Scotland—not everyone lives near London. The Irish even have their own train and branch line, though it’s not as fancy as ours. Complicated, yes, but reliable.”

“But there’s a much simpler solution. Far simpler,” Kayneth countered. Seeing her puzzled look, he explained, “Ordinary transport. Take a train, plane, or even a bus to Glasgow, for instance. From there, it’s not far—maybe a hundred miles. The magical train could operate in the remote areas beyond, over hills and marshlands where there’s little risk of being discovered.”

“I’d like to see that,” Hermione said with a sudden laugh, clearly picturing something amusing.

“Did I say something funny?” Kayneth asked cautiously. He wasn’t inclined to let a first-generation novice laugh at him without cause.

“Oh no, James, it’s not you,” she said, waving dismissively. “I just imagined Malfoy boarding an airplane… or Goyle staring out of a bus window at London traffic. There’s no way the purebloods would ever agree to that—not even under the threat of the Cruciatus Curse. Neither the kids nor their parents. Not a chance.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“It’s much worse,” Hermione sighed heavily. “Old pureblood families live in their own little magical kingdoms, rarely interacting with Muggles for years. They have their own society, education, transportation, shops, courts, laws, and problems. It’s not that they couldn’t learn to drive a car or take the subway—they simply don’t need to. And since many of them hold key positions in the Ministry and the school’s Board of Governors, we have the system we do.” She picked up a scroll of parchment and waved it for emphasis.

“No exceptions?” Kayneth asked, intrigued. He himself didn’t know how to drive, though he had chauffeurs for that. Among the magi of the Clock Tower, few, if any, held driver’s licenses. However, many enjoyed taking the wheel, usually disregarding traffic laws and signals.

“There are exceptions, thankfully. For example, Ron’s father, from what I’ve heard, is quite the eccentric among purebloods. He works at the Ministry but spends his free time enchanting Muggle objects. He even has a flying car. And he’s generally very fond of Muggles—you could call him a fan,” she said, abruptly cutting herself off before adding hastily, “But I didn’t tell you that. Not about the car or anything else.”

“Of course not. I didn’t hear a thing. I don’t even know his name. Speaking of names—Malfoy. I assume he’s the current heir of the Malfoy family? Are you acquainted?”

“I’d rather never see that prat again!” she exclaimed indignantly before softening her tone. “He’s just unbearable. We started Hogwarts the same year, but, naturally, he’s in Slytherin, the house for purebloods, supposedly. We don’t get along with them in general, but Draco is a nightmare even by their standards. ‘Mudbloods this,’ ‘Muggles that,’ ‘primitive filth’—” She mimicked him sarcastically. “Ugh, just thinking about him makes me mad. And they say his father was a follower of You-Know-Who.”

"Who?" the magus asked, confused. Then it clicked. "Oh, the self-styled Lord. Makes sense if they’re from an old family. And this Ron—if he’s pureblood, does that mean his parents were supporters of… him?"

"God forbid!" Hermione exclaimed, shaking her head vigorously. "Ron may be a bit of a dimwit, but the Weasleys have always stood with Dumbledore and against all that prejudice. Not all purebloods sided with You-Know-Who. Neville—he’s in my year too—his parents fought against him as well, just like many other purebloods."

"Then why did the war drag on for so long if even the old families weren’t fully on his side? Eleven years is a long time," Kayneth observed.

"I don’t know. History classes don’t cover it. Just rumors, whispers—nobody really talks about him openly, not even his name. But if you want my opinion… It sounds like the most influential families among his supporters were stalling any resistance in the Ministry and Aurors, and they blocked efforts to seek outside help. The fight against him wasn’t an organized force—it was more like a militia. And it wasn’t just aristocrats on his side. Plenty of half-bloods and weaker purebloods joined him, hoping to rise in power as his lieutenants when he took over. There didn’t seem to be many Muggle-born among his followers, but I wouldn’t swear to it. The war wasn’t just about blood purity—it was about power. At least, that’s what some books and people suggest."

"Interesting," Kayneth replied neutrally. It sounded more plausible—a typical struggle for influence and resources dressed up as a battle for bloodline superiority. At some point, the infighting had escalated into open conflict. Still, for a more complete picture, he thought it might be useful to hear the aristocrats' perspective, though gaining access to them would be no small task. "But that’s all in the past. Let’s get back to the school and its interaction with the wider world. You mentioned that upper-year students have a subject called ‘Muggle Studies,’ essentially a study of the ordinary world. And it’s not exactly popular, is it? So it’s an elective?"

"There are a few mandatory introductory lessons, I think, but after that, it’s optional."

"And what about 'regular' subjects—physics, biology, chemistry, history?"

"They’re only taught insofar as they overlap with magical subjects. Chemistry shows up in Potions, botany in Herbology, Astronomy and astrology go hand in hand, and so on. But they’re not taught as standalone subjects. There’s no literature or geography either. I study those on my own," Hermione said, gesturing toward the shelves of textbooks and reference books. "The school curriculum is almost entirely magic-focused."

"And from what I’ve gathered, the quality of teaching varies greatly. Some subjects are almost all practical with little theory, while others are the opposite," Kayneth noted, glancing at his list of questions and notes. "For instance, Defense Against the Dark Arts, taught by Professor Quirrell. From what you’ve said, it sounds like you didn’t do much beyond copying poorly delivered lectures or transcribing textbook chapters about dangerous creatures like giants, werewolves, and… vampires," he said, still finding it hard to reconcile this world’s concept of vampires with the Dead Apostles he knew. Their weaknesses seemed almost laughable in comparison, though humanity here should count itself lucky for that divergence.

"That’s correct," Hermione agreed, carefully choosing her words. "I suppose he was an advocate of extreme caution, preferring students to master the theory thoroughly before attempting any practical work. But you don’t need to worry about him. Unfortunately—well, maybe fortunately—Professor Quirrell won’t be teaching next year due to an… accident shortly after exams. That position is notoriously cursed; no one seems to last long in it. I won’t even know which textbook we’ll be using until July, which is frustrating. Each teacher has their own approach, and the school has considerable autonomy in this regard. There’s no standard curriculum from the Ministry."

"Well, perhaps it’s for the best if someone replaces him. From what you’ve told me, he didn’t leave the best impression, and the subject seems critically important. As for safety…" Kayneth trailed off, giving her a sharp look. "Correct me if I’m wrong, but according to you, there’s a hostile tree in the school grounds that attacks anyone who gets too close. Quidditch matches regularly result in broken bones, concussions, and players falling from great heights. In Potions, cauldrons can explode or transform into something dangerous, while potions themselves—due to errors or 'pranks'—can become poisons or acids. In Charms, objects can explode, even ones that should be inert. In Care of Magical Creatures, a magical beast might attack a student. In Herbology, predatory plants could do the same. Nearby, there’s a forest teeming with extremely dangerous magical creatures and plants capable of killing—and possibly eating—a grown wizard. Then there are the shifting castle geometry, warped spaces, restrictive barriers, ghosts, poltergeists, three-headed dogs, trolls in the corridors, and the endless pranks between houses involving curses, mental magic, untested potions, and poorly cast Transfiguration spells. Given all that, a professor’s reluctance to include practical lessons seems rather insignificant, doesn’t it?"

"Well, yes, but—" Hermione started, uncertain. She’d mentioned or alluded to all those dangers herself, but she’d never thought of her school from that perspective before.

"Honestly, I expected less," Kayneth remarked with a nod of approval.

"Excuse me?" Hermione asked, staring at him in disbelief.

"Fewer threats. But I’m glad the school administration takes its responsibilities seriously and maintains an appropriate standard," he said matter-of-factly.

"An appropriate… standard… of threats?" she repeated slowly, almost breaking the phrase into syllables, as though struggling to comprehend.

"Precisely. Surely, you won’t deny that magic is inherently dangerous, especially with wands that make it accessible even to eleven-year-olds. It doesn’t take much imagination to devise a hundred and fifty ways to maim or kill someone with a wand using just the material from first- through third-year textbooks, without relying on additional magical tools or weapons," Kayneth observed. Hermione didn’t argue—she just shivered slightly. She clearly had enough knowledge and imagination to follow his point. "That’s why it’s essential for students to constantly feel the presence of danger and learn to adapt. They need to develop discipline: following instructions, adhering to recipes, and obeying directions, because mistakes or improvisation could be fatal. Without that discipline, any wizard could easily kill themselves—and likely take a dozen others with them. That said, the school seems to have approached the matter far more thoroughly than I anticipated," he added with a nod of respect.

"I don’t think it’s quite like that…" Hermione replied, though her confidence seemed to waver. "In my opinion, Defense Against the Dark Arts should teach exactly those kinds of principles. Anyway, let’s move on. Any more questions?"

"Yes. From what I’ve gathered, in Charms and Transfiguration, most of the time is spent on practice, as opposed to Defense, where theory dominates. But the theory in these subjects seems to be left for independent reading."

"Not exactly. Specific tasks and spells are explained in detail. For instance, if we’re turning a feather into a pencil or a bird into a goblet, we’re given clear instructions: the gestures to use, the visualization required, what words to say, and in what order."

"But that’s just a set of instructions," the magus countered. "It tells you 'what to do' and 'how to do it,' but not 'why it works.'"

"I got tired of asking 'why' by Christmas," Hermione admitted with a defeated sigh, bitterness creeping into her voice. "Because it’s magic. Because that’s how it works. Because that’s what’s written in the book. Because a stupid Mudblood like me could never understand... and so on. I eventually gave up trying to explain 'why.' If magic is inherently unscientific, what’s the point?"

"Utter nonsense!" Kayneth snapped, his tone one of a geneticist hearing someone claim mice spontaneously generate from straw. Realizing the disparity in their ages and knowledge, he added reluctantly, "Apologies. That was harsh. But how else can you describe the notion that magic is 'unscientific'? Miracles might be anti-scientific; they outright defy natural laws. Magic, however, is an incredibly precise discipline, allowing for no ambiguity or error."

"James, forgive me," Hermione began in an almost condescending tone, as if addressing a preschooler, "but are you seriously saying that you can scientifically explain how a parrot turns into a goblet?"

"Of course," Kayneth replied simply, choosing to overlook her skepticism. It wasn’t surprising for someone with barely a year of exposure to magic to misunderstand its intricacies. Even fourth- or fifth-generation magi often failed to grasp the finer details of mystical processes. "It’s actually quite straightforward."

"I’m listening," Hermione said, sitting across from him with her arms crossed, radiating skepticism.

"Let’s start with this: on the first year, are you taught the concept of 'conceptual magic' and how it functions?" Kayneth asked, ignoring her attitude, though with increasing difficulty.

"Sorry, what?"

"I’ll take that as a 'no,'" he said, a hint of condescension in his voice. "But I assume you don’t need me to explain what a 'concept' is?"

"No need. A concept is an idea or a representation independent of its realization. For example, the concept of an airplane as a heavier-than-air machine capable of flight existed in antiquity and during the Renaissance, but it wasn’t fully realized until about a century ago. Or take the concept of a force field—the sci-fi idea of an invisible barrier or dome that stops bullets and projectiles, keeping out people or machines while being intangible. Science is only now approaching something like that, whereas wizards have already realized it in the form of protective spells."

"Not bad," Kayneth conceded. That was a workable foundation. "Now, let’s take a simple second-year spell, Alohomora, and its advanced variants. What does it do?"

"It unlocks locks," Hermione answered almost indignantly. The simplicity of the question clearly annoyed her.

"Correct. But how does it do that? Here’s a lock—a complex object with an internal mechanism and a keyhole," Kayneth said, pointing at a nearby door for emphasis. "From the perspective of physics or chemistry, it’s just a chunk of metal. How do you define it as 'locked' or 'unlocked' when those concepts are meaningless to physical laws? This is where the conceptual level of reality comes into play. The object has inherent concepts that describe its properties and state. A spell can modify one or more of those concepts—usually temporarily. With magic, you impose a new concept—in this case, 'openness'—to replace one of the object’s inherent concepts. Does that make sense?"

"Scientifically, it sounds utterly absurd," Hermione admitted, though with less skepticism now. "But I’ll concede that it has internal logic. Why only one of its concepts, though, and not all at once?"

"Because you only need to modify one property—in this case, its current state—not its internal structure or location. If you applied the concept of 'openness' to the wrong property, you might not unlock the lock but instead turn it into an 'open space'—essentially, a void."

"Alright, I’ll temporarily accept this explanation. But how does this relate to turning a parrot into a goblet?"

"Simple. The mechanism is identical. Using a spell, you generate a concept—in this case, 'goblet.' That’s relatively easy because it’s a clear and familiar image. Then, with magical energy and your wand, you impose this concept onto the parrot, overwriting its inherent concept of 'parrot.' If you alter only its external appearance, the transformation and subsequent return to its original form will be painless. But if you overwrite not just the appearance but its essence and other properties, reverting it would likely kill the bird, as it would have ceased being a living creature for some time. Of course, such transformations are more complex and require significantly more effort. Additionally, the more energy invested, the longer the imposed change lasts before the world corrects it and restores the original state."

"What do you mean by 'the world corrects it'?" Hermione asked, genuinely intrigued.

"It’s inaccurate to say magic is anti-scientific—it follows strict rules," Kayneth lectured. "However, it’s undeniably unnatural to the physical world. Every magical effect consumes energy, with the cost increasing based on its scale, duration, and level of influence. For transformations, the cost also depends on the disparity between the two objects—both physically and conceptually. Turning a rapier into a saber is much easier than turning a brick into a birch tree. Transforming ice into coal of the same size is particularly difficult because they embody opposing concepts and elemental properties. Magical energy forces the world to accept a change, but only as long as there’s sufficient energy to sustain it. Large-scale transformations are often impossible due to energy constraints. Even Dumbledore would likely struggle to turn the Eiffel Tower into a living Christmas tree—or it would drain him completely.

"Of course, this applies only to direct effects, not their consequences. A magically created blade can cut cloth, and the fabric won’t repair itself afterward. A magically softened boulder can be sculpted into a statue, which will harden again but remain a statue. You can transform a feather into a pencil, but when the magic fades, it will revert to a feather."

"And what about Reparo?" Hermione asked. "A repaired cup doesn’t shatter back into pieces after five minutes."

"Reparo works differently. It doesn’t act directly on the object—it performs a localized, object-oriented reversal of cause and effect…" Seeing her expression shift from understanding to abstracted confusion, the magus sighed and simplified: "You’re not embedding magic into the object. You’re offering your magic to the world, and the world itself 'undoes' the damage, restoring the object. It’s a complex mechanism, internally, but wands make it manageable as long as you supply enough energy and hold a clear image of the result in your mind. Magic has numerous ways to alter reality; it’s wrong to assume it’s all about working with an object’s concepts."

"Strangely enough, that doesn’t contradict what I’ve seen this year or read in books, though with some adjustments," Hermione admitted. "It even explains how things work under the surface. But what do you mean by a 'level of influence'? I can understand 'longer-lasting' or 'broader in scale,' but what’s this?"

"It refers to how much it contradicts physical laws—how 'impossible' it is. Leviosa negates gravity, suspending an object in place. Impedimenta stops it mid-air, even if it was moving or flying rather than falling. The second case disregards kinetic energy, acceleration, and inertia, not just gravity. Therefore, it’s more complex, requires more energy, and is a higher-level spell."

"Why didn’t the professors explain this?" Hermione asked indignantly, her voice rising as if personally affronted. "Surely they know!"

"Of course, they know. Your Transfiguration professor certainly does if she can transform into a cat without losing her human consciousness. But that’s advanced magical theory, the kind taught at academies or to professors themselves. What I’m describing is a highly simplified version, stripped of numerous details and formulas," Kayneth clarified, gesturing dismissively. Naturally, he had to omit most of the complexities and reduce the explanations to a beginner’s level. "Most wizards, I imagine, don’t need to know these details. To use a spell, you only need a compatible wand, practiced skill, and a vivid imagination. I, for instance, don’t know the internal workings of a telephone or the difference between rotary and push-button models, but that doesn’t stop me from making a call. You don’t need to understand the mechanics of conceptual influence to cast Alohomora and change a 'locked' state into an 'unlocked' one. But, as with anything, if you want to know more than the basics, you have to study independently."

"Strange to hear that coming from someone planning to attend school," Hermione remarked. "You know, James, you could learn on your own or with tutors instead of joining the rest of us."

"I know. But I’m a first-generation wizard living in ordinary London. For the next seven years, I’m not allowed to perform magic at home. The accidental magic will subside in a year or two, and then there’ll be no practice—no spells, not even potion-making. Renting a place in a magic-sealed area or traveling daily to a training hall is prohibitively expensive. School offers resources and teachers all in one place. Besides, I could ask you the same question."

"What?"

"From what you’ve told me—about tests, grades, and exams—you’re one of the top students in your year, across all four houses, even outperforming heirs of pureblood families. That either means the aristocracy has declined, or you’re clever enough to surpass them. You could study independently too."

"I wasn’t trying to boast…" Hermione stammered, realizing how James had interpreted her earlier explanation. Her face flushed. "I didn’t mean to come across that way."

"Why be embarrassed? If you’re smarter than others, you should use it to your advantage."

"It’s not like I…" She cut herself off, then regrouped. "Never mind. To be honest, I never considered studying alone. There’s too much in school that’s fascinating to pass up. Besides, there are good people there too—not everyone cares who my parents are."

"And your plans for the future? You’re moving into your second year now, but the first significant exams are in fifth year. By then, you should have a sense of what branch of magic to focus on, what specialization to pursue. With no family legacy or predefined path, you can choose freely, based on your talents and interests."

"You know, I haven’t thought about it much. They teach us what we need to know as wizards. There’s time to figure out a career later."

"It seems to me they only teach the basics," Kayneth said, tapping a finger on her magical theory textbook. "Fundamentals—preparing generalists in a few disciplines. The wand allows for that flexibility. But there are many schools of magic underdeveloped, banned, or unused in Britain. Even among the existing disciplines, the emphasis is on training 'average wizards'—jacks of all trades, masters of none. After that, I imagine options are limited: Ministry work, Auror training, Healer preparation, independent study, or just living in the magical world with the skills you’ve learned. Before Hogwarts, you spent four or five years in a regular school. Surely you had plans for college or university?"

"Of course I did. Finish school, get a degree, maybe even a Ph.D., and work in a lab. You know…" Hermione hesitated, her tone becoming sheepish. Kayneth barely restrained a smirk at hearing such a preface from a twelve-year-old. "When I was younger, it was a bit embarrassing, but I always dreamed reality might secretly be science fiction. That there were aliens hidden among us, like in the comics, or that we could visit other planets. Instead, it turns out reality is fantasy—thankfully without orcs. But we had our own Dark Lord, even if he lacked a tower. It’s amazing how much truth turned out to resemble myths, rumors, and cartoons."

"Sorry, what?" Kayneth’s initial indulgence gave way to alarm as the last statement struck him. "What do you mean, myths?"

"When I was a child, I read countless fairy tales until I got tired of them by the time I was five," Hermione began. "They almost always featured a witch with a broom, a pointed hat, and a black cloak, brewing potions in a cauldron, accompanied by a bat, a black cat, or an owl. Then there were the fairies with magic wands, muttering nonsense to turn pumpkins into carriages or people into living clocks or chairs. I don’t recall anything about magic trains, but those were probably invented much later, after the Statute of Secrecy was established, when stories about witches and wizards became less widespread."

"An interesting thought," Kayneth remarked. "A fascinating idea, Miss Granger. One worth pondering."

"Oh, it’s nothing special," Hermione waved it off. "Just a modern interpretation of classic tales, most likely originating in folklore long before the separation of wizards and Muggles, later recorded by people like Perrault, the Brothers Grimm, Andersen, and others. Perfectly logical."

"Too logical, perhaps," the magus mused. "So much so that it’s suspicious. Still, it’s more of a mental exercise—finding coincidences and their causes. But let’s return to the topic at hand. You had plans for higher education and a scientific career, but you gave them up upon discovering magic. Yet if you have no clear plans for life in the magical world after school, what stops you from taking ordinary exams as an external student and enrolling in university? Perhaps in chemistry or biology—fields that would complement the study of magic."

"But…" Hermione faltered, clearly never having considered this possibility. "But that’s impossible!"

"Why? You could brew toads in a cauldron by blindly following recipes, or you could invent new potions with an understanding of valence and molar mass."

"But they wouldn’t let me," Hermione replied hesitantly.

"Who wouldn’t? As far as I know, at seventeen, you’ll be considered an adult witch with full rights. That same year, you’ll take your school exams, and after that, you won’t owe anyone anything. You could experiment with poltergeists at home or write a dissertation at Oxford. As long as you don’t violate the Statute of Secrecy or turn your professors to stone, what’s stopping you? I’ve already looked into this myself, studying magical and non-magical laws. I believe your abilities would make that path just as viable for you. Though, admittedly, magic might prove too fascinating to distract yourself with mundane degrees."

From the astonished look on Hermione’s face, it was clear that the idea had genuinely never occurred to her. She’d become deeply entrenched in the magical world, accepting its insularity, self-sufficiency, and dismissal of Muggle progress as uninteresting—even if she outwardly criticized such attitudes. Add to that the weight of tradition—the pervasive "that’s not how it’s done." Perhaps in three years, she would’ve come to this realization on her own, but for now, he could plant the idea and broaden her perspective a little. And gauge her reaction.

"Completing ordinary school remotely while studying magic sounds difficult," Hermione admitted.

"Challenging, but doable with effort. At least, that’s how it seems to me. But it’s your decision—I’m merely speculating about possibilities," Kayneth said, seemingly offhand, satisfied that the idea of applying scientific methods to magic would at least be considered and not dismissed outright. Steering the conversation toward its conclusion, he added, "Well, as for the school itself, I believe I’ve covered all my questions for now. Your lecture was quite detailed for such a minor obligation."

"It feels like you told me more than I told you," Hermione said, flustered. She was accustomed to praise from teachers, but hearing it from a peer was unusual. Her classmates were more likely to call her a know-it-all. "The idea of concepts within spells explains so much at once."

"It’s just theory from textbooks. And theory is lifeless without practice. Unfortunately, I lag behind any first-year student in that regard. I’d love to learn more about using wands and preparation techniques, but I’ve already taken enough of your time today. Maybe next time?"

Kayneth had multiple plans for this meeting depending on the outcomes and information gathered. He’d long realized the importance of integrating himself into the local magical community as soon as possible. But he couldn’t simply stroll through the magical quarter introducing himself to random people. Such behavior was, firstly, undignified, and secondly, inefficient. Connections were essential—someone had to introduce him to other wizards as was customary. Unfortunately, he had few such connections.

Fletcher could only grant access to the underworld, where associating with him in respectable society would be unthinkable. Tonks, while a promising contact, had too large a gap in age and status. While maintaining that relationship was prudent, she wasn’t likely to introduce him to others, believing that school would handle all his needs. And though her family connections—Black, Malfoy, Lestrange—were impressive, her mother’s marriage to a first-generation wizard had severed those ties.

Now, however, he had an opportunity to integrate into the community through the Muggle-born group if Hermione introduced him to her social circle, however small it might be. True, this approach largely excluded access to old pureblood families, but he had already decided not to bow to them, begging for a place at their table. If he established even minimal connections among peers, he could always switch allegiances should a more advantageous option arise. Even among the pureblood elite, there might be eccentric individuals willing to deal with a "Mudblood" if they offered something valuable—however slim those chances seemed.

While Luna Lovegood remained a potential contact, Kayneth found her personality too erratic to rely on for something important. Hermione, by contrast, was easier to predict and engage. She lacked knowledge of the magical world’s structure and logic, something he could partially provide. Maintaining this connection was crucial, and he already had plans forming around her.

"Gladly. I rarely get a chance to discuss magic with anyone," Hermione replied, as expected. "My parents don't have the time to delve deeply into it—they have their own work—and I can't exactly show them everything in practice. Outside Hogwarts, I don't have friends I can trust with such an important secret. And among my classmates, few take the time to really understand it all. Most are more interested in when the next Quidditch match is and who's playing against whom."

"I simply can’t comprehend how magic can be wasted on something so completely impractical."

"Exactly! But it's tradition. Personally, I think if the school held inter-house quizzes on individual subjects instead, with house points as rewards, it would be so much more beneficial."

"I'm glad we see eye to eye on this. I was starting to think this madness had infected everyone."

"No, no, I'm an exception," Hermione assured him. She gathered her books, notebooks, and scrolls back into the same unwieldy bag, tucked it away behind the librarian's desk, and then unlocked the door to the corridor, still silent and deserted. "Come on, I’ll walk you to the exit. And then, I suppose, we’ll keep in touch."

"It’d be simpler to call," the magus replied, following her. "Or do you also have some aversion to phones and an odd fondness for birds?"

"Not at all. I'm just used to it. Most of my school acquaintances live in magi—" she stopped mid-sentence and glanced around cautiously, even though the corridor was still empty. She corrected herself anyway: "In closed communities or just prefer their own postal system over the regular one. Except for Harry—he insisted on owl post, but he still hasn’t replied even once. Anyway, that’s not important. We’ll figure it out. Well, goodbye for now, Murphy."

"Goodbye, Miss Granger. I’ll be waiting for your call."

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 11

“I really hope you know what you’re doing,” remarked Albert, watching the magus work.

Archibald was just finishing the chalk outline of a circle on the dusty, tiled floor, occasionally glancing at a detailed diagram for reference. Before that, he had to clear the area of debris and accumulated grime. The two were currently inside a boarded-up abandoned cafe near an old gas station off the Portsmouth highway. For experiments like this, desolate and abandoned locations were a necessity. In this case, Archibald had specifically avoided conducting the test in his laboratory. First, a strong magical surge might bypass his wards and reveal his location. Second, the potential for destruction couldn’t be ignored—either would compromise his secrecy completely.

“And why did we have to drive across two counties for this? Last time you and William did your rituals, you weren’t this far from the suburbs.”

“Updated information, Mr. MacDuggal,” Archibald replied without looking up. He had learned the details from Tonks in a casual conversation about her Auror training; she had mentioned the vast area they patrolled. Perhaps it wasn’t classified knowledge, or maybe she was subtly reminding him that magic use outside authorized zones was strictly prohibited, even in the countryside. “Auror jurisdiction extends another forty miles around London. We’re fifty miles out, which means even if we’re detected, the response won’t be immediate.”

“I’m still not convinced this is worth the risk. I understand testing a new product for sale or conducting a paid ritual for someone. But now you’re risking exposure for… some weapon? Don’t you have enough of those?”

“First of all, your last transaction with those transforming blades yielded quite a handsome profit—judging by the percentage you passed along to me,” Archibald replied coldly. He valued luxury and understood the allure of wealth, but magic always came first. “Second, I’m doing this for our mutual safety, Mr. MacDuggal. To increase the odds of survival in a serious magical confrontation, not just against some low-level thugs. Unlike you, I place significant value on my personal safety.”

“And that’s why you’re conducting a dangerous experiment in the middle of nowhere, with only a seventy percent chance of success by your own admission,” Albert shot back. He gave up trying to clean a dusty, cobwebbed sofa and settled onto it with a grimace. “And don’t even get me started on that last explosion. You said yourself—if one of those fragments had struck your neck, no amount of bandages or even surgery could’ve saved you.”

“You’re still thinking in mundane terms,” Archibald said with a weary sigh. Dealing with someone who didn’t share the magus perspective was always exhausting. Unfortunately, he had no other assistants at the moment, so he had to endure the complaints and spell out the obvious. “Knowledge and power are what make life safer in the magical world. They’re the only things with real value. Money is just a means to acquire them, not an end in itself. Risk is acceptable when it’s calculated and serves a greater purpose. Without risk, we’d still be sitting in caves.”

“Good thing I’m not a creationist, or that last line would’ve offended me,” Albert said dryly, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere. He had no patience for the lofty ideals of magi; they seemed alien to any practical logic.

“A creationist?” Archibald paused and looked up from the circle, genuinely puzzled.

“You know, the ones who believe the Earth was created in its current form, along with humans and everything else, about six thousand years ago. They’re multiplying like flies these days—soon they’ll be pushing to teach it in schools as an ‘alternative perspective.’”

“What utter nonsense!” Archibald scoffed, returning to his work. “Six thousand years ago? Sure, the Age of Gods was still in full swing, and there might’ve been a village of goat herders where Uruk would later rise. Gilgamesh was still fifteen centuries away. But even then, not even the gods had the power to create an entire planet.”

“You actually believe in gods?” Albert asked, startled by the direction the conversation had taken.

“Believe? No. I know they existed. But they’ve been gone for millennia. Do you ‘believe’ in Admiral Nelson? He lived, achieved great things, and then he died. It’s a matter of historical knowledge, not faith.”

“Er… right…” Albert trailed off, unsure how to respond.

“By the way, I’m finished,” Archibald said abruptly, ignoring the merchant’s stunned reaction. He tucked the chalk and blueprint into his pocket, gave the simple magic circle one last inspection, and nodded in satisfaction. “Your turn, Mr. MacDuggal. Did you bring everything?”

“Ah, yeah, got it all,” Albert said, moving to the battered counter and retrieving two unusual pistols from a bag. “This one’s a taser—fires electrodes with a charge strong enough to incapacitate. The other’s a dart gun with tranquilizers. I’ve prepared doses ranging from mild enough for a child to something that could drop a horse. Unfortunately, you can’t adjust the taser’s output. Oh, and this too,” he added, handing Archibald a pair of steel handcuffs.

“Excellent. Let’s hope all of this is enough for a worst-case scenario. What about your guards?” Archibald gestured toward the door, referring to the hulking brutes waiting outside near the car. They looked like they had cave men somewhere in their ancestry, with skulls thick enough to stop a bullet without helmets.

“They’ve both got pistols. They’re mainly there for unwelcome visitors. I specifically told them not to shoot you, even if something goes wrong.”

“Let’s hope they remember that,” Archibald said disdainfully, pulling out a small case from his pocket. Inside were a silver medallion engraved with runes and a complex magical circle on its lid, as well as a tungsten energy storage core. He carefully placed the core into the medallion’s slot, secured it, and hung it around his neck with a sturdy steel chain. Stepping into the circle, he hesitated for a moment.

“Are you sure about this?” Albert asked, noticing his hesitation. He had taken a seat at a dusty table, laying the pistols within easy reach. “With all this preparation, what spirit are you even trying to summon? Jack the Ripper? Blackbeard?”

“No, though those are interesting suggestions,” Kayneth replied quickly, seemingly glad for the brief delay before starting. “You went to school, didn’t you, Mr. MacDuggal? Surely you’ve heard of Alexander the Great?”

“Of course. I won’t lie—I was never a top student—but who hasn’t heard of him?” Albert admitted, caught slightly off guard by the question.

“Good. What about Cú Chulainn?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of him too. You can’t share a drink with an Irishman without him bringing up his great-great-great… whatever ancestor who shook hands with him, fought alongside him, or got drunk with him.”

“Excellent. And do you know who Diarmuid is?”

“Who? I know Dionysus—always liked the stories about him. Sounds like he was a great god to hang out with.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Kayneth remarked rhetorically, shaking his head. Inwardly, he cursed his former student yet again and silently wished the arrogant failure would cross paths with a Dead Apostle under the full moon. If it weren’t for that incompetent fool, Archibald wouldn’t have ended up “bargain summoning” a hero barely known outside Dublin’s city limits. “Diarmuid Ua Duibhne—also known as Diarmid O’Dyna—was the foster son of Aengus Óg, a warrior of the Fianna and vassal to Fionn mac Cumhaill. A swordsman and spearman so skilled, legends were written about him. A contemptible traitor who betrayed his lord and stole his bride right from their wedding. He died for it, like a dog, somewhere in the forest.”

“Now that you mention it, I think my granddad told me a story like that when I was a kid. Though he called him something else,” Albert mused.

“In Scotland, they call him Dermid. But that’s not important. What matters is that I had the... misfortune of meeting his shade once. Not just meeting—we were practically inseparable for about a week. I even experienced his memories as dreams. The man once stood against three and a half thousand warriors with nothing but a spear and sword and survived. As a figure from the Age of Heroes, he’s immensely dangerous as a summoned spirit.”

“Then what’s the problem? Afraid he’ll turn on us the moment he shows up?” Albert asked. He didn’t sound entirely convinced by the story but refrained from voicing outright doubt.

“No, that’s not it.”

The problem is that I utterly loathe the bastard, Kayneth thought bitterly. To my core. His theatrics, his obsession with turning battle into some kind of game, and his pathetic attempts at chivalry cost me victory. His indecisiveness and adherence to foolish notions of honor cost me my life. He betrayed me just as he did Fionn—trying to steal my fiancee—and I will never forgive him for that. Yet for all my disgust, I need his strength. And I can’t summon anyone else now. I’ll attempt to call him, but considering he despises me as much as I do him, controlling him will be a serious challenge.

“We didn’t part on the best of terms,” Kayneth finally said, carefully choosing his words. “He might hold a grudge. That’s why I’ve taken so many precautions.”

“And?” Albert prompted.

“Did you remember the video camera? This time I’ll need to review the footage. Also, try to time the summoning.”

Albert gestured to a table where he had already set up a recording camera. Once Kayneth saw that everything was ready, he took a deep breath and snapped the handcuffs onto his wrists behind his back. He cleared his mind, letting go of all distractions and sinking into a near-trance state to facilitate the spell. He couldn’t tell how long he remained that way, but eventually, his lips moved almost of their own accord, uttering the command for the mystic code.

“Verite ad me, bellator.”

The medallion around his neck flared with bright white light, heating instantly as the energy stored in the tungsten core began to flow through its circuits and magical structures. The circle drawn on the floor glowed faintly, easing the process by temporarily dampening external forces.

Just a few months ago—though it felt like years—Kayneth had participated in the Holy Grail War, an ancient ritual where seven magi summoned the spirits of legendary figures as powerful familiars to fight one another. The summoning required a “catalyst”—an item tied to the hero in life, such as a fragment of their weapon, armor, or clothing. Without a catalyst, any random spirit might answer the call. Though it took two tries, Archibald had managed to summon Diarmuid’s Shadow—a hero of modest fame (and fame directly impacted a spirit’s strength) but he managed to somewhat compensate for that by summoning him on Irish soil.

In the days leading up to the war, Kayneth had studied the magical contract binding Master and Servant, an astral connection that allowed them to sense each other’s location and status, communicate telepathically, and share memories. Not only had he examined this bond, but he had also managed to alter it—something no one else had ever achieved. He retained control over the servant while outsourcing the energy required to sustain him to another magus: Sola, his fiancee. This innovation let Kayneth preserve his full magical reserves for battle, unlike other masters who fought at reduced capacity to fuel their Servants.

That contract had been nearly unbreakable—even when Kayneth lost all his magic circuits, and Sola inherited command spells, the bond persisted until both Diarmuid and Kayneth were dead. Now, Kayneth intended to use the remnants of that bond as a makeshift catalyst while applying insights from his earlier experiments to refine the ritual.

These thoughts flickered through his mind in an instant. Then the surge of magical energy stabilized, and he opened his eyes. He was still in the same dingy, cluttered cafe, the faintly glowing circle etched on the floor beneath him. Dust swirled in the air, disturbed by the wind generated during the summoning. Yet everything felt different.

He could see the tiniest cracks in the ceiling and walls, hear the hum of traffic on the Portsmouth highway, catch the distant voices of the guards outside. He could even sense the subtle drafts from the shattered windows. It was like controlling another person’s body—familiar yet alien.

Flexing his hands, Kayneth tested the cuffs binding his wrists. With effort, he forced the chain to snap cleanly in the middle.

The shadow that once fought under his command wouldn’t have even strained a muscle for such feats. Of course, Grail Servants weren’t the true souls of heroes, merely weakened replicas forced into the rigid framework of a combat familiar bound to a specific class. They were merely shadows, simulations.

What Kayneth had summoned now was a shadow of that shadow—a minuscule fragment of Diarmuid Ua Duibhne’s spirit lingering on the astral plane. Moreover, since James Murphy didn’t have nearly enough energy to grant the spirit a physical form even with the use of magic accumulators, the summoning was directed inward. He temporarily allowed the spirit to inhabit his own body, borrowing a portion of its power in return.

To Kayneth’s immense relief, the hero’s personality—something he greatly feared—barely registered. It lingered only on the farthest edges of his consciousness.

“There’s no need for that. I’m in control,” he said calmly, watching Albert’s slow (to his heightened perception) movement toward the taser on the table. “Now I need to test its capabilities.”

The magus stepped out of the circle, then leapt into the air, soaring two meters high. He twisted mid-flight and landed lightly on his feet without a sound. Another jump followed, two steps up the wall that sent dust and grime scattering, a flip near the ceiling, and he landed on the fingertips of one hand. Springing back to his feet, he spun and delivered a sharp punch to the wooden counter, leaving a deep dent. His hand, however, remained unscathed, and there was no pain.

Turning back to Albert, he was about to ask him to fire one of the tranquilizer darts to test his reaction speed when the strain suddenly hit him. His body wavered, his arms and legs went numb, and his once-full magical reserves drained rapidly. The sensation spread through his magic circuits, radiating pain as they struggled to sustain the spirit’s presence.

“Revertemur…” he whispered hoarsely, canceling the spell. He caught sight of the rapidly approaching tile floor before darkness claimed him.

The steady hum of an engine, the gently swaying ceiling, the flickering trees outside the window against a blue sky, the scent of leather upholstery and tobacco—it was more than enough for Kayneth to realize he was in Albert’s car the moment he regained consciousness. He was strapped into the back seat by a seatbelt, with MacDuggal sitting beside him. Albert’s muscle-bound guards occupied the front.

“Where are we?” the magus asked weakly. He felt utterly drained, both magically and physically. His head swam as though he’d suffered a severe blood loss, and even turning to face Albert was a struggle.

“We made it to Portsmouth, circled the suburbs a bit, and now we’re heading back to London along a different route. You’ve been unconscious for almost two hours,” the squib replied in a low voice. “No signs of pursuit or attention. Either we weren’t detected at all, or they didn’t make it in time.”

“Good. That makes the experiment… a success,” Kayneth murmured.

“A success?! All that trouble for twenty seconds?” Albert shot back.

“Twenty seconds?”

“That’s roughly how long it was from when you broke the handcuffs to when you hit the floor.”

“It felt much longer,” Kayneth remarked, glancing feebly at his hands.

“I took off the cuffs,” Albert said, noticing the movement. “Explaining to a cop why I have an unconscious child in my car is hard enough. If you were also cuffed, well…”

“It doesn’t matter. In any case, the result is positive.”

“Are you planning to crack your skull on the floor every time you pull this trick? Or is that one of your ‘special methods’ too?”

“I just need to lower the power. I took in too much, and even an E-rank enhancement is beyond my current capacity,” the magus replied. Seeing Albert’s confusion, he weakly waved his hand and added, “Don’t worry about it. Professional terminology. What matters is that the effect worked. All that’s left is fine-tuning. I’m hopeful that I now have a reliable trump card for any future... complications.”

“I’d rather avoid those altogether.”

“So would I. But I’ve never been an optimist.”

The two fell into silence, each lost in thought. For Kayneth, the foremost concern was the adjustments he’d need to make to the ritual and the mystic code to stabilize it. With some effort, he removed the now-cooled medallion from his neck, awkwardly flipped open the cover, and touched the accumulator inside. The tungsten fragment was dead—completely drained of energy before his internal reserves were also exhausted. But the core itself had survived without melting or losing its internal structure, meaning it could be reused without crafting a new one.

The medallion, however, was a different story. The metal was too damaged internally to withstand another summoning and would need replacement. Closing it with a snap, he traced the lines of the magic circle etched on the cover, mentally reviewing his calculations.

The Holy Grail War’s summoning ritual had introduced a ranking system to classify the relative strength of Servants and their weapons for the masters’ convenience. The scale, simple but effective, ranged from E to A, with pluses and minuses, akin to modern academic grading. Though developed nearly two centuries ago, it was still a rough approximation, given the limited data from the few times the ritual had been conducted.

An E-rank stat represented an ability—strength, endurance, agility—ten times greater than that of an average modern human. Each rank multiplied the baseline by ten. Thus, A-rank agility indicated speed and reflexes fifty times greater than a human’s. Diarmuid, under Kayneth’s control, had possessed B-rank strength (roughly forty times human capacity) and A+ agility, capable of breaking the sound barrier on foot and delivering spear strikes at over twice Mach speed with, with potential bursts exceeding the human limit by a hundredfold

Even at his most ambitious, Kayneth hadn’t aimed for such stats. Not even with his native circuits and family crest, let alone his current state. His goal had been far more modest: enhancing his physical abilities to an E-rank equivalent—ten times human capacity in speed, strength, and durability.

But even that modest goal was out of reach with his current resources. To maintain such a level of contact with the spirit for even one minute would require another six months of charging the accumulator at the same rate. The solution was obvious: he’d have to scale back. Accept less power. Even so, the technique could still give him a critical edge against local wizards, their reflexes, and their reactions.

But something was still missing...

"Mr. MacDuggal, do you remember our conversation about exotic weaponry?" Kayneth asked suddenly.

"What?" Albert replied, pulled out of his thoughts. "Yeah, I remember. So, that's what you needed for this 'insurance' of yours?"

"Precisely. I’ll need a spear. It’s not urgent, not before next month, but I’ll be expecting it to be crafted to the highest standard."

"Anything you want, as long as you’re paying," the merchant agreed easily. "Is there a specific design, or will any spear do?"

"When we’re back at the workshop, I’ll show you a replica. You can examine it, record measurements, and so on." After a moment's thought, Kayneth added reluctantly, "We’ll also need to adjust it for my height and reach."

"That all?"

"For now, yes. Later, there might be more orders. Besides, in a couple of years, it’ll need resizing when I grow taller."

"Fine by me, as long as the money flows."

Kayneth said nothing in response, leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. His strength was completely drained, even the effort of turning toward Albert or raising his hand felt insurmountable. It had only been a few days since the wounds from his previous experiment had healed. He made a mental note to thank that young witch—her recommendations for potions had been genuinely helpful. On his next trip to the magical quarter, he’d have to stock up again. Magical injuries and curses were professional hazards, after all, occurring with unsettling regularity.

His thoughts drifted from injuries back to weaponry. His Servant's spear in the Grail War possessed a conceptual attack that inflicted wounds that wouldn’t heal, but with only a surface-level connection to the spirit, reproducing that mystery—even in a diluted form—was impossible. All he could hope to replicate was the weapon's craftsmanship and balance.

Additionally, the real Diarmuid Ua Duibhne had been famed (among the few who even knew his name) for wielding four distinct weapons of rare power, each with a name: two swords and two spears. However, Servants summoned in the Grail War were limited to a specific combat role. For example, King Arthur was proficient with a spear in life, but as a Saber-class Servant, that skill was set aside in favor of swordsmanship. In Kayneth’s case, the inverse had occurred—he summoned Diarmuid as a Lancer because the Saber role had already been claimed by the cursed master of the Einzberns.

The spirit summoned today retained those same class limitations. Kayneth could feel it—using a replica of Moralltach, Diarmuid’s primary sword gifted by his foster father, the god Aengus, would be far less effective than wielding a copy of his spear. Perhaps one day, as his rituals advanced and his energy reserves grew, he could bypass such limitations. But that day was far off.

"By the way, August is around the corner," Albert remarked as they reached the workshop, now sealed off from the outside world with wards. His guards waited in the car below. "I’ve got a few ‘patients’ in the works. Should I assume they’ll need to be moved out of the city for the operation?"

"Yes, the risk has to be minimized. Ideally, we’d meet outside of England altogether. Somewhere in Wales, perhaps—away from major cities. I’ll need a few hours to examine them, plus all the data from their doctors. Then three days to prepare, and about half an hour for the actual… procedure."

"You’re telling me you can read ultrasound and MRI data?" MacDuggal asked skeptically.

"Of course," Kayneth replied with a shrug, adding dismissively, "Though the technology is primitive compared to our methods, it’s useful for verification."

"Hey, James, how old are you really?"

"Does it matter?" Kayneth responded indifferently. He harbored no illusions about his acting skills—he could fool children or a naive trainee like Tonks, especially when playing a specific role, but even Fletcher had seen through him. Albert, who was privy to most of his projects, certainly wouldn’t buy into any pretense.

"Not really," Albert said with a shrug. "But if it’s marketable—"

"Forget it," Kayneth cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand. "It’s impossible. I couldn’t replicate it even for myself, nor would I. It was a unique case. End of discussion."

"Fair enough, unique is unique," the squib replied, surprisingly agreeable. "Let’s focus on your spear for now."

"For now, yes," Kayneth replied, summoning the image of Gáe Buidhe—the Yellow Spear of Diarmuid—etched vividly into his mind from both the Servant’s memories and his own visions. He pictured every detail: its weight, the feel of it in hand, the sensation of striking an enemy. Raising his hand, he cast a spell, conjuring a temporary replica from magical energy.

"Gradation Air."

Late that night, after setting aside a book on magical creatures, Kayneth stretched and practically slumped into his chair. Even with his experience in such rituals, summoning a spirit into his own body was profoundly exhausting, especially when it involved a being as powerful as a hero’s soul—however small a fragment it might have been.

The chair didn’t help, either. He’d outright refused to use a child-sized one, but the adult chair delivered was far from ideal. He practically sank into it, and his feet barely touched the floor. Humiliating.

Pushing such dreary thoughts aside, he glanced at the tungsten accumulator now back on its stand. Tomorrow, he’d need to start recharging it again. And the day after that. And many more days to come.

But for now, he had a new weapon—a safeguard that could save his life in a crisis. That brought a sense of certainty and confidence to his plans. For the immediate future, today’s events changed little. The mystic code would be ready by the end of the month, opening the door to more experiments. Next on his agenda was meeting the magus girl from the first generation in two days.

Kayneth wasn’t so sure he wanted to go. He’d reviewed his options repeatedly over the past few days, and the picture was far from clear.

In about thirteen months, he—or rather, James—would receive the letter inviting him to Britain’s Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. There was no alternative institution to choose from, though with widespread teleportation mysteries, traveling from Manchester to a school on the French coast once every six months shouldn’t have been an issue if their curriculum was more appealing.

The letter, according to Hogwarts: A History and other sources, wasn’t a geas or magical contract that compelled a wizard to attend. The selection process relied on two ancient artifacts over a thousand years old, their workings largely a mystery to modern wizards. It was widely believed they never erred.

However, after receiving the letter, a wizard could decline enrollment. They could pursue magical education independently, due to financial constraints, or even reject the magical world altogether. While rare, the last option was mentioned in one book, along with an ominous note that such refusals resulted in close surveillance by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if all attempts at persuasion failed. The reason for this wasn’t specified.

The last option was never seriously considered by Kayneth. And the potential problems with finances were already resolved. That left him with two realistic paths, each with its own advantages and drawbacks.

Self-study offered unparalleled freedom. It allowed him to choose his subjects without interference (as long as it didn’t attract the Aurors’ attention), balance theory and practice as he pleased, and select his learning materials. Moreover, it wouldn’t prevent him from pursuing personal research or other projects. He wouldn’t be confined to books either; magical newspapers frequently advertised private tutoring services, available for the summer, an entire year, or even longer. These services often covered subjects not fully explored in the standard Hogwarts curriculum, like runic magic.

Additionally, an unstructured schedule would make it easier to maintain connections in both the magical and mundane black markets, ensuring a stable and even growing income. However, self-study came with a significant drawback: it required a robust foundation of knowledge and resources—a luxury the Archibald family had in his former world but which he lacked here.

On the other hand, Hogwarts was more than just a chaotic gathering of hyperactive student wizards, each carrying a wand capable of turning someone to ash with a single word. According to Hogwarts: A History, the school boasted a vast library, various laboratories, extensive supplies of potions, rare reagents, mystic codes, greenhouses with unique magical plants, and an expansive forest teeming with mythical creatures and beings like centaurs. There were also many reputable professors and the prestige of attending Britain’s most renowned magical school—a claim he cautiously accepted, given his lack of foreign sources for comparison.

However, the downsides were significant. Nine months of constant supervision, living in close quarters with noisy children, and being surrounded by universal mystic codes capable of destruction at the slightest whim were far from ideal. Adding to this was the school’s isolation, preventing students from leaving legally, and the necessity of sharing a dormitory. Even during his time at the Clock Tower as a student, Kayneth had lived separately, supported by his family’s wealth. He would now have to endure eight years without the option of moving into better, more spacious accommodations due to a lack of funds that would dry out during the school year and time. The implications for his comfort and freedom were bleak.

Beyond these considerations, the social aspect loomed large. Simply walking through the magical quarter, one couldn’t avoid overhearing snippets of conversation. Nearly all of them revolved around Hogwarts—who studied there, with whom, in what year, and in which house. The school held a far more central role in magical Britain than the Clock Tower did for magi in the Mage’s Association. To decline attendance would mean forfeiting a vast network of connections, acquaintances, and potential future allies. These ties could prove invaluable. Moreover, skipping Hogwarts would make taking the OWLs and NEWTs far more complicated—exams without which finding a job in the Ministry or private sector would be impossible. While it was technically possible to take these exams independently, doing so would create additional challenges.

Kayneth sighed, casting a tired glance at the cluttered table in front of him. One side was piled with finished products for sale and the results of his personal projects, while the other held unfinished items awaiting refinement. Among them were gloves, another dagger, the beginnings of a summoning amulet, a few bracelets, rings, and even two small piles of ordinary coins.

The coins, in particular, filled him with quiet pride—a clever solution to the problem of circumventing inspections. Using a catalyst, typically blood, the scattered coins could fuse into a single blank that would reshape into a slim stiletto. While the nickel-copper-steel alloy blade wouldn’t pierce chainmail or enchanted fabrics, it was more than sufficient against mundane clothing and flesh.

Still, the scene revealed a pressing issue: he was already struggling with a lack of hands. For now, he relied on MacDuggal and his resources to test his prototypes, but that was far from ideal. Albert was only human, charged for his assistance, had plenty of his own affairs to manage, and likely humored Kayneth only because he recognized the value of such an asset. What Kayneth needed were his own assistants—but where could he find them in his current position?

Legally, he wasn’t even considered a wizard until the age of eleven, when he would acquire his own wand. Without a recognized pedigree or patronage, attracting apprentices or helpers was a pipe dream. While he could hire assistants for a fee, the cost would be prohibitive, and skilled experts wouldn’t take such a job. Mediocre talent, meanwhile, was useless to him. The creation of homunculi or chimeras, especially intelligent ones, as assistants required resources, equipment, and time—things he lacked. The only viable option left was the slow, arduous route of building relationships and eventually gaining followers among his peers, establishing authority over time.

Unable to reach a definitive decision, Kayneth resolved to gather more information about Hogwarts. Firsthand accounts, even from a first-generation witch like Granger, would help him better anticipate what to expect. He needed to know what would seem surprising and what wouldn’t, where to show interest, and where to feign indifference.

Kayneth wasn’t as disconnected from the mundane world as the pureblood wizards here. At the very least, he wouldn’t mistake a television remote for a telephone. His primary interests lay in applied sciences—medicine, chemistry, and biology. Secondary priorities included non-magical innovations that could make life more comfortable, such as household electronics, fast transportation, and modern communication methods. However, he had no insight into what fascinated modern children from less affluent families, what they watched on TV, what they read (if they read at all), how they dressed, or what they discussed. Nor did he particularly want to know. Nonetheless, a firsthand perspective from a typical "Muggle-born," as the locals called them, could help him refine the credibility of his cover story.

Settling on this course of action, he nodded to himself, turned off the desk lamp, and closed his eyes, falling asleep almost instantly in his chair. The day’s exertions—especially the brief contact with the spirit—had drained him entirely.

For once, his dreams were not of his death but of battles between powerful summons, ancient blades glowing with magic, and Diarmuid Ua Duibhne pierced by a crimson spear, cursing him, his killer, over and over.

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 10

They say beauty demands sacrifice, but science requires far more. Progress is never achieved without loss, accidents, or casualties. Any scientist—and especially a magus—must accept that each experiment could end in catastrophe and prepare accordingly.

It all sounded logical, rational, and pragmatic, but none of it lifted Archibald’s mood as he trudged along Diagon Alley. Nor did it dull the persistent ache that no potion or spell could fully alleviate. If he hadn’t spent the past four days draining himself almost entirely for spiritual healing, he might have frozen or shattered something in fury with a mere glance—with an uncontrolled magical surge bypassing the need for mystic codes and incantations altogether.

Stopping before a shop window, Archibald caught sight of his reflection and took a few sips from a glass vial of rowan brew, the taste of which now made him nauseous. Thin, jagged scars ran across his forehead, right cheekbone, and chin, as though carved by a scalpel. Similar wounds, concealed beneath his clothes, stretched from his right shoulder nearly to his wrist. Bandaging was pointless; the injuries had been sealed with magic and potions after significant blood loss but showed no signs of proper healing.

And to think, it had all started with what should have been a simple, low-risk experiment.

Archibald had studied local alchemy—primarily focused on potions and elixirs—but only as a side endeavor, barely at the level of a school curriculum. His time was too limited to delve deeply. For his personal needs, his prior skills sufficed, adjusted for the local energy systems and environmental parameters. Metallurgical transformations he handled as he always had, and the mandrake potions he brewed for sale followed Clock Tower methodologies.

However, as an alchemist, he couldn’t ignore novel techniques. Dedicating a bit of time to mastering basic recipes from a newly purchased textbook was a reasonable investment, particularly since they required minimal energy. Adapting to perform final magical transformations using his circuits rather than a mystic code or external mana, as wizards did, had taken effort. Ultimately, he succeeded after revisiting advanced theory from senior-level textbooks.

The wizarding approach to potion-making diverged significantly from the methodologies employed by the Mage’s Association. Archibald was accustomed to working like a chemist or pharmacist—formulating active compounds, balancing solutions, minimizing side effects. Magical elements or spells could amplify effects, but the scientific foundation remained.

Here, however, potions were conceptual by design. Seemingly absurd and incompatible ingredients—often non-magical—were combined in precise proportions to embody elemental properties or abstract concepts. Directed magical intervention manifested these elements or concepts in the material world, creating the desired mystery. For example, a brew of clover, snake skin, and rabbit fur in rainwater, with proper technique, yielded a liquid infused with "luck." A person drinking it would temporarily increase their fortune by one or two ranks. Similarly, a potion combining wind-elemental ingredients might reduce an object’s weight by several orders of magnitude.

This approach required precise ingredient selection and meticulous execution, particularly when replicating the effects of an existing spell. Within the Association, similar techniques were used for creating mystic codes or conceptual weaponry. However, those mysteries were more often "sealed" in minerals or metals rather than "dissolved" in potions.

Naturally, Archibald had to experiment with merging these methodologies. His bare-bones "laboratory," now equipped with a burner, a small cauldron, glassware, and other tools from a potion-maker's starter kit, was well-stocked. He devised a recipe using Clock Tower methods, cross-checked it with local techniques, and triple-verified his calculations. The goal was a potion of magic resistance, crafted using enhanced ingredients to achieve a higher-rank mystery.

The initial steps went smoothly. Archibald prepared and processed the components, conducted the necessary technical procedures—heating, precipitation, and so on—and was ready for the final transformation. That’s when everything went wrong.

The transformation consumed a third of his energy reserve in an instant, as though feeding a bottomless pit. Realizing the looming disaster, Archibald reflexively pulled back from the cauldron, erecting an air barrier just as the concoction, now shifting in color and consistency, exploded. The shockwave hurled the burner aside, shattered glassware, and scattered tools across the room.

Though the barrier absorbed the blast, boiling liquid and glass shards still struck Archibald. The bronze cauldron, now half-melted, morphed and began moving by itself. It resembled a yellow-brown metallic flower with stubby legs or roots and a dozen long, flexible antennae. These tentacles lashed out, scratching walls, gouging the floor, and smashing surviving equipment. Several whipped toward Archibald, slashing his face and the arm he raised in defense.

The curse he flung back at the "monster" had no effect, not even making it flinch. Instead, it advanced slowly. With what little energy remained, Archibald manipulated the elemental forces. He transformed the blood and potion remnants into a red-and-blue mist, then condensed it around the creature’s "roots" into a solid mass of ice, anchoring it to the floor.

The ice cracked almost immediately as the creature strained to break free, but the delay gave Archibald enough time to lower the barrier on the door, dash into the adjoining library, and grab one of his prepared "bombs" from the desk with his slashed hand. The blood-smeared aluminum chalice flew back into the laboratory, and Archibald slammed the door shut.

Quickly reactivating the barrier, he sealed whatever horror his failed experiment had unleashed inside.

Archibald took heavy breaths as he counted to twenty. He neither felt nor heard the explosion, but that was to be expected. Waiting another thirty seconds, with dizziness creeping in from blood loss, he attempted a spiritual healing technique. The results were lackluster—a slight reduction in pain, a few shallow cuts on his arm sealed, but the deeper wounds continued to bleed.

Struggling to unlock the door, he found the “homunculus” flattened and embedded into the wall, weakly twitching. The structural damage was too severe; most of its tendrils had been torn off, and the chaotic mystery animating the bronze husk clearly didn’t include a recovery mechanism. Barely able to stay on his feet, Archibald shut the laboratory door and stumbled toward the exit. He practically collapsed into the living room, startling Miss Stone, who had been blissfully unaware of the chaos happening mere feet away due to the barriers.

At that point, secrecy no longer mattered. Barking orders to his now-composed assistant, Archibald focused on staying conscious. The items in Miss Stone’s medical kit proved useless—painkillers, coagulants, and ordinary bandages failed to affect the wounds. He suspected the creature’s attack, amplified by his depleted magical energy and the mystery’s unknown properties, had reached the level of conceptual weaponry, rendering conventional remedies ineffective.

Following his instructions, Stone retrieved every potion stored in the library—mandrake tinctures, experimental brews, and off-the-shelf concoctions purchased for studying local formulas. At some point, MacDuggal arrived—Archibald was too preoccupied to recall when—and helped her administer various salves, potions, and compresses. Their combined efforts eventually staunched the bleeding. When the squib poured a third of a blood-replenishing potion down his throat, Archibald finally allowed himself to lose consciousness.

He woke the next day, roused by pain. For a full day, Archibald lay nearly immobile under Miss Stone’s watchful care, pouring every scrap of magic he could muster into healing while drifting in and out of consciousness due to exhaustion. On the second day, he managed to draw a simple magical circle for healing and energy restoration on the library floor and sat within it, which stabilized his condition. The deepest wounds stopped reopening, the shallower cuts began to close, and the dizziness from blood loss eased.

Amidst this grim situation, there was at least one positive note—his magic circuits were unscathed. If they had been damaged, recovery would have taken months, if not years. His gaze occasionally wandered to the tungsten energy reservoir perched nearby. It held enough concentrated power to heal him in minutes, but using it would delay his critical experiment by at least another month. Enduring the pain seemed the better option.

Three days later, his potion supply was nearly exhausted. He lacked the materials and equipment to brew more, and arranging another deal with Fletcher or MacDuggal’s contacts would take too long. Venturing to Diagon Alley became necessary—not only to restock but also to find more suitable remedies. For the first time, Archibald regretted the absence of a fireplace in their multi-story home for magical transport, even if its workings baffled him. Ultimately, he had to settle for a car ride under the watchful eye of one of MacDuggal’s men.

To MacDuggal’s credit, he didn’t exploit Archibald’s vulnerable state to renegotiate their contract or impose additional terms. Whether this restraint stemmed from compassion or calculated pragmatism—knowing that Archibald would recover and hold a grudge—it hardly mattered.

Upon arriving at the magical quarter, Archibald headed straight for the largest apothecary. Adults regarded him with detached indifference, while young wizards and witches James’s age openly stared or quickly averted their eyes. For them, such injuries clearly weren’t an everyday sight.

Hoping to distract himself from the pain, Archibald paused before a shop window to examine the marks on his face. Four days of healing had reduced the scars slightly, but left to his own devices, it would take a month to seal the wounds and another to erase the scarring entirely. He made a mental note to review his calculations and pinpoint the source of the mishap. If he could replicate a weapon with such devastating conceptual power, it could prove invaluable.

Turning away from the window, Archibald continued down the street, ignoring curious stares. Suddenly, he stopped, reconsidered, and entered a nearby shop—a bookstore. It might be worthwhile to look for an advanced guide on healing magic. Such a resource could point him toward potions and spells specifically for injuries caused by magical weaponry.

“Ah, a regular!” came a cheerful greeting from behind the counter. Robert, Cornelius’s assistant, barely looked eighteen. Squinting at Archibald, he added in surprise, “James, did you get into a fight with a werewolf in an alley?”

“An experiment went slightly off course.”

“Happens,” Robert replied philosophically, shrugging. The fact that a wizard he knew was injured didn’t seem to faze him much. “The boss is busy right now, but he’ll be here soon. Take a look around while you wait. Maybe something will catch your eye.”

“Thanks, I will,” Archibald replied with a faint nod. He wandered over to the shelves, knowing it would be impossible to find anything without assistance. For now, he aimlessly scanned the spines of various books, hoping something might stand out.

“Is that the mark of an enchanted blade?” came a pensive yet curious voice. “It seems the noble traditions of dueling aren’t entirely forgotten in Albion.”

“What?” Archibald turned sharply, meeting the unfocused gaze of pale gray eyes that seemed to look through him rather than at him.

Standing nearby was a girl around James’s age, with long, tangled blond hair. She wore an utterly bizarre ensemble: a gray-blue robe embroidered haphazardly with red and black runes, a Victorian-style shirt and waistcoat, worn modern jeans, and frivolous beach sandals. A wand was carelessly tucked into her belt.

The sheer eclecticism of her appearance left Archibald momentarily speechless.

"These wounds," the girl said bluntly, jabbing a finger uncomfortably close to his face, "were definitely inflicted by enchanted steel. But where else could a wizard receive such marks in this day and age, if not in an honorable duel?"

"First of all, it wasn’t steel. It was bronze—"

"A ritual dagger cursed for sacrificial magic in the hands of a dark wizard?!" she interrupted, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned in closer. Her gaze locked onto James’s face, and he found himself cornered against a bookshelf, nowhere left to retreat.

"Actually—"

"Actually, nonsense like that doesn’t exist!" came another voice, cutting through the air with authority. Of course, it belonged to another child.

Both turned to face the newcomer—a slightly older witch, perhaps by a year or two. Unlike the first, she was dressed conventionally, wearing a black school robe over a blouse and house tie—despite it being summer holidays. Her most striking feature was the unruly mass of chestnut hair that gave her an air of chaos, contrasting with her otherwise serious demeanor. Her wand was secured in a holster on her hip, in line with school guidelines, and her no-nonsense tone suggested a penchant for asserting her version of the truth.

"Dark wizards don’t exist?" the blonde wondered aloud, her gaze drifting elsewhere as if lost in thought.

"Cursed daggers and the injuries they supposedly cause don’t exist," the newcomer declared, frowning at her with disapproval.

"Then what are these, if not marks from enchanted steel?" the younger witch challenged, her finger once again darting toward James’s chin. He was too bewildered by her audacity and wild assumptions to immediately respond.

"Just regular cuts—likely from glass or claws. Nothing that can’t be fixed," the older witch said confidently, drawing her wand with a practiced motion and pointing it at James’s face.

If Archibald had been in better shape, he might have reacted preemptively, perhaps putting distance between himself and these children—but somehow he only had the time to think of half a dozen local spells that could swiftly decapitate him. But boxed in by the bookshelves and flanked by two impulsive girls, he lacked the strength or space to act. His instincts told him that this one wouldn’t actually attack him, not in a crowded shop with witnesses everywhere. She seemed more likely to issue a formal duel challenge, complete with adherence to school rules and her professors’ guidelines.

"Episkey," she intoned, sending a faint white mist toward his face. It achieved nothing. Archibald felt the weak healing spell fizzle out. He had already mended minor injuries days ago with potions and his own efforts, and the conceptual nature of his current wounds rendered such a weak spell ineffective.

Frowning, the girl waved her wand again. "Therapea. Nereum Vulnerare…"

"It won’t work," Archibald said in unison with the blonde, both speaking the words at the same time. They exchanged glances, and the magus gestured for the younger witch to continue first, as a gentleman would—even if she was, in his opinion, thoroughly eccentric.

"Those spells are for regular injuries and illnesses," she explained, her tone patient but detached. "Didn’t they teach you in school that antidotes differ for mundane and magical poisons? Why would wounds be any different? Burns from hot oil and from Gubraithian fire are not the same, and they require different spells to treat. To me they look like wounds made by a very powerful magic. You’d need something like Vulnera Sanentur or similarly powerful magic to heal them. I haven’t learnt those spells, and I doubt you have either."

"I’ve never even heard of such magic," Archibald admitted, though the revelation intrigued him. The existence of such advanced spells was reason enough to prioritize purchasing a detailed healing guide.

"I think you’re just making things up," the older witch muttered, lowering her wand but still scrutinizing him. "By the way, I don’t recognize you. Did we meet at school?"

"Luna Lovegood," the blonde replied serenely, "I’m starting at Hogwarts this year."

"Hermione Granger, Gryffindor, second year," the older girl introduced herself.

Both turned their eyes to the magus. Resigned, Archibald shrugged and offered his own introduction, hoping to end the exchange quickly. "James Murphy. Muggle-born. Starting school next year. As for this—" he gestured to his face—"I attempted to brew a potion from a textbook but made a mistake in the recipe after infusing it with magical energy. The cauldron practically exploded, and its magically saturated fragments caused these wounds. They’re not purely physical, which is why ordinary medicine and low-grade potions don’t work."

"Pity. My version was much more interesting," Luna sighed wistfully. "But if you’re not planning to keep them as striking scars, the standard school charms won’t help. These days, they don’t teach us anything useful like that. You’ll need to see a healer or visit an apothecary. Tincture of ribwort, star anise elixir—those treat magical wounds and curses. They won’t work instantly, but they should help. Still, I think you should keep them. They make you look very dashing, James."

"All injuries should be treated immediately," Hermione interrupted firmly, her tone leaving no room for debate. "And by professionals, not back-alley healers or with home remedies."

"Are you Muggle-born, Miss Granger?" Archibald asked, his tone overly polite.

"Yes, and I’m not ashamed of it," she replied briskly, clearly defensive, as though bracing for the usual prejudice. "Why?"

"It’s just amusing to hear someone criticize back-alley healers and home remedies in a store with ‘A Thousand and One Healing Remedies from May Dandelions’ on the shelves and in the middle of Diagon-Alley. And another thing, Miss Granger—did no one teach you how to handle your wand?"

"Of course they did! We spent an entire year learning—on Charms, Transfiguration, practically every lesson! And I read all the textbooks cover-to-cover before term started."

"And in all that, no one taught you that pointing your wand at a stranger’s face without warning is not only incredibly rude but also potentially dangerous?" Archibald asked with biting sarcasm. "Dangerous for you, primarily. Under different circumstances, I would’ve been well within my rights to retaliate."

"Excuse me?" Hermione bristled, stepping back as though expecting a physical strike or an attempt to snap her wand.

"The Dueling Code of Magical Britain, 1723, Section Three, 'Reasons for a Duel That Require No Explanation and Are Obvious to Any Wizard.' I don’t recall the exact clause, but it’s definitely in the first dozen," Lovegood said thoughtfully. Then she pulled out her mystic code from her belt and held it up, pointing it at Granger’s face. "You do this, and voila, it’s a duel challenge. Those were the days—so much romance. Gone now."

"But... I only wanted to help," Granger stammered, clearly thrown off by their reactions.

"Or," Archibald cut in dryly, "you could have turned my head to stone, burned me, frozen me, blinded me, erased my memory, or enslaved me to your will..." He rattled off a list of combat spells from the local textbooks. "And a hundred other possibilities. I had no way of knowing what you intended to cast. And even if I did, there’s no guarantee you’d use the spell you announced."

He barely held back from voicing his disdain for naive first-generation wizards. It took every ounce of restraint not to lash out, especially since the very sight of Granger stirred an unpleasant reminder of how others might see him in this strange new world. The bitterness lingered, but he swallowed it down.

"Oh, it seems someone else has taken an interest in today’s news," Lovegood remarked, her wand still casually aimed at a corner of the shop. There, a wizard was engrossed in a newspaper with lurid headlines like "Elderly Werewolf Infects Goat in Wells" or "Ministry Cover-Up: Brain-Eaters in Muggle Subways." She turned back to them, smiling. "It was nice talking to you."

"Thank you for the advice," Archibald said, managing to sound polite despite the headache this encounter was giving him. Dealing with Lovegood was proving to be a challenge he hadn’t anticipated.

"It was nothing. Take care, and don’t let the nargles get you."

"The what?" he asked, but she was already leaving. He turned to Granger, who looked equally baffled.

"No idea," she admitted. Then, with a sheepish expression, she stowed her wand in its holster and apologized, "I’m sorry. I... I honestly didn’t think about how that might have looked. And I didn’t know about the code, either. I’ll try not to do it again. I’m really sorry."

"I’m glad you’ve realized that," Archibald replied evenly. Reluctantly, he added, "Apology accepted. But you should pay more attention not just to wands but to the traditions and etiquette tied to them. Thoughtless behavior like that is precisely why people view those like... us as crude savages from the streets."

"Oh, right, you’re also..." Granger began, trailing off as her gaze took in his "Muggle" clothes. Then, as if realizing the obvious, she quickly corrected herself. "I see. I’ll try. And... thanks again. Sorry."

"Goodbye, Miss Granger," he said coolly. "I suppose I’ll see you at school someday." With that, he nodded curtly, stepped around her, and headed toward the counter. But before he could make it far, he felt a tug on his arm.

"Wait!"

Archibald stopped, stunned. It took him a moment to process how she had managed to halt him so easily. Then it hit him—Granger was older by a couple of years, taller, and physically stronger. James’s current body, weakened by years of malnutrition, illness, and regular abuse in the orphanage, wasn’t up to the task of resisting. Damn it all, he thought bitterly. Why couldn’t Murphy have been fifteen at the time of the soul merge?

"What now?" he demanded gruffly, though she seemed unfazed by his tone.

"Explain what you meant earlier. 'Didn’t know if I was casting the spell I said.' What does that even mean? How could I possibly say one spell and cast another? I admit I acted thoughtlessly... and that I misunderstood the nature of magical injuries. But accusing me of being able to turn you to stone with a healing spell? That’s absurd. And frankly, insulting."

"They didn’t teach you this in school?" Archibald asked, irritation creeping into his voice. He didn’t bother trying to pull his arm away; he doubted he’d succeed without reinforcement. "And you never came across it in those 'all the textbooks on wands' you claim to have read? It’s fundamental magical theory."

"Well... maybe not 'all,'" she admitted, looking down awkwardly. "More like 'all the books for the first three years,' plus the recommended reading list. But it was never mentioned. We were taught that spells work exactly as they’re spoken. You can’t just switch the words around or something—it won’t work."

"You can, and it’s not particularly hard, even for a student," Archibald said flatly.

"But how?" she pressed, clearly unsatisfied. "None of the books even hinted at that."

"It’s—" He sighed, realizing this conversation wouldn’t end without an argument or some form of demonstration. And he couldn’t afford to sour his reputation before even starting at the school, especially among first-generation wizards. He considered them potential allies, more open to new ideas than the entrenched aristocracy. Still, building connections with both factions was crucial to his long-term plans. For now, though, he could at least test Granger’s aptitude. Annoying as she was, her curiosity and willingness to learn set her apart from the many talentless magi he’d encountered over the years. "I could show you," he said finally, "but you’d owe me a favor."

"Deal!" she exclaimed, releasing his arm and nodding enthusiastically. Her wild, bushy hair bounced as she moved. Archibald suppressed a groan. First-generation wizards... not a clue about the dangers of promising favors without understanding the terms. If this had been a geas or an oath instead of a verbal agreement, she’d be in serious trouble. Unaware of his thoughts, she continued, "But not here! I know a better place for practicing magic. Come on, don’t lag behind!"

She tugged him along before he could object. He never did get around to buying that advanced healing textbook.

"I’m already regretting this," he muttered.

Granger led him to a building on Diagon Alley he’d always passed without a second glance. The sign read Harngott’s Testing Grounds, which meant nothing to him. In the small foyer, Granger handed a goblin behind the counter several coins, saying, "Half an hour for two." She then ushered him into the main hall.

The space was a curious mix of a gymnasium, a dance studio, and a modern office. The high-ceiling room was divided into sections by nearly transparent magical barriers. Some partitions were empty; others held children between ten and fifteen years old, practicing spells alone or in small groups.

"Outside of school and protected areas, underage magic is banned until seventeen," Granger said, reciting the law as though it were sacred doctrine. "So, what are students supposed to do during summer holidays? How do they prepare for the next year or keep their skills sharp? Especially those in Muggle homes without magical space? Their options are visiting friends in wizarding communities, practicing on Diagon Alley—if they’re careful—or waiting until their seventh year. Some clever goblin must have realized this and set up this hall. Rumor has it they’re raking in galleons every summer."

"Clever," Archibald remarked, acknowledging the unknown entrepreneur behind this establishment. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one puzzled by the ban on underage magic outside of warded areas. How was anyone supposed to learn if a quarter of the year was effectively wasted? The solution wasn’t perfect—considering the noise, crowds, and regular expenses—but it was certainly better than nothing.

"Yeah, without this place, I’d have gone mad with boredom a week after returning to London," Granger admitted. "But that’s not the point. Get your wand out, and let’s head to that corner. You can show me what you meant."

"I’d love to, Miss Granger, but there’s a problem. I don’t have a wand yet. I won’t turn eleven until autumn."

"Then how were you brewing potions?" she asked, incredulous. "Without a wand and proper magic, it’s just poisonous mush made from inedible ingredients. I’ve checked."

"I used the unstable bursts of 'accidental' magic while they were still active."

"James..." Granger was so taken aback that she seemed to lose her train of thought. Then, finally, she exclaimed, "You’re insane!"

"It worked well enough until now," he retorted, brushing her concern aside. "And the mistake wasn’t in the process—it was in the recipe."

"Fine..." She took a deep breath, clearly holding back a lecture on rules and recklessness. "That’s not important right now. What’s more interesting is what we’re going to do instead."

"I thought I’d borrow your wand. But if one of your friends or classmates is around, we could ask to borrow theirs."

"Not that I have many..." She trailed off, looking around the room with a hint of panic. Finally, her eyes settled on someone, and after a brief hesitation, she pointed toward one of the barriered sections. "Let’s go over there."

As they walked, Archibald observed the other students. None of them were doing anything too advanced or dangerous—levitation, telekinesis, light spells, minor mental magic, simple transfigurations, and conjurations. What struck him, though, was the ease and speed with which the more skilled kids produced one mystic effect after another. Many of the spells were trivial and hardly worth the energy expended, but the mystic codes they wielded undeniably redefined the principles and limitations of magic.

"Seamus Finnigan. Dean Thomas," Granger greeted the two boys in a tone that was almost comically formal. One was a pale, freckled boy wearing robes in the same colors as hers, while the other was dark-skinned and dressed in Muggle sportswear.

"Hermione Granger," replied the robed boy, lowering his wand. "Hi. Who’s your friend?"

"Well, uh... it’s kind of complicated..." she began awkwardly.

"James Murphy," Archibald interjected smoothly, sensing her hesitation and her general difficulty with social interactions. "I suppose I’ll be attending Hogwarts with you in the future. Miss Granger and I had a bit of a disagreement about magical theory, and she’s persuaded me to demonstrate my perspective in practice. However, I don’t yet have a wand of my own. That’s why we... well, I’d like to ask one of you for a small favor. I’d be happy to repay the courtesy or assist you in the future if needed." He finished formally. Despite their youth, asking to borrow a mystic code—especially one’s personal wand—was no small matter, even for a temporary demonstration. The act bordered on insolence in certain circles, but it was necessary, and he maintained his composure.

The boys exchanged glances, then the robed one asked cautiously, "Let me get this straight—you’re saying you argued with Granger, you’re absolutely certain you’re right, and she’s wrong?"

"Exactly," Archibald replied tersely, annoyed by the redundant question.

"And you need a wand to prove it to her?"

"Yes, yes, only for that. I promise to return it intact as soon as we’re finished."

"And you’re younger than us, seeing as you don’t even have your own wand yet?"

"I’m ten, if that matters at all," he snapped, his patience wearing thin.

"Take mine," they both said simultaneously, eagerly holding out their wands.

Archibald glanced at Granger, whose face turned bright red, but refrained from commenting. Now was not the time to gloat. Instead, he selected the longer wand, which appeared to be made of willow, nodded politely, and stepped into the barriered training area. "Give me a few minutes to get accustomed to it."

"By the way, I’m Seamus, and that’s Dean," the robed boy clarified. Granger was too flustered to make proper introductions, likely a result of her nerves—or perhaps ignorance of proper etiquette, which wouldn’t be surprising for a first-generation witch.

"Pleasure to meet you. You already know my name."

Adjusting his grip on the wand, Archibald tried to recall the sensation of the test wands at Francois’s workshop and prepared to work within this unfamiliar school of magic, minimizing the use of his own depleted reserves. He swung the wand once, then twice, assessing the flow of energy to his magic circuits. The wand seemed attuned to two or three elements, one of which was water—convenient. Finally, with a smooth motion, he gathered ambient mana, opened the circuits, and cast a basic wind spell. Satisfied after a few more tests of varying strength, he turned to the observing students and said, "I’m ready. Miss Granger, for the sake of fairness, choose a simple first-year spell—something easy to learn."

"This one’s the simplest," she replied eagerly, clearly relishing the chance to display her knowledge. She rummaged through her robes, pulled out a pencil, and placed it on the ground. With a practiced flourish of her wand, she clearly enunciated, "Wingardium Leviosa."

The pencil rose four feet into the air and hovered. After a few moments, she waved her wand again, saying, "Finite," and caught the pencil as it fell. Placing it back on the ground, she repeated the motion and incantation slowly and deliberately, then demonstrated it a third time.

"There, that’s from the very first practical Charms lesson," she concluded.

"Understood," Archibald said, studying the pencil. He mimed the motion silently a few times, visualizing the desired effect. Then, with precise control over the gathered mana, he cast, "Wingardium Leviosa." The pencil rose, though slightly lower than Granger’s attempt. He followed up with, "Finite," and the pencil dropped to the ground.

The other students nodded approvingly, while Granger looked skeptical and dissatisfied. Ignoring her, Archibald prepared for the next phase. He raised the wand again, repeating the spell several times with increasing fluidity, each iteration tweaking the incantation: "Wingardium Leviosa. Finite. Wingardium Leviosa. Finite. Levgardium Winossa. Garvandiom Vilossa. Guildenstern-from-Mariposa. Grandmaster’s-eating-Samosa." pauses between the spells became longer, it was necessary to keep in mind an extremely clear image of the effect and at the same time control the movement of the mystical code so as not to collect too much or too little mana, but each time the pencil obediently flew up. 

After the third attempt, the magus had already gotten used to the spell, although it was still very difficult to keep its effects consistent. He’d still get confused from time to time while trying to come up with gibberish that sounded similar to the original aria but the process smoothed out with every subsequent try. 

“Stupefy. Petrificus. Lumos,” the pencil still obediently flew up higher and higher with each modified incantation, only now he had to take even longer pauses for concentration - the mentioned spells evoked in him completely different associations, from which he had to fence himself off and hold on to the image of levitation. “Finite. Something like that. Thank you for the favor.”

Kayneth extended the mystic code toward Seamus, who stared at it in astonishment, before nearly shoving it into the boy’s hand. Then his gaze shifted to Granger, who stood frozen in what appeared to be a mix of disbelief and indecision. She seemed torn between applauding such skill with a wand and tearing her hair out in frustration because she couldn’t grasp what had just happened.

Cautiously, Hermione drew her wand, taking care not to point it at anyone. She gestured toward a pencil, cleared her throat, and intoned, “Wingardium Leviosa.” She waited for the pencil to float upward, then ended the spell. Taking a deep breath, she repeated the motion with a deliberate flourish, saying, “Nivgardium Veliosa. Ni-v-gar-dium Ve-li-osa!”

Nothing happened.

She tried half a dozen more times, her frustration growing, before turning to James with suspicion. “Why can you do it, but I can’t? You didn’t just rearrange syllables or remove letters—you replaced entire words. Our professor specifically told us we have to pronounce spells precisely, without hesitation. If we mess up the emphasis, the feather won’t float to the ceiling; it’ll either burn or sink into the ground.” She looked to her classmates for support, and they nodded in agreement, confirming that this was, indeed, what they’d been taught in class.

“He was correct, and I am not mistaken either,” the magus replied with a shrug.

“But you can’t just change the letters in spells!” she protested.

“You can. But not always,” Kayneth replied, pausing as he considered a simpler way to explain. Realizing the peculiarities of magical Britain’s traditions, he clarified, “Did any of you attend regular school before Hogwarts?”

“All of us,” Thomas answered. “Seamus and I are half-bloods, and Granger’s Muggle-born, so we lived mostly without magic until we turned eleven.”

“Perfect. Then you all should know what geometry is, and the value of Pi,” Kayneth continued, adopting the tone of a lecturer. He waited for their nods. “In early school lessons, Pi is often simplified to three with the teacher’s permission—it doesn’t affect basic calculations much. Similarly, in physics, gravitational acceleration is rounded to ten rather than nine-point-eight. The same principle applies in chemistry and other subjects: what you’re taught in fifth grade won’t work in tenth without adjustments. Magic operates in much the same way. Basic spells allow for substitutions. But in school, especially in the early years, such alterations aren’t necessary.”

“Then why do we need the incantations at all? And why do mistakes prevent spells from working?” Hermione asked, her curiosity piqued. She was grappling with the idea that her professors might not have been entirely truthful—or at least, hadn’t told her the whole story.

“They fail because the caster can’t vividly imagine the desired outcome. If they can’t even remember a handful of simple syllables, how can they manage to conjure the required effect?” Kayneth replied with disdain. The very existence of such inept students was, to him, a tragedy—a glaring flaw in a system where practical magic textbooks for beginners offered the barest minimum of theory and focused heavily on repetitive drills to establish a foundational repertoire of spells. “Incantations are necessary because learning requires repetition. You learn, and you memorize. You memorize, and you develop skill. Do you know what a conditioned reflex is?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered. “The bell, Pavlov’s dog, food at the sound of the signal…”

“Exactly. Basic spells function in much the same way,” Kayneth said, picking up the pencil and holding it as if it were a wand. He gestured with it and explained, “A wizard is given a task—for example, cutting an apple. The wizard makes the appropriate motion, listens to their teacher, or reads the description of the effect in a book, then vividly imagines what the spell should accomplish. They recite the provided formula, and the spell takes effect.” He demonstrated the simple slicing motion from a book’s cutting spell. “They do this again, and again, and again—tens of times, then hundreds, and thousands. Eventually, the action becomes instinctual: motion, word, effect. And when faced with a werewolf ambush in a dark alley, the wizard, even while terrified, will manage to raise their wand, shout the spell, and let their subconscious bridge the gap to produce the desired result.” He flicked the pencil sharply, as though decapitating an unseen foe.

“You performed the levitation spell faster and more confidently than I did because you’ve practiced it repeatedly,” he said, addressing Hermione. “I imagine you two could also manage it with less effort than I could,” he added, nodding toward Thomas and Seamus. “For you, the memorized words automatically trigger the mental image, while I have to consciously hold the image in my mind.”

Kaynett shifted into full lecture mode, elaborating on the foundational theory behind the use of the local mystic code. His interest lay in understanding the underlying principles of magical systems rather than rote mastery of individual mysteries. He relied heavily on advanced textbooks and reference materials intended for older students or those preparing for wizarding colleges—sources that were rare to find.

“A wizard gestures, shouts ‘Protego!’ and conjures a shield in the fraction of a second before an enemy spell hits. They’re not consciously thinking about the mechanics; for them, the connection between the word, the motion, and the effect is already ingrained. They trust that ‘Protego’ equals shield. The incantation isn’t meant for the teacher or the universe—it’s for the caster themselves. That’s why most common spells are in Latin, Ancient Greek, Aramaic, or Old English—dead languages. You won’t accidentally say these words while ordering lunch and unintentionally petrify your waiter. The incantation is merely a command, a mental trigger, no more than that. If you master the ability to vividly and quickly imagine the magical effect, you can perform it without the standard incantation or even substitute it with another phrase. But doing so takes more time and effort—something you can’t afford in a duel or combat.

“And that, Miss Granger, is why pointing your wand at someone and casually saying ‘Episkey’ could earn you a swift ‘Stupefy,’ a ‘Relashio,’ or a knife to the gut in retaliation. And even the courts might not side with you.”

“I get it, I get it!” Granger interrupted him, waving a hand impatiently. “I already apologized. I’m more curious—how do you know all of this? You’re a Muggle-born like me, not someone who’s been poring over grimoires in some manor since birth.”

“From the day I learned about magic and set foot on this street, I’ve been reading,” Archibald replied evenly. “Books—lots of them, all kinds, constantly. For months now. I’ve talked to shopkeepers and store owners. Even one young miss—a future Auror—she was the first to tell me about magic and gave me a few tips afterward. I wanted to know everything about the magical world, now that I had this gift. Didn’t you do the same?”

“Of course!” Granger seemed almost offended by the suggestion that she might have done anything less.

“Not really,” Thomas admitted.

“Only the interesting bits,” Finnegan shrugged.

“Well, I guess I fit into the general statistics,” Archibald remarked, smirking slightly. Then he added, “And it seems our time here is up. That goblin heading this way looks like he’s coming for us. It was nice meeting you all, but I need to get going before all the apothecaries close.”

“Wait!” This time, Granger didn’t grab his arm but called after him instead. “What about the favor?”

“I’ve got a year before school, and I need to start preparing now,” Archibald said, turning slightly to address her. That she even remembered the promised favor earned her some credit in his eyes. Among magi, such obligations were remembered for years and often called in at the most inconvenient moments—with interest. “I’d like to know more about how things work at school and what I should expect. Textbooks are one thing, but each teacher has their own approach and their own priorities about what’s important and what’s not. That kind of information would be very useful. You’re reachable through magical post, right? Excellent. Then until next time. Expect an owl, or however it’s said here.”

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 9

"I don't like places like this," Kaynett remarked, surveying the abandoned factory building. The plant had been shut down since the seventies, and it showed. Concrete walls were stained with mold and patches of moss, layered over with crude graffiti and illiterate slogans of vulgar anarchy. The roof had caved in several places, leaving shattered windows that let in just enough sunlight to illuminate the grimy interior. Trash and scraps of cloth littered the floor, scattered here and there in forlorn piles. Kaynett wouldn’t have been surprised if a skeleton of some long-dead vagrant were buried beneath one of them, frozen to death decades ago. The oppressive atmosphere made his neck itch uncomfortably.

"I’d rather be at a restaurant or on a beach right now, too," MacDuggal admitted, his tone wry. The June heat had prompted him to ditch his usual cloak, leaving him in a simple gray business suit that didn’t draw much attention. "But, unlike you, I’m actually making a living from these kinds of jobs. Honestly, it’s a good spot—still within the city limits but far enough from the nearest houses that even gunshots won’t be heard. Isn’t this exactly what you asked for?"

"Fair enough. I was just thinking aloud. As long as no gang of drunk teenagers shows up and ruins everything, I suppose this will do," Kaynett replied, oblivious to how odd such a statement sounded coming from someone in a child’s body. He gestured to a battered metal drum lying amidst the debris. "This one should suffice—no better or worse than the others."

Kaynett reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wide zirconium bracelet inscribed with runes and Latin phrases. He placed it gently atop the battered drum, wary of the rusting metal collapsing into a cloud of dust at the slightest touch. Then he stepped back carefully, keeping an eye on the uneven floor littered with twisted rebar and shattered glass.

"All set. Your turn now. If this is so necessary," he added skeptically, watching MacDuggal as the man laid down a long case and a small bag near the wall.

"You’ll thank me later if something goes wrong and you need to figure out what happened," MacDuggal replied, pulling out a video camera. After switching it on and verifying it worked, he mounted it on the rickety shelf of a rusting storage rack bolted to the wall. He adjusted its angle to focus on the drum and bracelet before turning back to his gear.

He popped the latches on the case and withdrew a hunting rifle with a polished wooden stock. With deliberate care, he loaded a few cartridges, inspected the scope, and nodded to himself. Moving to the opposite end of the factory, he took aim.

"Ready!" he called.

"Count to five and fire. Aim as close to the bracelet as you can," Kaynett instructed, ducking behind a grimy, crumbling column. From his hiding spot, he had a clear view of the target while staying out of the shooter’s line of fire.

The crack of the rifle shot echoed through the factory, followed immediately by a powerful gust of wind emanating from the drum. Dust, scraps of paper, tattered rags, and bits of debris swirled into the air before slowly settling back down. Over the din of rustling wind and rattling glass shards, a faint impact noise followed.

Swatting away falling debris and silently commending his foresight to wear gloves, Kaynett approached the wobbling drum. He leaned over to pick up a bullet that had rolled onto the concrete floor. Holding it up for MacDuggal to see, he shouted, "Nearly intact! It passed through the barrier but hit the wall on its last legs—didn’t even embed itself. Not bad, but we can do better. Let’s go again."

Kaynett retrieved the bracelet from the drum, now charred slightly in the center. He replaced it with another, nearly identical, but featuring a slightly different arrangement of runes and inscriptions. Returning to his hiding spot, he called, "Fire again—same target."

The sequence repeated. This time, the gust of wind was stronger, sending plastic bottles and glass shards skittering across the floor. A few precariously hanging window fragments gave way, shattering noisily onto the concrete. The second bullet came to rest unscathed on a cushion of moss near the drum. Examining it briefly, Kaynett replaced the now-warped bracelet with a third.

He’d prepared six prototypes for the test, each pair with varying barrier strengths. The weakest had failed almost immediately, while the medium-strength version seemed just right. The two remaining stronger models could likely be sold or used as demonstration pieces for potential clients. For now, though, he had to finish testing.

"Shift the target seven feet to the side," he instructed. "Then three feet in the other direction. Let’s test the radius."

The first shot hit the wall without resistance, the bullet embedding itself cleanly. The second shot triggered another gust, this time deflecting the bullet sideways. It ricocheted off a beam and disappeared through a hole in the roof.

When the dust settled, Kaynett stepped out from behind the column. "The second one works. The range is decent too," he concluded. Ideally, further testing under varied conditions—terrain, weapons, and weather—would provide more reliable data. But he lacked the magical energy for such extensive trials, especially for a product rather than personal research.

"It’s more expensive than I’d planned, but a bullet that hits the face even at the end of its flight and without any power or threat to life can ruin the image of our product. So, the cost will be higher. Let’s say thirty-five thousand for a new bracelet, twenty for recharging one that is already used—provided it’s undamaged."

"Steep, isn’t it?" MacDuggal observed, packing up his rifle and unused rounds. He switched off the camera, stored it in his bag, and slung both over his shoulder. "All that for one stopped bullet. Clients might not see the value."

"One bullet—or several in quick succession. That’s your problem, my dear business partner," Kaynett replied with dry sarcasm. "How you market the product is up to you. Besides, from what I recall of human anatomy, a single bullet to the head or chest is usually enough to end someone’s existence or leave them permanently crippled. Your clients fear assassination attempts by ‘dear friends’ or ‘beloved relatives’ far more than a squad of soldiers firing en masse, don’t they? A sniper’s bullet ranks high on their list of concerns, somewhere between a car bomb and cyanide in their morning coffee."

"Fair enough. But how do you know that?" MacDuggal asked, glancing back as they picked their way toward the car, careful to avoid the treacherous terrain.

"My mentor was part of high society—wizard or not," Kaynett explained. "He attended parties, moved in those circles, and overheard plenty of conversations about what wealthy Muggles worry about. He’d share some of it as examples for me. These aren’t the days of honorable duels anymore; some degenerate might bring a rifle instead of a wand. What are you supposed to do then?"

Archibald didn’t exactly lie—he just replaced himself with a fictional mentor, Kayneth mused as they walked. It wasn’t far from the truth. Much to his dismay, he had indeed overheard such conversations in his time, but back then, they hadn’t left much of an impression. As a professor at the Clock Tower, the troubles of ordinary people had mattered little to him. He would never have imagined in his worst nightmares that the ancient and venerable Einzbern family would stoop so low as to hire a barely-competent mercenary spellcaster (not even a magus), barging into a noble Holy Grail War with barbaric mines and guns. At the time, Kayneth had been convinced his defenses were impervious to such primitive weaponry. That delusion had cost him dearly, and he had no intention of repeating that mistake. Especially now, with MacDuggal as a living example that even in magical Britain, running into someone armed with a gun was entirely possible.

"How does it even work? A force field?" MacDuggal asked, gesturing to the barrier's remnants.

"Wind magic. One spell monitors airflow within a limited radius. When an object moving too fast approaches, a secondary spell creates what is essentially a wall of compressed air, rushing to meet it. You’re familiar with how a crosswind can deflect bullets, right? Properly manipulated, it can even stop them. But such a system consumes a significant amount of magical energy—energy I could use far more effectively elsewhere. I’m expending my time, knowledge, and magic on these designs, and I expect to be compensated fairly for it."

"Yeah, but still—"

"Still, what? Do you have a system in mundane science that offers the same level of protection without encasing someone in armor head-to-toe? For any price? This isn’t just a defense against a single bullet; it’s a chance at survival. It deflects the first sudden attack, giving you time to seek cover before the next one comes."

"Alright, alright, I get it," MacDuggal relented, whether genuinely convinced of its potential or simply realizing he wouldn’t win a price negotiation. "I’d better jot these arguments down for the sales pitch."

"Feel free to take notes. I can repeat it all if necessary," Kayneth replied.

MacDuggal didn’t ask for a repeat. Perhaps he thought he’d remember it all well enough. The drive back to the workshop was silent, allowing Kayneth to contemplate the energy expenditure required for his latest creations. The bracelets were, after all, nothing more than simplified versions of the automated defense mechanisms he’d once incorporated into his mystic code. Instead of a shield of enchanted mercury, these used an air barrier.

And therein lay the main challenge. In his original body, Archibald had an affinity for two elemental properties—water and air—a rare combination. Proper training had allowed him to master the flow of energy, wind, and even liquids like blood or molten metal. But the rituals he had performed over the past month made it clear that James Murphy’s body had a full elemental alignment only with water. While this was better than being bound to earth or fire, as he had feared, wind-based spells would now cost him more energy and effort. This limitation extended to the enchantments on the protective bracelets.

"By the way, I wanted to ask you something," MacDuggal broke the silence, pulling Kayneth from his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Remember that trick you showed me with the fork in the restaurant?"

"It wasn’t a ‘trick.’ It was a standard structural transformation," Kayneth corrected him in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," MacDuggal waved it off, clearly unfazed. Kayneth merely shook his head—what else could he expect from a businessman with no regard for scientific precision? "What I’m asking is—could you enchant the fork beforehand so a regular person, not a wizard, could trigger the transformation by, say, speaking a command?"

"I could. Embed the energy in advance and set an activation key. That’s essentially how the bullets I make operate."

"Got it. I’ve been thinking—security these days is insane. You can’t even smuggle a pocketknife or a sharpened coin past some of these checkpoints. But what if you had a bracelet, a belt buckle, or something innocuous? Slip it past the scanners without issue, and once you’re inside the club or mansion, say the trigger word, spit three times, and voila—you’ve got a knuckle duster, a dagger, or a garrote wire in your hand."

"An interesting idea. Simple enough that I hadn’t bothered to think of it. Hypnotizing a guard to ignore the scanner would be easier for me, but for a mundane client? It’s viable. Compile a list of desired items, and I’ll estimate the materials and energy required. Would it sell?"

"James, you wouldn’t believe the lengths people go to just to smuggle something sharp past security," MacDuggal said with a sly grin. "But to answer your question—yes, it would sell. Very well, in fact."

"Good. That suits me fine. I’ll need the money soon anyway."

"Fletcher finally ready to negotiate for real instead of all this back-and-forth?"

"Yes. The meeting is set for tomorrow."

"Need backup?"

"Just an escort to the rendezvous. Someone to ensure I make it there without incident. If Fletcher and I come to terms, we’ll likely head to a wizarding settlement—no place for Muggles."

"Take a mobile phone with you, just in case you need to call for help."

"I will, though it may not work in certain areas," Kayneth acknowledged. He remained skeptical of the device MacDuggal had provided, given the uneasy relationship between modern electronics and local magic, but he could see its potential utility. "And one more thing. Procuring a pistol or rifle isn’t an issue for you, is it, Mr. MacDuggal? What about a bladed weapon."

"A knife’s even easier to get than a gun."

"I’m talking about more exotic weapons. A sword, a halberd, a morning star. Functional, of course—not cheap props for a film."

"Can be easily arranged," MacDuggal shrugged, not at all surprised by the request. "It’s not like it is illegal to buy functional replicas. You’ll just have to sharpen it yourself. Or did you have something specific in mind?"

"Yes, but not yet," Archibald replied. "Give me a couple of weeks. By then, I should have a clearer idea on what exactly I need. The weapon will have to follow my design precisely."

"Whenever you’re ready, then. But custom order would cost you a pretty penny and take time.”

“As long as it gets done.”

“Heh. Fair enough. Strange requests like yours is what keeps me in the business. If people didn’t want unusual things, I wouldn’t be trading them. I’d still be stuck at Heathrow, scraping by on a laughable customs officer salary. But that’s a long story."

The meeting was set early in the morning, in a nearly empty park not far from the magical quarter. Archibald arrived, prepared for anything. He carried the same mystic codes he had brought to their previous deal, plus a couple of new ones. His vigilance never wavered—there was always the chance of reinforcements Apparating in to back up a wizard. He had considered asking Albert for a gun but ultimately decided not to stoop so low, even with his current limited magical reserves.

Fletcher was already waiting for him, lounging on a bench with a nonchalant air, as if to signal he was no threat. His attire was just as tasteless as last time; even the chain (likely just gold-plated) was still there. Still, he had taken precautions—Archibald could sense the faint presence of a weak ward around the alley, one designed to deflect the attention of ordinary people.

"Morning, Jimmy. You managed to wake up early, I see," Fletcher greeted him with faux warmth.

"I assume you’re finally ready to get down to business, or are we going to keep circling each other?" Archibald cut through the pleasantries. "We’ve been negotiating for almost a month now, and I’ve yet to see any results."

"You don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you," Fletcher replied calmly. "Deals like this require mutual trust. And I’ve got more reason to be cautious than you do."

"Do you?" Archibald’s tone was skeptical. "One of those wizards gave a pretty clear hint as to whose side you’re on, Mr. Fletcher. And we both know what that person thinks of certain branches of magic. Turning me over to the Aurors would be a great way for you to curry favor, wouldn’t it?"

"Maybe," Fletcher said, still relaxed but with a faint tension beneath the surface. Archibald could sense he was ready to grab a mystic code or Apparate at the first sign of danger, bravado notwithstanding. "I knew both of those wizards personally. We weren’t friends, but… well. Now I’m guessing not even their bones will be found."

"So?" Archibald pressed, though his mind was already working out attack scenarios. If the local wizards were this quick to react, it would be best to strike from multiple directions simultaneously to overload any defense. Wind manipulation to disorient, followed by a coordinated strike with two mystic codes—it should be enough.

"So, this isn’t how things are done here," Fletcher continued, spreading his hands as though the topic bored him. "If you wanted to craft a backstory, you should’ve done a better job or come better prepared. If I figured you out, others could too."

"And who exactly do you think I am?" Archibald asked, his tone even. He was genuinely curious to hear Fletcher’s theory.

"If you’re still playing, I’ll indulge you," Fletcher replied with a shrug. "The idea of you being some eager Muggle-born kid hungry for knowledge doesn’t add up, not with a few glaring details. For one, you’re doing business with Weasley—"

"Who?" Archibald interrupted, confused.

"Albert. He’s distantly related to the pureblood families, though their reputation isn't great. His great-grandfather, a Squib, left the family to live among Muggles, and now the great-grandson’s come full circle. But that’s not the point," Fletcher waved the digression away. "He’s selling magical toys to Muggles—fine. But a nine-year-old kid couldn’t make those. And then, you and Albert run into two very dangerous wanted men, with enough crimes to fill the Aurors’ cabinets. Against them, it’s just you—a supposedly untrained kid—and a Squib with a gun. And within a week, the only thing left of those two is a wand fished out of the river.

"I told you, I knew them," Fletcher continued. "Mortimer was weak, sure, but Abelard? He had a reputation. Plenty of folks in Knockturn Alley were afraid of him. Yet you wiped them both out so thoroughly that not even bodies were found. That’s not how things are done here, even in Knockturn. Killing someone over a handful of Galleons? Not done. But a fugitive wizard from the Continent, someone who doesn’t know our rules, needing a place to hide, money, and perhaps connections? That fits."

"If you’re so certain of that, why am I still free?" Archibald asked, genuinely curious. His backstory wasn’t airtight—he knew that much. But the notion that murder was so frowned upon here hadn’t even crossed his mind.

"Because I need money," Fletcher answered bluntly, without a hint of shame. "And you’re willing to pay."

"Then why aren’t we doing business already?"

"Because you could just kill me once I’m no longer useful. For now, I’ve got something you need, and that’s my only leverage."

"What do you want from me?" Archibald sighed, closing his eyes. Negotiating with people like Fletcher wasn’t new to him, but back in his prime, he’d had the leverage of being an Archibald and a lord of the Clock Tower. That kind of authority had been more than enough to dictate the terms of any deal. "Guarantees?"

"Exactly. A Unbreakable Vow would do nicely," Fletcher said, extending his left hand.

"Not worried about taking on such a burden on your soul?" Archibald asked, his tone darkening as he stood his ground. He already knew about this ritual from his reading: a magical contract akin to the Clock Tower’s geas. The difference was that here, it was verbal, required a minimum of one witness, and could be amended at the last moment if the third party wasn’t truly neutral. Like a geas, breaking it would result in severe consequences—loss of magic at best, death at worst. "The vow binds both parties."

"I’m worried, but I’ve got no choice," Fletcher admitted, lowering his hand. "I don’t want to make promises either, but I can’t trust you without them."

"And now we’re at an impasse," Archibald summarized. He sighed, glancing around as if hoping to find an answer in the park around them. But no brilliant solutions came to mind. Both needed this deal, yet neither trusted the other enough to risk binding themselves with magic. Archibald had no influence, no reputation, no formal authority here. All he had were his skills and… "Money?"

"What?"

"I think I've found a solution." Archibald pulled a coin pouch from his pocket. "As an advance on future purchases and a sign of mutual trust, I’ll give you, say, a thousand gold pieces. No receipts, no witnesses, no vows—just here and now, hand to hand. Then you’ll take me to the craftsman we discussed, also without contracts, oaths, or tricks. After that, we can discuss further business."

"Fifteen hundred," Fletcher countered, his greed visibly wrestling with caution—a battle destined to be lost from the start. He pulled out his wallet, a modern but cheap and gaudy leather piece, and opened it to activate a spatial distortion charm. "Fifteen hundred Galleons, and we have a deal."

"Done." Archibald glanced around to confirm they were alone, then whispered a password, tipped his pouch over Fletcher’s wallet, and said firmly, "Fifteen hundred Galleons."

With a soft clink, a stream of heavy coins began flowing from one pouch to the other—a peculiar analog of a bank transfer. The sight quickly grew monotonous as the golden torrent continued.

"Why haven’t you brits introduced a higher denomination than one Galleon?" Archibald asked, not bothering to deny Fletcher’s assumption that he was an outsider unfamiliar with local norms. After all, it wasn’t entirely untrue. "Five pounds isn’t much by modern standards."

"Tradition," Fletcher replied with a grimace. "That’s how the goblins have done it since time immemorial—the standard of three metals: Knut, Sickle, Galleon. Back in Merlin’s day, they say a Galleon was worth seven thousand times more than now. One gold coin could sustain you for years. But then... inflation happens to us too, not just Muggles. And the annual fluctuations in the value of gold, silver, and copper—don’t even get me started."

"Let’s stick to the matter at hand," Archibald interrupted as the last of the coins transferred. He tucked his pouch back into his pocket. "I think it’s time we went to see the craftsman, isn’t it?"

"Indeed." Fletcher also put away his wallet, sighing as he stood up and scanned the park to ensure they were still alone. Then he extended his hand. "Come on, I’ll Apparate us there."

"You want me to let you control the method of transportation? And you expect me to agree to this?"

"‘Mutual trust,’ remember? It would do wonders for our relationship. I trusted you. Now I expect the same in return."

Grinding his teeth, Archibald tightened his grip on the hilt of the dagger hidden in his pocket but extended his hand nonetheless. A flash, the sensation of flight and swift motion, and the next moment, they were standing in a dense forest before an old two-story log house. The moss-covered walls bore the greenish tint of age, and there were no visible paths or trails leading to it. The house seemed as though it had simply appeared on this clearing two centuries ago.

Archibald felt several wards placed on and around the house—protective, monitoring, and distraction charms for ordinary people, along with something more specialized from the local magical repertoire.

"See, all good," Fletcher remarked dryly. "Come on, they’re expecting us inside. You’re lucky the Aurors have calmed down with their raids; otherwise, they might’ve caught us right here. After your little ritual stunt, they shook poor Francois down daily for weeks. His shack’s probably never been cleaner in the last forty years."

"What ritual?"

"Oh, right, of course," Fletcher said sarcastically. "It wasn’t some outsider interested in necromancy and a wand without tracking charms. Could’ve been anyone..."

Inside, the corridor was dimly lit and smelled of dust, the wooden floorboards creaking underfoot. Fletcher paused to open a massive old wardrobe, retrieving a baggy, dirt-gray cloak. He handed it to Archibald, saying, "Put this on and pull the hood down low."

"What do I need this rag for?" Archibald asked, disdain evident in his voice as he looked at the shabby garment.

"It’s illegal to sell wands to children under eleven—too dangerous. And to anyone under seventeen, they can only be sold with tracking charms monitored by the Ministry. Francois knows the law as well as anyone and won’t deal with a child. But if a short adult wizard with a thin voice shows up? A half-goblin, perhaps? No laws against selling to them. And even under Veritaserum, the craftsman can truthfully say he didn’t break any rules. Catch my drift, Jimmy?"

Grimacing, Archibald took the dusty cloak and donned it without a word. He followed Fletcher, scrutinizing the surroundings from beneath the low hood.

The house’s interior was typical for the local magical world—no wires, nothing more modern than the 19th century. The dim room, likely serving as a shop, was lit by several candles in an ancient candelabrum and a faintly glowing orb of light near the ceiling—probably a fixed version of the Lumos charm.

Behind a darkened wooden counter that looked old enough to have seen Columbus’s voyages stood the craftsman. The wizard’s appearance screamed "hermit": tangled, unkempt hair and a long beard, his thin, almost emaciated body wrapped in something resembling a monk’s robe rather than a wizard’s cloak. Archibald wouldn’t have been surprised if the man turned out to be barefoot.

"My old acquaintance, Francois Deserte," Fletcher introduced. "A wandmaker and creator of other magical items. Some considered his methods... unconventional, so he left sunny France and moved here. Two-thirds of the market is in Ollivander’s hands anyway, so instead of dealing with competitors, he just ignores them."

"And what’s so ‘unconventional’ about his methods?" Archibald asked with genuine curiosity. The place didn’t scream "progressive researcher," but appearances could be deceiving.

"Do you know how wands are usually paired with wizards?" Francois asked, scrutinizing Archibald. His voice was raspy and loud, with a noticeable accent.

"I’ve seen it from a distance and read about it in books," Archibald replied. "If I’m not mistaken, the craftsman just tests what they have on hand, ‘guided by intuition, experience, and a keen sense,’ or something like that. And they continue until they find the match because, as they say, ‘the wand chooses the wizard.’"

"Exactly," Francois began to explain, his tone deliberate, as if he relished talking about his craft. "Ollivanders, like our masters in Paris, have been in this business for centuries. The process has been refined—stockpiles of materials, charms, and combinations. Some rare wands have likely been waiting for their match for three centuries.

"Technically, any adult wizard can cast spells with any functional wand. The question is compatibility—how easily a wizard can work with a particular wand. That’s entirely individual. Established craftsmen can afford to sift through dozens, even hundreds, of ready-made wands to find the best match.

"But if you’re new to the trade, you don’t have thousands of premade wands at your disposal. You’d either apprentice with an established craftsman or abandon the profession. Or," Francois gestured toward a corner of the room where two racks of wands stood—one with a dozen, the other with several dozen, "you find another way.

"My method? The client tests them all, I take notes, then I identify the most suitable components and craft a new wand tailored specifically for them."

"Sounds reasonable," Archibald agreed. After all, a mystic code should always be custom-made for the specific magus, tailored to their repertoire of spells, mastered schools, combat style, and personal traits. It’s not something you buy off the rack like cheap suits with half a dozen universal sizes for every occasion—it’s crafted bespoke. "Shall I begin?"

"Not so fast. Protego Duo," the wizard muttered, drawing a wand from the sleeve of his tattered robe. A grayish, nearly transparent barrier shimmered into existence, cordoning off the corner with the racks from the rest of the room. Archibald immediately tensed, calculating how he might dismantle it if this turned out to be a trap.

"Protego," Fletcher added from his seat on an ancient chair by the opposite wall, erecting a shield of his own—just in case.

"Now you can start. The rack rotates; begin with the first wand. Just take it in hand, give it a wave toward the wall, then move on to the next, all the way through to number twelve," Francois instructed.

Relaxing slightly when no attack came, Archibald stepped forward and began testing. He picked up the first short wand and gave it a wave. Each movement required him to suppress his instincts and remind himself that the usual approach didn’t apply here. Unlike the mystic codes he was accustomed to—where his own magical energy flowed through the tool to achieve an effect—these wands required only a mental image of the desired impact and a gesture to gather external mana. The wand would then open his magic circuits and draw the necessary energy itself.

An experienced wizard could adjust the power of a spell or the amount of energy it consumed, but the method was entirely alien to Archibald’s years of practice. For this trial, he settled on a basic gust of wind, a fundamental element in mastering air-based magic and the foundation of more advanced spells.

"Nothing," he noted, lowering the wand. He’d felt the signal to activate his circuits, but it was too faint to trigger the necessary response. He could have forced it, manually channeling the required energy, but that wasn’t the goal here—and doing so might damage the wand, which wasn’t designed for such experiments. Without the initiating charge, the gathered mana simply dispersed back into the air after a half-second.

"Try the next one. Even if something works, keep going—you need to test them all."

The process repeated several times. The fourth wand produced a weak breeze, and the ninth yielded a similar result. The sixth, however, practically vibrated in his grip, conjuring a small whirlwind that rocked the shelves—the activation process had passed through almost instantaneously.

Returning the twelfth wand, which had no response, to the rack, Archibald turned to François.

"Finite," the craftsman said, dispelling the barrier with a wave of his wand. He began sketching something on a piece of parchment, occasionally pausing to calculate. Finally, he looked up and spoke.

"A fairly simple case. Strong affinity with water, equally weak affinity with air and aether. No response to fire, earth, or the rarer elements. For the core, we’ll need something that harmonizes with water: undine hair, a kirin’s horn, or powdered kraken beak would work best."

"And we spent all this time just to figure that out?" Archibald asked irritably. "You could’ve just asked me what my base elements were."

"Among the wizards I’ve met—Merlin as my witness—you’d be lucky if one in twelve could name their primary elements," Francois replied, eyeing him up and down. Not that there was much to see under the dusty cloak. "And of those, maybe one in three would get them all correct. Most don’t bother to think about it. If they’re not making wands or replacing them every few years, they just use the one they got at eleven and keep it until it breaks—or they do."

"Fine. At least you verified the information. No harm in that," Archibald said, letting the matter drop. Instead, he gestured toward the other rack. "What’s in the second set?"

"Elements alone aren’t enough. They’re the foundation, but magic is more than that. Every one of us has a unique connection to magic, and that connection influences how spells behave. A poorly matched wand can clash with it. Rare, but it happens."

"Interesting…" Archibald mused. Judging by the description, Francois was referring to what magi called the Origin. From what he’d read, local magical theory hadn’t developed that concept as far. They’d uncovered its existence but seemed to treat it as relevant only when crafting wands. The broader implications of the Origin—that it exists in all people, magical or not, subtly influencing behavior—seemed beyond their grasp. Not that it mattered right now. Archibald gestured to the rack. "Even forty samples wouldn’t be enough to measure that accurately."

"Not nearly," Francois agreed, nodding with a trace of respect. "For a deeper analysis, you’d need Ollivander or someone like him, with thousands of wands and endless combinations of elements and traits. I can only determine a rough result to avoid conflicts."

"Let’s not waste time on guesswork, then. I already know—my attribute relates to time. I haven’t narrowed it down further yet."

"Interesting… In that case, try wand thirty-six. Then twenty-five, sixteen, thirty-one, and thirty-three… Ah, I see. The response is tied to ‘age’ and ‘dawn.’ I’d say your attribute is ‘youth,’ or something very close to it."

"Intriguing. Thank you, master," Archibald said, offering a polite nod. The result resonated with him. More importantly, the craftsman had saved him considerable effort and time he would otherwise have spent meditating to identify his Origin. He hadn’t expected such progress from local magic, to be honest.

The revelation tempered his disappointment that his Origin had no practical application for awakening or advancing personal mysteries. In his past life, Archibald’s Origin had also been useless for magical research or development. He was accustomed to such limitations. Identifying one’s Origin was a long but straightforward process—mostly meditation and self-hypnosis.

However, useful Origins, ones that could be weaponized or enhance magic, were exceedingly rare. Even then, they required entirely new mysteries to be developed from scratch. For a pyromancer family to produce an heir with the Origin of “fire” was more the stuff of dreams than reality. Usually, they were abstract concepts. It seemed he’d drawn the short straw for a second time. 

“The attribute is useless for magic but knowing it would probably be helpful to you for crafting the wand,” he concluded.

"Convenient, working with someone competent," Francois remarked. "I suppose I'll use a wood suited to your affinity, like myrtle, viburnum, or sakura."

"Sakura won't do," he declared firmly, waving his hand dismissively. "Myrtle's fine. Let's skip the Far Eastern motifs, shall we?"

"The wizard knows best," Francois shrugged easily. "You'll be the one carrying it, after all. Now, let’s talk about the contemptible subject of payment. Are you familiar with the pricing in Diagon Alley?"

"I am. Ten to twenty Galleons for a standard wand from the best craftsman—which, for such a dangerous tool, is absurdly cheap. Custom work runs up to fifty, and there’s no limit for ornate designs and decorations—like a golden lion’s head pommel with ruby eyes. Utterly garish. Other shops charge about half as much."

"More or less. For selection, enchanting, and assembly, I charge thirty Galleons. You’ll know exactly what’s inside and how it interacts with your magic. Decorations, lacquerwork, engraving, and such—up to an additional twenty, depending on complexity. Skipping the Ministry’s trace charms, which, under my license"—Francois gestured to a framed parchment scroll on the wall—"I’m obligated to include, adds another three hundred. Naturally, if you try summoning fiendfire in the middle of London or enchanting an entire bank with the Imperius Curse, the Aurors will find you regardless. But for minor magic, you’ll have freedom akin to any adult wizard. Turnaround time: two to three weeks. Does that suit you?"

"Perfectly," Archibald agreed. "No polish on the finish, though—make the lower third rough for a better grip. As long as it doesn’t harm its magical properties, of course. So, three hundred and forty in total. Half now, half upon completion." He poured the required coins onto the counter and glanced toward Fletcher, who was lounging in the corner. "And for your brokerage?"

"Fifty," the smuggler replied.

"Fifty." Archibald counted out the gold. He suspected the man had inflated the price at the last second but couldn’t be bothered to argue. It wasn’t a significant sum, even given his less-than-stable finances. No point quibbling over every coin, especially considering how much Fletcher had already squeezed from him in "advances." "I assume you’ll let me know when the wand is ready. One more thing, Monsieur Deserte?"

"Yes?"

"Do you craft items with expanded internal space?"

"Rarely, but I can take commissions. Looking for something specific you can’t find in the Alley?"

"I’m not certain yet. But I might need something eventually, so it’s good to know you’re an option."

"At the very least, we can discuss it. Depends on the complexity of the request—this isn’t my specialty, so I don’t take just anything."

"Fair enough. I believe that concludes our business. It’s been a pleasure."

Shedding the wretched cloak in the wardrobe, Archibald stepped outside and inhaled deeply, the fresh air tinged with the unpleasant scent of swamp. Fletcher followed, waiting until the magus gave an agreeing nod before placing a hand on his shoulder and Apparating them back to the park. The area was still deserted.

"A solid start, I’d say. What about the books I asked for?" Archibald inquired, scanning the surroundings. Everything was proceeding satisfactorily so far—Fletcher hadn’t pulled any tricks, nor had he teleported him straight to the Ministry, though such a betrayal had seemed a distinct possibility.

"Now that we’re being specific, I need details. The field’s completely outlawed, but it’s vast. Do you want descriptions of particular rituals or creatures? Certain spells?"

"My interest is purely academic. If any school textbooks on the subject have been published over the last three or four centuries, those would be ideal. General information: what, how, who’s notable, the main branches and subdivisions. With that foundation, I can focus on the topics that catch my attention."

"Even that will cost a fortune. A ‘textbook’ like that is a one-way ticket to Azkaban—there’s no talking your way out of it. Two thousand Galleons just to send out feelers. If I find anything, it’s another ten, minimum."

"I doubt you or your associates have many clients interested in such material. Let’s temper your greed—eight for everything."

"Ten. Not a Knut less. If we’re caught, we’ll be feeding Dementors for life. That kind of risk deserves compensation."

"Feeding who?" Archibald asked, frowning. He vaguely remembered the term from a bestiary under the section on ghosts, but it had referred him to another book "Dark Creatures and Spawn."

"Ah, I see there’s a lot you still don’t know. Look them up when you get the chance—Dementors. I’m guessing you don’t have them where you’re from. Learn what we’re risking and what Azkaban really is. Did you think it’s like Muggle prisons? Bars, fat guards with batons, four inmates per cell?"

"I didn’t," Archibald admitted. He’d seen the Tower’s prison floors and had some understanding of how dangerous magi were contained. Apparently, the local Ministry’s imagination worked well enough to make the word ‘Azkaban’ as fearsome as ‘Voldemort.’ "But I’ll look into it. Either way, you needed money, yes? Who else will offer such sums for those books, if not me? I haven’t refused to pay for valuable goods—that’s the foundation of mutually beneficial business, isn’t it?"

Receiving no answer to his rhetorical question and deciding the conversation was over, Archibald strolled leisurely toward the park’s exit. Though his back was turned to one of the most unscrupulous men in London, he didn’t let his guard down for an instant. The new metal pendant hanging alongside his cross held a magical shield spell, capable of blocking or at least dampening a surprise attack of low to medium power—a stunning or binding curse, for instance. It would buy him enough time to fight back with his other mystic codes.

Fletcher didn’t seem like the type to stoop to outright robbery, not if it put his own life at risk. But Archibald had no doubt he’d eagerly sell him out to the Aurors the moment the potential profit outweighed the danger. Sooner or later, that would have to be dealt with.

Unfortunately, even in his best years, studying magic had rarely been possible without dealing with people like Fletcher—those who could acquire anything for anyone, with no regard for academic value, morality, or the number of lives sacrificed in the process. Some things never change, no matter the world.

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 8

TN: I accidentally skipped the interlude from Tonks' POV. It is supposed to be after chapter 7. I'll translate it and post it as soon as I can. But for now here are the main chapters.

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Despite the whimsical atmosphere and complete lack of technological advancement in London’s magical district, there were certain things they did exceptionally well. For instance, the tea in the local establishments was simply exquisite, even though it was oddly purple—likely enhanced with some magic. 

Sitting at a small table in one of Diagon Alley’s cafes, Kayneth ordered another cup and returned to his reading. He still had a quarter of an hour before his next appointment. It was important, he reminded himself, to take breaks and occasionally venture into public spaces.

After a month of crash-course immersion into the magical world of Britain, interspersed with crafting magical gadgets for money, running on minimal sleep, and relying heavily on wakefulness spells, he sometimes felt that the concentration of caffeine in his bloodstream was nearing a lethal level. That thought alone was a sign his clarity of mind had started to wane.

Setting aside the thick book he had been poring over, Kayneth glanced around at the witches and wizards strolling by in their archaic attire. He now understood the community a little better, and it no longer seemed quite as absurd. Take their clothing, for instance. At first, he had assumed they expended enormous magical energy constantly altering their outfits purely for vanity. But given that at least two widely accessible magical methods existed for near-instantaneous Spatial Transportation, wizards genuinely could go years without encountering the mundane world. They could wear whatever they liked because they didn’t have to traverse London’s streets—they could simply teleport from their homes or use fireplaces.

How fireplaces worked was still a mystery to him, despite combing through half a dozen books on the subject. He was convinced it was a “trick”—the calculations didn’t add up. A mystery of that level couldn’t possibly function with such ease, requiring nothing more than cheap powder made from basic components. Apparition was another enigma. Then there were owls, which defied all logic entirely. When he retrieved a reply from Tonks, he had spent hours trying to understand how this separate “postal system” of the magical world functioned and whether it was even possible.

To say he had thoroughly read up on any single subject, however, would be an exaggeration. Over the past month, Kayneth had managed to sort through about 150 purchased books, plus another thirty acquired later. Some were always at hand for reference, others were shelved for future perusal out of scientific curiosity, and a few were marked for frequent consultation—like the introductory tomes on magical history, textbooks on wands, and their theoretical workings. He had studied those carefully, cross-referencing calculations and notes. The same went for everything available on combat magic (which turned out to be woefully limited) and the sections on spirits and ghosts in bestiaries.

However, this was a drop in the ocean. He had barely skimmed the surface of the local, peculiar form of alchemy, focusing only on its practical applications for income. Necromancy was even scarcer, mostly mentioned in historical references or encyclopedias of magical creatures. Clearly, the Ministry’s censors had diligently scrubbed this area clean. Undoubtedly, the libraries of aristocrats contained far more material on such "forbidden" topics, and so did the Ministry itself or the Auror offices. But accessing those would require time. Public libraries hadn’t yet reached magical Britain, and the only resources at his disposal were a few bookstores, whose shelves held only what was deemed harmless and marketable. Anything too controversial or overly specialized in professional theory was conspicuously absent.

There were also a few secondhand bookshops. Kayneth had ventured into them, overcoming his distaste, but sifting through piles of useless tomes felt like digging through muck in search of, at best, mica or quartz. Nevertheless, he had managed to uncover a couple of intriguing and mildly subversive books on medieval magical history.

The black market, meanwhile, was sluggish. A week after the nighttime skirmish, Fletcher resurfaced and reconnected with MacDuggal. He seemed to have dismissed the notion of an Auror sting, forming his conclusions. However, he now haggled fiercely, demanding guarantees, magical oaths, and outrageous prices. Negotiations were inching forward, albeit slowly—especially after one of their attackers’ comments made Kayneth suspicious that Fletcher might be playing multiple sides and ready to hand him over to the Aurors for rewards or leniency for past transgressions. Mutual assurances were required, and Fletcher wasn’t eager to provide them. As a result, Kayneth still hadn’t acquired a single wand to study.

He had been sorely tempted to take one from the dead criminals that night but refrained. He only knew that some wands (perhaps all) were tracked by the Ministry but had no idea how or how to defend against it. Carrying one in such ignorance was far too risky.

At least his finances were stabilizing. Just two days ago, Summers had transferred the remainder of the money for his treatment. Buyers had snatched up several magical bombs, and his “security systems” were in high demand. Kayneth even considered slowing down production to avoid an alarming rise in ghost sightings around London, which would surely draw unwanted attention. The bullets were also selling steadily, especially after he realized it was simpler to modify factory-made ammunition from a client’s stock rather than crafting them from scratch. It saved him from dealing with calibers and powder loads, which he barely understood. Testing his spell on bi-metal jacketed bullets proved equally effective.

The mandrake venture had yielded about thirty thousand pounds from an eight-thousand investment, though Kayneth had hoped for more. Four-fifths of the material had gone to method refinement and failed attempts. Unfortunately his potion to reverse aging in humans couldn’t even be replicated—it required a complex synthetic component unavailable on the open market. Moreover, the process demanded sublimation and distillation, equipment he lacked. A proper alchemy lab might have solved those issues, but given his limited resources, it was impossible.

Once again, Kayneth was reminded of how unused he was to operating without a reliable safety net and with a chronic shortage of… everything—information, time, and skilled help. Still, his balance was positive for now, and that would suffice to continue his work.

Aside from history, science, and finances, there was another topic Kayneth had yet to delve into but knew could involve him at any moment—politics. While the books he read provided a wealth of information about the structure of the magical community, the Ministry’s workings, Aurors, and the laws and codes that governed wizards, the overall picture remained fragmented. Censorship further muddied the waters, glossing over or outright omitting many issues, particularly those surrounding wizarding lineage and the blood purity conflict.

That’s why Kayneth decided it was time to talk to someone who could answer his questions directly. Tonks, though young and a future Ministry employee, would at least provide one perspective. It was a start before he sought other connections in the magical world. Besides, she was his only current contact.

Kayneth hadn’t changed his views on the importance of calculated marriages between magi families to strengthen magical potential in future generations. He believed any rational magus would see this as their duty. However, he had to admit that for wizards, this issue seemed less pressing. They rarely worked at the limits of their personal magical reserves, relying more on training and skills in manipulating internal and external energy through mystic codes. If Tonks was being groomed as a combat Auror, she likely had the competence and knowledge befitting the heir of an old family.

In short, he resolved to give her a chance to prove herself. Their acquaintance might prove valuable in the future, given his own precarious position. But that was a decision that he would make only after their conversation.

When the Metamorphmagus entered the cafe ten minutes later, she found James sitting with a cup of tea, engrossed in a book titled The Fenian Cycle: Historical Truth, Wizarding Theories, and Muggle Folklore. He wore a blue Muggle suit reminiscent of a private school uniform. Tonks, on the other hand, had arrived in a plain robe, having transfigured her jacket at the entrance to the alley. Sitting across from him, she remarked:

“Hey, James. Modern magic not enough for you? You’re digging into myths two millennia old now?”

“Good afternoon, Lady Tonks,” Kayneth replied politely, closing his book. By etiquette, he should have stood, pulled out her chair, and let her order first. But coming from a ten-year-old boy, such manners would have seemed absurd—especially when the “lady” was almost twice his age. Besides, he’d been so engrossed in his reading that he hadn’t noticed her approach until the last moment.

“No, I think modern magic will keep me occupied for a very long time,” he continued. “But I’m also catching up on ordinary school subjects—things I missed in the orphanage. That includes history and literature, where legends like these come up. Medb, Finn McCool, the Hound of Culann… It’s fascinating to learn what’s myth, what actually happened, and how it all played out. If magic exists, and wizards were around two thousand years ago, then it’s logical that they—well, we—didn’t always hide from Muggles. Later, people must have turned everything into ‘legends.’”

“Interesting perspective. I’ll admit, I’ve never compared Muggle textbooks with our history books,” Tonks said, surprised. As she spoke, she quickly ordered tea and pastries, though James politely declined the latter. “Honestly, I’m glad to see you settling in. When we first met…”

“I know I looked awful,” Kayneth interrupted. “I’m not ashamed of it—it wasn’t my fault—but I can see how I must’ve startled you. Some stray wanders up out of nowhere…”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Tonks quickly shook her head, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “I was just surprised. In any case, I’m glad everything’s working out for you. How are your new parents? Treating you well?”

“Everything’s fine. After living in the orphanage, I’d have been happy with anyone, but I have no complaints about them.”

They chatted about trivial matters for another five minutes. Kayneth asked about her studies and Auror training, but Tonks brushed it off, saying it was great but left her with little free time. Finally, satisfied that the boy was genuinely doing well with his adoptive family, she shifted the conversation to the reason for their meeting.

“So, you said you had questions about the magical world. I’m no teacher, but I’ll do my best to explain. What’s unclear?”

“The obvious question,” Kayneth said, gesturing toward the street with its enchanted signs and displays. “Why does everything here look so… outdated? Not a phone or a lamppost in sight. Do wizards use magic just to save on electricity?”

“That’s… complicated,” Tonks admitted with a sigh. “Short or long version?”

“Long, please. I’d rather understand now than make stupid mistakes later.”

“Alright, I’ll try. There are several reasons. First, wizards invented many things long before Muggles did—flight, long-distance communication, bright cheap lighting, devices for cleaning and cooking, effective medicines, and so on. Some of these, as I understand, Muggles haven’t managed to replicate with science even today. Unfortunately, this has led many pure-blood families to look down on Muggle inventions, thinking, ‘What can those savages possibly achieve?’ Especially since wizards live longer. Imagine your grandfather telling you how he once saw a paddle steamer as the pinnacle of Muggle ingenuity—what kind of opinion would that kid form?

“Some even believe wizards invented the locomotive and bus, not the other way around. And in places with high magical concentration—like here, the Ministry, St. Mungo’s, Hogwarts—electronics tend to glitch or stop working entirely. Mechanical and simple electric devices function fine, but they often have magical equivalents or they were never needed enough to gain traction. Magical radios exist, and some students enchant magical abacuses, for instance.”

“Do some use crystal balls to watch TV shows too?” Kayneth asked, mentally piecing together the picture she painted. It wasn’t entirely implausible—if the magi of the Clock Tower had as much excess power and a penchant for frivolous uses, they might have gone the same route. After all, he’d once heard about a magical fax machine crafted from enchanted wood and gemstones, used by some old families.

Still, he’d never encountered such issues with electronics at the Clock Tower. Perhaps it was due to the side effects of frequent manipulations of external magical energy—a norm here but poorly studied phenomena by the Association.

“No, I must admit no one’s thought of that yet,” Tonks replied, momentarily thrown off by the suggestion. “And a crystal ball is meant for divination—doubt it can be enchanted like that... But when you start school, you’ll have Professor Flitwick for Charms. Pitch him the idea—I’m sure he’d appreciate it. Or, once you’ve gained some experience, try doing it yourself. If it works, you could make a fortune selling such gadgets to pure-blood families.”

“I was joking, really,” Kayneth said with a small smirk. “But since we’re on the topic, what’s the deal with relationships between pure-bloods and non-pure-bloods? The books touch on it, mentioning the ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight’ and blood traitors, but everything is so vague it’s hard to make sense of it.”

“Oh, what a lovely day, delicious tea, and you go straight for the dreariest topic imaginable,” Tonks sighed, setting her cup aside. “But if you’ve figured this much out on your own, I’d rather explain it myself than leave it to someone else. So, here’s the deal…”

She paused to gather her thoughts. “No one knows when the first wizard was born, but they’ve existed since time immemorial, long before humans even left their caves. There’s a theory that the first wizard came from the union of a human and a magical being—maybe a Veela or an elf—but no one knows how true that is. What we do know is that for thousands of years, witches and wizards were born into both magical and non-magical families, as well as from unions with magical creatures related to humans.

“And it works the other way, too. Even when two wizards marry, their child can sometimes be a Squib—a person practically incapable of performing magic but still able to see certain things Muggles can’t. In the past, some families would hide their Squib children—send them to orphanages or monasteries to erase their existence from the magical world entirely. It was easier to do when families had six or seven children; one more or less wouldn’t draw much attention.”

“Why would they do that?” Kayneth asked. He’d come across mentions of this tradition in books but never understood its logic. Among magi, even a family member without magic circuits could still serve as a loyal ally, provided they were well-trained and their status appropriately defined.

Tonks tilted her head, trying to simplify her explanation. “Some worried people would think the child wasn’t theirs—that it must’ve been switched at birth or something. Others feared societal judgment. You know, rumors about their bloodline weakening, people saying things like, ‘Oh, magic has abandoned their family.’ Back then, people believed that nonsense—and in some places, they still do. So, Squibs were sent into the Muggle world. Sometimes, their children or grandchildren would be born with magic and return to the magical community. That’s where some of the pure-blood prejudice comes from.”

She straightened her posture and smoothed her hair, elongating and lightening it to resemble a snooty aristocrat. Adopting a mocking, haughty tone, she drawled, “‘I am from a family of twenty generations of magical lineage, and you, some mongrel great-grandchild of a Squib, dare to breathe my air?’” Several people at nearby tables quickly turned away—some stifling laughter, others shaking their heads disapprovingly. It was clear everyone recognized the person she was parodying.

Returning her hair to normal, Tonks continued in her usual voice. “That’s where it all comes from. Magic is what wizards value most—it’s their defining trait, what sets them apart from Muggles. So, if someone has generations of only wizards in their family, they may start believing they’re further removed from ordinary people than Muggle-borns or half-bloods. They think people like you and me have too much Muggle in us and not enough wizard.”

“And in reality?” Kayneth asked, his face carefully neutral.

“What do you mean, ‘in reality’?” Tonks blinked, momentarily thrown.

“I mean, in practice,” he clarified. “Remember our first conversation? I asked if a wizard with twenty generations of magical lineage would be stronger than one who just discovered magic yesterday. So, will they?”

“No,” Tonks answered firmly, meeting his gaze. “A wizard raised around magical beings, surrounded by enchanted objects, watching their parents and relatives use wands every day will have an easier time believing magic is possible. That’s something Muggle-borns struggle with, having grown up in a world where they’re taught magic doesn’t exist. Pure-blood kids will know the names of certain spells or potions and may have mimicked gestures their older siblings made. But that’s it.

“The strength of a wizard or witch depends far more on their knowledge, reflexes, skill, and practice than on how many pure-blooded ancestors they have. Of the three most powerful wizards of this century, two are half-bloods.”

“I’m guessing the three you mean are Headmaster Dumbledore, the tyrant Grindelwald, and Lord Vol—”

“Stop!” Tonks held up a hand, cutting him off. The abrupt motion caused their cups to clink against the table. “Don’t say his name. I don’t mind, but others don’t like it. Better to break the habit now. Come up with something else to call him—‘Whatshisname’ will do fine.”

“That’s another weird superstition I don’t understand,” Kayneth said with a touch of irritation. He hated being interrupted.

“It’s not superstition—it comes from the war,” Tonks explained, raising her hands in a placating gesture. “You’re not to blame for not knowing. See, there are special spells that allow tracking people or objects. For example, the Ministry puts tracing charms on wands to detect magic used outside safe, approved areas. Keep that in mind—it’s taken very seriously, and you’ll only get a warning the first time,” she added, taking the opportunity to caution him again.

“And Whatshisname managed to cast a similar spell on his own name. Imagine sitting around, casually discussing his plans—or cursing him out—and half an hour later, his followers are knocking at your door. People over twenty remember the fear of that time. For them, his name still carries that terror. For your generation, though, it’s just an old superstition. Shame it’s mindlessly passed down to Muggle-borns.”

Kayneth tilted his head slightly. “I imagine his head must’ve ached if someone gathered forty people, synchronized their watches, and had them shout his name simultaneously across the island.”

Tonks laughed despite herself. “By then, he’d delved too deeply into dark magic. From what his captured followers said, he wasn’t ‘entirely human’ anymore. I doubt it would’ve done him much harm.” Still, she made a mental note to ask Moody someday whether anyone had ever tried such a tactic.

“Alright, enough jokes. What did they actually want, both of them?” Kayneth asked, leaning forward intently. “Textbooks hardly say anything beyond the usual ‘he was evil, so he did evil things.’ But they were people, not monsters that eat humans just because they’re hungry. People always have reasons.”

“They did,” Tonks agreed, studying him thoughtfully. It was a rare question, even among Hogwarts upperclassmen. Most didn’t bother wondering why You-Know-Who did what he did; it was easier to accept “he was evil” as an explanation. Gryffindors, in particular, rarely looked beyond that. But Tonks, being a Hufflepuff, had a habit of putting in effort where others didn’t, including History of Magic, a subject notoriously poorly taught in the lower years. She’d only graduated a year ago and still remembered much from her NEWT preparation.

“You might not fully understand this, but I’ll try to explain it simply. Gellert Grindelwald publicly declared that the Statute of Secrecy was a mistake. That it wasn’t in our best interest. He believed wizards should dominate Muggles and rule over them as a superior race, as more evolved beings.”

“You’re kidding,” Kayneth said incredulously, leaning forward as if trying to gauge whether she was making fun of him.

“I’m completely serious. At Hogwarts, we had optional materials on modern history in the upper years, including excerpts from Grindelwald’s speeches and writings, along with commentary. It’s widely believed he genuinely believed what he preached, not just used it as a convenient excuse.”

“I see… Tell me, milady, could you cast Silencio on me for a moment?”

“I can, but… why?”

“It’s… very necessary.”

“Alright…” Tonks shrugged, pulling out her wand and performing the spell with a simple flick. “Silencio.”

Kayneth nodded in thanks before leaning back in his chair and silently laughing. Not the carefree laughter of a child but an almost hysterical reaction, his shoulders shaking as he covered his face with one hand, the other slapping the table. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he laughed without sound, his reaction drawing confused glances from nearby patrons. After a couple of minutes, he finally regained his composure, straightened his hair and collar, and nodded for her to lift the spell. Tonks, who had kept her wand at the ready, obliged.

“Finite. So… what was that all about?”

“I’m sorry. That was very rude of me, but I just couldn’t help it,” Kayneth said, trying to explain. The sheer absurdity of what he’d heard had genuinely shocked him, and his reaction was entirely unrestrained. To anyone else, it might’ve looked strange, but he simply couldn’t stop himself. The thought of wizards declaring war on Muggles in the hope of victory… It was laughable to the point of hysteria. Such an utterly foolish way to ensure the annihilation of the magical community wouldn’t occur to most.

“I haven’t heard anything this ridiculous in ages. It contradicts practically everything I’ve read in at least a third of the books over the past month. This Grindelwald—he attended Hogwarts, didn’t he?”

“No, he went to Durmstrang in Eastern Europe. That school supposedly allows more freedom in studying the Dark Arts. But even they expelled him before he could take his exams.”

“Judging by his ideas, the teaching there must be abysmal. Even I—a ‘Muggle’ who first picked up a magical history textbook just a month ago—already know how things really were with the Inquisition and the Holy Church, which was quite effective at wiping out people like us.”

“The Holy Church was disbanded in the mid-18th century, shortly after the Statute of Secrecy was enacted,” Tonks replied reflexively, then paused, realizing just how deeply James must have delved into magical history. Information about the Inquisition and the Church’s conflict with wizards had been censored even more thoroughly than details about the Dark Arts, replaced with tales of powerful witches and wizards laughing off Muggles’ attempts to burn them at the stake thanks to protective charms and illusions. One had to dig deep to uncover any hint of the truth.

“It became too much of a threat to the Vatican once their global witch-hunting mission ended,” she added.

“Yet, in the book I read, the author suggests that many of their records and archives survived, despite numerous attempts to burn them over the past two centuries. If we declared open war on Muggles, I’m confident the Church would eagerly dust those off and start recruiting new executors openly in cathedrals. If it even comes to that. There are far too many ordinary people for us to have any chance of winning.

“Let’s say a powerful wizard can fight off a hundred or even two hundred Muggles. But there’s one wizard for every three—let’s be generous and say two—thousand Muggles. He might intimidate, kill, or subjugate two hundred of them, but the remaining 1,800 will form a mob, drag him to the stake, and burn him alive. Muggles would suffer massive losses but ultimately survive. We wouldn’t. Isn’t that the entire reason the Statute of Secrecy was enacted?”

“Did you figure all this out on your own, James?” Tonks asked, clearly impressed.

“It’s all in the books. I’ve been reading a lot this past month. Honestly, it’s practically all I’ve been doing. I imagine anyone discovering magic exists and realizing they can use it would do the same, wouldn’t they? I wanted to understand how wizards can live alongside Muggles without revealing themselves, and why they hide the truth. It’s not like Muggles hid from us—they were perfectly willing to keep killing wizards, even without priests or royal decrees. A village mob and a bad harvest were enough: ‘Clearly, the wizards are to blame; let’s burn a few to fix things.’ We were the ones who feared them. Trying to overturn that now and establish a wizard dictatorship… Grindelwald must’ve been insane.”

“Many people think he was,” Tonks agreed, glancing nervously around. Thankfully, James wasn’t speaking too loudly. Discussions about war with Muggles, the Inquisition, or killing wizards were heavily discouraged by the Ministry. Official textbooks and published works sanitized or outright omitted such topics. But anyone willing to think could piece together the truth. James had already shown he was more than capable of that. It might cause him problems during his education.

“Maybe he was mad, but he wasn’t stupid. He orchestrated the Second World War, using Muggles and their armies as pawns instead of fighting them outright. He planned to subjugate them after securing victory.”

“That doesn’t make the ultimate goal any less absurd. Alright, I understand Grindelwald, but what about the other one—You-Know-Who? What did he want?”

“Their ideas were similar,” Tonks began, leaning back in thought. “Many sources say that in his youth, he admired Grindelwald and his writings. A lot of their principles overlapped, but while Grindelwald wanted wizards to simply rule over Muggles, You-Know-Who believed in purging what he called ‘dirty blood’ from the wizarding world before moving on to anything else.”

“‘Dirty blood’?”

“That’s their term for anyone with Muggle ancestry. To them, a ‘Mudblood’ is any wizard who has Muggle relatives within the last two—or better yet, three or four—generations. That includes you. Me. My father. Professor McGonagall. Headmaster Dumbledore. The author of Magical Me, Gilderoy Lockhart. Two-thirds of magical Britain…”

“And what was the plan for them—or, I should say, us?”

“Elimination,” Tonks said plainly. “According to his ideas, only purebloods—those who never sullied their lineage with ‘pathetic Muggles’—should remain.”

“That makes no sense!” Archibald exclaimed, genuinely shocked. He had prepared himself for many revelations, but not this. Tonks nodded, used to such a reaction, and confirmed calmly:

“None whatsoever.”

“Alright, Grindelwald was insane, but at least in theory, if wizards somehow managed to seize power, I’d hope they’d focus on studying magic and enhancing it, freed from resource constraints. That’s what wizards should do. But if you start slaughtering most of them… Leaving only those twenty-eight sacred families? Thirty heirs of ancient houses in all of Britain? That’s absurd! Not even madness—pure nonsense.”

Kaynett was many things, but soft or overly humanitarian for a magus he was not. A world where individuals devoted their lives to uncovering the universe’s most dangerous secrets was inherently ruthless and unforgiving. But even cruelty had to serve a purpose. What he’d just heard went against every principle he understood about magic and the structure of magical society.

“My mentor says the same,” Tonks said with a nod. “He’s a pureblood himself, but he fought against that… lunatic for eleven years.”

“I read in a book on British wizarding houses that nearly all pureblood families are already interrelated. If no new families emerge—families that could become pureblood over five or six generations—they’ll just keep marrying among themselves. Twenty-eight families… How long before they start marrying cousins, then siblings?”

“So it doesn’t bother you that their plan involved killing off all other wizards?” Tonks asked, genuinely trying to follow James’s train of thought.

“I’m not discussing morality here; I’m trying to understand the reasoning. And there doesn’t seem to be any. This isn’t just a crime against individual wizards—it’s an attack on magic itself and the magical world. If everyone understood this, why did the war last so long? Didn’t the International Confederation of Wizards do everything they could to crush such a threat immediately?”

“The Confederation…” Tonks hesitated. They had stumbled onto another sensitive subject. Today was just full of those. “Didn’t get involved. The war was declared an internal matter of magical Britain.”

“What?” Kaynett was growing weary of the paradoxes and absurdities of the local political landscape, if it could even be called that. “Who declared it an internal matter? Britain or the Confederation?”

“I don’t know,” Tonks admitted with a shrug. Her knowledge had its limits, and she had deliberately avoided delving too deeply into the murky politics surrounding He-Who-Causes-Endless-Trouble, given her plans to become an Auror. “The newspapers covered it extensively; rumors were even worse. Officially, everything was polite and orderly—‘The Ministry of Magic and the international community strongly condemn the actions of the infamous criminal and his followers…’ That sort of thing. The war was swept under the rug for a long time. The conflict wasn’t officially acknowledged until 1974. Until then, the Ministry worked hard to pretend everything was fine, and other countries pretended to believe them. He hadn’t directly attacked them yet, just spread his ideas and recruited volunteers.

“Apparently, he had plenty of admirers in Europe. Maybe other nations feared that if they got involved, some of their own purebloods might switch sides. Or maybe there were a dozen other reasons. Politics is always murky and dirty, whether among Muggles or wizards.”

“I’m starting to wonder if I made a mistake agreeing to this,” Archibald said, though in truth, he was playing a role rather than expressing his genuine thoughts. Some madman’s delusions wouldn’t deter him from pursuing the study of magic. But James Murphy, the orphan who had only learned of wizards’ existence a few months ago, might well be shaken by the less-than-pleasant secrets hidden behind the magical world’s whimsical robes, brooms, and brightly lit shop signs.

“Britain, with all its flaws, is still a peaceful and safe country. We don’t even have to worry about the Reds anymore. Maybe I should swear not to reveal magic or even ask you to erase my memory and live as a normal schoolboy. I wouldn’t be able to travel by Floo, but at least no self-proclaimed tyrant would torture me and my parents to death because of our heritage.”

“To be honest, I had similar thoughts when I was a bit younger than you,” Tonks admitted candidly, giving him an understanding look. Then, switching to her warmest, most reassuring tone, she added, “But that madman is dead. His followers are either in prison or in hiding. There’s nothing to fear anymore. You can go to school, visit a giant castle steeped in magic from the dungeons to the tallest tower, fly on a broomstick for the first time, see dragons, hippogriffs, centaurs, and mermaids. You’ll learn what it’s like to transform objects with just a gesture and a word, heal illnesses instantly, or repair an entire house,” she said, lifting her nearly full teacup into the air with a flick of her wand and spinning it mid-air without spilling a drop. She then caught it in her hand and added, “Magic is a part of who we are. Don’t give it up because of a few lunatics, James.”

“Well, it’s hard to argue with such wisdom. But I do have another question.”

“Go ahead.”

“What do wizards do after school? I understand what adults in the Muggle world do—drivers, clerks, soldiers, scientists. You’re essentially a police officer. At St. Mungo’s, there are healers. At Hogwarts, teachers. At the Ministry, bureaucrats. Here in this quarter, shopkeepers, cooks, craftsmen selling enchanted items. But what do the other wizards do? The aristocrats who don’t have to worry about money, at least?”

“That’s an unexpected question,” Tonks admitted, clearly caught off guard. She hadn’t anticipated the conversation shifting in this direction. The question itself, however, made perfect sense—especially coming from a child. Magically born or not, Muggle-raised kids typically started pondering such things later, after being more immersed in the magical world.

“Most work in the Ministry. Some sit on courts or participate in the Confederation Council. They lead social lives, weave intrigues, or juggle all these things at once. A sizable portion of adult wizards, however, are employed by the Ministry or its subsidiary organizations or work in professions serving the magical community. Some go into sports professionally. Others run businesses or offer various services.”

“What about science? I mean, the study of magic. Someone must be creating new spells, brewing innovative potions, or crafting new artifacts, right? Or am I wrong?”

“There’s the Committee on Experimental Charms under the Ministry,” Tonks replied, giving the straightforward answer. “Although it doesn’t have much influence and isn’t taken very seriously. If you want to work there after school, I’m sure they’ll have a spot open for you. Beyond that… Potion-makers experiment with new formulas in their spare time, as far as I’ve heard. Most new artifacts are designed here, for sale in Diagon Alley shops. Hogwarts professors and some private tutors sometimes publish articles. There are wizards who conduct experiments with charms and transfiguration at home.

“Unfortunately, many get too caught up in it and forget about precautions. We were told during training about a particularly gruesome incident involving a witch several years ago. Then there’s Knockturn Alley. Some people there try to make a living by mixing potions or layering spells in bizarre, backward combinations, hoping for miraculous results. But more often than not, it comes to nothing because they lack the knowledge or resources to conduct proper research.”

“And the aristocrats? Those so-called ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight’—the Goyles, Yaxleys, Greengrasses, and the rest? They’ve got the money, knowledge, and free time. They’re practically obligated to advance magic.”

“In an ideal world, perhaps,” Tonks said with a faint sigh. “But in reality… they’re too busy with power struggles and scheming.”

For several minutes, silence hung over the table. Kaynett pondered her answers while Tonks reflected on the questions. The witch had reason to feel satisfied with their conversation. Despite touching on some sensitive topics, she had more than accomplished her goal—ensuring that the prospective wizard wouldn’t go within a mile of any Death Eater recruiters.

Kaynett, however, was left with mixed feelings. The more he learned, the more glaring the inefficiencies and contradictions of this magical society seemed. Still, he finally broke the silence.

“Well,” he said, “I think that’s more than enough. Forgive me for my curiosity—it’s already getting dark, and I imagine I’ve taken up most of your day off.”

“Not at all. I joined the Aurors to help people. And that doesn’t always mean waving a wand around. If this makes it easier for you to integrate into the magical world, and if you one day help someone else in turn, how could that be a bad thing? If you ever need help, don’t hesitate to write. Oh, by the way, have you figured out the owl system? I mentioned it in my letter…”

“No problem. Your instructions were very detailed. Although it’s still a little strange that wizards dislike phones so much. But I’ll get used to it.”

“Progress is happening—it’s just slow. Even the Auror office has a phone at reception,” she said proudly.

“Yeah, I know.”

“How do you know that?” Tonks asked, surprised.

“Well, I might’ve dialed the wrong number once…” Kaynett began, initially fumbling for an excuse before deciding to tell a modified version of the truth. “At the orphanage, I needed to make a call—I don’t even remember why or where. I accidentally ended up reaching your office. Back then, I didn’t know about magic and just thought the name was weird.”

“That happens sometimes. Occasionally, Muggles call us by accident too. But we’ve never managed to invent a spell that restricts dialing to a specific group of people, instead of allowing anyone to call from a random London payphone. Though I’ve heard some tried.”

“And that brings us back to the importance of research,” Kaynett said, standing up and offering a slight bow. He left money for the tea on the table and headed toward the exit. “Until next time. I appreciate everything you’ve shared, miss.”

“Take care. Write if you need anything,” Tonks called after him with a wave before signaling for the check.

On his way home, Kaynett gazed at the city lights and his reflection in the window, mentally organizing the new knowledge and plotting his next steps. Steering the conversation with Tonks toward politics hadn’t been random. In this world, he was entirely on his own—no support, no allies. If that was the case, he would eventually need to align himself with one of the factions within this society to avoid being devoured.

In the Clock Tower, the major factions were clearly defined: the aristocrats, staunch defenders of the old families’ rights (to which the Archibalds had loyally belonged); the democratic faction, advocating for greater privileges for neophytes and magi without lineage; and the large neutral faction focused on maintaining the status quo.

Here, the magical community wasn’t all that different. There was a group of aristocrats obsessed with strengthening their power through terror and mass executions. While Archibald would never be mistaken for a liberal or a champion of weaker magical houses, the idea of annihilating all of them was unthinkable.

Old families, in his view, should remind newcomers of their place—like adults guiding children—while denying them serious decision-making power. At the same time, they should push these new magi to improve and develop. A first-generation magus was practically useless—lacking a crest, possessing weak magic circuits, limited knowledge, and few resources. But with proper effort, education, and careful planning, their descendants could take their rightful place within the magical community within four or five generations, even contributing new mysteries and sorcery traits to enrich it.

In other words, while Kaynett had no intention of abandoning his old worldview, the radical faction of Britain’s magical aristocracy was clearly not for him. A better option might be to join one of the more moderate families—if he could prove himself valuable enough as a wizard. Yet, cruel irony (or the bizarre circumstances of his current existence) meant that he was now a first-generation wizard with no family or patrons. Other houses would only take him in as a subordinate—the highest position he could ever hope to reach would be that of a trusted servant.

And that, Archibald would never accept. His pride wouldn’t allow it. For the same reason, a marriage alliance (not that such a thing would even be possible for another six years, at minimum) wasn’t worth considering. He would always be a weaker party in such a union.

The Ministry of Magic presented itself as a thoroughly neutral—perhaps excessively so—entity. It clung to the existing order with a tenacity that seemed to defy both self-preservation and common sense, as evidenced by its actions during the civil war. The fact that three Ministers had been replaced over the course of the conflict indicated that the issue lay not with the competence of individual leaders, but with systemic flaws.

Kaynett scoffed derisively at the thought of them. These weren’t magi in pursuit of understanding the mysteries of magic; they were petty bureaucrats with mystic codes—paper-pushers preoccupied with regulating the length of flying brooms according to some antiquated decree from 1700-whatever, rather than advancing magical knowledge. He saw no future for himself in their ranks unless the organization underwent a fundamental transformation.

Then there was the school—Hogwarts, the domain of the "strongest wizard of the generation." According to available information, it was reasonably liberal in its treatment of "Muggle-borns." As a repository and disseminator of magical knowledge, it was invaluable, especially in a world that seemed largely indifferent to the study of magic. However, despite the school’s broad-minded stance on blood purity it also imposed stricter limitations on certain branches of magical practice than even the Ministry.

There was always the possibility of leaving the country altogether, relocating to the States or the Continent if magical research there proved more fruitful. Kaynett had no overwhelming patriotic feelings for the United Kingdom, though he acknowledged its contributions to magic and its many discoveries. But if forced to choose between patriotism and advancing his mastery of the magical arts, he would choose magic without hesitation. For now, however, his understanding of the international magical landscape was far too limited to make such a decision. At least within Britain, he had begun to form a rudimentary understanding of the situation and had established some basic connections.

In the worst-case scenario, he might be forced to gather a faction of his own—one that approached magic differently from the existing groups. He didn’t relish the thought of such a monumental undertaking but acknowledged it might become necessary. For now, though, he had a small window of time. Summer would soon arrive, bringing school holidays, and with them, the opportunity to meet students who were currently enrolled. Observing them could provide insight into the mindset of the new generation of wizards, as well as open avenues for gathering more information and viewing the magical world from diverse perspectives.

Lost in these musings, Kaynett reached his "workshop." He stepped into the library, where shelves for his growing book collection had finally been installed. He paused in front of his worktable, gazing at a small tungsten dodecahedron perched on a stand at the center of a magical circle. As he had done that morning, he touched it lightly, channeling the energy accumulated in his magic circuits throughout the day into the device.

This ritual had become routine over the past week, performed once or twice daily, steadily charging the new, far more reliable energy reservoir to its capacity. It would take at least another month to fully saturate it, but the experiment he was planning would require an extraordinary amount of power.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 39

What’s Madam Shijimi doing here? Well, it’s not like I can’t find out. The palanquin stopped in the square near the Hokage’s Residence, and a shinobi I didn’t recognize—though the white armband on his side was very familiar—offered Shijimi a hand to step down. Her eyes scanned the surroundings with a distracted air, even pausing on the rooftop I was perched on for a split second.

I debated letting her see me. On one hand, it might ease her mind—she’s looking rough. And I’m guessing it’s not just because nearly all the Shugonin were wiped out. She’s probably worried about me too. I mean, I did vanish after that bloodbath. But honestly, I don’t have the strength, time, or desire to make a palace visit right now. The shame would simply eat me alive. I was supposed to spy, protect the masters, and safeguard the Land of Fire, and look how that turned out. I couldn’t even save Sano. And Taemi-san… she’s probably still mourning her son. Ugh, Chiriku. May you get castrated by your own scythe! If that guy shows up in this village, I swear I’ll—

Breathe, Tora. Just breathe. This isn’t the time or place. Focus! You’ve got two emotionally wrecked kids depending on you—Naruto, my little bundle of sunshine, and Sasuke, my broody enigma. Those two are orphans who have no one else but me right now. The dead are beyond help. Focus on the living.

Shijimi nodded to her bodyguard, rummaged inside the palanquin, and gasped dramatically before spinning around, her face suddenly twisted into a comically tragic expression.

“Oh no, Mamoru-san! He’s run away! My precious Tora-chan has escaped!” she wailed, pulling out an empty cat carrier from the palanquin. “It must’ve happened when we entered Konoha! I cracked the door open just a little bit, and…”

Wait. When did I—?

“Shall I search for your cat, Madam?” the guard offered calmly.

This guy, a rugged-looking dude with a triangular white armband bearing the Fire emblem, radiated serious power and tension. Just in case, I slowed my chakra flow. Seasoned shinobi can sense eyes on them—even from animals. Maybe he’s a retired vet brought back into service? Not exactly young, but not over the hill either. Perhaps Shijimi and Minoru were forced to hastily rebuild the Shugonin ranks.

“No, no! I’ll ask the Hokage to organize a search for Tora-chan!” Shijimi declared. “Oh, my sweet Tora-chan…”

“As you wish, Madam,” Mamoru said with a polite bow.

Honestly, I’m so glad I scouted the area back when I was the Fifth Hokage’s cat. I know at least four ways into the Hokage’s Residence and two shortcuts that lead straight to the Hokage’s office from the roof. Hiruzen didn’t bother moving offices and just claimed Kushina’s old one. For now, Shijimi entered the ground-floor veranda, where mission receptionists were stationed. There was Hiruzen, puffing away on his pipe. At least out in the open air, the tobacco stench wasn’t as unbearable. I’d love to shove that pipe—

Nope. Breathe. Calm down. No time for a chakra flare-up. People were already glancing around uneasily. Deep breath, Tora.

While Shijimi sobbed over the empty cat carrier—the same one I had been transported in as a kitten from Konoha to Himachi—she put on a whole theatrical performance about her “missing baby.” Meanwhile, she requested a ton of relatively simple missions: harvest assistance, guarding state caravans, dealing with bandits terrorizing a province, stuff like that. And she kept mentioning me in every other sentence. Someone even ran to fetch her some calming tea and reassured her that the best Academy graduates would be assigned to find me. Uh-huh, sure.

They printed out my photo—an older one, where I looked younger and had a pink bow on my ear. Shijimi cooed over it before reluctantly handing it over.

“Summon Might Guy’s team immediately!” one of the reception shinobi barked, wiping his brow once Shijimi left, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

Oh, this is gonna be good. I hesitated, tempted to meet Shijimi now, but honestly, it’d be way more fun to see the legendary Byakugan in action. Just hope those infamous “64 Palms” don’t get tested on my fur. Heh. Or someone’s losing their Byakugan privileges.

“Tenten, come in! No sign of the mission objective ‘cat’ near the playground. Neji, do you see it? Over.”

“Idiot. Do you have any idea how many cats there are in Konoha?” Neji’s annoyed voice replied—right next to me, by the way.

“I’ll catch every single one until we find it! Over,” Rock Lee declared with fiery determination through the comms.

Oh, this is gold. The Guy Squad—aka Brow Brigade and Company—had gone all out, equipping themselves with radio collars like proper action heroes. Their chatter was loud enough for half the village to hear. Seriously, I could hear Lee’s shout both over the radio and from a good three hundred meters away.

“The power of youth is with you all! I believe in your ability to find Tora-chan among the hundreds of cats, over!” their ever-enthusiastic teacher chimed in.

“Let’s split up,” Neji sighed through the comm. “I’ll head to the village center and direct you from there. I trust you remember what the cat looks like.”

“You’re forgetting to say ‘over,’ over,” Lee corrected. “Brilliant plan, Neji! Konoha is circular, and your range of vision will cover the whole village from the center. Genius, over.”

I nearly choked on my own snicker. Oh, poor Neji. I bet his face screamed, “Why do I have to work with these people?!”

“Fine, I’m heading to the stadium,” Neji muttered.

I bolted there first, darting over rooftops and trees, and settled on a sprawling elm right across from the stadium. The funniest part? Neji showed up, took one look around, and climbed the same tree with an expression that could curdle milk. He formed seals, and his eyes practically bugged out when, I assume, I lit up on his chakra radar.

Man, Byakugan is some powerful tech! I could feel the chakra flowing to his brain. Must be why he’s so sharp—good blood flow up there. The veins around his eyes bulged impressively, and his pale blue irises turned into eerie, pupil-less voids. Creepy, but effective.

“Well? Neji, are you in position? Over!” Tenten’s voice came through the comms.

“Wait a moment,” Neji grumbled. His eyes returned to normal, and he stared right at me.

Ah, sometimes I wish I had eyebrows, but I worked with what I had. Time to see how susceptible this stoic genius is to feline charm.

“Tora-chan?” Neji said, half-questioning, half-confirming.

“Yes, and what of it?” I replied with the most innocent, wide-eyed look I could muster. I’m lost!

“Scared, buddy?” Neji said softly, reaching a hand toward me. “It’s okay. Come here. I’ll take you back to your owner…”

“Neji! What’s going on?! Over!” Lee’s voice blared from the comms. I let out an exaggerated yowl of fright and leaped off the tree.

I landed in the middle of the street, pausing dramatically to give Neji a mournful, guilt-inducing look. He scowled but quickly schooled his expression when he realized I was still within reach. Oh, this was going to be fun.

“I found him,” Neji replied calmly.

“What? Already?!” Tenten’s surprise came loud and clear.

“You found him?! Over?” Lee chimed in with equal astonishment. “We’re on our way to back you up!”

“No!” Neji shouted, his voice uncharacteristically alarmed. “Stay back! You’ll scare him. He’s already skittish, and I’ve almost got him. I’m taking off the comms. Over and out!”

“But—!” Lee’s protest was cut off as Neji yanked the radio collar off his neck with a decisive motion.

“Tora-chan, Tora-chan,” Neji cooed, switching to the soothing tones of someone trying to coax a stray. “Come here, buddy.” He gracefully descended from the tree, showing off his shinobi ability to stick to vertical surfaces, and sat cross-legged on the neatly trimmed grass.

You’d never guess this was the same jerk who nearly crippled his sister. Well, technically his cousin. Not that I care about human family drama—it doesn’t apply to cats. Sure, he could be the guy who hates his clan, tolerates his team by sheer willpower, and mocks Naruto at every opportunity, but apparently, he has a soft spot for cats.

By the way, he was wearing shorts too—seriously, does nobody in this village dress seasonally? And he just plops himself down on the grass like it’s nothing. Fine, I’ll be generous. Besides, I do need to figure out what’s going on with Shijimi.

“Good Tora-chan. Such a good kitty,” Neji murmured, scratching behind my ear and stroking my back with the finesse of someone who clearly knew how to handle a cat. Then he gently scooped me up, cradling me against his light-colored jacket with its stand-up collar. The jacket, like everything else, was completely unseasonal—short sleeves, one arm wrapped in bandages, the other bare. I lazily batted at the dangling straps from his shin guard.

“Let’s go. I’ll take you back to your owner,” Neji said softly as he rose and began walking toward the Hokage Residence. “They said she’s been very worried about you.”

His warmth and steady movements were so relaxing that I figured I might as well nap on the way. Who knows what kind of chaos awaits once I’m handed over to Shijimi.

_______________________________________

“Aww…”

“Quiet, Tora-chan is sleeping,” I heard Neji whisper through the haze of my half-sleep. It sounded like the whole team had gathered. Multiple hands were gently stroking my fur.

“Should we put him in a carrier?” Tenten whispered back. “He looks heavy…”

“No,” Neji replied softly, holding me snugly. “He got lost and scared. I’ll carry him.”

Huh. This Hyuga prodigy is turning out to be nothing like I expected. Sure, in the anime he eventually mellowed out, but that was way later…

“Tora-chan! My sweet little darling!” Shijimi’s loud, dramatic voice shattered the calm and yanked me out of my nap. “Come to Mommy, my precious baby!”

Welp. Showtime. Time for the circus to begin.

[Castling] Chapter 43

Hedwig woke us up early, hooting loudly and pecking insistently at the glass until Harry finally let her in and fed her. She flew up to the wardrobe and settled there, silent at last. The clock showed it was barely nine.

The racket they made made it impossible for me to fall back asleep, so grumbling at the feathery menace, we got dressed and headed downstairs. To our surprise, we found Hermione already there at a far table, sipping tea, reading the Daily Prophet, and surrounded by books with multicolored bookmarks sticking out of them. Typical Hermione—she'd managed to arrive even before the owl post could deliver her reply.

It was clear she was buzzing with excitement about our upcoming trip to the Ministry. While we ate breakfast, she nervously flipped through her books and started bombarding us with facts we didn’t ask for.

“Our visit to the Ministry is going to be amazing!” she said, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “There are so many departments! I can’t wait to see the atrium, the courtrooms, the Floo Network, and learn how everything’s organized.” She rustled some pages and slid a book toward us, pointing to a picture of the Fountain of Magical Brethren. “Did you know the Ministry employs thousands of people?”

“What does it say about Black?” Harry muttered, completely ignoring her. He was spreading butter on his third piece of toast, layering it with three slices of cheese, and then topping it off with a piece of ham for good measure.

“Nothing new,” Hermione replied, frowning as she hastily moved her book out of the way of Harry’s crumbs. She glared at him, clearly ready to lecture him about his indifference, but I cut her off.

“How are your parents, Hermione?” I asked, pouring more tea into her cup. “Did they agree to let you stay with us at the inn until the end of summer?”

“No,” she sighed, her expression falling. “I even showed them my textbook. Look, here.”

She flipped through A History of Magic and found the page she wanted, holding it out for me to read.

“When the International Statute of Secrecy was established, the Leaky Cauldron was granted special permission to remain as a refuge and sanctuary for wizards in the heart of the city,” she quoted, her voice full of importance. “That means the Cauldron is completely safe—protected by Ministry-monitored wards. It’s a haven for everyone—criminals, non-humans, even underage wizards.”

“Like a neutral zone?” Harry cut in unexpectedly. “Kind of like Hogwarts, where anyone can get help if they ask? Or Gringotts, where they don’t care who you are as long as you have an account?”

“Exactly,” Hermione nodded. “But my parents only agreed to let me come here during the day as long as I’m back home by six. It’s a half-hour by bus from my house to Charing Cross Road. It’s even quicker by the Tube, but the bus stop is closer.” She grinned. “And now I can practice spells too! Hurry up and finish eating—we’ve still got time to do some magic before lunch.”

“Alright,” I said, exchanging a glance with Harry before lowering my voice and leaning closer to her. “But first, we need to tell you something. It’s a bit of a secret, and we thought you might want to be part of it.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed with interest. She studied our faces, as if trying to confirm we weren’t joking, and the way she started bouncing slightly on her stool made it clear she was eager to hear more. We quickly finished breakfast and headed upstairs, where we explained everything.

Unlike Harry, Hermione immediately started analyzing the situation and, of course, found an inconsistency.

“How do you know all this, Ron?” she asked, her sharp gaze darting between us.

“I can’t explain that just yet,” I replied, “but I promise I’ll tell you everything later.”

“That’s not good enough,” she said firmly. “We’re friends, Ron, and friends trust each other. What you’re suggesting isn’t just breaking school rules—it’s breaking the law. I’m willing to help, but I need to know the full story.”

“Shall we tell her, Ron?” Harry asked, pleadingly. “She’s right.”

I sighed and shrugged. Fine. He probably just wanted to use this as an excuse to learn more himself. But I couldn’t tell them the truth—only a version of it.

“…And that’s how the shaman helped me defeat the piece of Voldemort’s soul,” Harry finished, glancing between a stunned Hermione and me.

“In Romania, when I was in the shaman’s tent, I went into a kind of trance,” I added smoothly, lying without hesitation. “After that, I started having dreams about the future. Charlie said it can happen—like a heightened intuition, an inner voice warning me about trouble.” I hurried on, cutting off Hermione, who was snapping out of her shock and clearly gearing up to ask a million questions.

“That’s so unfair!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “You two always get the most exciting adventures!” She might’ve kept ranting, but Harry nudged her shoulder and hissed for her to keep quiet, his eyes turning to me.

“So, what exactly did you see?” Harry asked, his curiosity evident.

“Just bits and pieces so far,” I said. “The fragment of Voldemort in you, the Hall of Prophecies… My dad might end up guarding the prophecy, and he could get hurt. I want to stop that from happening.”

“You mean you can see what’s going to happen to us?” Hermione gasped.

“Not exactly,” I said carefully. “The visions are more about me and my family.”

“But Harry—”

“Harry’s practically part of my family,” I interrupted, “just like you. But not every vision involves you both.”

“Then why not just tell your dad?” Hermione suggested. “He could take care of it.”

“I’d rather not,” I said firmly. “No one’s going to believe a thirteen-year-old boy about some vague premonitions. Adults always think they know better. Plus, I don’t want to get Charlie in trouble. My parents would never let me visit him again if they thought the shaman did something to me. People fear prophets, Hermione, and I don’t want to become some kind of outcast. Or worse, be controlled and used for some ‘greater good.’”

"Alright," Harry suddenly interrupted. "Let’s talk about the plan. What do you remember from your vision? Spill it all."

“Well, from the door, you go right. Ninety-seventh shelf, all the way at the end. There is the glass orb with your name on it,” I answered, silently thanking the shaman for the clarity of those memories. I’d never have remembered such details on my own.

We dove into planning, and Hermione, as usual, came up with a brilliant addition when we decided not just to take the prophecy but to leave behind a fake to avoid suspicion.

“We need a small item to transfigure into a glass orb,” Harry suggested. “If we put enough power into the spell, it should hold for a long time. By the time it vanishes, no one will connect it to us.”

“What if we use a snowball for the transfiguration?” Hermione proposed. “When it melts, the water will evaporate without leaving a trace, so there’ll be no evidence. But none of us can manage double transfiguration on our own—we’ll need to work together.”

We all agreed enthusiastically and spent the rest of the time divvying up roles and practicing the necessary spells: creating snow, shaping snowballs, and casting muffling charms. I decided that if things went sideways, I’d involve Dad—feeding him the same story I’d told my friends but leaving Harry out of it.

When the time came, Tom opened up the Floo connection to the Ministry for us.

We stepped out onto a gleaming parquet floor in a vast, bustling hall and froze for a moment, overwhelmed by the sights. People rushed around, dodging us as they hurried by. The fireplaces on one side constantly emitted new arrivals, while others on the opposite wall swallowed people into green flames.

The polished floor was so shiny it looked like a mirror, and the deep blue ceiling shimmered with gold symbols that moved about, pausing momentarily as though displaying some magical version of advertisements. Massive golden gates loomed at either end of the atrium.

“Um... I think we need to find an administrator and check in,” Hermione said, snapping out of her awe and switching to her efficient tone. “But let’s move over by the fountain first—we’re in the way.”

We followed her lead and stepped aside. However, before we could start looking for anyone, a man began walking purposefully toward us. I recognized him as the same assistant who’d accompanied Fudge during his visit to the inn. When he saw we’d noticed him, he stopped near the fountain and beckoned us over.

“My name is Patrick Smith,” he announced grandly when we reached him. “I’m the Minister’s personal assistant. We’ll need to register your visit and confirm your passes. Follow me.” He led us to the far end of the atrium, where a lone desk labeled "Security" stood near the ornate golden gates.

“Goldman, these young visitors are guests of the Minister,” Patrick said imperiously to the older man in a blue robe who had stood politely upon our approach. “They’re here for a tour—here are their passes. I’m leaving them with you; Jones will be along shortly.”

Patrick nodded curtly and disappeared into the crowd, leaving us with the security wizard, who quickly retrieved a long golden rod from beneath the desk.

“Nothing to worry about,” the man said briskly, waving the rod over Harry like a magical metal detector. “Just a routine check for dark artifacts or extra wands.”

“What’s that for?” I asked, gesturing vaguely at the rod.

“Standard screening,” he explained as he moved on to Hermione and then me. I felt a faint buzz of magic, like the hum of electricity under high-voltage power lines, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

Once done, he returned to his desk and began inspecting our wands, placing each one on a platform attached to a device that produced narrow strips of parchment with our information. He pinned these onto a spindle and handed our wands back along with silver badges that read Guest - Tour, complete with our names.

At that moment, our assigned guide arrived. He looked young—probably fresh out of Hogwarts.

“I’m the Minister’s secretary,” he introduced himself with a touch of self-importance, though his grin gave it away. “But you can call me Theo. I’ll be showing you around. Let’s get started.” With that, he led us through the golden gates and toward the elevators.

To be honest, after an hour, I felt like I’d run a marathon. They took us through every level. The Ministry was like a massive ant colony. Heads of departments worked out of dingy offices barely the size of broom cupboards, and some had to share. Everything looked worn, dusty, and tired—a stark contrast to the flashy atrium with its gaudy golden decor and the over-the-top fountain statue.

Finally, we finished in the archives and returned to the atrium, only to head through a different set of golden doors and into another elevator.

“Next, we’ll visit the courtrooms, the Wizengamot chambers, and the Department of Mysteries,” Theo announced.

“Oh, that sounds fascinating,” Hermione said eagerly. “I’ve read about the Department of Mysteries, but there isn’t much written on it.”

“No surprise there,” Theo replied with a knowing smile, lowering his voice. “It’s so classified that even the Minister doesn’t have access to certain areas. The staff are hired in secret, and no one knows exactly what they do there. But we’re allowed to see the Hall of Prophecies and the Time Room. They’re not exactly thrilling, though—not much to look at.”

“Still, just being in such a secretive place will be exciting,” Hermione insisted, while Harry and I exchanged triumphant glances.

We descended into what could only be described as a dungeon. The air grew damp and heavy, and the walls felt like they were pressing in on us. It was as if we’d been buried alive—the weight of earth above seemed tangible. Even Theo seemed unnerved, his earlier confidence giving way to a strained smile.

“These are the interrogation and trial chambers,” he explained as we passed a series of doors. “Numbers one through ten. I think we’ll skip the rest and head this way.”

He darted into one of the rooms, and as we stepped inside, torches flared to life in their brackets, casting light over a circular chamber lined with tiered seating, much like an old arena. In the center of the "stage" stood a single chair bound with chains that slithered ominously across the floor, clinking faintly at our arrival.

“You may take a seat,” Theo murmured, but unsurprisingly, no one volunteered.

The Wizengamot courtroom was not unlike the regular Ministry courtrooms, save for its larger size and slightly brighter lighting.

Finally, we made our way up to a single black door.

“The Department of Mysteries,” Theo whispered, pushing it open.

We entered a circular room with numerous identical doors, two of which were marked by glowing red lights.

“This way,” our guide said brightly, holding his pass to a symbol on the nearest door’s handle.

The Time Room only seemed to impress Hermione. For me and Harry, it was just a space crammed with clocks and dials of every kind, their relentless ticking gnawing at the edges of our nerves. The only thing of real interest was a bird trapped in a shimmering sphere. Within seconds, it cycled from a swirling mass of glowing silver dust to an egg, a hatchling, then a fully grown hummingbird, before collapsing with a mournful cry back into the dust. The cycle began anew—a mesmerizing but eerie spectacle.

“A time loop,” came an unexpected voice from behind, making us jump.

A middle-aged man appeared beside us, his face strangely distorted, as though enchanted to blur his features. Not that he was invisible—we could see him perfectly—but it was impossible to commit his appearance to memory. Clever magic. The only thing I managed to retain was that he might have been blond.

“Let’s step out,” he suggested, his tone kind but firm. “The ticking can be unnerving.”

He led us into a smaller, brighter room that looked like a staff break area. After pouring us each a glass of juice, he introduced himself as Bob. Hermione, naturally, seized the opportunity to bombard him with questions.

“All Time-Turners were confiscated by the Ministry back in the 19th century,” Bob explained, his voice calm and measured, “after a particularly devastating accident. They’re classified as highly dangerous artifacts. Every member of the old wizarding families was sworn to a magical oath prohibiting them and their descendants from using, creating, or studying Time-Turners anywhere outside the Department of Mysteries. The risk was deemed too great.”

“Are they really that dangerous?” Hermione asked, her tone a mix of fascination and doubt.

“Extremely,” Bob replied, his expression grave. “You saw that bird, didn’t you? Under the wrong circumstances, the same could happen to anyone attempting to use a Time-Turner. They’re powerful, but they’re not flawless. A malfunction could cause catastrophic consequences.”

“But I’ve read that they’re supposed to only take you a short way back in time and, apart from a bit of strain on the body, they’re relatively safe,” Hermione countered, her curiosity unabated.

“Aging isn’t the main issue,” Bob corrected her. “Time-Turners don’t just act on the user. They affect everything around them. The magic they require forces the user’s body to stretch beyond its natural limits, aging them in bursts that can be harmful. But the energy for the actual temporal shift comes from the surrounding environment.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, looking lost while Hermione froze, her hand over her mouth as though she’d just worked something out.

Bob sighed, glancing at Harry with a hint of pity.

“Let me simplify,” he said. “Say you had a Time-Turner, Harry, and wanted to go back an hour. The rules advise doing so in isolation, away from others, especially yourself or anyone you interacted with during that time. Even so, your presence would still influence the timeline in ways you might not realize.”

“Always?” I asked. “Even if you just sat quietly in a room?”

“Always,” Bob confirmed. “Let’s say Harry stepped on a tiny bug without noticing. To him, nothing’s changed. But in the original timeline, he didn’t step on it. Maybe that bug would’ve crawled into someone’s trousers and caused a moment of distraction—enough for them to fall down a staircase, break a leg, and miss an important meeting. Whether the resulting changes are good or bad, the future Harry knew has been altered, even if he’s unaware of it. The timeline he lived has been erased from that point onward.”

“So that’s why everyone handed over their Time-Turners willingly?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Bob said with a nod. “The magical community agreed to surrender them to the Department of Mysteries, and the Wizengamot enacted strict penalties for anyone caught breaking the laws regarding their use. Controlling your own reality is one thing, but allowing someone else to alter it? That’s a nightmare. Here in the Department, we conduct controlled experiments that don’t affect the outside world, sacrificing years of our own lives—or the lives of test creatures—for the sake of research.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, her voice soft as she offered a hesitant smile. She seemed too caught up in thought to even defend the poor test creatures, which was saying something. “That was a fascinating and very enlightening lecture. How do you recruit people to work here?”

“Same as most places,” Bob replied with a smile. “We review applications and select the best candidates. But not everyone makes it. You need a particular mindset and dedication for this kind of work. The research takes up all your time, leaving almost nothing for personal pursuits. Not everyone can live for their job. But it’s worth it,” he added with a wink as he opened the door for us. “Good luck, future scholars.”

We stepped out, still reeling from what we’d seen, and Theo opened the next door for us. Honestly, I was so drained I could barely muster the enthusiasm to fetch the prophecy anymore.

We entered a massive, dimly lit room. For a moment, it felt like we’d walked into a deserted Gothic cathedral. Rows upon rows of towering shelves stretched around the perimeter, each lined with identical glowing orbs, all coated in a thick layer of dust.

“This is appalling,” Hermione grimaced, wrinkling her nose. “Looks like no one’s cleaned in here for a hundred years.”

“Not a hundred, miss—much longer,” croaked a raspy voice. An ancient-looking man emerged from the shadows, making Hermione startle and retreat behind me.

“No magic allowed in this room,” he rasped, “and you can’t touch the prophecy orbs, or you’ll lose your mind. That’s why it’s so dusty.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know,” Hermione mumbled, visibly flustered. “Can we look around, though?”

“You may, just don’t touch anything,” he said with a curt nod, before settling into a rickety chair by a lone desk near the door.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said as I approached him. “Where’s the restroom? Our tour’s been going on a while, and I—”

“Down the aisle to the right, all the way to the end, then left along the wall. You’ll see the door,” he replied.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, smiling to hide my relief. It was pure luck the restroom was exactly where we needed it to be.

“I’m going first,” Hermione said quickly, shooting me a meaningful look before disappearing through an inconspicuous door.

“Harry, you coming?” I asked.

“Nah, I’ll look around with Theo for now,” he replied, wandering off with our guide down one of the aisles.

Once Hermione came back, I ducked into the small restroom. On the counter near the mirror, I found the snowball waiting for me. Quickly, I transfigured it into a glass orb and pocketed it. Thankfully, magic worked here in the restroom—everything from the sink to the toilet functioned with basic spells. If magic had been restricted, our plan would’ve fallen apart.

While Hermione made her way to the ninety-seventh shelf, I caught up with Harry and Theo. Discreetly, I rolled the orb along the floor under the shelves until Hermione retrieved it. As she moved closer to the end of the aisle, I let a bag of marbles tumble from my pocket. They clattered noisily across the stone floor, drawing the attention of Harry and Theo.

“Sorry!” I exclaimed, adopting a sheepish look as I crouched to pick them up. Harry and Theo joined me, helping gather the scattered marbles.

“I told you not to bring those to the Ministry, Ron,” Harry muttered as he collected some marbles near the edge of the aisle.

“I forgot about them, alright? Didn’t have time to drop them off before we left,” I replied, subtly tossing the collected marbles further down the aisle to keep Theo moving.

“Harry!” Hermione called from a distance, sounding exasperated. “Can you help me? My sandal strap broke, and I can’t use magic in here.”

“Be right there!” Harry shouted before heading off in her direction. Our distractions were unnecessary, really. No one was paying us much attention—there wasn’t much to steal without getting caught, and magic was prohibited. The only real damage you could do here was knocking over an entire shelf, and even that wasn’t easy.

By the time we picked up the last marble, Hermione and Harry had returned, moving so briskly I didn’t even have time to feel nervous.

“Let’s head back,” Hermione suggested with a touch of feigned irritation. “This place isn’t as creepy as the dungeons, but it’s dreadfully boring. Besides, isn’t there a cafe in the Ministry? I’m starving.”

“Absolutely,” Theo said, clearly relieved. “The pastries there are excellent.”

“Oh, I must try them!” Hermione said theatrically as she started toward the entrance. “The ones the Minister eats every day, right? They sound divine.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Harry said politely when we reached the main aisle, “but could I visit the restroom as well?”

Theo nodded solemnly, and we waited while Hermione peppered him with questions. Harry returned quickly and gave us a subtle wink, easing the tension. We left the dusty archives with lighter hearts, thanking the grumpy old caretaker on our way out.

The cafe, as it turned out, was quite decent. We spent about twenty minutes there, sampling the famous pastries Theo had mentioned. They gave us them for free, which made them even better. Not long after, Fudge’s pompous assistant reappeared and escorted us to the Floo network, setting up a connection back to the Leaky Cauldron.

Once we were back at the inn, we ordered lunch from Tom and locked ourselves in our room, brimming with anticipation to learn the details of the “operation”.

Daily Updates (18/01/25)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 60

• Tier 2: Chapter 65

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 27

• Tier 2: Chapter 32

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 30

• Tier 2: Chapter 35

[Life is Good] Chapter 35

When I got back to the school, I immediately crashed to catch up on what little sleep I could. Fully rested? Not even close. But at least I could snag a bit of nap time before hitting the recharge station in the morning—filling up my energy reserves always gave me a little boost. For once, Ooyama didn’t drag me out of bed before dawn, so I woke up just in time for breakfast, even skipping my usual run.

Weirdly enough, I felt off without my morning workout, like something wasn’t sitting right. It was awkward, like I’d let myself down. Just to stay consistent, I set my phone alarm an hour before breakfast for tomorrow—at least I’d get in some basic exercises, even if I had a late-night mission.

I got ready quickly, dressed, and made a beeline for the cafeteria. Can’t study on an empty stomach. The place was nearly empty by the time I arrived—everyone had already dispersed to class. I loaded my plate with breakfast delights, sat at the nearest table, and activated my mutant superpower: devouring food at record speed.

Everything was great until the school’s alpha female of mutant stock dropped herself into the seat across from me.

Rahne Sinclair—herself. In my head, I called her Inuzuka, and it fit perfectly. Unlike her comic counterpart from my past life—who was shy and modest—this wolf-girl had the personality of a relentless pick-up artist. Cocky, pushy, cheeky, and convinced, for some reason, that sweet little Tobias was her rightful prey and future husband.

She was undeniably gorgeous. Green eyes, fiery red hair in a chic bob, a toned, athletic figure without going overboard, and a solid B cup size at seventeen (assuming she wasn’t cheating with a push-up). Her face was delicate but with just a hint of something feral, her expressions were animated, and her voice was deep and rich. It would’ve been perfect—if not for the personality that came bundled with the package.

“Hey there, kitten. Enjoy your meal,” she purred, her tone a mix of syrupy sweetness and predator's playfulness.

Oh great. Here we go again. It was an odd experience being on the receiving end of teenage pick-up lines. It’s not that it never happened before—just rarely. And Rahne? She was relentless.

“How’d you sleep, baby?” she cooed, her fox-like grin practically sparkling with mischief.

“Morning, thanks. Didn’t get much sleep—overslept, as you can see. How about you?” I replied, my tone polite but carrying a hint of exhaustion. No need to be rude, right? The girl had a thing for me, and she was doing her best in her own pushy way. Yeah, her assertiveness was overwhelming, even intimidating, but ruining things over that felt unnecessary. She wasn’t a bad person—just a little too much sometimes. Like Flash Thompson if he wasn’t shoving nerds into lockers.

“Great, thanks for asking. You know, you were in my dream last night,” she said, her grin growing wider, her green eyes practically glowing with devilish amusement.

“Oh, let me guess,” I chuckled, chewing on a bite of omelet. “We were up to no good under a full moon? That explains why someone’s howling woke me up this morning. Realized it was just a dream and decided to yell at the moon about it?”

She burst out laughing, throwing her head back like it was the funniest thing in the world. She even banged the table, causing me to steady my juice glass to keep it from tipping over.

“Sorry, sorry, sweetie,” she said, raising her hands in mock surrender under my chipmunk-cheeked glare. Then, lowering her voice to something intimate, she added, “I just love that you’re not as uptight as the other guys.”

“Yeah, tell that to Logan,” I shot back with a smirk.

“Mister Howlett? He’s in a league of his own,” she replied, flashing a grin. “He’s beyond any standard of evaluation.”

“Can’t argue with that,” I muttered, nodding in agreement.

“Wanna hang out today?” she asked, leaning in with that infuriatingly charming smile.

“Mm... sorry, Wolfie, no can do. My schedule’s packed,” I replied, shaking my head. But the look in her big green eyes—so sad, so disappointed—was a killer. After a pause, I added, “How about next weekend? I’m booked solid until then—my fiancee’s flying in tomorrow, so I’ll be spending all my free time with her until Thursday.”

That perked her right up. Her faux sadness vanished, replaced by a smug, self-satisfied grin.

“Deal, sweetie. Next weekend, you and I are going on a date! Ciao, bambino!” she called, winking as she sauntered off.

Something about her attitude made me think she believed she’d just played me into agreeing to the date. If so, she was way off. I didn’t mind. A date isn’t a wedding or even sex, and I’d never been one to stress over that sort of thing. And, to be fair, Rahne was a knockout. Redheads have always been a weakness of mine, even in my past life.

As I finished breakfast, I let my thoughts wander to the world around me. The sheer abundance of women compared to men made the dynamics here… interesting. If I hadn’t grown up in this world and instead arrived fully formed as an adult, I’d probably have worn myself out chasing an impossible harem before realizing it was all too much.

I could never understand some of those harem protagonists back in my old life—collecting girl after girl, then ignoring them. What’s the point? If you’re going to keep them around, at least treat them well. Otherwise, what’s the difference between that and treating them as trophies?

No, unlike them I wasn’t rushing. There’s so much beauty here, and I could afford to take my time. Penny was my sunshine, my childhood friend whose relationship with me blossomed into love. Then there was Kristi—a wonderful soul and a striking beauty with an unconventional allure.

They were my anchors, the ones I was sure about. They got along well enough from what I could tell in our online conversations, though that only goes so far. But life changes, and people with it. At seventeen, nothing is set in stone.

Then there were my plans. My future wasn’t shaping up to be calm or peaceful. A mutant training for combat, engaging in missions, patrolling with Parker, and possibly… eliminating threats. Not people—monsters. Monsters that deserved no mercy.

How would Penny or Kristi react if they found out my “heroic” alter ego executed someone without trial? It’s not something you can easily explain or justify to people as kind-hearted as them. That’s why mutants often live in enclaves—our goals may align, but the methods and morals? Those differ wildly.

Killing Stryker? Ooyama was thrilled, practically glowing with satisfaction. Victoria approved without hesitation. Magneto? Oh, she was absolutely delighted, though she did grumble a bit about me putting myself in unnecessary danger. Logan? He didn’t give a damn. The only thing that annoyed him was that he hadn’t been the one to tear her throat out. But Xavier’s people? Yeah, not so much. They didn’t outright condemn me—"Poor kid, he’s in shock, witnessed death, he’s traumatized"—but they didn’t exactly give me a standing ovation either.

With a sigh, I got up from the table, cleaned up, and dragged myself off to class. Life? She’s a cruel mistress, let me tell you. I’m not making any promises here—becoming some sort of Punisher knockoff isn’t exactly a goal of mine. And the whole superhero gig? For me, it’s mostly a means to an end. A way to learn, grow stronger, and make sure people take me seriously. To hit hard enough that no one dares to mess with me or the people I care about. Most importantly, though? I need to toughen up. Let’s face it—I’m way too soft. But I like my perspective on life: Good deserves good in return. But evil? That deserves a punch square to the teeth. That’s a lesson I need to learn. And thank the Emperor I’ve got the perfect sadistic mentor for the job. Yeah, Emperor—not some benevolent goddess. A kind goddess would never saddle a soft little boy with a mentor like Oyama. Hehehe.

The rest of the day went by in the usual way. Morning classes, followed by training with Oyama. During warm-ups, she handed me a copy of The Daily Bugle. Probably just to piss me off. The headline? “Spider-Girl Proves Useless Once Again, Nearly Ruins Police Operation Led by Mutant Hero.” Jameson… that guy’s got a grudge against Parker the size of the moon.

The article itself? A bit more surprising. Apparently, Captain Julia Stacy had “teamed up” with some unknown young man—yours truly—who called himself "Mr. Mutant." The whole thing was being spun as a police initiative to integrate superpowered individuals into law enforcement, much like what’s already happening in the military and special forces. Even Jameson’s editorial team grudgingly approved: “True heroes are police officers, doctors, firefighters, and rescue workers—not freaks in tights. But if these so-called superhumans can be trained to follow the law, maybe they’ll finally be of some use.”

I raised an eyebrow at Oyama and waved the paper at her. She just smirked and pointed to the mats. No explanations—just bruises. The sparring session began, and as usual, she kicked my ass thoroughly. Afterward, I recharged and shuffled off to see Beast. McCoy had mentioned some promising ideas for my powers, and I was eager to see what he and Jennifer had come up with.

When I arrived, only Jennifer was there. McCoy was running late, she said, but I could wait. So I flopped down in a chair and watched her type away at her computer. She’s cute, honestly—even with her whole Hulk thing. And after meeting Hulk, I don’t even find her scary anymore. Sure, I respect her. But fear? Nah. Let’s be real—Hulk doesn’t smash for no reason. There’s always some sort of shitstorm setting her off.

“Why are you staring at me like that, Toby?” Jen asked with a laugh, noticing my gaze.

“Just thinking…” I started, hesitating. “Have you ever thought about, I don’t know, trying to talk to Hulk? Like, go somewhere remote, wake her up on purpose, and maybe bring someone along who she wouldn’t immediately want to squash?”

Jen paused, mulling it over. “You know, I’ve considered it. But between running from the government and just surviving, I’ve never had the chance. I’ve talked about it with Professor Xavier, though. Maybe someday. But honestly? I’d be scared to involve anyone else. Hulk is… unpredictable.”

“Well, if you need a volunteer, I’m your guy,” I said, flashing her my best grin. “We got along pretty well after those jumps. I think she’d at least hear me out. Plus, based on what she said, I think Hulk knows more about your life than you might realize.”

Jen smiled softly. “I…We… sense each other. It’s hard to explain. When Hulk’s in control, it feels like I’m dreaming— it’s hazy and disjointed. And some parts I’d rather forget.” She grimaced and shook her head. Yeah, no surprise there. Hulk isn’t exactly a sparkly magical girl.

“The offer stands,” I said with a shrug. Before she could respond, McCoy burst into the room, and we got to work.

Time flew by in the lab, and I left with a spring in my step. First, I had a few Angels of Vengeance (no one answered so I am sticking with how it was in the original) emblems tucked under my arm, ready to be added to my suits. And second? Beast’s simple little experiment taught me, in some small way, how to control my electricity. I wasn’t hurling lightning bolts like Thor yet, but progress was progress. McCoy had rigged up a meter-wide disk with light bulbs arranged around the edge. Each bulb had its own wire, all leading to a central hub, which connected to a single cable. That cable? It went in my hands.

The goal was to light up specific bulbs with my powers, not all of them at once. At first? I blew every single bulb to smithereens. Too much juice. After a bit of calibration, though, I managed to make the bulbs glow instead of explode. Then came the hard part: directing the electricity down specific paths. The ladies set up a camera and left me to it. I grunted, strained, and even struck a few ridiculous poses. I wasn’t expecting the poses to help, but hey, you never know! And then, in one truly glorious moment, I managed to light up only the bulbs on the right side. Holding the pattern steady, I memorized the feeling—something impossible to describe—and kept experimenting from there.

It all ended with me confidently and effortlessly directing electricity exactly where I wanted it to go. I say this with the utmost sincerity—it was an indescribable feeling of triumph. Mastery over oneself feels almost as monumental as when you finally learn, as a kid, to pick your nose without occasionally poking yourself in the eye.

So, I had dinner with the girls in an absolutely stellar mood. Everything was going great—until I was walking back to my room with Kristi to start on some homework, and Oyama intercepted me at my door. "Get changed. I’m waiting for you in the car—we’ve got a long drive ahead. Bring whatever you need—you can do your homework on the way," she said, before throwing a glance at a visibly disappointed Kristi and heading toward the garage.

I sighed, apologized to my blue-skinned girlfriend, and headed off to get ready. Luckily, slapping an emblem on my suit's shoulder was a two-minute job. Suit on, a loose hoodie and joggers thrown over it, a small case packed with my mask and gloves in hand—I was ready. I made my way to meet my mentor, wondering what the hell had come up so urgently that Ooyama decided to drag me out again the very night after our last mission.

Once in the car and pulling out of the mansion grounds, Ooyama tossed a newspaper at me. "Details when we get closer. For now, read this and do your homework," she said curtly. I glanced down at the paper, quickly spotting the article she’d marked in red. The headline screamed: “Serial Killer On the Loose! Cletus Kasady Escapes Psychiatric Hospital.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake...

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 32

Greyoll’s Dragonbarrow had long lived up to its name: it was home to dragons, including Greyoll herself.

Once a great dragon matriarch, the mother of those now called devolved ones (1), Greyoll had been afflicted by rot, leaving her grounded and unable to fly. All she could do now was pray for the day when a resourceful ‘farmer’ with a bleed and frostbite build would come to end her suffering.

...Though, ideally, not one who would reload the area before her death—that would just be insulting.

To be fair, Greyoll’s thoughts didn’t exactly run along those lines, but the sentiment was the same.

Perhaps her life would have ended long ago if not for her offspring guarding her relentlessly, ensuring her torment stretched on indefinitely. The situation was so contradictory and maddening that all the ancient dragon could do was wait for someone strong and brazen enough to challenge her—a hunter, not a farmer.

Wait. Wait. Wait. And Wait…

For the Lands Between of the current age, such endless waiting was the norm. So much so that no one truly believed it would ever end.

And yet, strangely enough, everything ends eventually.

Greyoll slowly opened her ancient eyes, her decayed vision picking up the faint sound of her foolish children snarling. They were rushing at intruders, the usual "arrogant fools" who dared disturb their mother's slumber.

Typically, such encounters ended quickly. Even as degenerates, her children were a nightmare for most humans. Who wouldn’t fear an ensemble of reused assets with oceans of health, identical attacks (including those frustrating AoEs!), broken hitboxes, and sizes so massive that the camera would often spin out of control(2)?

This, however, was different.

Greyoll could feel it—one by one, her children were falling.

Someone was defeating them. More than that, they were being defeated without being killed—a feat requiring far more effort than a straightforward fight. This intrigued the dragon matriarch.

Her vision, blurred and long since dulled, still managed to pick up a human figure weaving amidst her panicked offspring. Was he… rolling through their flames?

"Has the rot finally overtaken my mind?"

For the first time in countless years, Greyoll felt… discomfort.

And she wasn’t alone. Nearby stood another human figure, though for some reason, it inspired a deep sense of revulsion and rejection within her—a familiar feeling. Strong enough that the great dragon let out a weak growl.

Rot.

The strange man (if he was even human) made quick work of her children. He was too fast, too agile, too strong… too absurd… The man didn’t care about AoEs or fiery onslaughts. Even when somehow cornered, he would summon a spectral steed that instantly carried him into the air, seemingly leaping off the very wind.

Was this a true dragon hunter? He knew them too well, predicting their every move. To do so, he must have slain not one, not two, but dozens of dragons before.

If this was how her suffering would end, it was not the worst fate. At least she would be killed by a worthy warrior, not a bleed-and-frost farmer.

The man and the living embodiment of rot approached her, allowing Greyoll to get a closer look. Only then did she realize that what she had assumed to be the physical manifestation of rot resembled a human far more than the peculiar man.

For the first time in an eternity, the ancient dragon felt something other than rage—fear. Brief, fleeting fear.

Kosta, grumbling as he extinguished his smoldering clothes again, hadn’t expected any reaction from her. He simply wanted to test something.

But the reaction came.

"Why… why did you spare them?"

The voice that echoed in Kosta’s mind carried the power of a fearsome, fire-breathing dragon. Yet it was weak and weary, a shadow of its former strength.

Kosta shrugged.

“You could have died(3).”

What nonsense! Did he take her for a nurturing mother who couldn’t bear the loss of her degenerate offspring—offspring who refused to let her die in peace?

Nonsense!

This tiny creature, smaller than her claw, pitied her?!

“The rot has left her no choice, Konstantin,” Millicent murmured, her voice tinged with sorrow. “What a terrible fate…”

Greyoll’s frustration surged anew. She was being pitied by a living embodiment of rot? Rot?! This human insect in a woman’s body thought she could fool her? Greyoll would not be deceived so easily!

"Kill me," the dragon said coldly. "My death… will grant you… power beyond… your wildest dreams…."

“That would have been more relevant at early levels. I’m overleveled,” Konstantin replied matter-of-factly, his tone thoughtful. “Also, I’m not a fan of dragon-heart builds(4).”

He turned to Millicent, his gaze softening.

Clean, no longer hungry, and dressed in fresh clothes, the red-haired girl had truly blossomed. Not entirely, of course—but still, the transformation was remarkable.

Her perpetual state of being in bloody, tattered clothing during their journey through the Lands Between had been a constant source of irritation for him.

Initially, Millicent had been shy about accepting such… gifts. But the determination of a Soulslike player was not so easily denied.

She now had things she’d never dared to dream of. Even the desolate beauty of the Starry Wastes had taken on a new charm for her—despite her familiarity with the region.

“I want to try something. Do you remember what I asked you?”

“I’ll find the medallion, Konstantin,” Millicent said with a smile.

She knew he didn’t truly need her help. Yet he kept involving her, offering her opportunities to fight rot-afflicted creatures, assigning her tasks like keeping watch while he slept (though she suspected he didn’t actually need sleep), and even letting her take charge of cooking. Simple meals, given their circumstances—and her one-handed limitations—but he still expressed gratitude. Konstantin pushed himself time and again to give her a sense of purpose.

Melina and Sellen had… strong opinions about his behavior.

Their shared journey through the Starry Wastes had been brief, but Millicent knew she would treasure it forever. For a girl born under the curse of rot, these were memories she couldn’t afford to lose.

She didn’t need to be told twice. Clutching her curved sword, she bravely bypassed the massive dragon and headed toward the fort. Though she wielded her weapon in her non-dominant hand, she still had plenty to show.

Konstantin and Greyoll were left alone. Almost: Melina and Sellen were ever-present, but their presence hardly fazed him.

The Tarnished stared into the ancient dragon’s weary eyes.

The Starry Wastes had already given him so much. He had farmed so extensively that even the rot-afflicted creatures had stopped attacking. When they spotted the unflinching Tarnished and the red-haired girl at his side, wearing an expression as though she were on the best date of her life, they preferred to flee—on legs, claws, or whatever else they had.

With every attribute he leveled that related to his intelligence, Konstantin found himself entertaining new thoughts.

Thoughts came clearer, more fluidly. Concepts formed in his mind that he’d never have considered otherwise. Though the core of his thinking remained as it was when he first awoke in this world, his perspective was broadening.

At first, he reevaluated the behavior of the beings around him, no longer treating events solely as “quests.” He continued calling them quests out of habit, but the meaning had shifted.

Then, he reconsidered casualness itself. Became more attuned to the emotions of the creatures he encountered. This newfound awareness didn’t solve his problems—it only compounded the psychological strain on the beleaguered hardcore-casual.

And now, in recent days, as he hunted alongside Millicent, consuming an immense influx of runes from the living and the dead, steamrolling through the Starry Wastes, another shift was beginning to take place.

Perhaps Konstantin was the only Tarnished who had ended so many lives in such a short span. He was certainly the only one capable of absorbing and channeling runes into himself with such monstrous efficiency.

As for the Great Runes that constantly fed his power—keys to reshaping the Lands Between—they barely needed mentioning.

"I’ve been meaning to try a certain prayer, but I didn’t have enough casual energy to use it," the man said, seemingly to no one in particular.

"What… what are you talking about…"

Greyoll could barely comprehend what this unshakable creature before her was saying.

"Now I have enough," he continued, "and I feel like I can use it. I want to try helping you."

The ancient dragon would have laughed at such an absurd claim, but for a variety of reasons, she couldn’t. Greyoll did not believe help was possible for her.

The man’s expression shifted imperceptibly. He looked unusually thoughtful.

"The thing is," Konstantin mused, "I’ve started looking at ‘prayers’ and ‘spells’ differently. And my power… too."

With Millicent’s arrival, his lessons with Sellen had grown less frequent, but he had already grasped the core of casualness: visualization.

Wasn’t he doing this all along? His power was clearly different from that of typical casuals. Still, he had been unknowingly "visualizing" effects similar to theirs.

Without much thought about his actions, Konstantin had been practicing casualness successfully. But now, with strange thoughts intruding unbidden, he was beginning to see flaws in his approach.

To be honest, Konstantin felt like he was unexpectedly diving into cut lore and content, forming theories, and trying to connect dots that no one had planned to connect…

He was undergoing one of the most terrifying transformations in the Soulslike community: awakening the seeds of a great and terrible lore scholar. The kind whose hours-long breakdowns of meaningless armor set descriptions captivated casuals, tryhards, and even those who’d glitched through boundaries to emerge from the basement, those who Must-Not-Turn-On-The-Timer.

Even those unfamiliar with Soulslikes had heard of these sages and, before they knew it, found themselves absorbed into the community. They became part of the endless attempts, oceans of suffering, triumphs, and challenges.

Was there ever any doubt about the inherently horrifying nature of lore scholars?

"I don’t understand…"

"In Soulslikes, that’s normal," Konstantin replied evenly. "Are you ready to take a risk?"

Let’s just say Konstantin, a veteran of bleed and frostbite builds who also dabbled in… farming, felt a twinge of guilt toward the dragoness.

Greyoll bared her teeth weakly at the Tarnished’s question.

Risk?

Her entire existence was agony. She understood that even if she died, her suffering might continue in some form. The rotting Golden Order, with no room for Destined Death, would not allow her to fully escape.

The offer from this being cloaked in a human guise was laughable.

Greyoll locked her weary gaze on his calm gray eyes. She saw in them a faint light—not the repugnant glow of gold, but something warmer, more natural.

"Yes…"

Neither Melina nor Sellen could fully grasp what Konstantin intended. They suspected he planned to use his power somehow, but how exactly…

They were about to find out.

Konstantin nodded and smiled. Then, beneath him, a glowing triangle covered in radiant circles appeared. He spread his arms, raising his left hand while lowering his right(5).

Melina’s heart skipped a beat.

Konstantin invoked the Law of Regression, a creation of Radagon.

He couldn’t say he agreed with the "law," which symbolized the stagnation of the Golden Order. Yet he could still use it. While regression was not inherently good in a broader sense, there were moments when it could prove useful.

After all, who doesn’t long to recall times when the pain wasn’t there?

Konstantin believed that the Law of Regression, as he understood it, could help bring such memories to life.

Fortunately, he needed no catalysts(6).

A wave of light engulfed both him and the dragoness, washing over her massive form before dissipating.

At first, Konstantin frowned, disappointed by the lack of visible effects. But then he heard a low growl from Greyoll. It started quietly, then grew louder and louder.

Of course, Greyoll recognized the fundamental prayer of the Golden Order. An ancient dragon like her couldn’t not recognize it. And the fact that it had been used on her filled her with a fury so intense she could barely contain it.

The pain made her lift her enormous head, glaring down at the unflinching man from above.

And then she realized what she had done.

"What?"

Konstantin, seeing the results, suddenly raised his hands to the Sun and shouted:

"Praise the Sun!!!"

Greyoll, too weak to hold up her massive body, lowered her neck, staring incredulously at the being whose form was now bathed in energy resembling forsaken gold, yet distinct from it.

Energy beyond the reach of mortals.

Lowering his hands, Konstantin met the dragon’s now much livelier gaze.

"I’ll come back occasionally and repeat the process until you can fly again. The casual principle is too draining to use frequently. Think of it as my way of compensating for all the runes I farmed…"

He seemed slightly uncomfortable—just the faintest bit. Of course, neither Melina, Sellen, nor Greyoll could understand his words.

The great dragoness slowly closed her eyes, the corners of her massive mouth curving upward slightly. Perhaps it was the relief of feeling better for the first time in ages—or perhaps the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"Fortissax… may have been… right(7)..."

Soon, a somewhat battered but triumphant Millicent returned from the fort, carrying the other half of the medallion they needed.

Now it was complete.

Their journey continued. Slowly but surely, they made their way toward the site of the promised Festival of War, clearing out everything in their path.

The Starry Wastes had not known such silence in ages. The countless rot-afflicted creatures, once so confident in their dominion over the land, now fled at the sight of this unstoppable force. A king had come to reclaim his domain.

Millicent, however, saw things quite differently.

The cursed girl had never received so much care and attention in her life. Konstantin supported her in battle, let her finish off foes, and even allowed her to rest at night, knowing he would watch over her. As if that weren’t enough, he lavished her with gifts: beautiful clothes and ornaments she could never have dreamed of owning.

Sometimes, Konstantin would disappear briefly but always return with something new.

And every time she woke, she felt just a little better. Her body felt lighter, her wounds healed faster.

She knew he was trying to help with her affliction, and that knowledge filled her with a happiness she had never known. Even if his efforts ultimately failed, Millicent felt she owed him her life—and beyond.

There was just one downside. A downside that, had Melina heard it, would have made her choke with indignation.

Millicent was far too shy to handle such attention.

Naturally timid and quiet, cursed with rot from birth, she had never seen herself as someone who could attract anyone’s notice.

The attention she now received exceeded even her wildest dreams.

After all, what warrior wouldn’t dream of finding someone to fight rot-ridden monsters alongside?

The more Millicent traveled with Konstantin, the more she realized that they were never truly alone. This didn’t upset her—she had already received so much. Instead, it made her curious. The more she learned about the man, the more questions she wanted to ask.

Soon, her curiosity was satisfied.

“Have you found out why you can’t cure her completely?” Melina’s soft voice drew Konstantin out of the sea of thoughts swirling in his head.

Millicent was asleep nearby, not far from the campfire.

“I have a theory,” he replied.

For some reason, despite all his power, he couldn’t fully heal her. The rot seemed to have integrated itself into her being. As for fully restoring her arm, that was an even more distant prospect.

Melina wasn’t surprised by his thoughtful response. She carefully sat beside him and removed her hood.

“You’re very gentle with her.”

What surprised her more was how quiet the Starry Wastes had become. Normally, the air was filled with the screeches and groans of rot-afflicted creatures. Now, even the sky seemed strangely clear—Konstantin’s aim was too precise.

The man shrugged. “It seems like Millicent needs it more than most.”

Though his reply sounded composed, Melina could hear a warmth in his voice that hadn’t been there before. She wondered how things might have unfolded if she had met this version of the Tarnished from the very beginning.

It would’ve been boring, no doubt.

Strangely enough, Millicent didn’t evoke any negative emotions in Melina. If anything, she felt pity and, on rare occasions, a slightly irritating fondness. Cuteness was a weapon too unfair to wield, whether against men or women.

“You’re getting closer to your goal,” Melina murmured. “You’ve surpassed every expectation I had, even in my boldest dreams, Konstantin. You’ve become a symbol of hope for me. But please, don’t forget to be careful.”

Melina dreaded the upcoming clash between the terrifying demigod and her chosen Tarnished. A demigod who commanded the stars.

The Lands Between might be a mythical place, but it rarely bent to ordinary logic. It was steeped in the otherworldly.

She hadn’t expected to admit as much, even to herself. Luckily, unlike Millicent, Melina wasn’t timid—she simply had… issues with communication.

As long as Konstantin sat upon the throne, she could believe that the mysterious Outer God wouldn’t accomplish anything catastrophic. The thought was so absurd that, coming from anyone else, Melina might have regarded them with cold disdain.

Konstantin pondered her words briefly, then allowed himself a smile as he met the gaze of, perhaps, one of the best waifus.

“I already told you—I won’t let you die, Meli-Meli.”

“I asked you not to call me that…” Melina sighed wearily.

Still, it didn’t take long for her to forget the silliness. Her heart warmed at the thought that he remembered his promise to save her, no matter how fantastical it sounded. Then again, Konstantin had already performed so many miracles that… maybe…

Melina clenched the ring on her hand.

Yet she knew better than to lose herself in dreams. In a way, such thoughts frightened her: she had devoted her existence to a singular purpose. She didn’t know what she would do if that purpose ceased to exist.

“I have… a question. The Goddess and Queen Marika… to you, what is she…”

Konstantin interrupted her by unexpectedly grabbing her hands. Melina, startled, nearly dissolved into spectral intangibility. She was about to ask why he had touched her scarred, burned hands so suddenly, but then…

Warmth.

His hands faintly glowed as a living heat began to seep into her body.

For a brief moment, Melina understood why Fia, the companion of the dead, had such a… visceral reaction to the warmth she drew from men.

The warmth was so tender, so soothing, so overwhelming that the spectral maiden, entirely unused to such sensations, stupidly opened her mouth, her eyes misting from sheer bliss.

Konstantin’s energy was too warm, too gentle, too potent. It was utterly unlike the cold, alien power of sorcerers.

“It’s working…”

The Tarnished’s voice snapped her out of her uncharacteristically… improper state. Realizing what he meant, Melina looked down at her hands. The burns had faded slightly.

Konstantin, caught up in the mechanics and theories of his newfound ability, finally glanced at her. He froze.

Breathless, her face flushed, her misty eyes wide open, and her accursed eye glowing faintly—Melina locked gazes with him before letting out a high, indescribable sound and vanishing into intangibility.

“I was curious…” Konstantin muttered to himself.

Sellen’s loud voice pulled him from his thoughts. “I must say, I’m intrigued…”

He turned toward Millicent, who was staring wide-eyed at the miniature sorceress perched on her shoulder, too stunned to speak.

For the first time in ages, Konstantin, lost in his experiments and theories, had let his guard down.

But judging by the situation, it could’ve been far worse.

Not long after, they reached the Redmane Castle—the gathering place for warriors and sorcerers across the Lands Between who were brave enough to challenge a mad demigod.

_________________________________________

(1) This is the term that was used in the original to describe dragons. I am unsure what is the correct translation is so for now I will keep it as is until I hear from the author. 

(2) Dragons in the Lands Between are numerous. Far too numerous. Despite minor distinctions among individual units, for the most part, every dragon encounter feels like a repeat of the same enemy. Their movesets, behavior, and combat tactics don’t change. A vast majority of players, having defeated one dragon, simply choose to ignore the rest.

(3) Greyoll can be killed in two ways: by slaying the dragon herself or by eliminating the dragons guarding her. For each guardian dragon slain, a portion of Greyoll’s health bar depletes.

(4) In the game, there are "Dragon Incantations" that can be acquired in exchange for the hearts of defeated dragons.

(5) The incantation that removes all accumulating negative effects can be learned from Brother Corhyn or Miriel, Pastor of Vows, if you hand them the Golden Order Principia prayer book. 

(6) To use incantations or sorceries, catalysts are required.

(7) Fortissax is an ancient dragon defeated by Godwyn the Golden, Marika’s firstborn, who later became his close friend. Fortissax remained loyal to Godwyn, even in death.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 65

“I think it is time for our relationship to move to the next level,” I said slowly, leaning on the table in Lizzie’s private booth. “We need to make it official. Safer for both of us that way.”

“Shit…” Frank Nostra replied with a smirk. “I’d love to hear something like that from a beautiful girl one day, but no—it’s always you. Spit it out, V. What do you want?”

“Add me to the database as an informant.”

“Really? Should I start sending you payouts too?”

“Yep! Exactly how we’ve done it before. Let’s not break tradition. And hey, a free informant raises suspicions. Don’t sweat it—you can pocket the eddies yourself.”

“Damn the money. You’re not seriously gonna feed me intel on Barghest, are you? And if you start dropping fake shit…”

“Relax. No disinfo. I’ll throw you real bites now and then. Just not about Barghest. Like… there’s a deal between the Voodoo Boys and some asshole from Bulgaria. Interested?”

“Sure, but what’s in it for you besides covering our tracks? Oh… wait. You’re gonna use this to offload your problems, aren’t you? Let others clean up your mess?”

“Wow. Rational thinking. What, you start reading books or quit drugs?”

“Funny. I’ll send you the agent profile tonight. Fill it out yourself.”

“You’re just too lazy to do it, huh?”

“That too. Between gunfights and banging hookers, take some time for paperwork. Won’t kill you. Remember how it was when you had a ‘real’ job?”

“Banging hookers was my ‘real’ job,” I shot back, recalling my visit to Clouds. “No time for anything else. If I told you what I’ve been up to lately, you’d get jealous and relapse into whatever chemical shit you’re on. Speaking of which—what about those files I asked for?”

“Here…” Frank slid a small chip case across the table. “Fixer data’s all there, but the other stuff? Surprised me. You going into the hotel business?”

“Just exploring where to stash stolen cash.”

The chip contained data on various hotels, but my real target was Konpeki Plaza. To keep Frank in the dark, I padded the request with info on other properties.

“So, how’s the new boss situation? Still infighting?” I asked.

“No, it’s calmed down. Rumor is they’re sending someone in from Tokyo. That’s both reassuring and nerve-wracking. On the one hand, the department needs structure. Right now, counterintel’s like a bunch of grade schoolers without a teacher—someone’s gonna shit themselves soon. On the other hand, a competent boss might uncover… our little arrangements.”

“Which is why I want you to register me as an agent. Worst case, they’ll think you lost control of an informant. Trust me, after I toss them a couple of juicy intel bites, they’ll forget all about it and probably pat you on the back.”

“God, I hope you’re right, V,” Frank muttered, visibly uneasy.

Once I left the booth, I scanned the chip for malware, then loaded the data into my implants. All clear? Yep. Filter out the fluff.

First up: the fixers. Dexter DeShawn had rolled back into town about two days ago. Wheels were starting to turn. Good. I had the rest of ’76, at least.

I stared out the cab window, watching the crowds—some sharply dressed, others outrageously tacky—waiting to cross the street. Winter in California barely felt like winter. Fewer sunny days, maybe, but the remaining ones cooked the city through its thinning ozone layer like it was still midsummer.

Dex is here. Evelyn too, most likely. And if the rumors are true, Yorinobu had passed through Night City recently. He’d already flown back to Tokyo, but…

“He’ll be back,” I muttered in Russian, smirking.

The players were gathering for the coming tragedy. I just needed to confirm whether Yorinobu and Evelyn had already crossed paths—and if she’d sold herself out to the Voodoo Boys yet. It was a shame the connections between their branches in Night City and Dogtown had weakened over the years. Wilky LaGuerre’s memory held nothing useful; he’d only cared about exploiting the Wild Net’s dangerous secrets for profit. Meanwhile, Maman Brigitte remained focused on prepping for some digital apocalypse.

I cracked my neck, shaking off those thoughts. The booster from Angie had almost worn off, leaving just a faint buzz of good mood and memories of a wild night. I’d agreed to help her with the athlete sabotage issue, earning a promised payout of 25k—and maybe a slice of the fixed-match racket, if it stabilized. That last part intrigued me more than the one-time paycheck. Plus, I was considering stocking up on her "magic shots." Officially, they cost 17k a pop if imported from Europe. Angie, though, could hook me up for 3.5k each, thanks to some off-the-books lab shifts churning out unregistered batches.

I opened a compact laptop and pulled up the city map. A red marker blinked near Pacifica. It was the biomonitor of Travis Gede, a runner who’d lost a triathlon recently thanks to a muscle cramp. Poor guy seized up 30 meters from the finish line. Went from first place to "fuck this."

Something felt off about his location—a shantytown made of containers and scrap. Definitely not his apartment. I grabbed my gear: a tanto, a monokatana strapped blade-up, and two pistols—smart and electromagnetic.

Calling Becca as backup? Nah. The cameras showed no major threats—just a few shady types who wouldn’t even qualify for the Minor League, let alone Pro. Still, never hurts to stay sharp.

Stepping out of the cab, I made my way under a bridge to the container. Two scruffy guys stood guard—one with rusty machete, the other with a jury-rigged shotgun. Both looked like a mix of sunburned and filthy. Their "arsenal" wasn’t much, but at point-blank, that shotgun could ruin my day.

“Travis Gede here?” I asked.

“You with the Scavs?” one of them shot back.

Interesting question. Unexpected.

“Want me to show you a Soviet passport?” I replied in Russian.

“Choom, I don’t fucking understand a word of that,” shotgun guy grunted. “Think we got chrome translators or somethin’?”

“All we got’s chrome dicks,” his buddy added. “And those barely work. If you’re Scavs, cough up ten grand and take this loser.”

Ah, now it made sense. Classic chrome-and-organ sale.

“Why’s he on your chopping block? Did he fuck you over, or is this just for kicks?” I stalled, scanning the area.

“Runner owes our buddy the pusher twenty grand.”

“Yeah, and we’re fuckin’ debt collectors,” the other one sneered, flashing a toothless grin. “He showed up again yesterday beggin’ for shine. Said he couldn’t take it no more.”

There were three of them. Two out front, while the third lurked behind a black plastic curtain inside. He thought he wasn’t visible. I could just pay and walk away, avoid a bloodbath. But… ten grand’s still ten grand. And besides…

Becca’s fiery red eyes popped into my mind.
"Do it! Do it right now! Gotta test that chrome!"

“Wanna see a trick?” I said with a smile, switching to Russian.

“Man, I told you, we don’t under—”

Shotgun Bum didn’t finish. Power surged through me like a tidal wave, that familiar shock of plunging into freezing water, instantly boiling hot. Time slowed. The world turned fragile.

In a single fluid motion, I drew my katana and struck. True iaido. Shotgun Bum didn’t even flinch before I severed his spinal cord and slashed his throat. That’s a wrap for him, even with top-grade chrome.

With both hands gripping the katana now, I pivoted and swung, slicing the second guy’s neck cleanly from left to right. One step forward, a sharp lunge, and the blade sank into the gut of the third goon behind the plastic curtain. I drove it through his solar plexus, dragging it downward as I pulled back, carving him open.

The monokatana sliced through flesh like a hot knife through butter. Blood spattered everywhere, but the adrenaline pumping through me dulled the smell.

In the final seconds of my Sandivistan’s burst, I leapt backward, shaking blood off the blade with a sharp cyberlimb sweep. My right hand drew a pistol in one smooth motion.

Time snapped back to normal. The bodies hit the ground, lifeless. My heart pounded like a war drum as I scanned for more threats. Nothing. Just a couple of hobos bolting like their lives depended on it.

“Ta-da,” I muttered, sliding the katana back into its sheath with precision. “Poof, you’re gone.”

I rushed into the container, pistol raised. The stench hit me like a freight train. Inside, the third one I killed—a chubby, filthy woman—lay sprawled with a disposable pistol nearby. Her guts and organs were splayed across the rusty floor from my not-so-consensual vertical seppuku.

On a piss-stained mattress in the corner, Travis Gede writhed, his body convulsing. Guy was wrecked, but at least he wasn’t dead. Yet.

“Get up. Move!” I hissed, hoisting him up with my cyberlimb. “Scavs could show up any second. I’m from Angie.”

“Y-yeah… yeah…” he stammered through cracked, bloodied lips.

Dragging him out of the hovel, I threw him into the car.

“Life really fucks you over, doesn’t it?” I mused, shoving the former athlete into the backseat. “One moment, you’re touching a hottie, trying to help her out. Next thing, you’re hauling some piss-stained—hey! No puking! Inhale this. Come on. Breathe.”

I handed him an inhaler, and he finally started to calm down. The cab pulled away from the scene, carrying us toward safer ground.

“Y-you’re from Angie?” he asked through chattering teeth. “She got work for me?”

“Work? Not in your condition. She wants me to scan you. Figure out what’s causing your cramps.”

“Oh…” His tone dropped, disappointment oozing out. “They scanned me already. Found nothing. But I… I wasn’t on shit then! I was clean, man! Training every—”

“Shut up. Hand me your arm. Got a port?” I found it.

His implants were still decent, but judging by how fast his life was spiraling, they wouldn’t stay that way. I initiated a scan. Thanks to what I’d learned from the Slider’s memories, I could dig pretty deep into implant tampering. Five minutes later? Nothing.

“Gonna take you to a ripperdoc,” I said.

“No! Don’t! I’ll pay you, I swear—”

“Don’t need your shitty chrome. I’ll take you to someone decent. My treat.”

We reached Vik’s clinic quickly. Travis’s stench and disheveled state clearly disgusted the doc, but he didn’t turn him away. Vik just threw a plastic sheet over his chair before getting to work.

After a thorough scan, he rubbed his chin, frowning. “Yeah… hmm… okay.”

“What is it, Vik?”

“If there was tampering, they wiped the evidence clean. Could’ve been a remote hack or a self-erasing neurovirus. Probably a virus. At events like these, there’s usually a netrunner on site, especially near the finish line. But the virus? That could’ve been planted earlier.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

Damn. I thought this would be a simple gig, something I could knock out with my skills. Yet here I was, neck-deep in some netrunner’s dirty work. Someone with chops comparable to the best in Night City. Maybe even better. Fine. I’d handle it as a side project. The biochip remained my main focus.

I dropped Travis off closer to downtown so he wouldn’t get whacked right away. He looked better after Vik’s treatment, but the withdrawal still had its claws in him.

“Here’s some advice,” I said before letting him go. “Join a gang, the army, a cult—anywhere that’ll take you. Odds are you’ll still die there, but it’s better than dying alone with zero shot at survival.”

“O-okay… I’ll try,” he muttered. “Tell Angie I’ll get back in shape. Maybe not this month…”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Get lost,” I said, waving him off.

He was lying. Even he didn’t believe that bullshit. Whatever. Not my problem.

Finally heading home, I found Lucy sprawled on the couch, lost in some braindance. She must’ve set an alarm because she slipped the wreath off as soon as I walked in.

“How’s Dogtown?” she asked, reclining lazily.

“Same old. Corpses, dust, and despair. I want to move.”

“Missing a jacuzzi? Or expecting company with guns?”

“Neither. I’m buying a place above the club. What do you think? Few minutes on the elevator, and you’re in one of Night City’s best worst clubs.”

“Sounds cool, but you’ll need good soundproofing. And bulletproofing.”

“Obviously. Oh, and Lucy… something big’s coming.”

“Oooh…” She got up, sniffing my neck. “You smell like blood. Serious?”

“Nothing major.”

“How big, V? Like that mess with Sue?”

“No, this is real insanity. Hard to even explain without sounding like a complete psycho. Dark secrets, digital immortality. Soon, something priceless will hit Night City, and I want to steal it. There’s just one problem—others want it too. First step? Taking out the competition.”

“Gonna zero some merc or fixer?”

“Hopefully not. Just need to temporarily remove someone from the equation. Kidnap her, basically. Her name’s Evelyn Parker.”

“This a real kidnapping? Or are you trying to hit on her?” Lucy teased.

“Legit kidnapping,” I assured her. “She’s got a doll chip. I can tweak it, no need for a basement or ropes. No harm to her. Just a little time as a mannequin.”

“Wow. What else?”

“When you hear the full story, you’ll see we’re doing Evelyn a huge favor. Keeping her from wrecking herself and a whole lot of others.”

“Damn…” Lucy leaned in and whispered, “V, you’re the kindest, most thoughtful psychopath I’ve ever met.”

Huh. She wasn’t entirely wrong. Other guys find girlfriends through childhood friendships like Jackie, or work like David—though his colleague didn’t survive. And me? Lucy? I stalked her and arranged a kidnapping. Evelyn Parker? First a brothel, now surveillance and planning an abduction. Angie? Staged a spectacle with Adam Smasher.

Maybe Vik’s right. That empathy booster might not be such a bad idea.

One thing I know for sure: kidnapping Parker is a deeply humane move. I remember all too well what happens if I don’t. Rape, torture, suicide. Someone might argue you could just warn her or scare her off. Not gonna work here. Evelyn’s too confident in her own sharp mind, too stubborn. Even if you carefully laid out how suicidal her plan is, she’d just rework it and still dive smiling into the abyss. So, yeah…

My closed comm channel suddenly pinged. Frank? Sure sounded like him.

“Go ahead,” I answered.

“V, we’ve got a problem,” Nostra said, his voice tight with nerves. “They sent in the new boss from Tokyo.”

“Okay. And the problem is?”

“Michiko arrived,” he hissed, almost panicking. “You know how fucked this is, right?”

“Calm the fuck down,” I tried to steady my double agent. “Don’t jump out of your skin—or the window—just yet. I doubt it’ll be worse than it was with Susan. We’ll handle it. Are you even sure it's Michiko? I thought she was on the Board of Directors.”

“She is. But she’s temporarily heading our division. They suspect something. Get those papers to register you as an informant, and fast.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll send them today. Don’t lose your shit.”

The call ended.

“Trouble with your old job?” Lucy asked.

“Something like that. Mark my words: soon there’ll be more people with the last name Arasaka in Night City than in all of Japan.”

Daily Updates (17/01/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 37

• Tier 2: Chapter 42

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 33

• Tier 2: Chapter 38

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 38

A tangle of limbs, kids, and one glorious cat—that’s how the night played out. Why? Because after dinner, Sasuke decided to stay the night at our place.

It was already late, and both boys were mentally and physically exhausted. Naruto’s bed, though a bit cramped, could fit three scrawny kids if they arranged themselves like spokes in a wheel. I claimed my rightful spot near Naruto’s pillow but shifted halfway through the night to Sasuke’s side—fairness matters, after all. Both of them were knocked out cold, lightly snoring through their noses. I had suggested they sleep properly, but for some reason, they decided the “foot-to-head” arrangement was peak comfort.

To my immense delight, the boys agreed to venture back into the Uchiha District. Since they only got one day off from the Academy each week, they agreed to head over after classes, leaving them about four hours of daylight to explore.

Even better? They were starting to communicate like real teammates. They inspected the festival sweets again, piecing together details I hadn’t considered. Apparently, Sasuke noticed the ribbons tied a certain way on the boxes, which was unique to specific holidays. He pointed out that his clan was wiped out in early October—a month without many celebrations besides the memorial day for the Nine-Tails attack on October 10th.

It struck him as odd that Sora-san had leftover gift boxes for the autumn equinox, a holiday that didn’t match the timeline. I couldn’t help but puff out my chest in satisfaction. Clearly, the masked man hadn’t thought to check under the counter where I found that stash of treats. They were connecting dots, and I was proud to witness it.

A shared cat and a shared mystery—it’s a recipe for bonding.

Sasuke woke up first. His eyes fluttered open, scanning the room with a mix of confusion and tension, probably wondering where he was. I scooted closer, purring to reassure him and invite some morning ear scratches. He relaxed almost immediately and—miracle of miracles—smiled a little. Don’t worry, Sasuke, your secret’s safe with me.

After a brief session of ear rubs and him wiping the sleep from my eyes (a charming habit of his), Sasuke slipped out of bed silently and headed for the bathroom. That’s when I turned my attention to waking Naruto.

Naruto stretched and blinked at the empty spot next to him. “Uh… Namaiki-chan, wasn’t Sasuke here?”

I nodded and pointed a paw toward the bathroom door. Naruto tilted his head, listening to the sound of running water, and nodded back.

“Alright, I’ll get breakfast started,” he said, rubbing his face and shaking off the last remnants of sleep.

“You might also want to make yourself presentable, you messy-haired gremlin,” I meowed with a disapproving look at his bedhead.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll wash up,” Naruto replied, waving me off. “It’s not like Sasuke’s going to use my toothbrush… or yours…” He trailed off, squinting as if the idea had just occurred to him.

I hissed, outraged. Sasuke might be a little shut in, but he wasn’t that uncivilized.

“Yeah, no,” Naruto muttered, smirking. “That’d be too much effort for him.”

While Sasuke finished in the bathroom, Naruto managed to boil some water and hand me a sausage. My little chick is learning.

“Morning! I’m making ramen and opening some of the cans we found—don’t want them to spoil,” Naruto chirped when Sasuke entered the kitchen. “Oh, and Namaiki-chan was worried you might use his toothbrush,” he added with a snicker.

Sasuke squinted at me, eyebrow raised. “You brush the cat’s teeth?”

“Nah,” Naruto laughed. “That’s his claw brush. Namaiki-chan loves bath time. He tried to get one yesterday, but, uh… it didn’t work out.”

Naruto’s guilt-ridden glance my way reminded me of last night’s bath debacle. The hot water in this place was laughably limited. Either you took a quick shower, or you were out of luck. Compared to the luxury of Kushina-san’s house, where seals kept the water piping hot, this setup was a joke. No microwaves, no washing machines—just a propane stove and handwashing everything in cold water.

“Can you keep an eye on the ramen? I’m gonna wash up,” Naruto asked Sasuke. “Namaiki-chan gets real picky about hygiene.”

Sasuke nodded, and Naruto darted off to the bathroom. That’s when Sasuke, in an uncharacteristically soft voice, said, “I want to go back to my old house today.”

Oh? That was unexpected. Yesterday’s adventure must’ve sparked something. Progress! When the kettle whistled, Sasuke turned off the stove and prepared breakfast.

“Namaiki-chan, you’re from the Uchiha clan, aren’t you?” Sasuke asked, tilting his head slightly. “I don’t remember you, but… there were other cats. Really smart ones, like you.”

Technically, yes, but that’s a loaded question. I let out a noncommittal trill, watching him carefully.

He tried again. “Are you connected to the Uchiha clan?”

I nodded.

“Did you live in the district?”

I shook my head.

“Were you given away as a kitten?” Sasuke guessed.

I nodded again. Sharp kid. If only he’d ask my age!

“What are you two up to?” Naruto asked, returning to find me sitting in front of Sasuke.

“I’ve been asking Namaiki-chan questions,” Sasuke explained. “If you ask yes-or-no questions, he answers.”

“Whoa, that’s awesome!” Naruto’s eyes lit up. “What’d you learn? Something about your clan?”

“I think I figured out how Namaiki-chan knows so much about us,” Sasuke said. “He was born in the clan but given away.”

“And he said we forgot something!” Naruto exclaimed, clenching his fists in determination. “But how do we remember something we forgot?”

“Let’s eat first, then think it over,” Sasuke suggested. “We’ve got the Academy soon anyway…”

I tapped a paw on the cans of food.

"Do you want some too?" Naruto asked.

I sighed, licked my lips dramatically, and shook my head.

"Looks like Nemaiki's just drawing our attention to the cans," Sasuke said, always the more observant one. "Yeah! There was something weird about the dates on the packaging yesterday."

I nodded vigorously. Finally, progress! I almost felt proud of these sharp little humans.

"And what could be wrong with them?" Naruto asked, chewing on his noodles as he gave me a look like I was about to bust out in full sentences.

Sigh. Praised them too soon. I smacked my forehead against the edge of the table.

"Don't worry, Namaiki-chan, we'll figure it out," Naruto said with his usual sunny grin. "Sasuke's really smart. He’ll figure it out for sure."

I glanced at Sasuke, who looked slightly flustered, cheeks faintly pink. Yeah... figure it out. I was expecting way too much from kids. Future ninja or not, they were still just kids—kids who had been manipulated, lied to, and thrown off course. And if I remembered the anime correctly, I knew exactly where all of this was heading…

How could they possibly guess something so outlandish? That the entire area had been “genjutsu-ed” to cover up crimes? That parts of their lives were fake memories? That what they thought they’d lost was never truly gone? That Sasuke’s brother hadn’t murdered the entire clan but had actually tried to save it? That Naruto and Sasuke had been best friends since they were little? That Naruto had a mom, and she was the freaking Fifth Hokage?

No. No way they could connect those dots over breakfast noodles and a game of yes-or-no questions.

"Hey, Sasuke," Naruto said hesitantly. "Yesterday, we found some weapons. Do you think... you could give me a few shuriken? I don’t have any of my own… And I don’t have money either. No one will sell me any, anyway. And the ones Iruka-sensei gives me for class are all messed up. They’re unbalanced, and I can’t hit the target. Everyone laughs at me…"

By the end of his rambling confession, Naruto was red as a tomato.

"Yeah, of course," Sasuke said quietly. "I didn’t know…"

"You never laughed," Naruto muttered even softer, his head hanging as he gripped his chopsticks. "And… sorry for picking on you before. I don’t know why I did it… You were just so… lifeless."

"Hn," Sasuke huffed in classic Uchiha fashion. "Forget it."

"Maybe we can practice before class?" Naruto offered, his mood already perking up.

"Sure."

Today, I decided I’d make an official trip with the boys—now pretty much friends again—to the Ninja Academy. But alas, my grand plans were derailed.

As the kids made their way toward the Academy, something peculiar caught my eye. A lavish palanquin cart rolled past, surrounded by attendants. And then I caught a whiff of a very distinct scent: my former mistress, Madam Shijimi.

[Castling] Chapter 42

The next morning, I woke up early but stayed in bed for a long while, thinking things over.

Of course, Harry hadn’t actually invited me to stay—he barely had a place at the Dursleys’ himself. Two wizards in one house might be pushing things for them. But I decided to take the risk anyway. I had something to offer him, after all.

Right after breakfast, I sent Harry a note in our notebook, asking him to get his uncle’s work phone number. He swiped a business card from Vernon’s office, and within an hour, I was at the village post office making the call.

The conversation with Vernon didn’t go smoothly, at least at first. When he answered, he thought I was a potential customer and sounded almost pleasant. The moment I introduced myself, though, he started yelling and was about to hang up. But I managed to squeeze in, “I’ve had another dream. Take it or leave it.”

“Come over,” he grunted, cutting the call short.

I summoned the Knight Bus, and less than thirty minutes later, I was walking down the corridor to his office on the second floor.

I didn’t expect Dursley to have such a serious-looking company. Say what you want about the man, but he clearly knows his trade. The place was all polished and professional, like a posh lawyer’s office. Even his secretary—a sharp-looking woman in her forties—seemed chosen to avoid distractions.

“You’ve got five minutes,” Vernon hissed as he shoved me into his office, glanced around suspiciously, and slammed the door shut.

“In early August, a prisoner will escape from one of our wizarding jails,” I began. “He’s Harry’s godfather, and you’ll see him on your Muggle news. He’ll want to see Harry. Based on what I’ve seen, he won’t cause trouble or harm you, but I doubt you’d enjoy dealing with him. My parents are going on holiday, and I can’t leave Harry alone at a time like this.”

“So, what do you want?” Vernon growled. His face had gone through about ten different expressions while I talked, and now he was gripping the arms of his expensive chair like he wanted to strangle something.

“I want you to invite me to stay at your house,” I said simply. “It’s just for appearances—so my parents think I’ll be there all summer. But in mid-August, Harry and I will leave, and Black won’t show up at all. It won’t be for free—I’ll pay you £100, and we won’t be underfoot. Also,” I added, rummaging in my bag and sliding a small vial across his desk, “this.”

“What’s that?” he asked, recoiling as if I’d handed him a snake.

“A very effective potion that could help your business.”

“Elaborate,” he said warily, narrowing his eyes.

“It’s perfectly legal,” I said smoothly. “Our medics use it to help children trust them during appointments, to get them to open up. It’s like a mix of trust serum, confidence tonic, and truth potion. I was going to give it to Harry to help him work up the nerve to ask a girl to Hogsmeade. If your feelings are genuine, the person you’re talking to will trust you, feel positively toward you, and overlook small mistakes in conversation.”

“And how would I use it?” Vernon said gruffly, but I could see he was intrigued.

“If you’re honest about wanting to sell your product, it’ll help you make a better impression, so potential clients are more likely to choose you over competitors. But it won’t make someone buy drills if they don’t need them, nor will it work if you lie about price or quality. Just use it like cologne—spray it on, and off you go to close deals. What do you think?”

“And it won’t cause any harm? What if it doesn’t work?” he asked, suspicion still etched on his face.

“Oh, it works,” I said with a smirk, leaning back in the chair. “It’s working now, isn’t it? You’re still listening to me and haven’t tossed me out.”

“You… you’re trying to influence me!” Vernon bellowed, leaping to his feet.

“Well, I had to show you how it works,” I replied coolly, shrugging. “You wanted to understand it, didn’t you? Or did I misunderstand?”

Vernon sank back into his chair, staring at me in shock. Then, after a moment, he pulled out a pen and a blank sheet of paper and began writing quickly.

“When should we expect you… Ron?” he asked, glancing up.

“In two days, sir,” I said with a polite smile. I had no doubt he’d take the bait.

“Here,” he said, handing me the note he’d scribbled, complete with a date.

“Don’t worry—I’ll arrive on my own, around four. I’ll bring an inflatable mattress and share Harry’s room if you don’t mind. See you Friday, sir.” Vernon glared at me but said nothing as I got up, note in hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him swipe the vial into his desk drawer.

My parents weren’t too upset when I told them I wasn’t joining them on the trip. Percy, though, was less than thrilled when I handed him responsibility for Scabbers.

“What am I supposed to do with a rat in someone else’s house?” I argued. “Harry’s aunt hates animals, and anyway, Scabbers was yours first.”

Reluctantly, Percy agreed. He was too busy basking in the glow of his prefect badge and top marks to argue much. Mum was practically beaming with pride, while Fred and George teased him twice as much. The house was a circus.

As for my own results, I was satisfied: all “Outstanding” except for three “Exceeds Expectations” in Transfiguration, Potions, and History of Magic. I wasn’t disappointed—I’d seen it coming. I’d already chosen my electives: Runes, Muggle Studies, and Care of Magical Creatures—all useful for my future career, hopefully.

Harry, meanwhile, had been scribbling furiously in our notebook, barely able to believe I was coming. He couldn’t wait. I’d almost forgotten how much more emotional he’d been since the ritual.

Finally, I packed my bag, said my goodbyes, and called the Knight Bus. My family was leaving for Egypt the next day.

Those three weeks had gone pretty well, all things considered. We couldn’t use magic, of course, but we had a lot of fun anyway. Harry was thrilled, saying it had been the best birthday he’d ever had.

The Dursleys greeted me with their usual suspicion, but Harry and I gave them no reason to worry—not that we saw much of them. After breakfast, we’d leave for London on a regular bus and return just in time for dinner. The day after Harry’s birthday, when Sirius Black’s picture appeared on the news, you should’ve seen Vernon’s face. The very next morning, he unexpectedly offered to drive us to London on his way to work. We still had to find our own way back, but I suspect he was trying to avoid any chance encounters with Harry’s "dangerous" godfather. As for Petunia, she seemed blissfully unaware of the whole thing.

Dudley didn’t bother us, which was a nice surprise—either he was scared, or his father had a word with him. We mostly crossed paths with the family during meals, and even then, it was quiet. Once, I casually complimented Vernon’s new car, and we ended up chatting about different makes and models. Well, Vernon talked, and I nodded or added a word here and there. We even touched on boxing when he bragged about Dudley’s progress, which put Petunia in a good mood. It made things a bit less tense, though honestly, I didn’t care much about their comfort—I’d paid my share for staying there.

When Hermione found out I was staying with Harry, she joined us on our outings. Her family had planned a trip to France, but after our Romania visit, they stayed home, and she was happy to spend time with us.

The Grangers lived much closer to London than the Dursleys, so Hermione often met us in the city and played tour guide. She showed us all the sights—palaces, cathedrals, galleries. By the second day, I was a bit tired of it all, to be honest. It was beautiful and educational, sure, but it wasn’t exactly my scene. Most of our time was spent at Chessington World of Adventures, grabbing snacks at a nearby cafe. I dipped into Dad’s emergency stash of Muggle money to cover my share—he wouldn’t miss a few £50 notes. By five, we’d walk Hermione home before heading back, and in the evenings, we tackled our summer homework.

On Harry’s birthday night, owls arrived with presents, and one brought a letter for me from Charlie. He said he regretted not seeing me but understood my decision and praised me for being a good friend to Harry. He obviously assumed I’d stayed because of Harry. Honestly, I hadn’t realized Charlie would be in Egypt; not that it mattered—I wouldn’t have gone anyway even if Harry was absolutely alright.

I know what a "family holiday" with Mum is like. It’s one big guided tour under her watchful eye, with all of us trudging through the heat and sand. I’ve seen enough pyramids in my previous life to last me a lifetime. And no way would Mum let me go scuba diving with Muggles. Shopping at noisy markets with pushy sellers is not my idea of fun, and I wouldn’t have been allowed to buy anything interesting anyway. The whole thing would’ve been topped off by endless bragging from Bill about his glamorous job. No thanks. Maybe I’ll visit Egypt someday, but definitely not with my family.

Hagrid sent Harry a copy of The Monster Book of Monsters, which we managed to calm down by stroking its spine. It was filled with terrifying creatures, one more gruesome than the next. It got me wondering how Hogwarts professors plan their lessons—do they have an official curriculum, or do they just wing it? How do exams work? Care of Magical Creatures is an important subject for me, so I decided to ask about it next time I was at the bookstore.

Mum sent Harry a huge box of sweets for his birthday. Hermione and I chipped in for a broomstick servicing kit, and Harry was over the moon.

I don’t know how Harry survives with the Dursleys as long as he does. I found the lack of a magical atmosphere unsettling, and my fingers itched to cast spells. By August 12th, we’d had enough. After breakfast, we thanked the Dursleys for their "hospitality," summoned the Knight Bus, and left. Harry made sure to grab the signed Hogsmeade permission slip from his uncle before we left—just in time to dodge Vernon’s sister, who was due to visit.

Hermione begged her parents to let her join us when she heard we’d left, but they said no. She openly admitted she was jealous that we could use magic while she couldn’t. Knowing her, she’ll probably find a way to join us soon anyway.

Harry and I checked into the Leaky Cauldron, where we rented room on the second floor for the rest of the summer. The next morning, while we were having breakfast, we had an unexpected visitor.

The door burst open without so much as a knock, and in walked a stout man with a self-important air, followed by a tall, thin man in a suit who quickly shut the door behind him.

The visitor removed his bowler hat, glanced around the room, and focused on Harry, who froze mid-bite, a slice of toast in one hand and a teacup in the other.

"Ah, Harry, at last I’ve found you!" the man exclaimed, striding over to the table and seating himself across from us without invitation. He placed his hat on the chair beside him. "I’m Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic. I must say, Harry, leaving your relatives’ house without informing anyone was quite reckless. Not a wise decision, given the current situation."

"What situation, sir?" Harry asked, placing his toast back on the plate and setting down his cup. "And who should I have informed? I told my uncle, and he didn’t mind—he even offered to drive us. His sister’s arriving tomorrow, and we don’t get along."

"And what, exactly, is the issue, Minister?" I asked, setting down my own cup. "Has something happened?"

"Ah, and you must be Ron Weasley," the Minister turned his benevolent gaze on me. "No, no, nothing’s happened, my boy. But given the situation—two teenagers living on their own..."

"What happened?" Harry shot up, his voice tense. "Are you hiding something? Did something happen to the Dursleys?"

"Merlin, Harry, calm down," Fudge said, startled. "Your relatives are fine. It’s just... have you read yesterday’s Prophet?" He pulled a folded newspaper from his robes and handed it to Harry. I leaned in as well, and we both stared at the page. Sirius Black’s face grinned menacingly from the front.

"Oh, that bloke was on the telly," Harry said, his curiosity piqued as he glanced up at Fudge.

"You see, Harry," Fudge began, his hands fiddling nervously with the silver clasps on his robes, "Black was a Death Eater and a convicted murderer, sentenced to life in Azkaban. And given your history... well, he was spotted last night in Little Whinging. Several Muggles called the hotline about it. It was decided that you should be moved somewhere safe where Black can’t find you. I intended to escort you personally, but you were already gone. Although, staying here is actually better. So, remain in Diagon Alley, but do not wander into Muggle areas—it's too dangerous. Stick to the Alley, and as soon as it starts getting dark, head straight back here. Tom will keep an eye on you."

Fudge forced a crooked smile as he stood abruptly. "Now, if everything’s sorted, I must be off—duty calls, you understand."

"Wait, Minister!" I jumped up. "Can I ask a favor?"

"Go on, then," he chuckled, clearly relieved the difficult conversation was over.

"Harry grew up with Muggles and never had the chance to visit the Ministry of Magic, but he’s always wanted to see how it works. His birthday was just recently, and, well, my dad doesn’t have the clearance to take us..."

"Is that true, Harry?" Fudge asked, his attention shifting to Harry, who looked utterly baffled.

"Er... yes! It’s been my dream ever since I learned about the Ministry of Magic," Harry said, throwing me a quick glance before nodding emphatically.

"Oh, splendid! In that case, I’ll arrange a pass for you and assign a guide," Fudge said, his smile widening. "After all, we are wizards—miracles are our business. The pass will be waiting for you tomorrow at three, with the gatekeeper. I’ll let Tom know about the Floo connection."

"Wait, sir," Harry piped up, rising to his feet. "Could you make it a pass for three? Our friend Hermione wants to come too."

"A girl, eh?" Fudge laughed, giving Harry a sly wink. "Of course, can’t disappoint a young lady."

With that, he nodded, adjusted his bowler hat, and made for the door. Harry opened his mouth—probably to explain Hermione wasn’t his girlfriend—but I tugged on his sleeve, and he wisely stayed quiet. Fudge’s assistant silently closed the door behind them as they left.

Harry and I exchanged looks, then sat back down at the table.

"What was that about?" Harry asked, still puzzled. "Since when have I been dreaming of visiting the Ministry?"

"Look, Harry," I began, choosing my words carefully, "I really need us to get into the Ministry—specifically the Department of Mysteries. But we need a pass to get in."

"Why?" Harry asked, his curiosity fully piqued.

"I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else," I said seriously.

"I swear," Harry said earnestly, practically bouncing in his chair with anticipation. "You know you can trust me."

"I’ve found out why the Dark Lord came after your family that night," I said quietly.

"Really?" Harry froze, then sank back into his seat, his hands clenching nervously. "Why? He said Mum didn’t need to die, that he was there for me."

"He wasn’t lying," I said. "There was a prophecy. During the war, he was close to winning, but then this prophecy surfaced. It said someone born at the end of July would have the power to defeat him. So, he came to kill you."

"So... I’m supposed to fight him when he comes back?" Harry’s face went pale, his eyes wide with fear.

"Don’t be ridiculous," I shot back. "You’ve already beaten him—when you got rid of that piece of him inside you. That’s what the prophecy meant, not that you’d go at him with a sword or something. He just misunderstood it."

"Then why the Ministry?" Harry asked, still uneasy but a little calmer now.

"The Dark Lord only heard part of the prophecy. That’s why he came for you. When he comes back, he’ll want to hear the rest to figure out why he couldn’t kill you. The prophecy is kept in the Department of Mysteries, but only the people it’s about can take it. We need to get there first and destroy it."

"You think we can do it?" Harry asked, not doubting me for a second.

"We have to," I said firmly. "We can’t let him get his hands on it. While Hermione and I distract the guide, you’ll find the prophecy and smash it. We’ll go over the plan later, but for now, let’s send Hermione a letter."

"Start writing," Harry said, springing to his feet. "I’ll wake Hedwig."

Daily Updates (16/01/25)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 59

• Tier 2: Chapter 64

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 26

• Tier 2: Chapter 31

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 29

• Tier 2: Chapter 34

[Life is Good] Chapter 34

The Dead of Night, Captain Julia Stacy

The shrill ring of the phone yanked Julia from sleep. She stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, groggy and disoriented, trying to make sense of the sound. The past few days had been… intense, leaving her with little time to rest. And now, just as things were finally settling down and she had a chance to sleep, this.

Growling with frustration, she grabbed the phone, squinted at the unknown number, and answered it—because who knew what disaster might have occurred now.

“Captain Stacy speaking,” she rasped, her voice thick with exhaustion and irritation.

“Good evening, Captain Stacy. I’m sorry for calling so late,” came an unfamiliar but young male voice on the other end. “Gwen gave me your number at the manor outside the city last Saturday.”

“Oh,” Julia’s tone softened instantly. She could forgive this kid for interrupting her sleep. “Is something wrong, Mister Mutant?”

“Ahem… yes, Captain Stacy,” the young man coughed awkwardly. “It turns out I’ve just walked out of a building located in your precinct. There’s a small drug-dealing operation here—about twenty people, weapons, and drugs. The offenders have been subdued and restrained. Could your officers come and make the arrests? I’ll text you the address.”

Julia blinked in stunned silence for a few moments, processing what she’d just heard. Then, remembering herself, she replied, “They can. Send the address. Will you still be there?”

“No, sorry, Captain. Spider-Girl and I have already taken care of tying everyone up, but we’re leaving now. I’m a mutant, as you know, so who knows how people might react tomorrow if word gets out. Plus, my partner’s not eager to reveal her identity either. Sorry again for waking you, but early morning is the best time for quiet ‘work.’ Please give Gwen my regards. Have a good day.”

“No trouble at all,” Julia managed, still slightly dazed. “I’ll be sure to pass that along. Have a good day, young man.”

The line went dead, leaving her staring at the phone. After rubbing her tired eyes, Julia sighed, acknowledging that she had no time to unpack her feelings about this situation. She needed to get up, head to the scene, and call Lieutenant Elizabeth, who was on night duty, to assemble a team.

Her phone pinged with the incoming text message. Reading the address and saving the boy’s number, she quickly dialed her lieutenant while hurriedly getting dressed. The location was further from her than from the precinct, so she’d need to move fast.

As she drove, Julia’s thoughts turned to the mysterious boy and the people likely supporting him. First, it had been human traffickers, and now drug dealers. If only she had access to the same sources of intel he did. Having a superpowered ally on her side would be a game-changer in a city like New York, rife with crime. Mutant or not, this kid seemed well-informed, strong, and likely well-trained.

She sighed and allowed herself a fleeting fantasy of having superhumans under her command. If public sentiment toward mutants continued to improve, perhaps one day young men like him one could work directly under her leadership. Julia had never been naive and knew how many valuable individuals were lost to society’s biases against “the awakened.”

Mutants dangerous? Julia snorted at the thought. Everyone’s dangerous—mutants, supers, mad scientists, gangsters, even ordinary citizens. The percentage of crimes committed by mutants was tiny compared to what regular folks with guns or fists could do. Domestic disputes alone accounted for more murders than any mutant incidents. So what, do we start persecuting housewives too? If society hadn’t spent years dunking mutants into a pile of shit, that tiny percentage might be even smaller.

When she arrived at the scene, now cordoned off by police, Julia reminded herself to pass along the young man’s regards to Gwen. But she also resolved to talk to her daughter about being cautious. Gwen was a smart girl and unlikely to do anything reckless, but Julia couldn’t ignore how close the club incident had come to disaster.

Youth had its risks—she knew that firsthand, having her share of wild times back in the day. Chasing boys, living carefree… that was how Gwen had come into the world, after all. Julia smiled warmly for a moment, lost in nostalgia, before steeling herself and putting on her professional face. Time to get to work.

Toby—A Good Boy

After ending the call, I gave Ooyama a nod, and we set off. Petra and I sat in the backseat, finally getting a chance to talk. I took off my mask but stopped her when she reached for hers.

“Spider-Girl, you’re still undercover, remember?” I smiled at her.

“But you—”

“I recognized you,” I interrupted with an eye roll. “But my mentor doesn’t know who you are, and I’m not telling her. No offense, Sensei.” Ooyama didn’t even turn around, just shrugged. “Seriously, though, Spider-Girl, you’ve gotta work on disguising your voice—you’re going to blow your cover with people you know.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll figure something out. But why did you… you know, reveal yourself?” She hesitated, clearly flustered. “I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

“Well, three reasons,” I said, leaning back. “First, time was short, and you’d believe me as Toby faster than you’d trust some random guy in a mask. Second, I’d already slipped up a while ago, so anyone paying attention could connect the dots between me and a mutant kid who melts metal. And third… I trust you, Spider-Girl. We’ve known each other a while, and you’ve always been… good people, you know? Your actions speak for themselves, no matter what the Daily Bugle says.”

“Thanks, Toby. I get it.” She seemed pleased by my words. Stroking a teenager’s ego is always a safe bet. “So, are you going to be a hero now?”

“Eh… it’s complicated, Spider,” I scratched my head, thinking. “Just don’t tell anyone, okay?” I waited for her nod before continuing. “If you’ve been watching the news, you’ve probably noticed that lately, there’s been a shift. They’re not demonizing mutants as much anymore—some are even defending us. Our leaders decided to lean into that and help improve public opinion by doing some good. So, you’ll start seeing mutants like me—solo or in teams—helping people. My first outing was the debut of ‘Mister Mutant,’” I sighed heavily. “And why didn’t I come up with a cooler name? Anyway, from the media reaction, you’ve probably seen it’s working. People are accepting it, and now the plan’s in motion.”

"You're risking your life for mutant PR?!" The outrage in Parker's voice was almost tangible, like she was ready to swoop in and rescue me from some evil mutant overlords forcing a poor boy into dangerous missions.

"Okay, stop right there, Spider," I said firmly, furrowing my brow and raising my voice just enough to cut through her indignation. "No one's forcing me to do anything. I do this out of gratitude to the mutant community. They’ve done so much for me, Spider-Girl. Without them, I'd probably already be dead—or worse, some lab rat." I exhaled deeply, closing my eyes to calm myself. No point snapping at her when she didn’t know the full story. "Just trust me on this—mutants look out for each other, for the most part. Nobody’s throwing me into harm's way for fun. Both last time and this time, I wasn’t in real danger. My abilities aren’t just for shocking people or melting stuff—I’ve got defensive measures, too. 

“I can stand under machine-gun fire, at least until my reserves run out. But trust me, I wouldn’t just stand there, you know? Thanks for worrying, though. I appreciate it." Smiling, I gave her hand a quick squeeze to smooth over my earlier irritation. I wasn’t mad at her, really—mutants had become my family, and I just got a bit defensive. "And both missions were supervised by Sensei. I also had intel on how many enemies there were and what kind of weapons they had. Nothing to lose sleep over."

"Okay, got it. So… I messed up your whole operation, didn’t I?" she muttered, sounding genuinely down. "Jameson already hates me. If he finds out I was involved, The Daily Bugle will totally drag you guys through the mud."

Cue Ooyama’s signature creepy giggle.

"You don’t need to worry about that, girl," she said, her tone oddly amused. She glanced at me briefly before focusing back on the road. "In fact, you’re lucky to have been part of this operation."

"Why?" Parker asked, turning to her, but Ooyama had already gone back to ignoring her.

"I think Sensei means that JJ won’t dare bark at you for this," I said, nodding to myself. "The mutant-positive narrative is being pushed really hard right now—by pretty much everyone except the hardcore mutant-haters on the internet. So either they won’t mention you at all, or they’ll spin it positively. At worst, you’ll get something like, ‘with minor assistance from Spider-Girl.’ They’re not going to fling mud over this, trust me."

Parker went quiet for a couple of minutes, then suddenly giggled.

"Toby, listen! If you ever need help on one of your missions, just call me!"

"Wow, sneaky Spider-Girl, trying to get in on the action!" I laughed. "Deal. If Sensei approves, I’ll give you a call. I’m not exactly Mr. Muscles—physically, I’m just an average guy—but you’re strong, agile, and can crawl on walls. Sounds like a dream team to me." I even closed my eyes for a second, pretending to dream about it.

Parker turned to Sensei. "Sensei?" she asked tentatively.

"To him, I’m Sensei," Ooyama said curtly, not missing a beat. "You can call me Miss Ooyama, Miss Yuriko Ooyama, or ma’am." Parker froze for a second, clearly unsure how to respond. Ooyama continued, "I’ll consider letting you participate. But not for every mission—Tobias needs to train on his own, too. Still, the idea of joint training with a strong, agile partner isn’t bad. Tobias, give your friend some material on sign language. You have a week to learn it, Spider-Girl. Clear?"

"Uh… yes, ma’am," Parker stammered.

"I’ll take care of it, Sensei," I added quickly.

"And one more thing," Ooyama said. "You go on patrols, right?"

"Yeah, almost every evening. Sometimes late into the night," Parker replied, clearly a bit intimidated by Ooyama. Not that I could blame her—Sensei’s gorgeous but leaves a very… unique impression.

"Good. Then arrange with Tobias to patrol with you once a week. It’ll be good for him."

"Uh… Sensei," I hesitated. "I don’t mind, but Spider-Girl swings around on webs while I’m stuck running or biking."

"I didn’t say she’d swing you around during chases," Ooyama replied, her voice icy as ever. "But if it’s a localized issue without a chase, she can drop you at the scene, and you’ll handle things together. Besides, you seem to enjoy being carried by women. You looked far too pleased after Hulk carted you off."

"Hulk kidnapped you?!" Parker blurted, her night apparently full of surprises.

"Yeah, it happened. We hopped around the country—nothing major. If you ever meet her, try not to piss her off," I advised. "When she’s angry, she gets stronger, and even though she’s in a constant state of rage, you can reason with her. Just make it clear you mean no harm. But seriously, Spider-Girl, a fight with Hulk in the city? That’s insane levels of destruction, and you’d have zero chance of stopping her. Focus on saving civilians and minimizing damage—don’t provoke her. I hope you never face her as an opponent, but if you do, remember my words."

"Okay, Toby, got it," Parker said warmly. I could tell she was smiling under her mask. Did she think I was just looking out for her? Well, I was, but I was also thinking about the city.

A bit later, Parker jumped out, gave me a warm goodbye, and even hugged me before speeding off on her web. She managed a rushed, "Goodbye, Miss Ooyama!" before disappearing. We had each other’s numbers, so staying in touch wouldn’t be an issue. I moved to the front seat, threw on my cloak, and we drove off in silence.

"Sensei, why patrols with Spider-Girl?" I asked eventually.

"Tsk. I already said—it’ll be useful for you. The girl’s strong but incredibly naive. Watch her mistakes, and maybe you won’t turn into such an idiot."

"Uh… I’m not sure I follow, Sensei."

"She’s an idealist," Ooyama said, her tone making it sound like a heinous crime. "You can see it in her ‘hero work.’ Sure, it does some good, but idealists often make stupid decisions they regret for the rest of their lives. You’re one too, but at least you’re not hopeless. If you hadn’t killed Stryker, I wouldn’t have wasted my time on you. I can’t stand fools."

"Got it…"

I really did understand what she meant. Her perspective on life was far harsher than most mutants I’d met—closer to Sabretooth or Logan. Logan might not outright approve of killing, but when necessary, he could cut down an enemy without hesitation. Sabretooth, on the other hand, was methodically cruel, though I still held a certain strange fondness for her.

Parker’s heroic pacifism must seem, to Ooyama, as it does to me—overly naive. This whole shtick of arresting supervillains? A massive mistake. Think about Carnage from the "original" universe. His host, Cletus Kasady, shouldn’t have been sent back to a psych ward. He should have been executed, his body incinerated, and the ashes launched into the Sun. All this playing by laws and democracy? Useless. The same went for Stryker… I’m not sure if I could’ve killed her had I not seen the lifeless body of ten-year-old Sandy. But after that? I knew she had to die.

In Marvel, villains escape far too often, only to return and wreak more havoc. Sure, petty criminals can rot in prison, but supervillains? They should burn.

I clenched my teeth, a wave of anger bubbling to the surface. That rage from back then never truly disappeared. It had buried itself deep, lying dormant, but the flash of a pale, lifeless face framed by red hair and the ghostly whisper of "You were too late" stirred it violently. I wouldn’t make the mistake of letting monsters live. They needed to be eliminated—not for justice, not for anyone else—but for me. I couldn’t bear the thought of dead eyes staring at me in the dark, blaming me for their lost lives. If necessary, I’d be vengeance. Maybe even preemptive vengeance.

"Calm down, Onryo," Ooyama’s voice startled me, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. "You're radiating heat—you’ll set your suit on fire. Did my words anger you that much?"

It’s ironic—Ooyama only seemed to show emotion in moments like these, as if my anger or frustration amused her. On the training grounds, when I was practically on fire with irritation, she’d even smile. And now, her voice carried curiosity laced with its usual icy calm.

"No, Sensei," I exhaled, trying to steady myself. "I was reflecting on the dangers of misplaced mercy in certain situations."

She laughed—a sharp, wicked laugh, raw and genuine. It wasn’t a traditionally pretty sound; more like harsh, barking notes of mirth. But it suited her, and I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her elegant profile. Ooyama was the embodiment of dangerous beauty—terrifyingly stunning, lethally graceful.

Turning her head slightly, she gave me a glance that wasn’t cold this time. Instead, it was amused, almost pleased.

"I’m glad, Tobias, that you know how to think. Try doing it more often," she teased, a mocking smile tugging at her lips before she shifted her focus back to the road.

The rest of the ride back to the school was quiet. Occasionally, I caught her lips curling into the faintest smirk, while I let my mind wander… to the idea of a codename.

Thoughts of vengeance brought to mind Nemesis, one of the characters from an old game back in my original world. The name itself came from the goddess of retribution: Nemesis. It sounded powerful, carried the right message, and, as a bonus, the emblem of Nemesis (1)—a chapter from Warhammer 40K—would look damn good on my suit.

That’s it. Decision made. Tomorrow, I’d head to McCoy and discuss upgrading my field gear.

___________________________________

• The original refers to them as Angels of Vengeance. A Google search suggests that it is  a localized name, with 'Nemesis' being the correct translation, but I am not sure. 

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 31

Millicent hadn’t had a good dream in a long time. Truly bright ones, free of pain and suffering, felt like a distant memory. She no longer believed such dreams could return.

But this one was good.

She dreamt of herself, completely healthy and breathing deeply, walking through a vast garden. A fragrant garden, filled with greenery and a variety of trees. Living plants.

Millicent couldn’t quite tell what she was doing in that garden. Perhaps strolling, enjoying the nature. Perhaps sniffing flowers or climbing trees like a little girl. Or maybe she was simply lying amidst the greenery, thinking about nothing.

That was how it went until she decided to explore the garden further and stumbled upon a silhouette hidden among the flowers. Millicent instantly recognized the figure of her benefactor, smiled brightly, and ran toward him, wanting to express her gratitude.

However, she never reached him. She stumbled when she realized the calm, composed silhouette, as she got closer, was naked.

For Millicent, a girl perhaps too soft and innocent, this was far too much to take in.

A brief fall.

A flash.

Awakening.

Millicent slowly opened her eyes, her breathing quickened by the unexpectedly abrupt end to her dream. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had such vivid dreams. Maybe… this was a good sign.

“I’m covered with a blanket?” the thought flitted through her mind.

She immediately knew who had tucked her in: the one who had helped her. The realization filled her with a surprising warmth.

“How are you feeling?”

The unexpected question, asked in what seemed like a cold, emotionless voice, struck Millicent as surprisingly warm and gentle. She couldn’t remember anyone addressing her like that before. Not even the person she’d once held dear, let alone her sisters.

Her thoughts cleared. Her body felt light, airy in a way she hadn’t experienced for a very long time.

Millicent wanted to thank her savior from the bottom of her heart, but…

That was when she fully took in her surroundings, her mouth dropping open in disbelief. Words stuck in her throat, and her face turned the color of her hair.

Her savior, just as in the dream, was nearly naked before her!

Millicent had never seen a man’s body up close. Her life had been filled with endless battles against rot-ridden monsters and the teachings of her adoptive father.

She had certainly never seen a body so perfectly developed. Her gaze, despite herself, darted nervously over him, making her feel even more flustered. She wanted to scream like a little girl and cover her face with her hands.

Well, hand.

“I-I… was hoping… to see you again…”

By the Greater Will, it was impossible to put into words how difficult those words had been for her to say. She tried to sound calm, but she utterly failed. Against her will, Millicent wrapped the blanket tighter around herself.

The man’s face broke into a smile.

Even among the unfortunate waifu, Millicent’s fate as the red-haired waifu was unusually tragic. While Melina and Ranni had choices, Millicent was guilty only of being born in a soulslike.

Sometimes Kosta struggled to keep himself from tearing up at such heartbreaking stories. True soulslike players might roll through emotional pain just as they rolled through combat, but only if their controllers or keyboards didn’t break first. Right now, though, he wasn’t a tryharder.

He was an ordinary, miserable fan of waifu, who loved soulslikes and thus was destined to suffer all the more.

“Konstantin. Just Kosta.”

Melina, seeing the suffering behind her chosen champion’s smile, exhaled softly.

“I… I… p-please… c-cover yourself…”

Millicent’s voice was quiet, barely audible, but to Kosta, it sounded like thunder.

From the look on Millicent’s face, it seemed she was about to cry. For a waifu fan, this was like an arrow to the knee—the worst of all betrayals.

‘Huh?’

Melina had never seen her Tarnished gear up so fast. Within a second, he was fully dressed, as if he’d never been undressed at all.

“Forget the laundry or discomfort…”

The man’s barely audible mutter caught Melina’s attention. Her accursed eye… well, given how often it opened these days, it seemed it might as well remain open all the time.

She squinted slightly.

‘If I act like that, will he stop undressing?’

The thought came and went quickly.

She no longer wanted to manipulate his feelings like that.

Millicent blinked, momentarily not believing her eyes. For a second, she even thought he might not have been naked at all—that it had just been some trick of her fevered mind.

Needless to say, that didn’t make her feel any better.

Pulling herself together, Millicent removed the blanket and leaned against the wall behind her before…

Simply and unceremoniously standing up.

Lightness. She hadn’t felt such lightness in so long. She felt as if she weighed no more than a feather. As if she could jump and fly at any moment.

Even if it all turned out to be a lie and the curse knocked her back down again—this time for good—the red-haired girl wouldn’t regret it.

The relief she felt was priceless.

Her heart swelled with gratitude. And alongside it—a deep sense of shame. She must have looked terrible: her bloodstained, tattered, dirty clothing, smell of rot that had seeped into her.

She didn’t even want to think about the state of her hair.

“P-please, give me a moment to at least fix my hair…”

Kosta frowned thoughtfully.

He had no intention of letting the quest limit him.

“I can take you to the Castle, where they’ll help you.”

Millicent, holding her old hair tie between her teeth as she tried to brush her hair back with one hand, froze, her eyes widening as she stared at nothing in particular.

“C-Castle?”

Her voice was so faint it was as though she might lose consciousness.

The Tarnished shrugged.

“They’ll feed you, give you new clothes, and heat up a bath. There are certain perks to being the boss of a location.”

Millicent didn’t fully understand some of the words her savior used, but she grasped the overall meaning. Normally, an offer like that from a stranger might seem suspicious at best, but…

The red-haired girl had no doubt he was sincere. Her heart filled with even greater warmth…

…and shame over her own helplessness.

“I feel like I can manage on my own… Thank you…”

She could always accept his help later. Her benefactor had already done so much for her. Besides, she couldn’t bear the thought of appearing in such a state before a large group of people.

She still had some pride left.

Kosta, sensing the true tryhard spirit in this waifu, nodded solemnly and didn’t argue. That didn’t stop him from producing a comb out of thin air and offering it to Millicent.

Honestly, Kosta rarely thought about such trinkets. This had been Melina’s idea, and by now he saw no point in arguing—he simply let the overactive waifu stock him up with whatever she brought.

As it turned out, not without reason.

Millicent hesitated for a moment when she saw the offered comb but then timidly took it. Refusing would have been foolish, after all.

“Th-thank you…”

‘What a sweet girl,’ Sellen’s illusion smirked.

The sorceress fully understood why Konstantin had done so much to help the red-haired waifu.

Had Millicent been a student of the Academy, Sellen wouldn’t have dared suggest involving her in any of her experiments. In fact, Sellen might even have admitted to herself that she’d have defended her. After all, she wasn’t completely heartless.

Carefully observing the scene, Sellen glanced toward the jealous servant of the Tarnished.

‘Well, well... Have you fallen for her charms too?’ the sorceress mused to herself with a mischievous chuckle.

Though Melina, the false Finger Maiden, looked contemplative, she clearly bore no ill will toward the unfortunate red-haired girl.

With the comb in hand, Millicent managed to tidy her hair much faster. While she still didn’t look her best, there was a notable improvement in her appearance. She looked more put-together and visibly pleased with the change.

When she tried to return the comb, Millicent found herself met with Kosta’s stern gaze, one that brooked no argument.

“Keep it,” he said simply.

Millicent hesitated for a moment before nodding and pressing the comb against her chest.

“I understand,” she said softly.

Taking a deep breath, Millicent felt a small surge of confidence.

…well, not complete confidence, but it was a start.

“My apologies for when last we met. I fainted before I could even thank you. Everything is as you said. Everything you said turned out to be true.”

Her quiet voice carried a hint of wonder, her eyes lighting up.

“Since inserting the needle, the scarlet rot has ceased to writhe. Even the nightmares have abated… And now, though I can scarcely believe it myself, I can move as I please.”

“I’m glad.”

Kosta knew he couldn’t remain silent. So, he simply said what he truly felt: happiness. For a fan, there was no greater joy than seeing a waifu happy.

Millicent lowered her head, finding it hard to put her feelings into words. After all, no one had ever taught her how to openly express her emotions, nor had there been anyone to express them to.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to properly repay you, but please accept this small token of my gratitude…”

She couldn’t even remember who had given her the talisman or when. That no longer mattered. What mattered was that it was the only valuable item she could offer her benefactor.

Kosta didn’t argue with the waifu trying to repay him in any way she could, silently accepting what he recognized as a nod toward yet another alternate ending that was cut from the game (1).

Seeing him take the only thing she could offer, Millicent sighed in relief.

However, her relief was short-lived. She realized she had no idea what to say next. Her topics were quickly exhausted, and…

She was terrible at conversations.

Kosta, noticing the quiet panic on her face, narrowed his eyes.

The real Lands Between had forced him to sweat in entirely different ways than he ever had before, and he knew he would continue to do so. He would keep sweating, enduring, so that the light of the waifu would never fade.

It might not have sounded particularly lofty, but it was a deeply held conviction.

He shifted into the necessary mode.

Now he would lead the conversation. And no waifu would help him—not this time.

“The needle was broken. An old man in red, Gowry, repaired it. Do you know him?”

Millicent furrowed her brows for a moment before her eyes widened in recognition.

“I…”

“Let’s go.”

The girl blinked dumbly before nodding without question. Before she could say anything, the man pulled a whistle from nowhere and summoned Torrent.

“Huh?”

As the ground seemed to disappear beneath her feet, Millicent found herself locking eyes with the steed.

Torrent, half-hoping for yet another siege, snorted and glanced at his summoner with a silent question.

“What a beauty!”

Millicent’s whisper reached Torrent’s ears, causing him to shift his gaze toward her again. Before he could snort again, Millicent, her smile radiant, approached and began stroking him with a gentleness perhaps no one else could muster.

Melina stared blankly at how her old friend succumbed so easily to Millicent’s touch, nuzzling his nose against her.

“You’re in big trouble, aren’t you?”

The witch’s sly whisper made the maiden’s face twist as though she’d bitten into something sour.

The false Finger Maiden turned her head to her shoulder, where a fearless miniature version of Sellen had perched.

“Get off me, witch.”

“Aren’t you going to try catch me again?” Sellen squinted playfully.

Melina didn’t respond right away, turning her attention back to her Tarnished and the red-haired girl, who was awkwardly climbing onto Torrent. The girl’s expression, when Kosta mounted the steed as well, was one of someone about to faint.

“It’s pointless now,” Melina muttered. “You’ve gotten what you wanted.”

Sellen skeptically eyed the supposedly unbothered false Finger Maiden.

As if that feigned calmness could fool her.

“You’re overcomplicating thi—”

Melina’s burned, scarred hand seized the startled illusion of Sellen, who froze, realizing she was in real trouble. Her gaze met Melina’s cursed eye, which stared directly at her.

Millicent glanced around, sensing a strange tension in the air.

Kosta, catching a glimpse of the scene from the corner of his eye, remained outwardly calm. Or mostly calm.

He would’ve liked to focus on untangling the drama among the few beautiful things in the Lands Between, but first, he had to finish the main quests.

And, of course, ensure that the other “quests” didn’t destroy each other in the process.

At least he trusted Meli-Meli enough to know she wouldn’t do anything to Sellen…

…too serious, at least.

The journey to Gowry’s shack didn’t take long. Strangely, the old man wasn’t there. But in his place was a giant, cursed dog prowling near the shack.

Millicent, seeing the massive beast mutated by rot’s curse, didn’t even have time to react before something whizzed past her, striking the snarling, irritating dog square in the head.

The irritating, utterly maddening dog.

It didn’t seem to comprehend what had happened, glancing around in confusion until its eyes locked with Kosta’s. And then, just like that, it fell. A thin stream of runes flowed into the Tarnished, a testament to the creature’s fate.

And most importantly, it wouldn’t, finally, respawn.

“This is for all the soulslike players, whose nerves you shredded.” Kosta whispered.

Millicent dismounted Torrent and approached the massive dog’s corpse.

‘A dagger?’

She knew firsthand just how tough these creatures were. While they hadn’t posed a problem back when she still had both arms, she had to admit they were… exceedingly irritating. For an ordinary piece of metal to not only pierce through the beast’s skull but lodge itself so deeply required truly insane strength.

From the beginning, Millicent had suspected her savior was a Tarnished. But the sheer power Konstantin had displayed exceeded all logic.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—she had no time to pay attention to rumors.

Still…

It wasn’t as if the red-haired girl cared about her savior’s strength.

‘I probably needed to say goodbye to him…’

She remained uncertain. The image of the old man named Gowry seemed oddly familiar and significant to Millicent. It felt as if meeting the man her savior had mentioned might clarify things, but…

He wasn’t here.

Millicent felt like she was supposed to do something important. She was striving for something. Yet she couldn’t remember what it was. The sensation was agonizing.

She didn’t know what to do or where to go.

Perhaps she should set out on a journey(2)…

“I can help you,” came Konstantin’s calm voice.

Millicent broke from her thoughts, turning to him.

“Help me?”

“To find a replacement for your arm.”

The girl grew visibly uncomfortable.

“You’ve already done so much for me, Konstantin. Th-thank you, but…”

For a moment, Konstantin’s face twitched, but then…

“I might need your… help in battle.”

Melina froze, fingers wrapped tightly around the illusion of the sorceress. Even Sellen, who had been struggling futilely to free herself from the deceptively delicate grip, fell silent, slack in Melina’s grasp.

The two women exchanged glances.

‘He… asked for help on his own? Just like that?!’

Their thoughts aligned once more.

"’I’m going to get called even less now…’

A sorrowful whisper from Latenna, laden with infinite melancholy, went unnoticed. Behind her, her spectral wolves howled mournfully.

Millicent, oblivious to the slight hitch in Konstantin’s voice, flinched at the sound of his words. Her heart began to pound.

She had been born a warrior. Perhaps too gentle and timid for the role, but a warrior nonetheless. The red-haired girl didn’t believe that offering her talisman had been sufficient repayment to the Tarnished.

Besides the talisman, all she had was her sword. But without her dominant hand, she was nearly useless. At least compared to Konstantin, she was.

Millicent desperately wanted to repay him. At the same time, she longed to rediscover her purpose, to remember it. The thought of finding a replacement for her arm seemed like an impossible dream—one she hadn’t even dared consider.

Unbidden, her gaze drifted to the dog’s corpse.

“But you…” Millicent cut herself off abruptly. “…I understand.”

Konstantin nodded, his expression pensive.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to visit a few locations first.”

“Locations?” she repeated, unfamiliar with the term in this context.

There was still so much for her to learn—about the Lands Between and the people within it.

“I want to check out a fort and attend the Festival of Combat.”

He said it as though discussing the weather. Without a doubt, he was eager for the festival. But compared to finding a suitable mystical prosthetic for a waifu, it seemed far less important.

“A fort and the Festival of Combat…”

Millicent frowned slightly, then…

“...The Festival of Combat?”

Her expression became more pitiful than that of a kitten left out in the rain.

As if that wasn’t enough, her stomach growled audibly. It was impossible to tell when she had last eaten a proper meal.

From Melina’s and Sellen’s perspectives, it seemed that Millicent only avoided a mortified squeal through the sheer, monumental willpower of an unbroken warrior.

Nothing else could explain it.

(1) There are numerous hints suggesting that the player might have originally been able to unlock a “Rot Ending.” Sadly, it seems this idea was scrapped, taking with it a significant amount of lore that now only raises more questions.

(2) In Millicent’s questline, she tells the player she is embarking on a journey to find her purpose. The player can encounter her in various parts of the Lands Between afterward. The level of luck or foresight required to complete her entire questline during a first playthrough without guides is truly mind-boggling.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 64

Angie straightened up on the couch and slowly slid off her short, golden bolero jacket. Without it, her black top seemed even more daring, barely covering the sides of her breasts. I could see waves of goosebumps rippling across her skin—proof of heightened sensitivity from the drug she’d just taken.

“Happiness...” Angie purred, brushing her neck with one hand. “If we simplify science’s take on it, it comes down to four substances: serotonin, endorphins, oxytocin, and dopamine. There’s more to it, sure, but these four are the heavy hitters. And let’s face it, we care about practicality, not theory. The entire biochemistry of happiness revolves around them.”

Right. Like the lyrics from that track inspired by Breaking Bad:

“All of these changes that you see
Maybe it’s all just chemistry
You’ve made a monster out of me
Baby, it’s all just chemistry.”

It’s just chemistry, babe. Still, I’d spent years without a body, yet I felt emotions—motivations, even. Reducing it all to hormones and neurotransmitters seemed reductive. But there was no denying that, in the Net, I missed the physical chemistry that made life feel whole.

Meanwhile, Angie continued her semi-bare lecture.
“Serotonin’s the simplest, easiest one to understand.”

She snapped her fingers, and a small, harmless drone zipped out of the adjoining room, carrying a metal tray in its magnetic grips. The centerpiece? A charming little chocolate fountain, flanked by fresh strawberries and banana slices.

“All real?” I smirked. “Or synthesized?”

“Real, of course. Not that synthetic crap—top-quality GMO,” she assured me.

In my old world, that’d sound like a joke. But here, most crops had gone through countless cycles of modification—an effort to save them from climate change and biological warfare. Case in point: the U.S. government once released a virus to wipe out Latin America’s coca crops, only for it to wreck plenty of non-drug agriculture, too.

Angie plucked a strawberry with her fingertips, then slowly licked off a layer of chocolate from one side. There was a skill to the motion—an unhidden desire that started to infect me like a virus. My focus wavered, shifting to the curves of her body, though I still tried to listen.

“Serotonin’s tied to food, vitamins, sunlight. Its pleasure is steady, reliable. It helps you handle stress—a simple, pleasant little substance. Barely any issues, really. Serotonin syndrome exists, but it’s no big deal if your biomods are solid.”

I grabbed a strawberry myself. I wasn’t hungry, but hey—this was a lecture and a demo. The chocolate tasted legit, surprisingly rich. Fresh strawberry sealed the deal.

“Next up’s endorphins?” I asked.

“Yep. You’ve heard of opium, right? The natural narcotic? Had all of China hooked back in the day.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“Well, endorphins are our body’s homemade opioids.”

“Technically, opioids are artificial endorphin substitutes,” I noted, watching the sunset rays play across Angie’s tanned skin.

Then again, in this world, the line between artificial and natural had blurred long ago.

“Endorphins block pain and bring euphoria. Athletes know them well.”

Angie stood up and began peeling off her tight leggings. The demonstration was getting real interesting. She stood sideways, showing off the toned musculature of her legs.

“Muscles ache, but it feels good,” she said with a smile, stretching her leg in front of me. “Runner’s high, and all that. A newbie struggles to hit the gym; once they’re hooked, you can’t get them to leave. It’s not just endorphins, of course, but they play a big part. Let’s move on to the good stuff.”

She stepped out of her leggings, shooed the drone away, then crouched in front of me. Her hands, adorned with extravagant bracelets, rested on my thighs. She tossed her cap aside and laid her head on my knee, nuzzling like a contented cat.

“Oxytocin...” she breathed. “Some call it the love hormone. Trust, affection, tenderness—the urge to lose yourself in someone else. All of that’s oxytocin. A beautiful little chemical, don’t you think?”

Angie stood again, straddling my knee, her lower back grinding against it in short, deliberate movements.

“But it’s got a dangerous side,” she whispered in my ear. “Can you guess what?”

“Trust isn’t always a good thing.”

“Exactly. But that’s just part of it. Oxytocin boosts loyalty—not just to the person next to you, but to groups, to leaders you’ve never even met. Patriotism, fanatical devotion, gang wars—that’s oxytocin too. The love hormone... indispensable in warfare. And now, for the last one.”

She loosened my shirt collar and planted a hot kiss on my neck before continuing:

“Dopamine. Movement, setting goals, achieving results in any form. A netrunner cracking a code, an A+ on a test, or the severed head of your enemy—it’s all dopamine. It’s the carrot we dangle in front of ourselves, the light that lures us forward. You, V, reek of dopamine. Your brilliant little brain...” Her hand ran over the back of my head. “It’s practically swimming in the stuff.”

“And is that a bad thing?”

Angie smirked.

“Dopamine’s dark side is excess. Work for the sake of work. If there’s too much, it’s like a void—always needing to be filled. That’s what drives careerists and greedy psychos. Look around; you’ll see them on campaign posters, in corporate boardrooms. People who’ll never have enough. Want to be one of them?”

I thought of Susan, her thoughts I’d absorbed and processed.

“They worry,” Angie went on, “climbing higher and higher. Junkies, upping their dose every time. Once I understood that, the world made a lot more sense. Why corpos and politicians will sacrifice everything—other people, even themselves? Many of them are just addicts. And what’ll a junkie do for their next hit? Anything.”

She laughed softly, running her fingers through my hair. “You wanna control everything, but are you in control of your drive to control? Want to find out? Let me give you a shot.”

“What’s in it?”

“The first three—serotonin, a little endorphin, and a hefty dose of oxytocin. All calibrated to hit you straight in the brain. Nanomachines, baby.”

“Convenient,” I said dryly. “Dose someone with trust hormones, then offer a deal. How long’ve you been running that racket?”

“I took it too,” she replied with a sly grin. “Call it my show of faith. Half the dose for me, half for you. Think it over—message your ripper, look it up. Just hurry, please...” She shifted on my leg, her tone turning needy. “I really want your attention.”

Message a ripper? Actually, not a bad idea.

“Yeah, one sec,” I said. “I’ll write, not call.”

Using my optics, I snapped a picture of the syringe. The label looked factory-made. Sent it to Vic with a quick question: “How dangerous is this?”

His reply didn’t take long.

Vic answered quickly.

"If you trust the source, it’s fine. But don’t drive afterward or hang out in hostile company. This stuff was made to treat sociopathy, nervous breakdowns, and psychopathy. Honestly, it might even do you some good. Maybe you’ll rethink sending teenagers into deathmatches."

"Alright," I sighed. "Go ahead, give me the shot."

"You won’t regret it."

Angie slipped off my jacket, gave an approving nod at the armored vest underneath, and rolled up my shirt sleeve. There was a light prick, and then... the effect hit fast. Nanomachines, son. Angie’s custom cocktail splashed into my dopamine-soaked brain like a wave of pure euphoria.

"Well?" she asked.

"Mmm..." I glanced at her and realized I wanted nothing more than to kiss her for a very long time. "It’s working. Hits harder than regular chems. And... interesting. But seriously, can’t we humans live without getting high?"

"That’s just how it is," she said with a smirk. "Mother Nature made us all junkies. Our neglectful single mom... and Daddy God kicked us out of paradise into this massive ghetto called Earth. How can you not get hooked?"

As she spoke, I found myself groping her chest shamelessly, noticing how every touch drew soft moans from her.

"See? Feels good, doesn’t it?" she teased.

"Yeah. It’s like..."

"Like you’re in love?"

Damn. I didn’t want to admit it, but I did feel a strong rush of emotions for a girl I’d only met twice—and was now touching for the first time. Was that her plan all along?

"Don’t worry," Angie murmured, unfastening my vest. "It’ll pass. You’ll just have some very... pleasant memories. Let’s make those memories now."

From that moment, things escalated quickly. Talking stopped entirely. Our communication shifted to touch. Angie stripped off the rest of her clothes first, then I followed suit. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other, and the sensations were incredible—not just being touched but doing the touching. Empathy overflowed, turning every moment into something raw and deeply intimate.

It was as intense as my first nights with Lucy, but this time, I was in a whole different physical league. Even compared to Angie, I wasn’t lagging. Micro-rotors pumped blood, artificial lungs kept it oxygen-rich, and my brain stayed sharp and fueled by a steady drip of adrenaline. I didn’t tire. Fatigue felt like a distant concept.

Position after position, hour after hour—it felt endless. Not that I minded. We moved through increasingly wild and acrobatic positions. Supporting her mid-air with one arm? Easy. I had top-notch cyberlimbs. Angie braced herself against the wall, lifting her right leg like a gymnast, holding it high and steady as I pushed forward.

It was surreal.

I could feel how far we’d pushed past human limits. Synthetic demigods. Instead of Olympus—a skyscraper. Instead of nectar and ambrosia—hormones and nanomachines.

Rebecca’s cheeky suggestion to activate the Sandevistan at my peak crossed my mind. My body felt great, so why not give it a shot? I sped up, chasing that moment.

And I caught it.

The sensations that flooded my nerves were indescribable. It felt like I might either take flight or explode into radiant happiness, setting off a chain reaction that would have all of Night City hugging and throwing the biggest orgy in human history. Time seemed to freeze. It was as if Angie and I had left the physical world, fucking on some astral plane filled with 95% pure nirvana.

When it finally ended—somehow—I collapsed onto the bed, drenched in sweat and struggling to catch my breath.

"You accelerated, didn’t you?" Angie asked, draping a leg over me.

"Was it that obvious?"

She laughed and kissed my cheek. "Yes, V. When someone’s getting railed at near-supersonic speed, it’s very noticeable."

"Mmm. Got it. Everything okay? I didn’t, uh, mess you up or anything?"

"Everything’s fucking perfect."

"Well..." I checked in with my own body, then smirked. "Shall we continue?"

"Of course. But slowly this time. Give the nerves a break."

And so we did.

By early morning, when exhaustion finally caught up to us, we lay entwined on the bed, her head resting lightly on my chest.

"Did you really need my help that badly?" I asked. "Or were you just looking for a discount?"

"Maybe I just like you," she replied with a teasing grin.

"Come on, tell me the truth. I’m physically incapable of taking offense right now."

"First, I think it’s better to have you as a friend. Call it instinct. Second, you’re not bad—especially for a former corpo. And third... I think you needed this. Not just the sex. To relax. To see life differently for a bit. To step off your dopamine treadmill and enjoy some other parts of life."

Huh. Maybe she was right. Or maybe it was the trust drug talking. Then again, if I was even asking myself those questions, my critical thinking wasn’t completely shot. 

The thing was good. Really good. But one dose wasn’t going to rewrite my whole personality. Not here, anyway. That’d take a full course.

"Let’s sleep," Angie murmured.

"Together?"

"Do you want to leave?"

"No."

When I woke up, she was still sound asleep, wrapped in a tangle of sheets, her curves unapologetically on display. She had no plans of getting up.

"Angie?" I whispered.

"Later," she mumbled, barely moving.

"You mentioned you needed something from me?" I teased, watching her stretch lazily.

"Yeah..." she said through a yawn. "The shard’s in the right pocket of my jacket. Call me if you’re on board..."

Her words trailed off as she yawned again.

I smirked, lightly slapping her thigh. "What if I need more convincing?"

"Later... You don’t sleep enough. High cortisol. Relax more..." Another yawn swallowed her words.

Fine. No point tormenting the sleepy cat. I showered, dressed, and found the shard. Before leaving, I ran my fingers from her hip to her ankle. The touch was... oddly satisfying. The shot was still working. Warmth and calmness sloshed inside me—a strange but pleasant mix.

I fought the urge to crawl back into bed and stepped out into the hallway. My body felt great, alive, whole, but my mind was clear—no crashes or comedowns like the old days. It wasn’t like the stimulants I used to pop like candy. Whatever this stuff was, it left me feeling... balanced. Not the best mindset for Night City, maybe, but once in a while? Yeah, it was good.

Walking toward the elevator, I chuckled at how paranoid I’d been last night, checking surveillance footage and wondering if Angie planned to kill me. Now, that thought seemed absurd. Still, curiosity tugged at me. I reached out to the cameras again, just to test something.

I found a janitor one floor up through a lens. Poor guy had basic ice, easy to bypass. I slipped in and synced with him, controlling his movements. It took longer than usual—more memory drain—but I managed. For five minutes, I saw through his eyes, even pretended to mop. But... no cold, no detachment. I felt... normal.

When I returned to my own body, I was stunned. No lingering chill. My hands were warm, and I still felt great. That shot of Angie’s hadn’t just dampened my abilities—it erased the usual side effects.

Huh.

Heading for the elevator, I replayed Angie’s words. Serotonin and endorphins for stress relief, oxytocin for grounding the nervous system. That shot had anchored me to my body. Could it counter the strain of overusing my powers? Say, if I overexerted like with Abernathy, could this replace the usual post-shock meds? Worth experimenting.

These little shots will definitely come in handy if I ever need a real heart-to-heart with someone, and alcohol alone won’t cut it.

“How was your stay?” asked the staff member walking me out.

“Perfect,” I replied, and it wasn’t a lie.

While waiting for Panam’s car, I started scanning the info on the shard Angie had given me. The job the Animals were offering didn’t surprise me. It was pretty much what I expected.

Lately, strange things had been happening during competitions in Night City and across California. Clear favorites—or at least strong contenders—were losing due to sudden health issues. Nothing life-threatening, just things like stomach cramps at the worst moment or random lapses in focus causing them to trip on flat ground. A split-second mistake, but it completely changed the outcome of the competition.

Angie worked in the fringe of the sports business: pharma, training courses, but most importantly… betting. The Animals used to rake in tons of eddies from wagers, while respected people in various corporations laundered their dirty money. They’d buy inside info on results, and their trusted people would place the “safe” bets. But now, that money-cleansing machine was glitching. The “respected” folks were pissed. Everyone was losing money.

When these “coincidences” started stacking up, it became clear that a highly skilled netrunner was tampering with implants. Problem was, a few hired runners hadn’t found anything. Now, all their hopes were pinned on me.

As I mulled it over, a message from Misty popped up:

“Hi friends. The end of the year is near. Let’s try to cross this threshold with mindfulness and clean hearts. Let’s not just exchange gifts, but reflect on…”

And so on, in her usual style. New cycles, karma cleansing, transitions to higher states of being.

Still, I had to thank Misty. For me, ’77 will be a real game-changer. But let’s take a look on what I already accomplished: I’d knocked Abernathy off her Arasaka throne, settled the club situation, put Slider six feet under, neutralized the Jory blackmail, and now had this netrunner hunt for Angie lined up.

Next on the list? Preparing for the Konpeki Plaza op. And this time, under my lead, it’s not going to be a suicide mission.

Daily Updates (15/01/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 36

• Tier 2: Chapter 41

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 32

• Tier 2: Chapter 37

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 37

"Wake up, troops!" I yelled in sync with Naruto’s alarm clock.

Naruto groggily peeled himself off the pillow, squinted at me, then at the clock… and finally seemed to remember what today was about. His blue eyes went wide as saucers, and he bolted out of bed straight to the bathroom.

We had a lightning-fast breakfast. I helpfully nudged a paw toward an empty backpack and let out an authoritative meow to suggest bringing it along. For good measure, I stuffed a few stashed plastic bags under the bed into the backpack, just in case we needed to, uh, liberate some goods later. And yes, I decided to ride in the backpack myself—because I’m worth it. The bags crinkling underneath me were a delightful bonus. Naruto huffed as he slung the pack (a.k.a. me) onto his back, then patted the side of it where I was happily purring.

“You know, Namaiki-chan,” he murmured, “this feels… familiar somehow.”

“Of course it does!” I huffed. “Now giddy up, my noble steed!”

______________________________________________

“Where’s our cat?” came Sasuke’s half-asleep question.

Morning sunlight pierced my blissful slumber, and I exaggerated a yawn as I looked up at the two boys leaning over the backpack. Sasuke looked surprisingly normal—no dark circles under his eyes, so he must’ve actually slept. Naruto was grinning ear to ear and scratched me behind my ears.

“Namaiki-chan is super smart and sneaky,” he explained. “Now get up, sleepyhead, and let’s see what you wanted to show us.”

Darn right, no time to waste. I put on my most serious face, nodded, and hopped out of my luxurious travel pod. The boys exchanged a glance and cautiously ducked under the crime scene tape at the edge of the Uchiha district. I didn’t rush; there was no clear plan yet. I didn’t even know exactly where Sasuke’s house was. From the anime, I vaguely remembered it was a one-story wooden dojo-style place, but there were several of those here. For now, we’d wander the streets to let the boys adjust, and maybe something would catch their attention… Hm.

“I’ve never been here,” Naruto broke the silence, “but… I feel like if you turn that way, there’s something big and blue. A house?”

I turned in the direction Naruto pointed. Made sense, he might’ve visited Sasuke’s district once or twice—after all, the Uchiha didn’t live in total isolation. Otherwise, you’d only be able to walk down Konoha’s main street, given how many clan areas there are.

“Big and blue” turned out to be a wooden booth painted indigo with a canopy on top, like an oversized snack stand. Naruto let out a triumphant shout and pointed at it.

“This is where Sora-san sold higashi,” Sasuke said, his voice softening.

He seemed to thaw a little under the district’s oppressive weight. We walked over, and I hopped into the booth, instantly catching the scent of those little treats Sasuke mentioned. Higashi, a type of local sweet, made from rice flour and natural ingredients like green tea powder, sakura petals, berries, and fruit juices. They even add sugar, but not too much, so it’s not overly sweet. Sano once let me taste some, swearing they weren’t harmful to animals.

The treats were packed into bento-style boxes, not wooden ones but woven from bamboo leaves and thin twigs. They looked like square baskets with lids, tied up with ribbons. Probably meant as festive gift sets for kids, given that a holiday had just passed.

Carefully, I pawed one of the boxes onto the counter. How long was the shelf life for these? A month? Two? Judging by the smell, they were still good—edible, at least. The scent was very faint but pleasant if you sniffed closely. No wonder the Inuzuka dogs and I missed this little treasure trove.

The boys stared at the box intently.

“Should we open it?” Naruto asked, swallowing hard.

I nodded. He tugged at the ribbon and lifted the lid. Say what you will about Konoha, but they sure know how to make food look pretty. Inside were colorful, intricately shaped sweets—flowers, stars, leaves, even little shuriken. Some were dusted with nuts or sesame seeds, others with powdered sugar.

“Whoa!” Naruto exclaimed, practically drooling. “They look amazing… and they smell great!”

“These sweets must be…” Sasuke trailed off, staring at the box. He poked a pink flower-shaped one and crumbled it slightly. “Weird…”

“Huh? What’s weird?” Naruto asked, puzzled.

“It’s strange they haven’t gone bad after so many years,” Sasuke muttered.

“Maybe we should try them?” Naruto suggested, his excitement returning.

To prove they were safe, I pawed out one of the confections, dragged it onto the counter, and took a bite. Not bad. The cool autumn air must’ve preserved them, keeping them fresh. This Sora lady probably made them right before the festival and sold most of her stock.

“Namaiki-chan’s eating it,” Naruto whispered loudly before popping one into his mouth. “Wow! It’s delicious!”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sasuke picked up a green star-shaped sweet. The box didn’t last long. Once it was empty, I jumped down and called Naruto over.

“Whoa, there’s more!” Naruto exclaimed, peeking under the counter. He pulled out sixteen boxes of sweets and lined them up. “Is this what you wanted to show us, Namaiki-chan?”

I shook my head. Naruto stuffed the boxes into his backpack, his whole demeanor screaming, Lead on, fearless leader! The boys looked more at ease after their snack. Sasuke, in particular, seemed less haunted and even started glancing around.

That’s when inspiration struck me. The food I’d been swiping for Naruto—milk cartons always had a date printed on them! We needed to find something with a date stamp to prove this district wasn’t abandoned “years ago.” And maybe we’d even find Sasuke’s old house and some proper clothes for him. Seriously, it’s fall, and the kid’s walking around in shorts. I feel cold just looking at him.

Either I’m missing something, or every single Uchiha hated milk. We were on the eighth house, and so far, not a single carton in any stinky fridge! On top of that, it seemed like the district had been partially cleaned out—there weren’t even any family photos. Sure, it’s a ninja village, so flaunting faces isn’t exactly common, but I distinctly remember Sasuke having a family photo. Even Naruto’s old house had pictures of his mom.

By the third house, the boys had gotten into a rhythm. Naruto didn’t need reminders; he’d fling open fridges, pinching his nose shut. I couldn’t do that, unfortunately. Sasuke, meanwhile, was in full shinobi mode, rifling through drawers, cabinets, and closets. Mostly he found stashes of money and weapons, which made Naruto exclaim, “We’re rich now!” The search was slow going, though. After seven hours, we’d only covered eight houses.

“Man, I’m starving,” Naruto grumbled, opening yet another fridge. “Hey, there are canned goods here! A whole stash! Sasuke, should we open one? Maybe they’re still good?”

Sasuke shrugged and approached. The fridge reeked of spoiled soup, but Naruto quickly pulled out several flat boxes and set them on the kitchen table. Honestly, I wouldn’t have guessed these were canned goods—they looked more like processed cheese containers. Judging by the pictures, they contained fish, liver pate, crab, and maybe stew. Imported, maybe? I hadn’t seen anything like this in Sarutobi’s stores.

“Whoa, this stuff’s fancy!” Naruto exclaimed, tearing the foil off one box.

“Share!” I yowled as the smell of smoked eel in sauce hit my nose.

While Naruto and I raced to scarf down the delicious treat, Sasuke studied the foil lid, squinting at the designs and characters printed on it.

“This is from the Land of Snow,” he said. “But… their calendar system is weird. Or there’s a mistake.”

I stopped mid-bite. Could it be?

“What do you mean?” Naruto asked, licking the last bits off his fingers and putting on his serious face.

“They marked it as year 76,” Sasuke murmured. “But… my family… my clan was destroyed four years ago, in year 72. The anniversary was just a few days ago.”

“Yes!” I shouted. “Bingo!”

_____________________________________________

It seemed like Naruto and Sasuke were finally catching on to what I wanted them to do and why I had them rifling through all those refrigerators. They were on board with the mission now, searching for anything to confirm or disprove the odd dates on the canned goods Naruto had stashed in his ever-growing loot pile. Unfortunately, we didn’t find anything else useful in the next six houses we checked. As the sky began to darken, it was clear we were running out of daylight.

“Hey, Sasuke, it’s getting kind of late,” Naruto said, breaking the silence. “Maybe… uh… you could come to my place? It’s nearby, and I could cook something. You really haven’t eaten much today.” He glanced at Sasuke nervously, like he was worried the other boy might bolt.

“Hn. Fine,” Sasuke replied, not bothering with his usual “too cool to care” act.

I was so proud of him. To show my approval, I rubbed against his perpetually bare legs—seriously, get some pants, man! 

Sure we haven’t accomplished much but let’s be honest: Sasuke wasn’t ready to step into the house where his family had lived, let alone where he believed they had died. That was a whole other level of emotional baggage we weren’t unpacking tonight.

“Alright then, let’s go!” Naruto grinned, rubbing his nose like he’d just won some kind of prize. “We’re gonna have a feast!”

[Castling] Chapter 41

When we landed and Dad stepped aside, I doubled over. I was gulping down the damp sea air, leaning on my knee, while Dad patiently waited for me to feel better.

“You all right, Ron?” he asked, bending over me with concern. “Feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, straightening up. “That… that felt pretty rough.”

He gave a short laugh, and I looked around in surprise. We were standing on an ocean shore, with miles of empty land all around. About half a mile off in the other direction, near some cliffs, stood a large three-story structure. A sandy path of grey stone slabs led towards it. This place felt quite desolate. Right now, in summer sunshine, it was actually quite pleasant—like a beach. But I dreaded to think what it might be like come autumn, with cold drizzle and sharp winds blowing in from the sea.

“Here, Ron, look,” Dad said, nodding toward the house and slipping an arm round my shoulders. “This is the ancestral home of the Weasley family. Let me show you.”

I followed him, still a bit stunned, while he beamed proudly. He didn’t hide how chuffed he was, pointing out details and talking about the surroundings.

“Tynworth is about three miles beyond those cliffs,” he explained, “Our house, as you can see, is a bit out of the way."

“Tynworth… that’s in Cornwall, isn’t it?” I asked, digging in my memory.

“Exactly!” he said, smiling brightly and giving my shoulder a friendly pat.

There wasn’t a gate or fence around the house, but as we got closer, I felt something shift—a sort of ripple, like stepping through an invisible wall.

“You felt it?” he said eagerly. “Yes, no one can enter unless they’re a Weasley or escorted by one. And I’d rather you not mention this place to anyone—brothers included.”

“All right,” I said with a shrug. “Does Mum know?”

“Of course,” he answered, heading inside and beckoning me to follow, “It was her idea as much as mine."

The house itself? Well, it was a house. Spacious, sure, but not a mansion. Bright and airy. The entire ground floor was an open plan with a kitchen, dining room, and sitting room—clearly designed with a big family in mind.

Dad showed me around all three floors. The rooms were small but practical. No windows yet—just shimmering magical films over the frames, like force fields. No decoration, either; the grey, processed stone walls felt a bit oppressive. But if I closed my eyes, the house’s magic was undeniable—steady and calming. The place had a strong, even magical aura that felt like a warm embrace.

After the tour, we stepped outside and sat on a driftwood log that had been washed ashore. The bark was weathered, crusted with salt. We sat there for ages, Dad gazing dreamily at the ocean while I just listened to the waves and let my thoughts drift.

"So, you bought this place, Dad?" I finally ventured, breaking the silence.

"Didn’t buy it—built it," he said, smiling softly but with a tinge of sadness in his eyes.

“I owe a lot to all of you, Ron,” he confessed. 

 “I know I can’t give you more than the basics. But I’ve no other choice. My responsibility is to restore our family line, and I need to manage it while I’m still here. I lost everything when I was in my final year at Hogwarts. Family, relations, our house… I was left with nothing overnight—twenty Galleons in my pocket, a school trunk, and a thousand gold in the bank. And your mum had little more. I’m very grateful she didn’t call off the engagement and still married me.”

“What happened?” I asked softly, watching his expression. “I heard all our relatives were killed, but… why? Why are we ‘blood traitors’? Was it You-Know-Who?”

“It started way before him, Ron,” Dad sighed. “Ever since the Statute of Secrecy, our worlds—wizards and Muggles—were fully cut off from each other. Those from the magical world were fine, but those coming in—Muggle-borns and half-bloods—arrived with nothing and left with nothing. The old pureblood families were split in two camps. One side believed total isolation from Muggles, shutting out new magical blood and ideas, would lead to decline; the other side refused to share power and centuries of knowledge with outsiders. One side felt any wizard is a wizard, regardless of blood; the other insisted Muggle-borns ‘steal’ magic from ancient families and didn’t want them in what they saw as their rightful domain.”

“But you can’t just ‘steal’ magic,” I said in disbelief. “That’s absurd.”

"Of course it is," Dad replied evenly. "But no one knows where magic comes from. The radical pure-bloods argued that magic was a finite resource, passed down through bloodlines. They claim wizards are a completely separate, ‘higher’ race, while Muggle-borns are simply the offspring of old families’ Squibs. So they say a family’s magic is being diverted elsewhere. They used to kill Squibs in infancy before—well, the more radical lines did. Later, once attitudes changed, that was condemned, and Squibs were quietly sent off to live among Muggles.”

“That’s horrifying,” I gasped.

“A measure they deemed essential for ‘survival’,” Dad said flatly, almost emotionless. “Whatever didn’t meet their ‘standards’ was pitilessly wiped out to keep future generations ‘pure and healthy.’ Weak wizards, children born with deformities—gone. Even a big birthmark was reason enough, so it wouldn’t get passed on, ‘spoiling’ the line.”

"And our family?" I asked bitterly.

“I never asked, Ron,” Dad said gravely, “but it’s obvious—since we’re an ancient line. And I don’t want to know things I can’t accept. I’d never do it myself and that’s enough for me. Like my father before me, I’d never turn my back on my own child, no matter what.”

“Sorry, Dad,” I muttered, leaning into his shoulder. “Didn’t mean to upset you.”

He offered a faint smile, ruffling my hair. “I understand, son—I felt the same when I learned all this, once upon a time. But we can’t be blamed for the choices of others.”

“So… what happened next?” I prompted.

“Ah, yes,” Dad said, snapping out of his thoughts. “Over time, the disputes in our society only grew worse. Pureblood heirs started marrying newcomers. The Wizengamot voted against a ban on marriages to Muggles. Old lines felt threatened. They retreated further, refusing to let their blood mingle. Eventually, in the thirties, a list of families who’d remained ‘pure’ was compiled.”

“The Sacred Twenty-Eight, right?” I said.

“In those days, it was fifty-seven families,” Dad said with a wry smile.

“So where’d the others go?” I asked.

“They were killed,” Dad answered curtly, eyes lowered. “They wouldn’t or couldn’t preserve the ‘purity’ of their lines. Not everyone was so radical. Yet when the best solution was murder… well, you can guess. Many old lines vanished completely. We survived by a fluke. My own relatives died, so did your mum’s, once her father refused to break our engagement.”

“Sounds like some twisted sort of wizard fascism,” I snapped, standing up and pacing. Anger boiled inside me.

“They did the same in many countries at the time,” Dad said calmly. “Grindelwald had a hand in purging old lines for ‘true’ purity. It was a grim era,” he added, sadness flickering in his eyes, but it seemed he’d long made peace with it. “Anyway, the upshot is both Mum and I were left alone. Both families gone. I was on my final year at Hogwarts. We had nowhere to turn except Dumbledore, so we hid in his cottage in Godric’s Hollow until it was safe. Then, when Charlie turned three, I found a ministry post, we left Dumbledore’s place, and that was that.”

“What’s all this got to do with the house, though?” I asked after calming a bit and sitting down. “We still have the Burrow.”

“The Burrow?” Dad wrinkled his nose. “I hate that place, Ron. Molly’s warmth and effort made it a home, but it was once just a house, an ordinary wizard cottage. My brother lived there, the one who married a Muggle-born. That’s where they were killed and their bodies burned—scattered everywhere. I never even found remains to bury. I avoided it for so long, but when you lot came along, I had to settle. I put it back together from the ground floor’s remains. Walls were stone, so they endured. We couldn’t sponge off Dumbledore forever. I feel indebted to him, but I couldn’t go and fight He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named fully, not with a wife and kids to look after.”

“Couldn’t you just build a new place on the Burrow’s land? Demolish the old structure?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Dad sighed as though it was obvious. “You can’t just set up an ancestral house anywhere. You need a newborn source of magic for that, so house-elves might appear once it’s bonded. Sure, you could try to conquer someone else’s source and tear their wards down, but it would take a century for the aura to fade, and even then, it might stay cursed. A real family seat wouldn’t work. And if the line’s truly ancient, secured by blood wards, you’d be dealing with a cursed patch. Malfoy once made that mistake and regretted it,” he said with a slight grin.

“Malfoy?” I asked. “Draco?”

“No, not the boy—his granddad,” Dad explained. “Our murders were initiated by the Blacks. My mother was a Black, and they loathed that her husband’s line was deemed ‘traitors.’ They tried to pressure my Father, didn’t manage, so they wiped them out. I suspect the Bulstrodes and Flints helped, too, being our near relations. They wanted the land but couldn’t break the wards. So they torched everything with Fiendfyre—no evidence, no sign. Everything was gone, including the family crypt.”

“And how do the Malfoys fit in?”

He shrugged. “Their ancestors arrived with William the Conqueror in 1066, while our line was here centuries before that. They took some land in Wiltshire—borders ours—and have always had an eye on ours. For several generations, they tried to fit into local society. They may have been pure-blooded, but to our traditionalists, they were outsiders, upstarts. Of course, over hundreds of years of proper marriages, they became one of us, but the most ancient families never considered them equals. After all, our murders let them tie the knot with the Blacks, uniting their lines: Lucius married Narcissa. I assume it was all part of a deal to get rid of ‘traitors’ once and for all. Then the Malfoys put in a claim with the Wizengamot to buy all the local land, including ours. A wizard can’t just privately own an open magical patch. It has to be tied to an existing house. No house? Then it’s ‘nobody’s land,’ the Ministry eventually auctions it off.”

“Why’s that?” I pressed.

“Because wards are so secret, you can’t see them—ancestral places aren’t on any maps. People might know you live in this or that county, but not precisely where. You can’t prove right of ownership otherwise. Malfoy assumed my father’s wards would vanish once they killed everyone, but Dad’s blood magic remained. When he died, the source effectively died with him, cursing the place for centuries. So Malfoy’s out of luck, stuck with worthless acreage, can’t do anything with it and has to maintain the boundaries. That’s what you call poetic justice.”

“So that’s why they despise us?” I asked.

“As we do them, Ron… as we do them,” Dad echoed pensively.

“So this new house is unbelievably costly, I bet?” I said, reining Dad’s thoughts back.

“It’s ten thousand for the source,” he said, brightening. “And that’s only thanks to my connections. The official auctions run far higher. The house itself is seven thousand, plus three to bind the source if it’s finished. Then add a couple thousand more for all the finishing.”

“That’s a lot,” I said, astounded.

“Sure is,” he said with a proud smile, “about a thousand gold each year. Not many wizards can manage that, which is why few have a truly ancestral place.”

“Maybe you could spend the prize money on the house?” I ventured.

“Ron,” Dad sighed, “it wouldn’t make a dent. I’ll keep chipping away on my own. We could blow it on new things, refurbish the Burrow, but that changes nothing. Sooner or later, we’d be back to square one. And I want us, for once, to go on holiday, all of us—just like normal folk. We could never save up enough for that before, but these winnings came out of the blue. Easy come, easy go. If you’d been older, you’d know I’ve slogged my guts out for years, seldom seeing your Mum or you kids outside mealtimes. Now that you’re mostly at Hogwarts, we can breathe. Your mother deserves a break—she’s never had a proper holiday, and she’s raised all of you, practically singlehanded. Let her enjoy some time with the family before everyone grows up and moves out. And one day, I’ll finish our real family home.”

We fell silent again, the ocean’s hush broken only by the rush of waves.

“So?” Dad asked at length, glancing at me with a half-smile. “We good?”

“Yeah, Dad, I understand. But I’m not coming. I don’t want to go to Egypt. Don’t get me wrong I understand everything, and if you’d planned to visit Charlie, then maybe… but not this.”

“What nonsense is this, Ron?” he said, frowning. “Didn’t you hear a word?”

“I heard. I respect your choice, so respect mine. I don’t want to go.”

“But I can’t leave you at the Burrow on your own,” he said, obviously torn. “You get that, right?”

“No need,” I countered. “Harry invited me to stay with him.”

“Live with Muggles?” Dad said, looking startled.

“So what? I get on all right with his uncle.”

“Well, if you’re that determined,” he said at last, “I suppose I’ll allow it, but only if I see in writing that his family agrees.”

“Tomorrow I’ll head over by the Knight Bus and ask for their permission,” I promised.

“Fine,” he nodded, extending a hand to help me up. “Though I’d be glad if you changed your mind, Ron.”

“I won’t, Dad. But you’re the best father in the world.”

He gave a proud grunt and a warm smile—so much fatherly love shone in his eyes, it nearly bowled me over. Then Apparition snatched us again, that final image of grey stone and incomplete walls lingering in my mind. And in spite of everything I’d learned, a strange contentment settled over me.

Daily Updates (14/01/25)

Stories:

Demons of Night City

• Tier 1: Chapter 58

• Tier 2: Chapter 63

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 28

• Tier 2: Chapter 33

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 25

• Tier 2: Chapter 30

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 30

Only a few remained who still remembered who Gowry had been. A sage, a sorcerer, a heretic expelled from Sellia, the City of Sorcery (not to be confused with the Academy—completely different places), who dedicated his life to serving Malenia the moment she turned her blade on Radahn.

Everyone hated rot. They feared it and avoided it. But Gowry was different from the rest. His life was devoted to rot, to the cycle of blooming and withering. What everyone considered revolting, unnatural, a monstrous spawn of a dreadful Outer God who had cursed the daughter of a goddess—Gowry regarded as the pinnacle of beauty.

He’d probably have made a great soulslike player: even among tryhards, few loved swamps as much as he did.

In the clash between Malenia and Radahn, there was no victor: the rot-blighted demigoddess, allowing the curse to consume her, ultimately fled, taking the remainder of her army. It’s unknown whether the cursed demigoddess completed her transformation and became the Goddess of Rot, or if she still holds the curse within her, hidden away in the farthest locati… er, corners of the Lands Between.

Radahn, though he remained on the battlefield, turned into a monster. A monster whose own servants wish to grant him release, to put a stop to their lord’s agony.

In truth, Gowry didn’t much care about Radahn’s fate. His sole interest was in the rot and its Goddess. Her final transformation. And the sorcerer saw a path.

Finding Malenia’s “daughters” on the battlefield turned out to be a true discovery for Gowry. Tiny red-haired things, they themselves had no idea they were pieces of the demigoddess. Gowry had heard strange rumors that Goddess Marika and some of her children somehow had the ability to split themselves. Different souls in one body, multiple personalities of one entity, or something else entirely—the lore… er, rumors didn’t say. And did it really matter?

At first, Gowry had never concerned himself with such matters—until he came upon the “children” of his lady. Then the old sorcerer realized his purpose: he must help the buds to bloom. At least one of them. Unfortunately, Gowry realized soon after that he needed help. By himself he was too weak. And so he had to seek out someone strong enough.

The upcoming festival of war, which would draw the attention of countless warriors and sorcerers from all over the Lands Between, was perfectly timed.

If Jerren, Radahn’s loyal retainer, were to learn that a servant of Malenia—no, the Goddess of Rot—planned to use this festival to give an extra push to the slow-spreading curse upon the world, he’d probably chew his own elbows off in anger.

All that remained was to wait and seek a worthy candidate. That was one thing everyone in the Lands Between, dead or elsewise still alive for some reason, had mastered: patience.

And apparently, that day had come.

Gowry smiled at the sight of a new candidate slowly approaching him… candidate. For some reason he was nearly naked, which didn’t bother the sorcerer too much. It even cheered him: from the looks of the unruffled and unscarred physique, the man was a real warrior.

Moreover, if he’d come this far through the rot-ridden Caelid with hardly a scratch, that spoke best of all to his… preliminary qualifications.

“Oh, what a blessing it is that you are here,” Gowry smiled wider. “I am Gowry, a great sage.”

The unknown Tarnished (what else could he be?) gave a searching glance around.

“Where’s the dog?”

Gowry’s smile froze.

“…What?”

The Tarnished remained unperturbed.

“The dog. An annoying dog.”

‘Madman.’

“There’s no dog here, Tarnished.”

“Konstantin.”

“Ho?” The old man’s eyes gleamed. “Could you be Kosta from among the Tarnished?”

The famed Tarnished let out a weary sigh.

“Yes.”

That explained a lot. News of the new bearer of two Great Runes had spread throughout the Lands Between like wildfire. The Tarnished’s feats resembled those of the demigods themselves: taking over Stormveil Castle by himself, then an entire Academy of Raya Lucaria—both achievements capturing countless souls’ admiration. Warrior and sorcerer, he had seized boundless power, or so everyone said, among the scattered remnants who still had their minds.

Word also traveled of certain… peculiarities in the Tarnished. But indeed, it would be odd if such a fearsome warrior and sorcerer were fully sane.

“For a forgotten old man like me, it’s an honor to meet such a Tarnished,” Gowry said, closing his eyes. “I have business to discuss. I was waiting for someone among the Tarnished.”

He had no intention of hiding that he was deliberately looking for someone to carry out a task.

“I’d prefer someone young and strong, since not everyone can cross Aeonia, that crimson swamp.”

The Tarnished standing before him was more than simply “young and strong.” He was a true monster in human form. Gowry doubted he’d find a better candidate.

Seeing that the man said nothing further, the sorcerer allowed his smile to become a bit slyer.

“Don’t worry, I’ll reward you generously if you accept… I’ll reveal to you the secret of Sell—”

The old man nearly choked on the sweet, rotten air at the sight of a tiny stone hovering over the Tarnished’s hand, obeying the man’s will. Gravity magic—an art one could only learn in Sellia from the Sellian sorcerers.

“Ho-ho…” The sage furrowed his brow, trying to recall whether he’d ever seen this man’s face before. He couldn’t remember. “So you’ve met some Sellian sorcerers who agreed to teach you, have you? Quite unexpected, Tarnished.”

The man offered no reply.

For some reason, Gowry sensed that this unflinching Tarnished before him seemed oddly hostile. Which honestly unsettled him a bit.

It wasn’t pleasant to be in the bad books of someone who’d singlehandedly subdued Stormveil Castle, an entire sorcerer’s Academy, and struck down two demigods—at minimum.

Konstantin paused, staring at the stone as though contemplating something, then released it.

“How can I help you?”

The waifu-sorceress was teaching him. During their travels, there wasn’t much else to do anyway. Whether it was because of the stats he’d invested in, or because the sorceress was a really good teacher, or a combination of both, Kosta very quickly grasped a certain… general concept of casualness: visualization(113).

The better a casual user visualized casualness, the more power they could theoretically wield. Scrolls existed mostly to convey to other casuals what they themselves had figured out and visualized.

Arriving at some internal understanding, the man had cast aside even more of the constraints that had invisibly manifested on him the moment he’d awakened in this new world.

Yet somehow, he’d forgotten that if a casual user wanted to casualize something, they’d find a way. Any boundary or limitation, even if it was coded into the game’s engine, was only a problem that a true casual user would inevitably solve. Though sometimes the search for an exploit took more effort than a sweaty legitimate playthrough would.

This was the philosophy of true tryhards and casuals that the man, it seemed, was just beginning to absorb. This world was certainly multifaceted.

Nothing is true.

Gowry, hearing the Tarnished’s question, raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Help me cure a young woman. Her name is Millicent. You’ll find her in the region around Sellia—she’s resting in a chapel on top of a cliff. The poor thing suffers from the rot’s affliction.”

“Then she’s already there, right now,” Konstantin frowned. Not long ago, that place had been empty, according to Meli-Meli—and he believed her.

Any heretic seeking to harm the good (waifus, of course) still left in the Lands Between deserved divine punishment.

“You didn’t think to bring her food, help her get somewhere safer, or find anyone who could ease her illness?”

Those quietly observing from the sidelines—Melina and Sellen—surely sensed the Tarnished’s mood…

He was not in a good mood.

For his part, Gowry also felt… a certain apprehension. Perhaps it worried him how the man’s eyes gleamed brighter and how golden light began to surge in the Tarnished’s veins, a glow that promised him nothing good.

What did I do to upset this lunatic?!

“Even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t reach her—too many beasts surround her,” the sorcerer said sorrowfully. “Only someone as strong as you could do it,” he added, shaking his head.

But the gleam in Kosta’s eyes only intensified, making Gowry feel something twist inside him.

He was a powerful sorcerer—well, not quite what he’d been in his youth, but they didn’t call him a Great Sage for nothing. Even so, the atmosphere the bearer of two Great Runes projected was entirely unlike any traveler he’d ever met.

An atmosphere of hardcore and casualness merged within one soulsliker. It was not something that could be resisted. Something that could destroy gods and ancient dragons, just to get all achievements.

“You must understand, Millicent’s illness is incurable. Even when the Erdtree thrived, not even demigods could resist its effects, despite their lineage.”

Seeing the Tarnished’s rage continue to build, Gowry frantically spoke on:

“But Millicent’s suffering can be eased. You need a needle… By Marika’s Tits, where did you get that?!”

Seeing the Tarnished produce a golden needle, the old man nearly choked again.

Kosta, hearing that odd turn of phrase from Gowry, momentarily broke his own grim focus but then recovered.

“I just did the quests out of order(114),” Konstantin answered coldly. “This is the one, right?”

The question was obviously rhetorical.

This madman already defeated Commander O’Neil? 

Gowry thought in shock as he stared greedily at the item. “Let me have a look at it. Hm-m-m… Hm-mm… This is a genuine miracle. Crafted by a true master… talented and driven to seize life’s essence. Will you give me time to work on it? It’s well-made, but worthless at the moment.”

With affectionate reverence, the old man examined the broken halves of the needle, momentarily forgetting his… embarrassment.

“You have an hour.”

Gowry opened his mouth to protest but, catching sight of the tryhard’s crazed stare, shut it again.

“That’s enough time.”

“And be sure to, like, disinfect it or something.”

Gowry nearly suffocated, scandalized.

Unseen Melina glanced oddly at her resolute Tarnished, squeezing the ring he’d given her.

Her chosen champion was growing fearsomely resolute and cold whenever it concerned wome—no, waifu. Melina had figured that out well by now.

He didn’t care about their lineage, or what sins or blunders they’d committed before. Even the question of living physical bodies didn’t seem to trouble him in the slightest.

As she could see from Sellen’s example, with the right approach, apparently it wasn’t a problem at all.

When he decided some woman… was a waifu, everything else ceased to matter.

Sometimes Melina felt her real discomfort wasn’t so much that he offered help to so many different women, but that the two of them were no longer alone.

Konstantin, so far as he could manage, gave attention to all the waifu he’d met. Because there were so many, the time he spent solely with her was growing shorter.

Deep down, Melina wanted him to seek her out more often. To ask for her help, to regard her as needed and useful. So that the daughter of a goddess, who’d never really gained the title of demigoddess, could feel like one.

Perhaps she was far more selfish than she’d ever realized. And who would’ve thought she’d arrive at such insights only after her physical body’s death?

Whether she liked it or not, Melina was coming to understand herself. Even if she didn’t publicly display her emotions and desires the way Sellen or Irina (the second of which clearly knew what she was doing and had a plan) or maybe the hapless young Roderika or the warrior Nepheli Loux, who’d lost her own purpose, might do—Melina was still a daughter of a goddess. Inheritance still mattered a lot.

A goddess who was cruel, insane in many ways, and who had done more to seize her own place in the world than anyone else in their history.

Melina respected and honored her own mother as one of her most faithful servants, but she also, knowing too much, feared her.

Melina shuddered at a sudden thought. She felt horror at the idea, tried to push it away, but it wouldn’t leave. The girl stared in terror at the unflinching man who waited… for the quest to continue.

Yes, for Konstantin to become Elden Lord, he had to become consort to the queen. That was obvious. But for him… for her chosen champion…

Did he see her mother as a waifu?

Melina could accept anyone. Even the lunar witch who’d committed a heinous crime against her own brother. Even the exiled Academy sorceress who was actively making moves on her chosen champion. Even…even… basically anyone.

But the idea of Goddess Marika caused Melina genuine horror. And though it totally clashed with her mindset as a faithful attendant, the dread wouldn’t go away—because she knew too much.

Perhaps she truly needed to be… more decisive.

Millicent had no idea how long she’d been in the chapel. It could have been a day or… or…

Her entire life had been surrounded by rot. Rot that saturated the rot-ravaged region in which she was born. Rot that slowly consumed her body.

Early on, abandoned and forgotten by the rest of the world, she simply roamed the lands forsaken by the Greater Will, trying to survive. She’d always been drawn to a sword, and not without reason: anyone who tried to harm her never came out on top. She vaguely recalled that someone important to her used to praise her for it, so she squeezed the most out of… a natural talent.

She no longer remembered the point at which she was abandoned, or why. But she remembered how despair overcame her when rot claimed her arm, leaving her utterly useless, helpless.

Worst of all was that those who helped her weren’t the ones she’d once considered family, but horrifying monsters who mistook her for the Goddess of Rot. However much Millicent called for help, no one came, and so the girl, devoured by rot, eventually accepted her fate, allowing the monsters who hailed her as their goddess to keep her alive.

Millicent had resolved that she’d sooner rot away than become something else. She’d remain herself, no matter the cost.

She repeated that every time she awoke from yet another nightmare gnawing away at her body and mind.

Had she known this next awakening would forever change her life?

She heard footsteps approaching through her half-sleep. Not crawling, not the scrape of disgusting limbs, but the steps of an ordinary person. That alone surprised her, even gave her a flash of hope, which promptly died: she knew she couldn’t be healed. No one, under any circumstance, could help her.

Which meant she had to send away whatever fool had arrived.

Millicent opened her eyes with difficulty.

“Ah...Ahh… Nggh... Who's there? Well, it matters not. If you are wise, you will leave, immediately.”

By nature, Millicent was soft-spoken and gentle, at least compared to her cold sisters. She might not have been weak, but she never picked fights first. She didn’t have many chances to, anyway.

Perhaps that was why her voice, which she tried to harden and “toughen” up, still sounded like a gentle plea and a polite warning.

Her vision blurred. She couldn’t make out the face of the person who’d come, only the silhouette. But they did not leave.

“My flesh writhes with scarlet rot,” Millicent murmured quietly. “It’s a curse. No human should ever get involved with it.”

“True soulslike players pop humanity like one-use healing items,” the voice—apparently attempting a parry—remarked calmly. “I can help with your curse. This needle will halt its spread.”

The figure produced a golden needle from… somewhere, holding it out to her.

Millicent’s heart skipped a beat. She could feel her breathing grow rapid.

Naturally, she didn’t believe it. That a random stranger would suddenly show up, decide to help her, and could actually help. Nonsense. Impossible. Miracles like that didn’t just happen.

But even so…

She ached so desperately for that help. Millicent wanted to live, after all. She’d fought all this time not to let that horror consume her. If what this silhouette said was true…

How she wanted to believe.

“You ask that I stab myself with the needle… To quell the scarlet rot? But...how?”

“The ways of cunning little boys are unknowable(115),” Kosta replied sternly.

Obviously, Millicent, didn’t understand the silhouette’s words in the slightest. Nevertheless…

“It doesn’t matter,” she exhaled. “I’ve decided. I’d rather trust you than keep rotting from within.”

Cautiously, hoping not to graze the man with her rot-stained arm, Millicent took the needle from him.

She had a rough idea what to do with it, but then…

She suddenly turned shy, recalling the silhouette’s presence. A definitely male silhouette.

“Would you mind… averting your eyes for a moment?”

She herself couldn’t believe she’d ever again feel self-conscious. She certainly never believed that any living being unaffected by rot would pay her the slightest interest. And yet…

And yet.

Without a word, the silhouette turned, settling down by… presumably a nearby Site of Grace.

People often built chapels on top of them. Not only chapels either…

It didn’t take Millicent long to insert the needle. She’d endured so much pain and misery that poking her nearly rotted body with a needle was child’s play. She hardly felt a thing.

But she did feel a sudden… lightness.

“Ah…” Millicent mumbled, striving to add a cheerful note to her voice. “That was… not so difficult… but… why do I feel…”

Konstantin turned, noticing Millicent had fallen asleep. After confirming the unsteady young woman was indeed just resting, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Thinking for a moment, the man produced a blanket from some place known only to him, gently covering her and taking a seat beside her. Now all that remained was to wait.

And if Melina, seeing this scene, had no particular thoughts, the tiny Sellen…

She narrowed her eyes, feeling an impish grin rise from the depths of her mischievous soul.

‘How will that poor girl react upon waking to a half-naked savior?’

Naturally, Sellen had no intention of warning him that he really should be wearing clothes at least for the first impression.

Otherwise, it’d be much too boring.