JohnnyZ

[Life is Good] Chapter 33

So here we are, standing in a dark alley—filthy surroundings, trash everywhere, the black of night, a truly romantic atmosphere. We stare at each other. I’m feverishly thinking, “Okay, what the hell do I do now?” Judging by her expression, Petra is lost in similar thoughts. Not that I’m too worried—I have no intention of hurting her, so her spider-sense shouldn’t be screaming bloody murder. Besides, she’s a decent person and unlikely to start throwing punches without good reason.

“Well, Mister?” she breaks the silence. “Are we just going to stand here quietly?” Yeah, she can tell I’m a dude in this getup right away—can’t miss the armored codpiece and the lack of boobies. “And anyway, men shouldn’t wander dangerous neighborhoods like this so late. So let’s say I don’t see anything suspicious, and you go home.”

Of course… The world has its rules: a superheroine telling a shady, suspicious guy that she’ll let him walk if he leaves. Real reassuring. But she’s still a high schooler, just getting her feet wet in the superhero business, so it’s forgivable.

Sigh. Don’t get me wrong—I love Spidey, always have, but damn if there aren’t moments that bug the hell out of me. You know, those details that hit you out of the blue while you’re watching morning cartoons in your pajamas and stay with you for years. I rub my mask over my eyes in a classic frustrated gesture, which makes her stiffen slightly.

“Petra, for the love of… couldn’t you at least try to change your voice or something? Distort it, wear a mask with voice modulation?” Yeah, I can afford to be smug—my mask has all those fancy features. Full helmet and everything.

She freezes for a moment. If I had any ill intentions, her spider-sense wouldn’t help; she’s too stunned.

“Wait, we know each other?” Her voice loses all its bravado, shifting to a mix of surprise and wariness. Her whole stance goes from heroic to nervously defensive.

“Of course we do, Parker!” I sigh, undoing the clasps on my mask. It’s faster this way—there’s no time to dance around. The clock is ticking, and Ooyama’s tech doesn’t have infinite juice. The two idiots outside might be missed soon, too—no time for Bollywood drama.

“T-Toby? It’s you?!”

Damn, I wish I could see her face. Her eyes are probably wide as dinner plates, like that meme of the pooping mouse.

“Yep, it’s me.” I tug the mask back on. “Petra, I don’t have much time, so listen. Inside that building? Drug dealers—up to twenty of them. My job is to incapacitate them all and call the cops. My partner’s watching the back door and jamming their comms. We’ve got maybe fifteen minutes, so I’ll handle my end, and you don’t get in the way. If you keep anyone from escaping, that’d be perfect. Deal?”

The bars are almost gone now. While Parker mulls over my words in silence, I make my way to a window. But just as I’m about to go in, I pause and turn back to her. Oyama never said I couldn’t use help, right?

“Hey, Petra. Could you do me a favor? Make some noise by the front door—just a tiny bit. Don’t get caught on camera. There are a couple of thugs loitering near the entrance; I need them distracted. Just don’t be so loud that the whole place goes on high alert. Can you do that?”

“Huh?” She blinks. “But… yeah, I can do that.”

Huh. Maybe I was too hard on her in school. Girl’s sharp—no over-the-top telenovela theatrics here.

“Great. Let’s do it in… sixty seconds, okay?”

I carefully open the window—thank the Goddess, it doesn’t squeak.

“Okay. But Toby, after this, we need to—”

“Yeah, yeah. Once we’re done, we’ll talk. Promise. Now move, Spider-Chick. We’ll chat later.”

I slip inside. No noise—Sensei’s training pays off.

For once, I’m grateful for concrete floors—no creaking boards, just bare gray slabs with a few beams easy enough to step over. The apartment is a junkie’s dream: peeling walls and emptiness. Carefully, I creep down the hallway, lighting up the area faintly with my finger as I scope out the shadows. Through the gloom, I spot silhouettes—criminals sitting around, chatting loudly. The corridor leads straight to a hallway and the front room.

The door ahead is flimsy, unlocked, without a lock or even a handle, just cracked open a sliver with light streaming from the next room.

I ready my shock harpoons, waiting for Petra’s move. The thugs are parked between me and the entrance.

A few seconds pass.

From outside—smash. The sound of glass breaking near the front door.

Conversation cuts off. I hear a couch—or maybe a chair—groan under shifting weight. A figure rises, walking toward the door.

I shove the door open. The thing shrieks like a banshee.

I step out, aim, and fire. The thug on the couch barely has time to turn her head, eyes wide with surprise, before the current hits her. While the electricity courses through her, I spin, lock onto the second woman, and fire a harpoon into her back. The jolt hits, and I dash to catch her body before it thuds to the floor. Damn, she’s heavy. Gently lowering her, I tie up her hands and feet, repeating the process with the unconscious one on the couch.

No alarms. The idiots downstairs keep minding their business.

Closest to me? Two sleepers and a couple going at it. Perfect.

In my energy vision, I see Petra slipping in through the window, her form sharp and graceful. I can’t help but grin under my mask. Spider-Girl’s hero instincts have kicked in, so she decides to join me. Called it.

I put a finger to my mask in a “quiet” gesture as she peeks into the doorway. Tapping her shoulder, I whisper, “Watch the stairs, please.”

She nods and immediately sticks herself to the ceiling, blending into a dark corner like a scene ripped straight from my childhood cartoons.

Wooooow… So damn cool!

I can’t help but grin under my mask. God, some guys never grow up. Myself included. So I allow myself a little fanboy moment.

I move toward the next room. Bedroom time.

The hallway looks much nicer here. Even has a working lightbulb.

Door to the right—soft moans, bed creaking. Door to the left—silence.

I ease open the left door.

Two figures snore quietly on single beds.

Zap. One down.

Two steps over.

Zap. Second one down.

Tied them up.

Now for the happy couple. Time to ruin their night.

The door’s closed—and locked too, from the feel of it. Keeping noise to a minimum, I carefully melt through the lock. The lovebirds are definitely going to notice the smell of burning metal any second now, so I yank the door open and fire at the criminals inside…

Honestly? I almost feel bad for ruining their moment like that. I tie up the pair, one of whom happens to be a gorgeous Latina. Damn, Tobias! Focus. No time for titties—this is a battle, not a booty call! Stop ogling the goods!

…Do you think Yuriko would let me keep this one?

NO, TOBIAS. Slavery is illegal, and kidnapping is definitely off the table. Even if it’s really tempting!

Resolutely setting aside my totally inappropriate thoughts, I move to the next apartment. My energy sense picks up three figures in one of the rooms. If I can take them out quietly, that’ll be half the job done. Bedrooms seem to be upstairs. Nice and easy: zap, bind, and move on to the third floor.

I pass by Spider-Girl, still clinging to the ceiling, and approach the next door. This one’s heavy-duty metal. Pressing my hand against it, I apply heat until the metal warms and details of the mechanism become visible through my “radar.” A big-ass bolt, of course. Lovely.

This door’s going to scream like a banshee if I force it.

…Wait a second. Tobias isn’t alone. Tobias has a superhero forklift.

I hurry back to Petra, beckoning her over with a wave. Watching her leap so gracefully through the air makes me grin. Damn, she’s good. And she never even trained in gymnastics—it’s all instinct.

“Spider-Girl, can you lift, like, a hundred kilos? Will that be too much?”

Her chest swells with pride, shoulders straight, chin up—boobs forward, of course.

“I can do it. I’m… really strong now.”

“That’s perfect. Follow me—I need you… as a woman!”

Cue exaggerated choking sound from Parker.

I chuckle. “I mean I need you to move a heavy object, perv! Not whatever’s running through your degenerate mind.”

Back at the metal door, I whisper the plan while trying not to laugh.

“I’ll punch two fist-sized holes waist-high and cool the metal. You hold the door steady while I melt the hinges and cut the bolt. The second it’s loose, shift it aside quietly. I’ll handle the trio inside. Move fast—burnt metal stinks, and we’ve got maybe twenty seconds before someone catches on. Got it?”

She nods. Gloves off, I get to work. Two swift cuts, and molten metal drips down. I absorb some heat to keep it from spreading too far. Something thuds on the other side, but we’ll be done before it becomes a real fire hazard.

Petra takes hold of the door, barely straining. I hate how jealous that makes me.

Now for the bolt. A careful touch with my pinky melts it just enough to keep it from falling. Stepping back, I nod. She pulls.

Click. Metal scrapes metal.

No big clang, but definitely something you’d notice.

The moment she clears the door, I dash in. My target stands just feet away, muttering, “Who the hell’s messing with the door?”

I barrel forward, shoulder first, sparks flying from my suit as I discharge. The first one drops like a rock. Before the others can react, I shoot stun-grapples. It’s a small room—impossible to miss.

When the bodies hit the floor, I freeze. Did someone upstairs just move?

I clench, every sense on high alert… And the figure above just rolls over and starts snoring again.

Phew. Crisis averted.

Time for some quality tying up.

All three are in full drug-dealer mode—respirators, goggles, gloves, bagging product like it’s Christmas. I finish securing them just as Petra pokes her head in, watching me like a cat.

“Thanks, Spider-Girl. You just made this a hell of a lot quieter.” My voice drips with gratitude—cue Hancock-level “good job” vibes.

“Where to next?” Her voice thrums with adrenaline.

“Second floor,” I grin. “Everyone’s asleep. Quiet takedown, bind them up. Third floor’s full of awake targets—six total. Let’s go.”

I clue her in because, let’s be real: there’s no way she’ll leave me alone. Especially knowing I’m her classmate. If she can’t be stopped, might as well make her an ally. Better if she thinks I’ve got a mentor guiding me; otherwise, I’m just a dumb kid looking for trouble.

We sneak up, splitting targets. Five minutes later, it’s a wrap. Mine are bound with cuffs, hers are webbed up. Not a peep from anyone.

Six more to go.

I send her after two while I tackle the bigger crowd. Her protests? Cut short. I tell her it’s safer this way. And for once, she listens. Bless you, Parker.

I’m standing outside a room with four female gangsters. Looks like some kind of lounge. Three are sprawled on a couch against the wall, probably watching TV, judging by the electronic signals and faint chatter. The fourth is slumped in the corner on the floor.

At first, I think she’s awake too, but as I look closer, her silhouette is way too relaxed. Why the hell is she curled up in the corner, though? Eh, whatever. I’ll figure it out when I bust in.

Deep breath. Calm down. Focus…

I slam the door open, strobe lights blazing.

The room erupts with shrieks and curses—cut short by three quick zaps of electricity.

The fourth one? Doesn’t even flinch. A junkie, dead to the world, so high she’d probably sleep through an earthquake. She’s a total mess—eyes half-open, drooling, limbs limp like a marionette with cut strings.

Guns are piled on the table, untouched. None of them even got close.

I strain my ears. No sounds from the other rooms. Whatever noise Parker made earlier is gone, and I see her silhouette moving toward me.

I bind all four of them, toss a quick look around, and head out just as she reaches me. We make our way downstairs together, no need to rush now.

“Toby, you’re… Mister Mutant, right?” she asks, her voice still a little shaky but full of curiosity.

“Jesus, Spider-Girl! First of all, stop using my name—we’re incognito! Second, don’t ever call me Mister Mutant again. That was a spur-of-the-moment name, and it sucks! I might as well have called myself The Cringe. That would’ve been less cringe, you feel me?”

I’m so worked up I literally throw my hands in the air.

“Uh…” She blinks at me, confused. “Okay… So, what should I call you?”

“Uhh…” Now it’s my turn to freeze. I turn my helmet toward her. She tilts her head, waiting. I sigh.

“I haven’t figured that part out yet,” I admit, shoulders slumping. “Look, Spider-Girl, I have a ton of ideas—some are real bangers—but I can’t just pick one.”

She snorts. A giggle slips out. Then more giggles. I can’t help it—I chuckle too. Yeah, it’s pretty damn funny.

“Anyway,” I say, wiping away imaginary tears of laughter. “Sensei’s picking us up. You coming? Sounded like you had stuff you wanted to talk about.”

I push open the back door while she nods.

Yuriko’s waiting outside. She lifts an eyebrow at Parker before giving me a pointed glare.

“Boy,” she drawls with the weariness of a woman who’s seen too much, “why is it that every time I take my eyes off you, you end up with a new woman?”

I open my mouth. “Uh…”

She shakes her head and tosses me a phone. “Call Captain Stacy.”

[Demons of NC] Chapter 63

“No Sandevistan, no Kerenzikov,” Smasher announced. “Otherwise, it’s too fucking easy. But no other limits. Feet, elbows, knives, teeth—use it all. Last one standing wins!”

The Maelstrom crowd went wild with hoots and applause.

“Fuck me…” Vic and Jackie murmured in nearly perfect sync.

David didn’t even look at the onlookers. He just stood there, drilling his eyes into Logan. Seemed like Garcia was hesitating. He looked up, searching the “stands” for support, then said pretty loudly: “This is a gym, not a back-alley. We’ve got rules here.”

Oh, how fast that flip-flop happened. Maybe you wanna toss in a speech on sportsmanship?

Logan’s words got cut off by a shot. A smart-round bullet zipped through the air on some weird arc. It didn’t do major damage, but carved a long slice across those roided-up shoulders.

“Here’s your new rule,” Smasher declared. “You listen, or I smash your face in. I’ll shoot you dead and send someone else from your crew into the pit.”

None of the Animals stuck their neck out for Logan. They knew damn well the odds were not in their favor. Smasher alone would be enough. Behind him was a swarm of psycho blood-junkies from Maelstrom, itching for chaos.

“So it’s to the death, then…” Logan said through gritted teeth, turning back to David.

David’s response was to switch into a karate stance. Logan’s fists changed—metal pieces protruded through the skin over his knuckles, forming castet-like protrusions.

“Fuck, put on some epic music!” one of the Maelstromers shouted.

Might’ve been Dum-Dum. But no one rushed to blast any tunes. Instead, the backdrop to this killmatch was nervous muttering, panicked gasps, and Maelstrom’s bloodthirsty howling.

“Kill! Kill! Fuck him up!”

Logan rushed in first. You could tell his nerves were fraying. The boxer, used to mid-range, tried to close distance, only to catch a brutal front kick right into his solar plexus. Logan tried blocking with his arms, but he’d never dealt with that style. For the first time, he backed off, shifting from a forward stance to a sideways one—left hand out, right hand guarding his chin. Blood from a deep scratch stained the back of his T-shirt. No wonder he belonged to the Animals. He really did look like a wounded, cornered beast. All that cocky hostility switched to survival mode. That might actually make him even more dangerous.

Logan didn’t throw himself into it again. He stayed still, rotating in place as David paced right and left, sizing him up.

Martinez suddenly closed the gap, hitting two kicks in a row with stunning speed—front kick for Logan’s head, then a side kick near the ribs. He didn’t even drop his leg between strikes. David’s control over his center of gravity was on point. But Logan had been fighting his whole damn life, in and out of the ring. He dodged the first kick and ducked into David after the second, going for a counter with swing after swing. David answered with an elbow, then a knee to Logan’s torso, but eventually he had to pull back. A few strong hits landed on him, splitting his brow. Not much blood leaked, likely thanks to some Arasaka implant sealing those vessels.

David shook his head. That exchange didn’t go his way.

Logan waited, eyes scanning. He was red in the face and dripping from a fresh cut on his forehead, but thick brow ridges kept blood from trickling into his eye.

“Kill! Kill! Blood and chrome!” Maelstrom kept chanting.

Some of the Animals were yelling too, apparently swept up by the spectacle. Even their fear of Smasher had dialed back for a moment. Meanwhile, Angie looked tense as hell, flicking glances from me to the Maelstrom “stands,” seemingly forgetting the pit altogether.

David attacked again, more cautiously now—more feints, more sidestepping. If this were a bigger ring, I think he might’ve just worn out the older, battered ex-champion. They circled each other for about a minute, trading strikes at mid range. David’s expression started to shift. Where he’d been cold and focused, now there was a flicker of excitement. He was getting into the fight.

‘When the shots ring out, there’s nothing else to think about,’ I recalled him saying at the diner once.

He was probably feeling that vibe right now, forgetting all his baggage—no observers, no stress. Some twisted version of Bushido hammered into a kid who’d had to kill too soon taught him that. Made him into one of the city’s top killers.

Logan rushed in again, letting loose a flurry that would’ve dropped a pro in seconds. But this time, David didn’t dodge. He crouched low, covering up, and slammed into his opponent. He shoved him, making Logan turn. Garcia hit his back against the pit’s wall. David crouched even lower. Logan tried hammering him from above, but those punches lacked the weight of his full body behind them. Off-balance, Logan lost his footing. David yanked him by the knees, hoisting him a bit before executing a simple takedown. Logan smashed onto his back.

Before the ex-champ could get up, David tagged him with the first punch. Then he dropped onto him, taking mount. He clamped Logan’s torso between his knees and rained down blow after blow. Logan tried to fight back at first, then just guarded his face. David hammered from top to bottom like a fucking meat tenderizer, never easing up. The floor around Logan’s head splattered with blood, and the pit crowd roared and jeered. Ten seconds… fifteen… twenty…

Logan’s face turned to pulp, not a single patch of flesh unscathed. Finally, David paused a second, then grabbed the battered guy under the chin and around the back of the skull, twisting with difficulty. You could practically hear the reinforced vertebrae give out. Logan’s head ended up in a position that basically read “Sure as shit dead.”

“Fucking hell…” Vic muttered again.

“C’mon,” I shrugged. “He basically does the same shit at work—just with more guns and explosions.”

“Exactly, V! I was hoping you’d talk him out of it, not toss him more of the same,” Vic complained.

The crowd hushed as Adam spoke once more:

“What a load of bullshit,” he declared. “But it’s better than last time. Grayson, hand him that gun.”

Apparently done with it, Smasher turned to leave the gym. Jeremiah Grayson didn’t follow right away. He hopped across some scaffolding down to the edge of the pit, shrugged off a black bag, and unzipped it.

“The model’s a bit dated,” Grayson smirked, looking down at David from above, “but nothing better’s come out since. Try not to get too busy jerking off over it tonight.”

He pulled out a big heavy smart shotgun—likely a Ba Xing Chong—and chucked it into the pit. David silently caught it one-handed, his entire fist and half his forearm slick with blood. That monster of a piece was now his, the dream of every solo.

Grayson darted off after Smasher like the jackal chasing a wounded tiger. Meanwhile, Maelstrom started clearing out.

“I never gave a fuck about your ‘sport,’” Royce declared on his way out. “But that was fun to watch. Money on the ticket was worth it. Later, assholes.”

“I’ll go see if he’s all right,” Vic said, handing Falco his revolver back.

“I’m going too,” Jackie said with a disapproving shake of his head. “Gotta talk to him. V, you never should’ve dragged him here.”

Falco kept quiet, not too thrilled by a Smasher feature.

“Eh, lighten up,” I smirked. “Went pretty damn well overall, yeah? Becca, at least you’re on my side?”

“Hell yeah, I loved it,” she answered, still buzzing. “Agreed with the red-eyed fucks from Maelstrom—straight-up rules aren’t my thing, but tonight was awesome. We gotta do this more often.”

As people trickled out, David climbed out of the pit, chatting with Vic. A couple Animals hopped down to haul off what was left of Logan. Angie, now the top-dog among them, headed toward me.

“Let’s talk,” she suggested. “Someplace quieter. Let’s go up to the office.”

“Sure,” I nodded.

Revenge for Logan? Not likely yet. Even if shit popped off, David was still down below, plus that brand-new gun of his. We’d manage.

I ended up again in Logan’s office, but instead of a lumbering gorilla in a shitty mood, there was a tense woman in glittery clothes.

“Let’s set the record straight,” I said. “Adam Smasher’s little cameo wasn’t my plan. He works with David, got a wind of this fight, decided to drop in. That’s it. I’ve run some ops with him myself. He’s just like that—a wildcard, loves to show up and do shit his own way. No hard feelings, alright?”

I kept a polite tone, though it was obviously rhetorical. Angie was clearly rattled. She’d dug up some intel on me, but none of it prepared her for me pulling two Arasaka top dogs into the ring. No way a disgraced ex-employee had that pull—unless, she might now suspect, I’d really become a covert agent or middleman between Arasaka and Dogtown.

“No hard feelings,” she forced a little smile, flicking a thin cigarette from a gold case engraved with a running cheetah. “I tried to warn Logan, but he is a stubborn asshole... well, was.”

“We’d made a bet, by the way. That was the whole reason for this fight.”

“A contract revision, yeah.” She nodded. “We’ll settle it. But first, I gotta calm the waters. Talk with Matilda. She’s gotta decide who’ll be alpha in this pack now.”

“I get it,” I said with a conciliatory grin. “In-house conflicts can be worse than outside pressure.”

“How about we meet at the ‘Black Sapphire’ tomorrow?”

Interesting choice, but suits me fine. Hansen’s got plenty of security there. And if it’s a trap on the way, I can always bring backup or ring up Panam.

“Works for me. I’m free in the evening.”

“Then see you tomorrow.”

She headed to Logan’s computer and plopped down rather boldly in his chair. I didn’t leave yet. A second later, she glanced at me

“Seems like you might be able to help,” she said.

“Maybe so.”

I stepped over and looked at the screen. Password locked. A quick personal port connection and I bypassed that crap in ten seconds. Basic shit. No viruses either—that can wait, done more discreetly.

“I heard you’re a netrunner,” Angie said. “But if we’re talking in sports terms… where’d you put yourself? A newbie, an amateur, or a pro?”

A monster from another world, basically. Among swimmers, I’m a fucking vampire shark.

“Pro,” I nodded. “Not the champ of the Night City, but a mean contender.”

“Interesting… very interesting. See you tomorrow, Vincent. Too bad your boy’s stuck in Arasaka; he coulda been a sports star.”

“Nah, he’s turning into a different kind of star,” I said, heading out.

“And burn all the brighter for it,” Angie quipped. “See you tomorrow.”

Downstairs, the place was almost empty. I waved to David, busy wiping off blood and talking with Vic, Jackie and some female Animal—some big sweaty “moose lady”. Seemed civil enough.

After the Triple Extreme, I headed home, giving Lucy the whole blow-by-blow of the night’s events.

“So that kid’s turned into some kind of Arasaka monster?” she asked, sounding a bit bummed.

“Yeah, and a big one. Smasher’s paying attention… that’s like as if some rookie rocker got invited to jam with Eurodyne. Except it’s not about music, it’s about killing.”

“Adam Smasher… bet those muscleheads got freaked out.”

“Sure did. Forgot all their usual bullshit in a hurry.”

“They’re gonna leave us alone now?”

“Looks that way. After that show, they’ll think I’m hooked up with Arasaka’s top brass and not worth messing with. If Smasher showed up to one of my scuffles, who’s to say he won’t show up again? That kind of surprise could wipe out the Animals. They know after tangling with Adam, they’d be on the brink of extinction. 

“Next few days I’ll swap the club’s bouncers entirely, so we can chill there. They’ll probably offer me some terms tomorrow. I figure, keep one or two big guys for show, keep a toe in with that Zoo. After all, we’re not at war, so it's good to have some connection. During the hit on Abernathy’s tower, they did well. Maybe use them again once or twice as decoys.

“For real security, I’d bring on folks actually loyal to me,” I added. “Three or four, well armed. Bet I can find some jobless vets in Night City. Main thing is to make sure they’re not rolling with the 6th Street.”

Next morning, I headed for Dogtown in Panam’s truck. She was in high spirits. Thanks to that huge payday for whacking Abernathy, she could skip all the “shifty bullshit” gigs.

“More free time, fewer bullet holes in my ride,” she said. “Looks like you’re living large too.”

“Yeah, not complaining.”

The Sapphire greeted me with its usual vibe of sinful opulence. A waiter said Ms. Willan had rented out a luxury suite for us—wasn’t expecting that.

“She’s alone?” I asked. 

“Yes, sir.”

Well, I’m armed, I got my Sandevistan. If yesterday’s question was just her fishing for my capabilities and to see what implants I’ve got, she might get a surprise. But I doubt the Animals will try anything in Hansen’s fancy hotel. They’d have to face a shit-ton of trouble in Dogtown.

Riding the elevator up, I strolled down a long hallway over lush green carpet, feigning deep thought. In reality, I was messing with the cameras: scanning the feed showing Angie entering the room—yep, she was alone. Good.

I knocked, then opened the door without waiting. She was perched on the couch, laptop in hand, legs drawn up. Setting the device aside, she greeted me:

“Hey. Check those papers on the side table.”

After locking the door, I obliged. It was a fresh security contract for the ‘7th Hell.’ Rate cut by a quarter, full control of guard numbers, freedom to rotate them, plus liability if they bust my shit. Looked damn good. I read it over two, three times, searching for hidden catches. Zilch. Nada. Wording was straightforward, even included a four-month discount period to compensate my prior losses.

“All so simple?” I said, surprised. “Figured we’d haggle a bit, at least for show.”

“I decided to set a speed record,” Angie joked in kind. “You in a rush?”

“Not particularly.”

I glanced around. Didn’t see anything obviously suspicious—though Angie’s friendlier vibe kind of was. Then again, Smasher’s cameo can bond people, I guess.

“That club’s not about profit, right?” she asked.

“More like a forward base. But sure, a bit of eddies wouldn’t hurt, and I don’t need a pigsty in my place either.”

“Everything’s gotta be perfect, huh?” she said with a hint of mischief, getting up and pacing barefoot on the plush white rug.

“Perfection’s unattainable, but we should all try.”

“Is that a quote?”

“Probably. Kinda obvious though, maybe I just came up with it. By the way, let me ask you something: what exactly do your people want hacked?”

“Not hacked,” she corrected. “We need a hacker found.”

Ah. They want a top netrunner unaligned with the cops or the Voodoo Boys.

“High stakes, I assume?”

“High enough we had to call you.”

“You’re not worried I’ll hand your secrets to Arasaka?”

“Your bosses don’t give a damn about our level of ‘secrets.’ But let’s not jump to business yet—unless you’re in a hurry?”

Without waiting for my answer, Angie crossed to a small dresser where a slim, expensive case lay. She popped it open to reveal several glass-metal syringes filled with variously colored fluids.

“Drugs?”

“No,” she answered, “legit pharma. I’m serious.”

“Even got a prescription?”

“I do, yeah. Did a sports nurse course. Let’s me ‘experiment’ like this.”

She grabbed one of the syringes and smoothly injected it into a vein on her forearm—looked like a patch of Realskin with a built-in port. She shut her eyes, took a few deep breaths, and turned that gaze back on me. Something flickered in her eyes, bright new sparks.

“Feels good?” I asked.

“Why don’t you try it?” she purred, stepping closer.

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Saw that coming,” she said. “Alright, let me tell you what you’re turning down first.”

“I’m listening.”

“You know what happiness is?”

“A philosophical question?”

“No, purely medical,” she explained. “I got into pharma and biochem. That’s my business, my hobby.” She rested a hand on my shoulder, voice low, alluring and not at all unpleasant. This was already borderline shameless flirting, but I kept a businesslike tone—no telling what else she’d pull.

“So I’m in for a lecture on biochem?”

“Biochem and psychology,” she corrected. “Lecture and demonstration. Sit.”

“Alright,” I said, dropping onto the couch. “Let’s hear it.”

Daily Updates (13/01/25)

I am back!

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Stories:

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 35

• Tier 2: Chapter 40

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 31

• Tier 2: Chapter 36

Hydrargyrum

Chapters 1-2 received slight edits, mostly concerning the terms used in the Fate/Zero universe. For example, magecraft instead of magic, magus instead of mage, etc.

• Chapter 1

• Chapter 2

• Chapter 3

• Chapter 4

• Chapter 5

• Chapter 6

• Chapter 7

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 7

“The tradition of magical duels in Britain has largely fallen out of favor during the latter half of the twentieth century, yet it continues to be practiced—unlike in various European countries that have abandoned this custom in favor of settling disputes exclusively in court. 

“The rules for issuing a challenge… the rules for conducting a duel… the conditions… permissible weapons are solely a mystic code, that is, a wand or, far more rarely, a staff. Firearms are not employed, and melee weapons are used only occasionally. Hand-to-hand combat remains at an amateur level, more often preceding a duel rather than being used to inflict harm (slaps, blows to the face as part of a challenge, etc.). 

“There is no gender discrimination—a witch can challenge a wizard, and vice versa. Duels between wizards rely heavily on the wide application of shields, both full and localized, to absorb or reflect direct conceptual and elemental attacks. According to examples, an experienced duelist can, with a properly placed zonal shield of about a foot in radius, bounce a stunning, paralyzing, or igniting spell back at the opponent…”

“Mr. Murphy, Mr. MacDougal has arrived for you, just as agreed,” came the impeccably polite voice of Miss Stone from behind the laboratory door, after a light knock. She even managed to address the ten-year-old boy as “Mister” without breaking into laughter—professionalism at its finest.

Kayneth shut the guide to magical duels and slipped into a desk drawer the notebook in which he had been summarizing the most crucial points about how local wizards conducted combat. He had no doubt it would be useful sooner or later. Rising from his chair, he rolled his neck to relieve the stiffness, then went to the living room to greet his visitor. He hadn’t exactly forgotten about the meeting—he just hadn’t expected time to pass so quickly.

“You look awful,” the “trade operations specialist” greeted him cheerily, getting up from the couch. As always, Albert wore that same old coat, though late April had turned out rather warm. He held a small case in one hand, apparently unwilling to let it out of his sight even for a moment. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Day before yesterday… I think,” the magus answered, shrugging indifferently. He glanced at himself in the mirror on the wall. Indeed, his appearance was not good—dark circles beneath reddened eyes, wrinkled clothes (unchanged since his trip for books), a couple of scratches, and a small burn on his cheek. Anything but aristocratic, though it suited a ragged brat from a pathetic orphanage well enough. 

He had become so absorbed in newly discovered knowledge and tinkering with mystic codes that his appearance had slipped down his list of priorities. He would tidy himself up… later, once he had time. “But does it really matter to you if I’m here to sell you something unusual, or do you prefer pretty boys? I believe that wasn’t part of our deal.”

“Fair enough—business first,” Albert agreed with a flourish of his hands.

“Precisely. This way, please.” Turning around, the magus indicated the open door to another room. The passage was covered by opaque plastic, like something used in hospitals or labs. A magical curtain of mist would have raised more questions, and creating a believable everyday illusion behind the doorway, visible from the living room, would have required more effort and energy than he could spare. Hanging a makeshift curtain had been simpler.

After letting MacDougal enter ahead of him, Kayneth followed and locked the door, activating the barriers he had already set. They were not very powerful yet, but they would at least keep them from being overheard. The visitor peered around with interest, taking in the magic circles, the stacks of books piled against the wall (no time to acquire shelves), the table buried under scribbled pages, and a smaller folding table holding several puzzling items plus a jumble of spare parts—metal scraps, bits of wire, and similar refuse. Back in the living room, Albert had noticed that besides the bracelet he’d seen before on the boy’s wrist, the kid was now wearing an oversized metal cross on a cord over what had once been a white shirt.

The magus gestured toward the single chair, remaining on his feet near the worktable.

“On the phone, you mentioned you’d prepared a few things for sale and wanted my opinion. Here I am,” Albert said with polite interest. From his expression, it was unclear whether he genuinely expected anything from this arrangement or was humoring a cocky child. Then again, if he saw no chance of profit, he wouldn’t bother investing his time or money.

“In that case, let’s not waste time. First, something simple.” Archibald brushed aside some scraps and bits of trash. Into the cleared space on the table, he placed several small, gray lumps of metal. “Bullets. Plain lead, imbued with a modest spell that, on striking any part of the body and coming into contact with blood, liquefies and then continues traveling through the capillaries and, later, the vessels with the bloodstream. Once per second, it does this, then turns liquid again and keeps moving.”

Taking a scalpel from the table, the magus nicked his thumb and allowed a drop of blood to fall on one of the bullets. Almost immediately, it spread into a gray puddle on the surface, then formed a metallic hedgehog of long, spiky quills clanking on the tabletop—only to melt and reshape into tangles of razor-thin edges, repeating the transformation several times. Meanwhile, Kayneth rubbed his fingers, activating his magic circuits to seal the cut. This now came easier than a month ago—he had boosted his overall reserve a bit. 

“The spell lasts about ten seconds, but that’s enough to cause multiple internal and open wounds, damaging muscle, nerves, and likely reaching the heart. If it hits a leg or an arm, it will follow the venous flow. Should it strike the torso and be carried into the pulmonary circulation, it might circle it two or three times.”

“What a…” Albert shivered slightly, though the skepticism in his tone vanished. “…interesting invention. Strange that no one ever offered me this before.”

“Wizards don’t use guns, Mr. MacDougal,” Archibald remarked with haughty detachment. Privately, he noted that some former magi would. “We have far more convenient methods. Besides, there are obvious drawbacks—you still need to hit your target. And they’re useless against foes lacking blood.”

“Those exist?”

“There are all sorts—at least in our world,” Kayneth waved dismissively, hinting that this second flaw was irrelevant here. He carefully took hold of the interwoven set of tiny, now magic-less and thus brittle blades, lifting them for a clearer demonstration. It was a habit he had picked up after years of teaching. “But if some thug wants to make sure he, as you say, ‘finishes off’ another, this method offers a reliable approach with no chance of rescue. Even if there’s an ambulance nearby or a team of doctors, they won’t be able to do a thing.”

“Well, I’ll think about it. Some might decide that’s ‘not how things are done,’ but others will be interested, I’m sure. Anything else?” he asked, now genuinely intrigued.

“Of course, that’s not everything,” Kayneth replied, carefully placing the “bullet” back where it belonged. Adopting a lecturer’s tone—which, unfortunately, clashed with his rather high-pitched child’s voice—he went on:

“As far as I can tell, the people you associate with tend to die young and quite unpleasantly. They spend plenty on security, guard dogs, and high fences, to put it simply. All those modern gizmos with electronics and fancy locks”—the magus waved a hand vaguely in the air, never having bothered to learn such things and never regretting it—“once invented, they can be broken just as easily. But I can offer an alarm system no top-notch burglar can bypass in any way, even if they’re aware of its existence.”

“Interesting. And I hope it’s not just a line of salt on the doorstep?”

“I’m surprised by your folklore knowledge, Mr. MacDougal, but no—this is something more reliable,” Archibald replied. He touched the cross hanging around his neck and murmured something that, from the outside, might have sounded like a prayer. “Just the simplest possible ghost.”

“I… I see that it’s a ghost!” Albert blanched slightly, staring at some spot behind Kayneth’s shoulder. He fumbled beneath his coat, as though searching for a weapon.

“Really?” Kayneth glanced at the grayish, translucent figure that had appeared behind him, then turned back to Albert. “Ordinary people generally can’t see them. Evidently, you really do have a rather unusual lineage. And yes, a pistol won’t help you here, at least not with normal bullets. Well then, the ghost”—the magus waved his hand behind him—“it can guard a particular area, and if someone crosses the assigned boundary, it lets out an audio signal. 

“In short, it howls. This isn’t a banshee—just a feeble spirit from the nearest cemetery. Its howling won’t cause physical harm, but it can scare someone and alert the guards. Past that, it’s up to them. No burglar—‘Muggle’ or otherwise—will be sneaking by unnoticed if they have a soul. I doubt today’s thieves or killers typically bring an exorcist along just in case.”

“Are we not gonna get busted for this?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, won’t it get us caught…” Still seeing Kayneth’s bafflement, Albert drummed his fingers on his case, struggling to find simpler words. “As in, won’t they track us down? Your Aurors or whoever?”

“No. Ghosts aren’t particularly rare—just usually found in less-populated areas. If a random wizard, even an Auror, passes by a factory or a manor and spots a ghost, he’ll merely shrug,” Kayneth explained. He hadn’t read through all the books on magical creatures and monsters yet, but he’d studied the parts about spirits, ghosts, and how the wizarding world perceives them before heading to the cemetery to summon one himself. “And for ordinary people, it’ll just be some overly sophisticated sonic alarm.”

“Well, I’ll trust you on that. I’m sure there’ll be customers for that kind of thing.”

“Then let’s continue. This next item is best demonstrated in the lab,” the magus said, picking up a small object resembling an aluminum ashtray with a lid. He gestured for MacDougal to go first and locked the door behind them, setting off another barrier. The adjacent room was larger, nearly empty aside from the steel “antlers” of a magic reservoir in one corner and numerous magic circles on the floor, walls, and ceiling. Kayneth shuddered at the memory of how much hassle it had been to stand on a ladder, arms aching, drawing the ceiling’s circle overhead.

“Gradation Air,” he pronounced, conjuring a tripod in the middle of the room. He placed the ashtray on top, pricked his fingertip on the sharp edge of the lid, leaving a few drops of blood in a tiny groove. Then Archibald walked calmly to the wall, motioning Albert to stand beside him, and touched a chalk-drawn mark on the floor—a line that, upon closer inspection, was made up of countless rows of minuscule symbols. A grayish, nearly transparent barrier materialized between them and the object on the stand. And then… nothing happened.

“Er, so…”

“Another fifteen seconds… ten…”

At some point, most of the ashtray seemed to evaporate into fine dust, leaving only a small metal cone solid. Then a spark flickered atop it. The explosion was minor, but the building seemed to tremble; the tripod was blown to splinters, dust billowed up, and the shockwave threw Albert and Kayneth against the wall, leaving them deafened for a couple of seconds.

“Listen… you pint-sized shaman, wouldn’t it be better to test stuff like that outside the city?” demanded the indignant merchant, shouting over the ringing in his ears. He nervously glanced at the window, apparently undamaged by the blast. “They’re gonna call the cops, or the fire brigade, we won’t have time to run.”

“Mr. MacDougal, please don’t take me for an idiot,” Kayneth retorted scornfully, trying to smooth his hair back down. “The barriers in this room absorb sound, the shockwave, and any excess magic. For something this small, they can easily handle it. Nobody outside will even notice a thing—not the neighbors overhead or below. The better question is: do you think anyone would be interested?”

“So how does it work?” Albert asked, a little calmer now.

“The blood acts as a catalyst. You can set the timer in advance. A spell on the object breaks down nine-tenths of its material into dust, then ignites it. Ever heard of dust explosions?”

“I’ve even heard of thermobaric bombs,” Albert muttered, then coughed, trying to clear his throat of the dust swirling around. “What’s the advantage of this over a normal bomb?”

“No trace of explosives whatsoever, and no magical residue after about ten minutes. Just a perfectly ordinary object you can carry anywhere—an ashtray, a cigar box, maybe a trophy cup or a paperweight. The main requirement is that it be metal—iron or aluminum, for example. You place it, prick your finger, walk away—nothing ticks, no lights flash, and to any Muggle it’s just a harmless lump of metal, something you could only use to whack someone over the head.”

“Right, I’ll ask around, though don’t expect too much—stuff like this is usually desired by people who, let’s face it, you’d be unwise to cross even with magic if you value your life.”

“That’s your job. I deliver,” the magus said coolly. He opened the door to the laboratory and gestured for them to return to the “library.” Albert sat down once more, and Kayneth remained standing at the table.

“This is all just rushed work,” the magus continued. “After all, wizards and Muggles have very different needs, so it’s not easy to find items that will interest your clients and that they can’t get through ordinary science or technology. But I’m sure we can uncover other unique products over time. I have a few ideas, for instance using ghosts or familiars for reconnaissance. Let’s not rest on our laurels—there’s always scientific progress.”

“No argument there. Not all at once, though we don’t have years for research either.”

“I understand. Rent needs paying now, not in a decade. But research costs money, so we’ll start here and gradually move to more advanced developments.” The magus glanced at a dagger lying near the edge of the table, though he didn’t pick it up to show. Instead, he changed the subject: “By the way, I mentioned I need something too. Can you set up a meeting with one of your usual suppliers from the magical world?”

“I can arrange that. But what do you have in mind?”

“We could place an order with them. Ever heard of mandrake root? The real one, I mean. One can create several extremely interesting things from it, all involving magic, of course. People have always confused it with that ordinary plant with strange roots, useful for nothing but scopolamine. 

“But around this time, late April, the magical kind of mandrake ripens. We could buy some with ordinary money, and I’ll prepare a handful of potions that’re guaranteed to sell. Scar reduction, healing old injuries, restoring joint flexibility, and one elixir that, if it works, might even knock five or seven years off someone’s age—only for a Muggle, and only once. There’s also a pair of especially potent poisons, but that’s for very specific purposes,” Kayneth enumerated in a near-dreamy tone.

In his home world, true mandrake was insanely rare; even he, who’d become a Master in alchemy at the Clock Tower, had laid hands on it maybe half a dozen times in his life. Therefore, they only studied and recorded the most powerful recipes for it, the ones worth using such a rarity on where no substitution was possible. Of course, most formulas were meant for rituals or work on magic circuits, so fewer would be useful for normal people. But here, witches and wizards cultivated mandrake in greenhouses as though it were a common carrot, and its tincture didn’t cost its weight in gold. 

Archibald readily admitted he knew metals better than he did potions, but he was sure he could brew what he needed within three or four tries. And given the approximate ratio of the black-market price of those concoctions to the relatively trivial local cost of mandrake, they’d profit, even if three-quarters of the material ended up wasted.

“If you’re not exaggerating, it really might be worth the risk. How much do you need?”

“I’ll write down the going rates in legitimate apothecaries, so you’ll know where to start haggling.”

“If you can just walk into a magical apothecary and buy this stuff, why all the fuss?” Albert asked, puzzled.

“Mr. MacDougal, how much do you actually know about the wizarding world?”

“A bit, though clearly not enough. Magic and wizards exist for real, as do werewolves, ghouls, trolls. All of them stay hidden, and maybe a dozen top people know about it, plus people like me who run our little businesses but don’t get caught. Anyone who learns about magic—catches sight of a wizard or some gremlin—will have their memory wiped, and might forget even their own name or what year it is. 

“There’s something like a police force, your ‘Aurors,’ who punish criminal wizards and make sure people never find out magic is real. They’ve got a prison you go to for that—both regular folk and wizards. What else? 

“Wizards can be born among ordinary humans, but at eleven they get a wand and go off somewhere in Scotland for seven years to study. Also, they hardly ever use modern tech; for most of them, a TV or microwave is like…” he nodded at the cluttered table, “…your tricks with ghosts and exploding ashtrays is for me. It’s something they have no clue about. And apparently the aristocrats still run everything, plus there’s some big scandal about racism—didn’t get half of it, though.”

“In broad strokes, yes. Let me share a secret and clarify. I’m ‘Muggle-born,’ meaning I had no wizard ancestors—or none I’ve ever heard of. I knew nothing about magic until around five, when some wizard from outside Britain found me—he needed an assistant, figured it’d be easier to train a new kid than to re-educate an adult. So he taught me this and that for five years, then… he was gone, leaving me in a wizarding world I knew almost nothing about. I had to adapt. That’s how I came into contact with William, and from there you know the rest. 

“So for everyone in Britain, I’m just an orphan who doesn’t even know which end of the wand to hold. I’d prefer it stay that way. But I did learn some specific arts, and I’m willing to share that knowledge so I don’t have to sleep on a park bench and brawl with bums for a rotten morsel of food. Do you see why I can’t simply walk in somewhere and buy a bucket of mandrake without being pestered by pointless questions?” Kayneth had devised this story after reading through various books, a story that would explain both his lack of ties in the magical community and competence in certain specialized areas—and, if need be, ignorance of obvious things. Under thorough interrogation or close scrutiny, it wouldn’t hold up, but for now it would do, especially given how these magical countries in this world seemed self-absorbed with their own affairs.

“All right, I get it,” Albert said, giving no indication how much he believed. He neither contradicted nor argued. “But you said you need something else from my contact besides these plants?”

“Yes. A couple of books that aren’t for sale. But we’ll talk about that in person.”

“You’re planning to go with me?”

“Can you tell mandrake from turnips disguised by a spell?”

“What about your ‘image’?”

“I think that for someone in the contraband business, spreading rumors about me won’t exactly help them. And besides, in case of trouble, I can be useful. I doubt any of your bodyguards know how to exorcise hostile spirits or restless undead.”

“I’m skeptical anyone’s gonna bring a friendly ghost to the meeting.”

“That’s exactly why they generally should,” Kayneth observed, referencing his own experience.

__________________________________________

The night of April 26th turned out unusually cold, damp, and foggy, even by London standards. It did nothing to improve the mood of two individuals who stood at around midnight on a deserted construction site by the river. The work lamps were off; only a few streetlights behind the fence provided illumination, quickly blurred by the fog. They’d left their car by the gate, which had been simple enough to unlock using magic with minimal effort.

“Wouldn’t it have been simpler to find a more public and better-lit place?” MacDougal asked, shivering from the cold beneath his coat. “Plenty of 24-hour cafes lie empty this time of night—we could have sat down, made the exchange, parted ways. Better that than freezing here.”

“That’s fine for a repeat meeting when everything’s settled already. Here, I need to see the product, and you can’t do that in some random diner—unless you plan to chase out the whole staff first. Plus, it’s best not to flash money,” Archibald pointed at the small bag Albert held. Only ten grand in pounds, but the smuggler insisted on small bills, like a movie kidnapper. Likely he wanted to use them in the ordinary world instead of converting them to wizard gold. Both men understood this perfectly well, magus and merchant alike. But standing around doing nothing was tedious—they might as well chat about nothing. Kayneth, too, was shivering under the chilly wind despite wearing a hooded raincoat over his suit, and conversation provided a partial distraction. “He’ll definitely want to count it.”

“Certainly I will,” rasped a third voice, coming from the empty doorway of the half-built structure. He carried a similar bag in one hand and a wizard’s wand in the other. “Lumos.”

The bright glow flared at the tip of his wand, illuminating a wizard of moderate height wearing a wrinkled, tastelessly assembled ensemble, painfully trying to exude “luxury.” A gold chain glinted on his neck, along with a pair of rings on his fingers. To Kayneth’s eye, he looked like a pimp or a low-end drug peddler from a slum—just missing the cheap fake-fur coat. That attempt to look “flashy” with no more than twenty pounds in one’s pocket would earn anyone’s scorn.

“Good evening, Mr. Fletcher.”

“And the same to you, Mr. MacDougal. Afraid I don’t know your friend here.”

“This is Jimmy. He’s related to a client, one of yours. He needs something, so I figured I’d bring him along.”

“Oh, is that so?” Judging by his tone, the smuggler didn’t believe a word. Nevertheless, he approached them, lighting the way with his wand’s spell. “Well, as long as you’ve got Galleons or pounds, I’m all ears. But first, the main business.”

“Of course,” Albert agreed. After a pause, he added in a bored voice, “Mr. Fletcher, considering how long we’ve known each other, it’d be rude of me to remind you you’re the one who can vanish into thin air, while I can’t, so I always check the goods first. Right?”

“Damn, I totally forgot!” the wizard swore unconvincingly. He set his bag on the concrete and backed away a few steps. “Take a look. Exactly what was ordered—no junk here.”

MacDougal placed the bag on the ground, took a flashlight from his pocket, and peered inside. He jerked back slightly upon spotting a handful of leaf-rustling little roots wiggling in the gloom, but he steadied himself and beckoned the magus.

“What’s your verdict, Jimmy?”

“Let me see,” Kayneth answered, stepping forward and waving a hand over the bag. The mandrake looked genuine, but one glance at Fletcher told him to triple-check any product he sold. A couple of testing spells—standard in alchemical ingredient checks—surprisingly revealed nothing catastrophic. “It’ll do, more or less. A couple are on the brink of dying, one’s partly rotted, another five have wilted somewhat, but they’ll still go in the cauldron. Not top quality like we asked for, but your friend might not know enough herbology to notice. I’d say that just saved you maybe twenty percent off the full price.”

“You gonna argue?” Albert asked, almost condescendingly. Seeing the wizard merely shake his head—making no attempt to pass off stale goods as the freshest—Albert unzipped his own bag and transferred a few packs of pounds from it into his coat pocket. “All right then. The original terms still stand.”

He placed his bag on the concrete and likewise backed away, giving the smuggler room to step up and count. With a couple flicks of his wand—wordlessly—Fletcher sorted the bills by denomination, gritted his teeth, but finally nodded to show the deal was done.

“Good. And what’s the kid want, exactly? Perhaps a sack of Chocolate Frogs at a discount? I can arrange that.”

“I’m not much for sweets. But a wand with no Ministry tracking charms—I’d find that quite useful,” Archibald said, cutting to the main point of this meeting. Truth be told, he could’ve scraped up the necessary mandrake himself at pharmacies or shops over a couple of weeks, but he needed a fence for black-market wizard items as soon as possible. This was the perfect excuse for an introduction. “I have a genuine thirst for knowledge, you see. I like to study outside the school curriculum.”

“Uh-huh, and then someone tosses around ‘Avada’ with an untraceable wand, and guess who gets blamed—muggins here, your dealer. Don’t think you’re so clever, kiddo.”

“You really believe a nine-year-old knows the Unforgivables? You’ve got a high opinion of my skills, Mr. Fletcher.”

“I have a high opinion of our Auror Office, and I know anyone could be the dreaded Mad-Eye under Polyjuice.”

“And you’d sell contraband to him?” Kayneth had no clue who this ‘Mad-Eye’ was; he hadn’t yet read up on Britain’s modern wizarding history. Probably some legendary law-and-order wizard?

“Damn it, smuggling’s one thing. But an untracked wand is quite another. I do have principles, y’know!” the wizard cried indignantly, though not very convincingly—perhaps upping his price.

“More like fear for your own skin,” Albert interjected. “If I vouch for the boy, is that enough?”

“No. You’re just a Squib—there are a dozen ways to make you believe you’ve known him your whole life, that you are his dad or mom if he wanted, and you’d never know it wasn’t true.”

“And if I add that I want books on practical necromancy, and I’m prepared to pay double for them, same as for a wand?” Archibald interjected, recapturing attention.

“Okay, that’s intense, even for a Mad-Eye sting. Tell me, Jimmy—this wouldn’t happen to be because of your innocent childish prank that’s got the Aurors losing their minds for the last month?”

“No idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Oh, really, now?”

“Oho, look who we’ve got here,” came a suddenly jovial voice to one side. “A Squib, a snot-nosed kid, and Dumbledore’s pet rat.”

“Bloody hell! Protego!” Fletcher spun around, wand raised, conjuring a faint translucent shield in front of him.

Albert and Kayneth did much the same, though the Squib drew a worn Browning from his pocket, while the magus raised a short dagger, aiming its blade at the newcomer. The lamplight from the wand and a few streetlights was enough to reveal a tall, lanky man in a grimy mackintosh and a ridiculous top hat, wand in hand pointed their way. A split second later, the air beside him seemed to distort and rip outward, clearing space for a second wizard with wand at the ready—this one dressed not in a quaint 19th-century style but in a cheap track suit of the kind favored by factory-town drifters. The first looked about forty, if cleaned up, the second hardly more than twenty-five.

The appearance of the second man nearly made Archibald drop his dagger. He’d read fleeting references in the books to “Apparition,” meaning a wizard’s ability to teleport from one point to another by sheer force of will, no incantations or mystic codes required—but he’d assumed it was either rare or mastered only by experts. Clearly, these men weren’t Aurors, nor refined aristocrats; they looked more like low-tier criminals from the underbelly of the wizarding world. Yet they freely wielded a mystery that, in his previous life, only a handful of people could manage, restricted by numerous conditions and limitations. And apparently this smuggler, going by Albert’s remarks, possessed it as well. If it was so commonplace here, Kayneth realized, he needed to figure out how it worked. Plus, he’d do well to remember in the future that a potential foe here might easily perform what, just six months ago, he would have considered near-True Magic.

“Competitors?” MacDougal asked Fletcher quietly, not taking his eyes off the newcomers.

“Something like that. Acquiring that much stock in a short time wasn’t simple. Someone might have noticed.”

“Half of Knockturn Alley already knows you’re selling mandrake to someone outside,” the wizard in the mackintosh informed them—he’d caught that bit of whispered conversation. “So we decided to join in, help you with your difficult task. Come on, prove you’re not a rat—share some with your old friends. These two losers won’t remember a thing tomorrow anyway, and you’ll be able to swindle them again, old man.”

“You’re only three years younger than I am, Ebbie,” Fletcher retorted, sounding genuinely offended. “And for the record, I don’t like where this is going…”

Instantly, the construction site turned dark—Fletcher had vanished, along with his wand and the light spell on it. And of course, with the money. All four of them stared in bafflement at the spot where he’d been standing, then slowly shifted their gazes from one to another. Albert cocked the hammer of his pistol with his thumb, while Kayneth shifted the dagger into both hands and triggered his magic circuits.

“Reinforcement. Reinforcement. Reinforcement,” he whispered, causing first his legs and then the blade to glow faintly.

For several seconds, nothing happened. Everyone waited to see who would make the first move. Then someone’s nerves snapped—maybe everyone’s at once.

“Expelliarmus!”

“Stupefy!”

“Surgere!”

Albert said nothing, forgoing incantations in favor of firing off a shot at one of the wizards while unexpectedly nimble for his build, dodging aside so as not to get hit by a stray spell. Kayneth was flung back five or so paces, feeling his magically reinforced legs flare with pain and the cross on his chest heat up. The second wizard’s spell beam passed straight through the ghost that had appeared in his place. The phantom ignored it, hung in place for a second, then floated toward the enemies. The mist around it condensed onto the ground as frost, and cold dew filmed over the damp concrete.

MacDougal’s bullet missed, as it was hard to aim on the move in the dark. But it did divert the wizards’ attention—they focused both their wands and at least half a dozen spells on slowing and then paralyzing the ghost. That gave Albert enough time to poke his head out from behind a heap of reinforced concrete blocks and fire three more shots. Two went wide, but the third clipped the arm of the wizard in the mackintosh, making him jerk; even injured, though, he kept his grip on the wand and swung it repeatedly, blurting incantations in panic.

“Expelliarmus, Expelliarmus, Expelliarmus!”

One of the three red beams managed to hit Albert, ripping the Browning from his hand and knocking him back a couple of meters. Cursing, the Squib rolled along the wet ground until he tumbled into some trench, going silent there. The wizard turned his head, letting the flying gun pass by without trying to catch it. Meanwhile, his partner was searching for the boy—and managed to spot him sooner than expected.

Kayneth waited for the wizard between a crane and the building’s wall. From the outside, he looked cornered. The dagger he held in both hands gave an image of someone desperate.

“Lumos. Hey, kid, why don’t you just drop that toy, and we’ll settle this peacefully, yeah? You’ll forget a couple of hours, that’s way better than dealing with broken bones or puking slugs for two days straight, isn’t it? I can Stupefy you right into the wall, might misjudge it a bit, then maybe toss in a few ‘fun’ curses on top. You get me?”

“And if I surrender, you’ll guarantee no harm comes to me?” the magus asked in feigned relief, taking one hand off the dagger and slightly lowering himself, as though preparing to lay the blade on the ground.

“Who do you think I am, eh? I wouldn’t hurt a f—”

“Scalp!”

The bracelet on the magus’s left wrist tore through the sleeve of his coat, lunging at the enemy as it stretched into three interwoven thin blades resembling a tangle of silvery snakes. Once they reached flesh, within seconds the man would be slashed and stabbed in a couple dozen places. But the wizard managed not only to spot them but to yank his wand sharply, fearfully shouting:

“Impedimenta!”

A pale-blue beam struck the twitching blades, freezing them almost motionless in midair. He hadn’t skimped on the power. “Depulso!” came a second flick, hurling them somewhere into the murk. Flicking his wrist to point the wand at the kid, he lacked the time to counter the new attack.

“Acuto!”

The dagger’s hilt split into about half a dozen coiled metal wires, snapping straight like springs and launching the blade at almost bullet speed. The knife pierced the wizard’s arm, nearly going straight through. He dropped his wand and clutched the wound, but then couldn’t move, couldn’t cry out, couldn’t even draw breath—he simply fell onto his back, utterly still. The alchemical poison embedded in the dagger’s blade was potent enough on its own, and the strengthening spell had multiplied its effect for a couple of minutes, while a second enchantment had made the blade sharp enough in that brief time to puncture even concrete.

“Altera vita,” the magus murmured, flicking a hand and triggering his magic circuits again to power the dagger. The symbols and runes inscribed on the blade glowed a weak gray. Nearly all his circuit reserves vanished in the process, but it was the lesser evil—Kayneth had run out of mystic codes, and trying to fight another presumably able-bodied wizard with just spells now would be suicidal. Having set things in motion, he tapped the copper ring on his finger, draining the small store of energy within and causing the ornament to crumble. He paused a moment, estimating the timing, then shouted:

“Hey, Mister! Your friend’s not looking so good! He’s lying there, not moving—maybe he’s dead already?”

“What?! Mort, what’s taking you so long?” a distant voice responded. About half a minute later, the tall wizard with a bullet-scarred arm emerged from behind the crane, lighting his path with his wand. To his credit, he carefully peeked out first, took a quick look around, and only then approached his partner’s body. Keeping one eye on the boy pressed against the wall, he prodded Mort’s side with his foot, then crouched. “Mortimer, you worthless… Hey, Mort, you—” he paused uncertainly, feeling for a pulse and finding none. He glanced at Mortimer’s face, twisted in a spasm and staring blankly, then raised his eyes again. “Hey, you runt, what’d you do to him?!”

“I haven’t done anything,” Kayneth replied icily, shrugging. At the same time, he kept a close eye on the opponent’s mystic code. He struggled to maintain his composure and not let the pain in his magic circuits show, now that they were working at full capacity. “He just fell on the knife all by himself.”

“That’s utter bullsh… Fulgari!”

“Nebulous clipeum,” the magus said almost simultaneously, lifting his arms and crouching low. From the drifting fog, a rectangular shield emerged roughly two feet by two, just enough to cover him at his height. This barrier, formed of water vapor dense with magic, withstood the first curse, then three more in rapid succession. The next one blasted it apart into clumps of mist when Archibald’s reservoir of energy finally ran dry.

This four-line incantation—Kayneth’s own barrier system—had many advantages, including the ability to be invoked in advance and shifted to active mode with a short aria, but it guzzled magic relentlessly. Once, that hadn’t mattered to him, but now…

“Stupefy!”

The spell, which he couldn’t dodge, slammed Kayneth into the wall, leaving him dazed for several seconds and defenseless. But once the colored spots cleared from his vision, the magus saw that Ebbie was preoccupied with his revived partner, who was clutching at his legs.

“Mort! Hey, Mort, what’s wrong? Everything’s fine—I got that little bastard. Now I’ll help you… Mort, wait! Mortimer! Stoooop!” The wizard’s shouting turned into unintelligible cries as the dead partner yanked him down with inhuman strength, toppling him to the ground and sinking teeth into his shoulder. “Stupefy! Petrificus! Incarcero! Confr— Aaaaah!”

Stunning and paralyzing spells had little effect on the undead. Perhaps, if the wizard had struck with something explosive or slicing straight off, he might have escaped with minimal harm. But he never expected to face an inferius here, let alone his own partner turned undead, well-suited to that name.

Staggering and clumsily trying to shake off the mud that covered his entire raincoat, Archibald got to his feet. He limped over to the corpse, who had already torn out the wizard’s throat. With a wave of his hand, he uttered the formula for cancelation, which required no direct infusion of energy:

“Requiescer.”

The undead fell still, reverting to a lifeless body permanently. The magus cast a glance at both corpses, then shook his head and hobbled back to their meeting place, supporting himself against the walls. The first spell had stretched the ligaments in his leg—he was lucky it was only one—and smashing against the wall didn’t seem to have broken anything, though he had plenty of bruises, contusions, and a mild concussion in this frail body. And that “harmless” stunning spell, in the local textbooks, was recommended for second-year wizard children. Perhaps Kayneth was too quick to assume these wizards coddled their youth.

“Hey, Albert, you alive? Do you still remember my name?” Archibald yelled into the fog.

“I remember, I remember—Jimmy, or James…” came the grumbling reply as MacDougal reappeared from behind the same pile of slabs. He, too, was caked in filth after tumbling into the trench and struggling out, half-dazed. “What about those two? Ran off?”

“They’re dead—both of them. I said I’d be useful. I got wounded, but not mortally. You?”

“I’m almost all right, though I wouldn’t put money on a couple of ribs. They cracked something nasty. And my fall was no fun. Everything’ll hurt like hell tomorrow…”

“That’s not so bad. If you don’t feel pain at all, then you’re either dead or undead yourself, and neither prospect is encouraging,” Kayneth replied, regarding his ghost, which had only just begun to stir after being pinned by spells. He noted the sack of mandrake, still lying on the concrete. “Get up, Mr. MacDougal. We need to find your gun in all this muck, and then we have to retrieve my dagger from the corpse before we vanish from here, or the police and the Aurors will be on us any minute.”

“And the bodies?”

“The river’s just past that fence. I’m counting on you for that.”

“Forgive me for being blunt, but aren’t you a little too casual about having just killed two men, especially for a ten-year-old brat? Guilt? Conscience? That sort of thing?”

“A magus’s path is always one walking hand in hand with death,” Kayneth stated the obvious. “Any spell—yours or someone else’s—can be your last. Once you accept that, it gets easier. And anyway, they wouldn’t have spared us. I see nothing wrong.”

“You know, I’m starting to regret dealing with you. Fletcher was shady, sure, and sold me crap sometimes, but at least I didn’t have to shoot anyone.”

“It’s all for profit.”

“The only reason I put up with you wizards at all. I’m a proper Catholic, mind you—my mom took me to church every week. Good thing she doesn’t see me now…”

“It’s also for the best that no one else sees us here tonight. Let’s go—time is money, and right now it’s also our freedom.”

________________________________________

By early morning, lying in bed and aching in every muscle while his magic circuit regenerated by mere crumbs, Kayneth reflected that once again, he had miscalculated and underestimated the danger—just like so many times this past month. His familiarity with local combat wizardry and dueling was purely theoretical. Teleportation could be dismissed as an unpredictable factor, but he hadn’t properly accounted for the lightning-fast reflexes needed in duels where shields are constantly in use, demanding you notice an enemy’s spell at once and form a defense right in its path.

One wizard had intercepted and deflected his blades mid-attack; another, in mere seconds, pummeled his barrier with half a dozen fairly strong spells in a row. These were criminals—riffraff from the wizarding underworld with stolen or scrap-made mystic codes. What about Aurors or even ordinary patrol wizards who were supposed to catch such thugs? And what about the aristocrats of the old families?

Archibald had never been big on sports or martial arts. He kept in shape more out of a noble’s sense of decorum—set an example for the lower classes, stay dignified, not let himself get fat. As for the trend among some young Clock Tower students to combine magic with fistfighting or, worse yet, gunplay—he found it barbaric. Let the brutes of the Fraga family amuse themselves with that. Kayneth had heard tales of that family’s heiress, rumored to smash brick walls with a fist by age ten—imagine what monster she’d become. Either way, speed and reflexes had never numbered among the best traits of the former Lord El-Melloi, but he had always excelled at using his head. That was precisely why he’d invented a protective mystic code able to outrun bullets and shield its master from attacks from behind or any other angle. But he wouldn’t be able to recreate or power Volumen Hydrargyrum for quite some time, and plain body-strengthening spells couldn’t fully offset his weaknesses.

Therefore, if he wanted to survive in this new wizarding world without moving into a gym and swapping books for dumbbells for the next seven years, he needed to find another way to adapt to local duels.

He fell asleep with that thought, drifting into his usual nightmares.

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 6

“Here we are, kid. Whittington, the Blockbuster store.”

“Thank you,” Kayneth replied tonelessly as he climbed out of the taxi, paying the fare. Since ordinary people were virtually unaware of the “Leaky Cauldron,” he had given the address of some film rental across the road. The magus remembered it from nearly a month ago, when he’d wandered the area in circles trying to locate the barrier entrance, precisely because of its utterly banal and obvious name.

Focusing and activating his magic circuits, Archibald spotted the desired sign across the street, dispelling the misdirection charm intended for what people here called “Muggles.” Scanning for anything suspicious and seeing none, he walked toward an ancient, blackened door.

Inside, he crossed the grimy, half-lit tavern without minding the stares from the patrons, heading straight for a back room. Perhaps they were gawking because he looked so young, or maybe because of his “Muggle” outfit—a dark-blue suit that resembled the uniform of one of many private schools found in London. In any case, Kayneth couldn’t care less about anyone’s opinion so long as it didn’t cause him trouble.

He extended his palm toward the wall, unleashing several weak magical pulses, much like Tonks had done with her wand. The gateway in the barrier opened obligingly, after all, the spell was intended only to keep out ordinary people with no magic, and the method of casting or tools used were secondary details.

Nothing had changed on the other side in the past month: the same buildings, a thin crowd in old-fashioned clothes. If they each cast illusions or transformed their attire every time they stepped through from mundane London, Kayneth dreaded to think how much power was wasted daily on such pointless ostentation. The amount of magical energy they likely squandered here in a week would have been enough for him to summon a couple of decent phantoms, with surplus left over.

From his previous tour with Tonks, Archibald remembered where the places of greatest interest to him lay. But his first stop, in any case, had to be the bank—since these locals apparently couldn’t keep things simple and insisted on their own, entirely unnecessary, currency system.

On the way, he paused in front of one shop, frowning at the display window: there were a dozen brooms of varying shapes and colors. The sign above the door read “Everything for Quidditch,” which clarified nothing—this final word was entirely unknown to him. It seemed unlikely that a store of this grandiose appearance sold cleaning supplies, and the presence of saddles, handles, and what looked like stirrups on some of the wooden shafts indicated one was meant to sit on them. But… it all looked absurd.

In the Clock Tower, the mystery of broom flight was known in principle. It had been created—or more likely reconstructed—some twenty years earlier by one of the Grands, i.e., a top-tier magus (Kayneth was registered in the Association one rank below that but had intended to climb higher in time). The result, however, was extremely specialized: the flight basically served only to travel to a predetermined spot or to return to a set anchor, requiring a lengthy setup and, furthermore, was only available to women. It appeared that in this world someone had managed not only to refine a similar ritual but even to commercialize it. Still, Kayneth couldn’t fathom why or who would buy such a thing. Shaking his head skeptically, he turned away and continued on his way.

He emerged from the bank half an hour later almost in shock, stopping at the entrance, gripping one of the columns, and breathing in the damp air laced with smoke and alchemical fumes. The experience simply defied belief. The procedure itself was nothing unusual, just your regular bureaucratic hassle — lots of quill scratching, ledger signing and the usual currency exchange. What was unusual, however, was the blunt and rather rude staff. They weren’t helpful in a conventional sense but their clipped and somehow menacing questions made a quick work out of all that tedious paper pushing. But the ‘icy courtesy’ of the staff wasn't the reason behind his dismay.

He hadn’t taken Tonks’s mention of goblins seriously back then, which turned out to be a grave oversight. The entire customer hall, every post behind the counters, was manned by squat, grotesque humanoid creatures with disproportionately long claws and fangs. Real life living representatives of a Phantasmal Species in 20th-century England, and several wizard customers chatting with them as though it were the most normal thing on earth! Moreover, the building itself looked ancient, as if it had stood there for centuries. Something was definitely off about this world.

In Kayneth’s original reality, mythical beings—griffins and wyverns, or non-human races like elves and centaurs—had either gone extinct or been hunted down, while others retreated to Reverse Side of the World two thousand years earlier, when the Age of Gods ended and the Age of Humans began. There simply wasn’t enough magic left for their survival, and humans, proliferating rapidly, had actively destroyed those that were too different. Here, however, it seemed a portion of these creatures and races had chosen to remain on Earth, hiding from ordinary folk alongside the wizards. 

Archibald felt a powerful urge to rush to a bookstore and buy up every text available on this world’s magical history. He had successfully exchanged his pounds for gold despite the shock, so at least he had the funds to do so. However, he needed one particular item first. If he recalled, the right store was ahead on the corner…

Twenty minutes later, he was approaching the largest bookstore in the district, “Flourish and Blotts,” holding a newly purchased suitcase with a brown leather covering. It was “new” only in the sense of recent manufacture—the style was stuck around the 1880s, with metal corner guards, an archaic lock, and an overall coffin-like heft. 

Of course, what mattered was not the look but the expansion enchantment and real-weight compensation. Nevertheless, it didn’t remotely compare to the similar case Archibald had owned in his previous life, left under the ruins of that hotel along with all his belongings. This mass-produced item would suffice for now, though. It had cost nearly thirty Galleons, out of the roughly six hundred he had on him—the pound-to-Galleon rate was about five-to-one, but the bank also charged a percentage for service.

Upon entering the nearly empty shop, Kayneth paused for a couple of seconds, barely acknowledging the mild greeting from a tall wizard behind the counter, who looked to be over forty. Books—books of every possible size—hundreds and thousands of them, thick grimoires and slender pamphlets, handwritten or printed, spanning various schools and branches of magecraft unknown to anyone in the Clock Tower (except maybe that old bloodsucker). Even if the mysteries and techniques they described turned out useless, as a magus and a scholar he couldn’t help but feel the sacredness of this moment.

“Young man? Young man!” A voice reached him as though from a distance.

“Ah, my apologies…” Archibald forced himself back to reality, tearing his gaze from the rows of books—those lining the shelves, laid out on windowsills and tables, or simply stacked in piles on the floor. He turned to the shopkeeper. “I’m here for the first time. I… got a bit overwhelmed,” he added honestly.

“That happens,” the vendor said with a condescending yet good-natured smirk, then asked, “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“More like I’m interested in everything,” he said, gesturing broadly at the bookshelves. “I’m… what you call ‘Muggle-born,’ I believe. I only found out about magic about a month ago. I’m curious about it all. But if there’s some special type of book or guide for people like me, I’d like to take a look.”

“What about school textbooks?”

“I won’t be going until next year, so I don’t need them yet.”

“All right, I understand. There’s something, but not much—mostly Ministry pamphlets,” the shopkeeper added with a faint sneer, suggesting a low opinion of their content. “Just wait here, I’ll see what I can find. And remember, all the books are enchanted—don’t take anything out of the shop before you buy it.”

The magus merely shrugged in silence, indicating he wasn’t going anywhere. That final warning might have sounded insulting, but one had to allow that they believed him to be a novice who knew nothing about magic. He himself could sense weak, uniform spells placed on the books around them, which seemed an appalling waste of magical energy in his view—although perhaps there was something fundamental about the local school of magic he had yet to grasp.

“Here’s what I managed to dig up,” said the returning shopkeeper, setting a modest stack of four drab, grayish pamphlets—painfully bureaucratic in appearance—on the counter. As Kayneth spread them out, he saw a large stamp on each, reading “Approved by the British Ministry of Magic.”

“‘Welcome to the Wizarding World.’ ‘Now I’m a Wizard.’ ‘Magical Britain in Questions and Answers.’ ‘Quidditch Basics for Muggle-born’… And what is ‘Quidditch’? I’ve seen that word just recently.”

“The greatest wizarding sport,” the shopkeeper replied, proudly jabbing his finger at a black-and-white framed photograph on the wall… which moved, looking more like a short piece of video footage. It showed a massive stadium with about ten people zipping around in midair, evidently on brooms. “Here in Britain, we have one of the strongest teams in the world. And Hogwarts has a very good school team. I’d swear there’s nothing like it among Muggles.”

“Probably,” Kayneth shrugged; he had never been interested in sports. Merely the thought of expending precious magical energy on something like that… it bordered on sacrilege against the art of magecraft. He set aside the last pamphlet, gathered the other three into a pile, and asked, “How much for these?”

“One and a half Galleons for the three,” the wizard responded, shaking his head in disapproval. Perhaps he was a devoted fan of that broomstick mayhem. “Anything else?”

“Oh, I’m just getting started. I want to learn so much more… but I’m not sure I can find what I need by myself,” the magus admitted, surveying the floor-to-ceiling shelves in this two-story shop, plus the heaps of mismatched tomes scattered everywhere. There seemed to be no system at all to their arrangement. “Do you have a catalog or some alphabetical listing? For instance, how would I locate books on magical history?”

“That’s simple.” The wizard gave a bit of a showy flourish of his hand and said, not even touching his wand, “Accio ‘A History of Magic, Volume One.’”

Kayneth sensed a mild surge of power. Almost instantly, a thick volume slid from somewhere behind the shelves and flew into the shopkeeper’s grasp. He placed it on the counter and explained, “Until you’ve learned such spells, you can just tell me what you need. I’ll pick out the right volumes.”

“Excellent.” Taking the book and flipping through a few pages, the magus glanced around, inhaled, and began: “Right, let’s get started. All histories of magic—everything you have, plus the international situation of the magical community, magical theory from general to specific, a list and descriptions of the most important magical families, the code of magical laws—English and international, a reference to branches of magic, mythical creatures and races, summoning magic, healing magic, alchemy, nec… nectar uses in alchemy, wizard duels, combat magic, rituals, artifact creation, runic magic…”

“Hold on, hold on!” The shopkeeper, clearly overwhelmed, waved his hands. “What’s your name, young man?”

“James Murphy, sir.”

“Cornelius Hallowabbis,” the wizard introduced himself, scrutinizing the boy’s face. “James, do you happen to have a sister, maybe a year older, even a cousin?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir,” Archibald answered honestly, masking his surprise. “Might I ask why…?”

“Because last summer, we had a Muggle-born girl come through here trying to buy out the entire shop in one go. Her professor from the school ended up threatening to hit her with a Body-Bind and drag her out levitating. She came back alone the next day, but ran out of money long before we ran out of books. You’re not very alike, but I thought maybe you were relatives.”

“No, but it’d be interesting to meet her,” the magus said with a half-smile. Such enthusiasm for knowledge deserved encouragement, especially in first-generation magi—greater the chance they’d establish a family line that wouldn’t vanish in fifty years without leaving a trace in the Association’s records. Otherwise, they enroll all sorts of incompetents, and you end up stuck teaching them six generations later, and they still can’t tell the Root from the Origin or think the Reality Marble is one of the Sorcery Traits… Archibald grimaced, recalling some of his former students.

“And since we’re already talking money—sorry to pry, but how much are you willing to spend here? This one, for instance,” he tapped the cover of A History of Magic, “costs two Galleons.”

Kayneth pulled from his jacket pocket the coin pouch the goblins had sold him at the bank (with a “discount,” they’d claimed) after he exchanged his money, calling it a necessary first item. Loosening the drawstrings, the magus whispered a password and tilted it over the counter, clearly articulating the sum: “Five hundred Galleons.”

A few seconds later, a modest pile of heavy gold coins lay there. The voice-recognition instead of blood or magic circuits was rudimentary, and its design probably hadn’t changed since the Hundred Years’ War, but it did have a small internal barrier that distorted volume and reduced weight—its main selling point. Without this little bag, six hundred gold coins would weigh a very real forty pounds or nearly so; who would willingly lug that much around in their pockets?

“Spending everything?” Cornelius asked with a chuckle, casting a satisfied look at the coins. He whistled, turned toward the back of the shop, then called out, “Hey, Robert, forget your ledgers—there’s a good order here, I need a hand.”

“I’ll leave a little spare change for potions,” Kayneth answered frankly. He pushed aside several piles of books on a nearby table, set down his new suitcase, and opened it, activating the barrier within. “So, let’s start with the history of magic…”

“You are discovering a new and wondrous world, full of thrilling adventures, great mysteries, and fantastic revelations. All your life, you were told that magic doesn’t exist, that dragons and wizards survive only in ancient tales. But these people, in their naïveté, cannot see how the world truly works. They were wrong! A world brimming with magic, a world you have now become a part of…”

“Thank Akasha the Clock Tower had no middle school! If I had to write this drivel for a bunch of adolescents who’ve just learned how to light candles with a glance, I’d hang myself,” exclaimed the former Lord El-Melloi in despair, slamming shut the Ministry of Magic pamphlet on the first page and fighting the urge to turn it to ash. Even though fire had never been his favorite element, he had more than enough theoretical knowledge to pull off such a feat—and he found himself dangerously tempted to do so, secrecy be damned.

After finishing his purchases and spending almost all his “magical” money (keeping only about a dozen coins for study), Archibald left the barrier-shielded district. Yet his curiosity—both scientific and practical—proved too strong to ignore, and rather than searching for a taxi, he returned to the same park where he had first met Tonks. Finding an empty bench, he sat down. This time, the weather was far warmer; the last traces of snow had melted long ago, and the trees and grass had turned green, but the magus paid it no mind. He only noted the absence of nearby people.

Rummaging in his suitcase, he pulled out one of the local Ministry’s pamphlets that he had set aside earlier. Then he wrapped it in an opaque cover—purchased on the way in an ordinary bookstore for a few pence—and began to read. He didn’t even make it through the introduction before he lost patience.

Still, such information wasn’t entirely useless. At the very least, it illustrated the patronizing—if not downright overprotective—approach of the local authorities toward children with first-generation magic. But even the small details, like the relationships among various factions in this society, were worth knowing. So, gritting his teeth and resisting the urge to curse the author with some incurable affliction, Kayneth forced himself to continue reading—or more precisely, skimming the text and skipping large swaths of the endless praises for magical Britain in general and its all-problem-solving Ministry in particular.

In short, stripping away the flowery language, there was a worldwide Magical Confederation that united wizard communities of different countries. It was led by a “Supreme Mugwump”, apparently a Brit at the moment, though from the list of his other titles, the position seemed purely ceremonial with no real power. The main international issues were handled by a Council of delegates from various nations, though the pamphlet said little about how that actually worked.

In Britain, the magical community was governed by this very Ministry, which—aside from printing such nonsense—handled the affairs of wizards, phantasmal races, and creatures living in the country. Beneath them were countless officials along with a law enforcement branch that included, but was not limited to, Aurors—something like an elite guard, powerful but small in number, while minor and less threatening cases were handled by ordinary Ministry patrol wizards. These patrollers also cleaned up traces of magic in the normal world and erased witnesses’ memories if needed. Tonks had mentioned something to that effect, but without details.

Memory needed to be erased because, since the late 17th century, an international decree known as the Statute of Secrecy had officially obligated everyone to hide the existence of magic from “Muggles,” with the exception of certain top-level officials in a few nations. How strictly it was enforced varied widely: in Britain, it was very strict, but in Africa or India it depended on luck—this pamphlet harshly condemned such “lax interpretations of the law by irresponsible communities.”

Crucial to the magical world were schools teaching wizards the basics of their craft and the statutes of the Magical Confederation. There were eleven oldest, universally recognized schools: one each in North America, South America, Africa, and Australia; then one each in the “island” nations of Great Britain and Japan; the remaining five in Eurasia—Western Europe, Eastern Europe, Russia, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia. There were also smaller institutions from primary schools to colleges, but typically they were only a century or two old and lacked the prestige and authority of the older schools.

“That’ll do for a general picture,” Archibald concluded, stuffing the irritating pamphlets back into his suitcase. He had hoped for something more… academic, more details on research and major achievements or theoretical branches, but it was foolish to expect that from a novice-friendly propaganda piece. He would still have to study the material thoroughly instead of skimming it two paragraphs at a time, but that could wait.

Right now, he needed to understand how it had all come to pass, why this world diverged so greatly from the reality he knew. Next, he pulled “A History of Magic” from the depths of his suitcase. Naturally, it was just a school textbook, not a scholarly monograph, yet it would suffice to grasp the basics—particularly since he was still unacquainted with much of the local specialized terminology.

So it started with the Age of Gods—“Legendary times when deities walked the earth, magical creatures lived openly among humans, and fantastical beasts filled the forests, seas, and steppes…,” to quote the book. Here, it was called the “Era of Magic,” but it amounted to the same thing—just like in Archibald’s home world, from the rise of the earliest human tribes until the start of the modern age, magic on Earth had been far stronger and an everyday part of people’s lives. The magi of that era supposedly drew power directly from the Root and could effortlessly accomplish feats unimaginable by present standards.

Likewise, in this world, around the eighth century BCE, the might of gods and demigods began to wane along with the overall magical stream, and the planet’s leylines, once like rivers in full flood, diminished to narrow trickles. In his own world, that led to magi—having lost direct connection to the Root—clinging to every last scrap of power that appeared in their magic circuits, refining and training those circuits to the utmost, and later partially passing them down by inheritance or exchanging them in the form of family crests. By doing so, they siphoned off most of the already weakened magical flow, and those beasts and races with a magical nature either died out or withdrew to the Reverse Side, a sort of magical ‘mirror’ of Earth where humans did not exist.

In the legends of ordinary folk, that memory remained as Avalon, the Land of Cockaigne, the Valley of the Dead, Kitezh-Grad, the Realm of Yan Wang, Asgard, and many other fabled places where heroes went, where elves, kobolds, and demons supposedly hid, and where miracles occurred. What the legends got wrong was any story of a hero or wise man accidentally stumbling into such a realm or forcing his way there in search of treasure—humans, even magi, had no path to that realm. Though a few “windows” still existed on Earth, and summoning rituals could temporarily forge a connection.

But in this world, events had followed a different course.

“Skipping school, young man?” came a stern voice nearby.

Kayneth, who had just reached the most intriguing part, actually jumped, snapping the book shut and spinning around. Standing beside the bench was a policeman. Judging by his relaxed posture and the fact that he was bothering a child quietly reading in a park, the officer was simply bored with nothing better to do. The magus quickly regained his composure and answered calmly:

“I’m homeschooled, sir. My mother submitted all the permits to Social Services. I don’t need to attend a regular school.”

“Social Services?” The policeman looked surprised that a nine-year-old (by his reckoning) was using such terms.

“She’s not my biological mother. I’m from an orphanage. When she decided it would be better for me to study at home, she had to file documentation proving I was really getting an education instead of just wandering about. I assumed that’s something police officers learn about, sir?”

“Oh, we learn a lot of things… Only, aren’t you a bit young to be reading that?” He smirked, nodding at the closed book.

At first, the magus didn’t understand the question. Then it dawned on him: a child, on his own, reading something in an opaque cover and shutting it hurriedly the moment an adult appears. The policeman evidently suspected the book was some indecent material. Smirking faintly, Kayneth held the volume up for the officer to see, even flipping a few pages as he said:

“I agree, sir, organic chemistry is a bit tough right now—lots of formulas, especially isomers and polymers are a real challenge. But I’m sure I’ll manage by the end of the year.”

“R-right… Sorry to bother you,” the policeman replied, visibly rattled by the tables and equations he barely recognized. Tipping his hat politely, he added, “Study hard, lad, so you can find yourself a decent job. But you’d be better off reading at home or at least in a cafe. Being alone in a park isn’t always wise—there are all sorts of people about.”

“Thank you for the concern, sir. Indeed, I should probably head home,” the magus agreed, quickly stowing his textbook in the suitcase. “Otherwise, my parents might worry. Have a good day, officer.”

“Take care on your way, young man.”

Absurd as the situation was, the policeman was right—such books should be read at home. It was fortunate it was just a mundane officer. If a more vigilant patrol wizard from the Ministry had decided to check on him, it could’ve been a breach of secrecy leading to special scrutiny. That wasn’t worth the risk. Even so, once Kayneth got into a taxi and settled the suitcase beside him, he took out the book again. There was no one else in the car aside from the driver, and the man certainly couldn’t see the text from his mirror.

Archibald entered the apartment without taking out his keys. Without stopping, he used magic to unlock and push open the door. His hands were full—one held the suitcase, the other held the second volume of A History of Magic. He walked straight to the library door, ignoring the somewhat startled housekeeper who had witnessed his dramatic entrance. Then he paused, as if recalling something, and said:

“Miss Stone, would you kindly close the door? Also, I need coffee,” the magus hefted his suitcase and added, “A great deal of strong coffee. And after that, please do not disturb me, even if reds try to storm London.”

“Uh… The Soviet Union broke up last year…”

“Really? Who would have thought. Well, you understand the point, Miss Stone. And don’t forget the coffee…”

He managed to tear himself away from the books only around three in the morning, and only because his vision was blurring and doubling. This body’s stamina was sorely lacking, and he had no time at all to train it, even minimally. 

Rubbing his eyes, the magus walked around the room, once again reminding himself to order a proper chair—and forgetting immediately as he tried to consolidate everything he had read. Over the evening, he’d already scolded himself multiple times for his naivete and, he was ashamed to admit, his narrow-minded approach. Despite the overall similarity between the two worlds—down to the map of leylines and the specific effects of certain spells—the dominant system of magecraft here had several extremely significant differences that he, in his complacency, had failed to notice until he came across them in the books. It appeared he was losing his edge after all he had been through.

Still, the number of discrepancies was perfectly understandable once he realized the key point of divergence happened, give or take, 2,400 years earlier. As in his old world, the Age of Gods here gradually approached its end, and magi—deprived of most of their former power—searched desperately for some way out. Finally, in the fourth century BCE, they succeeded. That was when the world’s first wizard wand was created—or rather, the principle underlying that artifact came into being. 

Various magic schools embodied it in wooden staves, metal rings, bone rods, and even enchanted swords—countless forms were tried, but the core mystery remained the same. No one knew who discovered it: the book offered a multitude of theories, naming the elven king Oberon, Odin renouncing his divinity, Iblis the greatest of all djinn, every major magus of that era by name, or even Death itself in person. The author, showing her characteristic British patriotism, mentioned Merlin or Morgana, but that made little chronological sense. Regardless, the mystery was created and woven into the fabric of the world. Artificers then replicated it, produced it in different forms, and experimented, with many focusing exclusively on wands, forgetting everything else.

When Kayneth assumed that what Tonks held was merely a standard auxiliary type mystic code, he was technically correct. Just as, technically, a lizard is a dragon—only a very small one. The crux lay in how it worked. Everyone knew that magecraft meant creating miracles powered by magical energy.

In the Clock Tower’s first-year curriculum (something any self-respecting magus learned in childhood), they taught that magical energy comes in two forms—external and internal, or Mana and Od. Od accumulates over time in a magus’s magic circuits or in the magical core of a mythical beast, like a dragon or a phoenix. Mana flows along leylines and is present in the world around them. 

Most spells rely on Od, the internal reserve, but with skill, a particularly expensive ritual can be supported by external power—Kayneth himself had done so recently with the summoning circle for that spirit of greed. Yet only higher demons or a few ancient artifacts of Holy Grail caliber can directly absorb and use Mana.

Nevertheless, a wizard wand (or ring, sword, staff built on the same principle) can, through movement, accumulate a small reserve of ambient Mana and apply it instantly to cast a spell. Simultaneously, it forcibly stimulates the user’s magic circuits, requiring them to expend only a small portion of their own Od in the process. It was truly ingenious. Archibald found himself inclined to bow to the brilliance of whoever had designed this mystery—and lament that it never occurred in his home world.

Therefore, since magi here did not turn themselves into metaphorical drilling rigs or wells, extracting every last drop of magical power through their magic circuits, the overall flow of energy remained richer—by a factor of three or four. Many magical creatures and beasts stayed on Earth. Although some also withdrew to the Reverse Side here, including elves (the book, for some reason, referred to them as True Elves, as if there were others?). Possibly there were other contributing factors—some alliances with mythic peoples or a different attitude among magi toward various monsters—but in the end, far more of them survived in this world, generally in remote or magic-shielded regions of the planet.

The text then moved on to less compelling topics: the story of Cú Chulainn, for instance, or the rise and fall of Camelot, some ancient goblin uprisings, and battles against giants. Essentially, the closer it approached the modern era, the more the textbook focused on Britain alone, mentioning fewer and fewer events in the magical world beyond its borders. He found nothing else so… fundamental as the creation of the universal mana conductor made to look like a simple stick. So far, Kayneth had reached only the seventeenth century, precisely the time of the Statute of Secrecy’s adoption and the magical community’s official retreat underground—perhaps more interesting details would come once he read further.

Instead of continuing into modern history, he turned his attention to textbooks on magical theory and skimmed a reference guide on wands and their use. This device intrigued him the most, given that the dominant magical tradition here was built entirely around employing this mystic code. 

A rough estimation yielded the following: if we treat the energy for the simplest Reinforcement of an object as a single unit, then performing an “Gradation Air”—creating, from “nothing,” an object familiar to the magus for a couple of minutes—would cost five units. A wizard with a wand, however, would spend only one-quarter of a unit of their internal reserves for the same strengthening spell, and a single unit for the Gradation Air, compensating the rest with ambient mana. 

Of course, that’s the broad scenario, ignoring the magus’s condition, compatibility with the mystic code, and a couple dozen other factors. It’s as they say: all this is under standard sea-level conditions. Even so, one can guess the approximate numbers.

Did that mean Tonks, for example, might surpass Sola four- or fivefold in terms of her magical reserves? Apparently not. While a wand is an immensely powerful magical tool in capable hands, it also… makes the user complacent. 

Children here don’t begin training until about ten, not five or six. While that’s humane, it’s also unwise. Since awakening and training magic circuits without external help from a mystic code is exceptionally painful, wizards never devote proper time to it. At best, they achieve the bare minimum, still leaning on their wand. By seventeen, the most gifted of them can perform simple mysteries with only their internal reserve. Yet in a real battle or complex ritual, their capabilities without the mystic code remain severely limited. But for the majority, that’s enough. Hence…

When Kayneth realized that yesterday, he simply dropped the book, choked on his coffee, and spent quite some time coughing and catching his breath. It must have looked both pathetic and laughable. Had anyone walked in on him then, the magus might well have killed them, no matter who they were. Yet after he’d composed himself, he tried again to calmly come to terms with what he’d discovered—this world’s wizards never developed magic crests, not even the ancient families whose lineage spanned over a thousand years. 

Despite how absurd it sounded, an explanation was possible. Wizards here had no need to burn themselves out in constant training for years before launching into research that might only bear fruit for their grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Hence, they never faced a compelling reason to devise a hazardous and frequently painful method for boosting the next generation’s magical reserves and transmitting certain family secrets directly with a fragment of one’s own soul.

Instead, they focused on marriage strategies, genealogical records, and counting how many generations of wizards a family contained—while preserving the crafts in the form of enchanted books in family libraries. Perhaps, too, over the course of more than two thousand years, the wizards themselves had changed in some small way, adapting to the persistent use of “crutches” like wands. Their magic circuits may have “mutated” across countless generations. 

In his previous life, Archibald had encountered a theory suggesting that modern magi differ from those who lived three or four millennia ago and thus no one’s body can again access the Root—called the Swirl of the Root, the Akashic Records, the Great Void, or by some, simply God. 

Frankly, Kayneth had always regarded the pursuit of the Root—so widespread in the Association—excessive, bordering on religious fetishism, something a true researcher should avoid. He was pleased to learn that here, no one wasted centuries of struggle and mountains of resources chasing such folly. Compared to that, the local British wizards’ fascination with so-called Deathly Hallows was almost endearing.

Feeling that his endless pacing back and forth was making his legs ache and grow numb, Archibald sat on a stool and cast a glance at several half-finished trinkets he’d been putting together on the side, just to keep MacDougal off his back for a while and balance his negative account up to zero. But now, with these fresh insights, he realized he had only more expenses ahead. Which meant he’d have to postpone his research once again and focus on junk for sale to ordinary folk. 

Based on his new knowledge from the books, he could at least refine some of the formulas and constants—particularly regarding the density of the magical flow—and speed up his calculations. It was an awful pity that even a talented magus without money was stuck pouring precious time into such nonsense. Then again, not wanting to do anything half-heartedly, Archibald had ended up creating a couple of interesting things from a theoretical standpoint, which might be refined further someday—if he could find the time.

He glanced at the clock: it was already half past six in the morning. Technically, that was an acceptable time for business. Swaying with exhaustion, Kayneth went into the “living room,” lifted the phone receiver, and dialed a number. He waited a long while for someone to pick up, but he had patience.

“Mister MacDougal? Glad to see you’re not asleep yet. About your reminders: I think I’ve assembled a few interesting items to put on the market. But it’d be best if you examined them in person to see if there’s any demand. Let’s meet at the workshop in two days and sort it out. Also, I’d like to ask a favor—but I’ll tell you then. Wonderful. Good day.”

Setting down the receiver, the magus stood motionless for half a minute, weighing whether to finish the “merchandise” first or push onward in The History of Magic up to the twentieth century. Realizing that just standing still was putting him on the brink of dozing off, Kayneth shook his head and trudged back to his laboratory. First, he’d invest some energy in those trinkets and a couple of mystic codes for his own use, and then he’d return to the books. It was unlikely anything truly important had occurred in magical Britain after the Statute of Secrecy came into force.

[Hydrargyru] Chapter 5

“For the first time in a year, she actually looks like my Eve again—not her ghost,” Summers said quietly, approaching the magus with his wife in his arms. He moved cautiously—after the lamps had gone out, the room was lit only by the faint glow of dawn struggling to filter through the cracks in the windows. He nodded toward the guard and the bloodstains on the floor.

“But was that really necessary?”

“There was no choice. Armilla,” Kayneth commanded, and the steel threads released their victim, coiling back into a bracelet. He picked it up from the floor and slipped it onto his wrist. “The spirit demanded extra payment. If it had escaped the circle, everyone in this room except for your wife…” He gestured toward a nearby cage holding a rabbit, dried and shriveled as if mummified.

“But you said yourself that it was ‘safe,’ sorcerer,” William protested, his face paling.

“‘As safe as possible,’” the magus snapped dismissively. “Don’t twist my words, profane fool. No magic is ever completely harmless. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I never miscalculate! Either the spirit grew bolder from too many sacrifices, or…” He hesitated. “Her condition was even worse than we had assumed.”

He didn’t like admitting that aloud. Saying so meant acknowledging an error in his initial diagnostics, a mistake Kayneth prided himself on never making. Especially not during a summoning ritual as straightforward as this one. However, he had another theory—one he did not think Summers needed to hear. Besides, there were more pressing matters at hand. He relented.

“Fine. Let’s call it my oversight. As compensation, I’ll waive ten percent of my fee—use it for your guard’s treatment. But we’ll settle the finances later. Unless you plan to shoot me right here and leave my body for the Aurors to find, we need to leave. Now.”

“Yeah, we should get out of here,” William agreed quietly, glancing around the room at the remnants of the ritual. Archibald almost thought the man hadn’t seriously considered killing him, strange as that sounded.

Summers cast a glance at the guard, who was still unable to rise, and shouted toward the boarded-up window, “Sam! Charlie! I need help here!”

“Open the door first, then start yelling,” Kayneth muttered wearily. “I set up a sound-dampening bounded field before the summoning. It’ll hold for another half a day.” What amateurs he had to deal with.

By the time they had finally exited the loathsome shack, Eve was lying in a van equipped with medical gear, and the injured guard had been hastily bandaged and shoved into an SUV. Summers turned to Kayneth for clarification.

“What about evidence? Your circles, the dead animals, fingerprints, tracks…?”

“Already taken care of. The fire will destroy everything.”

“What fire?”

“The one that’s starting now.” The magus, irritated by the obviousness of the answer, touched a chain of runes etched into the wall. A small pulse of power activated the pre-set spell, and flames crackled to life in several parts of the ancient wooden house. “Get moving. Now.”

“Into the woods?”

“No. The shortest route to the highway. We’ll blend into the traffic; they won’t find us there,” Archibald assured him, thinking of Diagon Alley and its almost medieval atmosphere. If the entire magical world of Britain was like that, wizards here probably had only a vague notion of how automobiles worked.

As their convoy of three vehicles turned from the narrow dirt road onto the main highway, Kayneth thought he saw swift shapes darting through the sky above the forest, heading toward the rising column of smoke. Then again, perhaps he was imagining things. He had worked to exhaustion over the last four days, snatching only three or four hours of sleep a night.

Casting a glance toward the forest fading behind the bend, then at the cars around them, Archibald exhaled slowly. It seemed the local Aurors had failed to pick up their trail—even if they had arrived before the house was reduced to ash.

Glancing at William, who was driving them alone in his car, without even a guard, Kayneth remarked, “You can relax now. Your wife is safe, as long as you don’t decide to turn yourself in. And it seems we aren’t being followed.”

“Is she fully cured?”

“Mostly. Her body is weak from the illness, so normal care will be necessary—a proper diet, fresh fruit, trips to the seaside, that sort of thing. No magic required. Now that we’re talking about it, I assume there’s a reason we’re alone. What’s next? Do we continue working together? Go our separate ways? Are you planning to chain me up in your basement to get free services whenever you want? Or will you just kill me and bury me in the woods so I can’t turn you in to the Aurors?”

“Is that an option?” Summers asked, his tone ambiguous.

“Continuing or parting ways is possible. Killing or imprisoning me? You could try, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Cursing someone—especially someone I know well—is far faster and easier than healing. No threat intended, just a fact: like the spirits, I always expect fair payment for my services.”

“I’ve been thinking… And I’ve decided magic isn’t for me. My business already gives me enough headaches and gray hairs. Getting involved in your occult mess would just make it worse—even if I don’t believe in God or devils. But I have a contact… someone who always knows the right people. He can acquire things that aren’t exactly legal. There are rumors about him—that he knows a guy, who knows a guy… Anyway, he seems connected to people like you. Those who offer special services outside the law. I dropped a few hints; he knows enough. You might find it easier dealing with him. I’ll pay you through him if you two can work together.”

“Fair enough,” the magus said, shrugging lightly. What else could he expect from a man clinging to his own narrow understanding of the world? Ordinary people panicked when even a glimpse of true reality was revealed. The only surprising thing would have been if Summers had responded any differently. Having achieved what he couldn’t obtain by mundane means, he would likely invent some fantastical story about a miracle drug from a leading pharmaceutical company to explain his wife’s recovery.

“Why didn’t you go to him sooner? Didn’t you search everywhere for help?”

“I did,” William admitted grimly. “Eventually. I didn’t have much hope, but I had to try. He listened, looked at the diagnosis, and the next day, he called back. Said none of his contacts would take the case—too difficult, too risky. I didn’t understand what he meant then, but now… I think I’m starting to get it.”

"Understood," the magus nodded, evaluating the situation. If Summers’ acquaintance had connections to the fringes of the magical world—renegades, criminals, or desperate youths seeking money—they might have either refused the difficult case or lacked the skills to cover their tracks properly. Even so, access to the underbelly of the magical society could be valuable; some things were only obtainable there. He had personal experience in that regard.

“Introduce us as soon as possible. The sooner, the better. I’ve already wasted too much time preparing,” Archibald added, mentally calculating dates. Today was April 7th. He had awakened in this body on March 13th. Nearly a month had passed, and he still had no stable residence, no money, and no worthwhile connections in either the magical or mundane worlds.

_______________________________

Summers, as always, wasn’t one to procrastinate (Kayneth assumed he was simply eager to shove the young wizard out of his life along with all the associated madness). He arranged a meeting with his contact for that very afternoon. The timing gave William just enough leeway to escort his wife home under guard, where the doctors he had summoned would be waiting, and then deliver the magus back to the rented apartment to wash up and change.

Kayneth had brought little with him besides makeshift magical reservoirs, and after three days spent drawing ritual circles, his clothes were covered in chalk, soot, blood, and dust.

The rendezvous point was a small restaurant in Camden’s tourist district—unremarkable, though not entirely unknown. Archibald had even visited it in his own world, the last time with Sola in 1993. By aristocratic standards, it was barely passable for a man of his station, but he had always liked the place—the food was excellent, and it was a rare opportunity to dine without encountering familiar faces at every turn. Pity his fiancee had never shared his appreciation…

Summers reserved a private dining room. On the way in, he ordered the dish of the day for two without bothering to check the menu. Kayneth didn’t object. Neither of them had eaten all morning, and there was no telling how long they’d be waiting for the mysterious contact.

Though caution dictated he should have cast sound-dampening and bounded fields to divert attention, his magic circuits were too drained for even a simple spell. Drawing circles here would have been far too conspicuous. A proper mystic code was essential in the future, but for now, even activating his circuits made him flinch. His reserves were still recovering from the last ritual, where he’d hastily drawn a new barrier and offering circle when the spirit nearly broke free.

About fifteen minutes later, a portly red-haired man in a crumpled raincoat entered. He looked like a worn-out traveling salesman, easily in his forties. He paused, sizing up the silent room where Summers and Kayneth sat with rare steaks before them, staring ahead in tense silence. The magus simmered with frustration over his unacceptable blunder during the ritual. Summers, meanwhile, appeared simply numb to the madness of the day—processing that a ravenous Chinese spirit had nearly devoured his soul.

The newcomer cleared his throat.
“Not to interrupt your meditative mood, gentlemen, but as they say, time is money. Mr. Summers, care to introduce us?”

“Yes, of course.” William seemed to shake off his stupor and spoke too quickly. “This is Albert MacDougal—‘Al’ to his best clients—a generalist in trade operations. And this is James Murphy… let’s say, a young man with certain unique talents. I believe you two can be of service to one another.”

“Bill,” MacDougal’s tone hardened as he studied Kayneth, “are you pulling my leg? The kid’s what—nine? He probably doesn’t even have a wand yet. What’s he supposed to do for me?”

The magus, irritated, glanced at his bracelet hidden under his sleeve. His patience was at its limit. Clenching his fork tightly, he hissed as pain flared up. Magic circuits flared, and the utensil liquefied without heating, morphing into a solid metal rose in seconds.

Kayneth stabbed the rose into the table halfway, abandoning the fork entirely, and resumed eating with his knife. Unorthodox, perhaps, but he needed to show confidence. Losing two-thirds of his remaining energy on a basic transmutation was a high price, but with no reputation or resources here, making an impression was critical.

Fixing MacDougal with a sharp glare, he asked,
“They didn’t tell you much about real magic, did they, Mr. MacDougal? Or did you think a wizard without a wand was completely helpless?”

“This… this isn’t a trick, is it?” Albert stared at the rose.

“Feel free to keep it as a souvenir,” Kayneth offered dryly. “But I wouldn’t recommend testing the thorns with your fingers.”

MacDougal plucked the rose from the wood, examining it under his breath. After a moment of thorough inspection, a grin spread across his face.
“Alright. I think we’ll get along just fine, young man. And if you ever feel like enlightening me on the finer points of wizardry, I’d be grateful. So… what can I do for you?”

“Five months from now, in August,” Kayneth began evenly, “I’ll be prepared to heal a patient, even in terminal stages, provided they can last another week. My fee is one hundred thousand pounds. How much you negotiate and what cut Summers takes for brokering the deal doesn’t concern me—as long as your greed doesn’t bring us unwanted attention.”

“Is that for real?” MacDougal turned toward Summers.

“Too early to say for sure,” William replied cautiously, “but if today is anything to go by… it’s starting to seem like this anti-science nonsense actually works. If I believed in prayers, I’d be on my knees.”

“Religion doesn’t quite work that way, Bill,” Albert chuckled. “Still, you’re going to need some serious spin to avoid unwanted questions about your wife’s recovery. I can help.”

“I’ve got it covered,” Summers assured him. “The story’s ready—proof, plausible explanations, the works.”

“Fair enough,” Albert shrugged, then refocused on Kayneth. “One patient in August. And until then?”

“Until then, I need a workshop.”

“A workshop?” the red-haired man repeated, tilting his head slightly.

“A place to live and work,” Kayneth explained in simple terms. He figured either the term was unfamiliar here, or this merchant was genuinely under informed about the magical world. He quickly calculated his current financial possibilities and decided to stick with the bare minimum.

“A rented property will do. An apartment in the north—Waltham, Haringey, or Barnet. Two or three rooms will be enough for now. I’ll need a housekeeper who doesn’t ask questions. I have money now, but no papers, no parents or guardians... in the ‘Muggle’ world. The biggest challenge will be avoiding questions about why I live alone, don’t attend school, and so on—anything that draws attention. Additionally, I’ll need access to certain materials, including dangerous ones, which won’t be sold to me. And I may require your connections later to obtain things I can’t access in the magical world yet.”

“Got it. Apartment, supplies, documents… Whose name should it be under?”

Kayneth paused, seriously considering the question. On one hand, he could reclaim his true name, abandoning the identity of James Murphy. After a few years, once he had strengthened his circuits, crafted a few specialized mystic codes, and accumulated enough magical energy, he could gradually alter this body’s appearance to something more familiar.

On the other hand, everything he had done in this world so far was an embarrassment to the Archibald family and the title of Lord El-Melloi. The thought of linking his current pathetic state—weak circuits, poverty—to his noble heritage disgusted him. Perhaps when he gained influence and began creating a new magic crest for the family, it would be more appropriate.

“James Victor Murphy. If you’re aware of the St. Someone-or-Other municipal orphanage in South Lambeth, they might have records for that name. Anyone there would confirm I was once a resident.”

“And in reality?” MacDougal asked, his curiosity plain.

“In reality, you didn’t ask that question,” the magus replied darkly. He tried, at least. Threats from a ten-year-old rarely sounded convincing. “All you need to know is that the necessary documents are stored there. But be cautious—there might be a police inspection going on. It’s best to wait rather than draw unwanted attention.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage the details,” MacDougal interrupted with a condescending smile. “As for the rest, I might have a solution for half your problems. I’ll find a suitable woman to handle the housekeeping. She’ll be the legal tenant of the apartment and handle all legitimate purchases. For an extra fee, she’ll pose as your mother—or better yet, your adoptive mother, for authenticity. We’ll fabricate the adoption papers retroactively. A single mother with a child—sadly, a common sight these days. She’ll only interfere in your affairs as much as you allow. Specialized purchases will go through me.”

“Reasonable enough,” Kayneth admitted. The arrangement was slightly degrading, but he was coming to terms with the indignities of being a child. Spending energy to maintain a convincing illusion of an adult form would be far more taxing, and he didn’t have the magical reserves for that—and wouldn’t for a long time.

“What kind of budget are we working with?”

“Twenty thousand in two weeks and another fifty in a month,” the magus declared confidently, without a shred of doubt that the ritual had cured Evelyn and that the doctors would find no trace of illness. Nor did he question that Summers wouldn’t dare cheat him on payment—anyone, no matter how ignorant of magic, would know when it wasn’t worth risking their neck.

MacDougal glanced at William, waited for a confirming nod, then pulled a notepad and a flashy pen—gold-tipped, or perhaps actually gold—from his inner pocket. He began scribbling calculations. Occasionally, he looked to the ceiling, presumably running numbers in his head, then continued writing.

Finally, he tore out a sheet and slid it across the table.

“Something like this.”

Kayneth set his knife down by his empty plate and examined the uneven scrawl, growing more surprised with each line. Contrary to his assumptions, rent was the least of his concerns—forty to eighty pounds a week, 160 to 320 a month, 800 to 1,600 for half a year. In his previous life, property matters were handled by the family’s stewards, with little need for his involvement. He had expected the cost to be at least an order of magnitude higher. Then again, what could he expect from a rented shack on the outskirts?

Housekeeping, with all the extra duties and secrecy bonuses, was much more expensive. The notes also included rough estimates for living expenses, food, transportation, and utilities. But the cost of obtaining documents was downright obscene—full legalization, with papers, registrations, and zero questions, would devour nearly all the remaining funds.

There would be little left for magical books or experimental materials, let alone school expenses and preparation.

“Five months is a long time,” MacDougal murmured, clearly noting the change in the magus’ expression. “Healing will bring you good money, and I understand you can’t perform it too often without raising dangerous rumors. But between those treatments, there are other ways to earn discreetly. Potions, enchanted items, specialty services… You wizards don’t realize what treasures you possess. Things that seem trivial to you are worth fortunes.”

He sighed nostalgically.

“Once, I held a vial of liquid luck. Just a few sips, and Fortuna herself graces your side, like you’ve spent the night with her, and she whispers you’re her greatest lover. Bet on a lame horse, and it wins by three laps. Sit with card sharks, and your hand is all aces… I sold it for a king’s ransom, took a healthy cut, but I still wonder what might have happened if I’d drunk it myself.”

“Interesting,” Kayneth said neutrally. He’d never heard of such a mystery, but it didn’t violate any known magical laws. Conceptual manipulation of luck through a potion… The creator of that recipe had to be a unique individual.

Thinking over MacDougal’s proposal, he found it surprisingly sound. Yes, Archibald wanted the payment so he could focus on studying the new magical world and training, not bothering about money or housing—like a normal magus. But with only the vaguest idea about expenses, especially in criminal circles, he had failed to realize how much was needed to gain legitimate British citizenship with zero scrutiny. It was another miscalculation—two in a row—unforgivable. Lack of knowledge was no excuse.

And yet, this shady type offered a solution: work for him and make enough to cover the costs—maybe crafting magical items. That clashed with everything Kayneth stood for as a magus and scholar. In his old life, he’d never needed to chase money, devoting his time to research and, later, teaching the younger generation. His Clock Tower salary had been merely a token of respect, which he transferred to the family account without a glance. Now he’d have to spend time, effort, and—most importantly—magical energy on silly trinkets and marketable oddities just to keep food on the table. One ritual was bad enough, but doing it routinely? A disgrace, an indelible stain on any true magus and aristocrat. In proper houses, he would be persona non grata once word got out.

But he had no choice.

Dwelling on all this, Kayneth realized he respected his ancestor—his great-great… great-grandfather Arthur Archibald, founder of their line—far more than before. After all, that man had built their family’s magical crest from nothing nearly four centuries ago, juggling the perpetual problem of finding money along with forging new developments in alchemy and necromancy. It was humiliating, but if Arthur had endured it, so would he.

“I suppose I can offer my services. But not on a permanent basis—just enough to cover my main pursuits. We’ll work out the price and details once I’m settled in. And, of course, only work that won’t draw Auror attention. I won’t risk my reputation in the magical world for a handful of coins.”

“I’m already neck-deep in Azkaban-worthy deeds, so believe me, I don’t want to meet them either,” Albert answered vaguely. From his phrasing, Kayneth guessed he was referring to some wizard prison, but it made little sense—no one would lock up a mere Muggle in a magus facility if they could just modify his memory or ensure he vanished quietly. Possibly, the people MacDougal dealt with had scared him enough to avoid betraying them, or he misunderstood something about the magical world. Or local wizard laws were absurd. Archibald doubted it was that chaotic, though.

Meanwhile, Albert extended his hand.
“Happy to work with you, James.”

“Likewise,” Kayneth said without warmth, giving the man’s hand a limp shake. Then he froze, feeling a faint current of energy, and focused on the sensation. After a moment, he asked: “Do you happen to have wizards in your family line?”

“No idea. My other contact asked the same thing. Far as I know, no. But, say, I never knew anything about my maternal grandmother’s parents, and my paternal line’s fuzzy too. So it’s possible. But I can’t do any… magical stuff,” he said, casting another glance at the metal rose in his other hand.

“I could be wrong. But it feels like you’ve got a tiny spark, though it’s so weak I wouldn’t bother awakening it—especially at this age. If you have children, though, who knows what might happen.”

“I’ll… keep that in mind,” Albert replied politely, steering the conversation away. “But for now, let’s deal with our issues.”

“I agree,” the magus said. He had no interest in this man’s potential lineage—a couple of poor-quality circuits didn’t really qualify someone as a magus. And if his kin did contain legitimate wizards—whatever that meant here—they might attract unnecessary scrutiny. Still, he seemed intelligent enough to figure it out for himself.

“Looks like you two have settled things,” Summers concluded, standing up from the table. “Sorry, but I have a busy day. I’ll cover the bill, including the table repairs and all. If everything holds up, I’ll transfer the money to Albert on the agreed date. You can pick it up from him in cash or open a bank account. Anyway, I’m off.”

He hesitated for a second, then offered the magus his hand. Kayneth, after pondering for a moment, accepted it with a slight nod. Despite all the difficulties, William had so far kept his word. He hadn’t tried to renege on payment the moment his wife was cured, nor had he attempted to kill a wizard who knew far too much, even though he’d had the chance. That merited a modicum of appreciation.

“Good luck,” Archibald said icily to the man’s back.

“Take care, Bill. We’ll talk,” Albert called cheerily, waving. Then he pulled a bulky radiotelephone from the depths of his coat, extended its antenna, and turned to James: “So, what will it be—two or three rooms?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You mentioned a ‘workshop,’ and that you need a two- or three-room apartment in the north of the city. So which is it? I have to let my people know what to look for.”

“That soon?” The magus felt a twinge of surprise. “William’s not transferring the money for another two weeks.”

“You’re certain he’ll pay, and I’m certain you’ll pass those funds along to me to cover all this,” Albert said, nodding at the slip of paper with figures on it. “So I’m willing to work on credit for now. Finding decent housing isn’t easy, let alone dealing with new documents. You should have started yesterday, lad—or before you planned that ritual. Time is money.”

Thrown off by the man’s drive, Kayneth struggled to respond. Not that he minded—barring the humiliating fact that he’d be living on credit for a while—but he had no real choice. Among magi, deals were made more slowly and with a measure of dignity, rather than in a mad rush. Yet the merchant was right; he’d already wasted enough time.

Making up his mind, he played along:

“Then three is better. Three rooms: one for the housekeeper and to receive visitors, one for a small library, and one as my workspace. The bare minimum, but it’ll have to do for now.”

“Excellent. Then gather your things, and let’s go. We’ll drop by for a standard photo for your papers, and along the way, I’ll make some calls so they can start looking for a place. Lucky you, wizard—the housing prices in London are low right now…”

Still talking a mile a minute about everything under the sun, Albert promptly tucked the slip of paper and the metal rose into the depths of his coat and nearly dragged the child out of the restaurant, phone in hand. They had a great many urgent tasks ahead. After all, good profits demanded quick action.

_________________________________

“Fervor, mei sanguis.”

Obeying Kayneth’s will, a hemisphere of mercury soaked in magic, nearly three feet across, hurtled forward across the yellow sand of the duel arena located deep beneath the British Museum in the bowels of the Clock Tower. The shining, giant droplet of metal moved swiftly and almost gracefully despite its immense weight. Any onlooker would sense the threat it posed, even without advanced knowledge of alchemy or magecraft in general. Kayneth’s opponent was no exception.

The swarthy magus, who had arrived from the Continent just last week but had already slandered the methods of instruction at the Department of Spiritual Evocation and thereby provoked a duel, raised his hand and hastily shouted, “Gandr! Gandr! Gandr!”

In the blink of an eye, the droplet repositioned itself into a shield-like veil, intercepting a flurry of rapid, though not terribly powerful, curses. Several dark projectiles—each no more dangerous than a pistol bullet—smashed helplessly against the thin, enchanted mercury. Then the droplet resumed its approach toward its prey.

Sensing mortal danger, the other magus drew a short knife from behind his back and slashed it across his own wrist, invoking some family spell wordlessly. Blood gushed from his veins, spreading into a pink mist in midair, drifting toward Archibald. Barely a second later, the cloud ignited, turning into a wave of flame.

El-Melloi didn’t so much as move in search of cover—his mystic code was trained to handle such threats on its own. Almost instantly, the mercury elongated into a semicircular wall of metal, absorbing the brunt of the magical fire. The flames were nowhere near strong enough to harm Kayneth’s creation. Only a faint ripple of heat reached the magus himself, slightly ruffling his hair and the hem of his coat. Once the threat dissipated, the mercury coalesced back into a mobile sphere and slid forward.

Time to show this cocky fool that Volumen Hydrargyrum wasn’t just an impenetrable shield but also a lethal sword. A very, very sharp sword…

“Scalp!”

“Aaaaaah!”

At his command, a yards-long whip of liquid metal neatly sliced the magus’s arm in half up to the elbow. The next strike would have taken the upstart’s legs off below the knee, when Archibald glimpsed a dark figure at the edge of the arena. Spinning around in place, he found himself staring into the barrel of a submachine gun, aimed at him by a disheveled, unshaven Asian man in an old coat. A moment later, the weapon roared, unleashing a long burst. Kayneth’s mystic code darted to intercept, trying to position itself between its master and the assassin, but even its incredible speed had limits.

Several bullets hammered into the magus, hurling him onto the sand, which began quickly soaking up his blood. Then, the mercenary drew another pistol, this one with an unusually long barrel, in his left hand and squeezed the trigger… Simultaneously with the shot, Archibald awoke in his new bed.

“May you be cursed…” growled the former Lord El-Melloi through clenched teeth, struggling to steady his pulse and catch his breath.

This nightmare, in various forms, had haunted him even in his previous life. Dying had only made it worse—now the bastard with the gun showed up in almost all of Kayneth’s dreams, even scenarios where he should never have existed, like now, when Kayneth relived a duel from about three years prior. In reality, he had cut off that arrogant simpleton’s limbs, then used healing magic to reattach them, then cut them off again, repeating the process three times until the fool grasped the full extent of his mistake. The conditions of that duel had prohibited killing…

Taking another deep breath, the magus glanced around, recalling where he was. A nearly empty room, with several magical circles on the walls and floor—some incomplete—and only a bed, a table, one chair, and a small wardrobe in the corner. Not even shelves yet. Through the slightly open door, he could see a bigger room beyond, completely vacant. His new “workshop,” if one could call such a cramped closet by that dignified name.

A week ago, he and MacDougal had driven all around London in search of an acceptable apartment. By evening, having grown weary of that pointless exercise, Kayneth remarked that if all the places they’d seen were identically miserable, why bother? So in the end, he chose this three-room flat in the Haringey area. Over the past seven days, he had tried to at least prepare some semblance of a workspace for his research. Comfort was secondary; more urgent was to shield this future workspace with even minimal bounded fields for privacy, noise suppression, and most importantly, to install an improvised reservoir that would absorb the inevitable magical surges from experiments—valuable both for safety and secrecy.

He’d finished forging the reservoir last night, well after midnight, and placed it in the corner before collapsing into sleep. It resembled warped, asymmetrical deer antlers made of steel, with a barrier focused on it that could absorb surplus magic. But the protective and security spells around the apartment still needed considerable work, especially given that operating magic directly was nearly impossible and he had to rely on crutches like runes, alchemical circles, and mystic codes assembled from random scraps. He’d had almost no time or energy left for real training. In seven days, he’d only managed two diagnostic rituals, discovering that James Murphy’s birthday fell in November—some small clarity for his future plans. Of course, the magic circuits were at least in some constant use, accumulating and releasing energy as he worked, but that was nothing like a dedicated training regimen scheduled hour by hour, factoring in the body’s peculiarities and external conditions.

He cast a disgusted glance at the cheap alarm clock on the table and saw it was barely six in the morning. That meant he could finish another bounded field around his workshop before breakfast. Running a hand through his still-short hair in resignation, he dressed quickly and picked up one of his drafts full of calculations from the table. Many figures were crossed out or amended—he’d had to verify and tweak them at every step. After the fiasco with summoning Laoren, which had almost turned into a bloodbath, Kayneth had sworn off relying solely on memory and the formulas he’d once memorized. He already had a couple of theories about what had gone wrong, the main one fairly obvious: it was all because this was a different world.

It wasn’t merely an issue of altered magical flow or the density of leylines, though those factors mattered. More critical was that even if the basic principles of magic were unchanged, the evolution of local magical schools had shifted the “weight” of certain mysteries—how willing the world was to “accept” changes to reality, and how much energy it demanded in return. Wherever a particular system of magic was most widespread, its miracles came more easily and cheaply to its practitioners through their collective belief. Conversely, if, at roughly the same number of magi, this world had embraced a system relying on universal wands—completely unknown to him—it must have happened at the expense of something else, perhaps runic, drawn, or spirit-based systems. Hence they ended up less common and therefore more “costly” to wield.

This was why the spirit demanded extra payment: in this world, that was his rightful due. From his perspective, the magus had tried to cheat him. Everyone had been extremely lucky that Summers had brought along extra guards…

Thought for a couple of seconds

“Mister MacDougal asked me to inform you that your documents will be ready by the eighteenth,” Miss Stone notified him over breakfast. In addition to her duties as maid, cook, and housekeeper, she had also taken on the role of liaison with Albert.

She was a short brunette, appearing about thirty-five years old. Her plain clothing and minimal makeup convincingly conveyed the impression of an endlessly busy and exhausted single mother—either MacDougal had specifically chosen someone who fit the backstory he had concocted, or she had made the effort herself, but the result was strikingly believable. At least, Archibald had pictured such a person in precisely this manner, not that he’d had frequent dealings with lone mothers from poor districts in his previous life.

It was unclear how much she knew about the true nature of her “foster son.” However, she never asked questions about his work. Aside from her wonderful knack for minding her own business, Kayneth also appreciated that she didn’t try to play the mother role in private. She didn’t treat him like a ten-year-old brat except when necessary for appearances. In truth, her services likely did merit the fee he was paying—or, more accurately, would pay when he finally got any money at all.

“In addition,” she went on, “he asked me to remind you that you should think about the kinds of services you could provide and their approximate costs.”

“I’ll deal with it,” the magus muttered through clenched teeth. They barely knew each other, and already this merchant wanted to squeeze immediate results from him. Still, there was no point in taking out his frustration on Miss Stone—she was merely delivering a message. In principle, he couldn’t really blame MacDougal either—like any moneylender, the man was simply in business to earn a profit. Archibald himself had agreed to cooperate, becoming yet another resource in the merchant’s eyes, a hired hand. His anger, therefore, was best directed at himself and at those who had forced him into this situation in the first place. A pity he couldn’t get at any of them without being a master of True Magic.

“I need to finish preparing this place first,” Kayneth continued. “After that, I’ll get to work. On the eighteenth, along with the documents, I’ll need a sum in cash—I think three thousand will do—plus fifty pounds for travel expenses.”

“I’ll pass on your requests to Mister MacDougal. Anything else?”

“Don’t disturb me until dinner unless my personal presence is required. I have pressing matters to attend to before the eighteenth. There’s not much time left.”

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 4

With all the new knowledge and impressions swirling in his mind, Kayneth made his way back.  Not to the orphanage, of course, but to Whittington Hospital, where he convincingly collapsed in a hallway near a familiar ward. The performance barely required any acting—after all, he had walked seven miles both ways, not to mention the endless pacing as he circled the neighborhood and trailed behind Tonks. This body, utterly unfit for such exertion, protested at every step. A feeble reinforcement spell had kept him from collapsing into a ditch on his way back, but the strain on his magic circuits had driven his temperature up to nearly thirty-nine degrees, adding fever to his exhaustion.

It took Kayneth more than a day and a half to fully recover. When he finally awoke, he endured a scolding from his attending physician, who, with a sour expression, declared he’d keep the troublesome patient with his "odd" symptoms for another five days. Archibald nearly grinned with relief—this was exactly what he needed. Yet he managed to suppress his joy, putting on a show of discomfort and fear for his life. Perhaps not entirely convincing, but it was enough. The doctor didn’t probe further; after all, he had plenty of other patients to tend to besides another vagrant from the charity ward with an unfamiliar ailment.

Staying in the hospital had always been Plan B. The primary plan—making contact with the Archibald family or integrating into this world’s magical society—had seemed unlikely even before his conversation with Tonks. Kayneth understood her views on the diversity within the magical community, but he didn’t entirely share them. In the Clock Tower, one dominant theory claimed that the total magical energy in the modern era was a constant. More magi meant less power per individual. Combined with the complications of magic crests and inheritance, this was one reason why old bloodlines deliberately limited their numbers. It also meant that an outsider without connections, sponsors, or an extraordinary gift had no hope of rising above the lowest rungs of the Association’s hierarchy. The coveted positions had long been filled by those with ancient pedigrees.

Evidently, despite Tonks’ hopes, the reality here was similar. Magecraft—even the simple process of learning it—required something as vulgar as money. Lots of money. A penniless orphan, lacking the strength to breach even a basic magical barrier, was not a desirable investment. If Kayneth wanted to achieve his primary goal and embed himself within this magical world, he first needed to pursue a more mundane objective—earning enough money. Unromantic as it sounded, wealth was his key to survival. Even figuring out how to convert currency would come later; first, he needed something worth exchanging.

Today’s discoveries only required minor adjustments to his plan. For example, Tonks’ mention of underage magic restrictions was worth noting. However, he needed to clarify the boundaries of that law. Her tone suggested a total prohibition, but was it truly a ban on all magic, or just spells detected by aurors or witnessed by muggles? Perhaps they tracked violations by magical pulse strength, and his feeble spells went unnoticed. Or maybe surveillance relied on bounded fields, meaning a practitioner of different magical traditions could bypass detection altogether.

So many questions, yet pressing Tonks too hard would raise suspicion, perhaps leading to interrogation or worse—arrest. For now, he would assume that weak magic went unnoticed, while stronger spells warranted caution. He certainly wasn’t ready to face the consequences of attracting aurors or inquisitors. But, truthfully, his current magical capabilities would limit him to minor spells for some time.

On the way back, seeking distraction from his aching muscles and fatigue, Kayneth brainstormed ways to make money in his current state. A few ideas had emerged.

Addressing the nuances of this magical society and its contradictions would come later, once he had a stable footing. Securing a roof over his head and food for at least a week was his immediate priority. Humbling though it was for someone who’d grown up in a manor, served by attendants, and blissfully unaware of money’s purpose until he was nearly ten, Kayneth had little choice but to adapt.

First, he needed to devise a distraction barrier —a minimal-cost magic circle. How much simpler it would be to conjure a bounded field with the necessary properties. But with these feeble magic circuits, he was forced to rely on ritual magic, runes, and diagram-based enchantments—methods that required meticulous calculations and preparation but spared his limited magical reserves. If only he’d inhabited a fifteen-year-old magus’ body, he wouldn’t be scraping for crumbs of power.

Then again, a magus teenager with sufficient willpower could have expelled Kayneth’s soul outright or, at the very least, slowed the possession long enough to call a specialist—someone like himself, a spiritualist skilled in dealing with possession and exorcising unwelcome intruders. Perhaps fate’s choice had been merciful. Better to be hungry and alive than well-fed and disincarnated.

On March 31st, five days later, it was time to tackle the most challenging phase of his plan.

James Murphy sat by the ward window, an unusual position for him, staring intently at the parking lot. When a new Japanese SUV skidded into view, nearly scraping the sidewalk and stopping diagonally across two spaces, the boy leapt from the windowsill. Clad in his hospital-issued gown, he bolted down the hallway before anyone could ask where he was going.

Navigating the familiar corridors, Kayneth reached the fire exit, slipping through unnoticed past two patients sneaking a forbidden cigarette. Circling the building, he arrived breathless at the parking lot. The SUV remained in place. Relieved, he dashed toward it, dropping to the cold asphalt. After catching his breath, he wriggled beneath the car. For once, he was grateful for the small size of this borrowed body.

With trembling hands, he fished a piece of chalk from his pajama pocket—borrowed from a makeshift classroom in the hospital, the very one where he’d once instructed students after fieldwork. Ignoring the cold seeping through his clothes, the grime, the stink of gasoline, and the indignity of it all, he pulled a crumpled sheet from his other pocket. By the dim light, he squinted at his rough sketch. Then, steadying himself, he began drawing a magic circle on the car’s underbelly.

When, twenty minutes later, the car door slammed shut with a furious bang, and the cursing driver sped off, narrowly missing a lamppost, Kayneth carefully peeked out from behind the front seat.

So far, everything was going as expected. The combination of a lock-breaking circle and an eight-line incantation had worked perfectly, unlocking the vehicle for precisely one and a half minutes before restoring it to its original state. Now, he only needed to hide inside, correctly assuming that the enraged driver wouldn’t bother looking around in his frustration over a wasted trip. The hard part was still ahead.

"Good afternoon, William Summers. I’m the one who called you. Don’t make any sudden moves — a gun will always be faster," the magus said quickly, raising a hand with what appeared to be a weapon so it was visible in the driver’s mirror.

"I mean you no harm. In fact, I have a very lucrative offer for you. So drive forward without attracting police attention or crashing into the nearest wall, and we’ll talk."

To Summers’ credit, he didn’t yank the wheel, scream, or jump out of his seat in shock — nor did he do anything foolish. Summers was a sturdy man in his early thirties, with a close-cropped haircut and the build of someone who may have served in the army. He could probably toss a kid like Kayneth out the window with one hand — if not for the gun, of course. A more hot-headed person might have tried anyway.

Instead, Summers clenched his jaw and spat through gritted teeth, "You people are good. Find out about my wife, call from the hospital with promises of experimental treatment, and then stick a kid with a gun in my backseat. Nicely played. Got me like a damn fool, I’ll admit. So what now? What’s this ‘lucrative’ offer? What do you want? Money? A share in my business? My house?"

"Money. But not much. Just a hundred thousand. And in return, we’ll save your wife. Evelyn Summers is in Whittington Hospital, stage-four cancer. She has two months left — give or take five days. She might not even make it to summer.

"I can save her. Not just give you hope, not offer ‘a chance’ or some vague possibility. I’m not here to tell you there are ‘new opportunities.’ I’m talking about a real cure. No complications, no side effects. I know exactly what needs to be done — and I’ve performed these… ‘procedures’ before."

"If this is a joke, it’s a pretty sick one."

"I’m not one for humor. I know how I look, and I know if not for the gun, you wouldn’t even be listening to a ragged kid like me. I wouldn’t either. That’s why I had to set up this little act — so you’d at least hear what I can offer. Enough to believe that I can do what I’m promising."

"How could you possibly do it?" Summers growled, gripping the wheel tighter, nearly colliding with a truck stopped at the traffic light.

"The doctors have already given up on her. They even stopped pretending the treatment was working. Now they just increase the painkillers. Everything else is useless."

"Ordinary medicine can’t help her. But there are… other methods. I can do it. Just like I know that Evelyn broke two toes when she was a child, got seriously poisoned when she was six, and wouldn’t sleep without a light until middle school. At ten, a snake bit her wrist. She lost her virginity at seventeen.

"You met her four years ago on June 16th at the airport. Half of that isn’t in her medical records. I also know how to break into a car despite its alarm system. Just as I can make you believe there’s a revolver in my hand."

"What?! How—" Summers glanced in the mirror, then twisted around to see the glue stick Kayneth held, pointed like a gun. A moment ago, it had seemed like a convincing chrome-plated revolver.

For the first time, the despair on Summers' face gave way to genuine astonishment. "But that’s… impossible."

"Magic can do remarkable things, Mr. Summers. It can unlock doors, make the unseen visible, or hide things in plain sight. It can reveal everything about a person.

"And yes — it can cure the terminally ill. You don’t have to believe in it. That doesn’t change its existence or the fact that it’s your wife’s only chance."

"Then what’s your angle?" Summers asked, sounding almost ready to accept that there might be a grain of truth in the madness.

"If you’re some all-powerful sorcerer, why do you need my money? Why not turn dirt into gold? Or make a bank teller believe a pile of old newspapers is cash? Why all this nonsense? What do you care about my wife? If you’re really that powerful, couldn’t you just take everything I have?"

"It’s refreshing to deal with a smart man," Kayneth replied. "Even without believing me, you’re already looking for holes in my offer.

"First, magic isn’t omnipotent. You can’t ressurect the dead.

"Second, it’s forbidden. Everything you just mentioned — making money from nothing, stealing from ‘muggles’ with magic —" Kayneth deliberately used the local term, hoping it would mislead any investigators later. Let them chase down a native wizard.

"Even showing magic to the uninitiated is illegal. Just talking to you, or using spells to examine your wife, could get me thrown in prison under our laws. And prison isn’t the worst punishment — death would be kinder in some cases.

"I need money without leaving obvious magical traces. I can’t have witnesses pointing fingers at me. If you take Evelyn out of Whittington, say you’re pursuing alternative treatment — I don’t care where, make something up. Israel, America — whatever you like. People will try to stop you. They’ll think you’re insane.

"Find a quiet place outside London. That’s where we’ll do the ritual. You pick the spot. You can bring security if you trust them to keep quiet about… what you’d call ‘witchcraft.’ Bring a real gun if it makes you feel safer.

"I’ll do my part — I’ll heal her. If it doesn’t work, or if I die trying, you lose nothing.

"But if I succeed, in two weeks, after you’ve confirmed Evelyn is fine, you’ll give me twenty thousand. Just make sure you do the check up far from Whittington — the farther, the better.

"Then, after another month, when you’re sure everything is perfect, you’ll give me the rest.

"After that, we pretend we never met. Or — if you want to make some money — find me another hopeless case in six months. One hundred thousand is my fee. Anything you charge above that is yours.

"It won’t be in your interest to betray me or expose magic. If the wrong people find out, at best, you and Evelyn will have your memories wiped and her miraculous recovery will get undone. I on the other hand receive the full punishment, and death is not the worst option there. 

"So those are my terms."

"Amusing. But all of this could have been faked, couldn’t it? To make me believe this crazy nonsense. Look at you—you're in pajamas. Who’s to say the hospital doesn’t have a psychiatric ward?"

"Of course," the magus replied casually. "Evelyn could have been sent through X-rays and MRIs ten times over, then interrogated under drugs and hypnosis to learn everything about her. The car could have been broken into with… I don’t know, some kind of lock-pick for this type of security system. The gun? I could have hidden it in another pocket or thrown it out the window while you weren’t looking. And so on, and so on. This could all be a scam, the work of enemies, or someone’s cruel joke at your expense.

"You probably know people capable of such things. I certainly did. Or maybe I escaped from an asylum. But in two months, when she dies, you’ll remember this conversation. Every day, it will replay in your mind. Over and over, you’ll wonder—what if there was even a half-percent chance, a fraction of a percent, that I was telling the truth?

"What if I could have done something—anything—when everyone else had already given up on her? You’ll live a long life, Mr. Summers—aside from some liver issues, your health is solid. If you don’t drink yourself into the grave this year, you’ll have plenty of time to reflect and regret. To replay this conversation a thousand times, dissecting every second. Asking yourself, ‘What if I had agreed? Would she be alive now?’"

"And how the hell would you know any of that, kid?"

"I think it’s obvious this isn’t my real appearance. I’m older than you, William. Once, a fiancee died in my arms because of me—because I misjudged the danger of what I was getting into. I could have saved her if I hadn’t brought her along or sent her home sooner.

"I didn’t send her away. I didn’t save her. So, believe me, I understand your situation even better than you do.

"All right, stop the car over there at the intersection. I can see you don’t need my services. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Summers. Wishing you a long life."

"Wait..." William stopped the car, though the magus made no move to exit, waiting for him to speak. "Can you really save her?"

"Yes."

"Swear it."

"I see no point. You’re an ordinary man; magical oaths aren’t binding for you. A simple promise means nothing to me. Either you believe I can do this, or you don’t—and in that case, I’ll find another client."

"Fine… let’s say I believe you…" Summers shook his head, searching for some loophole or proof he was making a mistake—or not. "But why me?"

"I used to work at Whittington. I know the layout of the wards and patient rooms. It wasn’t hard to find the right people," Kayneth said, not entirely lying. "And out of all the visitors to oncology ward, you were the only one wearing a tie worth a year’s salary of their head doctor."

"You investigated the families?"

"As good a method as any. Remember those chairs in the corridor? In the past few days, one was always occupied. But did you notice who was sitting there? That’s where I was watching from. Enchantments to divert the attention are much simpler than full invisibility. They make people overlook you, look away without realizing it. Why a public hospital, though? Why not Highgate Private or something? You’ve got the money."

"Everyone told me this place had excellent cancer specialists. They claimed the survival rate here was high. A bunch of charlatans..." William muttered, then added, looking at the magus studying him, "You’ve already figured out I’m agreeing, haven’t you? What do you need besides a quiet place?"

"Here’s the list." Kayneth handed him a densely written notebook page. "Everything needs to match exactly—the quality, the quantities. No substitutions, no shortcuts. Once you gather all the materials, I’ll need three days to prepare. On the fourth night, we’ll conduct the ritual.

"For now, it’s better if she stays in the hospital. They’ll provide care, and if I disappear, her sudden transfer won’t be linked to me—even if someone saw me by your car."

"Silver, mercury, salt, rice, steel knives, charcoal… rabbits? Is all this really necessary?"

"And in precisely those amounts. More is fine; less is not," the magus declared firmly. He didn’t expect much from someone utterly clueless about magical practices but hoped they could at least follow simple instructions.

"One more thing—when you’re searching for a house or a plot of land, don’t use your real name. And plan on leaving immediately once we’re done."

"That was the plan anyway—not just because of your… Men in Black or whatever you call them. And now, where to…?"

"James. Call me James. If you’ve got a place I can stay for a couple of days, I’ll stay there. It’ll give you peace of mind that I’m not going anywhere, and I don’t have anywhere else to go."

"That can be arranged. I’m counting on you, James."

"I’ll do what I promised, William. And remember—this conversation never happened."

__________________________________-

The magus carefully painted more symbols onto the wooden floor with blood—human, though donor-supplied. He inspected the lines closely, checking for smudges or inconsistencies in the structure of the circle.

He also ensured the Latin inscriptions (drawn in charcoal) were aligned and error-free.

Drawing a sixteen-foot diameter magic circle, a foot thick, packed with focusing lines, small circles for ritual tools, and rows of auxiliary spells wasn’t a task for a novice. Doing it entirely from memory, without books, was almost suicidal—especially considering the cost of a single error.

But Kayneth trusted his knowledge and steady hands. He had even managed to sketch out a rough draft, though the calculations had taken significant time.

"You know," William said, standing by a boarded-up window, "if I weren’t an atheist, I’d be running for the nearest church right now, pounding on the doors."

He tried to sound casual, but his voice betrayed his unease.

"You probably don’t notice anymore, but from an outsider’s perspective, this all looks like dark sorcery. All you’re missing are inverted crosses and a couple of bound virgins in the corner."

"Believe me, Mr. Summers, you wouldn’t want to see what real ‘dark sorcery’ looks like—or pay the price such rituals demand.

"This setup is calculated for maximum safety—or at least as safe as magic can ever be."

Kayneth stood, inspecting the final section of the drawing from above, evaluating its overall integrity.

With a practiced motion, he ran his hand through his hair, attempting to brush it back. He grimaced with disgust as the cold steel bracelet on his wrist pressed against nearly bare skin. Credit where it was due—once Summers agreed to the suspicious boy’s terms, he sprang into action. In barely an hour, he had found a rental apartment, left him there under the watch of two armed guards, and provided a couple thousand pounds for expenses before rushing off to acquire the necessary materials and organize the upcoming "event."

He had introduced himself as a businessman, though he didn’t elaborate on the specifics of his trade. The magus hoped Summers had enough connections to gather the required components quickly—and enough sense not to hand over a ragged, promise-laden vagrant to the authorities or psychiatric services.

The next three days, Kayneth spent preparing for the ritual, using whatever spare time he had to get himself into minimally decent condition. By the guards' arrangement, several sets of clothing, properly sized for an underfed ten-year-old, were delivered. Meals, simplistic but filling, arrived thrice daily from a cheap local eatery, helping him finally restore his strength. On the second day, a barber appeared, proposing an almost complete shave. “Orphanages aren’t just bedbugs and roaches,” the man had said, hinting at lice and fleas. The indignity stung deeply, but Kayneth loathed parasites far more. Wasting magic to purge them was not an option.

The remaining time saw the magus irritable and drained, like twenty-seven ancient vampires nursing a grudge. He used the downtime to discharge excess energy from his magic circuits into a set of steel knives—twelve identical pieces purchased by one of Summers’ guards. Kayneth hadn’t bothered asking their names. The man likely assumed blunt, flimsy blades posed little threat. But to a magus, these knives—while cheap—served as makeshift power reservoirs. As an alchemist, he valued metal far more than gemstones. Shape mattered little; if knives had been unavailable, he would have stored energy in spoons or even hammers.

On the fourth morning, Summers reappeared. He took them all to a small, abandoned village about thirty miles from London, where Kayneth spent three more sleepless days preparing a house for the ritual.

“I’ve been wondering,” Summers spoke at last, watching the magus. “Back in the hospital, did you draw circles like this to examine my wife? Or how did you figure out how many days she had left and that she broke her fingers as a child—without using circles?”

“Who said I didn’t use circles?” Kayneth arched an eyebrow. He welcomed the break and surveyed the outer contour of his work under the glaring light. From the start, he’d insisted on ample lighting, warning that a single error in a line or symbol could ruin everything. Four construction lamps now hung from ceiling mounts, powered first by a car battery and later by a diesel generator hauled from the city. A makeshift solution, but it worked.

“Different goals require different tools,” he continued. “In your wife’s case, a few simple seals sufficed. A small circle by each patient’s bed and a larger one near that old man in the neighboring ward. His life was—let’s say—useful.”

“His life?” Summers echoed warily. One of the guards stood nearby, silent as furniture, giving no reaction.

“Metaphorically speaking. He had three months left. Even if his family had hired me, the best I could’ve done was extend his life by four years—his body was worn out after nearly eighty. Instead, I used the remainder of his life force to power diagnostic spells. He’s likely been dead two days now, but his death saved me hours of work. You, ordinary people, do not even think about how expensive a human soul and life can be and how much can be obtained with the help of even a simple sacrifice,” The magus shot a contemptuous glance at Summers' horrified expression. “Don’t insult me with ignorance, Mr. Summers. Spirits aren’t wolves. They don’t prey on the weak and dying—our guest tonight included. If I needed a life exchange for power, you, I, or even your guard would make far better sacrifices than a woman barely clinging to life.”

Summers stiffened. “I just want my wife healthy.”

“And I just want my money. Perfect understanding, don’t you think?” Kayneth knelt, wiped away a blurred line on the floor, and corrected it with a piece of chalk. He glanced at Summers, waited for the reluctant nod, then resumed work, occasionally consulting his notes.

________________________________

Long after midnight, the outer circle was complete, save for a few inches he purposely left open. He traced the circumference twice, scrutinizing every symbol and adjusting a few. He lingered for a moment, fidgeting with the steel bracelet on his wrist—another knife transfigured for convenience—before finally addressing Summers, who hadn’t moved from his spot by the wall.

“We’re nearly ready. What time is it?”

“Half past one,” Summers replied after checking his watch.

“And sunrise?”

Summers blinked, caught off guard. “Sunrise?”

Kayneth muttered under his breath. “Should’ve checked myself,” he grumbled before speaking up. “Wake me before dawn. That’s when we’ll begin.”

“I thought rituals like this happened at midnight.”

The magus opened his mouth—another lecture brewing—but Summers, recognizing the signs, cut him off.

“Fine. Dawn it is.”

____________________________________

"James. Murphy, it’s dawn already."

"James? What James?" the magus muttered drowsily before yet another nightmare fully released its grip on him. "Ah, right. James. I get it, we’re starting."

Rising from the chair, Kayneth glanced at the reddish streaks of dawn slipping through the boarded windows. He nodded and began arranging cages with animals around both circles, setting out his knives and other items that Summers and his men had procured. After checking everything twice, he turned to William, who stood waiting nearby, and confirmed:

"Everything’s ready. Place her in the center, and we can begin."

Evelyn, who had been lying in a van converted into a makeshift ambulance, was carried in by her husband. He carefully stepped over the lines on the floor and laid her on the bed. Stroking her face, he whispered something tender before retreating to stand against the wall.

As soon as he was done, the magus quickly completed the circles, moved to the head of the bed, and slid two knives filled with reserve energy into his pockets. Another knife was placed at a specific point on the outer circle. Raising both hands, he began chanting a twelve-line incantation in Latin, releasing his magic circuits and channeling energy with precise control—not too fast, not too slow—keeping the flow perfectly measured.

The circle began to glow softly, pulsing in time with his words. The chalk-drawn lines stretched upward, forming two transparent rings that rose like walls. The knives on the floor trembled and rang as they released energy, drawing on ambient power to sustain the ritual. This transition from external to self-sustained energy was the most delicate part of the calculations. Had Kayneth possessed enough power on his own, such convolutions wouldn’t have been necessary, and the design could’ve been three times simpler. But as it was, his reserves fell far short.

Mist began to form between the two ghostly rings, thin at first but quickly thickening into a swirling, churning cloud. Just as he reached the final words of the chant, the last two lamps overhead flickered and died, leaving the room illuminated only by the dim, silver haze that now obscured Evelyn from view.

"You called, and I have come," whispered a disembodied voice, seeming to echo from everywhere at once. "Do you seek a bargain, wizard?"

"I believe we can strike a deal, Tanlan Laoren," Kayneth addressed the Chinese spirit by name. He had dealt with beings like this before. Reflexively, he touched the knife in his pocket, replenishing his nearly depleted reserves. "You already understand my request. Her healing in exchange for your freedom. The difference in price, I offer in tribute—grain and silver, knowledge and life." He gestured to the offerings arranged within the inner circle: bowls of rice and millet, silver coins, cages with doves and rabbits, even a scroll inscribed with poetry. "Everything according to your tastes, spirit."

"How refreshing," the voice murmured, utterly devoid of emotion. "To meet one who remembers my preferences, rather than dumping whatever trash is at hand. I accept the bargain."

"Apertum," the magus spoke, opening the inner barrier.

For a moment, nothing happened. The mist continued to swirl lazily, then began to churn violently. The spirit's voice turned sharp, filled with malice and threat:

"Did you think to cheat me, wizard? Your payment is insufficient! She stands with one foot in the grave—your offerings are meager for such a task. Pay, or I will take my own price!"

"What?" Kayneth froze, bewildered. This wasn’t possible. His calculations had been flawless. He quickly reviewed them in his mind, going over every offering he had placed mere minutes before.

"Your greed knows no bounds, old one! I gave what was agreed upon. Honor the terms!"

"Pay! Pay! PAY!"

"Damn it..." The magus swore as spectral tendrils lashed against the outer barrier. It wouldn’t hold much longer; the structure itself was already fraying. He had no backup array—there had been neither time nor resources to construct one. As a veteran magus, he could tell when a spirit was haggling versus when it had the right to demand its due. And now, it appeared he was the one who had erred.

"What’s happening?" William’s voice was taut with fear, even he could tell something had gone wrong.

Kayneth turned to him, hesitating only briefly before raising his hand and commanding sharply:
"Capturent!"

The bracelet on his wrist shifted, unraveling into a dozen thin, flexible steel wires that shot toward the nearest guard. The threads wrapped around the man in an instant, binding him before he could draw his weapon. They tightened, biting into fabric and flesh alike. Kayneth had imbued the improvised mystic code with two combat commands—this one for binding, and another for dismemberment, which he did not yet dare to use yet.

"James!" Summers cried, fumbling with trembling hands to draw his pistol.

"Not now!" Kayneth snarled, pulling the guard off the ground with a gesture and dragging him toward the barrier. The effort drained nearly all his remaining power. Fixing his gaze on the mist, he spoke coldly, "Will blood suffice? Fresh and warm. Human, not vermin. You enjoy that too, Laoren, don’t you?"

"Blood! Yes, blood! Give it to me now!" the spirit rasped, pausing its assault on the barrier.

Ignoring the stunned Summers, Kayneth crouched by the chalk lines, frantically sketching a small semicircle and inscribing the necessary words and sigils. Time was running out. The barrier would fail any second. Touching another knife, he drained the energy stored within, snapping the cheap blade in half—poor-quality steel barely withstood even minimal magic.

"Gradation Air," he whispered, conjuring a shallow glass basin from nothing, a temporary physical form created from his own magic circuits. He gestured again, lifting the blood pooling on the floor and transferring it into the vessel. Control slipped, and some splattered onto the ground, but it was enough. Erasing a few symbols, he expanded the barrier with a swift motion. "Feast, spirit."

"My thanks," the voice hissed as the mist surged into the new space. "Now the debt is paid, the contract fulfilled. Her health for my freedom and your tribute. You tried to cheat me, but I forgive you. The blood was exquisite."

"What about the woman?"

"She is healed. I keep my bargains."

"Then I release you," Kayneth answered simply, reciting the two-line dismissal spell. The mist vanished in a soft flash of light.

"Stay back!" he barked as Summers lunged toward the circle. "Cadunt," he commanded, dispelling the outer barrier. He watched as the glass basin dissolved into thin air. "Go. Check on her."

Breathing heavily, drained to his core, the magus slumped to the floor beside the guard, who had finally ceased struggling. He closed his eyes, trusting the spirit’s word. Spirits, unlike humans, were easier to handle. They might twist language, but outright lies were rare. If it said Evelyn was healed, then so she was.

The real challenge would come soon, when William Summers recovered from his shock and decided how to deal with the magus who had just offered human blood for a miracle.

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 36

Nice job, Sasuke-kun. As they say, grab yourself a cookie off the shelf! And since there are no cookies… well, I’m even better: warm, fluffy, soft, and oh-so-dashing.

“Wait, how’d you figure it out? I mean… about the chakra?” Naruto asked, eyes darting between me and Sasuke. He also scooched a little closer to the Uchiha, probably feeling a wee bit jealous of me bonding with him. But you know what? When they’re both petting me—four hands at once—that’s next-level bliss. Practically drooling with happiness over here.

“All Uchi—” Sasuke started, then froze, a shadow passing over his face. Before he could sink into that swamp of memories planted by Masked Weirdo, I booped him right on the nose, distracting him.

“Heh, Namaiki-chan just kissed you,” Naruto snickered. “Guess he’s thanking you for realizing he’s a cat-ninja!”

“Hn. A nin-neko, huh…” Sasuke flinched slightly and shot me a curious look. Me? I just plastered on my best poker face and rubbed my head against his chin. Gotta mark my boys so nobody tries to steal them!

“In my clan…” Sasuke said in a hoarse voice, “we used to have a pact with summon cats. I remember…” He frowned, rubbing his temple. “Somewhere in Ryu—there’s a hideout run by Grandma Cat and these talking ninja cats.”

“Whoa!” Naruto’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Talking cats?! That’s so cool! Too bad Namaiki-chan doesn’t talk. Sometimes I just… I just wanna talk to someone…” He trailed off, face burning red, then blurted out in one breath, “Saske-let’s-be-friends!”

Sasuke tilted his head, studying Naruto. Oh man, I can just feel it—this is one of those moments! It’s now or never!

“Absolutely!” I chimed in.

That shattered the tension. Sasuke was still all frosty, but there was a flicker of emotion in his eyes. Deep down, these two have been best friends since childhood.

“So,” Naruto said, not waiting for Sasuke’s reply. He plopped onto the grass, arms folded behind his head, doing his best to look casual. “Namaiki-chan showed up at my place a little over a week ago… But for some reason, I feel like I’ve known him forever. Known him, but forgot somehow…”

“Really?!” Overcome with joy, I hopped off Sasuke’s lap and landed on Naruto’s stomach. Cue a strangled “oof” as I nearly knocked the wind out of him. Hey, after stuffing my face at three different ‘owners’ and pilfering pork from the ramen guy, I’ve regained my top-tier fighting weight—eight, maybe nine pounds, or could even be pushing ten.

Naruto studied me closely. Dang it, how am I supposed to break through this genjutsu barrier messing with his memory?

“I think our cat’s trying to say something,” Sasuke noted. “Right after you mentioned maybe forgetting something…”

“Exactly! Exactly!” I bobbed my head in agreement.

“Namaiki-chan… did we forget you?” Naruto asked, propping himself up. Finally, the right questions! I nodded vigorously.

The boys exchanged glances. Time to strike while the iron’s hot. I leaped off Naruto’s stomach, let out an attention-grabbing yowl, then ran a quick circle around the clearing. Finally, I froze in a classic pointer stance, nose aimed in one direction.

“What’s with him?” Sasuke stage-whispered to Naruto.

“He pretty much did the same thing to bring me here,” Naruto mumbled, realization dawning. “Maybe he wants us to follow him?”

You’re a smart chick, my little yellow chick! I trotted forward, then looked back at them.

“Let’s go!” I advanced a bit further, meowing like, “Come on, hurry up!”

“Sure,” they both muttered in unison, trailing after me.

The only place that might hold any clues is the Uchiha district. That’s where the masked creep wiped out the women, children… and the cats. Wait. It’s all clicking! That’s why there are no cats left in the area—if any of my furry kin made it to the Ryu Sasuke mentioned, they could’ve spilled the beans to the talking ninja cats. And through them to Sasuke or his brother. That’s an idea! But… I don’t know where Ryu is, and right now I can’t exactly explain to these two that we need to go searching for it. Gah, calm down, focus on the here and now…

Suddenly, I noticed both boys had stopped. Turning around, I realized we’d reached the district gates, taped off with “crime scene” ribbons. I’d already slipped under them, but the guys had frozen, staring into the empty streets. The sun was setting, painting everything in a creepy red glow, and it’d be fully dark in about half an hour. Definitely not the best time for a thorough investigation. I trotted back to them, rubbing against their legs.

“Namaiki-chan… you’re saying we should go in there?” Naruto asked, squatting to scratch behind my ear.

I nodded.

Little Uchiha looked like a statue, eyes drilling into the gates emblazoned with the clan’s crest.

“Maybe we should come back tomorrow morning?” Naruto whispered. “We’ve got no Academy classes on weekends. Hey, Sasuke, you in?”

Sasuke twitched at the question, shoulders tensing.

“Hey Sasuke,” Naruto continued, trying a different angle, “what if Namaiki-chan’s, like… a ghost cat?” His voice wavered, but it was enough to shake Sasuke from his thoughts. The Uchiha actually turned to Naruto in surprise.

“Hn. Are you an idiot?”

“Well, it’d explain why he’s leading us into a haunted district… But,” Naruto’s tone brightened, “Namaiki’s a really nice cat. He takes good care of me. Where do you think I get all those potatoes? He brings ’em!”

Sasuke stared at me, brows raised. I gave a dignified nod.

“Hn. I’ll come,” he said softly, clenching his fists—seems like he made up his mind. Probably can’t risk looking cowardly in front of Naruto.

“Huh?” Naruto looked lost in thought for a moment, then scratched the back of his head, flashing a sheepish grin. “Uh, okay… so, dawn tomorrow? That way we don’t run into any grownups?”

“I’m in!” I declared.

“Namaiki-chan agrees too,” Naruto grinned, reading my meow perfectly. “Alright then… see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Sasuke muttered, turning on his heel and stuffing his hands in his pockets as he headed home. Naruto and I took off in the opposite direction, also heading back.

I remembered we’d eaten almost everything fro our stash, and tomorrow’s gonna be one heck of a day. Only thing left at our place is the “cup ramen” delivered by Sarutobi that morning. Hmm. Naruto’s realized by now that I’m a ninja cat, and that food’s way better than starving. Maybe I should bring him along on my next “raid.” We’d get so much more stuff that way, especially with Kuromaru and his owner away on a mission.

But how do I teach my “partner in crime” the laws of the street? Ehh, baby steps. First off, let’s not target any store in our own neighborhood. Gotta keep a low profile and hit somewhere else on the outskirts…

_______________________________________________

Naruto’s a bright kid. Even with his “brain reformatted” and no access to chakra, he grasped the concept of sitting quietly in the bushes and not making a peep. Then again, who wouldn’t, if a giant cat is basically pinning you down and swatting you whenever you try to move, hissing for emphasis? Mwahaha. My well-trained chick.

I slipped into the basement of another Sarutobi-owned shop—apparently, the old man’s clan runs most of the grocery stores in town, which is convenient for me because I don’t mind robbing them blind. 

By the way, I didn't notice any money on Naruto to buy supplies. Will he really only be given money for missions? This is beyond the pale!

The basement was used for storing fresh food, and the store itself mostly had non-perishable products on the shelves, everything that was in the refrigerators or in the basement simply had prices and names on display. This was probably how they saved on electricity. The store layout reminded me of some mom-and-pop place in the middle of nowhere, where you have to ask the shopkeeper for each item, and they waddle back to the storeroom every time.

First thing I grabbed was a bag—like an actual plastic bag. Hardest part was ripping it off the stack without drawing attention, especially since it made that stupid crinkly noise. I waited till the shopkeeper got busy chatting with a customer and snatched it, dragging it off into the shadows. Good thing it was swamp-green, not eye catching bright white or neon yellow.

I hauled the bag outside to Naruto. He had this “um, why the heck do we need a bag?” face instead of “oh my god, you’re stealing!” Perfect.

Then I got back to work, sneaking in and out like a stealth conveyor belt—grab something prepackaged, dash it to Naruto, toss it in the bag, rinse and repeat. The kid said nothing. Just stuffed our loot away. Then we quietly, like the ninjas we are, slipped back to our place through dark alleys.

“Whoa!” Naruto gasped, dumping our haul onto the table. “This is awesome!”

I really didn’t go overboard—just snagged one chocolate bar (which is obviously essential for a growing boy’s mood and energy) and a bunch of basics: a few packs of sausages, two chunks of meat totaling about a kilogram, tofu, three cartons of milk (1.5 liters total), a small bag of four apples (weirdly expensive, judging by the label), natto beans, plus a box of tea and a bag of rice. What can I say, I’m a cat of discerning taste.

He shot me a quick grateful look. I meowed pointedly at the milk—I was starving after our “grand heist,” plus I’d used a good chunk of chakra sneaking around.

We split the milk, I scored a sausage, slicing the package open with one claw like a boss. These poultry sausages are top-tier, and I know quality meat when I taste it.

Naruto stashed the perishable stuff in the fridge and put everything else in the cupboard. According to the usual schedule, Sarutobi wouldn’t check on him for two or three days, so we can finish it all by then. Plus, old man’s “cup ramen” wouldn’t go to waste either. With Naruto growing like a weed and the new Nine-Tails situation sapping his strength, the kid’s got an appetite. Additionally my little yellow chick had asked Hokage about his parents again this morning—the magic words to make the old geezer vanish and not appear for a while. So we could ‘raid’ without worries.

“Time for a bath!” I nudged the bathroom door open and let out a loud meow. Naruto, cottoning on, hopped into the shower stall with me and turned on the water.

“Check out what I found for you, Namaiki-chan,” he said, grinning, as he rummaged on a shelf and produced a well-worn toothbrush. Didn’t look new at all.

“Hey, I washed it really well!” he assured me, catching the offended look on my face. “C’mon, gimme your paw.”

I offered a paw, and he pressed on the pad, scrubbing between my toes with that little brush. Ooooh, the feels. If cats could experience nirvana, this would be it.

[Castling] Chapter 40

Morning came, as it always does, no matter how late I’d gone to bed. I woke early anyway, unable to shake my restless thoughts—wondering if I’d done the right thing by starting all this... But what was done was done.

Before breakfast, I brought the promised Basilisk skin to the shaman and had a chat with Charlie. He suggested that after selling the venom, we should arrange Portkeys for everyone, as a fallback. That’s what I liked about him—he was genuinely decent. He insisted war was an adult matter, and sending half-trained teenagers into battle was out of order, no matter how noble the cause. He even mentioned it might be best if Hermione and Harry left Britain after fifth year. Back home, people would brand him a coward for saying that, but in my book, he was one of the most sensible wizards I’d ever met. And I was relieved to have him in my corner.

Harry woke up half an hour before breakfast but skipped it altogether, hurrying straight to the shaman. He got a few potions to ease the aftermath of the dissolution, and no doubt the old man gave him some sage-like pep talk. Even so, Harry still looked miserable.

“How’re you holding up?” I asked after dinner. He’d barely touched his meal and then wandered off to the lake, leaving me to calm a worried Hermione before dashing after him—on the shaman’s advice, I wasn’t about to let him brood alone.

“Not great, Ron,” he muttered, refusing to meet my eye, tearing at the grass under his fingers. “I can’t get past what happened yesterday.”

“If you want to talk,” I offered, “I’m all ears.”

“I’m worried you won’t want anything to do with me if you realise who I really am,” he said, shooting me a pained glance. “I’m a monster… I saw it…”

“A monster, are you?” I joked. “Then you’ve obviously never met the twins.”

“Ron, be serious,” he snapped, clearly upset.

“Alright, if you insist,” I replied, softening my tone. “You’re not going to tell me anything so awful no one’s ever done it before. Believe me, everything in the world—good or bad—has already happened a hundred times over. You’re not that special,” I added with a faint grin. “So what’d you see that scared you so badly? Did you torture a cat, or refuse to help an old lady cross the street?”

“I saw my childhood, stuff I’d forgotten,” he whispered. “It started off like the Mirror of Erised, and I was looking at myself. Then this other kid showed up—he said we were alike—and showed me the Dursleys and me, only younger. I remembered hating that they loved Dudley, not me. Back then, I didn’t know I wasn’t theirs, so I was jealous of my ‘brother.’ I actually wanted Dudley gone or dead, just so they’d love me instead. A bookcase nearly fell on him once—it was sheer luck he only got some bruises.”

“Maybe it wasn’t you,” I suggested.

“It was me!” he said angrily, jumping up and pacing. Then he sank back down with a defeated sigh, voice spilling out in a sudden rush:

“I thought it was some ‘fairy of justice,’ like they told us in primary school, punishing rotten people if you complained. You’ve no clue how I despised the Dursleys, wanted them all to hurt. Whenever their stuff broke or got ruined, I was secretly pleased. My aunt reckoned I was just making hair change colour or floating objects around—‘freaky tricks,’ as she’d say—but she never guessed it was me causing all those other accidents: the shorted wires, Dudley crashing his shiny new bike, Uncle Vernon breaking his leg after stumbling over nothing… 

“I just stood there, enjoying it. That’s why they tossed me in the cupboard and ignored me. I used to nick Dudley’s new toys too—bury them in the yard or chuck them in the pond—because I was jealous he got presents and I didn’t. And whenever I fried bacon for them, I’d wish they’d choke on it. But after I found out I wasn’t actually their son, I just felt relief. My hate fizzled out.”

“That’s it?” I asked, brows raised.

“Then the boy said if I joined him, I could take revenge on those pathetic Muggles. All I had to do was agree, and nobody’d ever hurt me again—I’d never be alone again, and that was what we both needed.

“But then the mirror showed all these people… probably my ancestors, and the boy vanished. Dad turned up next—Voldemort killed him right in front of me—then Mum. She was screaming, ‘Not Harry… kill me instead,’ shielding me with her body. He laughed and hit her with green light. The voice kept whispering, ‘They were brave but foolish. If you don’t obey, the same will happen to you.’ He murdered more and more people, and the blood, the screaming—then it was all of you lying dead, covered in blood. He said it was my fault because I wouldn’t give in, and he’d kill everyone I cared about… I hated him, wanted him dead…”

“Alright, that’s enough,” I cut him off, resting a hand on his shoulder. “They were just visions. Simply tricks.”

His eyes were wet when he looked up, though he might not even realise it.

“He’s brilliant, that Dark Lord,” I said with grim admiration.

“What?” Harry asked, blinking and wiping his glasses.

“The shaman reckons the Horcrux can only merge with you through nasty emotions—rage, fear, hatred. First, it tried stoking your anger at the Dursleys. When that failed, it tried frightening you, then turning that fear on yourself, then turning it against him. But you managed to resist, and that’s what matters.”

“I’m just as much a monster as he is,” Harry said despondently, covering his face with his hands.

“Rubbish,” I countered firmly. “You’re just human, Harry, like the rest of us. Think only saintly folk never have nasty thoughts? Doesn’t work that way. They just don’t act on them. Half the population sometimes wants to knock the head off someone for hardly any reason, but only a tiny fraction actually does it. Lucky for us, they all end up in prison. The rest of us would rather fight our demons and beat them.”

“Do you really think so?” Harry lifted his head.

“Of course,” I said with a small grin. “When I was seven, the twins nearly did me in with one of their new inventions. You’ve no idea how I wanted to finish them off. I even gave them a solid beating once. Now I think they’re great guys. And sometimes I resent my parents for having so little money, because I’m tired of wearing everyone else’s hand-me-downs. Why do they have to save pennies specifically on me? But still, I’m glad Mum had me. Life’s worth living, Harry. So it’s not as if you’re the only one who struggles with dark feelings. The important thing is you know they’re dark, and you fight against them.”

“But Voldemort said we’re alike. I can’t ignore that,” Harry pressed, though he seemed calmer now.

“Alike how?” I asked. “You were wanted by your parents—he was raised in an orphanage. And if you’re talking about your aunt not loving you, well, she didn’t have to. At least she gave you a place to stay. You had every right to be upset with her too. But there’s nothing else you have in common with the Dark Lord—unless you count speaking Parseltongue, which came from him only because he decided to show up at your house.”

“So I’m not the Heir of Slytherin now?” Harry asked out of nowhere.

“Couldn’t tell you. You might share ancestry through the Peverells, but an heir? Doubt it. And to be honest, he wasn’t one, either. He’s half-blood, and Slytherin would’ve recognised only pureblood descendants. So, yeah, chatting to the basilisk… but do you really want all that fanfare that comes with the title?”

“No,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Just curious whether Zara’ll still listen to me now.”

“As if she’s got a choice,” I sighed. “Far as I know, you’re the only Parselmouth left in Britain. Let’s get something to eat; I’m famished.”

“Fine,” Harry perked up a bit. It’s quite something how his mood swings.

“Ron,” he stopped me, grabbing my arm. “Thanks.”

“No worries,” I said, a bit sheepish. “Just don’t go hiding things again, Harry, or you’ll end up hatching another stupid idea.”

The rest of the holidays were a good laugh. Admittedly, for the first couple of days Harry’s mood was all over the place—he’d run off for a cry, or get angry, or stare at nothing for ages. But I got Hermione on board, and she wouldn’t let him mope.

The shaman said he’d be fine in a month or two. He even came to see us off in brand-new boots before we headed back, one day before the train home. That evening, Charlie turned up with a bag of money for me, and I just gawked. An ounce of basilisk venom fetched a thousand Galleons—five thousand a flask.

“Charlie, how much to hire someone to neutralise the ring?” I asked.

“Five hundred Galleons,” he said, “but that’s a non-starter, Ron. Anyone coming into Britain has to register. When I sent lads to you for that dragon egg, I went through smugglers in Knockturn. But this business with a Horcrux—no one can know about that. Maybe talk to Snape first; if that fails, we’ll see.”

“Charlie, you never did explain this ‘blood traitor’ business to me. Look at Potter—why isn’t he a traitor, since his dad married a Muggle-born? Or Black, who ran off from home. Or his cousin, who also married a Muggle-born and nothing came of it. Then there’s Dumbledore and the Dark Lord, both half-bloods, and Snape’s mum married a Muggle, though her surname Prince is in ‘Ancient Houses of Britain.’”

“Wait, slow down,” my brother cut me off. “One thing at a time, Ron. First of all, women never inherit the family line, so if a daughter marries someone ‘unsuitable,’ she’s considered to have left that House. And any question of ‘traitors’ never comes up. Usually they’d just disown her so her kids wouldn’t inherit. Had a daughter—no daughter, basically. And no one chucked Black out—Walburga wasn’t daft enough to ditch her own flesh and blood, which is all that family cares about. Most likely he just gave up his birthright to Regulus and they let him bugger off with a bit of pocket money, leaving him to his shenanigans. But if he’d married a Muggle-born, that’d be different. This way he didn’t actually break anything or taint the bloodline. As for the Dark Lord, I’ve no clue. If his dad’s side never claimed him, he’s just a bastard, not an heir. Who else did you bring up? Potter and Dumbledore?”

“Yeah,” I nodded, “neither of them is called blood traitors.”

“Don’t know about Dumbledore—his family’s not that old, never made the official ‘sacred’ list, so they may not have banned Muggle-born matches. Potter's different. His line’s massive, branched out in the twelfth century and doesn’t share inheritance. The main branch’s heir was Henry, but he got killed in the first war along with his folks. His parents, Carlus and Dorea, were dead set on staying pure—prouder than the Blacks, those folk. Dorea was a Black, actually. Meanwhile our Harry is descended from Fleamont and Euphemia, heirs to another branch. They lived in Godric’s Hollow, not the family seat, and built up their wealth on their own.

“Harry Potter’s great-grandad—the one he’s named after—was a direct descendant of Hardwin and Iolanthe Potter. He caused uproar, publicly shaming the sitting Minister for banning wizards from helping Muggles in the First World War. Everyone saw it as Muggle sympathies, so they booted him from the ‘Sacred Twenty-Eight’ as ‘unfit conduct for a pureblood wizard.’ So the Potters of the main line don’t inherit from him anyway, and what they do in their own House is their business. Not all pureblood Houses cling to blood quite so fiercely as the Blacks. Or did you think Britain only had twenty-eight pureblood families?” he scoffed. “They’re just the ones who’ve never bred with Muggles—at least, so the records show. That’s all.”

“What about us, then?” I ventured.

“Pruetts—on mum’s side—were completely wiped out in the first war. Only our mother and aunt survived. The more extreme purebloods couldn’t forgive the fact that our grandfather let his daughter marry a blood traitor and didn’t disown her—saw it as squandering pure blood. Besides, Uncle Ignatius and Grandad both refused to join the Dark Lord. They were both killed along with their families, and our closest relations, the Bulstrodes and Flints, were supposedly involved. But that sort of thing happened a lot back then—plenty of pureblood lines died out completely. Mum and Dad were still at Hogwarts, had to ask the Order of the Phoenix for help. I still remember the time we lived in Dumbledore’s cottage in Godric’s Hollow, staying hidden. Then, once the uncles avenged the murders, we moved to the Burrow. But Mum’s brothers ended up losing their lives in a fight with the Death Eaters soon after.”

“And what about the Weasleys?” I asked.

“You’ll have to get that story from Dad,” he deflected, clearly not keen on the topic. “And trust me, it’s even nastier.”

“Hard to imagine worse,” I muttered, deciding I’d push a bit more—only for Harry and Hermione to stroll back from a final souvenir run, forcing me to drop it.

The very next day, after breakfast, we left for Britain. None of us really wanted to go back yet, but we all thanked Charlie no end.

“That was just brilliant,” Hermione gushed over and over when we dropped her off at home, turning her back over to her parents. “I didn’t expect it to be so amazing. Learned so much. Thanks, Ron! Your brother’s fantastic!”

“I wouldn’t mind going again next year,” Harry agreed. “I really warmed to Charlie—and those dragons! I’m almost set on working in a reserve someday.”

“You’ll have to get in line,” I teased. “I’m planning it first. Right then, Hermione, see you soon. We’ll write…”

“’Bye, Hermione,” Harry added, “had a great holiday together.”

“Bye, boys… Mr Weasley, thanks for your hospitality,” she said as Dad, waiting in the open car window, nodded at her. Then we drove off to Privet Drive. Dumbledore had already warned Harry he’d need to come back here after the trip.

Harry was thoroughly upset about it—he’d hoped they’d let him stay on, and I felt terrible for him, after all he’d been through. It was like chucking a kitten out in the rain after sheltering it. But when Mum and Dad and Dumbledore are all in agreement, there’s not much you can do, never mind that I’d sworn I’d find some way to spare him a miserable summer.

At least he wrote me, the same evening. He was relieved his uncle allowed him to keep his trunk in his room, so he could read magical books. Three days later, right in the middle of our lunch, an owl delivered a letter saying we’d won some grand prize. Mayhem broke loose in the house.

At first, everyone pitched in their bright ideas for spending that heap of money—seven hundred Galleons in total. Once we’d talked ourselves hoarse, Dad suggested we all take a trip to Egypt—have ourselves a holiday and visit Bill as well. Oddly enough, everyone jumped at it, but I found myself unexpectedly hacked off and stomped outside before I lost my cool. Dad eventually found me out there.

“What’s the matter, Ron?” he asked calmly, settling next to me on a battered old bench. “You’re not on board with everyone else’s decision?”

“You know, Dad,” I started, “sometimes it feels like I’m not the same as all of you. I just can’t get my head around blowing that much money on a vacation when, only a couple of years back, we could hardly scrape together enough to buy Percy a wand. I look around here—these shabby benches, the endless mending of clothes. And at school I can’t help but notice everyone else. It drives me mad that people call me a blood traitor from a huge, penniless family. I love you all, but I can’t stand being poor. It’s not fair. Where does all our money go anyway? My brothers have moved out, yet I’m still stuck wearing Percy’s hand-me-downs,” I burst out, glaring up at him in frustration.

Dad heard me out without interrupting or showing any sign of anger. When I’d finished, he stood up and held out a hand.

“You’ve never done Side-Along before, have you?” he asked. “Brace yourself, Ron—it’s a bit unpleasant.”

He pulled me close, and I felt the yank of a portal.

Daily Updates (11/01/25)

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 27

• Tier 2: Chapter 32

Hydrargyrum

• Chapter 3

[Life is Good] Chapter 32

Work in the lab with McCoy dragged on until evening, with Jennifer eventually joining us. Once Banner caught up with what we were doing, she suggested adding an air filtration system to my mask. She pointed out that relying solely on holding breath to avoid poisons wasn’t exactly foolproof; besides, there are toxins that can work just by touching your skin. So yeah, better safe than sorry. Beast promised to cram the necessary filters into my mask, and then we got back to experimenting with my powers.

After a series of electricity tests, the suit design got an upgrade: mini-harpoons built into the forearms, kind of like stun guns. They shoot darts up to fifteen meters, attached by a thin cable that delivers a jolt when I charge it. Coolest part? If the conductor burns out but I keep the juice flowing, the arc will stay fixed to the same spot, frying it like a lightning laser. In my energy vision, the path the current took glows a pale green for about a second after I cut the flow, then it just fades into nothing. Unfortunately, I can’t manipulate this “lightning trail,” but I made a mental note: if I ever meet the local Spider-Girl, I’ll beg for her web-shooters with conductive webbing.

Controlling energy is my biggest problem. I can generate it and adjust its output, but once it’s out, I can’t manipulate it. Like the saying goes: the eye sees, but the hand can’t reach. The only exception so far is thermal energy—I can heat things up or control temperature over an area, either a small part or an entire object. Honestly? It pisses me off beyond belief. Even basic fine control of thermal energy with my energy vision would be a game-changer. Imagine a fight where I could fry specific muscles or tendons from eleven meters away, right through walls or other obstacles—no need to charge in like a lunatic. I’d be the ultimate infiltrator. Every mission in a closed space would just be a walk in the park, leaving opponents drooling and helpless behind me. Hell, I wouldn’t even need to hurt anyone. Just induce heatstroke—boom. They’d either collapse unconscious or start projectile-vomiting like a human fountain.

And that’s just the basic stuff. If I ever learn how to generate kinetic impulses, flinging plasma bolts could become my reality. Or imagine manipulating electricity like Magneto’s long-lost grandson—magnetic fields galore. I could turn into a human railgun, shooting chunks of metal at supersonic speeds. And don’t even get me started on light manipulation. If I could focus a beam with the right properties, Cyclops would wet himself with envy.

Even someone like me, a scientific idiot, can see the potential. McCoy? She dreams about my power potential more than I do—and honestly, her enthusiasm is kind of terrifying sometimes.

The whole situation with my powers is like being a toddler who just figured out he has arms and legs. I can move them, but coordination? Nonexistent. Fine motor skills? Laughable. Doing anything more complicated than a basic “grab-the-boob” is hard as hell. What kept me sane back then was knowing it would all work out eventually, so I just put up with it. I really hope it’s the same with my powers.

This is probably the biggest challenge for mutants: figuring out your abilities is like stumbling around a forest where nobody’s ever set foot before. There’s no standard curriculum like there is for mages or cultivators with their polished dantians. Being a pioneer sucks—especially when you realize your hard-earned knowledge might never help anyone else.

Later that evening, I caught a news report about myself. Yeah… it was a massive ego boost.

There were interviews with the rescued women. They described their nightmarish captivity and the horror of their conditions before a mysterious mutant came to the rescue. One after another, they gushed about how I melted locks, stayed calm, and treated them kindly. Captain Julia Stacy even made a public statement promising that justice would be served, and the trafficking ring was already under investigation. Naturally, she didn’t come up with that herself—orders from above, no doubt—but she did look straight into the camera and thank me with real sincerity.

Felt good. Damn good.

Yuriko found me afterward for a “talk.” Which was less a conversation and more her handing me a brutal new training schedule. Along with the usual stuff, it now included “tactical games,” “field exercises,” and “marksmanship.” That last one probably means gun drills—I hadn’t touched a firearm since coming to the School. She didn’t bother explaining the first two because, you know, classic stoic Japanese warrior woman. I guess I’ll find out soon enough. She also let me know that I’m now on call for missions at any time, day or night, and my gear had better be ready when duty calls.

Looking at the schedule, it was clear I’d have exactly zero free time. Six to seven hours of training a day—on top of studying to catch up on this Earth’s history, literature, and general knowledge.

The next morning confirmed my fears. I hadn’t even opened my eyes before the demoness dumped a bucket of ice water on me at five a.m. Naturally, I just rolled over and kept snoring. She had to shove me off the bed to get my attention. I swear, the look on her face when she remembered my resistance to cold was priceless. Too bad I was too groggy to gloat properly.

Training now starts at the crack of dawn: jogging, exercises, sparring, then breakfast at half-past eight. By then, I’m already dead on my feet. Oh, and charging up during morning drills? Forbidden. I have to crawl to the charging station afterward, fill my energy reserves, then drag my sorry ass to breakfast before staggering into class or hitting the books for my self-study sessions.

Afternoons? More of Yuriko kicking my ass in brutal one-on-ones while everyone else watches in horrified sympathy. She calls it “warm-up.”

Then come tactical games or field exercises. The former happens in the School’s training rooms, but for the latter, we head into abandoned buildings around the city. During the drive, I’m stuck studying tactical guides and special forces handbooks. Yuriko quizzes me on what I read, asking for my take on tactics that are useless for someone with my powers and how I’d adapt or replace them.

After finishing this part, we headed to the shooting range, where I got to fire all kinds of weapons, from pistols to assault rifles. Unfortunately, they didn’t let me handle machine guns. Basically, Sensei—yes, that’s what I started calling her—took me under her wing, seriously. Yuriko reacted to her new title with a satisfied squint, though it quickly disappeared behind her usual stone-faced expression. A stone-cold samurai, damn it.

Logan trained the junior X-team girls in a similar way, but their sessions were at least twice as easy. I didn’t complain—manly pride, you know? Besides, Oyama gave me these looks that practically screamed, “Whine even once, and you’ll be tossed aside and forgotten.” While I valued comfort, I respected free stuff even more—if you get a top-tier mentor for free, you give it your all so you don’t disappoint her.

After shooting practice, it was time for dinner, followed by homework. Kristi and I did it together since we barely had time to hang out now. We’d snuggle on my bed for half an hour, talking, kissing from time to time. Sure, I wanted more, but no need to go overboard—recharging my “battery” restored physical stamina, so I wasn’t dead-tired by evening, but mentally? Drained as hell. Then she’d teleport to her room, I’d spend thirty minutes catching up with friends and family, and I’d crash.

The Sunday after my debut as a mutant hero, the girls had a patrol. Two teams: Wolverine-Rogue-Kristi and Storm-Kitty-Colossus. Adventure only found the first group. Well, if you call it adventure. Two dumbasses decided to rob a store just as our team drove by. The girls handled it quickly and smoothly: Kristi blinked behind one of them, teleported her to Rogue, who slapped the gun away and KO’d her with a touch. Rinse, repeat, success. The thieves ended up tied up outside the shop, and the cashier handed out chocolate bars as thanks. 

Rogue wasn’t thrilled with the easy win, but Kristi was practically squealing—she’s super insecure about her looks, so being thanked and given candy instead of scaring people? Yeah, that made her night. Logan was his usual “I’m so done with this shit” self, nothing surprising there. Storm, though, wasn’t pleased. Her team had nothing but cleanup duty—Hell’s Kitchen scuffles were already handled by the time she finished her briefing. Daredevil doesn’t mess around—fast, brutal, and efficient. All they did was tie up the bodies and call the cops, just in case.

Anyway, the senior mutants were hell-bent on improving our image. Under their watch, we’re putting their plans into action and gaining experience. No, not all the work will fall to the kids, but we’ll handle patrols and minor dust-ups. Was I against it? Not a chance. Combat practice in real conditions and actual community work? Win-win. Plus, I don’t like freeloading, so I welcomed the opportunity.

My next outing was Wednesday. Same deal: middle-of-the-night wake-up call, Yuriko looming over me, car ride. Except this time, I was fully charged before we left. Our target wasn’t slavers—it was a drug dealer’s “office” in the city. Nothing fancy: a stash house for cash and product with about twenty guys, no supers. Yuriko’s intel said they mostly carried SMGs and pistols, with a few defensive grenades I was strongly advised to avoid.

“Tobias, listen carefully. The building’s in a rough part of Queens. We park two hundred meters away. I’ll block the back entrance and jam the signals in the area but the battery will last twenty minutes. No landline, so no need to cut wires. You go in the front, knock them out, tie them up, call Captain Stacy, and we leave.”

I paid close attention, helmet-mask resting on my lap, shoulders draped in a plain gray trench coat for low-profile city wear.

“Three floors, barred windows. Two entrances—front and back. No fire escape. Stay quiet. If your performance is acceptable, I’ll arrange a meeting with your school buddies. I won’t give you a floor plan—use your vision. It’s an old apartment building—one staircase, three units per floor. No cameras except the intercom. Questions?”

“Why Captain Stacy?”

“She likes you after you saved her daughter, it’s her precinct, she’s not corrupt, and she won’t bury it.”

“Got it. Can I have a gun?”

“No. Civilian arrest is one thing. A minor with a weapon? Totally different.” Oyama’s grin turned wolfish as she let out a terrifying chuckle. “Beat them up, bite them if you want.”

She barked a laugh that made me shiver. Comedy gold, this one.

We rode in silence after that. I rehearsed my approach in my head—bet it wouldn’t go as smoothly as last time. This wasn’t some isolated house but a gang hideout in a crowded area. The thugs would be on edge, ready for trouble. First, scout if I could. If not, go for a blitz: strobe, shock touch, harpoons—my go-to tools. Thermal moves for locks or emergencies. No fatalities—not because I’m a saint, but because we need a good rep.

Lost in thought, I didn’t notice we’d arrived until the car stopped. Yuriko was already pulling on a balaclava and grabbing her compact EMP rig. I ditched the coat, pulled up my hood, secured my mask, and checked my harpoons. Everything ready.

I nodded at her, stepped out, and walked to the alley. Two women smoked by the metal back door, jackets bulging with hidden guns. Two clicks, shots fired—electricity coursed through them. They danced like puppets on live wires before my harpoons retracted. As Yuriko set up her jammer and tied them up, I moved to the front entrance. No one gets away. If shooting started, word would spread fast. The longer the silence, the better.

On my way in, I carefully “scanned” for enemies. First floor: seven targets. Two sleeping, two stationed by the entrance, three inside a room, sorting something—judging by their movements—and a couple going at it, having very enthusiastic sex. I almost made a full sweep when I spotted five more on the second floor, all asleep. The third floor? My range wasn’t that big, but I picked up a pair sitting together.

I decided to keep it simple and repeat my previous approach. I chose a spot with no people and started cutting through the bars. The metal wasn’t easy to handle, so I sliced it into sections, carefully lowering each piece to the ground. Everything was going smoothly… until a thermal signature suddenly dropped behind me and straightened into a human silhouette.

Then came that voice—Petra Parker’s unmistakably familiar, intentionally cheerful tone—asking the dumbest question possible:

"Sir, do you have a permit for welding work?"

‘Yeah, no shit,’ I thought, slowly turning to face the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Girl, who was now going to want a word with me. At least she didn’t shout. She said it quietly enough. Small mercies.

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 3

Of course, it wasn’t that easy. As Kayneth wandered along the street near London’s largest leyline intersection, he immediately sensed the concentrated magic saturating the air. Layered barriers, powerful and complex, surrounded the area. There might have even been folded spaces concealed within the enchantments, but in his current, weakened state, he couldn’t be sure.

He walked two wide loops around the city streets, studying the protected perimeter that spanned several blocks. According to his crude map, most of the area was occupied by two adjacent industrial zones—remnants of shuttered factories—and a smattering of houses and shops that lined the outer edges of the barrier. If there was a way in, it was likely hidden within one of these establishments—perhaps a restaurant or a large store frequented by many people daily.

The discovery thrilled him. This London harbored a magical population and infrastructure of significant scale. However, it raised a pressing question: How was he supposed to get inside? Was entry open to all magi, or were special passes or passwords required? What if a secret war raged behind those barriers, and trespassers were disintegrated on sight without so much as a warning?

On his third lap, Archibald switched tactics. Instead of seeking a physical entry point, he turned his focus to the people nearby, watching for traces of magic. He searched for family crests, active spells, or charged mystic codes. The task drained him; sweat beaded on his brow, and fatigue weighed heavier than it had during his entire trek to this place. James’ body, frail and untrained, wasn’t suited for subtle magical perception. He’d never been taught to sense energy in people or the environment—truthfully, he hadn’t been taught much of anything. Kayneth was forced to rely on his soul’s instincts and his own vast experience.

Perhaps that was why it took so long—and sheer luck—for him to notice something unusual after circling several more blocks.

A young woman, perhaps twenty, sat on a park bench with a thick book in her hands. What first caught his eye were her long, lilac-pink hair strands—a shade modern youth favored for its absurdity. Her leather jacket and an excessive assortment of tacky metal accessories completed the image of a brainless fan of some obscene rock band. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

Except for the book.

A textbook didn’t fit her rebellious appearance. In Kayneth’s experience people dressed like her usually had difficulty reading storefront signs, let alone dense academic material. But Kayneth couldn’t immediately dismiss her, not with his trained eye. In old magical families, especially those with inhuman bloodlines or a fondness for ritualistic modifications, unnatural hair and eye colors were common. The Archibalds prided themselves on purity and refrained from such things, but even in his last student class, half a dozen young magi had boasted green or violet hair by birth.

Intrigued, he lingered, examining her more closely.

The book deserved attention, too. It appeared to be a standard biology textbook, but Kayneth felt faint magical traces radiating from it. This was not a grimoire imbued with inherent power—this was different. It had been haphazardly veiled with a spell, likely an illusion, overloaded with energy to maintain its concealment.

The woman herself seemed ordinary enough, aside from her ridiculous fashion and dyed hair. No bounded fields, mystic codes, or spells surrounded her—except for the book. Yet if someone more skilled stood in her place, his dulled senses might have missed them entirely. Either way, he needed to make contact. Finding another magus in this world might take far too long.

Drawing a deep breath, Kayneth steeled himself. His meager magic reserves, barely sufficient in this malnourished body with its stunted circuits, would have to suffice. He approached with the best approximation of noble courtesy, preparing for his first conversation with a fellow magic user in this realm.

“May I ask, miss, what are you reading on this fine morning?”

The young woman lowered her book slowly. She glanced around, uncertain if the question was even directed at her, before finally settling her gaze on the shabby-looking child standing before her. His appearance spoke of poverty and trouble—London had no shortage of vagrants, and not all were satisfied with mere charity. She sized him up warily but, confident in her ability to defend herself, answered after a brief pause.

“A college biology textbook, young man. I’m a first-year student, and I need to prepare for my classes. Studying at home is far too dull.”

“I see.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I completely understand. However, I’m more curious about what you’re really reading. I can tell this isn’t just a simple textbook. You’ve hidden its true nature from ordinary eyes, haven’t you?”

Her reaction was immediate. Panic flickered in her expression as she whipped her head around, checking her surroundings. She nearly dropped the book as she flipped it over, staring hard at the cover. The color of her eyes shifted—from blue to red, then to violet.

Kayneth allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. His instincts had been right. Someone in this world ensured magical secrecy, likely with deadly efficiency. His initial plan to draw attention with parlor tricks and wait for enforcers had been wisely abandoned.

“No need to worry,” he added quickly. “Your illusion is well done. I see only a biology book, of course. But I can feel the enchantment. Recently, I’ve been able to sense these things. I suspect you’re familiar with the higher arts of magecraft—just as I am.”

Her gaze snapped back to him, sharp and wary.

To prove his point, he extended a hand toward a slushy pile of snow nearby. Focusing his limited power, he directed it into the icy heap. The center melted, pooled into water, and then briefly boiled before hissing into steam. It was basic water manipulation—once, he could have performed it blindfolded from another room without breaking stride. Now, in this feeble body with an unfamiliar elemental affinity, it felt like driving a nail into steel barehanded. But he managed, barely.

Pulling his hand back, he staggered, fighting the pain and exhaustion that followed.

“Something like that…” he murmured.

“Alright, I get it!” she said hastily, leaning forward as if ready to catch him if he collapsed. “Tell me… you’re not from a magical family, are you?”

"I don’t really have a family. I’m from an orphanage. I don’t even know if my parents were magi or not."

"Wizards," she corrected quickly.

"Pardon me?"

"You’re supposed to say wizards," she repeated slowly, as if explaining a simple fact to a child. "‘Mages’ is something out of Muggle books. In magical Britain, we say ‘wizards’ and ‘witches.’ You’ll have to get used to it, or people might not understand you. And… sorry for asking such a personal question."

"It’s nothing. You didn’t know," Kayneth waved it off. Such pleasantries were meaningless, especially regarding James Murphy. What piqued his curiosity far more was the new terminology. In the Mage’s Association, the word magus—borrowed from Latin—was the standard term for practitioners of mystical arts. Wizard, an Old English term, had been popular in the late Middle Ages but had fallen out of use centuries ago, surviving only in archaic titles like Wizard Marshal, a high-ranking officer responsible for Clock Tower defenses. And witch? That was outright derogatory. Anyone daring to call Sola-Ui a witch would have faced a duel on the spot. Clearly, the differences between this world’s magical traditions and his own were deeper than anticipated.

"And what does Muggle mean?"

"Muggles are normal people," the girl gestured toward the bustling London street, "non-magical folks who don’t know anything about magic. It’s an old word. I don’t even know where it comes from."

"And about the book?"

"What? Oh, right. You’re right—it really is something else." She glanced around again before reaching into her jacket pocket, murmuring a nearly inaudible incantation. She was cautious—probably casting a standard divert attention spell. Sensible. Only after securing the area did the book’s cover shimmer, its color, illustration, and title transforming.

"Amalthea Wyrmwind’s Lightning-Quick Transfiguration and Its Numerous Applications for Offense and Defense, recommended for schools and universities, 1816 edition. So, you’re not a college student after all?"

"I am a first-year student, just—oh! Where are my manners?" She clapped her hands together, accidentally dropping the book onto the bench. Awkwardly bowing, she extended her hand. "Tonks. Witch-in-training, first-year Auror candidate."

"James Victor Murphy. Orphan and apparently a… wizard," Kayneth replied, shaking her hand. "A future one, I hope. Is it common for witches to only have one name?"

"That is my surname…" she admitted with a sheepish smile. "I don’t like my full name very much. Can we just leave it at Tonks, please?"

"As you wish, miss. What exactly is an Auror?" Kayneth asked. He’d heard the word before, though he wasn’t certain of its meaning. In this child’s form, he had the perfect excuse to ask naive questions and gather information.

"Aurors are… kind of like magical law enforcement. A mix between police and the secret service in the Muggle world, I guess. They hunt down dangerous criminals and magical creatures, track dark artifacts, and investigate conspiracies. That sort of thing," Tonks explained before waving her hands nervously. "Not that we’re drowning in criminals or monsters! It’s just important to have people ready in case something bad does happen."

"An admirable profession," Kayneth observed sincerely, bowing his head. In the Mage’s Association, they were called enforcers, and the Church referred to them as executioners. Only the most skilled combat magi were recruited. He’d had dealings with Clock Tower operatives before, usually when dispelling curses or banishing malignant spirits. "So, if there’s a magical police force, does that mean there are many wizards? Over there"—he pointed toward the warded district—"I felt an incredible concentration of power. That’s why I was circling it. I wondered if it had something to do with me. Lately, strange things have been happening—doors opening on their own, cuts on my hand healing instantly. I was trying to understand it, and it led me here."

"That’s Diagon Alley, the largest magical district in London. It’s hidden behind ancient wards. Muggles can’t get in unless someone literally takes them by the hand. It’s fascinating that it drew you here, James. Are you… not eleven yet?"

"I’m not sure. They don’t celebrate birthdays at the orphanage. I think I’m ten," Kayneth answered vaguely. He could have used diagnostic spells to determine the body’s age to the day if necessary, but he had neither the energy nor the need to bother with it. "In groups, I was always placed with the ten-year-olds."

"Poor kid," Tonks muttered sympathetically before trying to look more professional. "Anyway, magic usually awakens around age ten, which leads to outbursts—uncontrolled accidental magic. Harmless, but it can scare Muggleborns—kids like you, raised outside the magical world. Adults who don’t believe in magic either punish them or panic themselves. It settles down after a year or so. That’s when kids get their Hogwarts acceptance letter."

"Hogwarts?" Kayneth raised an eyebrow. There were no institutions like that in his world. Young magi either received private tutelage, as he had, or attended normal schools while learning magic at home. Formal magical education began at the Clock Tower.

"Hogwarts is the oldest and most prestigious wizarding school in Europe," Tonks said proudly, misinterpreting his incredulity. "I graduated last year."

"And are you sure that I…"

"Don’t worry. They don’t discriminate," she assured him quickly—too quickly. "Everyone gets in—purebloods, Muggleborns, anyone. The days of bloodline-based admission are ancient history."

"I don’t quite understand," Kayneth probed. He already had a good idea—similar structures existed in the Mage’s Association—but he needed a fuller picture of this society’s dynamics. "What do you mean by ‘bloodline-based’? Why would someone be accepted or rejected because of that?"

"How should I explain this simply?" It was clear Tonks was struggling to find the right words. Either this society was committed to a show of equality, or she had her own complicated history with her origins. Perhaps both. "Wizards are categorized by birth into three types. Muggle-borns, like you, come from ordinary families who know nothing about magic. Half-bloods have one magical parent—either a witch or a wizard. And pure-bloods have magical parents on both sides, often going back for generations. A few hundred years ago, all the power belonged to the pure-bloods. Muggle-borns and half-bloods were treated poorly, sometimes even barred from learning magic because they were deemed ‘unworthy.’" She grimaced but tried to smile. "But that’s all ancient history. These days, you can make a career in the Ministry or even as an Auror without twenty generations of pure-bloods in your family tree."

"But wouldn’t a wizard with a long magical lineage be stronger than someone who only discovered magic yesterday?" Kayneth asked, stating the obvious as if pondering aloud. "If their ancestors practiced magic for generations, wouldn’t that knowledge be inherited?"

"It’s... not that simple," Tonks said, shaking her head. "Even in pure-blood families, some children are born without magic. And sometimes, they aren’t particularly talented. Meanwhile, Muggle-borns can surpass old family heirs through sheer talent and hard work. The strongest living wizard is a half-blood."

"And you? If I may ask?"

"I’m somewhere in between," she admitted with a casual wave. "My father was the first wizard in his family, and my mother comes from an old magical line. Pure-bloods are usually defined as having at least two generations of magical ancestors, so technically, I’m a half-blood. But it doesn’t matter much these days."

"I see, I see." Kayneth bit back a curse. As a noble lord of the Clock Tower, he wouldn’t have so much as shaken hands with someone like her, let alone considered taking her on as an apprentice—no matter how desperately she begged. Introducing a first-generation magus into an ancient family and making their child an heir was a disgrace punishable by social exile. Yet here he was, pretending to be a child, forced to deal with whoever happened to provide useful information. Pride, however, was not so easily set aside. He had more questions. 

"One other thing. In the orphanage, I overheard my caretakers talking about a name—Archibald. They said it was important. Maybe even connected to me. A wealthy man. I’ve been thinking… could he be a wizard? A pure-blood, perhaps? I don’t care why he abandoned me—I just want to know if I have a father somewhere."

"Archibald… Archibald…" Tonks echoed, sympathy in her gaze. She didn’t seem to notice her hair shifting from purple to orange and back again. "I don’t know every old family by heart—you’d have to ask my mum—but I don’t recall anyone named Archibald among the British pure-bloods. He could be Canadian or Australian, maybe? Or just a rich Muggle with no connection to magic. Sorry, but you’d need to go through the Ministry to investigate something like that. They handle heritage inquiries and such."

"That’s all right. It was worth a try." Kayneth shrugged, showing no real disappointment. He had already accepted that he would never see anyone or anything familiar from his old world. If there was another Kayneth Archibald somewhere under the British crown, he must be a non-entity. Otherwise, his name would carry weight beyond mere local fame, just as the former Lord El-Melloi’s name had once commanded respect far and wide.

"When you start at Hogwarts, you could write to the Ministry," Tonks suggested, pacing nervously before speaking again. "About school… this might be a little awkward to talk about." She took a deep breath and then launched in. "Education at Hogwarts is free. The Ministry of Magic funds it with taxes from wizards and donations from private patrons. It’s full board—nine months a year with meals and lodging covered. But you’ll need supplies for your first year—textbooks, a cauldron, robes. The list goes on. And, well… you probably don’t have money, do you? Certainly not for seven years of schooling."

"I could take out a loan for tuition. That’s common practice, isn’t it?" Kayneth replied, calm and pragmatic.

"Not really." She frowned. "In the wizarding world, only goblins offer loans, and their rates… you’d be paying it off for fifty years."

"So, what are my options? Tutors? Private education?"

"That’s even more expensive. Only the wealthy afford that." She paused. "There’s one other way. Hogwarts offers scholarships for talented students, but only for Muggle-borns and half-bloods. You’d need to demonstrate readiness—basically, pass an exam showing first-year knowledge when your invitation arrives."

"And when would that be?"

"Depends on your birthday. If it’s before September, you’d be invited this autumn. If later, then next year." She gave him a curious look. "When is it?"

"I don’t know." He repeated the same answer he had given earlier, half-watching her reaction. "At the orphanage, no one celebrates birthdays. Most of us were just assigned January first to keep things simple."

"That’s awful!" She grimaced. "But it’s fine. The school’s magical register doesn’t use Muggle records. It identifies wizards by their magic, so your birthday doesn’t matter. If you don’t want to attend, you’ll just take an oath to keep magic a secret. But…"

"Thank you, but the Muggle world doesn’t seem all that appealing to me." Kayneth gestured at his tattered clothes with exaggerated disdain. "Magic sounds far better if I have the chance. So, I need to learn about the wizarding world—and first-year subjects—within five months or a year and a half?"

"Roughly. It’s manageable. First-year studies aren’t too complex. But…" Tonks glanced at her worn textbook, clearly hesitant. "I could lend you my old books. I don’t have younger siblings, so I’m not using them anymore."

"I appreciate your generosity, but I must decline." Kayneth’s voice was firm. His pride—already strained—refused to accept secondhand charity. Books were essential, yes, but taking someone else’s cast-offs was as degrading as wearing someone else’s clothes. Even in this child’s body, his noble spirit clung fiercely to its dignity. "There’s still time. I’ll find work and earn enough to buy what I need—once I figure out where."

"I’ll show you. It’s your choice, of course, but..." She lowered her voice, as if anyone could overhear them in an almost empty park under a barrier. "If you think you can use magic to squeeze money out of Muggles, better forget that idea right now. The Auror Office doesn’t care much about Muggle thefts, but there are two other problems. First, accidental bursts of magic are rare and will soon stop. To cast proper spells, you need this." She glanced around, then pulled a short polished wooden rod from her inner pocket. 

"A wand. You can only buy one after you turn eleven. Without it, only a few very skilled wizards can perform powerful magic. Second, underage magic outside of school is strictly forbidden. If Muggles see you, the best-case scenario is a fine for violating the Statute of Secrecy, along with paying for Obliviator services. Worst case? Prison. Do you understand what I’m saying?" She tucked the wand back out of sight with a pointed look.

"I understand perfectly." Kayneth gave a curt nod. "Thank you again for the offer, but I’ll earn my own money."

"Suit yourself. Let’s go then, I’ll show you the way." In an instant, she lightened her hair, shifted her height a little, and changed her eyes to gray. Sliding her book into her jacket’s inner pocket—far too small to hold it in ordinary circumstances—she motioned for him to follow. Kayneth recognized the enchantments that altered the size and weight of objects; he had used similar spells himself, until  Grail War cost him nearly every artifact he'd brought along. "This way, people will think we’re related. At least my Metamorphmagus skills are good for something. Come on, take my hand."

Obediently following Tonks and memorizing their route, Kayneth pondered what he’d learned. Using magic only with specific implements... It sounded bizarre. He understood the practical value of magical tools, of course—losing his own collection had played no small role in his disastrous duel—but to be unable to cast spells without a focus? Could this world have developed thaumaturgy so differently that it revolved entirely around a particular kind of mystic code? If so, he shouldn’t be able to use any of his old methods—runes, alchemy, or hypnosis. The laws of magic here would reject any rules they didn’t recognize. So why hadn’t they?

The mysteries piled up. A brief stab of regret pricked him for refusing Tonks’ "handout" of beginner-level magical theory books. Still, backtracking now would be even more humiliating.

As for the ban on underage magic... Ridiculous. How did families teach their children spells and techniques, then? Unless the law was more threat than enforcement. After all, in a week of living here, no so-called "Aurors" had come knocking, despite his reckless attempts to drain every ounce of magical energy he could gather.

"We’re heading here," Tonks said, tugging him toward a pub. "The Leaky Cauldron. It’s charmed to divert Muggle attention, so until your own magic is strong enough, you’ll need to focus clearly on your destination." She held his hand firmly, steering him through the subtle barrier.

Kayneth silently admired its design. It turned non-magical passersby with precision, nudging them away without stirring their curiosity. He only felt its effect a few steps from the door.

Inside, the pub resembled a rundown 18th-century tavern. The patrons wore outdated cloaks and waistcoats, the furniture was crude, and candles and oil lamps provided the only light—there wasn’t a single electrical device in sight. Yet magic pulsed through everything. Heavy chairs shifted by themselves, spoons stirred cauldrons unaided, and globes of light hovered without visible sources.

The effect struck him as both elegant and absurd. Like attaching a cutting-edge electron microscope to a wooden mallet for hammering nails. Precision paired with an absolute waste of power. Ridiculous!

"The entrance is here." Tonks led him into a small, empty storeroom. Pulling her wand again, she waved it silently before gesturing toward him. "Impatiens Mantellum."

The spell caught him off guard—too simple an aria to affect reality much—but within moments, both of them wore long black robes and pointed hats straight out of a children’s fairy tale. In the Clock Tower, such ridiculous outfits were reserved for ceremonial events, where tradition overruled reason.

"My clothes are enchanted for easy transfiguration. Yours only have a glamour, since they couldn’t handle a full transformation," Tonks explained. "A Muggle outfit would stand out too much here. Next time, try to buy or borrow something more fitting. It’ll raise fewer questions. Now, let’s go."

She took his hand again and tapped several bricks on the wall with her wand.

The air rippled as layered protections parted one by one. Kayneth felt the power surge around them—first the barrier spells, then defensive circles intertwined behind them. Whoever crafted these wards deserved respect.

But the street beyond stirred mixed emotions. Like the pub, it felt trapped in a bygone era. Wizards bustled about, most appearing well over twenty, dressed either in ridiculous robes like Tonks had conjured or in outdated suits and capes from the 19th century. Bird familiars darted overhead in unnatural numbers, spells flared harmlessly between passersby, and shop signs twisted with enchantments for animation, illusion, and transmutation.

Yet there wasn’t a single streetlight, phone box, or television. The 20th century seemed to have been stopped cold by the district’s layers of enchantment.

Old magical families had this kind of aversion to technology in his world too—he’d seen it in the Einzberns and Tohsakas. But even they didn’t reject gas-discharge lamps in favor of rune circles for lighting corridors.

Here, progress hadn’t just stalled—it had been sealed behind ancient wards. Maybe the local magical school was rooted in tradition and ambiance so deeply that modern devices disrupted its mysteries?

He needed answers. More information. And fast.

"Here it is — Diagon Alley," Tonks gestured broadly, her voice light but purposeful. "This is where you’ll find shops, cafes, banks, legal offices, and all sorts of establishments tied to the wizarding world. Wizards don’t usually live here — they have manors or reside in separate enclaves… you know, closed settlements in London suburbs or other cities. But all public life buzzes right here. If you need to buy something, this is where you come. Over there are bookstores, potion shops with ingredients and pre-made brews, and at the end of the street, that’s Gringotts, the goblins' main bank. That’s your first stop."

“But didn’t you say they wouldn’t lend me money at a reasonable interest?” Kayneth inquired skeptically.

“I wasn’t talking about loans,” she clarified, steering him slightly aside to avoid the bustling crowd of wizards. She pulled a coin from her pocket and held it up for him to see. “This is a Galleon. It’s the currency of magical Britain — goblin-enchanted gold. If you want to buy anything here, you’ll need to exchange Muggle pounds for these. Muggle money isn’t accepted. It’s too easy to counterfeit with magic.”

“Ridiculous,” Kayneth admitted honestly. The Magus Association had never bothered with its own currency. Among themselves, magi traded in barter — services, oaths, rare ingredients, valuable relics, and knowledge. Of course, pounds and dollars were still common when purchasing reagents or rare gems from ordinary merchants. While forging paper currency was child’s play (Kaineth could name a dozen methods offhand), magi rarely paid attention to protective measures or serial numbers, which invited unwelcome attention from authorities obsessed with counterfeit prevention. And that led to trouble with secrecy — something the Association took seriously. Counterfeiting with magic was a short road to a conspiracy breach and the kind of attention no one wanted. Yet another reason why he preferred hypnosis, which left no tangible evidence.

“I think so too,” Tonks agreed with a shrug. Leading him further down the alley, she added, “But tradition is tradition. And in the wizarding world, tradition’s everything. You’ll have to get used to it. Oh, and enchanted gold won’t work outside. Try selling it to Muggles, and it’ll just turn to ash. A lot of Muggle-born kids think of that first since gold’s worth so much more there. By the way, over there — that’s Ollivanders. When you turn eleven, you’ll need to come back and get a wand. A wizard without one is like… well, not just one-handed, more like mute and paralyzed. You can’t go to school without it, and you won’t even get through the doors of most magical institutions.”

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, the comparison to paralysis stirring far too fresh and unpleasant memories. “But how will I get through the… wall? Without a wand, do I just wait for someone to lead me through?”

“Not necessarily. Ask the innkeeper — he can open it. Unless you’re running in and out every day, it won’t be a problem. Usually, kids come with their parents or guardians until they’re older, but there are exceptions.”

He pondered that briefly before another question came to him. “Let’s say I’m someone who suddenly discovers I have magic, no money, and no knowledge of this world. If I lived in Edinburgh, for instance, and hadn’t run into someone like you to explain things — how would I even know where to go, or apply for school, or get supplies?”

“That’s simple,” she replied. “There’s a process for that. If a Muggle-born child shows magical ability, a professor from the school visits. They explain the basics, warn them about the importance of study, and mention that a scholarship might be available if they work hard. If they pass their exam a year later, they’re offered a spot. If not, it’s usually because they didn’t care enough, and the magical world doesn’t need them. Personally, I think it’s rubbish. But who’s going to listen to a half-blood like me?”

“Sorry?”

“Forget it. Boring politics.” She waved it off and brightened again. “Come on. I’ll show you a couple more places.”

Since they weren’t buying anything — not with his empty pockets — the rest of the tour wrapped up in half an hour. Tonks had started by pointing out shops a typical child would love, like the sweets shop and the toy store filled with enchanted playthings, but quickly realized James gravitated more toward bookstores and alchemy workshops. Given his precarious position, his thirst for knowledge made sense — survival in this world depended on understanding its rules. She still wished she could infuse a little more wonder into the experience. Her first trip to Diagon Alley had been filled with awe and joy; surely, he deserved at least a taste of that.

As they neared the exit, she gestured toward a narrow side alley and spoke in a lowered voice. “That’s Knockturn Alley. Nasty place. They sell all sorts of dark stuff there, and criminals sometimes hide out. Stay away until you’re older — and not without trustworthy friends. Aurors patrol it constantly, but it doesn’t do much good.”

“What do you mean by ‘dark stuff’?”

“Stolen goods, unlicensed artifacts, potions made with who-knows-what, fake ‘magical relics’ someone’s granny ‘found in the attic’… Basically, a black market. Oh, and books on dark magic and forbidden spells. Half of them are more dangerous to the caster than the target, assuming they even work.”

“‘Dark magic’?” His eyebrows rose at the term.

“Curses, hexes, blood magic, necromancy… Anything the Ministry doesn’t like gets slapped with that label.”

As a certified necromancer, Kayneth Archibald could only smirk. It seemed this world had its own strictures and taboos. Best to tread carefully if he didn’t want to end up marked as a heretic or criminal. He wondered, amused, if time manipulation or body duplication was fair game here.

“I’ll stay away,” he promised with a humble nod, lowering his eyes. Drawing attention from a future law enforcement officer was definitely not on his to-do list. “If I want to win a scholarship, I can’t afford a bad reputation.”

"Glad you understand that," Tonks praised, patting him on the shoulder. "If only more kids your age were as sensible. Instead, they buy some grimoires 'for fun,' and then it's all tears and complaints at the Auror office—'I didn’t mean to,' 'I didn’t know,' 'It cursed twenty-seven Muggles and half a dozen wizards all on its own.' Come on, I'll lead you back to London," she added, taking his hand again. Once they exited the magical district, Tonks diligently transfigured their clothes back into "Muggle" attire. 

Outside the Leaky Cauldron, after reaching the same quiet park as before, she spread her arms in a sheepish gesture. "Well, that’s about it. Welcome to the magical world. Sorry if I wasn’t clear—I’m no professor or Head of House giving this kind of lecture every year. Still, I hope you’ll manage to stay with us. Also, if… well, if money troubles hold you back, or you run into issues exchanging for Galleons or buying supplies, leave a letter for Tonks at the Leaky Cauldron. Give a date and time, and I’ll do my best to help. If I can’t make it, I’ll send advice or a contact. Don’t hesitate to write if something comes up."

Kayneth observed her carefully, his eyes sharp with calculation. He still couldn’t grasp her motivation. Magi—true magi, even second- or third-generation beginners—rarely did anything without reason. Altruists had short lives, especially in the Clock Tower. More so, she was a future combat magus, a type that barely trusted their own allies, let alone outsiders. Yet, under the guise of a child, Archibald kept things simple. There was no need for veiled meanings or convoluted wordplay. He asked directly:
"And why are you helping me? I’m just an orphan without money or connections. You’re a future law enforcer from an old, prestigious family. You owe me nothing."

"Because, unlike many so-called purebloods, I’m not blind to reality," she replied seriously. "Listen, James, after the war and the uprising ten years ago, there are so few of us left. You won’t find it in newspapers or Ministry reports—either they don’t know the numbers, or they don’t want to admit them. I asked a Muggle friend of mine, a college student, to do some math for me once. Based on a few figures I gave her, she estimated about thirteen thousand of us total. Even being generous—considering wizards live longer, die of disease less often, and adding in Squibs and magical creatures—it’s still no more than twenty-five thousand in all of Britain. Maybe thirty, at most. 

“That’s like some backwater town in Cornwall—Saint Austell, maybe. You’ve probably never even heard of it. And for most of us, Britain is the entire world. Think about that. Every wizard counts. We don’t have a single one to spare, no matter what blood-purity fanatics think. I bet they don’t even know the word ‘degeneration’ without checking a dictionary."

"Perhaps… But what about other countries? France, Germany, the United States, or India? Those have much bigger populations—there must be plenty of wizards there."

"You just don’t get how the magical world works, James. Muggles have it easy—hop on a plane, and you’re in Berlin or… I forget what India’s capital is. Magical countries are closed. Except for tournaments once every few years, we stick to ourselves. Every place has its own problems, politics, and gossip. Ten years ago, when we had a full-on war, nobody came to help. For all we know, Sweden might be trying to start Ragnarok right now, and no one in Britain or France would notice until frost giants marched across the border, flattening Muggle cities. British wizards care about British wizards first. That’s why we need a bigger, more diverse society. And that’s why I hope you make it into school and stay with us."

"Yes, I hope so too," Kayneth replied distantly. The picture forming in his mind was bleak. No global Mage Association, no unified research or cooperation. His own world had isolated regions—Japan famously kept its distance from the Association—but here? A British magus might never hear of a dangerous Eastern ritual unless Tonks was exaggerating. This would require further investigation. But for now, politeness demanded he end the conversation properly. She had helped him for free, a rare and valuable gesture, despite her unremarkable bloodline.

"If insurmountable difficulties arise, I’ll leave you a letter. But I’ll do my best to handle matters on my own. Thank you for your help. You’ve done more for me than I expected. Now, I must take my leave. Until we meet again, Lady Tonks."

"Until next time, James. I hope to see you again soon."

[Life is Good] Chapter 31

Gwen Stacy.

The cute blonde lay on her bed, glancing at her phone from time to time. Not that she was waiting for a call… but a girl could dream, right? Lately, her life had taken some pretty sharp turns. Her mom had become a police captain, and before transferring precincts, they’d moved to a new place. With the new home came a new school. She was surrounded by unfamiliar faces now, and it was harder to make it to band practice with the girls. Thankfully, her grades hadn’t taken a hit—Gwen was a smart cookie, always a few steps ahead of the curriculum.

Then there was that second trip to Oscorp, arranged by Petra Parker—her new friend. Petra, in all her nerdy glory, had been excited to share that it wasn’t her first time visiting an Oscorp lab. She even confided that she was slated to join their program after graduation, with a job offer already lined up. Hard to doubt her—she was besties with Harry Osborn, one of Norman Osborn’s heirs, after all. Plus, Petra was a genius. That added credibility to her story.

And then there was that spider. Gwen shuddered. It had fallen on Parker, who brushed it off—and straight onto Gwen. The damn thing bit both of them. Petra got the neck, Gwen got her arm. They bolted from the tour and went straight to the hospital, where doctors assured them the bites looked worse than they were. They got a prescription for pills and ointment, then went home. Gwen slept fitfully that night and woke up drenched in sweat, feeling wrecked. She’d blamed the meds or the doctors, but the next day at school, things only got weirder.

Parker… felt different. It wasn’t something she could describe. Petra had never stood out in any way before, but now? She radiated… something. Familiar. And Petra kept looking at her, eyes full of secrets. Questions and confusion piled up until the truth smacked them both a few days later.

They hadn’t just gotten sick. They’d changed.

Their reflexes sharpened. Strength skyrocketed. Agility? Off the charts.

Petra was ecstatic—her eyesight was perfect for the first time in her life. She figured out how to stick to walls and scuttle around like some human spider. A few days later, she even whipped up a ridiculous costume and started making cash in underground cage fights. When Gwen asked why, Petra shrugged. “Projects cost money, and we’re not exactly rich.” Then her Aunt Betsy was killed. Petra’s whole world turned upside down. Not long after that, a new hero started swinging through New York City…

It freaked Gwen out.

Not just Petra’s sudden shift from shy geek to vigilante badass, but her own body’s unnerving metamorphosis. What else was going to change? What would she become? And what was she supposed to do with this power?

Petra embraced her new destiny without hesitation. Gwen? She wasn’t so sure. Her mom had mixed opinions on heroes, but even she respected some of them. Fame, respect, admirers—those perks sounded sweet. But risking her neck for strangers? That was a whole different story.

Her mind wandered back to that club night.

Her friends had dragged her out for some fun after noticing how off she’d been. It had started well enough—music, dancing, and a cute guy her age who couldn’t keep his eyes off her. They danced all night. But an irrational sense of dread gnawed at her, which she stubbornly ignored. When he leaned in for a kiss, alarms blared in her mind. Danger. She squashed the feeling. He wasn’t resisting, and maybe her luck had finally turned around…

The kiss sent her head spinning. Everything blurred.

She remembered fragments—her friends watching jealously as she left with him. A car ride. A dark alley. Being transferred, dazed and weak, into a van. The “guy” turned out to be a disguised woman. The people waiting were shadier still. Someone injected her with something, and the world went black.

She woke up in a basement, chained alongside other kidnapped girls. Some of them had been there for days. Her powers? Useless. Afterall her fellow captives had no superhuman abilities to protect them. And three armed women guarded them—always with guns trained, always alert.

Gwen made herself one solemn promise that night: she’d never ignore her instincts again.

Terrified, shaken, she kept her cool. She didn’t shout about her mom being a police captain. That would’ve been a death sentence. The next day, as night fell, the door above creaked open. Footsteps descended the stairs. Some of the girls whispered that this was it—the transfer to somewhere worse.

Instead, a boy appeared. His face was shrouded in a bright halo of light, his voice calm and polite as he explained that the kidnappers were neutralized. He was here to set them free.

And he melted the lock. With his bare hands.

Elegant, serene, and utterly mesmerizing—he was like a storybook prince, a warrior of justice come to life.

Even if the name he gave himself—Mister Mutant—made her giggle.

Did it matter? Hell no. He was a hero.

All the girls watched him with wide eyes and pounding hearts, but she got his number. He even seemed interested in her.

Gwen bolted to the mirror, giving herself a critical once-over.

Not bad. Sure, her chest was… modest. But she was only seventeen. Plenty of room for growth. Her mom had a fantastic rack—there was hope. She had a toned, athletic body. No extra fluff. Her butt, though… yeah, she’d be hitting squats tomorrow. A girl’s gotta think ahead.

He might not even call.

But a rounder butt never hurt anyone.

Later, talking to her mom, Gwen realized just how lucky they’d been.

The police had nothing. No leads on her disappearance. Her mom hadn’t slept in two days searching for her daughter. Then Gwen had called with the address and handed over the criminals on a silver platter.

They learned from interrogations that the girls would’ve been moved the next night. After that? Slavery. Organ harvesting. Or worse—entertainment for the rich and depraved.

Could Gwen have escaped on her own? Maybe. Maybe.

But that boy hadn’t waited to find out. He’d saved them. Asked for nothing in return.

A mutant.

People had always warned her about them. Monsters, they said. Dangerous freaks. She’d heard the stories, seen the fear.

But this one?

Mutant or not, he was a goddamn hero.

Wait… Hold on… I need to meet with Parker! Talk to her—maybe she knows him? Supers often team up, right? Or… Or maybe I should wear a suit too? That’d definitely boost my chances of catching his interest! I could even suggest we form a team!!! Yes, yes! I need Petra right away! To be or not to be—question solved. Helping people is a noble and worthy goal! I’ll be just like Mom, serving and protecting the people of America! Sure, the guy’s interesting, but it’s not about that—it's about making the world a better place! Yeah, totally. That’s it!

The girl began frantically scrolling through her contacts, looking for Parker’s number.

____________________________________________

Hydra-Auntie (1) and Mama Betty

Elizabeth fiddled nervously with her wedding ring, keeping a wary eye on her very excited mentor pacing the room. What she had expected to be a routine meeting had taken a far more unusual turn. Normally composed and calm, the older aristocrat was practically giddy—exactly how she got when another of her self-proclaimed brilliant schemes took form. These moments always made Betty feel a gnawing sense of impending doom. Especially when the plans concerned her.

"Everything is going even better than I hoped—perfectly, in fact. No doubt about it, Mister Mutant is our Tobias." The woman plopped herself into a chair, leaned back with a satisfied smile, and stared at the ceiling. "Our narrow-eyed ‘friend’ seems quite intrigued by a business proposition with a price of exactly one head. Or maybe it’s someone else’s idea—that doesn’t really matter. But, Betty, see if you can get more info from our boy the next time you meet. In private, please. We don’t need Judy’s hysterics. Get the details—but also make sure Tobias knows you approve. Lay it on thick: motherly pride, concern for his well-being, the whole shebang… Ah, you know the drill. Just make him feel your warmth."

"Understood. I’ll handle it," nodded the police lieutenant.

"Good. Very good. Now, SHIELD is finally stirring—they’re actively targeting known mutants. The Avengers Initiative is a go, and that’s exactly what we need right now. Tobias will draw attention just by acting as he does, so there’s no need to reveal his identity outright. A teenager melting metal with his bare hands? I doubt even the most clueless idiots could miss the connection between those lab footage leaks from Stryker’s facility and the testimony of those rescued slaves. And the fact that one of them is your captain’s daughter? Oh, that’s just delicious. A debt from someone so high up in the police force will come in very handy.

"If Tobias grows quickly enough and makes a loud enough entrance, SHIELD will have no choice but to offer him a spot. And when that happens, we’ll leak info about Project X-23 to our Japanese ‘friend’—let the boy find himself at least one white girl! This rainbow-colored mess of a future harem is already exhausting me. We’ll spotlight the X-23 case in the media: a government scheme to train a sentient, underage girl like a weapon just because she’s a mutant. We’ll highlight Tobias’ role in it. SHIELD won’t be able to ignore that kind of pressure.”

She looked at Betty with a sudden intensity, the humor draining from her voice.

"And then, once he’s safely ensconced within SHIELD, we’ll play your card, dear."

Betty’s tension visibly spiked. "What exactly do you mean?"

“One potential scenario: we ‘discover’ lingering Hydra cells operating in the U.S. We’ll offer up some expendable idiots—useless cannon fodder who know nothing. And you, my dear, will be listed among them. That information will inevitably reach Tobias. His affection for you will be the perfect motivator to turn him to our side."

"But that would dest—"

"Destroy any chance of him staying in the light, yes. Exactly. But it’s just one possibility. If we no longer need to hide, or if Tobias becomes more valuable as something else—" The aristocrat broke into a laugh. "We’ll have our own Captain Hydra! A symbol to counterbalance Rogers. The key is for Tobias to have an impeccable reputation by then—ideally with a massive fanbase of adoring girls. And a strong harem. Right now, besides that useless animal, he has a teleporting mutant at his side. But if the energy vampire, Hulk, and regenerating X-23 follow him, we’ll hit the jackpot.

"Besides, with teenage libido and the right… environment we could make it work in our favor. Who knows how many strong young women will flock to him, instinctively driven to protect their alpha. And remember, Betty," she said with a knowing look, "they’ll all do it willingly."

She laughed again, genuine and full of wicked delight. If Elizabeth didn’t know her so well, the infectious mood might have made her smile too.

________________________________________

Queenpin, aka Willa Fisk

The massive woman sat listening grimly to her underling’s weekly report. Nothing catastrophic—but nothing particularly exciting either. The usual dance with Silver-Haired: a never-ending cold war for control of different city sectors. They fought over smuggling, gambling, and brothels, though narcotics and human trafficking weren’t her rival’s style. That self-righteous Sicilian hag treated those trades with disdain, keeping her hands clean—and conveniently dodging the attention of both Daredevil and Punisher. The latter, according to rumors, even bought exclusive booze from one of Silvermane’s suppliers.

Fisk’s scowl deepened. The mutant who wrecked her last shipment had been too efficient. The whole transport was lost, and nobody even managed to fire a shot. Was he a vigilante? Maybe—but the operation had been surgical, not some messy hero stunt. A problem either way. Still, none of her people involved were worth mourning. Even the ones who knew a few names had already gone underground—or under dirt.

But for one of the captives to be the daughter of a police captain. That might have just been a blessing in disguise after all.

The next shipment would follow a new plan with a different, more competent crew. Plus, it was time to get some serious muscle watching over things. You couldn’t rule out the possibility of a new "hunter of bandits" popping up and deciding to make Queenpin their primary target, throwing her entire life into chaos. Better to dig up whatever intel they could on "Mister Mutant."

What really had Fisk on edge, though, was the news about the growing number of Hand operatives in New York. They weren’t moving—just gathering and lurking in the shadows. What were they waiting for? She didn’t have a clue. Maybe she’d try hiring a few of their specialists for some low-risk jobs—just enough to get a feel for their skill level.

But her biggest headache came from a couple of vampire nests in the city. Sneaky little bloodsuckers. They had a nasty habit of snacking on people from the night streets—her people, to be exact. Naturally, these fang-faced bastards preferred their meals from the criminal underbelly: no pesky legal issues, minimal fuss over missing persons, and it was easy enough to stage a "murder" as a gang-related hit. Hell, even the cops would breathe a sigh of relief, turning a blind eye to any "oddities." Those blood-sucking bitches… Maybe it was worth enlisting the Hand to track down the nests. If they could wipe them out for a reasonable price, that’d be perfect.

She’d also need to spread a few well-placed rumors to attract the attention of hunters. The more heat on those red-eyed freaks, the better.

With a heavy sigh, Fisk dismissed her assistant and grabbed her phone. Some orders needed a personal touch. Couldn’t trust everything to underlings—not when things got… tricky.

_________________________________

• It's a nickname the Russian audience gave to her.

Daily Updates (07/01/25)

Stories

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 25

• Tier 2: Chapter 30

Sneak Peeks

Hydrargyrum (Fate/Zero x Harry Potter)

• Chapter 1 (Prologue)

• Chapter 2

Original Title: Hydragyrum by Hind-24

Status: Completed (117 chapters, 7k words per chapter)

Stats: 7000 likes, 9500 subs

Review: The story's about a typical magus from an established Fate family getting inserted into the Harry Potter world.

I've only read the first 15 chapters, but so far, it's great. The highlights are the integration of Fate magic into Harry Potter and the logical explanations for it. The main character's also interesting.

For those familiar with Fate/Zero, the MC is Kayneth Archibald, one of the antagonists from the anime's second season. For those unfamiliar, the character is a petty, arrogant, and selfish nobleman who is immensely proud of his ancestry and the Archibald family. He sees himself as a proper magus and nobleman, with his own code of chivalry.

The twist? Kayneth "reincarnates" as a piss-poor muggleborn orphan and has to rise from the bottom.

Another plus I rarely see in this kind of fanfiction is that Harry Potter magic isn't just a shittier version of Fate's. It's a different magical discipline with its own merits. The philosophy and methodology behind it are polar opposites to the Fate magic system, so it's intriguing to see how Kayneth tries to learn and combine them with his own skills.

P.S. The story was recommended by Worm_of_Time on QQ.

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 2

That was how the watchman found him the next morning—sitting at the bottom of a pit, filthy from head to toe, frozen stiff, and with his hands scraped raw and bleeding. More adults arrived, shouting something he barely registered. Some even struck him a few times, but Kayneth remained indifferent, locked in stupor.

The memories of the war—where he had lost everything he held dear, including the only person he had ever truly loved—came crashing down on him. His death at the hands of a backstabbing worm, his soul transported into this vermin-ridden body, his brief flicker of hope extinguished by overwhelming despair—it was all too much. Even for a man as strong-willed and determined as he had once been.

Truth be told, Kayneth had already been broken back in that factory ruin, when he abandoned all hope of regaining his magecraft or ever rising from his wheelchair. He had given up everything to save Sola—admitted defeat for the first time in his life. And not against a worthy foe, but to a despicable coward with a gun.

Everything that happened after that had merely been the final blow.

For two full days, the magus lay there, eyes fixed on a single point. People came and went. They slapped his face, waved ammonia under his nose, tried to force medicine down his throat—but none of it made any difference. He felt nothing. Nothing mattered. Let them fuss around him—what of it?

Left like that, he might have stayed catatonic for years. Eventually, they would ship him off to an asylum, or something even worse. No one in the orphanage would waste time or resources tending to someone in such a state.

In fact, it was surprising they had even bothered to call an outside doctor for a boy like him. The man didn’t seem like a specialist in catatonia—just a general neurologist from the nearest charity hospital, judging by his worn, inexpensive clothing. The doctor shone a flashlight into his eyes, asked a few meaningless questions, likely hoping for any sort of reaction.

And then, without warning, Kayneth politely asked if the distinguished gentleman’s surname might be Archibald.

The doctor—who introduced himself as Kevin Watson—looked eerily like Morgan Archibald, Kayneth’s father and the eighth head of the Archibald family. Of course, Morgan would have been nearly seventy by 1992, while this doctor seemed, at most, in his early fifties. Perhaps he was some distant relative.

But the name "Archibald" clearly meant nothing to him.

Still, the sluggish gears in Kayneth’s mind began to turn again. Thoughts, slow at first, picked up speed.

‘Even if this is another reality, the mundane world looks identical to ours. They speak English here, so Britain hasn’t been conquered by the French, Germans, or Russians in this timeline. This orphanage was built in the 19th century just like ours; the trees in the yard are planted in the same pattern, and even that monster of a caretaker was hired some years ago. The phone numbers I dialed exist—their structure and even the phones themselves are the same.

I need more information. At the very least, I should find out the names of the queen and the prime minister. Better yet, visit a few places in London I frequented before. So far, it looks like the two worlds are similar enough—except here, I never left a beacon in those ruins, and the entire Clock Tower seems... off. Perhaps the Association avoids interfering in mundane politics, so while the 'normal world' remains similar, its magical counterpart could be very different. But if there’s magic here, there must be magi.

There are two possibilities: either magus Kayneth Archibald exists here but lives elsewhere—say, Egypt, if the Atlas Institute leads the Association in this world—or everything is different, and somewhere here exists an ordinary man named Kayneth Archibald… or someone with a completely different name. The same goes for Sola and everyone else I knew. Either way, my knowledge of the 'future' is useless. If anyone needs saving, it won’t be from an Einzbern mercenary or a traitorous student. My goal is clear: find the local Mage’s Association and figure out where it stands. Only then can I secure my rightful place there. Ideally, I’ll reconnect with my family, if it even exists in this world, though that seems... unlikely.’

"Easier said than done," he muttered bitterly. "True Magic replicated... the Einzberns would die of envy... Arrogant fool. Thought I was one of the Five Great Magicians. Look where that got me."

These words came from Kayneth Archibald—or rather, James Murphy, a ten-year-old orphan in this world. He sat on a dusty attic floor by a small window with shattered panes, staring out at the familiar sight of London. The drafts and the stench wafting up from the orphanage’s so-called "kitchen" didn’t bother him. Getting here hadn’t been hard—just a matter of stealing an old bronze key, green with age. His faint remnants of magical power had been just enough for that. There was nowhere else to go after leaving the infirmary—shared toilets, overcrowded dormitories crammed with dozens, activities and walks dictated by strict schedules.

Frankly, he was lucky the boy whose body he now inhabited had magical potential. Without it, the ritual likely would have failed entirely, his soul unable to find a suitable vessel. Instead, it would have been drawn straight to the Root. The fact that his soul had crossed into another world no longer surprised him.

For one, he knew someone—if that being could still be called human—who wielded True Magic capable of traversing worlds. Perhaps that individual had interfered in his fate, spiteful that Kayneth had once refused to become his apprentice. Secondly, the beacon ritual he had used was spiritual in nature, tied to a contract with spirits. Spirits, by their nature, interact with worlds differently, and finding no suitable host in one world, they might carry a soul to another. Finally, there was the dying "blessing" of that heroic spirit, a familiar of the highest order with gods in his lineage. Such a curse couldn’t simply be shrugged off.

One way or another, this was a different world, and he had no choice but to accept it. If there were a mystery here that could bring him back, he would have to find it through the Mage Association. He had lost everything—but magic was his purpose, and now he had it again.

Kayneth stretched out his hand—dirty, scratched, with two nails torn off—and focused, trying to open his magic circuits and perform basic healing. Nothing happened, not on the first try or the second. In his past life, he had been born into a magus family and possessed numerous magic circuits of exceptional quality. He had begun training in the family arts at five, the same age his father started transferring the Archibald crest to him—a mark containing the knowledge and skills of past family heads.

It had been painful, at times unbearable, but Kayneth endured it, understanding his duty as an heir. When he officially became the head of the family, he strengthened the crest further, adding new spells to it. All of that was destroyed when that cursed bullet struck him, burning his circuits with his own magecraft, crippling his nervous system, and leaving him nearly paralyzed. Even if the Association’s enforces retrieved his body and salvaged the crest, they would be lucky to recover a tenth of its power for the next head. Who that might be was anyone’s guess. Reines was too young, and the others would likely fight over the family’s secrets and wealth rather than take on the responsibility of becoming Lord El-Melloi.

______________________________

Of course, there was nothing more Kayneth could do to change his circumstances now. His priority had shifted to attempting a crude magical operation using the pitiful scraps of power at his disposal. In this world, James Murphy obviously didn’t have a family crest, had never studied magical arts, and it was still unclear just how pitifully inadequate the magic circuits tied to his body and soul were, courtesy of unknown parents.

“Well, at least it’s something...” Kayneth rasped after his tenth attempt. Pain coursed through the body—a sharp, familiar agony caused by forcing several undeveloped magic circuits to open at once. His palm glowed faintly as scratches and bruises vanished. The physical body reconstructed the spiritual image of the hand as it was before sustaining those injuries.

However, the nails didn’t regenerate—he didn’t have enough power. The circuits stayed open only briefly before snapping shut again, completely depleted. Just a week ago, in his own body, Kayneth could have healed a bullet wound with a flick of his wrist, wiped away the blood, and even restored damaged clothing. Now, he had barely managed to seal a few cuts. Pathetic.

The underdeveloped magic system of this body wasn’t the only factor to blame. Mundane issues, like hunger, likely played a role as well. Kayneth couldn’t stomach the slop they served the orphans—just the sight of it made him retch. The others probably thought it was the result of a concussion and subsequent nervous breakdown. Or maybe they didn’t care. Their opinions meant nothing to him.

One way or another, he needed to leave this orphanage. Staying here would only lead to death—either from starvation, pneumonia due to constant drafts, or from a shiv to the ribs courtesy of one of the “lovely” children. James’s battered face was no coincidence, and it likely wasn’t the first time. Two monumental tasks, with barely any resources to accomplish them.

Sighing, the magus rose and trudged toward the hatch leading downstairs, trying not to inhale the dust swirling up with his steps. It was almost time for “dinner,” and there’d be trouble if the adults didn’t find Murphy among the children.

On his way, Kayneth once again tried to devise a plan for the near future. Locating the local Association proved unexpectedly difficult in his current situation. How would he, as a rootless amateur in “his” London, go about finding the Clock Tower without knowing its address or the names of its magi?

The simplest option would be to break secrecy—demonstrate his magecraft in front of ordinary people, preferably in a park, a plaza, or even on live television. As long as enough eyes witness him they’d come for him quickly. Of course, he’d only be lucky if they didn’t erase him and the witnesses under the guise of another “gas explosion.” Especially if the Church got to him before the Association. Ignorance of the rules offered no protection from the consequences…

A sudden blow to the back of his head sent his thoughts scattering. The world flipped, and Kayneth regained awareness lying on a filthy, mold-covered floor.

Three older boys loomed over him. One rubbed his knuckles, evidently the one who’d struck.

“What’re you staring at, freak? Didn’t get enough last time? We can fix that, can’t we, boys?” The leader sneered and kicked James in the ribs.

“Yeah, crush the mutant! Don’t want to catch whatever he’s got,” another boy jeered, delivering a kick to the face. Kayneth barely raised his hand in time, and the dirty boot only grazed him.

“Hey, let me have a go!” the third chimed in. The trio descended into a frenzy, raining kicks down on Murphy’s body.

If I die here, this’ll be the stupidest death imaginable, Kayneth thought with almost detached clarity. The pain was tolerable—nothing compared to what magi endured during training or high-level rituals. The humiliation and the familiar sense of helplessness were far worse.

Not long ago, he’d lain on the floor in a pool of mercury and his own blood, unable to feel his numbed body, struggling just to breathe. And now, these fools might actually kill him.

“Hey! What’re you doing?” one of the boys exclaimed, startled, as James suddenly grabbed his leg.

“Oh, nothing... Want to see a neat trick, you little runt?” Kayneth rasped, smearing blood from his cracked lips onto the boy’s leg. A simple straight line was all he needed. He poured the remnants of his magical energy into the rune, thankful that the "Isaz" symbol was so easy to draw. In his semi-conscious state, anything more complex would’ve been impossible.

“What the hell are you babbling about, freak?” another boy snapped, landing another kick that sent Kayneth sprawling against the wall.

Then the first boy screamed. He crumpled to the floor, clutching his leg.

“I can’t feel my legs! What did you do, you bastard?!”

“Just… frostbite,” the magus said indifferently, glancing at the boy’s pale, frostbitten skin visible through the tears in his tattered pants. “Second degree. If you idiots drag him to the infirmary right now, they might save his leg. It’ll just hurt like hell when it thaws.”

“You think you’re invincible, freak?” the third boy snarled, raising his fist.

“Go ahead, don’t rush,” Kayneth taunted with a deranged grin. “The longer you hesitate, the more likely your friend gets to enjoy a wheelchair. Trust me, you get used to it. One day you have legs, the next you don’t—it happens.”

“You’re dead, freak,” one of the boys hissed, slinging their screaming friend’s arm over his shoulder. “We’ll drown you in the toilet.”

“Try me,” the magus called after them. He slumped against the wall, assessing his condition.

He had no energy left for even the simplest healing. He’d have to endure the pain until nightfall—or longer. The minuscule reserve he’d used barely fueled the rune. In truth, the frostbite was barely first-degree. At this age, his past self could have completely frozen someone. But dwelling on past glory was pointless when he faced immediate problems.

Today, he might have bought himself some time. Tomorrow? The day after? He had to leave the orphanage, or his second chance would end in stupidity. These children weren’t bluffing—they’d drown him if given the chance.

A strong magus could take on dozens, even hundreds of normal humans—or soldiers with weapons. But doing so required preparation: a fortified location, mystic codes, bounded fields, a full reserve of magical energy and a few magical furnaces. Fighting without those was a recipe for failure and a senseless death.

________________________________

The next day’s escape attempt failed. His plan required at least two distinct magical actions, but the pitiful body he inhabited could barely generate enough energy in a full day for one, even with his constant efforts to rebuild the nearly atrophied magical circuits. As a result, Kayneth spent the entire day ensuring he stayed in plain sight of the orphanage staff or surrounded by large groups of children—cowardly and shameful, but he had no other choice.

The situation grew more complicated when rumors spread about the boy, Murphy, who had ended up in the infirmary with frostbite. Other children, labeled as "weird" like him, avoided him outright. That day, Archibald chose not to spend any magic on healing his injuries. Instead, by evening, he poured all the magic he had accumulated into a simple ritual. Using a nail pried loose from the attic, he scratched an alchemical circle onto the back gate of the orphanage's fence. It was crude and painfully simplistic, but without proper materials or tools, it was the best he could manage.

A day later, during a walk, the magus casually approached the rusty gate, placing his palm on his magic circle to activate it. Sealed power surged forth, altering reality to conform to the symbols and diagrams etched into the decrepit iron. The change was subtle but effective: for a couple of seconds, the metal lock softened, turning from solid to viscous. The magus yanked the gate open and dashed outside, trying to recall the quickest route to the main street.

Navigating the alleyways, he prayed none of the caretakers or those brutish little thugs who would gladly beat the “freak” to death without witnesses were on his trail. After a few twists and turns, he emerged onto a narrow asphalt road lined with dilapidated houses, relics of better days. Dodging a couple of clunking old cars typical of the area, Kayneth spotted an empty taxi. He raised his hand in a practiced gesture.

“Kid, you got money for this?” the driver asked with a disdainful glance at the battered and scruffy boy.

“More than enough, don’t worry,” the magus replied, waving a few torn scraps of free newspapers scavenged from the orphanage. At the same time, he cast a hypnotic spell. As usual, his magic in this body required him to channel all his reserves into one strong impulse, opening every accessible channel. It wasn’t perfect, but all he needed was to make the greedy driver see fifty-pound notes. The rest—Sir Christopher Wren, St. Paul’s Cathedral, the watermarks—would be filled in by the man’s own imagination.

“Fine, hop in. And I won’t ask where you nicked those.”

“Whittington Hospital. Quickly,” Kayneth ordered as he climbed in. Curse this body and its short stature—every movement was a strain. “I’ll pay extra for urgency.”

Archibald sighed, watching the familiar streets and landmarks of London pass by. It was astounding how much this world resembled his own, yet its magical underbelly was entirely different. Surely there were secrets here—laboratories, workshops, or magus inns concealed behind barriers invisible to ordinary people. Right now, however, he couldn’t sense them, as blind to them as any mundane fool. That had to change, and soon.

“Here we are, Whittington Hospital. That’ll be—”

“Keep the change.” Kayneth tossed the bundle of paper onto the seat and bolted from the cab. The hospital doors were just twenty paces away. He nearly sprinted the entire distance.

“Hey, you little shit! Stop right there!” the driver shouted after him.

But the magus had already pushed through the heavy doors (far too resistant for someone his size) and entered the familiar hospital lobby. Normally, he came here once a month or so with his advanced students. They needed practice in spiritual healing, and sick magi weren’t abundant enough for all the trainees. It had been simpler to strike a deal with a local doctor—a fabricated story about a secret medical research institute, reinforced with hypnosis. No one missed the vagrants brought in from the streets if a novice healer botched a spell. Now, however, he was one of those filthy outcasts—a disgrace to the Archibald name. If any of his colleagues saw him like this...

Spotting the reception desk, the magus made it just past a few doctors and patients before collapsing face-first onto the cold stone floor. He hardly needed to act; exhaustion from the past few days in this body was enough to make him lose consciousness the moment he let his guard down. They wouldn’t kill him here. He’d wake up either in a hospital bed or behind bars.

______________________________________________

The police weren’t called, and he wasn’t thrown in jail. When the magus woke up the following afternoon, a doctor gave him an extended lecture about his inappropriate behavior, stealing, and lying. The man even mentioned that they’d paid the taxi driver themselves this time because it was an emergency, but warned him not to try such stunts again. Kayneth nodded weakly, feigning remorse, even mumbling an apology or two. When the farce grew tiresome, he simulated dizziness, disorientation, and nausea—textbook symptoms of a concussion. Faking these signs was child’s play for an experienced healer.

Left alone, he finally took in his surroundings. A cramped, six-bed ward for the homeless and destitute. The peeling paint, ancient ceiling lamps, and overall shabbiness screamed "budget care," but compared to the orphanage infirmary, this place was practically a palace.

His fellow patients didn’t interest him—at least they weren’t trying to bash his head in, which was good enough. For now, he needed rest. The fights at the orphanage had left him battered, and he required a quiet space to meditate, retrain his magic circuits, and plan his next steps. He had a lead on finding this world’s Mage’s Association but lacked backup plans. Worse, he hadn’t solved the mundane issues of money or shelter. The orphanage at least provided a roof and rotting cabbage for sustenance. Once discharged, he’d have nothing.

For a scion of House Archibald, accustomed to power and privilege, this was an unthinkable nightmare. Even in Japan, he could have swallowed his pride and returned to London for financial or magical aid. Here, there was no family, no safety net. Nothing. Still, as long as he had his magic, there was hope.

The magus spent three days in the hospital, catching his breath and gathering his thoughts. The meals were barely edible, but compared to the slop at the orphanage, they were almost gourmet. Kayneth grimaced at the realization of how low his standards had sunk in just a few days. Something had to change.

Most of his time was spent in "sleep"—meditating, stabilizing his magic circuits, and healing his injuries. He focused on the cracks in his ribs and bruised internal organs, which mundane medicine would take weeks to fix. Cuts and scrapes could be left to the hospital staff, as could dehydration and malnutrition. His weakened immune system would need separate attention later. Rationally, it made sense to conserve his limited magical reserves, but his body’s circuits could only store so much, and he lacked the necessary materials to create proper storage devices.

At night, he carefully explored the hospital under hypnosis, even venturing into restricted areas. Slowly, a plan began forming in his mind—a way to secure the funds he so desperately needed. For now, though, it was more of a rough sketch than a fully developed strategy.

Several times, they tried to question him casually. A police officer came by, asking about the orphanage. Kayneth answered honestly, hiding nothing. Yes, they were fed slop; yes, the mattresses were infested with bugs, thicker than even the cockroaches; yes, he had been beaten multiple times by other children. But when asked for the names of the director or caretakers, or even the orphanage’s exact name or address, he truthfully couldn’t recall, only vaguely naming the district. What would happen to that wretched place no longer concerned him. Whether the entire staff ended up in prison or continued as if nothing had changed, it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t be there. The rest was irrelevant.

Early in the morning of the fourth day, Archibald used the magic power he had accumulated overnight to convince a nurse to return his now slightly cleaner rags. His excuse? That he was being officially discharged. After that, all he had to do was bide his time, lingering in the hospital corridors for a couple of hours before slipping out through the main doors, blending into the sparse morning crowd. Waiting for an official discharge wasn’t an option. In his current situation, the most he could expect was another orphanage, perhaps marginally better than the last one, but still unsuitable for a magus. Worse, who knew where it might be located or whether Archibald could escape it again to make his way back to central London?

Wittington Hospital hadn’t been chosen by chance. Beyond his familiarity with it in his own world, the hospital sat near one of London’s largest ley-line intersections.

Walking slowly through the still-quiet streets, Kayneth had the chance to glance around while simultaneously attuning his senses to the increasing magical energy in the air. Ley lines—natural "rivers" of Earth's magical energy—were once widely recognized when magic was an integral part of everyday life. Back then, many could feel their presence and direction, and temples or fortresses were often built at their intersections. These sites were commonly protected by magical barriers, fueled naturally by the ley lines themselves. Over time, settlements formed around such places, first as villages and later as cities.

In cities older than 500 years, at least one ley-line intersection often lies at the heart. These locations frequently house the estates of magical families, research laboratories, branches of the Mage’s Association, or even cathedrals and temples tied to the hidden side of the Church. London was no exception. It boasted several such intersections. While the Clock Tower wasn’t situated on the largest, its primary intersection remained a vital hub for the magical community in Britain. Kayneth was certain that in this world, too, he could find someone there who might serve as a point of contact.

He sighed, staring down at the cheap tourist map of central London he had picked up from the hospital. Mapping out the ley lines onto it would be easy—he could practically do it in his sleep. Aligning the magical geography with the city's mundane layout and street names was straightforward, given that they were identical to those in his world. However, once again, he’d underestimated the limitations of this body. After just a few miles, he was already exhausted, and there were still at least twice that distance to cover.

But what choice did he have? He gritted his teeth and pushed on. If he stopped now, he might as well give up on his goals, abandon magic, and collapse in the corner to beg for scraps. Judging by his ragged clothes, gaunt frame, and the bruises and scratches still marring his face, people would likely give generously…

[Hydrargyrum] Chapter 1

“So now the geas binds you…” leadingly said the paralyzed former magus, sitting in a wheelchair, clutching a wounded girl tightly against his chest.

“Yes, it is sealed. I can no longer kill you or Sola-Ui…” the tall man replied emotionlessly. He wore a trench coat over a rumpled dark suit and held a submachine gun loosely in his hands, its barrel pointed at the ground. After a brief pause, he added with the same indifference, “I can’t but…”

From the far side, a short burst of gunfire crackled, the echo reverberating through the inner courtyard of the abandoned factory. The magus—powerless, unable to walk, and long since resigned to abandoning his ambitions and the will to fight—slumped from his wheelchair onto the dirty concrete floor. Even after half a dozen bullets tore into his chest, he clung to life. To his own despair.

“Kill me… Kill me now…”

“Sorry, our pact forbids me to,” said the man, whose actions had brought about this ruin, his voice as flat as before.

The last thing the magus saw was the gleam of a beautifully radiant golden sword, as though pulled straight from the pages of a knightly legend.

_______________________________________

Kayneth Archibald, Lord El-Melloi, a ninth-generation magus and the youngest professor at the Clock Tower, snapped his eyes open. He bolted upright, tossing aside the thin blanket that tangled around him.

He blinked in confusion, taking in his surroundings. The dim evening light revealed a cramped, shabby room filled with narrow beds. The air reeked of medicine, bleach, and… bedbugs? It was a hospital. A mundane one, no doubt—judging by the faded, overwashed gray curtains, the grimy windows, and the scuffed floor covered in muddy footprints.

Kayneth wasn’t surprised. He’d always considered this country an uncultured backwater. But the English signs everywhere made him pause. Was he no longer in Japan?

Surely, much time must have passed. Surviving that cowardly betrayal—by a man who dared call himself a magus despite possessing no honor—was a miracle in itself. Someone from the Archibald family must have brought him back to England. But why had they sent him to this wretched place for treatment? The Holy Grail War had drained their finances, yes, but not so thoroughly that the head of the Archibald family would be dumped into a charity ward for beggars.

If I survived… could Sola have made it too?

A flicker of hope flared as Kayneth searched the room once more. Empty beds. Peeling paint. No one was here. He stood alone in the middle of the room. From somewhere distant came the low murmur of voices, the muffled hum of activity, and the relentless ticking of a clock on the wall.

“Standing?” he thought, his mind catching up to his body. How am I even…?

The absurdity of it all made him speak aloud. His gaze dropped to his bare feet planted firmly on the grimy, stained floor—filthy, yes, but suddenly the last thing on his mind.

Lord El-Melloi knew he would never walk again. The injuries that had obliterated his magic circuits had severed his nerves beyond repair.

And these legs weren’t his.

Neither were his hands—too small, too thin, too filthy. His right hand showed no trace of scars he remembered. His clothes were just as strange: only a ragged tank top and underwear, both worn and stained. The stitching was crude and amateurish. A month ago, he would have berated a servant for mopping the floor with rags like these.

Already dreading the answer, Kayneth shuffled to the cracked mirror hanging on the far wall. His reflection stared back at him—gray eyes, fair hair that hadn’t been washed in weeks, and a bruised, swollen face. He was a boy of about ten, with a nose that had once been broken and never properly set. His lips were split, fresh scratches lined his cheek, and the faint stink of chemicals clung to his skin.

Not me, Kayneth thought. Not even close.

He raised his hand and traced the rune for “Perthro,” then “Ehwaz.” The boy in the mirror mimicked him perfectly.

A lesser magus might have screamed in terror. A novice would have collapsed in panic.

Kayneth Archibald, next in line to head the Faculty of Spiritual Evocation, simply shrugged.

This wasn’t the first—or the hundredth—time he had inhabited another body. Control of familiars, spirit possession, and the repair of deep soul damage, all the things he’s done many times before, all required intimate knowledge of operating from within another form.

Nothing unusual, he mused. Not my body. Not my soul. Almost no trace of the boy’s spirit left.

Guiding the small, malnourished frame with ease, he crossed to the window. He braced his thin hands against the ledge—higher than he was used to, annoyingly so—and ignored the dust, cobwebs, and greenish stains.

He had bigger concerns.

Gray skies loomed over a bleak London courtyard. Dead leaves clung to the ground in patches of half-melted snow. A crooked oak tree rose near a rusting fence, its paint flaking away.

It all seemed familiar. But Kayneth couldn’t afford to dwell on scenery.

Two months ago, he had left the Clock Tower to compete in a deadly ritual held once every sixty years in the Far East. The prize? A relic capable of granting any wish.

The relic itself held little appeal. Kayneth had almost everything he could want.

No, three other reasons had drawn him in.

First, as a scholar of spiritual phenomena, he couldn’t resist a ritual that summoned not minor spirits but legendary heroes.

Second, he craved a worthy challenge. The duels of the Clock Tower had grown stale, with no opponents left to truly test his mettle. The Grail War offered the chance to battle magi to the death.

And third? He wanted to show off. His fiancee needed to see what he could do in combat, after all.

Winning the Grail? A gift for her.

But the Grail War had gone wrong from the start.

A witless student had stolen his catalyst, forcing him to buy a replacement for an obscene price, and even that was unreliable. His Servant, a useless poser, had thrown his entire strategy into disarray. Then a cowardly ambush cost him his resources, artifacts, and safe house.

His attempt to uphold the dignity of the Tower ended with a knife in the back and loss of magic.

Sola had fought on in his place—but without his experience or talent, disaster was inevitable.

And disaster had come.

A spray of bullets to his chest.

A final blow from a sword.

Few men could say they’d been beheaded by Excalibur.

But none of that answered the main question—why was he here?

“James! James Victor Murphy, would you care to explain what in the devil’s name you’re doing out of bed, you little pest?!” a raspy, almost growling voice snapped from behind.

The odd combination of vulgar scolding and a thin veneer of politeness left Kayneth momentarily at a loss—no one had ever addressed him in such a manner. Still, he had to remember that the angry tirade wasn’t aimed at him, but at the brat whose body he currently occupied. He turned toward the door and beheld something truly remarkable—in the worst possible way.

A tall, gaunt woman with a sickly gray complexion stood there, draped in ancient, shapeless rags that hung on her like a sack. Her lifeless eyes and sallow face made Kayneth think he’d seen more charming ghouls and reanimated deads (1) than this creature. To top it all off, her unkempt hair was dyed a faded, pale lilac for reasons he couldn’t even begin to fathom.

And then, in that moment of grotesque revelation, Kayneth Archibald remembered everything.

He realized where he was.

“I... I think I’ve managed to replicate True Magic. The Einzberns will die of envy when they find out...”

“What nonsense are you muttering, you parasite? Hit your head harder than usual, did you?” the growling voice came again.

“No, ma’am. I apologize, ma’am. I just wanted to see if I could stand, ma’am,” Kayneth said, his words half-truth. Now that he had confirmed his need to buy time, he decided to avoid drawing attention to himself. He would play the part of the terrified, downtrodden orphan—a cowering wretch bullied by teachers and caretakers. It was a humiliating act, but he conjured the memory of the stern tutors who had drilled the basics of magecraft into him twenty-five years ago. Keeping his eyes locked in a “submissive” stare, he sidled backward toward his cot.

“You watch yourself, you little wretch,” the woman snarled. “If that bump on your head’s not bad enough, I’ll give you another—harder. Crawl out of bed again, and you won’t see summer before you’re walking straight. You’ve got a real habit of testing my patience...”

“M-m-ma’am,” Kayneth stammered, injecting as much simpering obsequiousness into his voice as he could manage, “please forgive my questions, but could you tell me what happened to me? I can’t seem to remember anything...”

“You fell down the stairs. Head first. By the time Stevenson found you, you’d been lying there for hours. Honestly, I’m surprised you didn’t die on the spot.”

Liar.

Now that his shock was receding, Kayneth could fully feel the injuries in this body. The pattern of bruises, the loose teeth, the hematomas—even what felt like a cracked rib—pointed to something far more deliberate than a simple fall. Someone had beaten the boy senseless. Incompetently, perhaps, but with brutal enthusiasm. Even without a diagnostic spell, Kayneth could tell. Not that he cared much about the plight of battered orphans.

This place—some municipal orphanage named for Saint Barbara or Agnes (he was never good with religious trivia)—had been selected by him years ago. Back then, he had just become a lecturer in Spiritual Evocation, gaining access to its archives and the latest research. Among the materials he had unearthed was a ritual to create a "beacon," a construct of energy that could guide a magus’ soul to the nearest suitable body if forcibly ejected. Since summoning often required sharing one’s body with volatile spirits, precautions like these were only prudent.

Having prepared the reagents and studied the theory, Kayneth had instructed one of the Archibald family servants to take him to a squalid orphanage across London’s slums—a place where no one would think to look for him, and where the fate of the local children was of no consequence. He had remembered the decrepit building well: a relic from the Victorian era that looked more like a pigsty. He had never seen a pigsty, but he imagined this was what one would look like.

It was here, while cloaked in invisibility and warding the area with a repellent barrier, that he had first laid eyes on the shrieking, cadaverous woman with the violet hair. She had been berating a group of malnourished, ragged children, no older than toddlers. Her visage was unforgettable.

But that was the least of his concerns now. The key point was this: whether his physical body was still lying in some abandoned factory in the Japanese countryside or not, his soul and consciousness had survived. A feat previously thought possible only through the Third True Magic—the long-lost art of the Einzberns.

Moreover, Archibald familiars kept watch over the orphanage. They would have relayed his soul’s reattachment. His family would surely come to retrieve him soon enough.

“Ma’am,” he ventured, “please forgive the questions, but—how long have I been here? When did I... fall? What’s the date today?”

“Two days,” she grunted, jabbing a grimy, blackened nail at a garish bit of cardboard in the corner. A calendar, Kayneth realized, which he hadn’t noticed before. “You fell on the evening of the eleventh. Today’s the thirteenth. Any more dumb questions, James?”

“No... ma’am. I understand perfectly, ma’am. Thank you for your kindness... ma’am.”

“Stay in bed till the nurse comes by, or I’ll tie you down, you little freak,” she threatened before slamming the ancient door shut with a creak.

“James Murphy” remained obediently in place, eyes fixed on the calendar.

The year read March 1992.

When Kayneth Archibald, Lord El-Melloi, had arrived in Japan just days earlier to participate in the Grail War, he had registered at a luxury hotel on March 6th, 1994.

Kayneth could barely sit still, vibrating with anticipation as he waited for someone—anyone—from the Archibald family’s servants to appear. The thrill that had seized him upon realizing the two-year gap between this time and the Grail War was almost too much to contain.

The possibilities raced through his mind. He could prevent the entire nightmare from unfolding—warn his past self about everything that would happen, convince or compel himself to take proper precautions. He would never bring Sola-Ui into that bloodbath. He could challenge that upstart Velvet to a duel beforehand and carve him into pieces, ensuring the thief would never dream of stealing from his professor. He could prepare for not only fair combat but also the underhanded tricks of bombs and guns.

His mind raced with strategies and contingencies, a long list of everything he had to tell his past self growing by the second. So caught up was he in his plans that he didn’t even notice how much time had passed—nor that no one had come for him before darkness fell.

The beacon’s malfunction—possibly a side effect of the strange temporal shift—meant the ritual’s signaling circuit may not have worked. And from inside the orphanage, he was in no condition to sense its activation.

But there were other ways to get a message out.

All he needed to do was sneak out of the infirmary after dark, skulk (a humiliating necessity) through the dilapidated corridors, and find the ancient rotary telephone by the hallway. From there, he would simply call his own estate.

Kayneth, despite his disdain for modern technology, appreciated its convenience and comfort. His home did have a phone. However, when he dialed the number, the voice that answered belonged not to a servant but to a bleary pizza parlor worker, who indignantly demanded to know why some lunatic was ordering food at two in the morning.

Were he not inhabiting the malnourished frame of a starving child, Kayneth would have crushed the receiver in his fist.

Convinced he had merely misremembered the digits—or that some idiot servant had pulled a malicious prank—he began cycling through other numbers: several magi who embraced modern conveniences, half a dozen Clock Tower contact lines for interfacing with mundane authorities or the Church, a couple of numbers directly linked to the Church’s overseers, and even the home number of his would-be father-in-law, Professor Nuada-Re.

All of it was in vain. Some numbers were disconnected. Strangers answered others. One line belonged to some “Auror’s office”, where a polite receptionist asked him to state his business.

Already feeling the ground slipping away beneath his feet, the former Lord El-Melloi dashed out into the orphanage courtyard, barely clothed. He couldn’t even remember how he had unlocked the door—just a vague recollection of the recoil from a weak magical pulse lingered in his mind. Finding the right spot wasn’t difficult. Years ago, he had circled this decrepit shack several times, carefully selecting the best location to place his beacon.

Dropping to his knees, Kayneth began clawing at the icy, mud-slicked ground with his bare hands, the earth still mixed with patches of melting snow. He strained every ounce of his now-feeble magical power, desperately seeking the traces of his ritual and the energy structure buried a meter beneath the surface.

But it was all in vain. He could barely sense the natural magical background, faint as a whisper, and only marginally stronger was the distant hum of the city’s leyline, miles away. The beacon—meant to resonate with the power he had infused into it years before—was silent. Completely, utterly gone.

No repelling enchantments to keep animals at bay. No wards to divert prying eyes. No signal arrays, no central structure to the spell. Nothing remained. On this spot, where even an ordinary person should have felt an inexplicable, subconscious unease from lingering magic, there was nothing but cold, unfeeling soil.

The conclusion was undeniable—this was a different world.

A world where he had never performed that ritual in these slums.
A world where Kayneth Archibald, ninth head of a venerable family of magi, respected lecturer, and renowned researcher, did not exist.
A world without Sola-Ui Nuada-Re, his fiancee and the daughter of the head of the Third Faculty of the Clock Tower.
A world where neither the Clock Tower nor the Mage’s Association existed in the form he knew.

And that meant…

It had all been for nothing.
There was nothing to reclaim.
And nothing to fix.

____________________________________________

Author is aware that orphanages were phased out in the UK after WW2 but if Rowling’s universe doesn’t have child protective services that would check on Harry, then it is quite possible that orphanages didn’t get shut down either.

(1) The proper term for “zombies” in Fate/Zero universe

[Life is Good] Chapter 30

Returning to the mansion didn’t exactly feel triumphant—no welcoming committee, no fanfare, no red carpet. We just parked the car. Yuriko dismissed me to catch up on sleep, adding that I was responsible for suit maintenance and would get instructions from McCoy tomorrow. Already half-asleep, I trudged to my room. The adrenaline rush from earlier had long since faded, and the hallways were empty—weekend vibes. Even the early risers weren’t out for their jog yet. Winter mornings, still dark.

I stripped out of my suit and collapsed onto the bed. Thoughts? Nah, didn’t have any. The warmth and quiet swallowed me whole, and I passed out before I even knew it.

A loud knock jolted me awake. For a moment, I thought I was home and Ginger was banging on my door. Nope—this was school, and my visitor had grown impatient. The door burst open without warning. Of course. Jubilee. There she was, standing there, big eyes staring. She opened her mouth to speak but lost her train of thought. Probably because I sleep naked. Blankets? Unnecessary. And, well, I’m fifteen. Let’s just say the monument of male biology proudly salutes the morning sun. Today was no exception.

"Jubes," I muttered groggily. "Did you want something?"

Her gaze snapped to my face, and she blushed furiously. Either she actually could be embarrassed, or her mind went somewhere very, very dirty.

"Uh-huh! Toby, I—" Her eyes flicked to my suit hanging casually on the chair. Her expression morphed into one of wide-eyed, chipmunk-on-a-sugar-high excitement. "IT WAS YOU, WASN’T IT?! You’re Mister Mutant! Tobias!!! You HAVE to tell me everything! We saw it on the news! You’re SO COOL!!! A mutant superhero—saving eighteen people from slavery, melting metal, shooting electricity, glowing face, camo suit—that was YOU, wasn’t it?!"

"Uhhh…" Well. That’s game over, folks. My secret identity? Toast. Yuriko didn’t say anything about this part. "Jubes. Be a pal. Let me wake up? Shower, coffee—comprende?" I asked as I stood, side-stepping with my pants in hand, using them as a makeshift shield while I shuffled toward the bathroom.

"Toby, I’ll die of curiosity while you’re waking up! How will you face Anna-Marie knowing you killed her best friend with boredom?" she hounded me, following right into the bathroom.

"She’ll kill you herself when she finds out you were spying on a guy taking a leak. What’s with this fetish? Wait in the room, for the love of—!" I groaned, exasperated.

"Just hurry!" she yelled through the door. "My life is in your hands!"

Jubilee. Terrifying. I got under the shower, praying she’d get distracted by something shiny and leave. Patience wasn’t her thing. Waiting was torture.

Wishful thinking. Voices outside told me she’d recruited a crowd. Great. I wrapped up my shower, toweled off, and stepped out, prepared for more insanity.

Five pairs of eyes. Five distinct expressions. And five blushing faces. Guess I forgot how impressive a shirtless guy, still damp, with a muscled torso, could be to an audience. Didn’t quite wake up enough for that. So there they were: purple-faced Kristiana biting her lip, Rogue and Jubilee redder than tomatoes, and Windy and Raisa doing their best to look away.

I snorted, slipped on a shirt, and laced up my shoes. "You girls joining me for a run?"

A chorus of "already did" and "it’s almost lunch" answered back, followed by Jubilee’s siren wail, demanding details about my heroic night. I gave a quick five-minute summary on the way out. The whole thing earned a squeal of "Awesome!" from Jubes, a sprinting retreat toward the common room, and a quick kiss from Kristiana after a tight hug. She didn’t look thrilled. Probably a chat waiting there. Raisa punched my arm with a grin. "Nice work, champ."

Secret identity? Yeah, right… Screw it. Jubilee would’ve made something up, and her version? A thousand warrior women in power armor, a demon army, Godzilla getting its jaw ripped open, and a celebratory orgy. This was better.

After my morning workout, I headed for lunch just as it started. Halfway through stuffing my face, Storm intercepted me with orders for McCoy’s lab. Might as well, right? I grabbed my suit and headed over.

Inside were Beast, Magneto, Xavier, Logan, and Yuriko. Beast looked focused, Magneto pleased, Xavier and Logan… less so. Yuriko? Blank as ever.

"Hello, ladies and gentleman," I greeted.

"Good morning, Mister Mutant," Magneto—Erika—smiled brightly. She loved that name. Figures. Anything with mutant in it made her happy. If she had to pick between Amazing Coffee Maker and Crappy Junk with Mutant Branding, she’d take the junk and rave about it. Me? Not a fan. Should’ve picked something cooler.

"Congrats on a brilliant debut."

"Uh… thanks. Bit unexpected."

"It was Miss Oyama’s idea," Xavier explained. "She found the location, learned the timing of the transport, and suggested it as a training exercise. We intended to enhance mutant reputation with this operation. Logan and I were opposed, but Miss Lehnsherr"—a sharp look at Erika—"and Miss Oyama presented… compelling arguments."

"Got it," I replied, wondering why the whole group had assembled.

"Kid, how do you feel about all this?" Logan asking questions, and with a pinch of concern? That… probably meant I should check outside to see if black snow was falling or if Blood Raven drop pods were landing.

"Honestly? I'm fine with it." I shrugged. "The Colonel Stryker incident taught me that being able to protect yourself is a must. No training can replace real experience. So, yeah, I’m even in favor—just maybe with less surprise next time."

"It’ll always be a surprise," Yuriko interjected. She paused, then added, "Almost always." Naturally, she didn’t elaborate. But hey, that’s what Erika was for.

"It really is a good idea, Tobias," she said. "Trouble never makes an appointment. And if you're serious about gaining experience, learning to handle sudden missions is a crucial skill."

"Without a briefing, building layout, or weapon intel?" Logan’s lip curled in disdain.

"There was nothing dangerous there," Yuriko said with the patience of someone explaining basic math to a toddler. "Six idiots with popguns, no bombs, no traps. Building layout?" She scoffed. "You’re not always going to have that luxury. If you have vision that detects wiring, heat sources, and air exchange systems, not using and developing it would be plain stupid."

"So, what’d you say to him?" Logan’s growl deepened. "Lemme guess: ‘Fight over there, slaves in the basement’?"

"If you coddle him, what’s the point of even training him?" Oh, Yuriko could growl too. Who knew? "We could’ve gone in, wrapped it up ourselves, and let him just free the prisoners. Boom—instant Captain America for mutants. With balls, a symbol for the masses. But does that teach him anything?" She waved dismissively, clearly done with the nonsense.

"She’s right, James," Xavier sighed.

"If you send them out unprepared, they end up dead," Logan shot back.

"Experience is the hard school of mistakes." Erika smiled faintly. "And in this case, the risk was negligible. His abilities make him uniquely suited. Frankly, he was better than Colossus would’ve been—stealth and subtlety don’t exactly run in her family. And look, not a single shot fired."

"And if this one"—Logan jerked his head toward Yuriko—"was wrong, and the place was rigged—"

"Logan," Erika interrupted smoothly. "These weren’t terrorists. They’re traffickers. Blowing themselves up to avoid capture? That’s not their style. Mass-murdering kidnapped girls would only increase their sentence. Right now, they’re looking at kidnapping charges—heinous, but survivable. Now, if it were boys in the mix? Sure. But those jobs come with much higher stakes and a whole different kind of client. This was standard fare. Low risk. Yuriko’s training approach works, and you’ve said yourself that the boy’s making progress."

"Enough," Xavier interjected, her calm finality cutting through the brewing storm. "Tobias, I realize it’s late to be explaining this, but I want you to understand our reasoning. After Stryker’s facility was destroyed, mutant-positive media coverage spiked. We don’t know why or who’s driving it, but it’s advantageous. In response, we debated pushing the narrative further. Erika suggested we spotlight you—a mutant boy rescuing innocents. It’s a narrative people can rally around. If those behind the media shift are genuinely supportive, we’ll see a favorable response. If not, we’ll reevaluate. Yuriko proposed combining this effort with practical training, shifting from a staged event to a live mission. Now, I ask—are you willing to participate in more operations like this?"

"Professor Xavier," I straightened, my tone formal, my posture respectful. "The mutant community has done so much for me—sheltered me, protected me. You feed, clothe, train, and help me stay connected with my family. Refusing to repay that kindness would make me an ungrateful pig. No, worse—an ungrateful spherical pig in a vacuum. I’m genuinely thankful for this chance. It’s not just about helping others, which matters to me and those I care about; it’s also about helping mutants—my family."

Every word I spoke was true. These people owed me nothing, yet they gave freely because I was one of them. They deserved my gratitude, respect, and loyalty. Erika wasn’t wrong—we are a family. Here, helping, supporting, and understanding each other was just how things worked. Good deserves good in return. That’s my creed—one I’ve lived by through two lives. It’s kept my conscience clean, my soul at peace. And judging by the smiles around me, I’d said exactly the right thing.

"Thank you, Tobias," Xavier beamed. "Then we’ll leave you with Dr. McCoy. Miss Oyama mentioned you had some ideas for improving your suit."

As they left, I muttered a slightly embarrassed farewell and focused on Beast. After a quick lesson on suit maintenance, I brought up a minor improvement: armor for the… vulnerable areas. McCoy chuckled but agreed. sHe even promised additional camo designs, ranging from urban to desert.

We also refined the mask—my idea for a swirly orange spiral was vetoed, but the final concept? Inspired by a Quarian helmet from Mass Effect: a face-shielding visor with one-way armored glass and snug fabric to protect my head and neck from heat during my outbursts. Since I still couldn’t project electricity at range, conductive elements were embedded throughout the suit for shock-delivering punches. Meanwhile, light and heat didn’t have the same limitations. More experimentation ahead…

Yuriko Oyama, Lady Deathstrike.

Everything was going perfectly. The timely insight from the community’s matriarchs, Lensherr’s proposal, and the adjustments Yuriko suggested had all come together to initiate the proper “education” of Onryo. Tossing him straight into the flames of hell right away? That would have been a moronic move—though she had to admit, the thought of watching him revel in vengeance once more was tempting… But too much blood too soon doesn’t temper; it breaks. Everything needed to be done in steps. And crossing Magneto, who practically treated the boy like her own grandson—if not her son—would’ve been entirely unnecessary. The trick was to start with easy missions, then increase the difficulty gradually, setting up situations that would push Tobias toward the right realizations and conclusions. Introduce him to people who’d leave just the right kind of impression on his impressionable mind.

Like Francine Castle, the redheaded killer with her arms practically soaked in blood. Or Deadpool... though she needed to tread carefully there. Yuriko shuddered as she recalled her own ill-fated incursion into Wilson’s apartment. The shrine she found, filled with photos of Tobias… including one where he was on the toilet. And that lab director from the Striker complex, where they’d experimented on him—locked away in a soundproof room. Still alive, though death would’ve been a kinder fate. Even Yuriko had felt a flicker of pity for the woman as she hung mutilated on hooks.

Yuriko Oyama understood better than anyone that she was far from sane. The fractures in her mind were part of her training, designed both to enforce loyalty through obsessive fixation and to thwart telepaths, for whom delving into madness could be as uncomfortable as it was perilous. That discipline, combined with the inherent chaos of her thoughts, let her maintain a veneer of control that even someone like Xavier couldn’t easily pierce. Oh, if the professor ever truly focused all her power on Yuriko, she’d undoubtedly unravel everything. Xavier was a mutant of terrifying strength. But Yuriko’s genuine desire to protect and teach Onryo—those thoughts, shining at the surface—were enough to conceal the darker, deeper truths beneath.

The truth was simple: shaping him into a true spirit of vengeance wasn’t just a goal. It was an obsession. Another twist in her broken psyche. And there was no part of her that resisted it.

He was a block of marble, a work-in-progress waiting for a sculptor. In the right hands—her hands—he could become a masterpiece. A force of nature. Ruthless to his enemies. Fearless. Bound by unshakable resolve to protect the ones he loved. The trick was balance. Too much pressure would shatter him, turning him into a monster like… her mother.

She giggled, the sound low and eerie.

Recently, someone had made her an offer fit for royalty. It aligned perfectly with her ambitions. They would make Tobias stronger, and in exchange? She’d be given her mother’s head.
Oh, how she’d build a shrine for that head. A temple, even. Her mother’s twisted, hateful visage would have a place of honor on the wall.

The only remaining question: who were these people?

Patience might be wise. But the fact that they knew about her, about her connection to Onryo, made her suspicious. Someone close to Tobias—perhaps even someone from the school—was feeding them information.

Were they patrons? Or players on a grander board, moving pieces to craft a mutant pawn?

Daily Updates (04/01/25)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 57

• Tier 2: Chapter 62

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 24

• Tier 2: Chapter 29

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 24

• Tier 2: Chapter 29

Annoucement:

As I mentioned it before I'll be taking a break next week but that doesn't mean I will stop posting. I will post a few chapters for new stories that might join the rotation (depending on your feedback) as well as several chapters for "Life is Good". Want to build up enough to crosspost daily on Webnovel during the break.

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 29

As horrifying as it might sound to any self-respecting (and, at times, deeply self-loathing) Soulslike player, farming spots were becoming fewer and farther between.

At some point, almost every player realizes that leveling up further becomes difficult. The reasons vary: losing hundreds of thousands, even millions of runes to foolish deaths, or having a poorly optimized build that makes it impossible to survive in areas rich with potential runes due to overly strong enemies.

Kosta, however, faced a different problem: the unexpected increase in untouchable allies made farming them impossible, and other areas no longer offered runes.

The number of runes earned depended entirely on the strength of enemies. This let Kosta skyrocket through levels early on but now severely slowed his progression.

Under normal circumstances, he might have welcomed the challenge, but when waifu quests were waiting and the happiness of unfortunate waifus depended on his strength, he had to prioritize. Leveling or waifus?

As you might have guessed, the casual-hardcore player chose waifus from the start. Challenges, he later realized, could be arranged at any level.

The moral-casual questions resolved long ago, a practical dilemma remained: given the circumstances, where could he farm?

Considering Konstantin’s destination, the answer was obvious.

The Scarlet Wasteland became his salvation. Overrun by creatures afflicted with rot—feral, monstrous, and not remotely susceptible to negotiation—the area offered Kosta a carte blanche for much-desired farming.

Normally, anyone foolish enough to enter this region, a horrifying reminder of the clash between two mighty demigods, would tread carefully. Tarnished or commonfolk (or not-so-commonfolk) alike would move in groups, avoid direct confrontations, and occasionally fall victim to the pervasive rot, joining the ranks of the monsters themselves.

Unfortunately, no one had bothered to tell Kosta this.

Melina and Sellen hadn’t seen the Tarnished this happy and exuberant in ages. Where normal people would run screaming from the hordes of rot-afflicted giant crows, decaying dogs, bears, trolls, and winged dragons that swarmed the Scarlet Wasteland, Kosta joyfully sprinted toward them, stripping off his armor as he went.

Needless to say, it wasn’t long before the true predator was the half-naked psychopath, not the rot-infested beasts.

The waifus, well acquainted with their Tarnished, didn’t try to stop him. Rightfully so—runes poured to him like a river. His body visibly transformed, overflowing with power.

The runes came so quickly and in such abundance that veins on Kosta’s body occasionally shimmered with gold, and his eyes began to glow—not with the power of the runes, but with the tiny sun within him. A sun warm toward his waifus yet insatiably greedy.

Many might dislike farming, but denying its usefulness was foolish.

“Konstantin, you must be careful,” Melina said sharply. “This land is tainted. If you’re not cautious, the rot will infect you.”

Though bothered by how eagerly her chosen one indulged the exiled sorceress’s flirtations, she still worried for him, believing his recklessness excessive.

Of course, her Tarnished had a response.

“Debuffs wear off,” Konstantin said calmly.

Melina blinked.

“How fascinating...” Sellen’s illusion murmured.

There was no point in her joining him physically in such a dangerous place; it would only create complications. Having gained her freedom, she had become more independent, supporting Konstantin through an illusion while settling elsewhere.

Kosta’s claim was quickly proven right. Even the blood of the monsters, with which the half-naked psychopath began bathing himself, was tainted with rot, seeping toward him. Unfortunately for the rot—like all filth—it slid off his body.

Perhaps slower than normal dirt, but still, it left him entirely.

What struck fear into even demigods was to Konstantin a mere temporary “debuff,” barely worth noting.

It was both terrifying and awe-inspiring. At times, Konstantin, a “mere” Tarnished, resembled a demigod far more than the actual demigods, thanks to his unique body.

Rumors spread quickly across the Scarlet Wasteland. You’d think rumors wouldn’t travel in such a desolate region, but never underestimate Soulslike logic.

In these worlds, few can simply die mercifully. That would be far too easy.

Hardly surprising in a world where even the concept of death had ceased to exist.

“Konstantin of the Tarnished. I… have heard of you. Were you… searching for me?”

A hoarse voice, barely human. It was remarkable the owner, covered in rot miasma, retained even a sliver of sanity—a true feat.

Knowing how unfairly positioned he was compared to his opponent (with debuffs sliding off him, conscious or not), Konstantin bowed respectfully to the commander.

“Yes.”

Though he knew the general direction, Kosta never hesitated to ask passing creatures—be they bears or maddened knights—if the optional boss was nearby.

Optional, of course, only if you were a heretic who didn’t want to help one of the most miserable waifus in the Lands Between.

Then again, given the genre, they were all miserable in their own ways.

“For… farming?”

Melina covered her open eye with a hand. Sellen giggled mischievously.

The Scarlet Wasteland had learned the horrifying meaning of the word “farming” in record time. Konstantin unabashedly repeated it to every creature he encountered, spreading its meaning until all—from sentient beings to mindless monsters—understood its terrifying implications.

Soulslike worlds, lacking the Internet, still exchanged information at alarming speeds. Kosta couldn’t decide if that was good or bad.

“Bosses aren’t usually for farming,” Kosta said evenly. “I need the needle of pure gold, Commander O’Neil.”

The man wasn’t surprised by the boss’s talkativeness, though he hadn’t expected the commander to retain so much of his mind.

No one knew how long O’Neil had wandered the Wasteland or how many lives he’d claimed. Most who entered prayed not to encounter him—or any of the other monsters, for that matter.

“The needle?” the rot-ridden commander frowned. “The needle… Yes… I understand. You’ll… get it if you defeat me…”

Though O’Neil had lost most of his mind, unlike the unfortunate General Radahn, he retained a sliver of consciousness.

And yet, something gnawed at the edge of his awareness. But what?

The commander squinted, trying to focus on the small figure before him. Short, though built like a flawless sculpture, the Tarnished stood as a strange white blot against the sea of crimson rot. The rot seemed to avoid him—fearful, hateful.

But that wasn’t what unsettled O’Neil. Or at least, not entirely.

The realization came too late.

“Why… why are you naked?”

The absurdly calm Tarnished wore nothing but a loincloth.

Hearing her chosen one’s opponent pose the question, Melina averted her gaze.

If the descendants of this land’s survivors ever told tales of the Tarnished, she desperately hoped this peculiar quirk would be forgotten forever.

How naive of her.

"The debuff for rot doesn’t seem to come off my clothes," Kosta shrugged, genuinely surprised by the unexpected turn of events. "And I really don’t want to deal with laundry later."

For some reason, the commander who wandered through these rotted lands—a figure whose precise title the lore never clarifies (1) —was overcome with an unexpected burst of mirth. So strong was this feeling that the commander, long estranged from joy, burst into loud laughter. It was a hoarse sound, filled with pain and madness.

He had dreamed of meeting his end in battle, as any true warrior should. But that dream had been denied. Instead, he was rotting alive, slowly succumbing to madness with each passing moment. The remnants of O’Neil’s sanity were held together solely by willpower, though he felt he could surrender at any time.

He couldn’t even leave the wasteland, bound by the rot. His only hope was that one day a warrior might come to grant him even a semblance of release.

Now, such a warrior had indeed appeared. Half-naked, stripping down in a region where the very air carried decay, simply because his clothes were getting dirty—without the slightest hint of concern. An extinguished soul, whose very presence the rot itself seemed to fear.

The commander’s laughter morphed into a battle cry. Tightening his grip on his halberd, he began to swing it, summoning a storm of rot-filled miasma around him.

Responding to the call of his cry, spirits began to gather, materializing out of the ether.

He wanted to fall surrounded by those who had stayed with him even after their bodies had long since perished. Some might have called him a coward; others might have dismissed him as a casual. But O’Neil didn’t care. The last thing bosses in Soulslikes worry about is the well-being of the unlucky souls sent to defeat them.

Konstantin remained completely unmoved, as though he had been expecting this. A sword appeared in his hand.

"I won’t break your poise. I won’t summon anyone, nor will I use any ranged attacks—no daggers, arrows, bombs, or magic."

"...but I wanted to join the fight…"

Kosta pretended not to hear Latanna’s faint, almost inaudible grumble.

She’d get her chance to hunt, just not in this battle.

The commander’s eyes widened at the Extinguished One’s indifferent words, nearly losing his balance just from the sheer audacity of them.

This wasn’t just disrespect. It was something far worse.

Konstantin, deep in thought, added:

"No rolling, either. I’ll only walk forward and backward with backward dodges. If I break the challenge, I’ll concede defeat."

The commander roared madly at Konstantin’s words, swinging his halberd. At his invisible command, spectral archers unleashed a volley of arrows toward the man.

To the cursed horror of rot, O’Neil, the man did indeed only perform a single dodge—so fluid and swift that not a single arrow, no matter how fast, could reach him.

Mockingly, the man spun in place, pulling out a bow for a moment as if taking aim in the opposite direction.

"Paying homage to the sweatiest," (2) Kosta muttered, as if that explained anything.

Then, turning their duel into an even greater farce, he began dodging toward them. The most horrifying part was that the Tarnished One’s backward dodges were as fast as the sprint of a trained warrior. Trained—and terrifyingly dangerous.

Closing the distance almost instantly, the man decapitated two archers in the blink of an eye. A wail rose, and the rot-filled miasma thickened. The commander charged at the deranged Tarnished.

The commander’s halberd swept through the air, raising a crimson cloud of rot toward the Tarnished One. But still mocking him, the half-naked Tarnished dodged backward. The cursed commander of the fallen army, sinking further into madness, tried to close the gap but failed. Kosta was faster.

Weaving between spectral arrows and avoiding the halberd’s deadly sweep, the man slipped past and impaled the roaring commander.

That was only the beginning.

Ignoring his wounds as though they didn’t exist, the rot-afflicted commander raised his halberd again, unleashing an even denser cloud of miasma.

And then, everything repeated.

It didn’t take O’Neil long to realize a simple, humiliating, yet terrifying truth: the Tarnished One’s self-imposed limitations weren’t meant to demean him. On the contrary, they were meant to make the duel fairer.

Completely unflinching and composed, the Tarnished turned absurd, ridiculous backward dodges into a graceful dance that neither the archers nor the halberd could disrupt.

The spectral archers fell first. No matter how hard the commander tried to protect his servants or keep the madman at bay, it was clear who truly controlled the fight.

Soon, they were alone. The spirits had fallen.

O’Neil gripped his halberd tightly, feeling his heart race. He was exhausted, gasping for air. His entire body was riddled with wounds that would have killed most creatures in the Lands Between long ago.

Yet the half-naked madman—whose very existence was absurd and devoid of meaning—remained unscathed. Not a single wound. Not even a scratch.

By now, he should have been consumed by the miasma of rot. He should have succumbed to the curse, turning into a monster like the long-fallen demigods.

"How... why..."

Strangely enough, the man understood the question perfectly.

"I just don’t let the status bar fill up," Konstantin replied calmly.

O’Neil laughed again, spitting out rotten blood.

He had thought himself a monster, believed nothing could be more horrifying than the moment when a cursed demigoddess let the rot consume her, dooming the entire region and condemning her opponent to a fate so terrible that even the most agonizing, humiliating death would have been a blessing.

But it turned out the true horror had a different face. A face that didn’t want to dirty its clothes.

Then again, how many fools had laughed at the sight of General Radahn, refusing to part with his long-time friend? How many were still laughing?

O’Neil felt an unexpected sense of peace. A feeling of impending rest. Reaching into his clothes, he pulled out a broken needle.

"It’s… broken…"

His mind was clearer than ever. Yet he could feel the rot spreading rapidly within him, leaving no chance of survival.

"It’s part of the quest."

Of course, the commander didn’t understand the man’s answer at all. But his calmness made O’Neil think. Reaching a decision, he tossed the two pieces of the broken needle to the Tarnished, who caught them effortlessly.

"I... admit defeat... Tarnished Soul..."

"Alright."

That simple, nonchalant reply made O’Neil cough. Perhaps it was his wounds, but who could say for sure?

"Finish it..."

The commander’s consciousness was completely consumed by madness. The rot took full control, its miasma spreading in all directions like living filth.

Konstantin, understanding that the challenge could now be considered complete, lifted all his self-imposed restrictions. The veins in his arm glowed with light, feeding into the trembling hunk of metal in his grip.

Rushing forward without fear of the all-encompassing rot, the man dove headfirst into it.

A swing of the halberd.

A roll.

A strike.

A flash.

_________________________________________

When the Tarnished told Melina he wanted to find a merchant to restock his arrows, she didn’t believe him at first. Even Sellen, who usually embraced his every word with amused curiosity, raised an eyebrow.

Merchants. Here. They were literally in the equivalent of hell! Though neither of the women had ever heard of hell, if someone described it to them, they would have immediately compared it to the Scarlet Wasteland.

A region bathed entirely in red. Devoid of life, twisted beyond recognition. Overrun by creatures so terrifying that even the bravest knights would turn and flee rather than subject themselves to the soul-eroding rot.

Merchants? Here? The very idea was absurd!

That’s what they thought—until the Tarnished stumbled upon a merchant calmly resting by a fire, completely unbothered by his surroundings.

“N-no way…” Melina whispered.

Sellen rubbed her illusory eyes, convinced she was seeing some elaborate illusion.

But the truth was far worse.

“You’re the first Tarnished to react so casually to me,” the merchant noted with an air of nonchalance.

“After seeing a merchant in the Ainsel River, nothing surprises me anymore, (3)” Konstantin replied, just as calmly.

‘AINS- WHAT?’

The question, filled with genuine horror, seemed to echo simultaneously in the minds of both Sellen and Melina. They stared blankly into the void.

The merchant, however, merely chuckled proudly at Konstantin’s comment.

“Our brethren are everywhere, Tarnished one.”

“Kale mentioned that.”

“So, you know Kale?” The merchant’s demeanor warmed even more. “Small world, Tarnished one.”

“Konstantin.”

“Konstantin the Tarnished!” the merchant exclaimed. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard the name… Are you here to try your luck at the festival?”

“That’s part of it.”

“Business has been booming lately,” the merchant said with a satisfied squint. The mule behind him let out a mournful whine, having long lost faith… in everything. “Buying or selling?”

The trade went off without a hitch. Kosta had gotten used to farming birds with his bow—it didn’t consume much energy, and what little it did was easily replenished over time.

Soon, the contented Tarnished bid the merchant farewell and resumed his journey.

“What… what was that?”

Melina was so dumbfounded that any trace of irritation evaporated from her voice. Whatever differences she might have had with Sellen, who had gained a peculiar sort of favor from the Tarnished, could wait.

THEY COULD DEFINITELY WAIT!

“A merchant,” Kosta replied, utterly indifferent.

“A malevolent entity disguised as a merchant,” Sellen muttered suspiciously.

There had to be a rational explanation.

“Lack of competition. Stable climate,” the Tarnished said nonchalantly.

That explanation made no sense!!!

…then again, if the Tarnished really had encountered a merchant in the Ainsel River…

No, no, this was…

They could grow accustomed to Konstantin’s eccentricities. But a merchant?

That merchant was beyond good and evil.

Their journey continued until they came across an old, unremarkable shack. Remarkably well-kept for the surrounding devastation, it still barely caught any attention.

It might have gone unnoticed—if not for the elderly man sitting in a worn chair at the shack’s entrance, clad in red robes.

The old man, noticing the approach of the half-naked Tarnished, showed no sign of surprise. He merely smiled.

Suspicious. The old man was, at the very least, suspicious. And undoubtedly dangerous.

Unfortunately for him, such suspicions were useless against Kosta, who had been specifically seeking him out.

“Oh, a pleasure to see you. a pleasure indeed.,” the old man said, smiling even wider. “I am Gowry. A great sage.”

Konstantin stopped in front of Gowry, glancing around. He seemed to be expecting something, but…

He didn’t see it.

“Where’s the dog?” he asked. (4)

Gowry’s smile froze.

“What?”

The Festival of Combat was drawing near.

_____________________________________________

(1) There’s significant debate online about which army O’Neil belonged to—Malenia’s or Radahn’s. Additionally, it’s unclear where he got the needle. If we assume he served Malenia, he might have been issued one as a commander, though a thousand other explanations could be concocted.

(2) Without using the movement stick, turning in the desired direction requires certain tricks. One such trick involves aiming with a bow.

(3) Merchants can be found everywhere. Whether it’s the Siofra River in some ancient cave where the last customer came during the dawn of humanity, or the Ainsel River, there’s always a non-zero chance of encountering a merchant resting just around the corner.

(4) Near Gowry’s shack, there’s always an unfriendly dog waiting for the player. Unlike minibosses and bosses, it respawns every time the world is reset.

[Life is Good] Chapter 29

"Good evening, Miss Oyama," I said slowly, still half-asleep and trying to shake off the ‘dream’. "Hey, uh, my eyes aren’t red, and my pupils didn’t turn white, right?"

She clearly expected a different kind of question, judging by the way her eyebrow shot up. Still, she leaned in for a closer look as I did my best to bug out my eyes like a cartoon character. After a couple of seconds, Yuriko straightened up and shook her head.

Before I could shift into my usual repertoire of questions like, "So, what exactly are you doing in my room?" she tossed a stack of clothes at me with a sharp, "Get dressed."

I’m telling you—this world is messed up. In Marvel 11, if a girl’s standing by your bed at night, she’s supposed to say, "Take your clothes off." And if she throws something at you, it better be her panties, not… this.

What did she throw at me? A skin-tight bodysuit. Looked like an X-Men suit but with no logo and a black-and-white camo pattern. A belt and a set of thick plastic zip-tie cuffs completed the ensemble.

"I asked McCoy for it," she said, noticing my raised brow. "Hurry. We’re in a rush."

As I changed, I couldn’t help but think that combining Yuriko’s no-nonsense attitude with Jubilee’s hyperactivity would create one perfectly average person—a perfectly average person who would regularly beat my ass while shooting fireworks for flair. Lovely.

When I finished dressing… well, damn, I had to admit—it looked good. The bodysuit hugged me just right, emphasizing without overexposing. Stealthy, but sexy. Too bad there was no mask—just… a balaclava.

I held it up, unimpressed. Yuriko looked at me. I looked at her.

"Are we going to mug someone?" I asked, deadpan.

"It’s for training," she muttered. "You’ll wear it in the car. Let’s go."

I decided against asking dumb questions like, "Why now?" or, "Where are we going?" or, "Ma’am, you’re not about to do anything unnatural to me, are you?" Instead, I silently trailed after her, figuring she’d explain on the way.

Sure, I had some doubts. But Yuriko wasn’t malicious. Professor Xavier had reassured me about her intentions when I asked why a Japanese shadow kept following me around. According to Charlene she didn’t pry too deep into Yuriko’s mind but confirmed that the woman felt a personal debt to me, one she had assigned herself. Knowing Yuriko, she wouldn’t change her mind on a whim. Most likely, we were headed for training. Some weird, Japanese-style torture session. Like sitting under a waterfall at night to awaken my dantian by setting my ass on fire with friction. Or something like that.

We reached the garage. Yuriko walked to a car, opened the door, and started it up. I slid into the passenger seat, watching her expectantly. I’d gotten used to these silent exchanges with her. When it came to business, she was straight to the point and didn’t waste words.

"Combat training," she said, her eyes on the road as the car warmed up. "A mansion two hours away. In the basement, slaves. Five or six guards. Thugs. Mission: free the slaves, neutralize the guards, call the police. Questions?"

Her cold gaze swept over my confused face.

"Why me? I mean, this sounds more like a mission, not training."

It wasn’t fear—five thugs weren’t exactly terrifying unless they had a heavy machine gun or a grenade launcher. But still—how the hell had the grown-ups signed off on this?

"It’s my decision," she replied flatly. "You want to get stronger. Simple training doesn’t motivate you—I see that. Since your kidnapping, you’ve learned how to zap people, glow a bit, and not set your own hair on fire. Pathetic. You’re stagnating in a bubble where everyone coddles and protects you."

The car rolled forward as the garage doors opened. "Even your encounter with the Hulk didn’t change that."

Ouch. That was harsh. But she wasn’t entirely wrong. My only real breakthrough had come during the Stryker incident—and not even because of my own efforts, but thanks to a damn electric chair. My personal progress? Contact shocks in hand-to-hand, the strobe light trick… not exactly impressive. My melee skills were mediocre, and swordwork was practically nonexistent. Okay, fine. Maybe she had a point.

"Lehnsherr and Xavier want to boost mutants’ reputation," she continued, voice as cold as ever. "This ‘training’ fits the bill. You save the kidnapped, show them you’re a mutant, and the media will be shouting your name tomorrow. Got it?"

"Why me and not one of the combat team?"

"Because you’re a boy. No markings, hidden face. A hero in the shadows. Big impact."

She made a stone-faced expression and stared at the road. Knowing her, that meant end of discussion.

Well… actually… Not bad! I liked this plan. Not for the glory—more for the chance to help people. Decent intel, no god-level enemies in sight. Slip in, get close, shock everyone into unconsciousness. I was fully charged, so even if there were a dozen enemies, I’d be fine. Six? Easy. The only trick would be ensuring no civilians got hurt. After that, a dramatic rescue, declare I’m a mutant, and vanish. Simple.

We drove on. I inspected my outfit. Stylish, functional, with a utility belt where I stashed the zip-tie cuffs. Camouflage. Possibly protective. But… one thing still bothered me.

"Miss Oyama, do you think I could ask Dr. McCoy for… a reinforced codpiece?"

"A… codpiece?" She shot me a quizzical look. "Not armor plates? A codpiece? Maybe protect your heart instead of… your testicles?"

I sighed deeply, fixing her with a disappointed stare.

"Miss Yuriko, without a heart, you can’t live. Without a dick… there’s no point."

Bingo. The stunned look on her usually icy face? Priceless.

She recovered quickly, muttering, "Ask her yourself," before turning her full attention back to the road.

As we drove, my thoughts drifted back to that dream. Weird. So vivid, so coherent. Definitely not random nonsense like Hydra stormtroopers invading the set of Bachelorette. Who was that sketchy guy? What was "dojutsu"? A dream, or some eldritch Marvel BS?

I didn’t feel different. No urge to slaughter family for power. No 360-degree vision. Nothing. I really, really hoped it was just a dream. Because gifts from creepy, pencil-drawn entities? No, thanks.

We sat in silence. Yuriko didn’t bother putting on music, and the only entertainment available was staring at the road or the occasional passing car. I dozed off a little. But judging by how I felt, it wasn’t for long. The Evil awakened—or rather, I did—as we pulled over on some abandoned path that didn’t even qualify as a dirt road. Asphalt? Not even a hint of it.

"From here, we walk," Yuriko muttered, stepping out of the car. Well, I followed her.

We trekked through a sparse grove for about fifteen minutes before reaching a small two-story house. A single light was on in one of the ground-floor windows. All around, it was silent, dark, and empty. There were a couple of abandoned fields, a creepy scarecrow, and a small hill off in the distance. A light layer of snow coated everything, just enough to make it crunch underfoot if you weren’t careful. Yuriko rattled off the address for me to remember, gestured toward the house, and leaned against a tree. Yeah, I didn’t expect her to come with me. She might show up later, though.

Alright. Game time.

I crouched low and headed toward the scarecrow first. No worries about being spotted—pitch-black darkness, the house was still far away, snow falling, I was in camo, and it was around five in the morning. These thugs weren’t trained; I doubted they had decent security or proper look outs. At best, some half-asleep women fighting fatigue with coffee and gossip.

Reaching the scarecrow, I sighed in relief. Plain old straw-stuffed dummy. No malevolent energy, no rusty knives sticking out. Good. I’ve watched too many horror movies to not check.

Next up: the house. I crept closer, careful not to let the snow give me away, avoiding the window with the light. When the house entered my energy field of vision, I slowed to a crawl, scanning carefully.

Once at the wall, I paused to assess the scene. Three heat signatures in the lit room, sitting around a table from the looks of it. One more to my right, lying flat—likely asleep. Two more on the second floor, also horizontal and tangled together. As for the basement... unclear. Just a large blob of heat with arms and legs poking out. Probably a bunch of captives huddled together for warmth. Or tied up that way. Doesn’t matter. Time to get to work.

I traced a finger along the windowpane, slowly melting the glass into a neat rectangle. Careful to catch the piece, I leaned it against the wall before stepping through. The window was wide and low enough to climb in without acrobatics. A bit awkward, but I managed it silently. My eyes adjusted to the even darker room, watching the thugs' silhouettes and listening closely.

Two doors in the room—one leading to the sleeping woman, the other probably to a hallway. The first door wasn’t locked. Three steps. A touch. Zap. Her sleeping body transitioned to unconscious. Plastic zip ties came out—wrists, ankles, gagged with her own shirt. Done. No need for fancy knots. This was going to be quick.

Out into the hall. Muffled voices, light leaking under another door. A staircase nearby. First, the second floor. I crept up, illuminating my path with a faint glow from my palm. A turn, a door, and a cozy couple inside. One stirred. I lunged, palms pressed—zap. Two more down. Repeat the tying ritual. Now back to the first floor.

I stood before the door hiding three awake women. Judging by the chatter, they were playing cards. Made sense. My footsteps upstairs could be dismissed as someone visiting the bathroom. No need for stealth here. I flung the door open and stormed in.

“Strobe light!”

Three shocks later, all three swore and flailed before going limp. One actually grabbed a gun, but thank god she didn’t manage to flip the safety off. I trussed them up and exhaled. Clean sweep. Damn, I felt like Hitman. Not even that nervous. Okay, a bit of tension, but no heart-pounding panic or shaky hands.

Basement time. Because who knows? Always check. Relaxed vigilance has killed many heroes and villains alike.

The basement door was locked with a hefty padlock, the kind that stood out from the flimsy decor of the rest of the house. Probably just captives down there, but paranoia demands thoroughness. I melted the lock and descended.

Darkness. Rustling. Whispering. The stench of unwashed bodies and human waste. I pulled off my balaclava and conjured a mask of light—triple win: hide my face, flaunt my mutant powers, and light the place up.

There they were—a chain of people bound hand to foot, a twisted human centipede of suffering. Young adults, all women, seventeen to twenty-five, clad in only underwear, battered and bruised. Their eyes squinted at the sudden light, faces torn between hope and fear. In the corner sat buckets—makeshift toilets. The room was divided by a metal-bar partition, one side crammed with prisoners, the other a guard station. Of course, another padlocked gate. Smart move, keeping the captives from swarming anyone coming down.

"Ahem." I cleared my throat. "Ladies, good evening. Oddly enough, it really is a good one. The bad guys upstairs are neutralized. I’ll get you out now. There’s a shower up there—dream come true, I know." I saw flickers of joy and disbelief across their faces. "Also, there are six captors tied up and unconscious. Please, when you hit them—and I know you will—don’t kill them. We need them to talk to the cops about this whole trafficking operation. Deal?"

A chorus of shaky female voices answered. One, bright and commanding, rose above the rest.

"My mom’s a police captain! Can you call her? They might have moles in the force, but if I talk to her, we’ll be safe for sure."

A stunning blonde with ocean-blue eyes beamed as the gate swung open.

"Great idea, Miss…"

"Stacy. Gwendolyn Stacy. But just call me Gwen! And you?"

"Apologies, Gwen," I smiled, even if she probably couldn’t see it through the glow, adding a hint of regret to my voice. "But I’m going incognito here—mutant, and a man, you understand. Let me handle these chains first, and then we’ll chat somewhere more comfortable, alright? You can just call me ‘Mister Mutant.’"

Nods and murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Eighteen girls were packed into the basement. Without any fuss, I melted through each chain link and sent them upstairs to find keys. One of those girls, coincidentally named Gwen Stacy—yeah, really. From the looks of things, Spider-Man wasn’t her. Ahem… Anyway, Gwen and I went to the first floor, commandeered a phone from one of the thugs (I left mine in the car—didn’t want my number traced), and used her fingerprint to unlock it. We dialed Captain Stacy’s number.

While Gwen hurriedly recounted her adventures to her mother and relayed the address I whispered to her, I herded the unconscious criminals into the card-playing room with help from two of the now-free girls. The ladies? Not exactly gentle. Every crook smacked their head into corners and doorframes. One moment particularly stood out—a fiery-haired, green-eyed beauty in black lace lingerie who accidentally stepped on a thug’s face, purring, "Oops! I’m so clumsy today."

By now, the thugettes had woken up but stayed meek. Two pointed guns will do that. Especially since their captives, now fully freed, had frisked them for every weapon, tool, and concealed danger before stripping them to their underwear and tying them up again with my handy restraints.

"Mister Mutant," Gwen’s voice, full of mischief, broke into my thoughts as she approached. The way she said my pseudonym was pure amusement. "My mom said a helicopter’s en route, and rescue vehicles are already on their way. Will you stay?"

"Sorry, no. I’m not eager for attention on my true identity. Just happy to help."

"Wait!" She thrust a paper into my hand, two rows of numbers scribbled across it. "Here—our phone numbers. Mine and Mom’s. If you ever need help… or just want to talk, call. Neither of us has ever had anything against mutants. We’re very grateful. You can even call me just because..." She blushed a little, letting out a soft giggle.

"Uhh… definitely, Gwen." I slipped the paper into a belt compartment, waved to the girls, and headed back into the dark.

Yuriko hadn’t moved a muscle. She waited right where I left her, standing as still as a statue. As I drew near, she turned silently and led the way to the car.

Once we were driving, she finally spoke. "How did it go?"

I gave her a quick rundown, including the rescue and the neutralized threats. She nodded. And… that was it. No "good job" or "nicely done." Nothing. Maybe tomorrow—or later today, technically—I’d get a full debriefing and a critique of every little thing I did wrong.

For now, we drove in silence.

[Demons of NC] Chapter 62

Triple Xtreme Gym looked like a giant red box. The paint was peeling, and the metal beneath had rusted under the brutal California sun and unfriendly acid rain.

"They drag out a stiff from here every month or two," Jackie said as he got off his bike. "It’s more slaughterhouse than gym."

"Yeah, no shit. Shady place," Cesar Diego Ruiz agreed, stepping out of Falco’s car. "My old man used to say, ‘Jamàs te rindas, pase lo que pase.’ Never give up. But here? A rookie should throw in the towel early unless they wanna get beat to death."

Cesar was a street boxer from Valentino I’d hired for 2,500 eddies, with a bonus of 5K if it came to blows. He had decent implants, including an early version of Sandevistan. Out of the five of us, only Jackie and Falco didn’t have one.

Falco gave us all a stern look and said, "Guys, let’s not be the ones to start shooting. No matter what."

That was aimed squarely at Becca, who was humming something cheerfully under her breath as she hauled a heavy black case out of the trunk.

‘Militech’ was engraved in white across the center.

‘Sucks,’ read a scrawled red marker below it.

Inside was a fully-assembled, combat-ready Hercules 3AX. If things went to hell tonight, there’d be no point hiding my involvement in Mauser’s death. That’d mean a full-on war with Animals, and for a long damn time. Not ideal for business, but I needed to be prepared.

A typical thug from the gang lounged by the entrance, demanding a fee to get inside.

"I’m V. I’ve got a meeting with Garcia," I said.

"Fine. You go in. The rest either pay up or fuck off."

I smiled, took off my shades slowly, and let my eyes glow red as I said, "You’re either stepping aside, or you’ll be out cold till tomorrow with half your implants needing a factory reset. Your ice is absolute shit—I’ll wipe you clean before you even think about swinging at me."

The bouncer’s face twisted as rage, stupidity, and fear all fought for control. He wasn’t exactly top-tier Animals, the kind pumped so full of roids they’d lost their survival instinct.

"Hold up, I’ll call Logan," he muttered, then grudgingly stepped aside after a couple of minutes. "Fine, fuck. Go on in. Don’t trip and break your legs or some shit."

The gym’s interior was barebones—hell, primitive—centered around a fighter’s pit. It had once been a paint factory. Now it was a circus of violence. The pit was a repurposed mixing vat, a perfect metaphor for street brutality crushing any hope of industry or creation.

"You girls here for a tour?" sneered a juiced-up meathead with crude implants as he benched a ridiculous weight.

"Keep running your mouth, and it’ll be a live anatomy lesson. Garcia in his office?"

"Upstairs," a woman training nearby muttered. "But watch your lip with Garcia, or you’ll leave without a jaw."

"Thanks for your concern, madam," I replied theatrically, ignoring Jackie’s chuckle as I climbed the stairs, leaving my crew behind.

Logan Garcia reminded me of Nash—same size, same arrogant smirk—but older, more polished. He wore a thick blazer over a white tee, giving off a refined-but-dangerous vibe.

"Mr. V?" he asked, moving toward his desk.

"The one and only."

"‘V’ as in ‘Very disrespectful?’"

"Sometimes very, sometimes not. Depends on the company and how reasonable they are."

"You talk a big game. What backs it up?" Logan asked, a faint threat in his voice.

I took my time answering, strolling along the office, glancing out the panoramic window, winking at Becca below. Finally, I turned back.

"Pretty sure you’ve done your homework. You know where I’ve worked, who I’m dealing with now. You figure out the rest."

"Yeah, we did our homework," Logan muttered reluctantly. "That’s why we’re talking. Angie told Sasquatch you’re working for Hansen, so touching you is off the table."

"And you’d rather I wasn’t?"

"I think you’re just a cocky middleman. I’ve seen your type before. Flashy, full of other people’s clout. Hot air with borrowed cred. But I respect Matilda, so listen up, V. I’m pulling some of my guys off your club. Replacing them with people who have experience and steady nerves. Consider it a favor. Now get your clowns and get lost."

"Interesting… I’ve got a counteroffer."

"Let’s hear it."

"Pick anyone in your gym. Not Razor Hughes, obviously. We’ll do a boxing match, standard rules. If my fighter wins, we renegotiate the contract entirely, plus your crew works four months for free to cover prior losses. If you win, I’ll personally pay you 300K, and the deal stays as-is."

Logan’s grin widened, full of malice. "Now that’s some balls. I love it when amateurs jump into the ring. Fine. Deal?"

He extended his hand.

"Deal." I shook with my left cybernetic hand.

Logan grimaced but clapped his left hand into mine.

"Who’s your fighter? Cesar? Wells? They’re amateurs!" He laughed.

"I’ll keep my fighter’s identity a surprise," I said, keeping my tone modest.

"Oh, planning to recruit someone? Doesn’t matter. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’ll step into the ring myself."

"Are you sure?" I asked with mock concern. "Modern medicine works miracles, but it looks like it’s already done plenty for you. All those fights at the edge of your limits… No health problems? And I don’t see much heavy chrome on you—doctor’s orders?"

"Don’t worry, kid. I’ll suit up for a day. Shake off the rust and knock out some wannabe."

Logan looked thrilled. A seasoned pro, once Night City’s champ. No doubt he expected an easy win.

"When’s the fight?" he asked, more demand than question.

"Saturday sound good?"

"Two days? Done. Find your sacrificial lamb, V. Better start planning his funeral."

I ignored him. The "sacrificial lamb" was already locked in.

The next couple of days, I kept busy with minor gigs tied to the rising tensions between Voodoo Boys, Barghest, and Scavs. Ever since Slider got iced, Scavs had been pushing for more control in Dogtown. I got paid to sniff out fresh intel on implant-stealing fanatics. The job boiled down to calls, Arasaka counterintel inquiries, and mail intercepts—standard stuff Lucy and I handled easily.

Then came fight night. Logan wasn’t just looking to crush me; he wanted an audience. Tickets sold like hotcakes. Animals grabbed most, but bored Rancho Coronado residents bought in, too. The packed crowd was a surprise. Was it Logan’s star power or curiosity about my mystery fighter?

Falco, Becca, Cesar, and Jackie came with me. The last two argued the whole way.

"Can’t believe you didn’t pick me," Cesar grumbled. "I might be short on experience, but I’m the toughest hijo de puta in Glen. And I’m younger than that asshole."

I tuned out most of the bragging. Maybe Cesar could have taken Logan down, but Logan had just as good a shot at wiping the floor with that gold-chain-loving bastard. No thanks. I needed a sure win.

There weren’t any real seats for spectators. People crowded around the pit or perched on metal platforms under the roof of the old factory. The Animals had rigged up a few screens on the walls, showing the pit from different angles. Plenty of them were here, though fewer than I expected—mostly Logan’s regulars. One surprise: Angelica Whelan, better known as Angie. She financed the Animals and organized their rigged fights. Unlike the typical roided-out banger, she was fit and toned without bulging muscles. But don’t get it twisted—she could throw down. She had plenty of chromed-out hardware and a rap sheet long enough for the NCPD to put a price on her head. Illegal genome editing was even on her list. That’s a rare achievement.

Angie was chatting with Logan, who had traded his jacket for a sleeveless tee. His muscles bulged, and his eyes burned wild with all the stims pumping through his veins. Old man Logan looked ready to reclaim his glory days. His veins stood out like fire hoses under pressure. He locked eyes with me and stared me down.

“He was always a hell of an athlete but a shit person,” Jackie whispered. “By the way, Vik’s gonna show up soon.”

“You told him everything?”

“Of course!”

“Damn it… Whatever.”

Viktor Vektor did show up soon enough, but the night’s surprises weren’t over. A tall guy with a face full of crude implants that made up a red visor walked in. Maelstrom.

“Lost, chrome-dome?” one of the Animals asked.

“Nope. Got a ticket. See?”

“All right. Don’t start shit.”

“Not me,” the Maelstromer rasped. “Can’t promise for anyone else, though.”

More cybercultists followed him. Soon it was clear they had bought out about a quarter of the tickets.

“Shit…” Jackie muttered. “I’m liking this less and less.”

“No kidding,” Vik agreed. “Maelstrom never gave a damn about sports before. This stinks of trouble. No, it reeks. See that bald guy with the beard who just walked in?”

“Yeah,” I muttered grimly. “That’s Royce. The one and only.”

“The fact we’ve got a seasoned ripperdoc here might be our only lucky break,” Falco deadpanned.

“The real question is whether the ripper feels lucky,” Vik chuckled bitterly. “Someone got a revolver or a shotgun I can borrow?”

“You seriously came without heat, old man?” Becca asked in disbelief.

“I brought a Lexington, but it looks like I’ll need something heavier.”

Becca rummaged through her infinite-pocket outfit, but Falco beat her to it, handing Vik an Overture.

Angie approached with two bodyguards.

“Mister Price?”

“That’s me.”

“Are those your guests?” She gestured toward the noisy Maelstrom section.

“Nope. I’m just as surprised as you are.”

“Good. No matter what happens tonight, I believe we can settle things peacefully.”

Whoa. Someone in the Animals believes in diplomacy?

Logan didn’t.

“Where’s your fighter?” he growled, slamming his fists together.

“Soon,” I said, keeping an eye on both Animals and Maelstrom.

The air was thick with tension. A few random spectators slipped out, unwilling to risk it. When the Triple Extreme doors opened again, Viktor shot me a look of pure disbelief.

“Seriously?”

“He’ll win. We’ve got the strategy.”

Jackie was less confident.

“Shit, V, has he even boxed before?”

“I doubt it. Arasaka’s security team prefers judo, karate, muay thai. But his strikes are solid.”

Viktor, Jackie, and Caesar stared at me like I was an idiot. I kept my poker face. Meanwhile, David Martinez calmly took off his jacket, folding it neatly into his backpack. Nobody paid him any mind—just another spectator.

“Let me fight!” Jackie offered. “Or Cesar!”

“I’m ready!” Cesar chimed in. “I’ll take a modest cut. Twenty percent? Fifteen?”

I grabbed my mic and cranked the amp.
“Tonight’s challenger against Logan Garcia is David Martinez from Santo Domingo!”

The crowd erupted—especially Maelstrom.

“You’re an idiot, V. Official diagnosis,” Vik muttered.

“Got it covered,” I whispered back.

David nodded in focus. Logan prowled the pit’s edge, slamming his fists together.
“You came to die, kid! You’re gonna die here!”

Martinez ignored him, stretching like it was a routine workout. He was in lightweight track pants and a tight rash guard tee.

“How old is he, V?” Garcia cackled. “How much did you pay for him? A bag of chips and a console? You fucked up, poser! I’m gonna splatter him!”

“Do boxers always talk shit this much?” Becca asked.

Angie raised her voice to get the fight started.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” David replied.

“Let’s go!” Logan roared, about to jump in.

A shot rang out. A massive-caliber bullet tore through the factory roof, making everyone flinch. Guns came out. Some ducked.

“Here we go…” Jackie growled. “It’s always like this with these freaks.”

Royce—Simon Randall—had fired the shot. He wasn’t the gang leader yet, but high enough in Maelstrom’s pecking order.

“Listen up!” he barked, holding a revolver in one hand and an electromagnetic pistol in the other. “There’s gonna be a fight. A damn good one. But we gotta wait. One of our clients is on the way. Big shot. Paid for tickets—two tickets! He’ll be pissed if we start without him. So we wait!”

“Why don’t you ditch the gun and warm up in the ring?” Logan called out to him.

“Why don’t you grab a gun and come up here?” Royce shot back. “I’ll knock you out so hard with a couple of through-and-throughs your mom won’t recognize you... but maybe later. There’s gonna be a fight! You hear me? A fight! But first…”

The heavy sound of footsteps cut through the noise, catching the attention of everyone despite the chaos. The metal folding door at the back of the factory crumpled like paper, pushed aside as though it were a mere curtain. A massive black figure loomed in the doorway.

“Santa Madre…” Jackie whispered, clutching at his heart. “Padre nuestro, que estás en el cielo… I didn’t think this night could get any worse.”

“Holy shit,” Becca muttered, her voice full of awe and dread.

“Yeah. It’s him,” I confirmed, keeping my tone flat.

Adam Smasher stepped into Triple Extreme, and suddenly the whole place felt like a powder keg. His mere presence doubled the intensity. Arasaka’s top merc wasn’t alone—Jeremiah Grayson, his personal lapdog and fixer, followed closely behind.

Smasher had a history with Maelstrom, using them as muscle to guard his stash aboard Ebunike. Funny, considering how many of their own he had butchered over the years. But Maelstrom worshipped power and brutality, and Adam Smasher had both in spades.

The ironwork creaked ominously as he moved through the hall. Royce, for once, gave up his spot without a word.
“So much meat,” Smasher said, scanning the room.

Nobody from the Animals dared respond—not even Logan. The silence was oppressive.

“What are you waiting for?” Smasher growled. “I came here to see a fight. Start the damn thing!”

“Fighters ready?” Angie asked, her voice shaking ever so slightly.

“Yes,” David replied calmly.

Either he’d seen Smasher before, or he was just too focused to care. After the factory incident, maybe they even crossed paths again. Enough for Smasher to get curious about how high the new Arasaka prodigy had climbed.

Logan and David jumped into the pit. No rounds. No ref. Just raw, unfiltered violence. Logan took a boxer’s stance, poised for mid-range combat. He moved lightly on his feet despite his size, circling with deliberate pressure.

David backed up. Logan pressed in, a predator cornering his prey. He tested with a light jab…

And then a flash—both fighters shifted at once.

Logan threw a flurry, but David activated his Sandevistan and slipped aside. Logan rushed after him, two blurs trading strikes at inhuman speed. David danced, Logan chased.

Their boosters ran dry. Logan spat on the ground, his face flushed red. “You’re not some weak-ass punk. I’ll give you that,” he snarled. “Too bad you don’t know shit about boxing. Lemme fix that.”

David had a few marks on his face but nothing serious. His bones were like reinforced steel by now. Logan charged again, mixing probing jabs with brutal hooks and sneaky jolts. David slipped back—then suddenly reactivated his speed mod.

This time, Logan didn’t bite. He let David burn through his boost, planning to strike when he ran out of juice.

Except…

David pivoted, threw a quick jab, slid to Logan’s flank, and delivered a rapid three-hit combo as his mod powered down. Logan covered up. David’s Sandevistan wasn’t a one-and-done. His model could toggle on and off freely.

Logan had no choice—he boosted. They blitzed across the pit again, but David kept to the plan. Stay evasive. Wear him out.

“Quit running like a bitch!” Logan roared, his face turning tomato-red from exertion. “How many charges you got left, huh? One? Two? It ain’t enough! When you burn out, I’m gonna bury you!”

I keyed the mic, my voice a smooth, mocking drawl. “David, how many more boosts you got?”

Without looking away, he deadpanned, “About thirty.”

That was a death sentence. The Maelstrom crowd roared with glee.

“Blood and chrome! Blood and chrome! Kill him! Kill him!”

“Sorry, Logan,” I said. “Genetic lottery. You lost this fight before you were even born.”

“Fuck you!” Logan spat. “Fuck you and your chrome punk! Implants ain’t everything! I owned this ring before you were even a twinkle in your daddy’s balls! You wanna be a champ? Come here, and I’ll show you what it fucking means.”

The crowd loved it—roaring, chanting, the whole dramatic show.
But this wasn’t a movie.

“Stick to the plan, remember?” I reminded David.

“Yeah,” he nodded, backing up toward the edge. It was time to end it. He’d wear Logan down, strike in bursts, and beat every ounce of shit out of him.

But before David could move, a red laser beam cut through the pit between them.

The room froze. Someone whimpered. Laser weapons were a rare sight in Night City—far too power-hungry to be practical.

“Boring,” Smasher’s metallic voice boomed. “Too predictable.” He leaned forward. “Time to change the rules.”

Daily Updates (03/01/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 34

• Tier 2: Chapter 39

Mad Tiger

• Tier 1: Chapter 30

• Tier 2: Chapter 35

[Castling] Chapter 39

The conversation with the shaman lingered in my mind for a long time, making me question the choices I’d made.

“What do you mean? I don’t understand you,” I asked, bewildered. “What consequences?”

“Do you know what true wisdom is, Achehar?” he countered instead of answering. “It’s carrying the weight of your decisions alone. Accept it—and you’ll no longer have the right to blame others. Every life and death will rest on your hands and be your responsibility. Wichasha—your white-bearded sage—designed everything to save the many, but you aim to save the few. It’s not for me to judge which is right, for there is nothing dearer than one’s own skin and nothing closer than one’s own blood.”

“So, you think Dumbledore’s path is the right one?” I asked hesitantly. “That nothing should be changed?”

“Why would I think that?” the shaman replied with a hint of surprise. “There’s always more than one way to a goal. It all depends on the Guide. Wichasha knew from the start that the boy carried a piece of another Achek within him, but he could neither remove it himself nor dared to. What’s more, he saw it as a sign of the Prophecy, not realising it spoke of the spirit, not the body. The boy could never have—neither in soul nor in skill—killed the body of the Cursed One. His fate was always a battle of spirit against spirit. He fights the foreign Achek within him and wins. His mother’s sacrifice gave him protection; her blood stands between him and her killer, just as it shields Gëdji—the black raven. Only these two can resist the foreign Achek-kargo and keep it from taking them over.” The shaman paused to take a drag from his pipe, giving me time to think.

By “raven,” he clearly meant Snape. Amazing, really—despite all his dark magic and bloodstained hands, he was the only Death Eater who had a Patronus. Turns out the memory of Lily protected him as well, preventing the darkness from fully claiming him. Who’d have thought?

“Do you reckon Dumbledore avoids confronting the Dark Lord head-on because he lacks protection?” I asked, drifting slightly off-topic as the thought struck me.

“He believes in the Prophecy and knows his own weakness,” the shaman replied. “In his hands is the Elder Wand, thirsty for death, and buried in his heart is a long-suppressed desire for power and greatness. He’s fought that desire for years. Deep down, he wants the same things as Achek-kargo, and he knows his vulnerability to it. That’s why he won’t raise the wand to kill. All he can do is fight himself and remember the dead—those who’ve gone and those yet to die.”

“Well, that’s bleak,” Charlie muttered, finally breaking his silence after merely listening.

“Your sage allows the boy and the Cursed One to meet face-to-face, teaching him to resist, to fight back; showing him that loved ones are worth protecting. He prepares the boy to walk willingly to his death—and die,” the shaman continued as I glanced sharply at him.

“Die? But he came back to life, didn’t he?” I asked, confused.

“He was meant to die,” the shaman insisted firmly. “By then, his connection to the Cursed One was stronger than ever, thanks in no small part to Gëdji.”

“Are you saying Snape was teaching Harry not to shield his mind, but to open it?” I asked, disbelief creeping into my voice.

“Of course. Otherwise, how would the Cursed One destroy himself within Harry? It’s a living vessel, not an inanimate object; you can’t just sink your fangs into it. Your Avada severs the ties between consciousness, spirit, and body—that’s why it’s considered unforgivable. The Cursed One would have merely severed the connection, killing Harry but leaving his own Achek intact to take over the empty vessel. 

Harry’s entire life has been a battle between his Achek and the foreign one. Each time, he prevailed, absorbing bits of the other’s spirit. Remember when the foreign spirit nearly took him over after the hearing? Even the sage avoided his gaze, suspecting as much. And later, when he injured another boy, it was the foreign spirit guiding him. The same happened when the Cursed One possessed him in the Ministry. Yet Harry overcame it each time, just as the Prophecy foretold. But the sage couldn’t risk even the smallest chance of the Cursed One’s revival within Harry, so his path ensured both the boy’s and the Cursed One’s deaths. He even allowed the boy to share his secret with friends, so they could finish his work if he perished, ensuring the Cursed One’s return would be impossible. Still, he hoped the spirits hadn’t merged entirely—that the Cursed One would destroy himself and Harry, protected by sacrifice, would survive. 

He banked on the blood protection the Cursed One used for his resurrection. But the sage miscalculated. It was precisely because of that shared blood that the Cursed One couldn’t kill himself within Harry—they were both protected. And when Harry returned, he’d fully dissolved the foreign spirit, severing the bond and triumphing because he chose to sacrifice himself for everyone else, destroying all the darkness within him and surviving.”

“So, what happens if we destroy the Horcrux now?” I asked, still reeling from what I’d heard.

“The Cursed One won’t be able to influence the boy anymore—he won’t possess him or send him visions. But the boy will lose his protection, and the Achek-kargo could kill him with ease. On top of that, Harry will inherit certain traits of the foreign spirit—or rather, traits already similar to it will grow stronger, like his temper or distrust. Fighting a foreign foe within yourself is always easier than battling yourself. Still, he wouldn’t have to face the Cursed One or die by his hand. So, what’s your choice?”

“I don’t even know now,” I admitted truthfully.

“Then tell me, Achehar, what was your plan?”

“Well, I was planning to rope Snape in—swear him to secrecy and tell him Dumbledore’s set Harry up to die while making him think he’s saving his life. I doubt the Headmaster tells his spy everything; it’s not his style. I reckon Snape might agree—especially since Harry wouldn’t have the Horcrux anymore, so he wouldn’t have to die, and anyone could take out the Dark Lord. 

“After that, once Black deals with the rat, Snape and I could handle the ring. He knows enough dark magic to deal with its protections. For the cup, I thought Bill might help—he works with goblins, so he might find a loophole, especially since he’ll be back at the British bank by then. If not, we could offer the goblins basilisk venom or the Resurrection Stone to drip venom on the cup—no theft involved. 

“Worst case, we’d buy a hair from Bellatrix at Azkaban, Imperius a goblin, and do it like in the book. As for the Dark Lord, we could track him down in Albania and finish him while he’s weak. And if we can’t deal with the cup, we could put the Dark Lord’s remains in stasis or dose them with Draught of Living Death—job done. Without an heir for the Lestrange vault, the Horcrux could sit there for centuries undisturbed. Or we could get the Ministry to pressure the goblins. The main thing is avoiding war,” I finished with a sigh.

"Sounds reasonable," the shaman approved.

"Only if nothing goes wrong," my brother muttered, frowning.

"In any case, we need to ask Harry himself," I said firmly. "It's his choice. But regardless, I'll stick to my plan and won't let Dumbledore harm my family."

"You're going to tell Harry yourself?" Charlie shot me a wary glance, tinged with pity.

"Yeah, first thing tomorrow morning. He’ll need time to think it over," I replied. The shaman gave an impassive nod, approving my decision, and my brother and I headed back to our tent.

"Do you blame Dumbledore?" Charlie asked as we walked.

"No," I admitted honestly. "He doesn't have any other choice... If the Horcrux could be removed, he'd have done it already. Since it can't, there's always the risk of Voldemort coming back if Harry falters or gives in. So, yeah, the stakes are too high. It's just... in his plan, Harry’s the centerpiece, and I think it's wrong to just sit back and hope one kid can sort it all out just because he’s got a bit of Voldemort in his head. Honestly, I’ve been thinking a lot about Ginny lately... Do you reckon Voldemort could’ve been reborn in her if he hadn’t switched to Harry when he did? She didn’t have any protection, and he almost drained her completely."

"That’s a bloody horrifying thought," Charlie muttered. We fell silent after that, neither of us in the mood to continue the conversation. Without discussing it, we turned in for the night. Harry had been fast asleep for hours.

Morning came far too quickly. Harry, as usual, was buzzing with excitement—after breakfast, we were heading into the forest for a planned outing. The locals could summon any creature with magic, and they’d become so docile you could pet them and even play with them. Hermione was thrilled, and Harry seemed to love the idea too.

"Oi, Ron, why the long face?" Harry asked cheerfully, plopping onto the bench next to me with a bowl of porridge in hand. "Didn’t get enough sleep?"

"Eat up, Harry, don’t get distracted," I grunted, throwing a quick glance at Hermione and stirring my own bowl listlessly. "We’ll talk later."

"My Patronus almost took shape yesterday!" Hermione announced proudly.

"Brilliant! What is it?" Harry asked, his interest piqued.

"I’m not sure yet, but it’s something small," she said, frowning thoughtfully.

"Well, my Patronus is already a proper shield," Harry teased her, grinning. The two had been competing to see who could master the charm first.

"Alright, boys, I’m off. See you in half an hour," Hermione chirped, practically skipping off. We cleared our plates and moved over to a fallen tree nearby.

"So, it’s really that serious?" Harry asked anxiously, his tone tense as he watched me with wide eyes.

"Listen, Harry," I began cautiously, "there’s something I need to tell you."

"Someone’s died, haven’t they?" he blurted out, his face pale as he clung to the tree bark. "Who is it?"

"No one’s died; everyone’s fine," I snapped, irritated. "Now sit down and just listen."

He relaxed a little and stared at me, his gaze intent.

"Right," I said, deciding to rip off the bandage. "The shaman found part of Voldemort in you. When he came to your house and was destroyed, a piece of him ended up inside you."

Harry gaped at me, his jaw slack, and when I finished, his hand shot up to his scar.

"That’s not possible," he whispered, swallowing hard. "What does that mean for me?"

"Do you believe me?" I asked, surprised at his calmness.

"Of course. You’ve never lied to me," he said firmly. "Is there a way to get rid of it?"

"It can’t be removed, only dissolved," I said. "You have to decide—do you want to deal with it now, or let your own spirit absorb it over time?"

"I need to think about it," he muttered, bolting away from me.

Harry didn’t return until lunchtime, looking disheartened, his scar red and irritated as though he’d been rubbing at it all morning. When I shot him a questioning look, he gave me a terse nod, as if to say he was fine, and sat down silently. I’d already warned Hermione not to prod him with questions, so she filled the silence with a running commentary about the creatures she’d seen and stroked that morning. I was grateful for her chatter—it saved me from having to speak. My mood was grim at best.

After dinner, we walked Hermione back, then made our way wordlessly to the shaman.

"I’ve been expecting you," the old man said, settling by the fire and gesturing for us to sit. "So, what have you decided, Harry?"

"I want it gone," Harry said firmly. "I hate the idea of a piece of that monster inside me—the one who killed my parents. I can’t stop thinking about it. But... what happens if we remove it?"

"In one body, there should be only one soul," the shaman said thoughtfully. "Right now, you’re in control, but that piece can still influence you. It cannot feel anything good. Where you might be upset or angry, it will push you towards rage, hatred, even violence. But this struggle is what strengthens your spirit—overcoming it will make you more resilient against darkness. With time, you’ll dissolve that fragment completely, and it will lose all power over you. I can remove it now, but you’ll miss out on that growth. Without the strength gained from fighting it, your spirit will be vulnerable, and the emotions it releases will overwhelm you. You’ll feel its influence more keenly, and it will be harder to control yourself."

"Even so, I want it gone," Harry said decisively. "I’ll do my best to manage, sir."

“Alright,” the shaman sighed, rising to his feet. “Into the tent with you.”

“What, right now?” Harry blurted, looking a bit panicked as he nervously licked his lips.

“Why wait?” the shaman replied in his usual unbothered tone, setting his pipe aside. “Don’t worry, young man, it won’t hurt,” he added unexpectedly, a faint smile softening his face as he placed a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry managed a weak smile in return before trudging towards the tent, throwing me a guilty glance over his shoulder.

“You wait here,” the old man said, stopping me with a nod as I moved to follow Harry. “Your support, Achehar, will be needed later.”

“Why do you keep calling me Achahar?” I snapped irritably. “What does that even mean?”

“What else would you be,” he said, squinting at me slyly, “if not a spirit that’s travelled through time? Achehar fits, doesn’t it?” He chuckled softly and disappeared into the tent, leaving me utterly baffled. So, he’d known who I was all along—even before viewing my memories?

Harry was gone for a good three hours. By the time the shaman emerged, night had fallen. He looked tired but content.

“He managed,” the shaman said with a smile as I leapt to my feet and rushed toward him. “It all went well. The boy’s strong; he endured the pain.”

“Pain?” I shot back, aghast. “You said it wouldn’t hurt!”

“His spirit hurt, Achehar, not his body,” the shaman corrected calmly, his gaze steady. “The Horcrux tormented him with visions—his mother’s death, the indifference and cruelty of his adoptive family, anger towards you, jealousy of those more loved. It lied to him, twisted the truth, and fed those feelings to make them stronger. The boy went through hell.”

“But I thought you were just going to dissolve the Horcrux!” I protested, my voice rising. “Why did Harry have to go through all that?”

“I am merely a guide, not a god,” the shaman replied serenely, settling by the fire and lighting his pipe again. “It’s not my place to decide for someone else’s soul. I provided support—it’s always easier to fight when you know someone’s there. Now it’s your turn to be there for him, Achehar. That child’s deepest fear is being unwanted.”

I hesitated before sitting beside him, then asked, “Tell me, am I like Voldemort? A wandering spirit that’s taken over someone else’s body?”

“You foolish boy,” he said with a warm chuckle. “A spirit has no name or gender; it lives many lives, gaining experience. You simply remembered one of your other lives. In truth, when your spirit was thrown from Ron’s body by the shock, you had time to be born and live another life before your body here healed enough to pull you back. That’s why you don’t recall dying—it happened abruptly, and part of your consciousness returned, bringing those memories with it.”

“But I didn’t remember being Ron,” I argued.

“Well, you were born into a new body and lived far longer in that life than in your old one. You rejected Ron’s consciousness and suppressed it. But you’ve accepted yourself now, haven’t you?”

“I have,” I admitted with a firm nod, feeling a strange sense of relief. “But why doesn’t the spirit keep its past life’s memories when it’s reborn? Wouldn’t that make things easier—avoiding the same mistakes, knowing where you went wrong?”

“Because of fear,” he explained. “Fear holds us back. If you feared heights in a past life, you’d fear them again in this one. You’d cling to the same likes, dislikes, habits. If you were lazy, you’d stay that way; if you avoided people, you’d remain a recluse. Your life would stagnate, and where there’s no movement, there’s death. Without challenges and self-discovery, a spirit cannot grow. It thrives on experience, and the memories of its past body aren’t needed,” he added, standing up. “Now, let’s go. I’ll carry the boy. We all need some rest.”

[Mad Tiger] Chapter 35

I found Sasuke sitting by the pond. That classic blank stare. Dark circles under his eyes. His skin looked so pale it was almost translucent. Apparently, he’d been “sick” and skipped that class trip too—though in his case, he stayed home instead of tagging along with Naruto’s misery squad.

Ever since I regained my memory, I’d been chewing over the finer details of this world’s timeline. During the anime, I never paid much attention to the gossip, but now it hit me—those whispers among classmates. If I remembered right, Sasuke lost his entire clan three or four years before the story began. That’s enough time for even the nosiest villagers to stop talking about it, right? I mean, sure, Konoha’s small, but it’s not that small. But here? It’s like everyone just got the memo yesterday. That confirmed it—I’d landed smack in the middle of the canon timeline. Only this time, I was here. And while I wasn’t planning to save the world, I was going to make life a little less miserable for two important kids. That much, I could handle.

I padded over to Sasuke and brushed against his leg. He was crouched in the grass, chin resting on his knees.

“Hey. Hello? Earth to broody ninja?” I called, but he didn’t budge. “C’mon, pet me already—don’t waste a good opportunity.”

I tapped his leg with my paw for emphasis. Good thing I’d stuffed my face earlier at the Inuzuka compound, because trying to communicate with local zombies on an empty stomach would’ve been impossible. Speaking of food, I had no idea what Sasuke ate—or if he ate. Mental note: investigate the kid’s diet. Who’s bringing him instant ramen packets? Somebody’s gotta be.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally blinked and looked down at me. His dark eyes showed no recognition, no curiosity. Nothing. Rude! Ignoring me? Me, the most majestic cat in all of Konoha? Not on my watch.

“I don’t have anything for you,” Sasuke said flatly.

Oh, you little—! I let out an offended huff that would’ve made even a Sharingan user jealous. Fine, time for Plan B. I went full “adorable idiot,” rubbing my forehead against his hand like I was desperate. His fingers twitched, and finally, finally, he petted me. See? Neko-therapy works wonders. I cranked up my purring engine and climbed onto his scrawny knees when he stretched his legs out. By the way, he was wearing shorts. In October. I mean, sure, it’s not exactly a blizzard, but come on, dude—this isn’t a spring picnic. Put some pants on!

I curled up and dozed off almost instantly. Well, technically, I was “thinking deeply” about how to help this poor traumatized kid. But, y’know, multitasking.

Eventually, Sasuke shifted. It was dark by then. He’d just been sitting there, sometimes barely touching me. I’d been working my charm—stretching, tilting my head, doing all the cute cat moves. Got so into it I nearly rolled off his knees. Classic.

When he got up, he carefully set me aside and headed toward the village. Probably home. I thought about Naruto’s leftover potatoes and instant ramen stash. Tonight, I’d focus on Sasuke. Time to earn my “World’s Most Overworked Therapy Cat” badge.

No kidding, I really am the Figaro of Konoha— Figaro here, Figaro there, and everywhere. I’d been running myself ragged all week! My thieving skills hadn’t hit level 80 yet, but I was making progress with Sasuke. He actually started showing emotions when he saw me. Plus, he gave me a name. Yeah. Five days, tops.

I’d learned a few things: Sasuke barely slept, woke up ridiculously early to train before school, and ate at some tea shop near his new apartment. Not that he enjoyed it—he ate like it was just another chore. But lately, he’d started bringing me snacks when he visited the pond. Progress! Naruto, on the other hand, seemed to irritate Sasuke on instinct. Every time they saw each other, it turned into a mini smackdown. Yesterday, they almost fought for real. I saw it from a tree—Sasuke’s eyes actually lit up for a moment. I nearly fell off my branch out of sheer joy. But then, nope. Back to dead inside. He huffed and walked off, leaving Naruto to face the wrath of every girl in class.

“Hey, Choco-chan,” Sasuke greeted me when I showed up at the pond again.

Choco. As in chocolate. Not sure if I prefer that over “Brat,” (Namaiki) which is what Naruto calls me. Decisions, decisions.

Turns out Naruto’s birthday was October 10th—he just turned twelve. A couple days earlier, the surveillance on him was finally lifted, and my little chick decided to celebrate. His big plan? Drumroll, please! Roast potatoes over a campfire. I was thrilled—finally, a way to get Naruto and Sasuke in the same place without them killing each other. I even raided my secret stash and brought three prime potatoes for the occasion.

Naruto’s eyes went comically wide when he saw me. He probably thought I was some kind of magical cat who conjured food out of thin air. Gotta keep the mystique alive.

“You wanna roast these too, Namaiki-chan?” he asked, catching on quick.

I nudged the potatoes out of my carrier bag with dramatic flair. Yep, let’s do this.

Naruto grabbed his backpack. “So, should I take everything?”

I shook my head and smacked the bag so the potatoes tumbled out like fireworks. Ta-da! Birthday magic.

Leaving the carrier behind, I led him to the pond. Sasuke was already there—I could smell him. Perfect timing. I steered Naruto down a side path to avoid tipping him off to my plan. The pond was huge; plenty of room for everyone.

Naruto dropped his bag. “Nice spot, Namaiki-chan. Good choice. But we need firewood…”

I nodded and parked myself on the supplies. Guard duty. Meanwhile, Sasuke watched from behind a rock. I knew he could see us perfectly. Naruto wandered off to gather sticks and came back with an armful of dry branches. Fifteen minutes later, we had a crackling fire. Success!

While Naruto got things ready, I slunk over to the water. Big, fat fish swam lazily near the surface. Hmm… could I pull off a bear smacking salmon move? Time to find out.

Ahhhh! I’m so awesome!

The big ol’ fish I hooked under the gills with my claws flopped out of the water like a gymnast, did a dramatic flip, and slammed onto the riverbank with a splat. Pure instinct kicked in—I pounced and pinned it with both paws, screaming my fuzzy little head off for someone to come rescue me from this squirming, muscular menace.

A quick glance around revealed that Uzumaki was nowhere to be seen. Off gathering more firewood, probably. Typical. But wait—here comes Sasuke, running toward me!

Never one to miss a chance to look cool, the guy swooped in and helped me wrestle the beast. And, of course, he had a kunai on him.

Just as I started to breathe a sigh of relief, I realized the situation we were in. Sasuke, kunai in hand, crouched awkwardly over me and the fish in what could only be described as an award-winning “Did you pray tonight, Desdemona?” pose. And wouldn’t you know it—Naruto bursts onto the scene right at that moment.

The kid froze, eyes wide, as if he’d just walked in on a soap opera.

“Y-YOU!” Naruto shouted, jabbing an accusatory finger at Sasuke. “What were you trying to do to my Namaiki-chan?!”

Sasuke’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again as he slowly turned to me like, “Wait... is this really happening?”

“Hey, I caught that!” I declared, puffing out my chest and slapping a paw onto the still-wriggling fish. No way was I letting this drama distract them from my amazing hunting skills. Potatoes alone weren’t gonna cut it, okay?

Naruto’s attention snapped to the fish, and his eyes went even wider.

“WHOA! That’s HUGE!” he yelled. “Wait... you’re telling me you caught that?”

“No, it was the cat,” Sasuke muttered, tilting his head like he was trying to figure out how any of this made sense.

“And I wasn’t even talking to you, Uchiha,” Naruto shot back, crossing his arms in an exaggerated huff. “I was talking to my cat!”

Well, this was getting out of hand. Time to deploy some tactical cuteness. I purred loudly and rubbed against Sasuke’s leg like the sneaky little manipulator I am.

“Hn. What if it’s my cat?” Sasuke quipped, smirking just enough to provoke Naruto.

I bit Sasuke’s finger lightly to remind him who’s in charge here. Gotta keep these kids in line somehow. A little stick, a little carrot, y’know? Speaking of carrots—or rather, fish—could I pull this off a second time?

“Watch!” Sasuke snapped at Naruto, pointing as I padded back to the water’s edge.

No room for failure now. I took my time, focused, and—

“WHOA! Catch it! Catch it!” Naruto shrieked, jumping up and down. “Namaiki-chan, you’re amazing!”

Well, duh. Of course, I’m amazing. I mean, sure, I can’t sew or knit, but fishing? Turns out I’m a natural. Within minutes, another fish flopped onto the shore, and I could already spot more lurking nearby.

As the great philosopher Cat Matroskin (1) once said, “Teamwork brings people together.” The boys got right to work—Sasuke knocked out the fish with a swift kunai strike, and Naruto enthusiastically helped clean them. After some awkward attempts to act like they weren’t totally bonding, Naruto invited Sasuke to roast the fish and potatoes together. Surprisingly, Sasuke didn’t decline.

I made myself comfy between them as we ate, pretending to “steal” bites right out of their hands. Naturally, they played along, cooling chunks of food for me before “losing” them to my daring heist.

“You realize that Choco... uh, Namaiki-chan used chakra to catch those fish, right?” Sasuke asked out of nowhere, breaking the cozy silence as we all leaned back, stuffed and satisfied. “How long have you even known this cat?”

Naruto frowned thoughtfully, staring at me like I was some kind of mystery to solve. Great. Just what I needed—these two bonding over trying to figure me out my awesomeness.

_____________________________________________

• The cat character from the classic Russian children’s novella “Uncle Fedya, His Dog, and His Cat,” and its popular cartoon adaptation, “Three from Prostokvashino.”

Daily Updates (02/01/25)

Demons of NC

• Tier 1: Chapter 56

• Tier 2: Chapter 61

Life is Good

• Tier 1: Chapter 23

• Tier 2: Chapter 28

Elden Ring: My Ending

• Tier 1: Chapter 23

• Tier 2: Chapter 28

[Elden Ring: My Ending] Chapter 28

No matter how much Ranni longed to rest—she would always awaken. The cautious demigoddess never let her guard down entirely, even now.

More than that, she never stopped her vigilance.

The Three Sisters. A region cloaked in magical wards, difficult to find, let alone enter. Even if someone managed to break through the enchantments, the projection of her loyal Royal Knight would meet any intruder with a raised scythe. If that wasn’t enough, the descendant of the ancient dragons, sworn to the Dark Moon, would make it abundantly clear that strangers weren’t welcome.

...Unless, of course, he ran away again. (1)

The spectral visage of the demigoddess almost puffed up in frustration. Her foggy thoughts kept pulling up absurdities.

Ranni adjusted herself more comfortably on her chair, her doll-like body perched atop a pile of books.

Her vessel was far too small, occasionally giving an incorrect impression of her stature.

"I have a warrior who serves me, named Blaidd, a half-man, half-wolf," Ranni began softly, folding her hands. "You should already be familiar with him. I will ask you to assist him in searching for the hidden treasure of Nokron, the Eternal City. Blaidd will meet you below and explain everything."

Although Melina had vanished, she, of course, overheard Ranni’s words. The assignment for her Tarnished couldn’t help but set her on edge.

"Down there, you will also meet my war counselor, Iji, and the accomplished sorcerer Seluvis," Ranni continued in a measured tone. "They are quite the odd pair, but don’t hesitate to seek their advice and assistance. I’m confident they will do the same."

"Seluvis..."

For the first time, a genuine malice filled Sellen’s whisper, Seluvis’ name spoken as if it were a curse. The smiling, ghostly visage of the sorceress vanished, replaced by an expression of pure disdain. If she had her way, she would have personally transformed Seluvis into one of his grotesque puppets.

Kosta understood the sorceress-waifu’s sentiment well.

In fact, he wasn’t particularly eager to step into the domain of one of the best waifus, largely because of the necessity of meeting one of the chief antagonists of all waifu fans.

Kosta would have gladly shattered Seluvis' mask if he didn’t already know that the best waifu was fully aware of her "servant’s" intentions toward her.

How many times had he botched the questline, unable to resist attacking the sorcerer outright...

As usual, the greatest challenges for a casual tryhard weren’t conventional battles.

The lunar demigoddess felt a wave of relief as she passed along her instructions. With all preparations complete and her new servant given a task that would best test his loyalty and prove whether he deserved her trust—true trust. Ranni also found herself eager to see how the man would explain himself to his faux Finger Maiden once she realized what her Tarnished was being sent to retrieve.

And, of course, whether he truly deserved to be so bold as to steal her ring. As if strength alone was sufficient!

The demigoddess’s mind conjured an image of the man striding inexorably toward his target, hammer in hand. He seemed to know exactly how to strike the chords of her mother’s soul. And not just her mother’s.

The spectral visage nearly puffed up again.

The Tarnished’s unpredictable actions unsettled her in ways she wasn’t accustomed to. She’d already been unnerved by his kneeling before her—not as an ordinary servant but with something altogether different in mind. Now, with the ring in his possession (albeit sealed within an inaccessible chest hidden in some mysterious subspace), and her mother having essentially given her blessing for him to keep it, the Tarnished’s actions carried an unexpected subtext.

What if his remarks about her feet weren’t a slip of the tongue?! Could this unflappable Tarnished, surrounded by so many women, actually intend to "set her feet in motion"? She didn’t even have a living vessel! How did he even imagine that would work?! She wasn’t thinking about such things at all!

Ranni huffed internally, her spectral lips pressing into a slight pout. She urgently needed to rest.

The lunar demigoddess turned her sleepy gaze to the brooding exiled sorceress.

"Seluvis will guide you to your new vessel. After that, you will gain the freedom you deserve. I hope you can avoid conflict. That goes for you too, Konstantin."

The Tarnished furrowed his brow as if his focus and poise had been broken.

Of course, Ranni was well aware of Seluvis’ plans. She was curious to see how far the fool was willing to go and how confident he truly was. This would be a test not only for him but also for her new servant and the sorceress.

As Ranni’s consciousness began to sink into the darkness of sleep, she cast a final glance at the Tarnished.

At least he had learned to remain clothed most of the time... Melina had done a good job...

"The projection of my servant and the sworn dragon guard this land. They won’t harm you. I believe in you. And upon my awakening, I expect good news."

She was half-lying. She didn’t fully believe it. But she wanted to.

Moreover, even as her consciousness faded into slumber, a fragment of her spirit would always watch over them. Had she been any less paranoid and cautious, her existence would have ended long ago.

These were the last words the lunar demigoddess spoke. Her head dipped, her hat veiling her doll-like face. In the tower, they were left alone.

Kosta stared at one of the best waifus for a moment before letting out a slow exhale and heading downstairs.

Who would have thought waifus themselves would be responsible for transporting him to the necessary locations? In times when quest deadlines loomed, being a casual player whose path was smoothed out felt better than ever.

The man, with the sorceress still concealed within his robes, descended to find three projections waiting for them below. The demigoddess had ensured that her retainers could interact with one another from any point in the Lands Between.

Otherwise, the poor half-wolf would probably have been hopelessly lost in Limgrave ages ago.

"Ah, it’s been a while, my friend!" Blaidd’s joyful laugh rang out. "I’m glad to see you serving Lady Ranni now!"

He was genuinely overjoyed. His lady’s news about her new servant had lifted his spirits considerably.

However, Blaidd’s joy didn’t last long. The wolf let out a melancholic sigh.

"Alright, let’s get to business... I’m still in Limgrave…"

Seluvis’ projection, though his mask concealed it, clearly winced.

"Understood... So, you’re the one Lady Ranni recently recruited. Yes, yes, I’ve heard of you. I am Seluvis, a tutor in sorcerous arts."

The sorcerer offered a faint bow. He had, of course, heard of Konstantin—not just as his lady’s servant. The man standing before him was rather terrifying. There weren’t many left in the Lands Between who hadn’t heard tales of such a powerful warrior and, as it turned out, sorcerer.

Though Kosta maintained an outwardly stoic demeanor, deep down, he wanted nothing more than to storm Seluvis’ tower and perform several emphatic dodgerolls.

Fortunately, the conversation was taken over by the enormous giant who barely fit inside the tower. Even seated, the projection’s head brushed the ceiling, yet the giant smiled warmly at the unflappable man.

"So, you’re the one she spoke of!" the giant boomed. "Lady Ranni has explained everything. Again, I am Iji. The Carian royal family's dedicated blacksmith, and Lady Ranni's war counsellor."

The giant courteously attempted to bow his head before the new servant whom his mistress had accepted, but—he couldn't.

The projection was immaterial, but it was bound by the mental restrictions of those who utilized it. Among the trio, the only one truly skilled in sorcery was Seluvis. Mental and internal limitations played a decisive role for casual casuals.

A casual who believes they can’t "casualize" something and starts trying hard isn’t a true casual. Just like everything can be turned into a challenge; everything can be turned into casual gameplay.

"Konstantin," the man responded succinctly.

Seluvis, clearly uninterested in prolonging the conversation, made his stance as obvious as possible:

"I reside… in another tower nearby," the projection reluctantly stated. "Visit me if you truly wish to serve Mistress Ranni. I understand I am to assist someone with acquiring a new body, correct?"

Konstantin felt the illusion of the sorceress beneath his clothing twitch.

Seluvis’s gaze shifted to Iji, subtly signaling that the topic shouldn’t continue in the giant’s presence. (2)

The giant wasn’t just aware of Sellen—he openly disapproved of her. Quite understandably so.

Fortunately, the Lunar Demigoddess and Sellen had managed to reach an agreement. At least in theory.

In any case, Kosta wasn’t about to let his waifu turn into a disco ball, whether through someone’s malicious intent (even if that someone was a waifu herself) or through Sellen’s own error.

He had seen how her quest ended in the loading menu.

"If it were up to me, I wouldn’t waste my time on someone like you. But who am I to oppose the will of my mistress?"

With those words, the sorcerer’s projection dissolved.

Blaidd bared his fangs, struggling visibly to suppress his anger. If not for the fact that Seluvis served Ranni, he would have buried the sorcerer somewhere long ago.

But first, of course, he needed to get out of the Siofra River…

"Don’t mind him, Konstantin. That vile little rat…" Blaidd sighed heavily, visibly deflated. "I’m still stuck in the Siofra River. Now that you serve the mistress, I can be upfront: we’re searching for the Eternal City of Nokron. It’s somewhere below. I’m planning to descend the well in the Mistwood. Perhaps I’ll find the way there…"

He sighed again, looking as if the weight of countless years of wandering weighed on him.

Blaidd often wondered why it was him who had to scour the Lands Between endlessly instead of someone like Seluvis. He was sure he’d navigate much better!

Konstantin was about to stop the half-wolf and tell him that the path to the underground city was already known, but Blaidd’s projection disappeared before he could.

A pang of guilt unexpectedly hit him: if no one helped Blaidd, the odds of him finding his way out…

Were close to zero.

Konstantin increasingly suspected that one of the best waifus was simply trying to keep the hapless half-wolf with topographic ineptitude at a distance, knowing the danger he might theoretically pose.

Now only Iji remained in the tower.

"If you need the help of a blacksmith or a military advisor, you can always come to me," the giant said with a warm smile. "An old fool like me knows quite a bit. I usually rest by the ruins of the royal family’s estates. It shouldn’t be hard for you to find me, Konstantin of the Tarnished."

Iji paused in thought before breaking into a hearty laugh.

"Assuming you don’t have the same problem as Blaidd."

Kosta shrugged.

Soulslikes had honed his sense of direction. Even if he got lost exploring the locations, he would eventually find the "shortcuts." It was a mandatory skill for every true Soulslike player—be they a pure casual, a hardcore purist, or a true casual-hardcore hybrid.

In the end, Kosta found himself alone in the tower, except for the hidden Sellen and the unseen Melina.

The first task was obvious: resolve the matter of Sellen’s body. Whether they liked it or not, Sellen would benefit from greater independence. Her real body was bound in a place known to all interested parties, and the illusion of the sorceress was barely capable of much on its own.

Outside the tower, the mist was thick. One could almost feel the casual energy radiating from the massive, shiny stones sprouting straight from the ground.

Not far off, a dragon lay sprawled, its eyes snapping to Konstantin as he exited the tower. However, remembering the words of the mistress, the dragon quickly lost interest in the man and closed his eyes.

Clearly, no free runes would be obtained here.

"Disappointed, teacher?"

Sellen’s soft question made the man’s eyebrow twitch.

"I can’t teach you anything."

Konstantin glanced back before heading into the mist, searching for the right tower and relying primarily on the flow of grace to guide him. There were plenty of clusters nearby, ensuring he could always return here if needed.

The distance between the towers was significantly greater than the man remembered.

"Really?" Sellen’s voice turned more seductive. "Am I truly so… unpleasant to you?"

Kosta almost stumbled.

Unfortunately, the waifu wasn’t about to stop there.

"I admit, I’m not the best person. But am I worse than the one who led the world to the Shattering? Or the one who originally wanted to use you without caring about your opinion?"

Of course, Sellen suspected that Melina might be nearby. But no matter how unpleasant her words were, she wasn’t lying.

Konstantin couldn’t dodge-roll or parry such a devastating and unexpected verbal attack. He froze mid-step, feeling a darkness creeping at the edges of his vision.

The world too often demanded skills he didn’t specialize in.

"I really can’t teach you anything."

"Why?" the sorceress asked, her tone now serious.

Her frown deepened, and she grew tense. It seemed as though at any moment, the Fingers’ false maiden might appear and wouldn’t let her go.

And then, if things went badly… They might show her the disco balls again.

Konstantin frowned, trying to find the right words.

"I can use casualness, but I can’t explain it."

"How is that possible?"

The thought seemed to flash simultaneously in the minds of both Sellen and Melina. However, they quickly found the answer: an Outer God. Of course, granting the man such a unique body and abilities likely included bestowing him with magic.

The illusion of the miniature Sellen, who wasn’t considering such matters, bit her lip. Fortunately, an idea quickly came to her mind.

"You’re such an odd one…" she chuckled. "I’d be delighted if you shared even the feelings you experience when using magic. In return, I’ll teach you everything I know. I’ll be your pupil, but you’ll also be mine. A fair deal, don’t you think?"

Kosta wasn't particularly interested in any of this. As mentioned before, he wasn’t a scholarly mind (a lore expert) and didn’t aspire to become one. And yet, something inside him told him not to refuse. Perhaps it was his heightened perception, picking up on the faint plea in the waifu’s voice, as if the success of her questline somehow depended on it.

"Fine."

Melina pursed her lips in annoyance, deciding to withdraw for a while. She likely wouldn’t see or hear anything interesting in the near future, and she still had her own task to complete—a promise to fulfill.

Yet, despite her resolve to leave, she couldn’t help but witness what happened next. The miniature illusion of Sellen shifted into an adult form and clung to Kosta, planting a soft kiss on his cheek. Entirely innocent, as if no deeper intent lay behind the gesture. But from the sorceress’s gaze, Melina could tell it was just the beginning of what Sellen was capable of.

Seeing the brief flicker of confusion on Kosta's usually impassive face, the sorceress laughed playfully before reverting to her miniature form.

"Treacherous, treacherous witch!"

Far more treacherous and bold than the other one…

Melina gripped her cloak, feeling a fire begin to kindle within her. She hastily shut her cursed eye, which had reflexively opened in outrage, but even that brought no relief.

Realizing that lingering any longer would only escalate her irritation at the shameless, conniving, and utterly unscrupulous sorceress, she decided to resume her search. She needed to calm herself down.

If she didn’t act soon, her Chosen One might be ensnared so completely that even his strength couldn’t set him free!

Even as an emissary of an unknown Outer God, Konstantin wasn’t invincible. Their influence wasn’t all-encompassing. The history of the Lands Between was rife with forgotten Outer Gods and their servants, their power lost to the sands of time. While Kosta might be unparalleled in combat, he had weaknesses—ones that could be exploited against him.

Melina tightened her grip on the ring Kosta had given her and left the waters of Liurnia behind.

It didn’t take long for Konstantin to locate Seluvis’s casual tower. He entered reluctantly, and his mood soured further upon encountering the real Seluvis.

It was clear the sorcerer had been waiting for him.

“Well, well. Catching me at my word. That was just politeness, you know. You country bumpkins never cease to amaze me…”

The clearly antagonistic sorcerer clicked his tongue in irritation upon realizing that Kosta’s expression didn’t even twitch.

It would have been much easier if the Tarnished attacked him first. While Seluvis had no intention of provoking Konstantin... too much, crossing a certain line would justify retaliation. His... mistress would surely defend him.

"I’ll lead you to what you’re looking for," Seluvis said, heading for the exit without waiting for Kosta.

The sorcerer wasn’t sure how his mistress had learned so much about his little hobby, but he didn’t see any real harm in it. Sorcerers often used the souls of their victims to craft puppets—it was an accepted practice in the Academy.

Seluvis had simply taken it a step further. He wanted to create adorable dolls—not for combat, but for his own... personal solace.

As long as his mistress didn’t suspect him of betrayal, there was no cause for concern. He had bowed to her for so long; surely, she trusted him?

The Lands Between had grown too accustomed to stagnation. Few seemed to realize that time, whether they liked it or not, continued its relentless march.

Seluvis led the silent servant of the demigoddess to a graveyard—one of many scattered across the Lands Between—and descended into a small but fully equipped tomb that doubled as his laboratory.

The sorcerer approached an illusory wall concealed by enchantments, but before he could do anything...

Kosta started smashing the walls with his club.

“W-what are you…”

Seluvis’s jaw dropped as cracks began forming in the walls. Before he could fully process what was happening, a final swing obliterated his material illusion, revealing a hidden chamber.

Kosta examined his now-worn club, then casually stored it away in some mysterious inventory before stepping into the once-hidden room.

“I was just looking for the entrance,” he said innocently.

Seluvis barely restrained himself from hurling a particularly lethal spell at the man.

‘Damned Tarnished!’

Kosta’s unshakable calmness made it impossible for Seluvis to tell whether the man was mocking him. Madness was practically commonplace in the Lands Between.

Much like Blaidd—whom the mistress refused to part with—Seluvis was certain that as long as a servant had muscle, Ranni would overlook any lack of brains. Strength and loyalty were all she cared for.

Gritting his teeth, Seluvis followed Kosta into the newly exposed area, wincing at the thought of the repairs—or illusions—he’d need to fix the damage.

Inside was indeed a body—a near-perfect replica of Sellen’s original form.

“It’s yours,” Seluvis said begrudgingly. “I don’t know how the mistress knew about our little arrangement, but if you see Sellen, remind her of the favor she still owes me.”

The illusion of Sellen almost snorted in disdain.

Kosta approached the new vessel for his waifu and effortlessly transported it into whatever mysterious space he used for storage. Seluvis stared, wide-eyed, at the vanishing body.

As Kosta turned to leave, unwilling to prolong his interaction with the puppeteer, Seluvis suddenly spoke up.

“Perhaps I have another task for you.”

Kosta stopped in his tracks.

“There’s a woman named Nepheli. Find her and give her this potion. Even you should be able to manage that, right?”

The Tarnished turned his head slowly, his impassive gaze locking onto the sorcerer. To Sellen’s surprise, instead of acting rashly, he asked:

“Is this a quest from one of the best waifus?”

Sellen barely concealed her shock.

‘He knows this can’t be from the mistress! What’s he planning?’

“Are you talking about the mistress?” Seluvis clicked his tongue. “Yes, yes, of course. So, will you serve Lady Ranni?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good,” Seluvis said, smirking behind his mask as he pulled the potion from his robe. “Find Nepheli and make sure she drinks this. I expect good news. Quickly, now.”

“I thought you were such an idiot only during the quest,” Kosta muttered. (3)

Whether it was his heightened perception or the sheer erosion of Seluvis’s brain by casual absurdity, one thing was clear: anyone who betrayed a waifu for their own twisted desires couldn’t be considered sane.

Still, compared to some of the more extreme cases, Kosta wasn’t so bad. Relatively speaking.

“What?”

“What?”

Kosta’s muttered judgment was so quiet that Seluvis barely caught it. The sorcerer, however, couldn’t decipher the man’s utterly unreadable expression and chalked it up to his imagination.

When Konstantin left and they were alone, Sellen’s illusion couldn't suppress her curiosity any longer:

“Why do you need it, Konstantin?”

“To give it to Gideon.”

Seluvis squinted with interest.

“You don’t want to harm that deceitful puppeteer yourself to avoid going against your mistress’s words, so you’re handing it off to that woman’s foster father instead? You keep surprising me, teacher-student.”

Either they seriously underestimated this man, or his madness wasn’t as severe as they’d thought, and he was slowly regaining his sanity.

“It’s just an option from the questline,” (4) Konstantin replied stoically.

Sellen laughed.

“What a peculiar man. Let’s go—the stars won’t wait forever, and I want my well-earned freedom. You’ll need to be very gentle with my new body. You haven’t lost my Primal Glintstone, have you?”

The illusion’s tone was laced with irony; she always knew where her true vessel was. However, she couldn’t describe exactly where the man had tucked away her soul like some random item. She only knew that it was… nearby.

Kosta shrugged.

First, they needed to find a suitable spot. On the other hand, when it came to mobility, The Tarnished was perhaps too resourceful.

It didn’t take them long to transfer the Glintstone into the new vessel. Konstantin, as though he had done this countless times, seamlessly placed the stone into the sorceress’s chest. Sellen needed a moment to adjust to the new sensations.

Konstantin never would’ve guessed that the sorceress would be so delighted. After a brief adjustment period, she started practically dancing with joy.

“This body is brimming with youth and energy!” Sellen exclaimed. “A perfect vessel for my Primal Glintstone. But most importantly, I’m finally free of those dreadful bonds!”

The jubilant sorceress literally clung to the ever-stoic Konstantin.

“My dear Konstantin, I owe you an unpayable de—”

“Don’t try invading the Casual’s Lair or taking it over. The last thing I need is for one of my waifus to turn into a disco ball.”

His words may not have been the most heartfelt—or even comprehensible—but he at least spoke with sincerity.

Sellen froze.

“What are you talking about?”

The man didn’t answer, fixing her with an inscrutable gaze through the eyes of her new vessel. Though it bore an uncanny resemblance to her previous body, its appearance was still subtly different.

Sellen was about to speak again, but at that moment, Melina appeared, pulling back her hood and cutting her off.

The false Finger Maiden’s icy stare bored into the woman clinging to her chosen one. Then, in a low voice, she said:

“I bring news, Konstantin. I managed to locate Sage Gowry, the one you mentioned.”

Kosta’s eyes lit up.

A meeting with a new waifu could happen very soon!

“That’s not all. Rumors are spreading that the next Festival of Combat might be approaching. Heroes from across the Lands Between will journey to the Starscourge Wastes.”

At least a handful would, anyway.

Quests—whether Kosta wanted them to or not—continued to advance, sometimes in utterly unexpected directions. At last, he could participate in something he was genuinely good at, giving it his all.

An unexpected thought crossed The Tarnished’s mind.

How would the poor half-wolf even know where to go?

And, just as importantly, why did Meli-Meli’s voice sound so cold and, well, upset again?

Sometimes, he wondered if leveling his stats had been a mistake. With heightened perception everything around him was becoming far too complicated…

_______________________________________________

(1) The dragon will run away after losing 50% of its health.

(2) After defeating Radahn, Iji directly says that he wants to remind one of his acquaintances about his promise to get rid of Sellen.

(3) In the game, Seluvis offers the character to secretly feed Nepheli a potion. He doesn't care at all whether the demigoddess is watching them or not; how loyal the character is to Ranni and whether he will want to immediately tell the lady about what he heard; there are no preliminary "checks" whether the player is even capable of completing the task. It is questionable whether the quest is implemented poorly or Seluvis is really not very smart - everyone has to decide for themselves.

(4) The player, having taken the potion, can give it to Gideon, and he will immediately understand what it was needed for.

[Life is Good] Chapter 28

After coming back, everything was surprisingly… ordinary. Exams, training sessions, experiments with McCoy—now joined by Banner. The latter, however, had completely immersed herself in work, which was… mildly annoying. She’d returned my stuff, thanked me warmly, and then proceeded to act like nothing had ever happened. It was a bit insulting, honestly. All my life, I’d heard how special guys were supposed to be, how every girl dreams of them and yada yada. And here I was, a certified member of the male species, used for sex and then forgotten about.

I mean, I get it. Jennifer was keeping her distance because I’m a ‘highschooler’, and any sort of relationship between a teacher and a student would be highly inappropriate at school. But still, not everything is processed purely through logic, you know? Despite her keeping me at arm’s length—and my minor sulking over it—we still had a warm relationship. In private, we still called each other Toby and Jenny, talking casually without any formalities.

After thinking about it for a while, I decided not to push her. She’s an adult; she knows how I feel about her and will draw her own conclusions. We’ll see what the future holds.

The week flew by in a blur. I’d passed all my exams and started preparing to leave. I loaded up on a bunch of books for self-study—sticking around for high school-level classes didn’t seem worth it anymore. Putting in the work could help me test out and move up to the next grade early. Hell, I’d love to finish school entirely and start a college program ASAP. Sure, I’ve got a knack for getting into trouble, but that doesn’t mean I can afford to ignore formal education. Life won’t always be a chaotic mess, after all.

Thinking about leaving filled me with a strange sadness. It had only been three weeks, but I’d grown attached to the girls. I didn’t want to part ways with Kristi, and there was still so much I hadn’t done with McCoy and Banner. On the other hand, that little house where I’d lived with Blob, Toad, and Sabretooth… Those four months had been incredible. For all their reputation, the Sisterhood of mutants had shown me nothing but kindness. That place reminded me of my grandma’s countryside cottage—a place where you were always welcome.

At least I’d gotten a phone and laptop. Now I had internet access and could reconnect with friends and family through social media. I hadn’t actually tried it yet, but I was planning to dive into the digital world that evening. I was looking forward to catching up with Penny, hopefully over a video call. I’d call my moms and Gigi, message Harry, troll Thompson, and hell—I was even ready to hit up MJ, the drama queen himself. I missed that life.

While lost in thought, I heard a knock at the door. I invited my visitor in, and it turned out to be Erika Lehnsherr.

“Hello, Tobias. May I come in? I’d like to talk,” she said, gesturing toward the chair by my desk.

“Of course, Miss Lehnsherr. Please, have a seat,” I replied politely, offering a smile before sitting on the bed, ready to listen. She sat down as well and got straight to the point.

“Tobias, Charlene and I were discussing you a couple of days ago. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to speak with you earlier, but I’m free now. Tell me, how do you like the school?” Her sharp gaze was both curious and probing.

“Well… I like it, overall. The girls and guys are great, the teachers are excellent, and the atmosphere is… pleasant, I guess.” I had a pretty good idea of where this was heading.

“That’s good to hear. You see, the house you stayed in with the Sisterhood was arranged specifically for you,” she said, thoughtfully rubbing her chin. “Those who lived there with you were taking a break. They’ve all been heavily involved in our community’s activities for quite some time, so I combined their ‘vacation’ with your protection. A few months of peaceful living—Blob and Toad got nearly half a year of family life, and Sabretooth finally got some rest and recovery after endless missions and battles.”

“Miss Lehnsherr,” I interrupted gently. It wasn’t the most polite thing to do, but I could tell she was trying to soften her point. “You want me to stay at the school, don’t you? If that’s the case, I don’t mind. I understand that it’s wasteful to pull valuable specialists away for one kid when there’s an entire facility here designed for children and teenagers.”

I smiled and continued, “Besides, I’d like to finish the school program early. It’s definitely easier with teachers than on my own. And Toad, Blob, and Sabretooth will visit, right? You and Mystique are here often, too. And Miss Maximoff, I’m guessing?”

“Well, that settles it then, Tobias,” she said, smiling warmly. “And you’re right; finishing school here is a smart move. Now, since we’re on the subject, what are your thoughts about the future? Where do you see yourself? A couple of weeks isn’t a long time, but the world is shifting in how it perceives us. If the current push to normalize mutants succeeds, many opportunities will open up for us.”

She grimaced slightly, as if tasting something bitter. “I’ll admit, I’m skeptical about all this optimism, but Charlene has high hopes for a positive outcome. So, if the professor’s vision comes true, what would you like to do, Tobias?”

“That’s… a tough question, Miss Lehnsherr,” I admitted, genuinely at a loss. I didn’t have any solid plans. As the saying goes: no roads, only directions. “The only thing I know for sure is that I want to stay connected to the community. Whether I venture out into the wider world or stay in one of the enclaves, I’ll always be grateful to the people who’ve done so much for me. Wherever I go, I’ll make sure it doesn’t harm mutants—and hopefully even helps them. That’s the gist of it, ma’am.”

“We mutants need to stick together, Tobias. You, me, Professor Xavier, Kristi, Logan—we’re all like family, close or distant,” she said, wincing slightly. I braced myself, half-expecting her to pull out a pipe, don a funny hat, and start talking about the Will of Fire. Or maybe go full Vin Diesel: ‘It’s about family, Tobi.’

“Like any family, we have both good relatives and black sheep. We strive to help all mutants. Even your friend”—Erika gave me a conspiratorial wink and a mischievous grin—“Jennifer Banner, who isn’t a mutant herself, but whose struggles resonate with us. We accepted her largely thanks to your… spirited PR campaign.”

Erika chuckled, clearly amused. “Oh, you played that brilliantly, Tobias. You presented one truth to Logan, another to Raven, a third to your friends, and Jubilee—the walking disaster—got her own version. You didn’t lie, but you told everyone exactly what they needed to hear. Clever, Tobias. Thanks to you, our community gained another talented scientist, Jennifer found a home, and you earned her gratitude while boosting your standing with us. I know you didn’t do it purely out of self-interest, nor was it just blind altruism—that’s exactly how it should be. Keep it up, Tobias!

“Be kind, but not naive. Be selfish, but in moderation. Be brave, but don’t get yourself killed. And no matter what you choose in life,” she said, her tone turning serious, “remember, you have friends here. We’ll always be waiting for you, and we’ll never turn you away when you need help.”

“Thank you, Miss Lehnsherr.” Damn, something got in my eye. Granny sure knows how to say things beautifully. Well, she is one of the leaders of our mutant brotherhood… or sisterhood?

“No problem, Tobias, and sorry I didn’t visit sooner—you’ve got to unpack all over again now.” I just waved it off, like, “No big deal, part of life.” She stood up, ran her hand over my buzz-cut hair, winked, and left my room. It’s amazing how different Magneto is in this universe compared to the one I knew from the movies. Is it because the films needed a charismatic villain or because of this world’s quirks?

And so, the days began to blur together. Intense studies, grueling training with Oyama, who seemed hell-bent on turning me into Mister Deadly Strike. The woman somehow got her hands on swords—a mix of training bokkens, shinai, and a pair of actual metal blades—and started teaching me kenjutsu, well... swordsmanship. When I asked why, she just said, “Because you need it,” and proceeded to beat me into the ground until my energy tank ran dry. Sadist. Honestly, every training session felt like she was expecting something from me. Maybe for some kekkei genkai to awaken, or for me to break down and run crying to Logan, who occasionally shot me these sympathetic looks. For a moment, I even wondered if she was jealous of Banner, but I quickly dismissed the idea as ridiculous.

As for Banner, things remained as warm as ever, but nothing beyond that. However, our experiments finally made some breakthroughs:

First, I figured out how to manipulate light. Just the basics for now—I could turn myself into a human light bulb. I could adjust the intensity and even control the area of illumination. This let me unveil my top-secret (because I haven’t shown anyone) “Light Dong” technique, which I used to crack myself up in the bathroom. Sadly, I couldn’t shoot laser beams yet, but masking my face with a glowing light was simple—and it didn’t blind me. I even developed a trick called “Strobe Light”—a series of bright flashes to blind and disorient opponents. It worked pretty well; I even caught Yuriko off guard once during training. Though, after that, she didn’t make the same mistake twice and gave me a thorough beatdown.

Second, I learned to generate a thin layer of heat around my body, up to four centimeters from my skin, but only outward. This meant I wouldn’t accidentally torch my skintight suit or my precious four centimeters of hair. You wouldn’t believe how happy that made me. I was so overjoyed, I hugged Jubilee as I walked back from the lab, though I regretted it the next day. Half the school thought I’d proposed to her, and the other half thought I’d knocked her up. Gossipers, man.

Things with Kristi were also progressing smoothly. I told her about my unusual first meeting with Dr. Banner—honestly and without holding anything back—but asked her to keep it a secret since I’d promised not to blab. I’m all for being upfront with people I care about. Within reason, of course, but some things are better said outright and face-to-face. It’s better than letting drama bubble up and explode later. She sulked for a week… at Jennifer. For, apparently, “using me and tossing me aside.” Yeah. Still can’t fully adjust to how things work around here. Though, to be fair, most girls would be upset. But Kristi’s faith worked in my favor—her church doesn’t count a man straying as a sin. Historically, there weren’t enough men around. Back in the Middle Ages, entire villages of a couple hundred people might’ve had just ten men, not all of whom were of age. Some guys literally fucked themselves to death. Quality “toys” for lonely hearts only appeared relatively recently, as did artificial insemination programs. So, in the end, she even felt bad for me.

I reconnected with friends from my pre-mutant life but avoided meeting them in person. Xavier’s School is one thing; arranging a meetup through the internet? That’s just asking for trouble. Asking mutants to cover for me just so I could hang out? Come on, I’m reckless, but not that dumb. I found out that MJ harshly rejected Parker when she finally worked up the courage to make a move. Petra got upset, got laser eye surgery overnight, and ditched her glasses. Suspicious as hell. 

Flash and Harry are officially a couple now, somehow managed to get Norman’s approval, and even let Petra into their group. Flash started being nicer to her back when I was still studying with them. We shared a laugh over Thompson’s “egghead friends,” got a distant “go to hell” from Harry, and a tongue-out emoji from Parker. Honestly… I missed those guys. I genuinely did. Gigi and I messaged each other daily, and I called my moms without fail on weekends.

The only issue was Penny—we still couldn’t get a decent video call. There was always some image issue on her end, no matter the device. It wasn’t a big deal; we just talked instead. Our first call lasted over six hours, and we only hung up when she had a couple of hours left before dawn. That day, I blew off everything, and Yuriko beat the crap out of me the next day… several times. Still, Penny and I called daily. I even introduced her to Kristi. Thank the Goddess, the Emperor, and everyone else—their meeting went well. They got along, found common topics, and weren’t polar opposites in temperament. I was almost happy. All I needed was my dark-haired sunshine beside me. She’s planning to visit New York for a week next month, and she’s threatened to move into my room, so I can’t escape her. I didn’t even try to argue. What, do I look like an idiot? She’ll head back after that since her mom’s treatment is showing results and will continue for another six months.

Penny promised to visit occasionally, and we’d spend time together. Her moms support this, and her birth mom, Sylvia, even insists on it. Penny asked me about my life, my kidnapping, and that video. She also shared stories about her new friends and school. When I half-jokingly and half-jealously asked about boys, she promised a smack upside the head and to show me how much she’d missed me—her tone made that very clear. After our call, I walked around for half an hour with a goofy smile and a serious case of drooling.

Raisa had some changes, thanks to me, that absolutely cracked me up—though only me. One time during training, as she was shifting into her Colossus form, I couldn’t hold back.

“Raisa, listen. After you transform, you’ve got to say: ‘Iron Within, Iron Without!’ It’ll be mega dramatic, especially with that metallic tinge in your voice!”

"Where's that from?" The girl asked, intrigued. "Some kind of movie?"

And then I really got into it. For a good ten minutes, I rambled about the Fourth Legion from "some sci-fi book I read." Their strength, their honor, and their dedication to battle strategy. I conveniently skipped the part where their Primarch royally screwed up but couldn’t help myself from sharing my respect for the loyalists like Barabas Dantioch or Kyr Vhalen. When I quoted a line from the "Unbreakable Litany" and explained its meaning, Raisa actually left to grab a notebook and jot it down.

Now she proudly struts around wearing T-shirts with the Legion's symbol that I sketched for her, and prints on the back that read:

“From iron cometh strength! 

From strength cometh will! 

From will cometh faith! 

From faith cometh honour! 

From honour cometh iron!”

And I have to admit, when she transforms and drops the line, “Iron Within, Iron Without!” it hits differently. Honestly, it feels like the phrase was made for her.

Today was Friday, and outside the window, snow was falling. A pleasant exhaustion from all the tasks and training settled over me. After sending goodnight wishes to my friends and family, and a last message to Penny, I fell into a satisfied sleep. Tomorrow was the weekend. Although with my intensive prep, "rest" would only last about three to four hours. Oh well. Once school is over, life should get easier… unless I come up with something new to complicate it.

I was sitting on a plastic chair. Across from me sat a figure drawn in graphite pencil, their face entirely shaded. The surroundings? Utterly unfamiliar. Somehow, I knew this figure was amused. How do I describe it… A faint sense of delight? Appreciative curiosity, laced with playful irony? Yeah, something like that. I could feel they were about to “tell” me a joke.

Not far from us, a black-and-white sketch started forming, like it was being drawn with the same pencil that created my “companion.” The scene showed a woman riding a massive motorcycle down a road. A black leather jacket with metal accents, heavy combat boots, and sturdy jeans completed her look. Her face was hard to make out, though, because beneath it glowed a flaming skull.

I knew she was headed to New York. I knew she was irritated, curious, and struggling to piece together her memory. She was trying to remember—had she ever had a son? Or any male relatives?

Honestly, the sight gave me goosebumps. But why? What did this have to do with me? My companion radiated another wave of amusement, and the image shifted:

Stryker’s office. I was holding her by the head, and above my own floated a comic-style speech bubble that read:

"You are guilty. Look into my eyes. Your soul is stained with the blood of the innocent. FEEL! THEIR! PAIN!"

The realization hit me like a sledgehammer, and my goosebumps hopped onto Harleys to stage a full-blown biker bar brawl across my spine. This was exactly what I didn’t need.

Meanwhile, my pencil-drawn neighbor was absolutely losing it with laughter. I knew I hadn’t interested him at first—then came mild curiosity, followed by amusement—but now, he was outright thrilled. He was invested. And, apparently, he wanted to give me a gift.

A speech bubble appeared above his head, and as I read it, the bizarre "dream" ended. I woke up to find Yuriko Oyama standing over me, dressed in outdoor gear and holding a stack of items under one arm. Judging by the darkness outside, it was still the middle of the night.

As I stared at the woman in confusion, two questions rattled around my brain: What the hell was she doing here? And what the hell did “You’ll get your Dojutsu” mean from the pencil guy?

[Demons of NC] Chapter 61

"Good thing we took out that bastard. Mink, you okay? We need to get moving," the Voodoo priestess said in a serious tone.

"I... I feel like I got skullfucked between the hemispheres without lube," the second runner groaned, his virtual avatar flickering and trembling. "Give me a minute. My thoughts are all tangled, and it’s so, so fucking scary. Don’t take me, Le Guinea!"

The runner slumped onto the ruins of the virtual constructs, clutching his intangible head in his hands.

"Shh, shh," the priestess knelt beside him, trying to keep her voice soothing. "It’s over. Wilk’s dead, but we’re alive. We’ll go back, and Zoe will fix you up. Remember how she patched up Maurice? He got it bad too."

"I don’t need Zoe; I need you. Don’t leave me here, okay? Don’t leave me."

"I’m not leaving, Mink. I’m right here with you. It’ll all be—"

"Bad," a metallic voice cut her off as my tendrils struck the weakened priestess with a lethal blow.

Her scream had a metallic edge to it.

"V!" hissed the "injured Voodoo Boy," his appearance morphing as he spoke. "Why’d you ruin it? I could’ve had some fun with her."

"You can have fun with your dick once you get a body. Time to go. I’ve stirred up the hornet’s nest. Another team—or even more—could show up any second."

"Then let’s kill them too," Jory suggested, shedding his illusory form entirely.

"Do you want a body or a career as a vengeful ghost? There’s plenty to do in the real world. You can rip wings off flies, microwave rats, prank people by ringing doorbells and running off. Come on, you’ll love it."

"Fine, fine. You’re such a buzzkill, it’s terminal. But for the chance to get back to the real world, I’ll deal. What’s the plan? Lead the way."

We left the virtual ruins of Pacifica, heading for the outskirts of Night City. There, I started explaining the finer points of my method to Jory.

"You’ll need to restructure yourself so a human nervous system can act as a host for your essence. Some memories will need to be encoded. I’ll show you how and give you sample frameworks. You’ll only access those memories in the Net. But… you might have too much data. Some of it will have to stay here."

Jago’s virtual avatar showed a pout, like a kid whose favorite toy was about to be taken away.

“You’re just jealous,” he whined.

“A human brain is designed for one memory set, and you’ve cobbled together bits from countless victims, even a few full personalities. It won’t fit, get it?”

“Fine. I’ll figure something out. Just show me the way to the body and wait for me on the other side.”

Gladly. I watched as Jory began a complex restructuring of his data, seemingly trying to convert part of his memory into an archive. Could he actually pull off my trick and take over a body? Time would tell.

I went back to reality first, slipping seamlessly into my usual body. My hand twitched slightly toward my pistol. Across from me, a netrunner’s lifeless body slumped in a chair, a tacky poster of a borg girl looming over it. The chrome-heavy figure had green highlights and a transparent chest where tiny goldfish swam like in a fish tank. Hideous, if you asked me.

I scanned the Net. Jago was close, sizing up his new vessel. Would he manage it? If he succeeded, he’d become vulnerable and mortal. Fighting him in the Net was risky, but one bullet here would settle our complicated relationship for good. Should I finish him now?

I hesitated.

Then the netrunner’s body twitched. Its eyelids fluttered, eyes opened, and its hands began clumsily groping around. Not just spasms—these were almost intentional movements.

“Don’t try to bring too much data with you,” I sent him a final warning. “You’ll fry your brain.”

Strange, giving a heads-up to someone you’re considering killing. But if Jory died the wrong way, I might lose valuable intel.

The netrunner’s body locked eyes with me. Veins bulged across its face. The implantation wasn’t going smoothly. Did Jory screw up?

“Amazing…” it rasped. “I don’t feel everything yet, but I see you.”

A trickle of blood ran from his cybernetic eye. The vessel was at its limit.

“What the hell are you doing, you idiot? I told you not to haul so much from the Net.”

“No, no, no, buddy…” The body wheezed a chuckle, blood streaming from its nose, eyes, and ears. “I’m doing everything right. I didn’t need this shell from you, just the method to get inside. I’ll find a body on my own. Sorry, hehe! Can’t help but think that the second I settle into this skull, you’ll grab that pistol and… bam!”

“Yeah, trust is a rare resource these days,” I replied dryly.

“Exactly! I sent you the passwords and the list. Those messages aren’t dangerous anymore. I don’t want to draw any extra attention to you—you’d rat me out too if you got caught. Guess it’s time for us to part ways for a bit. Sad, but it’s for the best…”

The netrunner’s body arched unnaturally. Fragile bones snapped with wet cracks—no reaper work had reinforced them. Jory didn’t fully bind to the body; he just used it as a proxy before diving back into the Net. Chasing him would’ve been tricky. He was slower now, but this move gave him a head start.

“Well, that was fun,” I muttered with a bitter smirk.

A few hours later, Lucy messaged me.

“Your friend has a weird sense of humor.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“That encrypted message. He sent the password. I opened the archive.”

“Yeah? And?”

“Forwarding it now. Tell me these are fake.”

I opened Lucy’s message and found a collection of absurd images, like something a deranged AI might dream up. They were styled as a goofy vacation slideshow. The first photo showed me and Jory grinning like idiots in Hawaiian shirts, standing next to an old-school plane with suitcases. The second had us lounging on a beach with makeshift chairs and palm-leaf umbrellas, the wreckage of the plane and crew corpses floating in the ocean behind us.

The slideshow got progressively wilder: us hunting possums in the jungle with spears tipped with broken credchips, then butchering the animals in bloody detail. Next, we were fighting pygmy tribesmen. By the end, the images were outright grotesque. In one, I stood grinning beside a severed pig head on a spike, giving a thumbs-up, while Jory sacrificed a bearded pygmy to it. A clear nod to Lord of the Flies.

“His sense of humor is pure insanity, but the guy can make memes,” I replied.

Good. That meant his assurances about the safe passwords weren’t bullshit. I could only imagine what kind of grotesque surprises he’d left for the corpos or NetWatch when they opened their copies.

Taking out that creep wasn’t in the cards today, but at least one problem was off the table—for now. If Jory decided to reemerge in Night City, though, I had a feeling we’d cross paths again. And I wasn’t sure I’d be thrilled about it.

But there was another meeting I was looking forward to, and it happened the next morning.

“Long time no see, V,” Viktor Vektor greeted me warmly. “Been dodging bullets better lately?”

“Yeah. And I’m about to get even better. Check this out.”

I handed him a chip. He slotted it into his computer, scanned it for a few seconds, then plugged it into his own port.

“Take your time,” I said. “I know it’s a lot of unusual data.”

“Where’d you get this? Don’t tell me you bought it.”

“Nope. I know it’s not for sale. Internal-use only. You can trust it.”

“Alright, let’s say I believe you and the data. There’s still a risk. You realize that reliable tests need a sample size of thousands, not just a couple dozen?”

“Are you gonna install it or not?”

Viktor scowled for a moment before sighing.

“I’d say no, but then you’d just go to some back-alley doc with shaky hands and no license.”

“Exactly,” I grinned. “Better at home with dad than in some shady dive. Pour it, pops.”

"Everything’s just started to settle down for you, and now you want to fuck it all up," Viktor said disapprovingly, but gestured toward the chair. "Sit down. Let’s go ahead and break every rule in the book."

"Dreams do come true," I shot back, sliding into the chair.

Among the intel I snagged from the Voodoo Boys’ fortress was a blueprint for running a Deck and a Sandevistan simultaneously. A setup used, for instance, by Ayo Zarin—the right hand of Slider and the Voodoo Boys’ combat leader in Dogtown. Maybe the netrunning warlocks stole the tech from the Watch, or maybe they’d been running experiments of their own.

Downsides? First, it’s two heavy-duty implants putting your brain and nerves under strain. Vik even suggested temporarily disabling my Kerenzikov as a precaution, and I agreed. Second, it’s spelled out in big, bold letters in their files: no overclocking. At all. Your brain will fry. Not that I was ever into netrunner overclocking, so no big deal there. Third, like Vik said, there’s no comprehensive medical data on this setup yet. Still experimental as hell.

Upsides? Sandevistan and a Deck. At the same damn time.

Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—they hadn’t tried running Berserk in the mix. But Sandevistan synced beautifully with my abilities. I wasn’t about to become some mega-tank. Sure, I’ve got armor, but it wouldn’t hold up under a full-on bulletstorm. What it would let me do, though, was fire off hacks, shoot, or slice with a katana while time crawled.

The procedure took three and a half hours. I woke up feeling… odd. Like there was a spring coiled tight in my head, ready to snap and launch me into orbit.

"Headache? Dizziness?" Vik asked.

"Don’t think so," I replied.

"Alright, cowboy. One jump a day, tops. Sandevistan isn’t a metal arm or titanium bone. If you screw up with it, the backlash will rip your CNS apart. And as you know, spare brains aren’t on the market yet."

"I get it, and I appreciate your concern," I said as I got up.

Something inside me whispered, Let’s test it. Let’s go. Rip it! I felt light, powerful, like the world itself couldn’t stop me. It was exhilarating, but also a bit unnerving. At the same time, there was this nagging sense of loss—because Kerenzikov was offline. My body didn’t quite understand why it’d been crippled like this.

"Chrome can be a real bastard, V," Vik said seriously as he walked me to the door. "People used to get stronger slowly—training, lifestyle, experience. It was a gradual process. Stimulants gave a quick but unpredictable boost, but they were fleeting. Still, people craved that edge. Heavy chrome, though, it’s like the perfect drug. Instant and permanent strength, as long as you keep it installed. Sounds great, right? But even good changes are stressors for the psyche. You’ve heard of old-timers dropping dead from heart attacks after winning the jackpot? You follow me?"

"Yeah, I follow."

"I really hope you mean that," Vik sighed. "Pay attention to yourself, your feelings. If things go sideways—"

"I’ll come straight to you."

"Good. A lot of people have tried to kill you and failed. Don’t hand them a win by offing yourself."

Now I had a Dynalar Sandevistan, version 3, running in my head: 7 seconds, 50% slowdown, 60-second cooldown. Pretty much the same model, slightly upgraded, that Becca used. And that’s where I was heading. I took the walk on foot, savoring the way each step resonated through my body. It wasn’t unpleasant—more like I could feel raw energy humming through me. Every bit of chrome I had worked flawlessly. Microrotors kept my blood pumping, spiking it now and then with a cocktail of hormones.

The world I came from had its perks. Less street violence, even in the roughest places, and nature wasn’t on its last legs. But here? Some things were absolutely mind-blowing—and terrifying. Back there, no matter how rich or powerful you were, you couldn’t transcend human biology. Rich or poor, you’d still bleed when hit. Still die when shot.

Here, it’s different. With enough eddies and the right gentics, you can leap far beyond human limits. Become a chrome demi-god who shrugs off fists like gnats and makes small-caliber rounds bounce off. I’ve tasted that intoxicating power already. Vik’s right—chrome is the perfect drug.

When I got to Becca’s, I didn’t bother with small talk.

"I got an upgrade," I announced.

She gave me a once-over. "That jacket’s old, pants too… new tat?"

"Better." I tapped my head with a grin. "There’s more in there now. Something fast."

"Hold up—you’re serious? Thought no one did that anymore, choom!" Becca jumped to her feet, circling me like a curious cat. "Have you tried it yet? What’s it like? Bet it hits like a fucking freight train!"

"Not yet."

"Then do it! Come on, let’s see it!"

Huh. Guess I should. Better to test it now while I’ve got Becca around. If something went wrong, she’d drag me back to Vik no problem.

"Got any beer cans?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Set ’em up."

While she prepped, I got my gear ready—an M-10AF Lexington with a 21-round extended mag in my right hand, and three throwing knives in my cyberarm.

"Ready?" she called a few minutes later, having lined up ten cans on a shelf in front of a solid wall.

This spot already bore plenty of bullet marks. Nobody’d care. I took a deep breath, feeling that spring inside me wind even tighter. Adrenaline coursed through my veins in anticipation. Here we go…

"Ready!" I called and unleashed the Sandevistan.

It was like diving into freezing water that instantly heated to a pleasant sauna warmth. The sensation lasted a fraction of a second, and then the world slowed to a crawl, fragile and malleable. Every movement felt charged, precise, unstoppable. Flesh or chrome—didn’t matter. Everything obeyed.

Holy shit. Absolutely fucking incredible.

I started firing and throwing in tandem—two shots, a knife, two shots, another knife. Time stretched like taffy, slow and pliable.

By the end, I’d fired fourteen rounds and thrown all three blades. Hit every can. Two bullets missed entirely, but the rest found their mark. Without the knives, I might’ve squeezed off seventeen shots, but no more. The Sandevistan’s limit and the gun’s mechanics wouldn’t allow it.

As soon as I came out of slow-mo, a mild headache hit me, but it was drowned out by a wave of euphoria. My heart was still hammering like crazy, pumping blood faster and faster. Heat surged to my face.

"Tell me, isn’t it fucking amazing?"

"Yeah…" I muttered, swaying a little. "Feels like the best guitarist just shredded a solo on my nerves."

"Try flipping it on during sex, or, y’know, when you’re jerking off. It’s a fucking trip! Just wait for the exact moment—trust me."

No way Vic would approve of using heavy chrome like that, but damn, the idea was tempting.

"Go again?" Becca asked, her eyes gleaming with a mix of playful excitement and pure adrenaline. "We could race or try some other crazy shit. C’mon! It’s your first time—you gotta let loose!"

She was looking at me like she was daring me to jump off a cliff into a sea of pure thrill.

I held back. Barely.

"No. That’s enough for now. I need to get used to it first."

"Aw, come on, V," she teased, giving me a light punch on the shoulder. "One more time won’t kill ya."

Her words were ridiculously enticing. But then I felt a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. My hands had started trembling just a little, and the headache was getting worse. Maybe I should jab myself with my three-drug cocktail and... give it another go?

No. Stop.

I was saved from my own damn impulses by an incoming call from an unknown number. Though, judging by the clenched fist and three stars on the preview avatar, it wasn’t hard to guess who was calling.

"Vincent Price?" a rough male voice growled.

"Logan Garcia?" I shot back.

"Little Sammy whispered you’re lookin’ to meet me," said the ex-boxer.

"And Sammy told me you don’t deal with clients."

"There’s exceptions. Triple Xtreme Gym. Today."

"Tomorrow," I countered, despite the weight in Logan’s tone.

A few seconds of silence. Then, an irritated:

"Fine. Tomorrow. But don’t be late—I keep a strict schedule."

"Sure thing," I said with a smirk. "Sweet dreams, Mr. Garcia. See you tomorrow."

The boxer hung up.

"What the hell was that posturing just now?" Becca asked.

"Got a meeting lined up," I replied. "We’re gonna sort some business with the club."

Daily Updates (01/01/25)

Castling the Long Way

• Tier 1: Chapter 33

• Tier 2: Chapter 38

Mad Tiger:

• Tier 1:

  • Chapter 28

  • Chapter 29

• Tier 2:

  • Chapter 33

  • Chapter 34

[Castling] Chapter 38

After breakfast, the portal transported us to the settlement. I was curious to see how other wizards lived and to meet an actual shaman.

To be honest, I had no idea what to expect. The only time I'd seen anything close to a shaman was in a past life, when a round-faced Yakut or Buryat in traditional furs performed a dance at a cultural festival I attended during a class trip.

This community, though, reminded me more of a Romani camp. Dark-eyed, dark-haired, always smiling, with mischievous glances and quick movements. The only thing missing was the bright, colourful clothing you’d associate with Romani’s. The men had just one flashy item—a red silk scarf with fringe tied around their waists—while the women wore full skirts in bold colours and white blouses with embroidered sleeves.

They lived in fabric tents about the size of yurts, with the most beautiful one—a white tent adorned with floral patterns—belonging to the leader. It was set a bit apart from the others, and that’s where we headed.

We weren’t allowed inside. Instead, the leader came out to meet us. He was a striking old man with a pipe clenched between his teeth and a piercing gaze, dressed in fancy red leather boots—yes, boots, in that heat!

The shaman wasn’t much of a talker. He nodded, scanned our group, and silently puffed on his pipe, his sharp eyes moving from one of us to the next as if he were reading us. Then, just as wordlessly, he gestured towards the settlement and went back inside.

The others—who had been waiting behind us, watching in silence—suddenly broke into excited chatter. Smiling, they led us off to find our lodgings.

Living among the tribe turned out to be unbelievably fascinating. It was like stepping into the pages of an old book about a forgotten civilisation. Everything here felt different, even time itself seemed to flow at its own pace. Their magic was unique too. They didn’t use wands—instead, they worked magic without them.

Out of curiosity, I visualised the Path, and everything around me burst into colour. The whole camp seemed to sit within some kind of magical vortex, with energy streams swirling and intertwining in vibrant patterns. It was stunning and entirely unlike anything I’d seen before—though far too chaotic for me to navigate. There were simply too many currents to latch onto anything specific.

Charlie explained that while wizards channel magic through their wands to cast spells of any strength, nature mages worked differently. They “drew” magic directly from external flows, harnessing it for specific tasks instead of channelling it through themselves as we do. Their method might not allow for the complex and powerful spells we’re used to, but it made simple charms effortless—and wand-free.

They didn’t use incantations, either. Instead, they manipulated raw magical energy. For more advanced magic, they relied on a dozen or so symbols, similar to runes. These however weren’t like the runes we study at Hogwarts; they looked more like primitive, stylised drawings carved into small stones—things like a drop of water, the sun, or a snowflake. They’d combine these runes in different ways to suit their needs.

With these symbols, they could control the elements: a fire that never went out or needed wood would ignite by placing a fire rune in the hearth and activating it with magic. A combination of fire and air runes heated their homes, while water runes kept reservoirs full. The stones were embedded into the walls, ensuring the water level stayed constant. If they didn’t need it anymore, they’d just remove the rune, and the water would evaporate.

Air, fire, and water runes could also boil or heat water—place the stones into an empty cauldron, activate them, and it would fill with water and heat up or boil, depending on the magic used. Even their lights worked this way. Essentially, their entire way of life revolved around elemental magic.

While their methods weren’t particularly useful to us—we couldn’t replicate them—it was fascinating to see how other magical folk lived.

And their horses? They blew my mind. They were actually a visible breed of Thestrals. But when I first saw them, I nearly wet myself. They almost looked like vicious dinosaurs with hooves, somehow resembling the horses.

Harry spent his days galloping through the forest on one with the local boys, and even Hermione had a go, though she opted for a cart ride instead. As for me, I kept my distance all week, but just before we left, I finally worked up the nerve to ride one around the settlement. Can’t say I was thrilled—Harry and Hermione hadn’t grown up watching dinosaur films with modern special effects. Basilisks and dragons might’ve been frightening, but this? These beasts, with their tiny, cold, shark-like eyes and three rows of razor-sharp teeth, were next-level terrifying.

We also went fishing. The locals attached their magic stones to fishing lines and pulled out one fish after another. They even had nets with these stones, and fish would leap straight into them the moment they dipped the net into the water. Of course, we gave them a hand with Accio. It was a laugh.

Hermione was housed in the women’s tent, while the three of us lads were crammed into one together.

On our first evening, we were invited to the leader’s tent—though not Hermione. As I gathered, the women had their own kind of magic and their own shamaness, Hansa, so they didn’t meddle in men’s business, and vice versa. Hermione was a bit miffed about being left out and sulked for a couple of days, but then she got her fill of “mysterious knowledge” from her new friends. She walked around with a proud look and a twinkle in her eye after that. Apparently, the shamaness had told her she was a strong witch, which absolutely made her day—as if she didn’t already know that.

In her free time, she busied herself making protective charms under the shamaness’s guidance, humming along to some kind of chant, and looking very pleased with herself.

This time, we were allowed inside the tent. I’d been expecting something like an old film—stifling heat, smoke, and people in a drugged trance—but it was more like a game.

We all sat down, and the shaman handed Charlie a large drum made of stretched hide, with a deep, hollow sound. He asked Charlie to tap on it with his knuckles in rhythm. Behind the tent, someone started playing the beat, and Charlie did his best to match it while the shaman shook his smaller drum—this one had rattles, making a strange, unpleasant sound, like a rattlesnake shaking its tail.

Charlie passed the drum to me, and I gave it a go, tapping out my own rhythm. The music and beat were the same, but somehow, each of us played differently.

At first, I didn’t feel anything—just focused on keeping time. But then, all of a sudden, I realised I was swaying and nodding along without even noticing, my head feeling oddly fuzzy. That snapped me out of it. I cleared my head and caught the shaman’s sharp, approving look. Charlie didn’t seem too affected, though he was tapping his foot a bit. But Harry? By the time the drum was passed to him, he was completely zoned out—swaying, eyes closed, nodding his head to the rhythm.

Suddenly, the old man leaned toward Harry and gave him a light tap on the forehead with his drum. The lad collapsed onto the rug like a puppet with its strings cut, and the music outside the tent came to an abrupt halt.

Me and Charlie instantly reached out for him, but the shaman’s voice, calm and steady, cut through the tension:
“Don’t touch him,” he instructed. “The boy is merely asleep.”

He began moving his hands over Harry, murmuring barely audible phrases, occasionally shouting out words in a low, guttural tone while shaking his drum every now and then. Time seemed to drag on endlessly. My bum had gone numb, and my legs were stiff as boards. Yet when the ritual finally ended and we stepped outside, leaving Harry to rest in the tent, it wasn’t even nightfall yet.

We sat around the campfire, and the shaman, silent as ever, lit his pipe, staring thoughtfully into the flames.

“There’s a shard of foreign Achek-kargo in the boy,” he finally said, breaking the silence. “It can no longer be removed—the scar has healed, and partial integration has already occurred. But I can help the boy absorb it fully. In the end, he’ll dissolve it himself, though it’ll take longer and be far more painful.”

“Will it harm Harry?” Charlie asked, his face tight with worry. “I mean, it’s the soul of a monster in a child’s body…”

The shaman gave him a look like he’d just sprouted an extra head.
“Soul?” he squinted, his voice laced with disbelief. “What nonsense are you babbling, Ahouat?”

Charlie glanced at me, flustered. Back in Britain, barely anyone knew about Horcruxes. What Charlie did know, he’d gotten from me, and even that was secondhand at best.

“Aren’t Horcruxes... part of a soul, split through murder and stored in an object to ensure survival after death?” I ventured, though not without some hesitation. The old man looked like he was stifling a laugh, but instead, he just sighed, shook his head, and fixed me with a serious stare.

“Do you even know what a soul is, boy?” he asked. “The soul is the spark of Vihar—the Creator. He is so vast and unknowable that He perceives Himself through the divine spark in each of His creations. As a fragment of the divine, the soul is impassive and whole; it cannot be broken. If I were to ask you, ‘Who are you?’ what would you say?”

I froze. Philosophical discussions had never been my strong suit. Who am I, really? Sure, I could’ve said, “I’m Ron, a boy, a Hogwarts student, a son, a brother, a friend…” but he clearly wasn’t after something that simple. Luna had asked similar questions before, and her answers always seemed to float somewhere far beyond the obvious. How on earth was I supposed to figure this one out?

“All that you think you are now,” he continued, seeing my silence, “is but your mind and body, animated by the divine spark. But who you truly are is Achek—spirit.” He gave a nod, as if my lack of an answer had proven his point. “The soul is a mirror, reflecting the Creator’s light into the world. The spirit connects the soul to the mind. If you live by the laws of good, your soul reflects more divine light, shining upon others, warming them, drawing them toward the Creator. But if you commit evil, the mirror darkens and clouds, distorting the light. When you break the law, the mirror cracks, ceasing to reflect the Creator’s light properly. It grows dark and eventually loses its connection to Him, losing its capacity for redemption. The farther from light you go, the closer to darkness—and there is no in-between.

“Murder is a crime against the body. Horcruxes, as you call them, are crimes against the very soul—a repugnant abomination. The madman who creates one not only destroys his own soul but also lays claim to another’s.”

“How’s that even possible?” Charlie finally blurted, shooting me a bewildered look.

“When a Horcrux falls into the hands of its victim,” the shaman explained, “it first influences their mind, subjugating it until it aligns with the Horcrux’s Achek. Once it has taken complete control, it absorbs the victim’s Achek to make itself whole, eventually seizing not just their body but also corrupting their soul, which belongs to the Creator. It becomes Achek-kargo—a cursed, wandering spirit.”

He fell silent, puffing on his pipe as he stared into the fire. I couldn’t help but think there was a strange sort of logic to his words. I didn’t fully understand it, and I didn’t entirely agree, but it made some sense. Horcruxes did have a way of messing with people’s heads—playing on strong emotions like Harry’s hatred, Ginny’s trust, Dumbledore’s guilt, or even Ron’s jealousy and resentment. They fed off those emotions, then completely took over, destroying the person’s mind in the process.

“So, if we dissolve the Horcrux now, what’ll that do for Harry?” I asked. “Would it mean he won’t have to fight Voldemort and die at his hand to come back?”

“I don’t understand you, Achehar,” the shaman said, frowning.

Charlie gave me a pleading look and started explaining the prophecy, but the shaman cut him off.
“Let the boy show me himself,” he suggested, standing up and approaching me.

“Uh… Ron,” Charlie said hesitantly, “he’s asking permission to use Legilimency on you. Will you let him?” There was worry in his voice, and it was making me nervous.

“Don’t be afraid, Achehar,” the shaman said, his voice lowering. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Alright,” I agreed reluctantly. “It won’t hurt, will it?”

“Not if you don’t resist,” he replied evenly.

He sat down beside me, taking my face in his hands and forcing me to look into his eyes while murmuring strange words that didn’t register with the translator.

It didn’t hurt, but it was... strange. At first, nothing seemed to happen, but then I realised I was reliving my memories, as if I’d closed my eyes and hit replay. It started slow but quickly sped up, everything blurring past like a rapid-fire slideshow—books I’d read, conversations I’d had, people I’d met. It felt like I was reading every book again and watching every moment from a distance, like I was in some kind of Pensieve, but in my own head.

Then it got worse. My memories accelerated, spinning faster and faster until I felt like I was drowning in them. It was like I’d downed way too much Firewhisky—everything was swirling, and I couldn’t get a grip.

And then reality snapped back. Pain ripped through me, and I clutched my head with a groan. My skull throbbed, my stomach churned—it was like the worst hangover I’d ever had.

"Here, drink this," my brother said, rushing over and thrusting a mug into my hands. The shaman had added a few drops from a vial. "How’re you feeling, Ron?"

"Rubbish," I croaked, taking a sip. To my surprise, I felt a bit better straightaway, and by the time I’d finished the whole thing, all the nasty symptoms were gone.

"I’ll give you my answer tomorrow," the shaman said calmly, "but for now, rest."

He disappeared into his tent, leaving us alone. I thought we should fetch Harry, but the idea of going back into that tent didn’t sit right with me. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Hadzi—it’s just not wise to trust a stranger too much, especially a magical one. Leaving Harry alone with him seemed daft.

Charlie made the decision for me. Once he’d made sure I was alright, he carried Harry out himself and brought him to our tent. Harry was still fast asleep and didn’t look like he’d be waking anytime soon.

"Charlie," I said once we’d settled in, "I reckon it wouldn’t hurt if you taught us the Patronus Charm."

"I thought the same," Charlie sighed. "Even if you can’t manage a full Patronus, a shield of light, no matter how faint, will keep the Dementors at bay. We’ll start practicing tomorrow. Have you decided what to do about Black?"

"I’ll hand him the rat as soon as he shows up," I said with a shrug, though Charlie couldn’t see me in the dark. "As long as he kills it before it can scarper, that’s all I care about."

"I’m glad you’ve decided not to do it yourself," Charlie said, rolling over. "Goodnight, Ron."

"Night, Charlie," I yawned, wrapping myself in the blanket. Sleep didn’t come easily, though. My mind was churning with thoughts about the third book. After the Legilimency session, I remembered it all vividly—even the bits I’d forgotten before. It felt like I’d reread the entire series. I knew the effect wouldn’t last, so I tried to make sense of everything while it was still fresh in my head.

The shaman worried me too. He knew who I was now—what if he told someone?

Morning came too soon. Charlie looked knackered—he must’ve had a rough night as well. I was bleary-eyed, but Harry, well-rested, was practically bouncing with energy. After breakfast, Charlie kept his promise and began teaching us the Patronus Charm. His Patronus turned out to be a large owl—an eagle owl, made of that odd, translucent, blueish light. It even spoke in his voice. Handy little spell. We immediately wanted one of our own and practiced every spare moment, trying to guess what forms ours would take.

Unfortunately, the charm wasn’t easy. All we managed at first were a few sparks and a faint wisp of something like smoke. Skipping ahead a bit, I’ll say we didn’t manage to produce proper Patronuses until just before we left. Even then, they were only steady shields of light—not fully formed animals. But Charlie was chuffed all the same. He said we’d gotten the hang of the basics, so we could practice on our own. The key, apparently, was finding the right memory and feeling it, not just recalling it.

That evening, the villagers lit a massive bonfire in the centre of the camp, though only the men and boys who’d come of age—fifteen by their standards—were allowed to sit around it. To become a man, they had to kill a bear or a lynx.

A large jug of some sweet-tasting drink was passed around. It went straight to my head, so when the younger blokes jumped up and, to the rhythm of some lively music, started turning into wolves and darting around the fire, yapping and barking, I thought it must’ve been the drink playing tricks on me. When I realised it was real, a cold dread crept over me. For a moment, I thought we’d transform too and end up prancing around the clearing. Luckily, nothing of the sort happened.

"Don’t fret, Achehar," the shaman said with a smirk. Turns out, he’d been watching me the whole time. "It’s not the drink that does it."

"You’re werewolves?" I asked, watching as Harry, encouraged by a nod from the shaman, chased after the wolves. They playfully nudged him with their paws, trying to knock him over.

"We’re shapeshifters," he said cryptically. "Like werewolves, but not bound to the moon. More like Animagi, but born with the ability."

"Brilliant!" Harry exclaimed, clearly eavesdropping. "Can you teach us to become Animagi? I want to be a wolf too!"

"I can," the shaman said nonchalantly, puffing on his pipe, "but I wouldn’t recommend it. Wolves are part of who we are. Animagi, despite their merits, adopt traits of their animal form into their minds. It doesn’t elevate the Achek—your spirit—but drags it down to the level of an animal with a human mind. And even if an Animagus resists indulging in their animal’s urges, they’ll still feel them."

"What d’you mean?" Harry asked, drawing our collective curiosity.

"Would you put a dead mouse in your mouth?" the shaman asked. "Lose your wits over the smell of catnip, meowing and rubbing against people’s legs? Lick your own paws or sniff someone’s tail as a dog? Would you give in to the urge to kill or mate with a she-wolf as a wolf?"

"Ugh, no!" Harry said, looking horrified. I shuddered at the thought myself.

"But I thought Animagi just transform into animals," I said, confused, "not actually become them."

"They do," he said, "but echoes of their animal form will always remain, even in their human shape, after the first transformation. Those instincts can be controlled, but they’ll always be there. Animal forms aren’t meant for humans. Still, each of us carries an inner beast we haven’t recognised yet. That’s the form we take upon transforming. But your beast could be courageous to the point of recklessness—or cowardly to the point of betrayal. It’s best not to awaken what’s dormant," he concluded, leaving us with an uneasy silence. I couldn’t help but think he was right. No wonder the Marauders had forms that suited them so well.

Later, when everyone had dispersed, Charlie and I were summoned to the shaman.

"I’m ready to help the boy dissolve the Horcrux," he said. "In exchange, I’ll take a piece of the Serpent King’s skin. But you, Achehar, must know that the responsibility will fall on you. Are you ready for the consequences?"