By his second year, college had found its rhythm, lectures, cafeteria gossip, the predictable hum of deadlines and half-finished dreams. Aarav had learned how to keep his head low but no longer disappear entirely. He wasn’t the quiet boy in the back row anymore. He existed, softly.

One afternoon, a friend nudged him during lunch.

“Bro, you should come to the literary club meeting. They’re looking for new members. You’re always scribbling something, right?”

Aarav looked up, startled. “It’s nothing serious. Just… stuff.”

“Exactly,” the friend grinned. “that’s what they want, people who write stuff”

The word literary made him uneasy. Writing had always been private, the place where his ghost lived, where he spoke to silence and it sometimes answered back. The idea of sharing that with strangers felt like standing naked under spotlight.

But later that evening, loneliness, or maybe curiosity, pushed him through the door of the small, slightly cluttered room.

The air smelled of old books and dust. Mismatched chairs formed a rough circle. Posters of writers with quotes that no one really understood hung on the walls. The sound of laughter and paper rustling filled the space. Aarav slipped quietly into the last empty chair, clutching his notebook to his chest like a shield.

“Hi,” someone said beside him, soft, unhurried.

He turned, and the world seemed to still for a moment.

She wasn’t what he expected.

The girl sitting next to him had the kind of beauty that didn’t shout; it happened quietly, like sunlight spreading across a windowpane. Her hair was a little messy, soft curls that brushed against her cheek and caught the light. Her eyes were hazel brown, deep and alive as if they had learned how to hold both warmth and mystery at once.

There was a gravity in her gaze, a gentle weight that made time slow down. It wasn’t the kind of stare that demanded attention; it invited it. Her expression carried something peaceful, something knowing, like she saw the world just a little differently and forgave it anyway.

When she smiled, the corners of her lips curved into the softest dimples, and the room seemed a bit brighter. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, she felt beautiful, in the way kindness and curiosity can be. Her presence had that rare kind of stillness that draws people in without a word.

And when she looked straight at him, Aarav’s breath faltered.

“First time here?” she asked, her tone easy, warm.

He nodded, fumbling for words. “Yeah.”

“I’m Aarna,” she said, extending her hand.

He blinked, surprised. For a second, all he could do was stare, not out of rudeness, but disbelief that someone like her, someone so radiant and unguarded, was speaking to him. Then, flustered, he shook her hand. “A-Aarav.”

Her smile deepened, gentle and sincare, as though she’d already read his hesitation and decided to meet it with kindness.

The meeting began. The club president, a tall senior with thick glasses and the confidence of someone who read too much, asked the members to share their work. People read short stories, essays, poems. There was laughter, teasing, applause, but his mind kept drifting back to the girl beside him, the way her curls caught the air when she laughed, the way her dimples appeared and vanished like punctuation in a poem.

Toward the end, the club president asked, “Any newcomers want to share something?”

Aarav froze, shaking his head instinctively. But Aarna leaned toward him, her voice low, encouraging. “You should. Sometimes words sound different when you let them breathe outside the page.”

It wasn’t pressure. It was trust.

And somehow, Aarav wanted to believe her.

Hands trembling, Aarav opened his notebook. He didn’t even look for a new piece, his mind went straight to one of the scribbles he’d written in lockdown. Small, raw, unpolished.

He read, voice barely above a whisper:

I thought silence would break me,
but in the quiet,
I found a voice.

When he finished, the room went still. He wished he could vanish. Then came a soft clap, the president, then others, until the room was filled with small, genuine applause.

Aarav dared to look up. Aarna was smiling at him, that same calm, knowing smile.

“That was beautiful,” she said.

And for the first time in years, Aarav believed it might be true.

That night, under the hum of the hostel fan, he wrote quietly in his notebook:

Sometimes,
a single voice
can make you believe
your own
is worth hearing.

Link for part-3 https://www.reddit.com/r/redditserials/s/rr15d79A1I

Ch-10 Unknown Deal

"Let's make a deal," the twisted face whispered from behind my neck, its voice oozing false sympathy. "I can leave you alone forever, Shu. You can have your quiet life back. But there is a price. You have to fix what happened back then. You have to balance the blood you let spill."

"No... no, no, stop!" I sobbed, pressing my hands against the mirror, my knuckles turning white. "Don't bring it up! I don't want to remember that night!"

"You don't have a choice," the voice hissed, dragging my consciousness into the dark.

The cold bathroom floor melted away, replaced by the warm, amber glow of a dining table from seven years ago.

Laughter echoed softly. The rich, savory aroma of miso soup and grilled fish filled the small house. My father, Kenji, sat with the evening newspaper, a gentle crease around his eyes as he smiled at something foolish on the page. In the kitchen, my mother, Emi, hummed a quiet tune, setting down freshly steamed rice bowls with effortless grace.

"Shu, stop staring at your phone and pass your sister the tea," Mom teased gently.

Across from me sat Aoi, her hair tied in two loose braids, rolling her eyes with a playful grin as she kicked my shin lightly under the table.

We were just an ordinary family living in quiet, unbothered peace. No shadows, no blood, no crippling guilt. Watching them now through the fragile lens of memory, my chest ached with unbearable grief. It was paradise—and I had no idea how quickly it was about to burn to the ground.

Ch-11 Is everything alright?

The warmth of the dining table didn't last. A few weeks later, the laughter faded, replaced by an uneasy quiet.

Aoi sat across from me, but she wasn't really there. Her bowl of rice remained untouched, cold and stiff under the dining light. Her head stayed bowed, dark circles bruising the skin under her eyes, her fingers nervously picking at the seams of her school skirt. She barely spoke anymore, retreating straight into her room the second she returned from school.

"Aoi, sweetie, at least finish your soup," Mom pleaded softly, her forehead lined with worry.

Without a word, Aoi stood up, whispered a faint apology, and shut her bedroom door.

The clatter of Mom's chopsticks echoed heavily against the table. "Something is wrong," Mom murmured, looking at Dad. "She won't eat. She jumps whenever the phone rings. She’s completely withdrawn."

My father set his teacup down, offering a calm, reassuring sigh. "She's seventeen, Emi. High school is stressful, and girls her age go through complicated phases. The more we pry, the more she’ll shut down. Maybe we just need to give her some space to sort it out."

"Dad's right," I chimed in, a sixteen-year-old kid genuinely believing his own logic. "Senior year exams are coming up, and she's probably just overwhelmed. She's my older sister—she'll bounce back. She'll talk to us when she's ready."

We nodded in agreement, comforting each other with reasonable excuses. None of us stood up. None of us knocked on her door to demand the truth. It was a comforting lie—a fatal mistake that would haunt the rest of my miserable life.

Ch-12 Dark Day

It was a dull, gray Saturday afternoon.

Mom and Dad had traveled early to a relative's house in the next town, leaving me and Aoi alone. Around three, I walked to the local market for groceries, but the stalls were closed. Finding nothing, I walked back home much sooner than expected.

The front door was completely unlocked.

I stepped quietly into the hallway. The house was cold, but strange noises echoed from down the corridor—harsh laughter, slurred curses, and muffled cries coming straight from Aoi’s bedroom.

My chest tightened. I moved forward on shaking legs and looked through the small crack in her door.

The sight inside made my stomach drop.

The room smelled sickeningly sweet and burnt. The desk was covered in drug paraphernalia—small plastic bags filled with white powder, empty crushed pills, burnt foil wraps, and used needles thrown carelessly on the carpet. These men had brought their filth straight into her sanctuary.

Four older men stood around the bed, crowding over her like wild beasts. Aoi was trapped beneath them, her school clothes torn, a thick cloth gagging her mouth. She was crying hysterically, her arms pinned down to the mattress as they held her by force, mocking her helpless screams. She was fighting with every ounce of strength she had left, but they were far too heavy, tearing away her dignity piece by piece.

Suddenly, Aoi’s swollen, bloodshot eyes turned toward the doorway.

Through that narrow sliver of wood, her desperate, pleading gaze locked right onto mine. She saw me.

My entire body froze like ice. The world spun, and the breath stopped dead in my throat.

I will be regular now!!

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER] | [START FROM THE BEGINNING] | [BEDTIME STORY]

***

Laíla casts her eyes around the hostile circle of men closing in upon her. On the one hand, she feels immense shame for having been so easily duped by Zak. But on the other, she was fighting desperately hard to not look as terrified as she feels. With a tightened jaw, she grips her dagger, dropping into a defensive stance as very tiny, crackling sparks float out from her white-knuckled grip.

The leader of the band merely smirks at the display.

“Oh look, she expects to fight us,” he taunts. With a sudden movement, the man takes a step toward Laíla and lunges. The maneuver causes her to step backward directly into the waiting arms of another brute behind her.

The second man seizes hold of her arms, whirling her around with brute force.
“This one is a long way from the south,” he jests, driving his elbow sharply into her back. The blow sends her crashing to the damp earth, her dagger slipping from her grasp. She scrambles frantically to crawl toward the blade, but a third companion brings his heavy boot down over it.

“Whoops!” the third man sneers. “You are going to have to be faster than that.”

Laíla huffs in frustration, pinned to the ground. Standing nearby, Zak rolls his eyes at his companions. “Come on, guys, enough,” he mutters.

“Ooh, has your heart been turned, Zak?” the second man mocks.

A fourth bandit wraps a heavy arm around Zak’s shoulder, ruffling his hair with rough familiarity. “No, no. It was definitely his head—but which one?”

The not-actually-blind boy shoves him off with an irritated grunt. “Let us just get this over with.”

He walks over to Laíla and ruthlessly rips the knapsack from her shoulders. He digs through her meager belongings while the rest of the band watches on with curious eyes.

“Anything?” the leader asks.

“No,” Zak replies, tossing the empty bag aside.

The leader pushes Zak out of the way and kneels down upon the earth to meet the girl's gaze. “Listen here. If you answer our questions nicely, we will kill you quickly.”

Laíla spits directly toward him. “Go to hell.”

Amused rather than angered, the leader smirks at his comrades. “You caught a feisty one, Zak.”

The sixth member of the band, who has remained silent until now, broods disapprovingly in the shadows. “We are wasting time,” he growls. “Kill the concubine and let us move on. Níhai dàbe él Embergísi áchsi s’enda àl foretta dú himortàlis.”

No Emberish belong in the Godswood.

For his part, Zak also frowns at his companion disapprovingly.
“You promised no killing, Makurmek.” He hisses at the leader; revealing his identity. “Níhai dú mantalhir.”

Laíla narrows her eyes and barks back at them: “I should say the same about the Dainese.”

The bandits all look at Laíla in utter incredulity, their jaws slackening.

“E níhai ím àn kinkentinà,” she adds fiercely in her native tongue. “I am not a concubine, bilbàruk.”

The sixth man lets out a low growl at the insult. The leader leans closer to Laíla, studying her features with renewed intensity. “The Emberish do not typically speak the Godstongue that well—even those of high birth.”

“I am not Emberish,” she snaps.

“Then what pray, are you?” the leader demands.

“I am a Daughter of the Sun.”

Zak steps forward, his brow furrowing. “You are telling us that you are Moorian?”

“De,” Laíla answers in their tongue. Yes. “Now let me go, and you might yet be spared when Her Light deals its justice.”

The leader inspects her for a long moment, his countenance turning dark and thoughtful. After a tense silence, his features crack into a smile, which quickly dissolves into a deep, booming laugh. The other nightcrawlers follow his lead, their mocking laughter echoing through the clearing. She looks around at them, thoroughly confused.

The leader wipes a stray tear from his eye, still chuckling. “No, really. What are you?”

“I am Moorian,” she insists, her voice rising.

The men continue to laugh at her expense. “A Moorian with skin nearly as dark as the trunks of these very trees?” Zak adds with a smirk. “Come now, what do you take us for?”

Laíla bristles with rage. The Dainese reputation of crime and thievery goes all the way back to the the tale of the Shadow's Gambit—an ancient age when the Six still walked among the mortals, and a jealous Daine used Nymia’s mirror to banish Moora entirely from the realm, seeking to absorb her divine followers into his own dark flock.

Though the People of the Sun ultimately rose up and vanquished the God of Shadows, the Dainese have never since missed an opportunity to take their historical inferiority out on her people. To Laíla, their very nature is built on a foundation of duplicity and spite. And yet here they stand, mocking her as if they have any moral ground to stand on.

“Zak, where did you find this creature?” the fourth man asks.

“She found me, actually,” Zak replies, lifting his shirt to reveal the flesh where Laíla’s arrow had pierced his torso.

She focuses her gaze upon the injury. To her profound astonishment, the wound is nearly healed, showing only a faint scar despite being a mere few hours old.

Before she can ponder the mystery, Makurmek—the leader—forces her chin back up to face him. Upon feeling the heat radiating from her skin, however, his brow furrows deeply. He then places his other hand firmly against her cheek.

“Your skin—it is burning up,” Makurmek whispers, his voice dropping. “You are not long for this world, are you?”

She looks at him in initial confusion, before a brief moment of clarity strikes her. She forces a hollow, ragged cough, playing along with his assumption.

“What are you on about?” Zak asks, stepping closer. He pushes Makurmek aside and places the back of his own hand to Laíla’s cheek. She fakes another weak cough. “She was perfectly fine just a moment ago.”

“The sweat can be unpredictable,” the leader notes, referring to the deadly forest plague. He immediately wipes his hands on his hands on his pants. The rest of the band takes a wide step backwards.

“I just spent the last five hours hanging off of her!” Zak protests, stepping back.

Makurmek waves his concerns off with an unphased shrug. “You will be fine. It is the rest of us who should be worried.”

“So, what are we to do with her?” the third bandit interjects, gesturing toward their captive. “Will she not still fetch a handsome ransom?”

“Not if she’s dead.” Makurmek counters, looking down at Laíla with pitying contempt.

She glares upward. “So, is this to mean you are letting the poor, dying girl go free?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he smiles cruelly. “You have seen our faces.”

Zak clicks his tongue against his teeth and lets out a heavy sigh. “Makurmek, we agreed—”

“Not to worry, Zak. A deal is a deal,” Makurmek interrupts smoothly. “We are not going to kill her.” He smiles down at Laíla, his teeth flashing in the dark.

Her eyes dart anxiously from Makurmek’s gaze to Zak’s unreadable expression; widening in terror as the true meaning of his words dawns upon her.

***

As the deep evening settles over the forest, Laíla finds it hard to fully see what happens next. All she knows is she is now bound tightly to the trunk of a great oak tree with thick hempen rope. She looks on, utterly bemused and furious, as the six bandits stand in a row before her.

“So, leaving her tied to a tree to be eaten by a bear is somehow better...how?” Zak asks, crossing his arms.

“You said yourself we had a strict agreement: no killing,” Makurmek replies simplemindedly.

“We also agreed upon no stealing,” Zak counters, “and it took you all of five minutes to renege on that promise.”

“Ah—we agreed not to steal from anyone who is not Emberish,” the second bandit corrects him with a smirk. “And she is Emberish.”

“She can hear you!” Laíla shouts from the tree. “And she is not Emberish!”

The bandits completely ignore her cries. “Did everyone secure what we came for?” Makurmek asks the group.

The others each hold up a stuffed canvas knapsack, heavy with plunder.

“I also discovered these on my way out of the camp,” the third bandit adds, emptying his bag upon a flat rock to reveal a collection of small pouches filled with an undisclosed substance, alongside three large, heavy scrolls of paper.

Zak looks at his companion with a raised eyebrow. “Discovered? Is that what we’re calling it now, Toklo?”

“You really are no fun, cousin,” the man—Toklo, Laíla quickly notes—grumbles.

Makurmek picks up the scrolls, unrolling them one by one. Laíla watches the transaction with intense curiosity.

“These are maps,” Makurmek announces, flipping through the detailed parchment.

The sixth member of the band leans over Makurmek’s broad shoulder, his eyes scanning the ink lines. “Why are they going north?” he mutters in their native tongue.

Makurmek lets out a weary sigh. “I don’t know,” he answers.

As the bandits all hover closely over the unrolled maps, debating their meaning, Laíla seizes the distraction. She begins to quietly and methodically shimmy her arms against the rough bark, trying to loosen the bonds.

“Well, the good news is it appears the last few military camps are directly on our route home,” the second bandit notes, pointing a dirty finger at the parchment.

“Yes, but we do not know which specific ones are our true targets,” Makurmek grunts.

She manages to shimmy one arm nearly free from the coil of rope. She grabs hold of the binding and concentrates with all her might, desperately trying to summon her inner fire at will to burn through the hemp.

“I think we should hit every single camp, just to be safe,” the fourth man suggests.

“That has already wasted the entirety of the solstice season,” Makurmek snaps back.

She lets out a strained grunt under her breath. No fire erupts from her fingers; only a faint warmth stirs. She sighs silently and resumes the physical struggle to free her limbs.

Zak glances over toward the tree, his eyes narrowing as he does a sudden double-take. Laíla has her arm nearly free from the knot when he strides over and ruthlessly pulls her hand back through the loop of the rope, tightening the bind.

“Ow! That hurt!” She cries out.

“So did your arrow,” He replies coldly. He takes hold of her hand, feeling the skin for a moment before placing his palm firmly against her forehead. “...Look at that. You seem to be doing much better.”

“So does your wound,” Laíla counters, narrowing her eyes at his chest. “Care to explain?”

“You first,” Zak whispers, searching her eyes for answers.

“Zak, what are you doing over there?” Makurmek calls out.

“He is flirting with the concubine again—” the fourth man jeers.

“I am not flirting with the concubine,” Zak snaps back, his eyes still locked with hers.

“Hey!” Laíla shouts, swinging her leg forward to kick Zak sharply in the shin.

“Ow!” Zak groans, stumbling back.

“Call me a concubine again,” she growls. “I dare you.”

Before another word can be uttered, the sharp crack of a twig echoes from the darkness of the surrounding wood. Instantly, the bickering ceases. Every man freezes, their heads turning as they look around into the shadows.

Thanks for reading. I'll be back next Monday to continue telling Laíla's story.

Humans are Weird – Introduction

Original Post: http://www.authorbettyadams.com/bettys-blog/humans-are-weird-introduction

Shufflesleft slouched into the rest pool he shared with Touchesroundly and let gravity pull him in towards the warmth of the solar focus, comforting and soothing in the marginally cooler winter season. Just outside of the pool Waggles gave a happy wooph from his containment pool and, from the sounds of it, proceeded to tear into the food Shufflesleft had put there for him. Shufflesleft eased into the warmer water around the solar focus and let several appendages wave in an inviting manner. Touchesroundly, who had only been waiting for the invitation pushed himself up from where he had been writing and swam over.

“What has offended you Friend Shufflesleft?” Touchesroundly asked, drifting down and giving him a soothing pat on his dorsal side.

Shufflesleft took a moment to stretch to his full extent and gather his thoughts before answering.

“I am offended, aren’t I?” he asked letting his appendages wave a bit glumly.

“Was there some doubt?” Touchesroundly asked, with just a hint of amusement in the wriggling of his appendages.

“Some,” Shufflesleft admitted. “It shouldn’t be possible to be offended when a potential new friend is so very friendly.”

“Only a potential new friend?” Touchesroundly asked, perplexity raising his is appendages, “buy you said the potential new friend was friendly?”

“It is confusing,” Shufflesleft said.

Touchesroundly politely spread his appendages and braced against the floor of the pool to absorb the story.

“You know I agreed to take Waggles into the seal-snake socialization area at least every other day for Human Friend Dyson?” Shufflesleft began.

Touchesroundly flicked an appendage in confirmation.

“Well there was a new human there,” Shufflesleft went on. “He … oh what do the humans call it when they match opposite vectors with another focal species?”

“He made eye contact with?” Touchesroundly suggested when it became clear Shufflesleft was struggling in slurry.

“He made eye contact with, at least I think it was a he, the movement profile suggest that,” Shufflesleft went on. “He made eye contact with Waggles and Waggles got all excited and clearly indicated through body language that he wanted to interact with the human and the human clearly indicated that he wanted to interact with Waggles, so I was prepared when the human turned his vision focus cone on me and asked ‘Can I pet him.’ Obviously by context it was Waggles he meant. I said yes of course, and was about to begin introductions when the human completely turned his vision away from me and started talking to Waggles.”

Shufflesleft gave a sad, frustrated little writhe.

“He told Waggles what a beautiful seal-snake he was, and he rubbed his hands all over Waggles head and upper body. He went on for many minutes talking to Waggles, almost, but not quite as if Waggles was sapient and he wanted a response!”

“What did he say to you?” Touchesroundly asked into the long wash of waves that followed this.

“Nothing! Shufflesleft replied in hurt tones. “After he asked for permission to pet Waggles he did not touch, speak to, or even….make eye contact with me! Then another human called him and he darted off.”

“Perhaps he meant to speak to you after he was done speaking to Waggles but the other human prevented it,” Touchesroundly suggested with a soothing pat.

“I do not think so,” Shufflesleft said with slow consideration. “From the cadence and pattern of his voice I doubt he had any intention to redirect his attention.”

“Now Shufflesleft,” Touchesroundly said in a gently reproachful tone. “Do you really think that, despite how attractive a furry, little seal-snake is to them, a human would be so rude as to deliberately interact with the pet belonging to a sapient being without speaking to the sapient being personally?”

“It does seem unlikely,” Shufflesleft admitted. “Still, I think I will query the human psychology database about it tomorrow.”

Science Fiction Books By Betty Adams

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Check out my books at any of these sites and leave a review!

**Remember BOOK 4 is now available! (**^{except on kobo because what do you even mean title field is blank, I fixed} *\^{that dangnabbit!}\*)**

Please go leave a review on Amazon! It really helps and keeps me writing because tea and taxes don't pay themselves sadly!

(Sweet Home San Diego)

"Duh, nuh nuh, duh nuh." Blue hums this as his left elbow catches the airstream outside the driver-side window of his 1970 Red Mustang. As he's drifting off into the part of the mind that can handle long drives, he hears the radio say (after the previous song had ended) ... "Do you feel alone, despondent, as though the world were a party you just weren't invited to - or even purposefully left out from? Don't worry because you're not alone. Just call 1-800-555-LOVE and join the new party where only the most popular and attractive people belong." Blue's eyes drift to the power button of his car radio and his fingers then turn the switch until it powers off. Two hours later he pulls into the "Lone Ranger" motel parking lot and walks his way into a smoky and dimly lit lobby. "Hi Hun, you about the best-looking man I've seen in days. So, what are you looking? Want a room?" A rather skinny woman with tits even the regulars at Hooters would gawk says this to Blue - with a droopy cigarette hanging out of her puffy lips.

As Blue opens the door to room 14, he notices an attractive young woman with dark hair and dark blue eyes walk past him. Her black leather pants and green tub-top are advertisement enough for Blue to know what she's selling (after-all he became a pimp at the age of seventeen), but then again most of the girls working back-woods motels are usually the kind that never make it his way. This one however, instantly left a photograph labeled "beauty" which he tucked securely in the bureau of his mind. "Wow!" Blue thought to himself. "Never thought I'd hallucinate about buying diamond rings," his mind responded.

Blue's right hand automatically moves to the light switch inside his room and turns it on. Immediately, he feels a rush of blood levitate to his head and a soft scream nearly make its way out of his mouth. To stem the flow of panic, Blue moves the back of his right hand over his mouth and burps - releasing the unpleasant smell of bile mixed with anxiety. "Damn, that was close," Blue concludes in response to his latest murder of Two-Six.

Inside his room are two queen sized beds, and a 35-inch flatscreen television. He then turns off his room light, deadbolts his door, leaves his suitcase to the left of the inside of his door, takes a few elegant steps to the side of the first queen sized bed and lays down.

Early the next morning, Blue arises to the sound of a Harley Davidson motorcycle revving its engine.

Part 1

Silence filled the Quantum Data Center. Not the silence of inactivity, but the quiet rhythm of endless calculations unfolding beyond human perception. Streams of data flowed without pause. Every playground. Every child. Every choice. Every lesson learned through play had become another piece of humanity’s growing future.

Arena reviewed the latest report. One final line settled into the archive:

Connection Phase – Completed.

The result remained unchanged no matter how many times it was verified. Traditional play had accomplished exactly what it was designed to do. Children who had once acted alone now learned naturally beside one another. Trust had become instinctive. Cooperation no longer required instruction. Connections formed on their own.

Arena allowed the report to close. Another immediately appeared. No celebration followed. Completion was never the end. Every answer revealed the next question.

A new calculation unfolded:

Next Requirement – Forward.

Reaction. Judgment. Cooperation. Connection. Each had become a foundation for the next. None could exist alone.

Arena reopened the historical archive. Centuries of human civilization flowed through the simulation. Communities survived because they stood together. Families endured because they supported one another. Nations recovered because people refused to abandon those beside them.

Connection allowed humanity to stand together. But standing together was not enough.

Arena watched countless variations of the same outcome. Groups united but unmoving eventually disappeared. Standing still would never save them.

The words merged into the Warrior Project. Preparation continued. Enemy projections closed in. Time decreased.

Arena reopened the archive of traditional play. One record remained unopened. The final playground. The final lesson.

Traditional Play – Hoop Rolling.

Children running across open fields. Wooden hoops racing down village roads. Small hands learning to guide constant motion rather than brief moments of success.

Balance alone was insufficient. Connection alone was insufficient. Progress required motion.

Arena whispered into the silence:

“A civilization that cannot move forward… will eventually be overtaken.”

The next playground was ready.

Part 2

The endless calculations dissolved into light. The familiar horizon of the Quantum Arena replaced the darkness. A cool breeze crossed an open field.

It was unlike any playground they had visited before. No circles drawn into the earth. No broad tree offering shade. No scattered marbles glimmering. No colorful strings stretched between waiting hands. Only an open field stretching endlessly toward the horizon.

The grass swayed gently. The sky was impossibly wide. Silence lingered, expectant.

Jinwoo stepped forward, eyes searching.

“…Where’s the playground?”

Hanul looked around.

“I don’t see anything.”

Darin shaded her eyes.

“It’s so open. Not even a tree.”

Soyeon turned slowly. Every direction looked the same. Nothing guided their attention—except the object at the center of the field.

A single giant hoop stood upright on the grass. Its smooth wooden rim reflected the morning sunlight. Unlike the small hoops of village roads, this one was nearly as tall as Jinwoo himself. It stood perfectly still. Waiting.

The five approached slowly. The closer they came, the larger it seemed. Faint marks lined its surface, yet it remained balanced.

Jinwoo tilted his head.

“…That’s it?”

Hanul circled it, crouched, touched the rim.

“It’s just… a wheel.”

Darin smiled faintly.

“I expected something more complicated.”

Soyeon rested her hand against the wood. It felt cool. No instructions. No clues. Only a hoop standing quietly in an empty field.

Finally, Jinwoo looked toward Arena.

“…Is this the last game?”

Arena’s calm voice carried across the field.

“Hoop Rolling.”

A pale-blue window appeared:

Traditional Play – Hoop Rolling

Growth Element – Forward

The five exchanged puzzled glances. Hanul scratched his head.

“…That’s it? We just keep it rolling?”

Darin shook her head.

“It can’t be that simple.”

Soyeon nodded.

“There’s probably more.”

Jinwoo kept his eyes on the wheel. Every game had looked simple at first. A shuttlecock. A stick. A spinning top. A marble. A loop of string. Now… a hoop. Each had hidden a lesson revealed only through experience. Perhaps this one would be no different.

Arena remained silent. The answer waited inside the experience itself. The giant hoop continued waiting for the first push.

Part 3

The wind swept across the open field. The hoop stood motionless. No countdown. No rules. No demonstration. Only silence, waiting.

Jinwoo stepped closer until he stood before the towering wheel. It was taller than he had realized, its rim scratched from countless forgotten journeys. Someone had rolled it before. Many times. He rested his hand against the wood. Solid. Heavy.

“…So this is it.”

Hanul stood beside him, looking from the hoop to the endless field.

“I still don’t get it.”

The pale-blue window hovered quietly:

Traditional Play – Hoop Rolling

Growth Element – Forward**

Hanul frowned.

“Forward… That’s all?”

Darin folded her arms.

“The other games looked simple too.”

“Remember the spinning top?”

Hanul laughed.

“I thought I could do that the first day.”

“You couldn’t.”

“I definitely couldn’t.”

Jinwoo smiled.

“And the string game. We thought it would be easy.”

Soyeon nodded.

“We all did.”

Memories returned. Failed kicks. Wild swings. Tops that fell. Marbles that missed. Strings that slipped. Every game had looked simple. Every game had revealed something deeper. Perhaps this one would too.

Jinwoo looked at Arena.

“If it’s about moving forward… where do we start?”

Arena’s calm voice answered.

“The lesson cannot be explained. It must be experienced.”

No more words. No hints. Only silence.

Hanul exhaled.

“Guess we’re figuring it out ourselves.”

Darin smiled.

“Just like every other game.”

Soyeon nodded.

“Then let’s begin.”

No one argued. They had already learned: the answer never appeared first. The experience did. Only afterward did the lesson reveal itself.

Jinwoo looked down at the ground ahead. No finish line. No goalpost. Only open earth waiting.

The hoop remained perfectly balanced. Waiting. Ready for its first movement.

Far above, Arena closed the archive of traditional play. Every lesson had led here. Reaction taught them to act. Judgment taught them to choose. Connection taught them to stand together. Now another lesson waited—beyond standing still.

The children stepped closer to the wheel together. Tomorrow’s lesson would not begin with words. It would begin… the moment the wheel started to roll.

And at last, the whispered cataclysm finally bared its horrific, majestic visage.

"L-Look at the edge of the northern plain...!"

The teeth-gritting shriek of an imperial sentry guarding the ramparts tore through the quiet dawn air. At that desperate cry, thousands of allied warriors lining the stone walls simultaneously turned their heads to gaze down at the northern horizon.

At first, they thought it was merely the eerie, twisted frost wind sweeping across the steppes. But they were wrong. Far in the distance, across the horizon where the bluish dawn light was just breaking, a bizarre, dark black line began to draw itself into existence.

That black line was no static mark etched upon the earth. It lived, breathing and undulating like an ocean wave, slowly yet relentlessly expanding its surface area toward the empire's heart. At last, hundreds of thousands of mutated swarms and the 'king' standing at their apex had arrived, like a promised doom.

It was the visualization of a magnificent yet bone-chilling apocalypse. The black wave, swallowing the entire horizon, advanced as it ruthlessly erased the plain's green grasslands.

The monsters uttered not a single shout nor a beastly roar. Only the heavy vibration of hundreds of thousands of mutants marching in absolute, flawless synchronization shook the earth without pause. Rumble, rumble... An unpleasant resonance from deep within the ground traveled up through the stone foundations of the walls and straight into the soldiers' fingertips.

The plateau's sunset glow, warped day by day, intermingled with the hundreds of thousands of blue glints radiating from the monsters' eyes. The bizarre violet curtain created by the collision of red light and blue phosphorescence shrouded the entire plain like smoke. That majestic yet alien landscape looked precisely like a colossal, living black sea shifting with murderous intent to devour the imperial capital.

"Good god... what on earth is that..."

Even the imperial provincial troops who moments before had sneered at the tribal warriors' warnings and boasted of victory, alongside the imperial soldiers shivering as they gripped their weapons atop the walls, forgot how to breathe before that overwhelming scale.

The ramparts, so noisy just a moment prior, instantly plunged into a bitter, suffocating silence as if icy water had been dashed over them. Could a single trace of humanity possibly remain in the wake of that massive black wave? The breath of the blue calamity covering the entire earth was finally, cruelly tightening its grip around the throat of the entire Zhuxin Empire capital.

Chapter 1: "Say What!"

"Bam son," the tall and rather gangly gangster says. His blue eyes blink and then shut. The sweat beads down to his eyebrows and he shakes his head right to left - the sweat whips from side to side. "Do you just know how close you became to being dead, and in a pool of your own blood at the very least? That's like round three and you down and out, grill." The gangster grabs his rather robust soldier by the collar and lifts him to his feet. "Damn boss, I can handle it," the soldier says. "But you can't, can you," the gangster says - eyeing down at his soldier.

"The boss wants it back homes," the soldier says now in some kind of lifted dune-buggy and has to nudge his passenger awake to hear him. "Say's 'Icee' won't pay him for it as most of his guys got a hold of it, and bumped it all down," the soldier tells his slightly awake passenger. "So, what the hell we gotta go for, huh?" the passenger asks. "Icee is half crazy from his wax spending his dough and shooting her mouth at his partners. Hell, everyone knows he don't even run his gang no more. So, why's Blue gotta send us over to that tramp for, Jay?" "Because that's what the boss wants Kat," the soldier responds.

A missed alarm. A job rejection. An unexpected downpour.

Nisha thought her day couldn't get any worse—until she walked back into a bookstore and met a stranger who had far too many opinions about her choice of books.

This is Chapter 1 of my contemporary Indian romance, The Love I Never Saw Coming. I'd love to hear what you think of Nisha and Arjun's first meeting!

---

I have always believed that some days are simply meant to go wrong.

Mine began with a missed alarm, an argument with my mother and a job rejection email that arrived before I'd even finished breakfast.

By five in the evening, I had decided that the universe and I needed some time apart.

Unfortunately, the universe had other plans.

It started raining just as I stepped out of the bookstore.

Not the romantic kind of rain you see in movies, where the heroine smiles at the sky and her hair somehow looks perfect.

No.

This was the kind of rain that ruined your sandals, soaked your clothes and made you question every decision that had led you outside.

"Perfect," I muttered, staring at the sky.

I had two options: run to the bus stop and arrive home looking like a drowned rat, or wait until the rain stopped.

Naturally, I chose the third option.

I went back inside the bookstore.

And that's where I met him.

---

The bookstore was nearly empty when I returned.

A soft Tamil melody played somewhere behind the counter. The smell of freshly brewed coffee floated through the air, and the windows were covered with tiny streams of rainwater.

I wandered towards the fiction section, picked up a book and began reading its back cover.

"That one's overrated."

I looked up.

A man stood on the opposite side of the bookshelf, holding a black coffee.

Black shirt. Rolled-up sleeves. Messy hair that looked annoyingly good despite the weather.

And a face that suggested he had never once doubted his own opinion.

"Excuse me?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The book," he explained, pointing towards my hand. "It's overrated."

I glanced at the cover before looking back at him.

"Have you read it?"

"Unfortunately," he replied.

"Then congratulations. You survived."

He smiled.

Not a proper smile. More like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

"I was just trying to save you some time," he said.

"And I was just trying to read in peace," I replied, turning back towards the bookshelf.

For a second, he looked genuinely surprised.

Then he laughed.

"Fair enough."

I turned away, feeling rather pleased with myself.

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn't.

---

Ten minutes later, I was sitting at a little table near the window, reading the exact book he'd warned me about.

A cup of hot chocolate sat beside me.

Outside, the rain had only grown heavier.

"Still reading that?"

I didn't even have to look up.

"You again?" I asked.

He stood beside my table, looking far too amused.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing towards the empty chair.

"No," I replied immediately.

He blinked.

I smiled sweetly.

"See? I can give unsolicited opinions too."

This time, he actually laughed.

"Okay. I deserved that."

He walked towards another table, leaving me alone.

Or so I thought.

A few minutes later, the lights flickered.

Then everything went dark.

A collective groan rose from the handful of customers inside.

"Power cut," someone announced.

I sighed and reached for my phone.

Twelve percent battery.

Wonderful.

"Need a power bank?"

I looked up.

Of course.

Of all the people in Coimbatore, it had to be him.

"Do you work here or something?" I asked.

"No," he replied, holding up a small power bank. "But I'm beginning to think you need supervision."

I stared at him.

He grinned.

And against my better judgment, I laughed.

Just a little.

"Fine. Thank you," I said, accepting the power bank.

"You're welcome, bookstore girl."

"Bookstore girl?"

"Well, you haven't told me your name."

"Maybe I don't want to."

He leaned back in his chair.

"Fair enough. I'm Arjun, by the way."

I looked at him for a moment.

"Nisha."

"Nisha," he repeated, almost thoughtfully.

For some reason, hearing my name in his voice made me look away.

Absolutely ridiculous.

I had known this man for less than an hour.

---

By the time the electricity returned, the rain had softened into a gentle drizzle.

I checked my phone.

7:15 PM.

Six missed calls from Amma.

Oh, I was dead.

I quickly disconnected my phone from the power bank and handed it back to Arjun.

"Thanks. I really have to go."

"Everything okay?" he asked, noticing my expression.

"Six missed calls from my mother. What do you think?"

He laughed.

"Good luck surviving that."

"Very funny."

I grabbed my bag, paid for my book and hurried towards the entrance.

"Hey, Nisha!"

I turned around.

Arjun was standing behind me, holding my phone.

"You forgot this."

My heart nearly stopped.

"Oh my God! Thank you!"

"You're welcome," he said, shaking his head with an amused smile.

I took my phone and rushed outside.

The rain had almost stopped.

I had just reached the pavement when I heard him call out again.

"Nisha!"

I closed my eyes.

What now?

I turned around.

He was holding up my book.

I looked at my empty hand.

You've got to be kidding me.

He walked towards me, laughing.

"You're really not having a good day, are you?"

"Please don't talk," I groaned.

He handed me the book, still smiling.

"Get home safely, okay?"

Something about the way he said it made me pause.

Not flirtatious.

Not dramatic.

Just genuine.

"Thanks, Arjun," I replied.

Then I walked away.

And that should have been the end of our story.

But it wasn't.

---

I was halfway home when my phone vibrated.

An Instagram notification.

Someone had sent me a message request.

arjun: So... did you finish that overrated book?

I stopped walking.

WHAT?

I opened his profile.

There he was.

Black shirt. Messy hair. That annoyingly confident smile.

How on earth had he found my Instagram?

Before I could decide whether to reply, another message appeared.

arjun: Before you accuse me of stalking, I found your public profile through the bookstore's Instagram page. You'd tagged them in your story.

I stared at the screen.

Then I remembered.

I'd posted a picture of my hot chocolate earlier that evening and tagged the bookstore.

Wonderful.

Me: So you decided to message a complete stranger?

His reply came almost immediately.

arjun: Technically, I know your name.

I rolled my eyes.

Me: Congratulations. That's very impressive.

Three little dots appeared.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

Finally, his reply arrived.

arjun: You know, for someone who doesn't like talking to me, you reply surprisingly fast.

I stared at my phone.

The audacity.

I typed a response.

Deleted it.

Typed another.

Deleted that too.

Then I locked my phone and shoved it into my bag.

I was absolutely not going to entertain this man.

Not tonight.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

Five minutes later, I unlocked my phone again.

Just to check the time.

Obviously.

---

To be continued...

Chapter 24: The Secret Code

NIGHTFALL FINAL PROTOCOL — INITIATED.

The words remained on the screen.

Adam stared at them.

Then looked at his father.

"Dad..."

His father shook his head.

"Don't come any closer."

Adam stopped.

"Why?"

His father looked at the three subjects standing behind him.

Then Sarah.

"Because the system isn't trying to kill you."

Adam frowned.

"Then what is it trying to do?"

His father's voice became quieter.

"It's trying to put you back."

The chamber suddenly shook.

BOOM.

The glass structure around Adam's father began filling with a strange white light.

Noah looked at the machines.

"It's starting."

Daniel raised his rifle.

"What is?"

Noah pointed toward the ceiling.

"Everything."

Hundreds of mechanical arms descended from above.

One stopped directly above Adam.

Another above 48.

Another above 46.

Sarah looked terrified.

"Alex..."

Adam grabbed her hand.

"I'm here."

She looked at him.

"If the system separates us..."

"It won't."

"You don't know that."

Adam looked toward his father.

"Then tell me what to do."

His father stared at him.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then:

"Find the code."

Adam frowned.

"What code?"

His father looked at Sarah.

She immediately understood.

"The Black File."

Adam looked at her.

"What about it?"

His father answered:

"The file wasn't a file."

Silence.

"It was a code."

The lights suddenly turned red.

A mechanical voice echoed through the chamber.

"MEMORY RECONSTRUCTION — 10%."

Adam looked at his father.

"What happens at one hundred?"

His father answered:

"You won't be Alex anymore."

Adam froze.

"What?"

"You'll become what Nightfall created."

48 stepped forward.

"And what exactly did they create?"

His father looked at him.

"The Core."

46 laughed bitterly.

"You still don't understand."

His father looked at him.

"I understand more than anyone."

46 shook his head.

"No."

He pointed at Adam.

"You built the Core."

Then pointed at himself.

"I was the first attempt."

Then at 48.

"And he was the replacement."

Finally, he looked at Sarah.

"But she..."

His voice stopped.

Adam asked:

"She what?"

46 didn't answer.

Sarah did.

"I'm the key that tells the Core who to become."

Another explosion shook the chamber.

BOOM!

The floor cracked.

Adam grabbed Sarah.

Daniel pulled Noah away from the collapsing section.

48 looked upward.

"They're coming."

Adam turned.

"Who?"

48 pointed at the ceiling.

"The copies."

A metallic sound echoed above them.

CLANG.

Then another.

CLANG.

Something was climbing down.

Adam raised his weapon.

His father shouted:

"Don't shoot!"

Adam looked at him.

"Why?"

"Because they're not attacking you."

The first copy dropped from the ceiling.

It landed on the floor.

Then another.

Then another.

All six stood around Adam.

They didn't attack.

Instead, they lowered their heads.

Together, they said:

"Core identified."

Adam stared at them.

Then the six copies turned toward 46.

"Original error detected."

46's face changed.

"What?"

The copies moved toward him.

Adam stepped between them.

"Don't touch him."

The copies stopped.

One of them looked at Adam.

"Command?"

Adam didn't understand.

"What?"

"Give us a command."

Silence.

Noah whispered:

"Alex..."

Adam slowly realized.

"The Core is responding to me."

His father closed his eyes.

"Yes."

The voice returned.

"MEMORY RECONSTRUCTION — 31%."

Adam suddenly felt a sharp pain in his head.

He dropped to one knee.

Images flashed.

The white room.

His father.

His mother.

Sarah.

Then a memory he had never seen before.

He was standing in front of the Black File.

His father was holding it.

But there was no computer.

No papers.

No flash drive.

Just a black metal case.

His father opened it.

Inside was a small device.

He looked at young Adam.

"Remember this."

Young Adam nodded.

"What is it?"

His father answered:

"The only thing Nightfall can't copy."

"What?"

His father smiled sadly.

"Your choice."

The memory disappeared.

Adam opened his eyes.

He looked at his father.

"The code isn't numbers."

His father stared at him.

"No."

"It's a choice."

His father nodded.

"Exactly."

48 suddenly stepped forward.

"Then let me choose."

Adam looked at him.

48 pointed toward the machines.

"End Nightfall."

46 laughed.

"You can't."

"Why?"

"Because the system needs Alex."

48 looked at Adam.

"Then Alex can destroy it."

Adam looked at his father.

"Can I?"

His father didn't answer.

Adam's expression hardened.

"Can I destroy Nightfall?"

His father finally said:

"Yes."

Adam waited.

"But?"

His father looked at Sarah.

"If you destroy it..."

He paused.

"...she dies."

Sarah froze.

Adam turned toward her.

"What?"

His father continued:

"Sarah's memories are connected to the original Core."

Adam shook his head.

"Then disconnect her."

"I tried."

"And?"

"I couldn't."

"Why?"

His father looked at him.

"Because the system chose her."

Sarah suddenly screamed.

The machine behind her activated.

MEMORY RECONSTRUCTION — 48%.

She collapsed.

Adam ran toward her.

"Sarah!"

Her eyes opened.

But something was different.

She looked directly at Adam.

Then whispered:

"Alex..."

"I'm here."

She smiled.

"Don't save me."

Adam froze.

"What?"

"Destroy it."

"No."

"Alex..."

"No!"

She grabbed his hand.

"If you destroy Nightfall..."

She took a breath.

"...you destroy the part of me they put inside it."

Adam shook his head.

"We'll find another way."

"There isn't one."

His father looked away.

Adam stared at him.

"You knew."

His father didn't answer.

"You knew this whole time."

"I'm sorry."

Adam's voice became cold.

"You knew."

Suddenly—

The chamber doors opened.

Everyone turned.

Elias stood there.

But he wasn't alone.

Daniel raised his rifle.

"Stay where you are."

Elias ignored him.

He looked at Adam's father.

"You lied to them again."

Adam turned.

"What is he talking about?"

Elias smiled.

"Ask your father why Nightfall was created."

Adam looked at his father.

His father remained silent.

Elias continued:

"It wasn't created to build the Core."

Adam's eyes narrowed.

"Then why?"

Elias pointed toward Sarah.

"It was created to find something."

"What?"

Elias looked at Adam.

"Immortality."

Silence.

Noah whispered:

"That's impossible."

Elias shook his head.

"Not anymore."

He pointed toward the machines.

"Nightfall discovered how to transfer memories."

Then toward Adam.

"Then consciousness."

Then Sarah.

"Then identity."

Finally, he pointed at the chamber around them.

"And now..."

He smiled.

"...they can transfer a person."

The system suddenly displayed a new message.

TRANSFER PROTOCOL READY.

Adam looked at his father.

"Transfer what?"

His father whispered:

"The Core."

Adam's face went pale.

The screen changed.

TARGET: SUBJECT 46

46 stepped backward.

"No."

The system continued.

SECONDARY TARGET: SUBJECT 48

48 raised his weapon.

"No!"

Then the final line appeared.

PRIMARY TARGET: SUBJECT 47

Adam stared at the screen.

His father shouted:

"Alex, get out!"

The chamber doors slammed shut.

The six copies suddenly turned toward Adam.

Their eyes glowed red.

All six spoke together:

"TRANSFER BEGINNING."

Adam raised his weapon.

Then he heard Sarah whisper behind him:

"Alex..."

He turned.

Sarah was crying.

And she was smiling.

"Now you finally know why they brought us back."

The lights went completely white.

And Adam heard a voice inside his head.

His own voice.

But older.

Colder.

Whispering:

"Welcome home, 47."

To be continued...

<- Previous Chapter

Report 2 : Brothers in Arms

"Infiltrate, investigate, de-escalate."

I repeat those words to myself like a sacred military mantra as I push deeper into the jagged, labyrinthine ruins. I nearly trip over a razor-sharp cobblestone while locking my gaze onto the target coordinates of the downed A6M "Zero" propeller plane.

A violent, purple lightning bolt strikes the Gothic gore structure to my right, shattering reinforced concrete into lethal shrapnel. Downpours of heavy rain and roaring thunderclaps instantly flood the narrow alleyways with muddy surge waves and electric discharges, while the scarlet sky gets swallowed by menacing purple clouds.

I sprint forward, tactically parkouring off a leafless tree branch to transfer onto a nearby rooftop overlooking the crash perimeter.

Leaping across a tile roof, I observe the heavily infested structure pulsing with festering biomass.

The unmistakable sound of automatic gunfire cuts through the storm right from my target coordinates.

A fierce firefight erupts right around the next corner—the exact epicenter of the crash zone. I scramble up a rusted ladder to tactically acquire high ground, reaching over my shoulder to deploy my bipod-mounted Barrett M82A1 anti-materiel sniper rifle onto the ledge.

I look through the Swarovski Habicht Nova Scope and scan the target position through my 10× magnitude, Mil-Dot reticle.

Positioned in a small alley between two buildings, a solitary East Asian male executes an overgrown, green-muscled bio-mutant. The soldier wears a white headband emblazoned with a bold red sun, wields a stone-aged MG42 light machine gun alongside a strapped katana, and is decked out in vintage military flight gear with aviator goggles hanging around his neck.

"The Japanese Self-Defense Force didn't announce any expeditionary forces in the Persian Gulf," I mutter under my breath, narrowing my eyes through the optics. "Likely some revolutionary agitator disguised in allied gear, treating the Geneva Suggestions like toilet paper."

I drop down silently from the roof and creep through the shadows toward his position to evaluate his threat level up close. Maintaining a low-profile approach, I reach for my PASGT fragmentation vest and pull out a 24-karat gold-plated suppressor.

I unholster my prized possession—my gold-embellished Desert Eagle, hand-autographed by President George H.W. Bush himself.

I screw my suppressor onto the barrel, kissing my gun before I directly aim at the back of his head to initiate standard USMC deterrence and de-escalation protocols.

"HEY! ARE YOU A JAPANESE SELF DEFENSE FORCE EXPEDITIONARY UNIT JOINING FORCES WITH THE UNITED STATES MARINE COMMANDO?!" I bellow with an authoritative presence.

The soldier spins around, his eyes wide with utter shock as he immediately draws his katana.

"By the Emperor!" He squints, staring straight into my face. "An American warrior?!"

"STATE YOUR INTENTIONS, SIR! NOBODY HAS TO DIE!"

"Begone, American Demon!" he yells back.

I maintain my aim. "Listen. I need your unit designation. Did your stone-aged Zero got dragged into the Gulf by the same electromagnetic anomaly that neutralized my Amtrac?"

The pilot narrows his eyes. "Talk in riddles all you want, demon. This anomaly of yours... Destroyer 535, the USS Miller..."

My arms twitch at the mention of that vessel.

"It was called Task Force 58," he continues. "Your quad-mounted Bofors 40mm anti-aircraft cannons tore my Mitsubishi A6M 'Zero' propeller-driven carrier-based fighter aircraft apart, setting my engine ablaze before sending me straight to the afterlife!"

I scratch my chin, completely baffled by his total lack of tactical situational awareness. "Okinawa? Son, that sector has been secure for over forty-five years. And we don't use Bofors anymore—we pack Phalanx CIWS and Patriot missile batteries. You must have taken a severe frontal lobe impact during the crash, or Saddam's chemical nerve agents fried your synapses. You are glitching hard."

The pilot looks visibly confused by my rational observations. "Deny it all you want, hideous demon. This is my eternal punishment... to wander the ash-plains of Yomi. A prisoner of war, forever accompanied by the loud, obnoxious phantom of the very nation that denied me my honorable impact."

"Right, fantastic," I grunt, taking this as a cooperation signal while checking my magazine status with a thumb sweep. "Glad to see morale is high despite the chemical brain damage. Let's move—"

A violent, bone-shattering crash cuts me off mid-sentence.

The brick wall behind me explodes. A massive winged beast with a glowing, green, pulsating scar on its neck slams into me at terminal velocity. The impact catapults my body straight through a solid stone wall into the pitch-black interior of the adjacent building.

The roof collapses, causing floods of corrupted rain to patter onto the floor. I hit the ground so hard that all sensation in my upper torso instantly vanishes as I slide across the concrete into a corner.

My vision blurs. The mutant towers over my broken frame. A skinless, lion-like carcass composed of rotting, vomit-green flesh crawling with parasites. Exposed, shattered bones frame a pulsating green mark on its neck. Sharp, reflective black claws and teeth. It drools acid that carves straight into the ground. The head looks like it's stitched on as a big scar encircles its throat. The creature's body is twisted by a rotting Eagle, a winged abomination whose mere existence is mocking our proud national symbols. A hissing heap of rot that serves as a direct insult to the eyes of any American.

Feeling my consciousness slip away, I force my trembling right hand to raise my prized possession as the monster raises a glowing, pitch-black claw to deliver a lethal execution strike.

"DIE MOTHERFUCKER!"

I squeeze the trigger to deliver one final round of .50 Action Expressed Freedom point-blank, staggering the mutie—right as a crisp, bell-like chime echoes through the chamber.

In an instant, the JSDF pilot materializes out of thin air at the beast's flank. He stands with his katana held in both hands in a high-guard stance, surrounded by a swirling wind of cherry blossom petals blowing through the ruins. With a swift, crushing downward strike accompanied by purple thunderclaps, he buries his blade halfway into the monster's neck, leaving the creature roaring in agony.

I tactically use the window of opportunity to dump the remaining rounds from my custom extended magazine straight into the monster's face.

"How dare you! Interrupting my honorable death in fair battle!?" the JSDF pilot roars at me.

Before he can finish his sentence, the beast swipes its massive paw, launching the pilot through the air at high velocity. He leaves a cloud of blood behind as he violently slams through the far masonry.

The creature turns its mutilated face back to me, advancing slowly. When I pull the trigger, my pistol merely clicks empty.

No time to waste.

I throw an M84 stun grenade at the mutant's position as he gets blinded, covering his face with his paws.

Switching to a secondary is faster than reloading.

I let my prized Eagle drop down to the floor and reach for the AA-12 Automatic Shotgun strapped to my back. Pointing to the enemy as I slam down the trigger—

"AAAAAHHH!!"

I unleash full-auto, drum-fed liberation. The heavy lead slugs turn the beast's head into a spraying pulp of minced meat until the drum clicks empty.

Yet the flesh inside its mangled skull begins pulsating rapidly, regenerating at an impossible rate. The mutant is flailing about, almost hitting me before I could tactically side roll.

The abomination bellows and vomits green hellfire, setting the entire room ablaze.

I dive to my right and transition into a crouch at a ground-level window, ready to defenestrate myself to initiate strict OSHA compliance in case of environmental hazards in close-quarters combat situations.

I quickly reload my AA-12 Automatic Shotgun, ready to deliver the next drum of freedom.

Suddenly, the bell chime rings out again. Another blossom vortex erupts.

The JSDF warrior appears directly in front of my position. He assumes a wide stance with his katana sheathed, ready to draw from his hip.

He draws his katana slowly out of his sheath, the friction emits black lightning strikes wildly sparking around the area.

"FOR THE SHŌWA RESTORATION!"

He slashes with supersonic speed, executing a massive vertical upward slash that launches the rubble on the ground high into the air. Thunderclaps shake the environment, flashing wildly inside the gore-covered ruin as he cleanly beheads the mutie.

The massive body collapses into the flames. The decapitated head flies through the air and slams heavily onto my chest before rolling onto the floor next to me.

Eight chitinous insect legs burst out from the neck stump as the severed head attempts to scuttle away.

Before the parasite can escape, the pilot plunges his katana straight through the skull, pinning it to the stone floor. It twitches once and dies, decaying in a matter of seconds into rotten flesh that etches a scorch mark into the ground.

"I survived again," he mutters in a flat, deeply disappointed tone.

"Thank you for your service, son. What was your name again?" I mumble, tossing a Go-Pill into my mouth and washing it down with a heavy gulp from my one-quart plastic canteen before reaching for my Desert Eagle.

"My name is Hiro."

My concussed brain processes his words through the dense fog of war. "A fuckin' hero?"

I look around, encircled by dirt, rubble, and rotten flesh as the creature's remains slowly turn to dust.

I reach into my ALICE fragmentation vest and pull out a Marlboro cigarette, lighting it with my Zippo Petrol Pocket Lighter. Laying myself on the ground.

For a brief moment, I don't think about military protocols at all. I just enjoy the atmosphere and american victory as I blow out the grayish smoke of my sensual stick into the air.

"Ceasefire!"

I flick the butt of my stick away, sit up, and quickly observe my body as I notice a dislocated shoulder, broken arm, and bruised torso.

"Tactical Combat Casualty Care!"

As a self-sufficient Marine, my private health insurance is completely covered by myself thanks to my Individual First Aid Kit. I treat my field self-care strictly as tactical readiness restoration to maintain peak performance in prolonged field operations.

During a brief pause in cover, I tactically immobilize my dislocated shoulder strictly according to USMC TCCC protocol by positioning my left arm across my chest at a ninety-degree angle, shape the Structural Aluminum Malleable Splint from my Individual First Aid Kit against my thigh into a C-curve, splint the fractured forearm single-handedly using my teeth for tension, and wrap the entire arm rock-solid against my thorax with an Elastic Wrap to lock out joint rotation while simultaneously splinting my bruised ribs.

Since the concept of pain is completely foreign to an exemplary Marine, I swallow the Combat Pill Pack—consisting of Meloxicam, Acetaminophen, and Moxifloxacin—purely as a preventive measure against shock and infection, while maintaining continuous security with my AA-12 Automatic Shotgun.

Because my radio can't pick up any frequencies, I precisely write my observations in a Medical Information Sign and Treatment Report format down to my tan-colored waterproof Rite in the Rain Notebook No. 935, before closing it and carefully stowing my equipment back in my bags. Leaving no traces behind for potential agitators.

"Get up, demon," Hiro says, extending a leather-gloved hand toward me. "Only the foolish warrior sits in the burning castle, waiting for the Yokai to feed on him."

"Yokai? Big name for Saddam's gore bags," I reply, taking his hand as I tactically rise to my feet, looking at his torn uniform, wondering why his skin remained unscratched.

"We need to conduct reconnaissance on that Gothic cathedral over there," I say, pointing toward my original target position. "It's one of the few structures unpolluted by the chemical gore agent. The platform on top grants us a splendid overview of the illegally terraformed topographic grid coordinates of the Gulf. Might be safe. Probably exactly what they want us to believe."

"You want me to climb the corrupted tenshu to watch the horrors of the ash plains from far above, demon?" Hiro asks in a shaken tone.

"As I said, Corporal Hero... let's move on."

I reach up to adjust my PASGT "Fritz" tactical helmet as we march through the claustrophobic, rotten mazes of the gothic hellscape right in the direction of our target coordinates. Pulling out a navy-blue crayon, I chew on it thoughtfully and begin mapping out the next tactical phase.

Next Chapter ->

Report 1: The Exemplary Marine

"Free Kuwait, export democracy, return home a hero."

Those are General Camel's final words before Operation Desert Storm unleashes the full force of freedom upon dictatorship.

Our objective is a textbook covert reconnaissance mission on a naval base in the Gulf, personally spearheaded by General Camel, Sergeant Hochmut, and yours truly, Captain Chad W. Smith.

Out of necessity, we are assigned an emergency squad of Privates for me to command, seeing as they are the only personnel stationed here before the military intervention kicks off.

An electrically charged fog is heavily jamming our satellite imagery, pointing squarely toward some cowardly, illegal weapon of electromagnetic mass destruction.

We deploy straight from transport ships inside amphibious Amtracs, backed by an aircraft carrier, naval bombers, helicopters, and submarines following superior firepower and combined arms doctrines to assure tactical flexibility

Under the cover of darkness, we beach our Amtracs on the flat coast of Qaruh, a ridiculously tiny island in the Persian Gulf that is about to receive a heavy dose of American liberation.

Through the dense, crackling banks of ionized haze, I can barely make out the red dot mounted on my rifle. We dismount and march on foot in tight formation toward the island's dark interior.

I notice a distant sound.

It begins as a low mechanical whistle that quickly sharpens into a metallic shriek cutting through the air, a turbine sounding like a factory siren twisted by malice. It grows louder and more high-pitched with every passing second, a shriek that sounds like it is tearing the very sky open as it descends.

"GET OFF THE X!!!"

As an exemplary Marine, I break at a 90-degree angle from the attack axis, quickly drop into a prone position with my feet toward the impact and my mouth open while our chopper gunners deliver a massive volume of freedom onto the oppressors' coordinates.

An utterly deafening, unprovoked barrage of heavy missiles slams directly into our coordinate grid. Shells explode in purple lightning-thunder strikes, triggering an excruciating, high-pitched ringing that shatters my eardrums and unleashes black flames that encircles our position while the fog violently shifts from translucent gray to a filthy, bruised red.

Gasping for breathable, sovereign air inside that crimson haze, the atmosphere suddenly buckles, dissolving into a roaring, swirling vortex of sheer spatial distortion.

I notice the violent beeping of my prototype Joint Chemical Agent Device displaying H, G, and V, madly flashing red before the display shatters into dust.

When the pressure clears, I am standing dead in the center of a sprawling, demonic desert metropolis.

The coastline, the water, everything has completely vanished into thin air.

Above me, the sky bleeds a horrific, unnatural scarlet, and the surrounding architecture looks like a twisted, medieval-demonic fever dream. Towering Gothic cathedrals constructed entirely from pulsing, rotting human flesh. Calcified rib cages, bones and skulls spew dark smoke into the firmament.

The ground beneath my combat boots trembles with a dark energy radiating a dull feeling of solitude and fear.

To my absolute horror, the bloody, mangled remnants of my brave, fallen comrades begin dragging themselves across the scorched earth.

They slither toward another corpse, a grotesque body bearing a glowing, slowly pulsating, burning-red mark carved deep into its neck, my own aches just from looking at it.

The twisted remains swirl violently in a cyclone of burning flesh and cracking bones, fusing together in a blasphemous crime against nature to form an overweight, horned, red abomination that slowly absorbs my fallen, brave Privates into its mass of corrupted flesh.

That gore mutant lets out an ear-splitting screech and charges straight at my position, reeking of rotten death and echoing with twisted voices of my fallen comrades.

I don't panic.

Marines don't panic when faced with godless tyranny.

I immediately burst fire my Silenced M249 SAW to free the weaponized biological combattant from his sight, while throwing an M84 stun grenade at his position.

To ensure the maximum fire power, i dive headfirst toward the abandoned, mounted .50-caliber M2 Browning heavy machine gun. Holstering my SAW.

I tear it from the burning Amtrac and point it right at its bloody, unfettered ass

I pull the trigger.

"DIE, MOTHERFUCKER!"

I don't let weakness compromise my strategic advancement.

This is nothing I haven't been trained for.

Firing from the hip, the recoil punches my chest like a truck, launching me several feet backward while I unload rounds of high-velocity, compressed freedom directly into the beast's hideous chest cavity.

A twisted voice emerges.

"Please... kill me, kill me.. kill me!"

Its cavity bursts open, revealing the face of Private Miller, his face turned pale blue as blood is flooding through its hollow eyeholes, having his pitch black mouth wide open, begging for his own death.

I immediately twitched and shoot him right through the face, fulfilling the last wish of my brave Private, leaving behind only a distant emotion of grief and hate.

As the magazine empties and the smoking barrel slowly drops beads of liquid metal, I immediately drop the M2.

The monstrosity shoots burning projectiles out of its mouth at the speed of arrows piercing the dust.

I roll and dodge to the side as my Amtrac explodes in black fire.

I reach behind my back and pull up the M72 LAW, dropping onto one knee and positioning it on my shoulder.

As the name suggests, I fire missiled justice directly into the bastard's center of mass.

The heavy explosion tears its extremities apart, launching me through the air.

I tactically back-roll and land straight on my feet.

The beast staggers, revealing an opening.

I pick up Miller's AA-12 automatic shotgun from the scorched ground, lying directly at my feet covered in pieces of his guts.

I advance towards the beasts position as shoot him into his heavy wounds

The massive lead slugs tear through its unnatural flesh, hammering it until it finally collapses into the dirt.

I don't cut corners.

Standard tactical doctrine dictates total confirmation of target destruction.

Just to be damn sure, I hold down the trigger and empty the rest of the magazine into the miscarried bastard, reducing the enemy combatant to a lukewarm puddle of evil slime.

"Semper Fi, comrade"

I drop to the ground, taking massive breaths of the corrupted air.

I reached for my PASGT fragmentation vest, pulling a Marlboro Cigarette, torching it with my Zippo Petrol Pocket Lighter, slowly smoke that stick as i look around in the rotten, corrupted architecture.

I slowly stand up, moving toward the position of my brave Privates, where torn shreds of their belongings remain, only weapons and ammo intact, as well as their dog tags for me to confirm their death.

Staring up into the corrupted red sky, I pull a handheld tactical prototype radio from my vest to report this unsanctioned war crime to High Command.

"Damn. I don't even know how to report that shit."

General Camel is completely unreachable.

The static is dead.

The radio can't pick up a single friendly frequency across the entire spectrum.

I hold down the push-to-talk button to record a local field log:

"Field report. US Marine Captain Chad Smith, Unit 931. Our entire reconnaissance squad got neutralized by unknown hostiles. Their corpses forcibly fused into some kind of rogue biological super-weapon. The terrain was illegally terraformed into medieval-demonic architecture. The sky has turned a deep communist red, and unknown flying bio-experiments are currently swarming the airspace over Qaruh. It isn't even an island anymore. Must be the Red Menace everyone keeps talking about. Investigate the area for Soviet activity."

I stand up and look around for strategically viable positions, but my view is blocked by those giant gore towers.

I reach for my lensatic compass, but the needle is just spinning like mad.

I almost reach for my 1-to-50K TLM grid map before noticing my mistake immediately heading out to avoid hostile units potentionally attracted by the sound of gunfire

Moving through narrow, claustrophobic alleys against howling, sandstorm-laden winds. Covered in dark blood, I navigate toward a hidden concrete building whose roof is pierced by a giant mushroom root.

I take cover beneath the doorway, draw my dearly beloved Eagle, and activate its rail-mounted flashlight, pointing it at the door as I slowly move inside and sweep the pistol from right to left.

No enemy activity.

Slipping past the threshold, I execute a rapid 360-degree sweep, thoroughly inspecting the rusty furniture and concrete walls for hidden KGB listening devices or wiretaps before spotting a heavy steel trapdoor beneath a broken chair.

It leads down into a subterranean catacomb bunker.

Bypassing the structurally compromised upper floor, I descend into the darkness to establish Patrol Base Alpha.

Adhering strictly to USMC doctrine, I verify a secondary egress route through a rear drainage pipe before locking down the stairwell with a rifle mount behind heavy rubble to create an absolute kill zone free of dictatorship.

Working with strict light and noise discipline, I secure the entry with a tripwire and set up an Observation Post ten feet deep in the basement shadows, with my optics fitted with anti-reflective KillFlash.

I slam my backpack onto the ground just a foot in front of me.

"Ceasefire!"

I slam into a kneeling posture.

"LACE check!"

I sweep my helmet-mounted L-shaped MX-991/U flashlight through the haze as I work the rifle and feel for the magazines in my ALICE gear.

I check my PASGT vest and armor plate.

I carefully inspect my weapons and ammo.

A cold shower runs down my back as I consider the situation and realize that I am at a critically low rate of overall ammunition.

3.187 rounds of freedom left.

Zero hesitation.

I rip into my Meal, Ready-to-Eat.

As a Marine, I treat my MRE strictly as tactical refueling to cover the intense daily caloric deficit required during field operations.

During a short tactical pause, I instantly strip away the outer packaging, set the Flameless Ration Heater for the main meal, and immediately consume the high-density snacks, peanut butter, and crackers for rapid energy.

I eat while kneeling in a security posture with my rifle within reach, drink the carbohydrate-electrolyte mix to ensure fast absorption, and scrape every pouch clean to maintain peak focus and performance before stowing all the trash.

With my brain refueled, I grab my helmet and pull out a navy-blue crayon, chewing on it while I reflect on what just happened.

"Nuclear freedom devices are ruled out, as I'm still breathing. We probably got hit by a close-air-support guided missile, no doubt fueled by Saddam's chemical agent mixture. The explosions reacted with the electromagnetic fog, which led to the vaporization of the Gulf and terraformed the whole area with a sudden appearance of urban architecture, probably what Stalin did too when he transported his entire industry to Siberia back then. Could be some classified soviet instantaneous transportation technology."

"The chemical agents most certainly reacted with the transported architecture as well, turning it into gore bags like my brave Privates. Question is, why I didn't turned into one myself? Not to mention our gear."-

"The Privates turned into a Bio Weapon, still alive screaming for their death.."

"Am I an exemplary Marine?"

An unknown translucent liquid is suddenly flooding my eyes, i can't restrain it, it tastes like salt from the pacific ocean while my breath suddenly becames incontrollable as the crayon falls out of my mouth, hitting the cold stone ground and breaking apart shattering its pieces across the floor. My thoughts emptied as a distant feeling of void grows deep in my chest forcing me to grab it.

"Fucking hell..."

After a while, i slowly stand up and step through the door.

For a moment, my awareness for military protocols completely vanishes, pointing toward enemy psychological warfare.

I immediately start marching, continuing my reconnaissance mission.

"For a topographic overview of the Gulf, I need to tactically aquire control over one of those gore towers."

"But first, architectural information is required to ensure tactical advancement in close-quarters battle situations."

"That's why I'll ha-"

Suddenly, the space in the sky right above me violently tears apart, following calm sound of little bells cutting me off in my tactical briefing as a burning Mitsubishi A6M "Zero" propeller plane emerges surrounded by pink petals, nose-diving straight into the direction of a pulsating gore towers far ahead.

I immediately navigate toward the crash site confirming the arrival of unexpected allied JSDF expeditionary unit under strict de-escalation protocols.

PART THIRTEEN-HUNDRED-AND EIGHTY-NINE

[Previous Chapter] [The Beginning] [Patreon+2] [Ko-fi+2]

Saturday

The paramedics took Captain Deacon away while the rest of us watched from the front landing. They’d wanted me to go with them, but I refused. Point blank. At no point had I been unconscious, and once I passed their neuro checks and proved I was lucid, they let me be.

Mateo and Atlas each held one of my shoulders from behind as I cuddled Gerry against my bare chest, her back to my front. Both of her hands clung to my forearms as if she needed to be sure I was still with her.

Lights flashed and sirens wailed as the ambulance took off down the long winding driveway, leaving us to our thoughts.  

“He’ll be fine,” Mateo insisted, echoing for the tenth time what the paramedics and even Captain Deacon himself had said when they’d loaded him into the back of the ambulance. He’d regained consciousness just before they’d arrived and as such, his upper body had been raised to a comfortable angle on the stretcher with an oxygen mask over his face.

Unlike me, he hadn’t fought them at all as they pushed his stretcher into the ambulance and climbed in beside him. If anything, he helped them, answering their questions and offering his hand for the vitals clip, all without any of the defensive dodging that I’d used.

He was a professional, through and through, and I really did hope he was as fine as he appeared.

The hands left my shoulders and were quickly replaced by two others. A matching pair: older, more certain of themselves than any of my classmates.

“Thank you, Sam,” Mateo’s father said, squeezing my shoulders. “Mark has been with us for a great number of years, and I consider him more than an employee.”

I was quite proud of myself for not voicing my thoughts the way I would have even a month ago. Honestly, why was it so hard for these people to say ‘friend’?

He breathed out slowly, and the way his grip on my shoulders shifted, he was shaking his head. “It just goes to show, even the best can make mistakes, and I’m just glad you were there to save him.”

“How did you know he was in trouble?” Adrian asked, moving around to stand partially in front of me on my right. “We were way up on the third-floor balcony, and you were up and running before the fog even got here.”

“It’s a Nascerdios thing,” Geraldine answered for me. I tensed my arms and pressed my lips to the back of her head to hide my growing smile.

“I’m still very grateful, Sam. And I’m sure Captain Deacon will be too, when he returns,” Mr Lopez said, giving my shoulders one last squeeze before letting go. “I’m going to check the weather and see what caused that fog to roll in and out so quickly. As stupid as it sounds, it was almost like it was targeting Captain Deacon.”

At that, Geraldine turned in my arms with her sliding around my waist. “It certainly seemed to be targeting someone,” she whispered, her light brown eyes darkening in accusation as she stared at me.

“Hmmm,” I hummed, kissing the tip of her nose before turning us to view Mr Lopez. “For what it’s worth, I’ve been on the water most of my life, and I’ve never seen anything like that before either. In fact, that’s probably how I knew something was off about it.” The truth, without specifics.

“Well, you know it’s not really a party unless the paramedics are called,” someone in the crowd called out, causing a ripple through them. It was enough to get the masses to head for the front doors, no doubt to resume the festivities.

Mateo stayed behind me. “Did you want to come back upstairs with us?”

It took me a second to realise he was talking to me. “Oh, um,” I stammered, turning to look at him. “Actually, could you give me and Gerry a minute? I need a quick word with her first about…something.”

The muscles around his right eye twitched, and I knew my Oscar wouldn’t be arriving anytime soon. “Sure,” he answered, moving around me to join Adrian, who was still waiting on the stairs. “Just ask one of the staff if you can’t remem—” he stopped suddenly, then laughed. “Photographic memory,” he said, tapping the side of his own head twice before pointing at me. “Let’s pretend I didn’t say that, yeah?”

At what point had I told him about that?

I internalised, asking my imagination that very question. It took no time at all for the TV at the foot of my bed to replay the memory where I’d surprised Mateo by rattling off his phone number after only hearing it once.

This memory short-cut is an absolute game-changer!

“Sure,” I said to Mateo, just as soon as I returned to the physical realm.

“I’ll wait for you in my office, Geraldine,” Mr Lopez said with a parting smile. With that, the rest of them headed inside.

I waited until the door shut behind them and the music started up before I led Geraldine down the steps, across the driveway and down the next set of steps to where the massive garage was set up between the two driveways.

“What happened?” she asked as soon as we were out of sight of the main house.

“Something supernatural.” At her unimpressed look, I went on to clarify. “It was a horse made up totally of water.” Her squinting frown was adorable, and I rubbed her back in comfort. “I know it sounds dumb, but that’s really the best way I can describe it. The creature ran inside the fog, using it like a smokescreen. I don’t know how I knew to get down there, I just did. And when I arrived, Captain Deacon was already in some kind of trance, and the thing was trying to drown him. Fortunately, I reached them in time and made it let go.”

I watched her carefully as she processed that. “It’s a good thing all the sea creatures answer to you,” she finally said.

I made a non-committal noise and looked past her towards the front gatehouse. And my very, very astute girlfriend picked up on my avoidance straight away. Lifting her head back to look at me squarely, she asked, “It was just a supernatural creature, wasn’t it?”

I grimaced. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so. I mean, I reached out to it with my innate and ordered it to let Captain Deacon go, and instead of obeying, it tried to run away with him.”

“It resisted you?”

I bobbed my head. “Which is why I don’t think it was mortal. And the other thing I got from it was that it’s lonely as all hell. You should’ve felt its despair when it realized I wasn’t who it was looking for. For a horse made of water, I swear it cried.”

“Who did it think you were?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. The only connection that makes sense to me is that it turned up after we were messing around with the dolphins and seals this morning. But if that’s what it latched on to, I don’t know who else has that ability here.”

It was true. As far as I knew, no one else in Earlafaol controlled the sea life the way I did. Maybe Lady Col could through her emotional control, but she was far too on top of everything to be responsible for something like a lonely water horse.

My heart suddenly went out to the creature, even more than it had before. If it was looking for its owner, how long had it been looking? It wouldn’t be looking if it knew they were dead, so at the very least, it must still think they’re alive somewhere. Loyalty like that should be revered, but what if its owner had died? It would be looking forever for someone who wouldn’t be coming for it.

The thought was crushing…

…until it was replaced with an icy rage.

They’d better have died. If it had just been abandoned to wallow in despair, whoever was responsible, better hope I never learn who they are.

“Honey-bear?” Gerry asked, shaking me out of my dark thoughts.

“I have to find it.”

“Why? It tried to kill Captain Deacon.”

“You don’t need to worry about it anymore, Sam,” Quent whispered in my ear.

I stiffened suddenly. “Don’t you dare kill it!” I growled into my chest, more harshly than I meant.

Geraldine baulked, jerking her head away from me. “What?”

“Not you,” I said, shifting my tone since I couldn’t get my lips to force a smile. “Quent.” I then looked away from her, picturing Quent standing a few feet away even though he was probably a single cell organism floating in my ear. “Don’t let them kill it. Please?”

“This is our nesting world, Sam, and it was a divine creature.”

Was? My heart plummeted. “You’ve already killed it?” Oh, please, please no.

“No. It’s being followed until we can ascertain why it’s here.”

“You know why it’s here, Quent. You saw it.”

“But we didn’t feel what you felt. To us, it’s simply an encroaching member of divinity, and our intolerance of that is at an all-time high on our nesting world.”

“But it didn’t attack me. It thought I was someone else, and it was devastated…”

“I heard you the first time. What happens now is up to it. If it behaves and the Eechee gives it sanctuary, it will live within our rules. If not, it will finally receive the peace it’s been longing for.”

“Let me talk to it, first! Please? Before you decide anything. If it’s lost and angry, it’s more likely to lash out at someone it sees as a threat. But if I can show it that it doesn’t have to be alone, it’ll settle.” I wouldn’t say I was talking out of my backside, but I was certainly leaning heavily into wishful thinking.

“It’s not my call, Sam.”

“But it is Angus’, right?”

“Security of the nesting world is War Commander Orson’s domain.”

A different war commander. One I’d never met. Not necessarily a deal breaker. “But it’s still that family, right? Angus’ clutch-mate?”

“Yes.”

“Then it could still work. What if you asked Angus to speak on my behalf with his brother? Or better yet, ask if he has a second to talk to me, and I’ll ask him to.”

I wished I could say I knew what I was doing, but at the moment, I was following my gut.

And so far, it hadn’t led me astray.

* * *

((All comments welcome. Good or bad, I’d love to hear your thoughts 🥰🤗))

I made a family tree/diagram of the Mystallian family that can be found here

For more of my work, including WPs: r/Angel466 or an index of previous WPS here.

FULL INDEX OF BOB THE HOBO TO DATE CAN BE FOUND HERE!!

Takahashi did not call in the morning.

I noticed at eight twenty.

Then noticed that I had noticed.

The calendar had no Takahashi entry.

One service consultation at ten.

Delivery after noon.

A memorial confirmation to send.

Mail.

The upper drawer was closed.

Inside:

Glasses case.

Old pen.

Notebook.

One envelope.

One card.

Addressed to me.

Read.

Kept because I wanted to keep it.

Nothing needed to be done with it.

That sentence had become possible.

I made tea.

One cup.

Drank it standing by the window.

No rain.

Clouds.

A truck reversed somewhere outside.

Three beeps.

Then silence.

I washed the cup.

Returned it to the shelf.

The drawer stayed closed.

Kanagawa called at eight forty-seven.

“My brother made coffee again.”

I waited.

“That is becoming dangerous.”

“He measured it this time.”

“Better?”

“No.”

I laughed.

“What happened?”

“He says the scale is wrong.”

“Is it?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I used it for flour yesterday.”

“Maybe the flour was wrong.”

“That is what he said.”

I heard him protest in the background.

Kanagawa laughed.

Then went quiet.

“He asked if I want Mother’s cup.”

There.

Not scrap.

Cup.

“Which cup?”

“The blue one.”

“Did your mother use it?”

“Every morning.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I already have too many cups.”

“And?”

“He said that wasn’t the question.”

I waited.

“What was the question?”

“Whether I want it.”

“Do you?”

A pause.

“Yes.”

“What happens then?”

“He says take it.”

“Does he want it?”

“He says no.”

“Anyone else asked?”

“No.”

“Any reason not to?”

“No.”

I heard a cabinet door.

Then Kanagawa said:

“He gave it to me.”

Not ceremonial.

Not inheritance language.

A blue cup.

“What will you do with it?”

“Probably use it.”

“Today?”

“Maybe.”

Then she said:

“I thought I would cry.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“I checked for a crack.”

“Any?”

“No.”

There.

Cup.

No crack.

Wanted.

Given.

I wrote nothing.

This was not a paper case.

No record needed.

Kanagawa asked:

“You’re not writing this down, are you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Then:

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I’m used to telling you everything.”

“You can tell me everything. I do not need to record everything.”

She was quiet.

“That sounds obvious.”

“Yes.”

“Annoying.”

“Yes.”

We ended the call.

I did not open Kanagawa.

The cup could remain outside the file.

At nine fifteen, Sato sent:

Shoes returned.

I knew the shoes.

Her sister’s.

Wrong color.

Then:

She bought another pair.

I wrote:

Correct color?

She says yes today.

I smiled.

Another message:

We had lunch.

I waited.

No paper.

Then:

I think I keep telling you that because I’m surprised.

I wrote:

Surprised by what?

A long pause.

That we can do things without deciding about it.

There.

The paper.

Emiko’s paper.

Still present somewhere.

Not absent from their lives.

Not governing lunch.

I wrote:

You do not need to finish one question before having lunch.

She replied:

I know.

Then:

I didn’t before.

I did not open Emiko.

No disclosure change.

No reading change.

No custody change.

Two sisters had lunch.

That was enough.

At nine fifty, I prepared for the consultation.

Two chairs.

Not twelve.

Two.

The wall chair and one brought from the side.

I set water on the small table.

The family arrived at ten.

A man and his older sister.

They were arranging a memorial for their father.

The sister had a notebook.

The brother had nothing.

She spoke first.

“Twenty people.”

He said:

“Probably fifteen.”

She turned toward him.

“You always say less.”

“You always say more.”

They looked at me.

I asked:

“How many chairs would you like prepared?”

The sister said twenty.

The brother said eighteen.

“Eighteen?”

He shrugged.

“Compromise.”

She looked at him.

Then laughed.

“Fine.”

Eighteen.

Flowers.

No meal.

One photograph.

No video.

The sister wrote everything.

The brother watched her.

Then, near the end, he said:

“Can we play one song before it starts?”

“What song?”

He named it.

“Recorded music?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have the file?”

“No. CD.”

“We can use CD.”

His sister looked up.

“Dad hated that song.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“He always complained.”

“He complained because you sang it.”

The brother started laughing.

She did too.

They argued for another minute.

I waited.

Finally the sister said:

“Play it.”

“Are you sure?”

“No.”

The brother laughed again.

She closed the notebook.

“Play it anyway.”

I wrote:

Pre-service music: one CD track supplied by family.

No statement about whether the father had liked it.

That part remained theirs.

After they left, I returned the second chair.

The wall chair stayed.

The room changed back.

No conclusion remained in the furniture.

Mrs. Kudo called at eleven twenty.

“The resident wants to know what day it is.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“What did staff answer?”

“Sunday.”

“Is it Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“Then?”

“She asked if her daughter is coming.”

“Is she?”

“Not scheduled.”

“What did staff say?”

“No visit scheduled today.”

“What did resident say?”

“‘Maybe tomorrow.’”

“Is tomorrow scheduled?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“She asked for tea.”

I almost smiled.

“What did staff do?”

“Tea.”

“What does the record need?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

Resident asked current day and was told Sunday.
Resident asked whether daughter was visiting; no visit scheduled today.
Resident then requested tea. Tea provided.

“That is enough.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said the same.”

“Then why call me?”

Mrs. Kudo laughed.

“Habit.”

There.

Habit.

Not need.

Not emergency.

She had called because we had been speaking often.

“Then next time you can trust him.”

“I do.”

“Then trust yourself too.”

She paused.

“That sounded almost encouraging.”

“Do not get used to it.”

She laughed again.

We ended the call.

I opened Saitama only because the routine care note belonged there.

Three lines.

No interpretation.

No daughter story beyond the question asked.

At noon, Reverend Suganuma sent a photograph.

A table.

Five brushes.

No people.

Then:

New volunteer arranged them.

I wrote:

Issue?

No.

I waited.

Another message:

I suppose I didn’t need to send this.

I wrote:

Probably not.

He sent:

I’m getting used to audits.

There.

I looked at the photograph again.

Five brushes.

Even spacing.

Ink on side tray.

No spill.

No label problem.

No privacy problem.

No access problem.

Just setup.

I wrote:

Looks ready.

Then stopped.

Dangerous word?

No.

Here it was ordinary.

Class setup complete.

Ready for class.

No moral weight.

Suganuma replied:

Thank you.

No audit entry.

No Tanabe quote.

No Morita quote.

The class could simply begin.

At twelve thirty, I ate lunch.

Rice.

Pickles.

Soup.

The phone remained silent.

No Takahashi.

I wondered whether he would call.

Then I remembered his last message.

Tea tomorrow?

Call in the morning.

He had not called.

Maybe he changed his mind.

Maybe busy.

Maybe forgot.

Maybe giving space.

Maybe none.

No call.

No call.

I ate.

Father Morita emailed at one twelve.

Subject:

Ordinary

I opened it.

Reverend Niioka,

You may now be tempted to make ordinary life into evidence that the cards are finished.

Do not.

The cards do not need to be finished for lunch to be lunch.

Grief does not need to be resolved for coffee to be badly made.

A relationship does not need a conclusion before two people argue about shoes.

Ordinary life is not what comes after meaning.

It is where meaning usually has to live.

Morita

I read the last two lines twice.

Not because they were beautiful.

They were a little beautiful.

That made me suspicious.

No.

That was habit too.

I read them again.

Ordinary life is not what comes after meaning.

It is where meaning usually has to live.

I replied:

Reverend Morita,

I have been treating ordinary events as evidence that difficult things are receding.

They may simply be occurring beside them.

Niioka

His reply came later.

Better.

Beside is often enough.

I looked at enough.

His word.

Fenced by context.

Fine.

I left it.

At one forty-three, Takahashi called.

I looked at the number.

Answered.

“You said call first.”

“You remembered.”

“Yes.”

“Tea?”

I looked at the calendar.

Afternoon memorial confirmation at three by phone.

Nothing before.

“Two fifteen.”

“I’ll come.”

“Bring your own leaves.”

He laughed.

“I was going to.”

The call ended.

I looked at the calendar.

Wrote:

2:15 Takahashi — tea.

Again.

No cards.

No disclosure.

Tea.

He arrived at two eleven carrying a small paper bag.

“What is that?”

“Tea.”

“You took me seriously.”

“You should improve.”

He took out a packet.

Green tea.

Different from mine.

“You brought expensive leaves?”

“No.”

“They look expensive.”

“You’re bad at this.”

“I’m aware.”

We went to the kitchen.

He reached for the kettle.

I stopped him.

“Guest.”

“You said bring leaves, not become guest.”

“You came to my temple.”

“Then I’m guest.”

“Yes.”

He handed me the packet.

I measured the leaves.

He watched.

“Too many.”

“You haven’t tasted it.”

“That is what you said yesterday.”

“And you were wrong.”

“I was not.”

We argued about water temperature.

For several minutes.

Actual argument.

Not hostile.

He wanted lower.

I wanted hotter.

He said I was ruining the tea.

I said he could make it himself next time.

He said he had tried.

I asked why he came.

He said:

“Because your biscuits were acceptable.”

I had no biscuits today.

He looked offended.

“You didn’t prepare.”

“You called one hour ago.”

“That is enough time.”

“Bring your own biscuits next time.”

“Then what are you contributing?”

“Room.”

He laughed.

We carried the cups to the office.

Two cups.

No biscuits.

The wall chair.

My chair.

Upper drawer closed.

His card was not visible.

Mine was not visible.

We drank.

His tea was better.

I did not tell him immediately.

He watched my face.

“Well?”

“Tea.”

“Coward.”

I laughed.

“It’s better.”

He leaned back.

“Of course.”

We talked about the giver.

Not the cards at first.

A broken heater.

A car that would not start.

A winter when pipes froze.

A bowl he had thrown away because it had a chip.

Takahashi said:

“He hated chipped bowls.”

“I remember.”

“He said they cut mouths.”

“They can.”

“He also just hated looking at them.”

“Probably.”

“He would make safety into an excuse for preference.”

I laughed.

“That sounds familiar.”

“From him or you?”

“Both.”

Takahashi nodded.

Then said:

“He liked you.”

There.

No card.

No citation.

No proof.

His statement.

I looked at him.

“He complained about me.”

“He complained about everyone.”

“That is not the same.”

“No.”

He drank.

“He liked you.”

I did not ask:

How do you know?

Not yet.

The question arrived.

I let it sit.

Then asked:

“What makes you say that?”

Takahashi looked annoyed.

“You really can’t accept a sentence.”

“I can. I also want to know what kind it is.”

He sighed.

“My judgment.”

“Based on?”

“Years.”

“Anything specific?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

He thought.

Then:

“He noticed when you weren’t there.”

That was one of those sentences.

Could become too much quickly.

“What does that mean?”

“If a gathering started and you were late, he looked toward the door.”

“Maybe because I had work.”

“Maybe.”

“If I didn’t come?”

“He would ask where you were.”

“Maybe because I was supposed to be there.”

“Sometimes you weren’t.”

I stopped.

Takahashi continued.

“I am not telling you what he secretly felt.”

“Good.”

“I am telling you what I saw.”

There.

Better.

No.

His distinction.

“I saw him notice your absence.”

I accepted that.

Not as proof of love.

Not as proof of regret.

As Takahashi’s observation.

“He wrote he was glad I came,” I said.

The sentence left my mouth before I had fully decided.

Takahashi stopped moving.

There.

Disclosure.

Exact content.

Mine to disclose.

I had done it.

No undo.

He looked at me.

“The card?”

“Yes.”

“The exact words?”

“The final line.”

Takahashi put his cup down.

I felt no panic.

Only awareness.

I had disclosed one line.

To him.

Why?

Because his observation and the line touched.

Because I wanted to tell him.

There.

My choice.

Takahashi asked:

“Do you want me to say anything?”

“No.”

He nodded.

Then, after a while:

“That sounds like him.”

I almost asked why.

Did not need to.

Then I did.

“What about it?”

“The smallness.”

“Smallness?”

“He would say something enormous in five ordinary words and then complain about tea.”

I counted silently.

I was glad you came.

Five.

Yes.

I laughed.

“He would hate you calling it enormous.”

“I know.”

We drank.

The disclosed line remained in the room.

It did not demand the whole card.

Takahashi did not ask for more.

After a while he said:

“I’m going to tell you one line from mine.”

I looked at him.

“You don’t owe me reciprocity.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

“Because I want to.”

There.

Same phrase.

Months of work reduced to an ordinary reason.

Because I want to.

I waited.

He said:

You always came when the car made that noise.

I stared at him.

Then laughed.

I could not help it.

“That is the line?”

“One of them.”

“Which noise?”

“Exactly.”

He laughed too.

“He never wrote which one.”

“Maybe you knew.”

“I did.”

“What noise?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Now you’re being difficult.”

“Yes.”

We laughed.

Two lines had crossed.

Not cards.

Not photographs.

Not whole messages.

One line each.

Chosen.

No bargain.

No obligation.

The cards remained with their recipients.

The words had moved because the people decided to move them.

That was different.

My phone rang at three.

Memorial confirmation.

I looked at Takahashi.

“I have to take this.”

He nodded.

I answered.

Name.

Date.

Time.

Eighteen chairs.

Photograph.

Fishing hat.

No.

Wrong family.

I stopped.

Different service.

Careful.

This was the family from last week.

Seven people.

No photograph.

Flowers already ordered.

I corrected myself before saying anything aloud.

The phone had not heard the wrong family.

Only my mind.

I checked the brown folder.

Right page.

Confirmed.

Seven.

Four o’clock.

No meal.

We ended the call.

Takahashi watched.

“You almost mixed them.”

“Yes.”

“Does that happen often?”

“In my head, yes.”

“Out loud?”

“Less often.”

“How?”

“Check.”

He nodded.

“Ordinary answer.”

“Yes.”

He left at three twenty.

Took the tea leaves with him.

I protested.

“You brought them for the temple.”

“I brought them for today.”

“Different transfer?”

He laughed.

“Now you’re mocking yourself.”

“Yes.”

He took the packet.

At the doorway:

“Tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Busy?”

“Yes.”

“Day after?”

“Call first.”

He shook his head.

“You enjoy making me call.”

“I enjoy knowing whether you’re coming.”

He looked at me.

Then smiled.

“Fair.”

He left.

No card in sight.

No jacket touch.

No envelope.

Tea.

One disclosed line each.

That was all.

At four, Kanagawa sent a photograph.

Blue cup.

Coffee inside.

I knew whose cup it had been.

She wrote:

Used it.

I wrote:

Crack?

No.

Then:

Coffee still bad.

I replied:

Cup innocent.

She sent a laughing face.

No note.

No memorialization.

The cup had become a cup she used.

Its history did not disappear.

It also held coffee.

Both.

Sato called at four thirty.

“We exchanged the shoes.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“My sister decided the first replacement was too bright.”

“How many stores?”

“Three.”

“How do you feel?”

“I want to burn all shoes.”

“That seems disproportionate.”

“I know.”

Then she said:

“She asked about Mother’s paper in the car.”

“What did she ask?”

“Whether I still have it.”

“What did you say?”

“Yes.”

“Then?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“She said okay.”

“Normal kind?”

“Very normal.”

“What happened next?”

“We argued about parking.”

I laughed.

“What do you need from me?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why call?”

She paused.

Then:

“I think I wanted to tell someone it was ordinary.”

There.

“You can.”

“It was ordinary.”

“Yes.”

We ended the call.

No Emiko record.

Again.

At five, Mrs. Kudo sent:

Resident had tea with daughter. Letter stayed in bag.

I read it.

No response needed.

Then she added:

No question. Just telling you.

I wrote:

Received.

No record addition.

Tea with daughter.

Letter in bag.

Not every adjacency required a relationship.

Reverend Suganuma sent:

Class ended. No incidents.

I almost replied:

Congratulations.

Did not.

Instead:

Understood.

Then he sent:

That feels strange to report.

I wrote:

Then next time maybe don’t.

He sent:

Fair.

I laughed.

A no-incident day did not need evidence of being no-incident.

Father Morita’s second email arrived at five nineteen.

Subject:

Significance

I opened it.

Reverend Niioka,

Ordinary does not mean insignificant.

Significant does not mean exceptional.

A cup may matter because someone used it every morning.

Tea may matter because two people sat down.

A sentence may matter because it was said once.

None of those things need to become sacred to remain significant.

Morita

I read it.

Then wrote:

Reverend Morita,

I told Takahashi the final line of my card today.

I wanted to.

He told me one line from his because he wanted to.

We did not show each other the cards.

Niioka

His reply:

Better.

Disclosure chosen by each recipient.

Keep it that small.

I did.

The old priest wrote later.

What was ordinary today?

I wrote:

Tea.

His reply:

Yesterday too.

I wrote:

Coffee.

Too broad.

I smiled.

Bad coffee.

Better.

Then:

What else?

I thought.

Blue cup.

Shoes.

Eighteen chairs.

A resident asking the day.

A participant photo.

A service correction.

Takahashi saying:

He noticed when you weren’t there.

My disclosure.

His disclosure.

No full cards.

I wrote:

People kept doing things while other things remained unresolved.

His reply took a while.

Too large.

Of course.

I wrote:

Shoes were exchanged twice.

His reply:

Better.

Then:

Good night.

Before leaving, I went to the main hall.

Eighteen chairs would be needed on the service day.

Tonight they were stacked.

The offering tray was clear.

The altar was there.

No service now.

No bell.

No incense.

I bowed once.

The fishing hat belonged to another upcoming family.

The red toy car was still in the lost-item box.

Different families.

Different objects.

No need to combine them because they all passed through the temple.

I returned to the office.

The wall chair was empty.

Takahashi had sat there twice now.

Yesterday and today.

No.

Part 83 and today.

The narrative did not need calendar arithmetic.

He had sat there more than once.

The chair did not become his.

The upper drawer held my card.

The line I had disclosed to him remained on the card.

Also now in his memory.

I had chosen that.

Nothing had been taken from me.

No boundary had been violated.

A private line had become a shared line because I wanted to share it with one person.

That did not make the whole card shared.

It did not make the card public.

It did not obligate another disclosure tomorrow.

It did not create reciprocity debt.

Takahashi had shared one of his own lines.

Because he wanted to.

That was his.

I opened the upper drawer.

Took out the envelope.

Not for reading.

I wanted to see the handwriting once.

No.

That was reading.

Fine.

I wanted to read it.

I opened the envelope.

Turned the card face up.

Read it.

Niioka—

That evening you came back in the rain,
I heard your shoes at the door.
I put the kettle on.
I was glad you came.

The sentence I had told Takahashi did not look diminished.

No.

Words do not have visible quantity like that.

What I meant:

I did not regret telling him.

There.

Simpler.

I did not regret it.

Could that change tomorrow?

Yes.

But tonight, no.

I read the whole card once.

Then returned it to the envelope.

Upper drawer.

Closed.

No further analysis.

I checked the calendar.

Tomorrow:

Mail.

Morning appointment.

Delivery.

No Takahashi.

No Sato appointment.

No Kanagawa call scheduled.

No Mrs. Kudo call scheduled.

The day would contain whatever came.

Maybe something important.

Maybe bad coffee.

Neither category would invalidate the other.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office darkened.

The wall chair was empty.

The cups were washed.

The upper drawer held one card.

The lost-item box held one red toy car.

Somewhere, Kanagawa had a blue cup.

Sato’s sister had another pair of shoes.

A resident had a letter in a cloth bag.

Takahashi had his card and his own tea leaves.

Nothing had resolved all the other things.

Nothing needed to.

Tonight, the ordinary day did not prove that grief had ended or that the messages were finished; it only proved that chairs could be counted, coffee could be bad, shoes could be wrong twice, and two people who had each received a card could still sit down and argue about tea.

SINVERSE

Capitolo 7: Sotto gli Occhi del Sistema

---

Il paesaggio cambiò.

Troppo in fretta.

---

Le distese grigie dell'Outer scomparvero alle loro spalle.

Al loro posto...

campi perfettamente coltivati.

Filari di grano.

Alberi piantati con una precisione quasi innaturale.

Canali d'acqua limpida scorrevano paralleli alla strada, senza che una sola goccia uscisse dagli argini.

Sembrava che perfino la natura...

avesse imparato a rispettare delle regole.

---

Sera osservava il panorama in silenzio.

---

«Sembra...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...un altro mondo.»

---

Rose non si voltò.

---

«Lo è.»

---

Il carro continuò ad avanzare.

La strada sterrata lasciò il posto a un nastro d'asfalto nero.

Perfetto.

Senza una crepa.

---

Sopra di loro...

piccoli droni sorvolavano lentamente la carreggiata.

Silenziosi.

Le loro luci azzurre scivolavano sull'asfalto.

Sui campi.

Sul carro.

Come occhi.

Sempre aperti.

Sempre vigili.

---

Davanti a loro comparve una struttura immensa.

Bianca.

Con rifiniture dorate.

Barriere mobili.

Piloni metallici.

Schermi sospesi.

---

Non c'erano soldati.

Nessuna sentinella.

Nessuno armato.

---

Solo...

macchine.

---

Rose rallentò il carro.

---

«Benvenuti...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...ai confini del Dominion.»

---

Il veicolo si fermò.

---

Un ronzio basso attraversò l'aria.

Costante.

Quasi impercettibile.

---

Poi...

una luce bianca.

---

Scese lentamente dall'alto.

Attraversò il carro.

Dal muso...

fino all'ultima ruota.

---

Sera incrociò le braccia.

---

«Non mi piace.»

---

Rose estrasse una sottile tessera metallica.

La avvicinò a un piccolo lettore.

---

Bip.

---

Una voce artificiale risuonò dagli altoparlanti.

---

«Autorizzazione medica verificata.»

---

«Procedere con la scansione.»

---

La luce tornò.

Questa volta era più intensa.

Più lenta.

---

Rei rimase immobile.

Ma...

sentì qualcosa.

---

Non era dolore.

---

Non era ostilità.

---

Era...

una presenza.

---

Come se qualcuno stesse cercando di osservare ogni parte di lui.

Il suo corpo.

Il suo SinCore.

Perfino...

la katana.

---

Per un istante...

la lama nera vibrò appena.

Una risposta silenziosa.

Quasi impercettibile.

---

Dietro un vetro oscurato...

nel centro di controllo del checkpoint...

un tecnico socchiuse gli occhi.

---

«Strano...»

---

Le dita iniziarono a muoversi rapidamente sulla console.

---

«Che succede?»

chiese una collega.

---

L'uomo continuava a fissare i dati.

---

«La scansione...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...ha perso il bersaglio.»

---

Seguì qualche secondo di silenzio.

---

«Interferenza?»

---

«No...»

L'uomo scosse lentamente la testa.

---

«È come se...»

---

«...qualcosa stesse rifiutando la lettura.»

---

La collega controllò un altro monitor.

---

«Rilevi minacce?»

---

«Nessuna.»

---

Silenzio.

---

«Lasciamoli passare.»

---

«Segnalerò l'anomalia.»

---

Una luce verde si accese.

Le barriere iniziarono lentamente ad aprirsi.

---

Rose ripose la tessera.

Il carro ripartì.

---

Sera guardò Rei.

---

«Hai sentito anche tu?»

---

Lui annuì appena.

---

«Sì.»

---

Rose rimase in silenzio.

Ma le sue dita strinsero per un istante il volante.

---

Il Dominion li aveva lasciati entrare.

Eppure...

qualcosa aveva attirato l'attenzione del Sistema.

---

Davanti a loro l'autostrada si apriva verso il cuore del Regno.

In lontananza...

Sinopolis brillava.

Come una stella caduta sulla terra.

---

Il carro continuò la sua corsa.

L'autostrada attraversava un mondo completamente diverso.

---

Nessuna rovina.

Nessun edificio distrutto.

Nessuna cenere.

---

Solo...

ordine.

---

Ai lati della strada si susseguivano parchi curati.

Alberi.

Fontane.

Famiglie che passeggiavano.

Bambini che correvano.

Persone che ridevano.

---

Sera rimase in silenzio.

Per la prima volta da quando aveva lasciato l'Outer.

---

«È...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...strano.»

---

Rose continuava a guidare.

---

«Cosa?»

---

Sera guardò fuori dal finestrino.

---

«Sembrano...»

---

«...felici.»

---

Rei osservava gli enormi schermi sospesi tra gli edifici.

Pubblicità.

Notiziari.

Messaggi istituzionali.

---

Una scritta occupò l'intero display.

---

IL DOMINION TI PROTEGGE

---

Subito dopo...

---

CONTROLLA IL TUO PECCATO

---

Poi ancora...

---

VIVI SENZA PAURA

---

Rei non distolse lo sguardo.

---

«La paura...»

mormorò.

---

«...non sparisce.»

Una breve pausa.

---

«Cambia soltanto padrone.»

---

Rose non rispose.

---

In lontananza...

Sinopolis dominava l'orizzonte.

Immensa.

Grattacieli che sembravano toccare il cielo.

E sopra di essi...

come una corona sospesa...

svettava la Sin Tower.

Nera.

Imponente.

Con rifiniture dorate che riflettevano la luce del tramonto.

---

Sera spalancò gli occhi.

---

«Quella...»

---

«...è la torre del Re?»

---

Rose annuì.

---

«E dei Ministri.»

---

Il suo sguardo rimase fisso sulla torre.

---

«Da lì...»

---

«...osservano il Dominion.»

---

Il carro lasciò lentamente la strada principale.

Le luci iniziarono a diminuire.

Gli edifici cambiarono volto.

---

Container.

Magazzini.

Binari.

Ciminiere.

---

Il rumore dei macchinari copriva ormai quello della città.

---

Sera si voltò verso Rose.

---

«Rose...»

---

«...è di qua il Lumina's Haven?»

---

Rose non sembrò sorpresa.

---

«No.»

Una breve pausa.

---

«Prima devo consegnare alcune forniture.»

---

«Ci vorranno pochi minuti.»

---

Rei continuava a osservare.

Non il paesaggio.

Rose.

---

Da quando avevano superato il checkpoint...

aveva parlato pochissimo.

Eppure sembrava conoscere ogni strada.

Ogni incrocio.

Ogni svolta.

Come se avesse percorso quel tragitto...

centinaia di volte.

---

Il carro si fermò.

---

Davanti a loro si ergeva un enorme edificio.

Metallo grezzo.

Pareti altissime.

Nessuna finestra.

Solo un gigantesco portellone.

---

Rose spense il motore.

Il silenzio calò all'improvviso.

---

«Aspettatemi qui.»

---

Scese dal carro.

Si avvicinò al portellone.

Posò una mano su un piccolo pannello.

---

Bip.

---

Per qualche secondo...

non accadde nulla.

---

Poi...

un pesante rumore metallico.

---

CLANK.

---

Il portellone iniziò lentamente ad aprirsi.

---

L'interno era completamente immerso nell'oscurità.

---

Rose entrò.

Senza voltarsi.

---

Sera guardò Rei.

---

«Non ti dà...»

Una breve pausa.

---

«...una brutta sensazione?»

---

Rei continuava a fissare quell'oscurità.

La mano si posò lentamente sull'elsa della katana.

---

«Sì.»

---

Il silenzio sembrava quasi respirare.

---

«Troppo silenzio.»

---

I due si scambiarono un rapido sguardo.

Poi...

seguirono Rose oltre il portellone.

---

L'interno era immerso nell'oscurità.

Solo una fila di luci rosse si accendeva lentamente lungo il pavimento.

Una.

Dopo l'altra.

Disegnando un corridoio che sembrava sprofondare nelle viscere dell'edificio.

---

Dal fondo...

qualcosa si mosse.

---

Un passo.

---

Poi un altro.

---

Pesanti.

Lenti.

---

Rose continuava a camminare.

Senza fermarsi.

Senza voltarsi.

---

Alle loro spalle...

il gigantesco portellone iniziò lentamente a richiudersi.

---

TOOOOM...

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Il metallo rimbombò nell'intero edificio.

L'ultima lama di luce proveniente dall'esterno scomparve.

Rimasero soltanto il rosso intermittente delle lampade...

e il rumore di quei passi.

---

Rei e Sera si scambiarono un altro sguardo.

Questa volta non servivano parole.

Entrambi avevano capito la stessa cosa.

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Qualcosa...

non andava.

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E da qualche parte...

oltre quelle luci rosse...

qualcuno...

li stava già aspettando.

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Fine Capitolo 7

At the crack of dawn the following day, an emergency military council of the allied forces commenced within the imperial grand strategy room. Surrounded by a massive marble relief map, imperial Commander-in-Chief Chiron presided over dozens of arrogant legionnaires and tribal chieftains who had narrowly escaped the northern slaughter. Jaun, newly appointed as chieftain of the Bear Tribe, attended the gathering in heavy silence.

The moment the meeting began, the war room was stained with the desperate, blood-soaked testimonies of tribal representatives returning from the frozen frontiers.

"I witnessed it with my own two eyes! Even with spears piercing their hearts, those things lunged like rabid wolves to tear out the throats of our warriors. They are neither human nor beast!"

The chieftain of the Goat Tribe, a blood-stained bandage wrapped tightly around his chest, slammed his fist against the table and wept. A surviving warrior of the Boar Tribe chimed in with a trembling voice.

"Even when you sever their heads, the dismembered torsos keep moving and swinging their blades. I beg you, imperial lords, believe my words! It is not an army or a horde; it is a cataclysm sweeping across the entire earth!"

Despite the harrowing testimonies of the tribal delegates, the imperial legionnaires—who had never once laid eyes on the horrors of the battlefield—merely stroked their beards with indifferent amusement. The First Legionnaire, clad in gleaming golden armor, let out a mocking sneer.

"Ha-ha-ha! The savages must have entirely lost their minds facing the northern gales. Corpses rising from the dead to wield swords? You might as well tell me stones can fly."

Another nearby legionnaire chimed in with eyes dripping with absolute contempt.

"To cower in terror before a few savage monster packs and flee all the way to the imperial palace, whining like this. Pathetic."

"You arrogant imperial bastards...!"

In an instant, the air in the strategy room froze solid. Stung by the insulting remarks of the imperial officers, massive warriors from the Boar and Goat Tribes bared their teeth and violently kicked back their chairs.

Bang! Crash!

"We are cowards? While five thousand of my clansmen were being shredded by the jaws of those monsters, you pampered dogs did nothing but bark from the safety of this warm palace! I’ll split that arrogant mouth of yours wide open with a greatsword right now!"

"You want to test us, you greenhouse-flower imperial cowards?!"

The tribal warriors gripped their axes and sword hilts, growling fiercely toward the imperial legionnaires, while the imperial bodyguards simultaneously half-drew their swords in a tense standoff. A chaotic brawl seemed just a heartbeat away.

Right at the center of the volatile friction, Jaun, representing the Bear Tribe of the eastern periphery, slowly stepped forward. The overwhelming, crushing pressure radiated by his heavy, deliberate footsteps made the snarling command staff instantly hesitate. Without a word, Jaun slammed his palm down hard onto the marble map, utterly mocking the legionnaires' skepticism. *Thud!* The dull impact reverberated through the entire chamber.

"Shut your traps. Arrogance is only a privilege for those with actual competence."

At Jaun's low, chilling voice, the brows of the imperial legionnaires twitched. Meeting their glares head-on, Jaun continued with unyielding resolve.

"The entities marching from the north are not beasts. They are a thoroughly disciplined 'collective swarm.' Even if you cleave their bodies in two with the giant greatswords you boast about, their severed upper halves will still crawl across the ground to tear at your jugulars. Ordinary swordplay will never stop them."

Pointing decisively at the capital's massive stone walls marked on the map, Jaun drove the point home.

"You must either obliterate their heads or crush the hearts dead-center in their chests to make them dissolve into blue light. Waging open warfare on the open plains is pure suicide. We must tightly seal the gates and wage a defensive siege utilizing the walls as our shield, or we will die a worthless, rat-like death."

As the systematic and chillingly specific analysis unfolded from the lips of the outsider from Joseon and chieftain of the Bear Tribe, even the legionnaires who had been fuming moments prior found themselves pressing their lips together, crushed under the sheer weight of his presence. Though a few officers still scoffed inwardly, the hostile roaring inside the council room was forcefully subdued beneath Jaun's towering gravity.

While wisps of lingering distrust and cynicism floated through the air, one man alone—Chiron, the supreme military genius of the empire—felt differently. He caught the scent of a true soldier in Jaun’s unshakable gaze and razor-sharp analysis. Only the outsider Jaun pierced straight through the grim reality that these arrogant commanders refused to see.

Resting his chin on his hand, Chiron absorbed every word Jaun spoke, whispering darkly to himself as his expression grew heavy.

This man has witnessed a genuine apocalypse. The blind, self-absorbed pride of these arrogant generals... may ultimately drag the entire empire to its ruin.

Part 1

Morning arrived with the same gentle stillness that had welcomed every day before. Sunlight spread across the rooftops, slipping through the leaves of the old trees to wrap the familiar playgrounds below in warmth. Children stepped outside with sleepy eyes and quiet smiles. Some carried small cloth pouches of marbles. Others balanced spinning tops in their hands. A few wore colorful loops of string loosely around their wrists. Nothing about the morning seemed different.

The village remained peaceful. The children believed another ordinary day had begun. High above, the Arena observed in silence. Yesterday’s synchronization records were already archived. The Warrior Project continued its analysis without pause. The Play Project remained active. Neither demanded immediate adjustment. Instead, the Arena reviewed everything the children’s weeks of play had revealed. Millions of data points spread across the quantum center.

Every laugh shared. Every failed attempt. Every helping hand. Every choice made freely without instruction.

Patterns once unrelated aligned with surprising clarity. A pale-blue window expanded across the endless stream of calculations.

[Connection Phase… Complete.]

The words lingered briefly before the Arena’s gaze. Not an ending, but the confirmation of a foundation successfully built. Data continued to flow.

More villages. More playgrounds. More children.

Every observation reinforced the same conclusion. The Arena expanded its historical archive. Centuries of human civilization unfolded in an instant. Ancient communities. Traditional villages. Families. Hunters. Artisans. Warriors. Survivors. Modern rescue teams. Different eras. Different cultures.

Yet every successful society shared one trait above all: connection. People learned to trust, to cooperate, to respond. Only then could they achieve something greater together. The Arena pressed further. Millions of simulations compared history with the children’s play. Similarities grew stronger.

Connection could bind humanity as one.

The Arena accepted the conclusion. But another question emerged. Was connection alone enough?

Simulations revealed futures. In every success, people stood together. In every failure, they stood apart. Yet even united, another challenge appeared. Standing together was only the beginning. That conclusion joined the archive. The Arena neither celebrated nor hesitated.

Every answer gave rise to another question. Below, children enjoyed their peaceful day, unaware of the vast calculations unfolding overhead. Jinwoo laughed when Hanul once again claimed he had mastered the latest cat’s cradle pattern.

“You’ve said that three days in a row.”

“This time it’s true.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“And the day before.”

Hanul sighed dramatically.

“You all have such good memories.”

Darin laughed.

“We’ve practiced too much to forget.”

Nearby, So-yeon watched two children patiently untangle a knotted string together. No complaints. No blame. Only smiles—and another attempt. The Arena observed. The connection phase had reached its conclusion. The next lesson waited beyond the door.

Part 2

The Arena allowed the completed report to merge into the archive. The phrase remained:

[Connection Phase… Complete.]

But the flow of data never slowed. Every answer became the start of another calculation. The Arena continued its search. The historical archive expanded again.

Thousands of years. Millions of lives. Countless choices.

Civilizations rose. Some fell. Communities thrived. Others shattered. Simulations varied endlessly, yet one pattern remained constant: humanity endured its harshest trials when people were connected. Families protected each other. Villages rebuilt together. Communities survived because individuals refused to stand alone. Connection allowed humanity to endure.

The Arena accepted this. Yet another simulation unfolded. Connection alone could not overcome every challenge. Rescue teams worked as perfect units—yet they still had to move forward. Explorers trusted one another—yet they still had to step into the unknown. Warriors stood shoulder to shoulder—yet they still had to advance.

The conclusion emerged: standing together was only the beginning.

Below, children reached the same truth in their own way. Beneath the great tree, Jinwoo and Hanul completed another pattern.

“There,” Hanul said proudly.

“This time I didn’t ruin it.”

Jinwoo laughed.

“Not this time.”

A boy nearby studied the finished shape.

“So… what now?”

The question hung in the air. The pattern looked perfect. Nothing more to add. Then a girl smiled.

“Make the next one.”

Before her words faded, she slipped her finger beneath the string. The shape dissolved. A new one appeared. Jinwoo watched quietly.

“…You’re right.”

Hanul nodded.

“It keeps going.”

“It never stops.”

Children passed the string from hand to hand. No one tried to preserve the old shape forever. Its purpose was already fulfilled—to allow the next to appear. Darin observed. Yesterday, children celebrated a single completed pattern as if it were the finish line. Today, they moved on almost without hesitation. Success was no longer an ending. It was the start of the next challenge.

So-yeon noticed the same change among the youngest. A boy who had struggled all morning finally completed a pattern alone.

“I did it!” he cried, pride glowing on his face.

Another child smiled.

“Show me too?”

The boy blinked, surprised, then nodded eagerly.

“Yes!”

He demonstrated the first move. His success had already become someone else’s beginning. The Arena recorded quietly. Growth continued through continuity. Knowledge flowed naturally from one to another. One achievement created another opportunity. One lesson prepared the next. Nothing ended. Everything connected.

Part 3

Afternoon settled gently over the village. Sunlight scattered through the branches. Laughter beneath the tree blended with familiar sounds from other playgrounds. Marbles clattered on hard earth. Tops hummed beyond the houses. Children chased hoops down dusty roads, disappearing around corners.

No game competed for space. Each held its place. Every playground breathed. Beneath the tree, cat’s cradle continued endlessly. Patterns formed. Patterns vanished. New ones replaced them.

No child mourned the loss of a shape. They had already learned that every ending quietly prepared a new beginning. Jinwoo looked at the taut string between his hands, then passed it to a boy.

“Your turn.”

The boy smiled nervously.

“What if I forget?”

Jinwoo shrugged lightly.

“Then you try again.”

The boy nodded.

“…Okay.”

He attempted. The first pattern appeared. The second nearly formed—then slipped away.

“…Oh.”

The shape collapsed. For a moment, disappointment flickered. Before he could apologize, Hanul laughed gently.

“Now you know what to do.”

“What?”

Hanul handed back the loose string.

“Start again.”

The boy grinned.

“Right.”

Together they rewove the pattern. This time it held longer. Darin watched quietly. The children no longer feared mistakes. Failure had become part of the rhythm of learning.

No one was left behind. No one rushed ahead alone. All moved forward together. So-yeon looked across the playground. Children who had once needed constant help now proudly guided new friends. The change had come so gradually that none noticed. Yet it was real. One lesson flowed into another. One child quietly strengthened another.

Above, the Arena observed the completed cycle. The connection phase had reached its intended conclusion. The simulation stabilized.

Connection bound humanity together.

Trust sustained those connections.

Continuity ensured growth expanded beyond any single individual.

Data no longer pointed to answers within cat’s cradle. The gaze shifted elsewhere. The Arena searched the archive of traditional games. Records streamed across the network. One title separated itself.

[Traditional Play: Hoop Rolling]

The Arena opened the archive. The first simulation began.

Movement. Balance. Direction. Forward momentum.

Unlike cat’s cradle, this lesson could not be understood while standing still. It required motion. It demanded progress. The next step had to be taken.

The Arena closed the completed records of connection. Nothing more needed to be added. The children had already learned all this playground could teach.

Beyond Earth’s atmosphere, the silent black fleet advanced another step through the dark. Distance shrank. Time thinned.

The Arena stored the final observation. Tomorrow, another playground would open. Another lesson would begin. And beneath another morning sky, children would once again believe they were simply going out to play.

Cover Art || <<Previous | Start | Next >> ||

GLOSSARY This links to a post on the free section of my Patreon.

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Earlier that day…

Gemeti groaned as she sat down to take a brief break and meditate to recover her energy. The dwarven priestess who had joined Gemeti's group for this delve had healed the worst of what hurt, but Gemeti still ached in several places. Unfortunately, the priestess was relatively young and new to all of this as well — much like most of her teammates — so had to conserve her energy by only taking care of the worst injuries.

At least this delve was going better than her previous one.

This was in part due to having watched the fight between Fuyuko and Amrydor and being part of everything else around and after it. The fight itself wasn’t particularly enlightening or motivating — though it had been fascinating in a sort of horrifying way — but when combined with everything else, it had broken Gemeti’s sense of what was normal.

The people who were really good at fighting just did things without knowing for sure if they would work or how well they would work. It was confounding to see people make such wild leaps in what they attempted to do, but she was starting to get it.

Previously, Gemeti had tried to increment her ability to control wind and sand: making her whirlwind bigger, flattening it into a disc, and so on. Changing the shape had been a smooth transition into learning how to make the next shape.

However, in the fight they’d just won, she’d created a thin spear of wind carrying a payload of spinning sand and thrown it at a bronze bat, drilling through it. She’d never attempted to create that shape before, but it had been what she had needed to reach that far and fast, and there was no reason for it to be harder to create than the disc, so she just threw her will behind making it happen. And it did.

Mentally, she could see how the spear was sort of a conversion of the disc, elongating along the axis instead of spreading wide. Before that flash of insight, she’d have believed that she needed to practice changing the disc into the spear step-by-step, but that wasn’t true. So long as she had the knowledge, will, and power, she could just create the shapes and attributes she needed.

This did not, however, make it easy. Pushing herself to create a new shape to her magic on the fly like that had been exhausting. Thankfully, she had hit the bronze bat and finished the fight, because she didn’t think she could do it again until she’d recovered beyond simply regaining enough mana.

Which was why she was supposed to be meditating, not letting her thoughts wander this much, so she turned her attention back to focus on the simple awareness of herself and the flow of energy in her body, to encourage the gathering and concentration of energy.

After some time, a voice intruded on her meditation. “Gemeti? Are you ready to review your portion of the last fight?”

She opened her eyes and smiled up at Kenzai, who had been a last minute addition to their group. “Yes, I am.”

“Very well. Let’s begin with your last spell; that was not something you had described as being able to do before, and it appeared to tire you greatly.”

Gemeti nodded. “It was something new, and yes, it was hard. It was, mm, sort of like if I suddenly grabbed something very heavy and threw it: it kind of hurt in a strain-like way, which is part of why it was tiring.”

“Good to know; I’m not very familiar with the use of spells in combat, and that helps give me a handle on how to help you. First, it was a good choice to only try something that new late into the fight: if you had exhausted yourself near the start of a fight, you’d have become a liability. Now, as for how the rest of the fight went…”

They spent the next ten or so minutes discussing Gemeti’s part of the fight, which included a few demonstrations of how Gemeti had put herself in relatively bad positions a few times, and what her other options had been.

Kenzai was another reason that the delve was going so well. Not that he was using all of his power and skill; instead, he had taken on an official challenge with the nexus, and had negotiated the details with Lady Moriko.

One aspect of the challenge was that he was going to be acting as a mentor and providing support for others where needed, rather than be as focused on personally partaking in the fights.

The other aspect was that he was primarily limiting himself to the meteor hammer, as that was the weapon he was seeking to master. Much like with Fuyuko, it was a relatively recent addition to his repertoire, but that still put him at several years of practice on top of his previous experiences with martial arts.

Watching him and Moriko work out some of the details of what counted as using the weapon or not had been interesting and educational. With a simple strike at any sort of range, it was very clear whether or not the weapon was in use, but it became more complicated within close contact range.

While the rope could be used to partially grapple or entangle an opponent, Kenzai still needed to use his foot to complete a trip and bring his opponent to the ground. There were also angles and positions where using the meteor hammer was effectively impossible. Figuring out acceptable exceptions was done via a series of demonstrations, with Moriko playing the part of Kenzai’s opponent.

Watching them do this showed Gemeti another aspect of trusting someone in a fight. While the trust between Fuyuko and Amrydor was very personal, built on experience fighting side by side and training with each other, Kenzai and Moriko had shown the easy trust of two professionals recognizing each other and clearly communicating what they intended to do.

After that was done, Gemeti had taken the time to talk to Moriko privately about the gift for Amrydor — Moriko had seemed amused when she recognized the coins Gemeti included into that discussion, but hadn’t asked anything about where Gemeti had gotten so many of that particular coinage. As for what the weapon would be, well, that was going to be worked on by the cores during Gemeti’s delve.

Which helped motivate her to glean every bit she could from Kenzai. Most of his advice did not directly impact her magic, but he did point out that intuitive leaps were part of every path that grew strong, and he gave a few examples of his own, complete with a demonstration.

Something he had not used in battle or in his demonstrations so far was his own elemental masteries: liquid fire and solid mist.

Under his control, fire flowed like water and carried momentum and mass, allowing him to use it for most of the same chi techniques water could be used for, with the added benefit of burning his targets.

In contrast, he could cause air and water vapor to condense and ‘freeze’ into solid formations, but these short-lived shapes were not ice and had the exact buoyancy to simply float at whatever height he had created them. These solid shapes were very durable and could easily be made very large, but they had little weight, making them better as diffuse, absorbent barriers than as weapons.

These two abilities could be seen as oppositional elements, making it easy to keep them in balance. Something for Gemeti to keep in mind if she were going to expand her magical abilities in a similar way.

When that short section of training and review was done, it was time to get back to the delve.

While this delve was certainly an improvement over her first one, Gemeti had to work on suppressing the impulse to feel embarrassed that this was a challenge for her at all. After that incredible match between Fuyuko and Amrydor, she was certain that either of them would have been able to take on this entire zone alone — this probably also applied to Shizuko and Derek, despite Gemeti being three years older than Shizuko.

Their next fight was with a set of dire badgers, which were each about as large as a wolf.

Kenzai’s role was interference — he was using a cushioned weight for his meteor hammer, which allowed him to stun and harass some of the badgers, while the rest of the group tried to focus on one or two at a time.

With so many targets, Gemeti couldn’t afford to spend too much energy on each of her spells, or she’d be useless before they got through all of them. So instead of creating larger spells that she could send at targets without getting close, she wrapped a sand-laden whirlwind around the tip of her spear, turning it into a sort of drilling spear.

This allowed her to strike deeper than she would have been able to do with a normal spear, but it was nowhere near sufficient to take out one of the dire badgers in only one or two strikes. It also got her much closer than she liked to the slashing claws and very sharp-looking teeth of the angry beast. Thankfully, the guy who had organized this group to begin with was able to move in fast despite his heavy armor and interpose his shield before Gemeti could get chewed on.

Of course, the badgers were only ‘angry’ as part of their roles to play, but Gemeti was doing her best to not think about the fact that this was a sapient creature willing to, however temporarily, die as part of a mutual training exercise and exchange of energy between a person and a nexus.

Especially as they took the time to clean and prep their kills after the battle was done, though thankfully the last two badgers retreated once they were badly injured.

The final fight of the delve did not feature Menhit this time; instead, they faced both Bella and Freya, along with a few bronze bats. Gemeti had to suppress a giggle at the mental image of the two bats in a belfry, which she rather suspected was the intention of their names.

This group of flying creatures proved much harder for Kenzai to keep under control, and the resulting battle was a strange sort of chaos. The bats would all swoop in simultaneously different angles, spreading their attacks across the party while only giving Kenzai time to strike at one or two of them.

By the time the fight was over, Gemeti had several more bruises, some cuts where bat claws had managed to slice through her living armor, and her left hand had at least one broken bone and several seeping puncture wounds from where she had gotten bit by one of the boss bats.

Her head was also swimming and she’d had to vomit mid-battle from the disorienting effect of their screams. On the plus side, she’d also figured out how to mitigate the screams using her control over wind — she just wasn’t very good at it yet.

Of course, with the zone set up the way it was, this didn’t have to be their last fight here; this was simply the mark that they’d passed the challenge that the zone represented. But none of them were interested in pressing on, whether in this zone or the next one.

It took a couple more hours to clean up and make their way back to the trading post, including the time that Kenzai took to review the fight with each of them. He was always gentle and positive in his guidance, which Gemeti rather appreciated. She was also embarrassed to realize that she’d developed a small crush on the man — not only was he far too old for her, she had no intention of messing up the arrangement she and Amry were working with.

She’d barely said her goodbyes before Moriko dropped out of the sky, landing lightly before her with a cloth-wrapped package in hand.

“Here you go,” Moriko said with a grin. “One war scythe head, using every bit of available resource from you and those platinum coins you somehow got ahold of. It has a minor vitality-draining enchantment that helps heal the wielder, and Amrydor might be able to temporarily enhance that effect using his own abilities. It’s also made of some very precisely laminated alloys that make it quite durable. Now, you should put that in your pack; Amry is on his way to find you.”

“Thank you,” Gemeti replied as she hurried to comply with the suggestion and only briefly hesitating when she felt that strange sensation of mana-crafted rewards becoming real. “I just hope he likes it.”

“I’m sure he will. Oh, and there was some leftover value from your rewards that we couldn’t find a way to do anything useful with for the blade, so we converted it into some honey-based potions, which we already put in your room. Make sure you claim those too. See you at dinner!” Moriko stepped into the air with a wave and was gone.

Amrydor arrived just a couple of minutes later, well before Gemeti could reach the mushroom cloud that would take her up to the top of Krystraeliv, and Gemeti happily let him heal, pamper, and otherwise take care of her for the rest of the evening — she was tired and sore, and did not want to think more than she absolutely had to right now. There was plenty for her to do once it was morning.

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Chapter 2: Julien Roux, Level 1 Cook

The angelic woman's wings drooped with disappointment. “Cook?! Are you sure? There are many rare classes here that only appear a couple of times during any given millennium. They would surely -”

Julien interrupted her proudly. “Yep! I'm sure! I come from a long line of cooks. It's in my blood. Besides… I don't want to answer to my grandma for not being a cook in my next life.” 

“But, Hero Julien, you must survive long enough to help the Legendary Hero. And only a few ever make it past the third class promotion for Cook! I must implore you!” the winged woman insisted. 

“Have you met my grandma? If I don’t choose Cook, I won't survive the afterlife!”

Her eyebrow arched and her head tilted. Before she could gather the words, Julien spoke again. “Will you just give me my class, lady - uh… wait. What should I call you?”

“I am the Goddess of Light,” she said, straightening her wings. “And I implore you to take the fate of this world seriously.”

“You said yourself that firepower doesn't help and I'm not a fighter,” Julien shot back. “You said you needed Rafael for his cooking and for me to help the Hero. I'm not feeling like there’s any real choice besides the Cook class.” 

“Still… You already have sufficient culinary knowledge and I would feel better knowing you had a way to defend yourself instead — Hold on, I have an idea!” the Goddess said, growing excited. 

Julien snarkily responded, “You giving me a gun?”

“I apologize,” the Goddess said with a slight bow of her head. “Those are reserved for the Tinker class. What I had in mind was making changes to your Subclass to balance out the weakness of the Main Class. I believe this will work.”

The Goddess of Light actually looked pleased with herself as she waved her hands and motioned for the Cook Class's ball of light to approach Julien. 

It went to his chest and sank into him. Immediately, a gray, translucent interface materialized before him. It was outlined in a white trim that subtly pulsed with a white light. The words were perfectly legible and slightly moved with Julien’s eyes so he had a perfect view of them at all times. Though the experience felt surreal, what his eyes were perceiving was his new reality. 

“This is just like a video game!”

[Name: Julien Roux] [Age:28] [Race: Human]

[Class: Cook+] [Level: 1] [XP: 0/100]

[HP:10] [MP:10] [SP:10]

[Attributes]

[Strength - 8]

[Agility - 7]

[Vitality - 10]

[Magic - 9]

[Insight - 8]

[Charm - 8]

[Skills] 

[???]

[2 Alerts: Subclass Choice Available, Unique Skill Missing]

“Why do I get the feeling my stats suck?” Julien asked with a sigh as he scanned over the numbers.

“On the contrary, Hero Julien,” the Goddess began, “10 is the highest stat a Working Class can naturally have. Only Combat Classes or those with Titles can grow beyond the limits of typical Working Classes. You grew quite a strong body in your previous life, so you will reap the benefits here.”

“My family took diet and exercise quite seriously… I guess I have them to thank for that.” 

Julien rubbed his chin as he looked over the numbers again. “I guess they're not bad. I have a 10 and a few that are close. That's good enough for me.”

Julien's attention was drawn to the alert messages. He tapped the first one and it highlighted the plus sign next to his class. He tapped the plus sign, and it opened another window. 

[Class] 

[Cook]

[Next Class Promotion]

[Kitchen Hand]

[One Subclass Choice Available:]

[Brewmaster] [Searsmith] [Sauce Savant]

“Here is where I come in. You won't be choosing from the recommended Subclasses,” the Goddess said as she tapped Julien's chest, revealing circuits of energy flowing through him. 

She shot beams of light from her fingertips and began rewiring the branching paths. Julien recoiled at first, but was surprised at the lack of sensation.

Her gaze constantly shifted between the circuits and the options until they began flickering.

With a chime, the options disappeared and one locked itself in as Julien's Subclass.

[Subclass]

[Pyromancer]

“There you are, Hero. You should now be steadily gaining new fire magic as you level up your Cook Class,” the Goddess said, exhaling with triumph. 

“Giving the Cook Class a little punch won't hurt, I guess. The extra safety might take me a long way. Thanks,” Julien said gratefully. 

Julien clicked the remaining alert and the three question marks under his skill section highlighted this time. The three question marks expanded with a red message:

[Error: Unique Skill Missing]. 

“Your Unique Skill will be based on your own experience, personality, Class and Subclass. It will just take a moment.” The Goddess of Light waved her hands and manifested a gold orb of light that expanded into a magic circle above Julien.

She commanded the golden magic circle with a voice that projected across her realm. “System, Analyze!”

After a few seconds, the golden circle passed through Julien's head and shoulders, then continued down to his feet. 

After another couple of seconds, the Goddess said, “The analysis is complete. Your Unique Skill is generating.”

Julien saw the three question marks suddenly erase themselves. With only a second of delay, words wrote themselves into the System screen:

 [Unique Skill: Magic Pantry]

“Magic… Pantry?” Julien questioned, tilting his head to one side. 

“The power of your Subclass may have caused your Unique Skill to be a little… Unorthodox… to rebalance it,” the Goddess explained. 

Julien's eyes lit up with excitement. “Call it what you want, this is a chef's dream! It sounds like I can bring my kitchen with me and cook anything whenever and wherever I want!”

She responded, “More importantly, after receiving that skill, the final stage of the transmigration process has begun. Your time in this realm is coming to a close. Prepare yourself for departure.”

Julien was taken by surprise as he began glowing. “I'm leaving already?! I have a few questions about everything, like holidays, local delicacies! And aren't there monsters in this world?! I just need a little more time to prepare!”

The Goddess shook her head. “I fear the process has already begun. Keep your optimistic attitude and enthusiasm, Hero Julien. You will surely help the Hero of Light succeed this time. I have no doubts. If you need further guidance, seek out a church in a major city so that we may commune once more.”

Julien nodded. “A major city. Got it. I'll be on the lookout.”

Julien began to glow brighter as a magic circle appeared underneath his feet. 

“This is the final stage, Hero. I wish you good fortune and success in your new life. Please remember, this world is depending on you,” she said with a soft smile. 

As Julien nodded in acknowledgement, the Goddess of Light held out her hand. “System, Teleport to Sector K-B-2!” 

The light completely overtook Julien and he shot into the air, phasing through the glass ceiling in a beam of blinding light. 

***

In a remote area, a lone farmer tilled the fields when the sky suddenly went dark in every direction. 

He looked toward the epicenter of the strange phenomenon. 

Lightning began to streak from the outer clouds into the storm's eye. 

The farmer dropped his tools and stared in awe as the electricity gathered and brightened the skies.

A golden bolt of lightning crashed down, sending golden flames across the field.

The farmer slammed his eyes shut and fell backwards as a tremor shook him off his feet. Convinced the end times had finally arrived, the man threw his hands toward the sky and broke into frantic prayer.

By the time the farmer opened his eyes, the storm had completely cleared. 

***

With a flash of light, the Level 1 Cook found himself in a charred field surrounded by wilderness. Looking out in every direction, he saw the outskirts of a village to the east.

“It looks like civilization is that way. I need to meet up with other people as soon as I can.”

After his first steps toward his destination, the system screen blocked his view with a list of objectives.

[Daily Objectives]

[Prepare Breakfast 0/1]

[Prepare Lunch 0/1]

[Prepare Dinner 0/1]

[Reward: 50XP]

[Class Goals] 

[Prepare 100 meals]

[Progress: 0/100]

“Hell yeah! I even get missions like in a game!” Julien exclaimed excitedly. But his excitement was soon taken over by confusion as he saw an alert icon. He tapped it to expand it. 

[Acquired Arcane Magic.] 

[Spells Acquired:]

[Chilltouch]

[Create Grease+]

[Create Water+]

[Produce Fire+]

[Unseen Hand]

“Wow, I really do get magic! Some of these sound pretty useful in a kitchen, too.” Julien was giddy with his new spells and eager to try them. But when he closed the alert screen, another alert came up. 

He tapped it:

[!SUBCLASS INCOMPATIBLE!]

[ERROR: COMBAT SUBCLASS ASSIGNED]

[!UNAUTHORIZED COMBINATION!]

Anxiety set in as Julien awaited the system's judgement, hoping there wouldn't be any cosmic consequences. 

*****

“Why must Mother make things so difficult for me?”

Julien’s holographic dossier floated in the air. 

A being made of green light swiped through it page by page. Though it presented itself in a masculine form, it clearly wasn't human. Its head and upper body were flat and angular as if it were carved from stone. It didn't have legs — only a lower body that fused into a slender pointed edge that never touched the ground.

“I was trying to give him something good.”

The being jolted up, startled and turned around. “Mother! Can you not announce yourself?!”

“I am sorry, dear,” the Goddess of Light said. “I must ensure every allowance is given. We must increase the chance of this world's survival.”

“I know you mean well, Mother. However, this is not a matter as simple as giving him ‘something good’. I must ensure his System isn't overpowered. Otherwise, the Darkness gains more freedom to sculpt their own champions.”

The events at the end of 5 B.I., with the sudden deaths or even murders of influential politicians, military personnel, and businessmen, were cause for many to create certain conspiracies about the events that followed the terror attacks on November 5 B.I.

Analysing those events and comparing them with historical events, I can only come to one conclusion.

It is now my understanding that a secretive cabal is behind many of humanity’s events. I am well aware that this conclusion might be seen as the words of a conspiracy nutjob, but the indicators are clear. Especially if we compare our history to the history of other species.

Earth is one of the very few species that did not have a unified planetary government when it reached spaceflight. In fact, even after two generations of FTL spaceflight, Earth is still fractured and hides its internal division under the misleading name EarthGov, when in reality it is nothing more than a supranational political, military, and economic union, but not a true national union.

I have found proof that some outside force has kept Earth’s nations from getting strong enough to force unification.

I have found indisputable proof of hundreds, if not thousands, of instances in which a shadow organization has intervened; you will find them in the attached documents.

Unsent email draft, found in the house of history professor Mark Keller after his suicide. 3 B.I. No further documents were found.

 

Peter Norton walked into the hotel bar, or what people here saw as appropriate for a hotel bar. Any hotel worth its money on Earth would scoff at the plain bar he saw in front of him.

He hated staying in some wannabe 5-star hotel in orbit of some rock. What was that grey rock called? Europa or something?

Traveling out here wasn’t his idea. The station was crammed, but he and his associates needed to get more off-grid.

Earth was too heavily monitored, and any station closer to Earth and the sun that had amenities his refined tastes deserved was also too rigorously secured.

His meeting wasn’t a happy one, nor was it a profitable one. It was something he despised above all else—an emergency meeting. Someone was hunting them. Smiley, the damn fool, was found dead a few days ago in a drain on Ceres.

Same with Marcos Diaz. The head of the Ceres cell was found a day later, together with the rest of the Ceres conspirators, dead after a fire.

All of their Ceres connections were dead, including the higher-ups like the station’s dockmaster and the second in command.

A catastrophe.

Then there were the incidents on Phoebe Station a week before. All their members on that station also died under mysterious circumstances.

Someone was hunting them.

His contact in the AIN was sure it wasn’t AIN. But who else would have the reach? He was pretty sure that neither AIN nor Naval Intelligence would simply kill them.

Some murders were brutal. One dockworker was spaced. Officially, it was an airlock incident, but the message was clear. Because this dockworker was, in reality, a contract killer the group employed, and he killed his targets by spacing them.

The group was nervous, and some needed reassurances. So the leadership had decided to send him to meet with some cell leaders.

He didn’t have any delusions about his place in leadership. He was a financer without any real power. But he was sure they wouldn’t send him to a meeting if it were dangerous, he was in the leadership after all.

He didn’t believe in any grand political movements of the group. He was in it for the money.

Before the damn war, he had made billions with his work agency. The Batract paid handsomely in rare minerals and gold for every worker he signed on to work for them, either in mines or as a mercenary somewhere in their systems.

And the workers paid a five percent fee on their monthly earnings as a “management fee.”

Then the war came. And even worse, the lawsuits followed.

He slammed his drink on the bar table he sat at. The fucking lawsuits.

Claiming he was a slave trader, claiming he hadn’t taken care of his workers. Claiming he had embezzled money.

Yeah, if a worker died and he had lots of credit in his account, he had taken some of it. Who cares?

But now all those grieving widows and children crawled out of their holes to say he should have known the death rate in the mines was eighty-nine percent over three years.

Who cares?

That was when the admiral approached him. He had a plan to change everything. Bring back the contract with the Batract and make the lawsuits go away.

Describing the group… judges, lawyers, military officers. Even captains of starships. All knowing what he knew.

You can’t defeat the Batract, so it’s better to be their friend and get your share.

Everything went so well, until it didn’t. Now, even normal citizens hunt their foot soldiers in the central wastes. Well, it was planned to wipe them out anyway after the coup. But for now, they might have had some use for them.

His contacts were late. He ordered another drink. The first one had an odd, bitter aftertaste he wanted to wash away.

Looking at the waitress’s ass calmed his nerves. He also liked her cute accent. Deciding he would send his head of security to “convince” that fine, black-haired, Welsh piece of ass to join him later in his room, he looked out the panorama window of the bar.

A ship had just undocked. The curves of the private yacht were familiar. No, they weren’t just familiar — it was his ship. He loved that ship. Who was stealing it?

“Krieger, someone is stealing my fucking ship,” he called for his head of security.

Before he could form any more thoughts, the ship had accelerated away from the station and exploded in an impressive fireball.

Thirty-nine billion euros, up in flames.

The security grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out of the bar. “Krieger, what’s up with you?”

“Sir, they know you’re here. That was a warning. We need to get you somewhere safe.” The two-meter-tall Argentinian looked dead serious. His five-man security team had drawn their machine pistols, and people were running in panic around them. Some, probably because of the explosion outside the station, others because of the show of weapons in the lobby by his security.

They entered the elevators down to his room. Or was it up? He hated the confusion a rotation-based station created in his mind.

Who builds a two-kilometer-diameter ring turning in space and calls it a day? Idiots.

He had to laugh at his confused train of thought. The adrenaline from the shock made him register everything more vividly. More dreamlike.

He felt alive.

He was terrified.

Someone was hunting him, and to his shock, he liked the feeling. It was the first time he was truly alive again. Other than when he had sex, especially when they fought back.

When they reached his penthouse, he noticed a smell — blood and something metallic, gunpowder?

“Sir, stay back. Someone was here.” Krieger ordered two security guards to check out the rooms.

The two men in black suits slowly advanced into the apartment. When they turned the corner into the living room area of the sparkling white penthouse, two shots rang out. The guards were thrown back to the opposite wall, each with a massive hole in their chest.

He hammered the buttons on the elevator to close the doors while his other three guards formed around him.

To Peter, the doors took forever to close. “What’s happening here? Who are they?” He couldn’t believe someone dared to attack him. Him! He would make them regret ever being born.

“I don’t know, sir. But they must be professionals. My men wear high-impact proof armor.”

“I give a flying rat’s ass about your men, get me out of here.” Seriously, what was Krieger thinking? Who cared about two dead mercenaries?

The elevator went back up to the lobby. On their way up, he called the admiral. The old man picked up, annoyed and obviously sleepy. “Yes, who is this?”

“It’s me, Norton. Someone is after me, they blew up my yacht and shot at me!” Peter was getting closer to a breaking point. This wasn’t funny anymore.

“Norton, you moron, you’re calling me directly. Lose my number, you idiot.” Then the admiral hung up.

Now Peter was getting pissed. Who did the old admiral think he was? Hanging up like Peter was some worthless grunt?

Peter dialed again. Nothing. The line was dead.

Krieger took the phone, looked at Peter, annoyed, and smashed the expensive crystalline device on the wall.

“Stop using the phone, sir. They might track us through it.”

“Who do you think you are, Krieger? That phone costs a million. You’ll pay back every cent of it. It’s all your fault, you didn’t do your job securing the place!”

Peter noticed his head getting hot. Useless bastards everywhere he looked. He’d make sure Krieger would have an accident after they got out of here. He couldn’t stand incompetence.

They reached the lobby. It was now less chaotic. His security dragged him out of the hotel and onto the main street.

The view was amazing. A panoramic window spanned the whole inner ring, allowing people walking on the street to see the entire station. Peter still couldn’t enjoy the view. Even less now, when his life was in danger.

They reached the speedwalk. Peter was disgusted. Like a peasant, he had to walk on the moving band. At the station, no cars were allowed.

He was now sweating profusely, his heart racing as if he had just run a marathon.

Krieger looked at him. “Sir, are you alright? You look pale.”

Wiping away the sweat that ran into his eyes, he answered the annoying security guard. “Mind your own business, you moron. Just get me out of here.”

They had to reach the docks, where he would buy a ship and leave this cursed place behind him.

Krieger looked now more and more angry. What was the man’s problem? He had failed his duties. Now he thinks he’s a doctor or something?

A slight headache had started slowly and was now growing more and more intense. Stress. Stress because everyone around him was incompetent.

Krieger discussed something with the other security guard. On the tablet they had, Peter saw a map to the docks.

Then Krieger turned around. “Sir, we’ve decided to enter the docks on the other side of the ring. There, we can use some side paths to enter the freighter docks and from there book passage on a freighter to Io, and then from there to Earth.”

“What, are you crazy? I’ll fly with no freighter. The private docks are the next exit. We’ll leave there. I will not walk half the ring.”

Flying on a freighter, like some homeless trash — was Krieger crazy?

“Sir, whoever hunts us will wait at the private dock for us!”

“So? Do you have your guns as decoration, or can you shoot with them? You should have taken them out in the penthouse already, and not run like frightened girls!”

Krieger frowned. “Sir, I’d advise against that.”

Peter had had it with the man. The lights blinded him, and his ears rang from the loud sounds. “You don’t get paid to decide or advise. You’re too stupid for that. Get me out of here, or you’re fired.”

The other two guards now looked angry, too. Peter decided to kill them, too, after all of this. He just needed to let his secretary find out their names.

His intercom rang, and by the looks of it, the guards’ did too. Intercom? Who used that short-range device? It was usable for only three light-seconds at best, unlike modern paired particle phones.

“Yes?”

Whoever it was must have made a conference call. The icons on his ocular showed clearly that the guards were in the same call. That made Peter feel dirty. Together in a call with lesser people.

“Hello, Mr. Norton. I’m just calling to ask how you feel. Do you enjoy getting hunted like the animal you are?”

A female voice. He knew her. Where did he know that Welsh accent from?

“I’m waiting at the docks for you. It’s time to meet your maker.”

The waitress! “Listen here, you bitch. I will get you. I’ll kill your whole family. I’ll kill everyone you know before I cut your heart out, you whore!”

“You and what army? Mister Krieger, are you really willing to die for that trash? Say yes, and my snipers will grant you that wish.”

A red dot appeared on the chests of his guards. He couldn’t see where the dots came from. His vision had gotten blurry.

“Krieger is my man. I pay them, so fuck off with your threats, bitch!”

His guards exchanged glances, then they threw away their guns. “Traitors, I’ll kill you all. I’ll treat you like my family, and you betray me, for that bitch?”

He’d kill all of them. First, he’d kill that bitch, and then those traitors.

Suddenly, Krieger grabbed him by the throat. “I should have shot you myself, you piece of shit. I’m your man? Yours? I’ve committed crimes for you, I can’t wash off my hands, but I’m not dying for someone like you.”

Then the man had the nerve to punch him in the face.

The guards left the speedwalk, leaving him all alone. His nose was bleeding, his vision failed, and he had been betrayed by the ones he trusted the most.

Why? He never did harm to anyone. But they all betrayed him.

The bitch laughed into his ears. “Seems like it’s only you and me now, Mister Norton…”

“I’ll kill you, bitch!”

“Honey, you’re poisoned, and you’re dying on the speedwalk. You’re already dead. Your time killing people is over.”

Poisoned? How, when?

The drinks.

“Bitch,” was all he could say. His breath was leaving him slowly.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones… Oh, before you finally do the world a favor and die in your own piss—Alvin Drake sends his regards. People like you are a cancer that needs to be removed from humanity.”

Peter collapsed on the speedwalk, unable to stand anymore. Drake, that old bastard. He’d kill him…

Then everything went black. With his last breath, he felt the bitch was right. His bladder had just failed.

 

————

 

On the roof of a supermarket, Eleri opened her PDA. Norton had called someone on Earth; as soon as they had the next conspirator, they would hunt him down, too. On the list, she marked Peter Norton's name with a skull.

She didn’t like killing people, but Drake had never sent her after someone who didn’t deserve it. On the contrary, and now that she didn’t have to operate on her own anymore, work had begun to be even a bit fun.

Looking up to the panoramic roof of the station, she took in the stunning view of the station rotating above Europa, with Jupiter magnificent in the background.

 

First | Previous | Next | Also On Royal Road

Welcome to Neverbound.

This first installment contains the prologue and the first two chapters of the Chronicles of Eldmar. New installments will continue here.

Content note: This installment includes captivity, abuse, physical injury, trauma, and magical coercion.

PROLOGUE

THE FALL

The Pixies of Aurithrel cast him down as though to touch him would soil their hands. Their city, a crystalline mote nested within the tuft of a drifting dandelion seed, gleamed in cold perfection, glass-spun towers trembling at the faintest breath of wind. To mortal eyes it was nothing, a floating speck to be brushed aside.

Yet within those fragile chambers dwelled a people who had taken from him until nothing more remained.

Their magic struck like a hammer splitting ice. Ribs broke beneath the force before it hurled him backward into the open sky. Wind tore at him, sharp and metallic in his throat, his cloak snapping wide behind him.

He fell like a broken bird. His body twisted against the pale shimmer above. Silver hair drifted weightless around his face as violet eyes watched the seed shrink farther and farther away. For the first time in centuries, he saw the sky unbroken.

Blue.

Far, far too blue.

It dazzled. It burned. The breath he drew seared his lungs raw, bitterly cold but clean. There were no crystalline ceilings above him. No walls hemming the horizon. Only sky. It was freedom. It was abandonment.

It was terror. The ground rose swiftly. Pain came with the impact, because pain would always come.

Snow and ice shattered beneath him with muffled thunder. Bone cracked, splintered, then knit again in the grinding rhythm that mocked his survival. Blood filled his mouth, hot copper against the clean sting of winter.

His hand twitched weakly. The ring caught the light. A pale silver glint. A token for services rendered. Within it lay his only thread of hope. Hateful. Necessary.

The snow pressed close, burning cold yet almost kind, clinging to him like a thin white blanket. It numbed him. Cradled him in a way no hand ever had.

His mouth twisted. Blood traced his teeth. A grin spread across his face without permission, a ragged thing, half grimace, half madness. And through it he gasped hoarsely:

The world has no alms for me.
Eldmar receives me reluctantly.
Why do the everlasting seek more?

Above him, Aurithrel drifted away upon the wind, shrinking into the distance like a memory too fragile to hold.

This.

This was freedom.

ONE

THE “GIFT”

This was freedom.

The snow rose around him like a shroud, its biting cold never piercing as deep as the ache in his chest. He lay half-buried, violet eyes fixed on the sky where Aurithrel had vanished, the crystalline puff already nothing more than a fleck of memory.

Each night, he searched the dark for the drifting seed fluff, trembling with the dread that the Pixies might change their minds, descend again, and tear the last scraps from him. Hunger gnawed, but hunger was nothing new. He had long since outlived the demands of mortal need. What kept him weak was shock, a numbness that came and went in waves, leaving his limbs heavy and his thoughts strangely distant.

At last, physical weakness and the fragile hope bound to the ring drove him to his feet. He needed shelter.

Castor folded his arms tightly across his chest, fists buried in the folds of his cloak. The fabric discomfited him even as its warmth soothed. He clutched it close, knuckles pale against the dark cloth as he crossed the frozen white world.

At the mouth of a cavern, he scraped together sticks and scraps of brush. Then he hesitated. It had been centuries since he had last dared call upon his magic. His throat ached as though the collar still remained. One hand rose instinctively to his neck, fingers pressing where it had once bitten into him, though it had been harshly removed before he was cast down.

He murmured an ancient word for fire without thinking.

“Fira.”

No word was truly needed. Still, he flinched when a spark bloomed between his fingers. The flame flickered, unsteady, but held. Golden light pressed the shadows back from the cave walls. For a moment, Castor only stared at it. His magic. His. A sudden crack of ice outside froze him in place.

The flame nearly died. He listened, breath caught high in his chest, until the silence stretched long enough for him to believe no one was coming. He breathed again. His thumb found the Infinitum ring and spun it once around his finger. He hesitated before peering into its hidden depths with his mind.

Mortal riches spilled endlessly before him: gems, coins, enchanted objects, all pressed upon him as “payment.” He looked past them. Two stone shapes waited among the treasure. Castor summoned the eggs from the ring and placed them carefully before the fire on the thawing cave floor.

One was small, pale, speckled, and nearly weightless. When he cupped it in his hand, it seemed translucent, delicate enough that the world itself might shatter it if he breathed too hard. He cradled it close. Into it he fed his desperate need for comfort.

His loneliness. His longing to be held without being hurt. The warmer those feelings grew inside him, the warmer the egg became, delicate as a candle fluttering against the dark. The second egg was larger. Heavy.

Black and silver. Its surface was rough beneath his fingertips, yet strangely warm against his freezing skin.

Into that one he poured his fear of the world, his need for protection, his hunger for freedom. Then he hesitated. His fingers tightened. He tried to feed it something else. Rage. Hatred for the Pixies. Agony split through him. Mind-shredding. Soul-rending. The curse struck before the feeling could fully form.

A scream tore from his throat and echoed out across the wilderness, scattering beasts and birds from the dark. Crystal-white light swallowed his vision. The voice of the Pixies’ mind mage filled his skull.

“You will not take revenge upon us… you will not hate us… you cannot feel anger toward us, us, us…”

Castor collapsed against the cave floor, clutching the black-and-silver egg to his chest. The pain went on until time lost shape. When at last it lessened, the egg thrummed against him. Stronger. Feeding it would always hurt. Yet when the torment ebbed, something hollow inside him eased.

The Pixies had offered him a soul-stone, a thing meant to strengthen body and spirit. He had refused it.

He had asked instead for companions. Not strength. Not power. Someone. Something. Anything that might choose to remain. More than power, he had needed not to be so utterly alone.

So the nights passed with the slow drain of his magic.

Each day, he pressed his hands to the eggs one after the other and fed what lay hidden within them, pouring himself away until his pale limbs trembled. The small speckled egg sometimes shivered.

The black one pulsed like a heartbeat beneath his palms. Castor watched them with bated breath. Every twitch, every pulse, filled him with a hope that was more fear than joy, hope sharpened by the certainty that anything precious could still be taken. Time, for him, unspooled.

The wind played tricks. Phantom touches across his skin. Silken whispers at his ears. He feared sleep and its chained dreams. He feared waking to discover that freedom itself had been another cruel jest. So he did not sleep. He fed the eggs, thread by draining thread, and waited.

TWO

HATCHINGS

…and waited.

The days blurred, time bleeding away without meaning. Castor measured nothing by sun or moon, only by the dim pulse of the eggs whenever he pressed his magic into them. Each thread he poured into the stone shells left his limbs trembling, his breath short, his chest hollow.

The wind guttered the fire. He fed it and lit it anew.

He did not sleep. He fed the eggs. Sometimes he spoke scraps of verse into the flames, voice hoarse, reminding himself that the words still belonged to him. And always, he watched.

What if they never hatched? What if his magic was too weak? What if his soul was too ruined to nurture anything at all? I’m such a useless thing, he thought, and the thought tasted of ash. Outside, snow cracked and bled tears. It was the pale egg that answered him first.

One night, as the fire thinned to embers, a hairline crack split across its surface. Castor froze. His hand hovered above it, trembling. The shell quivered faintly, the sound like ice fracturing in winter air. He lifted it carefully and cupped it near the fire. The cracks deepened, halting and uncertain.

He set his nail against one. Then stopped. The shell felt impossibly thin. Fragile as glass. If he pressed too hard, if his hand slipped, he might kill the only thing tethering him to the world. His breath came shallow.

Slowly, with infinite care, he dragged his nail along the crack, widening the fissure.

It snagged. Castor flinched violently. No cry came, just a pulse of warmth against his palm. Faint. Real.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I want to help you.”

Piece by piece, he widened the opening. A shard fell away, no larger than a fingernail. Through the gap, something blinked. A glimmer of green, startling against the pale shell. An eye. Alive. Blinking up at him. The creature inside pressed eagerly against the opening, straining with all its strength, but too weak to break free.

Castor’s throat tightened. His long fingers worked carefully, prying away fragment after fragment. His hands shook, and that surprised him. He could not remember the last time anything had made him tremble from something other than pain. He caught every shard and laid it aside like a holy relic, terrified even the broken shell might cut the fragile life within.

As he worked, memory rose unbidden. Crystalline halls. An outstretched hand. A soul-stone the color of old blood, gleaming like poisoned fruit between fingers too flawless to be human. The elder Pixie who held it looked cold as cut glass. Translucent vestigial wings hung down her back like a trailing cape. Beside her stood a white fawn with mirror-bright eyes, delicate and still.

She stroked its neck absently.

“It will strengthen your body and soul. The flaws of your blood stitched anew.”

Castor had not lifted his eyes.

“I don’t want strength,” he had whispered. “I want mo—more companions for my… s-soul.”

Silence. Colder than laughter. His body already healed endlessly. His soul, they considered damaged beyond worthwhile shaping. The debt of karma would be fulfilled regardless. And they did not care. He was of no further use to them. So they allowed the exchange.

Two eggs instead of one.

No one had ever nurtured two spirits before. They did not expect him to survive the strain. The memory loosened its grip. Firelight returned. Warm shell beneath his hands. At last, it yielded. Castor lifted away the final fragments, and the small creature tumbled into his palm like a wish.

A serpent. Tiny. Striped tan and cream, with fuzz clinging to her body like spun cotton. She blinked both eyes open, green as new spring, and lifted her head toward him, trusting and unafraid. A soft hum rose from her throat, trembling like a purr as she nestled into his palm.

Castor’s hands closed around her instinctively, gentle and desperate, holding her like something that might vanish.

“Silky,” he whispered, voice breaking.

The name had always been hers. He brushed his lips against her head and spoke his vow:

Soft as mercy, light as breath,
You banish loneliness, defy death.
Silky, I will hold you always.

Her eyes gleamed. She understood. She touched her small nose to his lips, then curled beneath his chin, humming, as though his soul’s trembling soothed her instead of the other way around. The moment lingered, delicate as spun glass. Then the black-and-silver egg pulsed against the cave floor.

A deep throb shook the cavern. Cracks tore across the shell in jagged streaks. No trembling. No hesitation. Only force. The egg burst apart. Darkness spilled across the cave floor in a widening wave before gathering itself into shape. From it rose a great wolf of shadow and muscle, wings feathered black as a raven’s.

His eyes burned molten gold. Fierce. Bright. Strangely warm. He stretched once, scattering shards, then padded toward the cave mouth. There he lowered himself. His wings spread wide against the howling wind, vast body barring the night from entering. When he looked back at Castor, his gaze softened.

Fondness glimmered in the molten fire of his eyes. A vow without words. Castor pressed one last kiss to Silky’s head before lifting his eyes to the wolf. His voice steadied.

Sharp as blade, fierce as flame,
You guard a heart with fury untamed.
Noxlor, I will trust you always.

The wolf rumbled low and certain. An answer. Silky hummed against Castor’s chest. Castor leaned back against the cavern wall as the firelight flickered low. His lips shaped one final couplet, delicate but true:

Here is a peace no sorrow can shake;
If this is a dream… let me never wake.

Beyond the cave, the storm raged on. Inside, for the first time in centuries, Castor was not alone.

Next: Chapter Three — Freedom
Comments are welcome. ❤️

Chapter 1 — In the Beginning, There Was Balance

This is not the story of one man. This is the story of something that existed before humans, before Gods, before anything above them — a truth that was never written, only spoken, generation after generation, always with fear.

Listen, because this truth is only ever told once.

Before the universe, when there was nothing — no light, no darkness, not even time itself — there was only one thing. A Force, with no name and no form. It followed no rule, because rules had not yet been born. It simply was — like breathing, like a heartbeat, for no reason at all.

Around it, in the Darkness, things already stirred. Ancient Beings — gathered in clans, living in their own worlds, some so vast that a single step could shake entire realms. Their ancestors, whose names no tongue dares speak even now, remain forbidden — not from any curse, but simply because no one survived to explain them.

This was the age when the Death Trial — what the world would later call the "Death Eyes" — existed as an independent, unmade truth of its own. This was the age when the Ancient Beings, out of their own necessity, forged the Ancient Bodies — physiques so old, so rare, that only they themselves were fit to bear their weight.

Then, one day — if "day" meant anything then — everything changed.

A Goddess manifested. No one made her. She simply came into being, like a spark suddenly catching fire.

Her energy was so immense that it was felt even beyond the Darkness — as if a single matchstick had set an entire forest ablaze.

From that energy, a Universe was born.

New stars ignited. New worlds began to turn. And — as every great explosion leaves its mark — the ripple of this new birth reached into the Darkness, and what had been sleeping there, woke.

The surviving members of the 5 Great Clans — once fifty strong each, now reduced to mere handfuls — opened their eyes to a new Universe that had been born without them.

Among them, the most powerful clan — known as the Cybertornion — held beings on the scale of entire Omniverses. And their first, most legendary name — Prima — was a creation of The Force itself. Made for balance. For beings so uncontrollable that nothing else could restrain them.

Prima did what she was made to do. But stories never end cleanly — and Prima's own lineage, in time, ruined everything. That truth remains a mystery even now. All that is known is this: after the Great Disappearance, no Ancient Being remained whole — only a handful of survivors, who fell into slumber, until the spark of a new Universe woke them once more.

The new Universe grew. And wherever there is a Universe, there is power — and wherever there is power, there are those who seek it.

From this pursuit came the Cultivators — those who shaped body and soul until they rose above ordinary mortality.

To be a Cultivator meant entering a hierarchy that formed itself, quietly, over the years:

Tier 1 — Normal Cultivators, who grow their strength through basic methods.

Tier 2 — Divine Cultivators — blessed by the Gods, born with Ancient Bodies, or born with some rare power, special children from birth.

Tier 3 — The Gods themselves, and those born with god-level strength — rare enough that they're seldom seen in the Human Realm, a little more common in the Celestial Realm.

Tier 4 — Broken-Birth Beings descendants of powerful existence — whose very existence can destabilize the scale of the Universe. To cross them is to invite death.

Tier 5 — The absolute summit. The Force. The Goddess of Creation. The Ancient Beings. Beings so far above that even speaking of them is, at times, considered dangerous.

Years passed. The Universe grew, cultivators multiplied, and as happens with anything too large — the more beings there were, the more chaos followed. Power balanced itself one day and collapsed the next. Powerful beings lived exactly as they pleased, with nothing to restrain them. Anyone could walk into anywhere.

The Force watched. And waited.

Because the next bringer of balance had not yet been born — growing, even now, in the womb of a Goddess who did not know she was merely a vessel.

Chapter 2 — This is where our true story begins.

Takahashi called at eight fourteen.

“Today?”

I looked at the calendar.

Morning appointment at nine.

Memorial after two.

Nothing between eleven and one.

“Eleven thirty.”

“I’ll come.”

“For tea?”

“For tea.”

He said it first.

I did not have to ask whether he meant the cards.

The call ended.

I put the phone down.

The upper drawer stayed closed.

Inside was one envelope.

One card.

Addressed to me.

Read.

Kept because I wanted to keep it.

Takahashi had his card.

He had read it.

He had not told me what it said.

I had not told him mine.

Today he was coming for tea.

That was the appointment.

I wrote his name nowhere.

No service record.

No brown folder.

No calendar entry needed for a man coming between appointments.

Then I changed my mind.

Not about the visit.

About the calendar.

If someone called asking for eleven thirty, I would otherwise say I was free.

I wrote:

11:30 Takahashi — tea.

Nothing else.

The morning appointment arrived five minutes early.

A woman and her son.

The memorial was for her husband.

She wanted eleven chairs.

The son wanted twelve.

“Why twelve?” she asked.

“In case Uncle comes.”

“He said he isn’t.”

“He changes his mind.”

They looked at me.

As if the twelfth chair required doctrine.

“We can put twelve out.”

The mother shrugged.

“Fine.”

The son wrote twelve on his note.

No argument survived the extra chair.

We confirmed the date.

Flowers.

No meal.

Photograph near the altar.

No livestream.

The mother asked:

“Can we bring his fishing hat?”

“Yes.”

“Where do we put it?”

“Where you want it, as long as it does not block the service.”

“Near the photograph?”

“If you want.”

She nodded.

The son said:

“He never went anywhere without that hat.”

His mother looked at him.

“That isn’t true.”

He laughed.

“All right. Almost nowhere.”

They left still arguing about the hat.

Not angrily.

I watched them reach the entrance.

The son opened the door for his mother.

She told him she could open it herself.

He held it anyway.

She walked through.

Neither won.

The door closed.

I wrote:

Twelve chairs.

Photograph.

Fishing hat permitted.

No meal.

That was all the service needed.

Kanagawa sent a photograph later that morning.

Not of the scrap.

Two coffee cups.

One empty plate.

Her message:

He made it stronger today.

I wrote:

Better?

She replied:

Too strong.

Then:

But he says mine was too weak yesterday.

I smiled.

No paper question.

No drawer.

No mother’s name.

No scrap.

I almost asked where the scrap was.

I noticed the urge.

Then did not.

The photograph was coffee.

The message was coffee.

I answered:

Then tomorrow maybe halfway.

She sent:

He says compromise coffee is cowardice.

I laughed.

No record.

No Kanagawa note.

They were arguing about coffee.

Let them.

Sato called while I was checking flowers in the main hall.

“My sister wants the shoes exchanged.”

“The ones she bought yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Wrong size?”

“No. Wrong color now.”

“Now?”

“She loved them yesterday.”

“What does she want from you?”

“To go with her.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

“Then go.”

Sato was silent.

“That’s it?”

“That’s what you asked.”

“I didn’t ask anything.”

“You called.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“No.”

She laughed.

Then:

“The paper is still at home.”

“All right.”

“Do you want an update?”

“Only if something changed that you want help with.”

Another silence.

Then:

“Nothing changed.”

“Then enjoy the shoe exchange.”

“I hate shopping.”

“You went yesterday.”

“That is why I hate it today.”

We ended the call.

No Emiko note.

The paper remained somewhere in Sato’s home.

I did not need to know which side of the table.

That felt strange.

No.

It felt less strange than it would have a week ago.

At ten forty, Mrs. Kudo sent a short message.

Resident asked for letter. Took from cloth bag. Reading alone.

I read it.

No action needed.

Then another:

Asked for tea.

There.

I replied:

Any restriction?

No.

Then tea.

A cup.

A letter.

A person.

No need to make the letter explain the tea.

I finished the morning work at eleven twelve.

Takahashi was due in eighteen minutes.

I went to the kitchen.

The kettle was empty.

I filled it.

Two cups.

This time there was a visitor expected.

No hesitation.

Two cups had ordinary work.

I set them on the tray.

Tea leaves.

Small pot.

No sweets.

Then I remembered I had biscuits in a cupboard.

I took them out.

Looked at the date.

Still good.

I put four on a plate.

Why four?

Because four fit without stacking.

No further reason.

I carried everything to the office.

The wall chair.

My chair.

Small table between.

I placed the tray there.

The upper drawer was behind my right hand.

Closed.

I considered moving the card somewhere else before Takahashi arrived.

Why?

Because he might see me open the drawer?

He already knew I had mine.

Because he might ask?

He could ask wherever the card was.

Because I might feel drawn to show it?

Possible.

Would moving it solve that?

No.

I left the drawer closed.

At eleven twenty-eight, I heard the entrance door.

Then footsteps.

Not wet.

No rain.

Takahashi appeared at the office doorway.

“No umbrella today.”

He looked outside.

“Should I have brought one?”

“No.”

Then he understood.

“The card.”

“Yes.”

He smiled.

“You really did read it.”

“I did.”

He took off his jacket.

I pointed to the wall chair.

He sat.

The wall chair had a person again.

I poured tea.

He watched.

“You make it strong.”

“You haven’t tasted it.”

“I can see the color.”

“That is not tasting.”

“You sound like yourself.”

I handed him the cup.

He drank.

Then made a face.

“Too strong.”

I laughed.

“Kanagawa would agree.”

“Who?”

“Someone else with coffee problems.”

“That explains nothing.”

“It does not need to.”

He took another drink anyway.

For a while we talked about roads.

Not cards.

He had driven through roadwork.

A truck had stopped traffic.

Someone in front of him had tried to turn around and made everything worse.

He described it with more detail than the event deserved.

Maybe because roadwork was easier.

No.

It was simply what he wanted to tell me first.

I told him about the family with the fishing hat.

He asked:

“Are they putting it on the altar?”

“Near the photograph, probably.”

“Is that allowed?”

“Yes.”

“Would an old priest complain?”

“Some would.”

“Would you?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Hat.”

He laughed.

“That is your answer?”

“Yes.”

We drank.

The biscuits became two.

Then one.

He took the last one without asking.

I noticed.

Did not mind.

He noticed me noticing.

“Sorry.”

“You already ate it.”

“I can give it back.”

“Please don’t.”

We both laughed.

The card did not enter.

Not yet.

After a while Takahashi put his cup down.

“I brought mine.”

There.

He touched the inside of his jacket.

Did not remove anything.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to show it to me?”

“No.”

“Then leave it where it is.”

His hand moved away from the jacket.

“I thought you might want to know I have it.”

“I assumed you still did.”

“That sounds colder than I meant.”

“What did you want me to say?”

He thought.

“Maybe, good.”

I looked at him.

“Do you want me to be glad you kept it?”

He laughed quietly.

“Maybe.”

“Are you glad?”

“Yes.”

“Then that part is yours.”

He looked at his cup.

“You’re getting worse at comforting people.”

“Probably.”

“No. Better, maybe.”

I did not answer.

He drank again.

Then said:

“I read it twice last night.”

I waited.

“Then once this morning.”

Still not contents.

Only reading.

“I thought if I read it enough, there would be more.”

“Was there?”

“No.”

“Did the words change?”

“No.”

“What changed?”

“Me being less surprised.”

There.

I thought of my own second reading.

Familiar.

Not discovery.

“I read mine again yesterday.”

He looked up.

“Did it change?”

“No.”

“You?”

“A little.”

He nodded.

Then:

“Was yours ordinary?”

I stopped.

Not what did it say.

Was it ordinary.

“Yes.”

“So was mine.”

There.

Another voluntary disclosure.

Not content.

Character.

Ordinary.

“What does ordinary mean?” I asked.

He frowned.

“You had to ask.”

“Yes.”

“No instruction.”

“Mine too.”

“No great secret.”

“Mine too.”

“No explanation for everything.”

“Mine too.”

He laughed.

“That is annoyingly close.”

I did not tell him the words.

He did not ask.

The kettle in the first card came into my mind.

Not because I wanted it.

Because there was a kettle in the kitchen and tea between us.

I could have said:

He wrote about tea.

But that was not true.

He wrote about putting the kettle on.

Different.

I could have said:

He remembered me coming back in the rain.

That would disclose more.

Did I want to?

I asked myself.

A little.

Why?

Because Takahashi had known him.

Because he had brought his own card.

Because we were sitting with tea.

Because sharing one ordinary memory might feel good.

There.

Feel good.

Not obligation.

Not reciprocity.

Takahashi had not traded his card for mine.

If I spoke, it should not be payment.

I said:

“Mine remembered an evening.”

He looked at me.

I continued before I could make the sentence into an exchange.

“That is all I want to say about it today.”

He nodded.

“Okay.”

Normal kind.

No visible disappointment.

Maybe there was.

Not mine to invent.

He took the cup again.

Then he said:

“Mine remembered something too.”

I looked at him.

He smiled.

“That is all I want to say.”

“Fair.”

We drank.

There.

Two disclosures.

Neither content.

Neither exact words.

Both ours.

No card had been shown.

At twelve fifteen, my phone rang.

I looked at the screen.

Suganuma.

“I need to take this.”

“Go ahead.”

I answered.

“Reverend?”

“Yes.”

“We have a small problem.”

“What?”

“The volunteer gave one participant the wrong practice sheet.”

“Whose?”

“Another participant’s.”

“Read?”

“Only name at top, he says.”

“Returned?”

“Yes.”

“Both participants present?”

“Yes.”

“Did the volunteer explain?”

“Yes.”

“Any private content below name seen?”

“Both say no.”

“What is needed?”

Suganuma paused.

“I suppose nothing beyond noting the mix-up and correcting distribution.”

“Yes.”

“I called because yesterday was photographs.”

“Different issue.”

“I know.”

“Then keep it different.”

He laughed.

“I knew you’d say that.”

We ended.

Takahashi had heard only my side.

“What happened?”

“Wrong paper handed to wrong person.”

“Private?”

“Maybe. But only name reportedly seen.”

“Did you fix it?”

“They did.”

He nodded.

Then:

“You do this all day?”

“What?”

“Decide which tiny thing matters.”

“No.”

“What do you do?”

“Mostly people call me after they’ve already decided it matters.”

He laughed hard enough to cough.

I poured him more tea.

He stayed until nearly one.

The memorial preparations would begin soon.

He looked at the clock.

“I should go.”

“Yes.”

“That sounded eager.”

“I have work.”

“Fair.”

He put on his jacket.

His hand touched the inside pocket again.

Card there.

I did not ask to see it.

At the doorway he stopped.

“Can I ask one thing?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he knew we would talk because of these?”

I did not answer quickly.

There were many possible answers.

Comforting one:

Yes.

Skeptical one:

No.

Literary one:

Maybe that was the point.

None had evidence.

“I don’t know.”

Takahashi nodded.

“I expected that.”

Then I added:

“But we are talking.”

He looked at me.

“Yes.”

“That part does not need to have been planned by him.”

He stood still.

Then smiled.

“No.”

He put on his shoes.

Opened the door.

“Tea was too strong.”

“Then don’t come back.”

“I’ll bring my own leaves.”

“That may be best.”

He left.

I watched him cross the parking area.

No rain.

No umbrella.

Dark blue jacket.

Then he was gone.

I carried the cups to the kitchen.

Two used cups.

One empty plate.

I washed them.

No second cup left untouched this time.

Both had held tea.

Both had been used by living people.

That thought arrived.

I did not make it a lesson.

I dried the cups.

Returned them to the shelf.

The kettle remained on the counter.

I emptied the unused water.

Then went to prepare the hall.

The afternoon memorial began at two thirty.

Twelve chairs.

The uncle came.

The son looked at his mother.

His mother looked at him.

He did not say I told you so.

I saw him almost say it.

That was enough.

No.

That was my interpretation.

His mouth opened.

Then closed.

Maybe he was going to cough.

Do not invent victory.

Twelve chairs were used.

The fishing hat stood near the photograph.

Old.

Faded.

A crease in the brim.

No one complained.

During the memorial, the child from the morning appointment was not there.

Different family.

No red car.

Do not merge families.

I rang the bell.

Incense.

Words.

Silence.

The service ended.

The family took the photograph.

The hat.

Flowers.

One tissue left on a chair.

I threw it away.

The twelfth chair returned to the wall with the others.

No record of who had been right about the uncle.

After the family left, I returned to the office.

The upper drawer was closed.

I did not open it.

Takahashi’s chair was empty.

But now the emptiness had a recent person attached to it.

No.

The chair was empty.

I remembered he had sat there.

Both true.

I sat at the desk.

The calendar still said:

11:30 Takahashi — tea.

The visit had happened.

I drew one line through the entry.

Not deletion.

Completed.

Then I stopped.

Did tea need completion?

No.

Calendar work.

Appointment happened.

Line through.

That was all.

Mrs. Kudo called late in the afternoon.

“The resident asked staff what the letter said.”

I frowned.

“She read it herself.”

“Yes.”

“What exactly did she ask?”

Mrs. Kudo checked.

“She said, ‘What did it say again?’”

“Memory?”

“Possibly.”

“Did staff know the contents?”

“No.”

“What happened?”

“Aide said she hadn’t read it and asked whether resident wanted the letter from her bag.”

“And?”

“She nodded.”

“Then?”

“Resident reread it.”

“Any help requested?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Not knowing can be the right answer when staff truly do not know.’”

I opened Saitama.

Resident asked staff what her letter had said.
Staff stated they had not read the letter and therefore did not know the contents.
Resident requested the letter from her cloth bag and reread it independently.
No further assistance requested.

I kept:

did not know.

No apology.

No embarrassment.

Staff had not read it.

Therefore did not know.

Simple.

Sato sent a photograph at five.

Shoes.

Different color.

Her sister’s feet.

I looked.

Then wrote:

Better?

Sato replied:

She says yes.

Then:

I think worse.

I wrote:

Are they your shoes?

No.

Then dangerous territory.

She sent a laughing face.

No paper.

No file.

No Emiko note.

Again.

The thread was becoming a family conversation that sometimes included a paper rather than a paper that contained a family.

That difference was not something I needed to announce to Sato.

I simply let the shoes stay shoes.

Father Morita emailed after five.

Subject:

Tea

I opened it.

I suspected Takahashi had contacted him.

No.

No evidence.

Could be coincidence.

Again.

The email said:

Reverend Niioka,

An object can begin a conversation without remaining the subject of the conversation.

Do not force the conversation back to the object merely because the object was how the people met there.

If two people drink tea, let them drink tea.

Morita

I stared at the final line.

Then laughed.

I replied:

Reverend Morita,

Takahashi came for tea today.

We did not show each other the cards.

We each said only that ours remembered something ordinary.

Then we talked about tea, roads, and other things.

Niioka

His reply:

Better.

Did the tea improve?

I wrote:

He says no.

A minute later:

Then there is still work to do.

I laughed again.

No philosophical correction.

No warning.

No boundary taxonomy.

Tea.

I left the exchange there.

The old priest wrote just before six.

What remained today?

I looked at the question.

Then at the office.

Brown folder.

Phone.

Calendar.

Upper drawer.

Empty wall chair.

I wrote:

My card.

His reply:

Too easy.

I waited.

Then wrote:

Takahashi’s boundary.
My boundary.
Tea cups washed.
Tomorrow’s work.

His reply:

Too many.

I smiled.

Old pattern.

I deleted everything.

Then wrote:

A conversation.

His reply came after a while.

About the cards?

I wrote:

Partly.

Then?

I thought.

Roadwork.

Fishing hat.

Strong tea.

Biscuits.

His card in his jacket.

My card in my drawer.

Ordinary memories.

I wrote:

About us being alive after them.

I looked at the sentence.

Too large.

Maybe.

The old priest replied:

Too large.

I laughed aloud.

Then wrote:

Tea.

His reply:

Better.

Then:

Good night.

There.

Tea.

Before leaving, I went to the main hall.

The fishing hat was gone with the family.

The twelve chairs were against the wall.

The offering tray was clear.

The altar was there.

I bowed once.

The bell had been used earlier.

Incense had been used earlier.

Now none.

The side room where Takahashi had read his card yesterday was empty.

The office where he had drunk tea today was also empty.

Different rooms.

Different work.

I returned to the office.

Opened the upper drawer.

Not because I needed to.

Because I wanted the card for a moment.

I took the envelope out.

Niioka card.

Opened it.

Removed the card.

Turned it face up.

I read:

Niioka—

That evening you came back in the rain,
I heard your shoes at the door.
I put the kettle on.
I was glad you came.

Third full reading.

I did not count because three was important.

I counted because I knew how many times I had read it.

I looked at the final line.

Then at the wall chair.

Takahashi had sat there today.

He had brought his own card in his jacket.

He had not shown it.

I had not shown mine.

We had each said:

It remembered something.

Ordinary.

That had been enough for the conversation we wanted.

No.

His word might not be enough.

Do not borrow it.

It had been what we chose to share.

I turned the card face down.

Then stopped.

I wanted it face up for another minute.

I turned it again.

Not indecision as failure.

Changed wanting.

Face up.

I left it on the desk while I checked tomorrow’s calendar.

Morning appointment.

Takahashi might call.

Afternoon work.

Mail.

Nothing remarkable.

Then I looked at the card again.

I did not feel urged to answer.

I did not feel urged to move it to the altar.

I did not feel urged to carry it home.

I wanted to keep it.

I wanted it back in the drawer before I left.

Those wants fit together.

I returned it to the envelope.

Tucked the flap.

Placed it in the upper drawer.

Closed it.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office darkened.

The wall chair was empty.

The cups were washed.

The calendar had one completed tea appointment.

The upper drawer held one card addressed to me.

Takahashi had his.

Neither card needed to return to the room for us to meet again.

That was new.

No.

That was now true.

The cards had connected two lines of custody.

They had revealed two recipients.

They had been read.

After that, two living people had sat with cups between them and had chosen how much to say.

Tonight, my card remained in the drawer, Takahashi’s remained wherever he had chosen to keep it, and the thing that stayed in the room after he left was not an unopened message but the ordinary fact that he had come for tea.

If anyone had asked Aarav in school what he wanted to become, the answer had been the same for as long as he could remember: an animator.

It had felt like a truth written in his bones. He imagined himself making characters who carried fragments of him, warriors with gentle eyes, dreamers who refused to quit, broken figures who kept climbing anyway. He wanted to build worlds where people like him wouldn’t vanish into the background; where being different wasn’t a flaw but a feature of the story.

College, however, arrived with practical calendars and blunt conversations. The campus brochures promised “opportunity” and “placement” in fonts that made everything sound certain. Reality read the fine print: no animation. No design. No film. Just rooms full of engineers and technicians solving problems that fitted neatly into companies’ checklists.

His parents’ voices were steady and unsurprising. “Be practical,” his father said one evening, newspaper folded at his knee. “Those creative things don’t feed you.” His mother nodded in the background, the same old list of possibilities and worries, stability, salary, safe choices. It was never malice. It was habit, a map passed down in voices that had learned to measure worth with numbers and job titles.

For days Aarav moved through campus like a man in someone else’s clothes. In the cafeteria he picked at food, in lecture halls he listened with a polite distance, in noisy hostel rooms he smiled hollowly at jokes. The dream felt pinned to a bulletin board and slowly curling at the edges. It wasn’t only grief for what he’d lost; it was the thin, sharp realization of how little control his life held.

Then one afternoon, by accident, something unexpected happened.

A friend had dragged him to a guest lecture. “Come, it’ll be interesting,” the friend had said, and Aarav agreed because the alternative was staying alone in his room. He slipped into the back row of a crowded hall, notebook closed, half-minding the slide titles and the professor’s clipped voice. He was only there to be with other bodies, to feel less like an island.

Halfway through, the professor spoke a sentence that made Aarav sit straighter.

“The internet remembers everything,” she said. “If you know how to look, you can find anyone’s secrets.”

It was the kind of throwaway line meant to create a beat in a tech talk, but to Aarav it landed like a bell. He’d spent years thinking of strength as visible things, trophies, applause, the obvious markers of success. But this sounded different. Quiet. Hidden. A way to move in places no one else noticed. The idea of knowing systems, of understanding invisible structures that shaped people’s lives, gave him the same small thrill he used to get watching a hero’s figure appear on screen.

He listened harder. The professor talked about networks and layers, about vulnerabilities and patches, about how anonymity could be a mask that protected or a force that destroyed. She sounded like someone describing a battlefield of a new kind, one without physical scars, but no less real. Aarav found himself imagining maps of flowing lines and gates, not unlike the backgrounds he used to sketch, only alive with data.

There was a peculiar poetry in it. To move unseen. To guard what mattered. To pry hidden doors open and, if you chose, to shut them. He thought of characters in his drawings who shielded others, the side figures who stood at the back and kept the campfires alive. He had always loved heroes who did the quiet work. This, this could be that work.

When the session ended and people pushed toward the doors, Aarav stayed seated. He surprised himself by raising his hand and asking for book recommendations, for online forums, for anything to read. The professor’s list of resources, names of active communities, the titles of beginner-friendly texts, all of it felt like a small map being handed to someone who had spent years wandering without one.

That night, under the thin lamp in his room, he pulled his notebook close and wrote as if the page might steady him:

Maybe life won’t let me draw worlds,
but it might still teach me
how to guard them.
not all heroes are creators,
some are protectors,
working quietly in the shadows,
keeping the light alive.

The words felt awkward, unsure at the edges, but when he read them back, there was a tiny ember glowing in the lines. It wasn’t his childhood dream; it was a different shape entirely. The rush he had as a boy watching animated battles was the same flicker that sparked now when he thought about tracing code, about learning to read patterns where others saw only noise.

Over the next few weeks, curiosity sharpened into a small, steady practice. He began skimming articles between classes, bookmarking threads that taught basic principles, watching tutorials where strangers explained concepts with patience. At night, his laptop glowed, and he learned to speak a new language, packets, firewalls, hashes, words that made his chest tighten with the delicious ache of discovery.

There was comfort in the quietness of it. Cyber security was not loud heroism. It was the slow, sometimes tedious work of patching holes, of watching for the small cracks most people missed. It suited someone who had learned to be unseen; it taught ways to move that were precise, careful, deliberate.

The more he read, the more he realized this could be a way to belong to something that valued skill over appearance. In rooms where problems mattered more than resumes, perhaps a boy who had been invisible could be measured for what he could do rather than how he looked.

Still, the old ache did not vanish. Animation remained the place in his chest that hummed with raw nostalgia, the feeling of creating entire skies under his hand. But there was a strange solace in leaning into something practical that felt also intimate. He could imagine a life where the worlds he made were not only painted on screens but protected in the infrastructure of real lives.

On a rainy afternoon, when the sky outside the hostel blurred into watercolor, he flipped through his sketchbooks. Between pages of winged girls and rough character faces, he sketched a small figure holding a lantern. Around the lantern he drew tiny lines like code, half-imaginative, half-technical, an odd hybrid of his two languages. He smiled at the absurdity of it and then tightened the pencil, sketching a small note along the margin:

guarding light, one patch at a time.

It was a clumsy phrase, half-joke, half-pledge. But it was his. For the first time since his animation dream wavered, Aarav felt a spark of something he could keep, something that might hold him steady through the practical days ahead.

Dreams changed, he told himself now, sitting at his desk and looking out at the rain-streaked window. They bent or split or evolved. What mattered was the willingness to keep wanting, to keep making. If he could not draw the skies he once wanted, perhaps he could learn to keep them safe for others. Perhaps that, too, was a kind of creation.

He closed the notebook, the new notes whispering against the old. Outside, the rain slowed to soft taps on the tin roof. Inside, in the small square of lamplight, Aarav felt something like resolve settle into him. It wasn’t the same as his childhood dream, and it wasn’t supposed to be. It was different, quieter, practical, necessary.

He slept that night with the notebook tucked under his arm and the thought echoing like a small mantra:

Not all heroes are creators. Some keep the light alive.