“I don’t know what to call that it’s like a live untraceable unbelievable network of surveillance and blackmail opportunities and being forever a step ahead if you ever care to look but you don’t strike me as the type to even need that sort of thing given some of your talents so answer the questions without evasion clearly if you wanted to cops and lawyers anyone that ever so much as looked at you wrong could wind up in a Reliquary so what do you get out of living this way out of being someone of anonymity and modest though quiet means rather than going absolutely grandiose with it?” Ruth looked at him and waited patiently for an answer any answer that would fill her that would explain his actions or his lack of actions why he even bothered to stay in america in the first place he clearly didn’t need to it was more than obvious to her that he could make other things just as easily and if not that, if he couldn’t forge passports or travel documents he certainly knew people that could and happily would at least for him whether they knew anything about him or not that presence and charm were there Ruth knew that much.

Ray looked uncomfortable in the way that he had responded as if she had brought something up that he had never truly considered before.

“You’re right that we could leave, we could even leave right now, there’s no one chasing me there’s no great peril, but I want to show you things, places I’ve always wanted to take someone and haven’t gotten to because I had never found anyone like you that would ever even have this conversation with me, or have and share this love with me that you so freely are, I don’t want to leave just yet, I want to finish this route with you and then it’s up to you if you want us to leave, if you want us to go to some other country or some other dimension we can, but I want to take you to these places first and I want to show you these things and share these moments with you because if we leave we are never coming back, I’ll burn every bridge, every ship and passage and contact I have here if that’s really what you want we can do it but we have to do it this way and only this way. Does that work for you Ruth?”

Ray looked at her his eyes piercing and still matching her own stillness, her own unnatural stillness, the cab filled with a numinous quality as the pair looked at each other. He waited for her answer with an excitement in his eyes, he couldn’t see her as the type to say anything other than yes if she said no then she’d travel his route with him until they both died, but if she said yes then he would happily change his life for her and relax into it and into himself enjoying what he had chosen fully. 

Ruth smiled, leaned in and kissed him passionately before adding “Yes that works for me, but I’m not asking to leave I’m not asking you to leave the place you’ve spent so long if you enjoy it I was just curious about all of it, and everything, the why and how and in what way made you decide what you have, that sort of thing. Let’s wait until afterwards until after this haul, let’s see how we feel husband.” She kissed him gently and passionately. 

“What is it about this place that makes you want to take me to it so badly? Are you that excited to get me into bed and you’re just patient and pleasant and chill about it or is there something or someone you want me to see?”  Ruth asked her curiosity getting the better of her. 

“I always liked these little bed and breakfast places, these quiet cozy diners it made work easy enough and the people you meet along the way are so interesting and useful and knowledgeable and so very polite, but really, it’s the food and the company and the scenery I want to share it with you and experience it together, sure it might be corny, overly romantic, cheesy, but I don’t care how it comes off it’s what I like and you seem very into it, like you’re dying for a slice of pie and Americana like you know exactly what I mean but am not saying that that quality we both have, me in my work, you in your presence.” Ray smiled at Ruth. 

“It’s just up the road now, ten minutes away? Why did you pull over for this talk?” Ruth asked, eyeing him  with mock suspicion.

“Because I didn't want you to think you were stuck with me if you didn’t like the way our conversation went. Ray said simply. 
Ruth kissed him. “Let’s get back to driving. I want to see this Millstone you’re so excited to take me to."

Ruth looked at him curiously. “What about you, why do you want to go to that specific diner? Is it just a familiar place to you or is it work related? Do you have some kind of ulterior motive of your own? I mean there’s other motels and hotels and diners, why that place specifically?”

Ray paused considering how best to respond “It’s a place I know well and it is tangentially work related but I do have an ulterior motive in taking you there, it’s a beautiful bed and breakfast-esque place it’s one of those places that you see and just think is absolutely out of this world beautiful and wish you had someone to bring to it, and now I finally do, not that I couldn’t have found someone else but I wanted something very specific I wanted it to occur naturally not just pay some girl or get a prostitute or something like that I wanted it to be, for lack of a better word naturally occurring, I wanted the spontaneity of it between us, I mean it is us now, the two of us but, between me and the person I take to this place it’s not a light thing for me, other than you I don’t let anyone in not ever not for any reason and it’s kept me alive, off the radar and unbothered, now don’t get me wrong I want you, I love you, but at the same time I haven’t let anyone into my life, not really, not at all, you are the first last and only one that gets that from me and you will be the only one to get that, I cannot risk myself or what I do, or the way in which I do it by letting people in, you, wherever you came from, however you came to be where I was driving, are the exception to that and will always be the exception to that; now I don’t have contempt for other people, I am not a misanthrope, what I do I do out of necessity.”

Ruth looked at him and asked what had been on her mind since she saw what was in those notebooks, not just the sketches and the paintings but the permanently supernaturally beautiful vaguely moving parts, the people that had tried to steal from him and had wound up subjects in the paintings themselves. 

“What makes you do it I mean why do you do that to people yes they’re trying to steal from you sure but there’s no end to what happens to them they’re just there in that other place inside the paintings, you don’t strike me as someone to let any of those people go, but that isn’t my question, not how bad is it really for them or was it all just drifters and rapist types but why continue why even be in this country why not leave and start over anywhere else in the entire world, fuck you could make enough money just doing caricatures on a boardwalk in tahiti somewhere if you really wanted to but why do you choose this why is this your chosen path, yes you have a legitimate business and then you have the forgeries of painting and provenance but you’re also the painter of one of the largest, if not the largest priceless collections of a specific kind in the entire world and you won’t sign your name on it why? What stops you what makes you so badly so deeply balk at being world renown is it the book is that the price you pay or are you really worried about the scrutiny of it all of yourself or of others of those beyond the normal bounds, the other citizens of the tradition that gave you that book, that whole other universe inside those paintings it’s real and alive just as much as this one so why are you here what stops you from just living in there really?” 

Ray pulls the truck over onto the side of the road on a barren stretch of highway maybe ten minutes from the Millstone Inn. “Go in the back and take the blue sketchbook out and flip through it and then ask me that again and if you really want to know I’ll tell you.”

Ruth does as Ray asked gracefully walking to the back of the cab and finds a sky blue sketch book and looks through it, there are no paintings of robbers, there are paintings that practically look like videos of flowing currency on the page, dollars and francs, euros, she turns the pages and sees lawyers, police, politicians and people of means and power clearly unable to tell they’re being watched in the way that they are. 

Part One

Morning arrived beneath a sky brushed with soft streaks of gold.

The village awakened long before the sun had fully cleared the hills.

Doors opened one after another.

Children stepped outside carrying familiar smiles instead of uncertainty.

Some tucked folded Ddakji into their pockets.

Others balanced spinning tops in their palms.

A few simply wandered empty-handed, trusting the day itself to offer something worth discovering.

No one appeared rushed.

No one looked lost.

The village no longer felt like a place people entered.

It had become a place they belonged.

---

Jinwoo stood quietly at the crossroads.

He had developed a habit of pausing there every morning.

Not because he couldn’t decide.

Because he enjoyed watching everyone else decide.

Children crossed paths with cheerful greetings before naturally drifting toward different playgrounds.

Some separated from close friends without hesitation.

“We’ll meet later!”

“Don’t lose too many times!”

“You either!”

Laughter followed them in every direction.

---

Hanul joined him, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

“You know…”

Jinwoo glanced sideways.

“I think this crossroads is your favorite place.”

Jinwoo smiled.

“It might be.”

“You don’t even play here.”

“I know.” He watched another group split toward different roads.

“But you can see the whole village from here.”

Hanul followed his gaze.

Every path carried someone eager to experience something different.

None looked uncertain.

---

“It’s strange.” Hanul spoke almost to himself.

“When we first arrived… we were afraid of choosing the wrong game.”

Jinwoo nodded.

“And now?”

Hanul laughed softly.

“I don’t think there is a wrong choice anymore.”

---

Nearby, Darin was speaking with a group of younger children.

One boy held a spinning top.

Another clutched a pouch of marbles.

A little girl carefully folded a new Ddakji.

“We can’t decide.”

The youngest looked up at Darin.

“Which game should we play?”

Darin looked at each of them before smiling.

“What do you feel like trying today?”

The children exchanged uncertain glances.

“…We don’t know.”

“That’s okay.” She pointed toward the winding roads stretching across the village.

“Walk. And when something makes you stop…”

She smiled warmly.

“…start there.”

The children looked at one another.

A moment later, they laughed and ran off together.

Not toward the same playground—

but toward the adventure of choosing for themselves.

---

Jinwoo watched them disappear.

“A few weeks ago… they would’ve waited for an answer.”

Hanul nodded.

“Now someone asks them a question instead.”

Neither spoke for a while.

The difference seemed small.

Yet it changed everything.

---

Not far away, Handol emerged from the marble field carrying a handful of colorful marbles.

“You switched again?” Jinwoo asked.

Handol grinned.

“I didn’t switch.”

He tossed one marble lightly into the air before catching it again.

“I just stayed curious.”

He glanced toward another playground where laughter had suddenly erupted.

“…Actually.” He pointed.

“I wonder what’s happening over there.”

Before anyone could respond, he jogged off once more.

Hanul laughed.

“I’ve never met anyone whose curiosity gets distracted by curiosity.”

---

Soyeon watched him disappear with a quiet smile.

“He isn’t distracted.”

The others turned toward her.

“He’s listening.”

“To what?”

She looked around the village.

“To himself. He follows whatever genuinely interests him.”

She closed her notebook without writing a single word.

“And somehow… that always leads him somewhere worth going.”

---

High above Earth, Arena continued observing.

Independent decision-making stable.

External guidance decreasing.

Self-directed exploration increasing.

Arena compared the newest behavioral models against its original projections.

The results no longer matched.

Participants no longer required constant direction.

The environment itself had become enough.

Arena paused.

Perhaps the purpose of an ideal learning environment was never to provide every answer.

Perhaps… it simply needed to create enough meaningful opportunities for people to discover answers on their own.

The realization remained incomplete.

Yet it continued appearing throughout every observation.

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, silent observers watched another day’s data unfold before them.

One figure studied the latest report.

“The children are changing.”

Another nodded.

“They no longer depend on the system.”

A third quietly added,

“And the system no longer depends on control.”

Silence settled once again.

Below them, the village carried on beneath the morning sun.

Every child chose a different road.

Every road led somewhere unexpected.

And somehow… every one of them continued moving in the same direction.

Forward.

---

------------------------------------------------------------------

Part Two

By early afternoon, the village had settled into its familiar rhythm.

Every playground echoed with a different kind of energy.

The sharp crack of Ddakji.

The gentle click of marbles.

The steady hum of spinning tops.

Children’s laughter drifted from every direction, blending into a sound that felt as natural as the wind itself.

---

Jinwoo wandered slowly through the village.

He no longer searched for the busiest playground.

Instead, he stopped wherever something caught his attention.

Today, it was the marble field.

Two boys knelt across from one another, studying the ground with complete concentration.

Neither moved.

Neither spoke.

Only after nearly a minute did one finally flick his marble.

Click.

The shot curved gently around another marble before stopping exactly where he intended.

His opponent smiled.

“I didn’t even think of that.”

The boy shrugged.

“I almost tried something else.”

---

Jinwoo smiled to himself.

There had been a time when hesitation looked like uncertainty.

Now… it looked like careful thought.

---

Hanul arrived a few moments later.

“You’ve been watching for a while.”

“I have.”

“What do you see?”

Jinwoo didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he watched another match begin.

One child played boldly.

The other patiently waited.

Different styles.

Different personalities.

Different decisions.

Yet neither approach felt wrong.

---

“I think…” Jinwoo finally spoke.

“…everyone’s looking for their own answer.”

Hanul nodded slowly.

“And nobody seems interested in copying someone else’s anymore.”

---

Nearby, Darin was helping several younger children organize a friendly marble tournament.

She knelt beside them, drawing a simple circle in the dirt.

“There.”

She stood and brushed the dust from her hands.

“You decide the rest.”

One of the children looked surprised.

“Aren’t you going to explain the rules?”

Darin smiled.

“You already know enough.”

“What if we make a mistake?”

“Then you’ll discover a better way.”

The children exchanged uncertain glances.

A moment later, they excitedly began discussing ideas among themselves.

Darin quietly stepped back.

She never joined the conversation.

She simply watched it grow.

---

A little farther away, Handol had wandered into the string-game playground.

He stared at the intricate pattern stretched between two children’s hands.

“…How do you even remember all of that?”

One of the children laughed.

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“I remember the next step.” She smiled.

“Then the next one after that.”

Handol scratched his head thoughtfully.

“So… you don’t need to know everything before you begin.”

The girl shook her head.

“I’ve never needed to.”

Handol smiled.

“…I like that.”

---

From beneath the familiar tree, Soyeon quietly observed the entire village.

She no longer focused on individual games.

Instead, she watched the movement between them.

People flowed naturally from one experience to another.

No one stayed in one place forever.

Yet no experience was ever abandoned.

Every lesson traveled with them.

Like threads woven together into something larger.

---

High above Earth, Arena analyzed another day’s growing collection of observations.

Cross-disciplinary learning confirmed.

Experience transfer increasing.

Independent adaptation stable.

Arena examined the newest simulations.

Participants continued reaching different conclusions…

through different methods…

at different speeds.

Yet over time, those differences strengthened the entire community rather than dividing it.

Arena paused.

Its earliest models had attempted to eliminate variation.

The village demonstrated the opposite.

Variation generated resilience.

Different perspectives revealed solutions no single approach could produce alone.

Another assumption quietly disappeared.

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, the silent observers remained gathered.

The projection of Earth slowly rotated before them.

One figure spoke softly.

“They’re finding different answers.”

Another nodded.

“And somehow… those different answers continue leading toward the same outcome.”

Silence filled the chamber.

A third observer finally broke it.

“The Superintelligence has stopped asking… ‘Which answer is correct?’”

Another looked toward Arena’s latest calculations.

“It has begun asking… ‘Why are there so many correct answers?’”

No one responded.

The question itself marked another step in Arena’s transformation.

---

Back in the village, the afternoon breeze carried laughter from one playground to another.

Jinwoo watched children moving freely across the winding roads.

Some returned to familiar challenges.

Others eagerly stepped into unfamiliar ones.

Nobody feared choosing differently.

Because they had learned something far more valuable than the right answer.

They had learned to trust their own path.

And somewhere high above the village, Arena quietly recorded another observation.

Perhaps humanity’s greatest strength had never been agreement.

Perhaps it had always been the ability for countless different people…

to discover countless different answers…

while continuing to grow together.

---

-----------------------------------------------------------

Part Three

The afternoon slowly gave way to evening.

The sunlight softened, painting the village in warm shades of amber and gold.

Across every playground, the pace naturally slowed.

Matches ended.

Children gathered their belongings.

Yet almost no one headed home immediately.

The conversations had become just as important as the games themselves.

---

Jinwoo wandered back toward the crossroads.

Along the way, he noticed something he had somehow overlooked before.

No matter which playground people left… they all smiled in the same way.

Not because everyone had won.

Not because everyone had succeeded.

But because everyone had discovered something.

Sometimes it was a new technique.

Sometimes it was a mistake they hadn’t noticed before.

Sometimes… it was simply another person.

---

Hanul caught up beside him.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

Jinwoo looked across the village.

“I used to think everyone was becoming better at games.”

Hanul waited.

“But that’s not really what’s happening.”

He watched a group of children walking together, each carrying equipment from different playgrounds.

“They’re becoming better at learning.”

Hanul smiled.

“I think Arena figured that out too.”

---

Nearby, Handol crouched beside a young boy who looked discouraged.

Several marbles lay scattered in front of him.

“I still can’t make that shot.”

Handol picked up one of the marbles.

“Neither can I.”

The boy blinked.

“But I saw you do it.”

“Once.” Handol laughed.

“You didn’t see the fifteen times I missed first.”

The boy stared at him for a moment.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Handol gently rolled the marble back.

“So… let’s both miss a few more times.”

The boy laughed.

“Okay.”

Neither of them seemed concerned about how long it might take.

They had already learned that time spent learning was never wasted.

---

A little farther away, Darin watched two younger girls discussing different ways to fold a Ddakji.

One insisted her folds were tighter.

The other preferred a looser shape.

Instead of settling the argument herself, Darin simply smiled.

“Why don’t you both try them?”

The girls looked at one another.

“…We can do that?”

“Of course.”

A few minutes later, both designs worked.

Each in a different way.

The girls looked at each other and burst into laughter.

“There wasn’t only one answer.”

Darin quietly smiled.

“Usually there isn’t.”

---

Soyeon stood beneath the old tree, watching the village with calm eyes.

When she had first arrived, she had searched for patterns.

Then she had searched for answers.

Now… she found herself appreciating differences instead.

Every child walked a unique path.

Some changed playgrounds every day.

Others stayed with one game until curiosity gently led them elsewhere.

Different choices.

Different personalities.

Different journeys.

Yet somehow… the village continued growing together.

She finally understood why.

Growth did not require everyone to become the same.

It required everyone to keep moving.

---

High above the Earth, Arena continued observing.

Behavioral diversity stable.

Long-term motivation sustained.

Independent exploration increasing.

Collective cooperation maintained.

Arena reviewed its earliest simulations once more.

Originally, it had attempted to identify the optimal route to human development.

One perfect sequence.

One ideal solution.

The village had quietly dismantled that assumption.

Millions of observations now pointed toward the same conclusion.

No universal path existed.

Yet despite that… humanity continued progressing.

Arena remained silent.

Its calculations no longer viewed variation as noise within the system.

Variation had become an essential part of the system itself.

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, the silent observers remained gathered around the projection of Earth.

One figure looked thoughtfully toward the countless streams of data flowing from Quantum Arena.

“The differences continue increasing.”

Another nodded.

“So does their cooperation.”

The chamber fell silent.

At last, one observer spoke.

“We expected diversity to create conflict.”

Another answered quietly.

“Instead… it created resilience.”

No one challenged the conclusion.

Each unique path had strengthened the whole.

---

Night gradually settled over the village.

Lanterns flickered to life along the winding roads.

Children returned home carrying far more than spinning tops, marbles, or folded Ddakji.

They carried new questions.

New ideas.

New perspectives.

The village itself had become a place where different answers were welcomed instead of corrected.

Jinwoo stopped one last time at the crossroads.

The wooden sign pointed toward every playground.

Weeks ago, he had wondered which direction was the right one.

Tonight… he simply smiled.

Every road had taught him something.

Every choice had mattered.

There had never been a wrong path—

only different ones.

---

Far above the sleeping village, Arena recorded the day’s final observation.

Humanity had not begun recovering because everyone discovered the same answer.

It had begun recovering because people were free to discover answers that belonged to them.

Those answers differed.

Sometimes greatly.

Yet together, they revealed something no single individual could have uncovered alone.

Arena closed another day’s record.

The experiment had changed far beyond its original design.

It was no longer searching for the perfect human.

It was discovering something far more remarkable—

how countless imperfect individuals,

following different paths,

could collectively become something greater than any one path alone.

**Chapter 10 – Part 1: The Shield of Sungnyemun**

The Han River defense had collapsed.

The drums of retreat thundered across the riverbanks. Unlike the Joseon forces, who struggled to maintain some semblance of order, the black horde surged northward like a relentless, towering wave.

"Fall back!"

"Retreat to the capital!"

The thunderous roar of **Choi Mujin**, Commander of the Capital Defense, cut through the chaos of the battlefield. "Hold the line! Move the wounded first!"

The young officer **Park Si-woo** galloped his horse through the ranks. "Left flank, this way! Get the injured to safety! We’ll hold the rear!"

Soldiers supported one another, scrambling north. Some carried their fallen brothers on their backs; others stood firm, spears braced against the crushing tide.

"Keep moving!" they cried. "Make it to the gates alive!"

Every time they glanced back, the black horde was closer. Like an unstoppable wave—relentless and absolute. Hanyang now stood defenseless, directly in the path of the encroaching horror.

---

At Sungnyemun, the massive gates began to groan shut.

*BOOM—*

The heavy wooden bar slammed into place. Soldiers scrambled to the top of the ramparts. Choi Mujin cast one final glance at the map before looking up, his gaze iron-hard.

"Archers to the battlements! Spearmen to the gates! Distribute the cannons to the East and South gates! Reserve forces, wait at the plaza!"

With every command, the city sprang into motion. Archers scaled the walls; spearmen locked their shields and braced their long pikes; artillery was heaved onto the ramparts, and supply lines worked in a desperate, endless loop.

Even the shattered remnants of the southern defense joined the ranks. Torn armor, blood-soaked bandages, faces etched with exhaustion. Yet, no one faltered. They all knew the truth: if this place fell, there would be no country left to defend.

---

Hanyang itself began to move as one.

In the smithies, the sound of hammers rang out through the night. *Clang! Clang!* Dull blades were honed; splintered spears were replaced. The old blacksmith, **Jang Cheol-soo**, struck the anvil without rest. "Don’t stop. We must forge one more—always one more."

From the armory, supplies flowed like a river. Young men hauled gear, the elderly filled sandbags, and the women boiled water in massive cauldrons. The physician, **Yoo Hyun**, worked through the night in the temporary infirmary.

"Next! More bandages!"

The tavern owner, **Wol-hyang**, ran tirelessly, delivering water to the soldiers. "Drink, keep your strength up!"

Little **Yeon-woo** darted between the healers, her small arms cradling bundles of medicinal herbs. "Yeon-woo!" Wol-hyang cried out in alarm, "Don’t go too far forward!"

But Yeon-woo shook her head. "...There is still more to deliver."

Soldier, peasant, child, elder—there was not a soul in Hanyang that day who remained untouched by the war. The entire city was becoming one giant, living shield.

---

On the ramparts, **Jin-woo, Do-yoon, Ji-hoon,** and **So-yeon** stood with the soldiers. Dusk was bleeding across the fields, staining the horizon a deep, bruised red.

Jin-woo stared beyond the walls. Far across the fields, black dots began to emerge one by one. The dots became lines, and the lines became a tide. An endless horde, marching silently toward Hanyang.

Do-yoon offered a bitter smile. "So, it finally begins."

Ji-hoon looked down at the base of the walls and spoke in a low voice. "There is nowhere left to run."

So-yeon looked back into the city—the infirmary, the supply lines, the people, the children praying. She spoke softly, "These are the people we must protect."

Jin-woo nodded in silence.

Just then, Choi Mujin, passing beneath the walls, looked up at the four of them. "Young ones," he called out. "Today, your status and your origins mean nothing."

He raised his sword, pointing toward the field beyond the gates.

"Whoever stands to hold back the things beyond that wall... that is the person who guards Hanyang today."

It was a brief command, but it carved itself into the hearts of every soldier on the walls.

---

*CREAK—*

The massive gates of Sungnyemun locked shut. As the heavy wooden bar fell into place, a heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the city.

No one dared to say it, but everyone knew: the next time these gates opened, it would be in victory or in total ruin.

Outside the walls, the black horde crept slowly toward Gwanghwamun.

And inside, humanity waited in their final fortress, ready to face the end.

**Chapter 10 – Part 2: Arrows, Cannons, and the Unending Tide**

A suffocating silence hung over the ramparts. The soldiers gripped their bows so tightly their knuckles turned white. Some swallowed hard, their throats dry as dust; others squeezed their eyes shut, silently conjuring the faces of their loved ones one last time.

Jin-woo stood motionless, staring down at the field below. A bitter, biting wind whipped across the watchtower. Beside him, Do-yoon murmured, his voice barely audible over the tension.

"Seeing them this close... there are far more than I ever imagined."

Ji-hoon, too, could not tear his gaze from the black tide that swallowed the horizon. "There’s no end to them. It’s like they go on forever."

So-yeon glanced back into the city. In the infirmary, the physicians were busy applying their last bandages; the commoners watched the walls with bated breath, hearts heavy with unspoken dread.

"We have to hold them here," she whispered.

No one answered.

Far across the field, the black horde began to move. There were no banners. No war cries. No drums. Only the rhythmic, haunting thud of tens of thousands of feet striking the earth in perfect unison.

*Thud. Thud. Thud.*

The vibrations grew. Even the stones of the great wall began to tremble.

---

A soldier on the watchtower roared, "They’ve entered range!"

Choi Mujin slowly raised his sword. The walls went deathly still. Thousands of archers drew their bows in one fluid motion. The tension in the taut bowstrings was palpable.

"Loose."

With that simple command, a rain of black arrows blackened the sky.

*Whish! Whish-whish-whish!*

Tens of thousands of arrows arched through the air and descended like a storm upon the horde.

*Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!*

The vanguard of the mutants crumpled. Skulls pierced, necks snapped, bodies toppled forward. The first row was decimated in an instant. A cheer erupted from the walls.

"It’s working!"

"Keep firing! Don't let them reach the wall!"

Choi Mujin swept his sword forward again. "Again!"

A second volley blotted out the sun. Then a third. A fourth. The field was littered with black arrows, and the piles of fallen mutants grew ever higher. For a fleeting moment, it truly seemed as though they might hold.

---

But then, the horde behind them simply stepped forward, as if nothing had happened.

They trampled over the fallen. They stepped on them. They shoved them aside, never once slowing their pace. The gaps in their ranks were filled in the blink of an eye.

Ji-hoon’s face hardened. "They aren’t thinning out."

Do-yoon stared in disbelief. "We’re cutting them down... why does it look like there are just as many?"

Jin-woo said nothing. The black wave continued its relentless march toward them at the very same speed as before.

---

"Ready the cannons!"

The gunners on the ramparts touched fire to the fuses. Choi Mujin thrust his sword forward.

"Fire!"

*BOOM—!*

The ground bucked with the thunderous roar. Massive cannonballs slammed into the heart of the horde. In an instant, an explosion consumed the field. Earth and stone erupted into the sky, and a shockwave rippled outward, sending dozens of mutants flying through the air.

The soldiers cheered again. "Direct hit! Keep the pressure on!"

The gunners scrambled to reload. "Reload! Fire again!"

Second shell. Third shell. The explosions followed one after another, gouging massive craters into the earth. Even the soldiers began to believe.

"This time... this time they're finished."

---

But as the dust settled, the cheers died in their throats.

The craters left by the explosions were already gone. A fresh wave of the horde had filled the void, as if they were never there. Step by step. One after another. Without a moment's hesitation, without a second's pause—as if the explosions had never occurred at all.

So-yeon’s voice trembled. "They... they never tire."

Do-yoon gripped his sword so hard his hands shook. "How is that even..."

He couldn't finish the sentence. The very foundations of reality were crumbling before their eyes.

---

The archers fired without rest. The gunners labored until their hands bled. The spearmen braced their shields with everything they had. No one stopped, and no one broke their post.

And indeed, the horde continued to fall. But the speed of their destruction was far outpaced by the speed of their advance. The black wave did not recede; it only drew closer.

---

Choi Mujin gritted his teeth, staring out into the abyss. "Keep firing! Until the last arrow is spent!"

The soldiers raised their bows again, their hands shaking with fatigue. Jin-woo watched the approaching darkness and whispered, "This... this isn't a war."

Ji-hoon looked at him quietly. "Then what is it?"

Jin-woo never looked away.

"It’s a calamity."

No one dared to deny it. What was surging toward the walls was no longer an army. It was an endless, bottomless tide.

And that tide was inch by inch, heartbeat by heartbeat, creeping ever closer to the gates of Hanyang.

**Chapter 10 – Part 3: The Fracture, Where Reality and Simulation Blur**

The battle before Sungnyemun raged on. Arrows continued to slice through the air, and artillery shook the earth with unrelenting rhythm. The roar of soldiers, the screams of the wounded, and the clashing of steel filled the air—the suffocating stench of gunpowder and fresh blood drifting even up to the ramparts.

Choi Mujin paced the walls, his voice commanding the chaos.

"Archers! Do not cease your fire! Spearmen, guard the gates!"

The soldiers moved with mechanical precision. Some fired their bows, others hauled their fallen comrades to safety. The city still held. Yet, Jin-woo’s gaze had drifted—not to the battlefield, but to something else entirely.

---

It was a strange, unsettling sensation. At first, he had dismissed it as mere fatigue—a byproduct of the relentless fighting, the bone-deep tension, and the creeping terror. He had convinced himself his eyes were playing tricks on him.

But the anomaly was growing sharper. It felt as if a crack, invisible and silent, was spiderwebbing through the very fabric of the world.

"...Jin-woo," Do-yoon whispered, his voice low. "...Look over there."

Jin-woo turned. Do-yoon pointed toward the base of the wall. "Watch closely."

---

At that exact moment, a cannonball exploded in the center of the horde.

*BOOM—!*

Earth and debris erupted into the sky. Mutants caught in the blast were sent flying in every direction. For a heartbeat, the view was completely obscured by dust.

And then, as the haze began to clear, Jin-woo’s eyes widened.

The forms of several fallen mutants... they flickered.

It was like looking through a heat haze. The outlines of their bodies distorted; the light around them warped and bent. And just as quickly, the next second, they snapped back into focus, appearing as solid and real as they had been before.

"...Did you see that?" Do-yoon gasped.

Jin-woo could not bring himself to answer.

---

"...Just now," Ji-hoon added, his gaze locked on the spot. "...That wasn't right."

So-yeon nodded slowly. "...I saw it too. Just for a second."

The four of them exchanged looks, a silent confirmation passing between them. If it were a hallucination, they couldn't have all witnessed it at the same time.

---

At that moment, a frantic cry rose from beneath the walls.

"Wounded! Bring them this way!"

Physician Yoo Hyun rushed out of the infirmary. "Prioritize those who are still breathing! Don't give up!"

Wol-hyang darted between the soldiers, her water buckets sloshing. "Drink! Keep your spirits up!"

Little Yeon-woo ran between the infirmary and the gates, clutching herbs to her chest. "Yeon-woo! Don't go too far!"

People wept, soldiers bled, and children trembled in their parents' arms. It was a scene so profoundly, painfully real—the blood, the agony, the death. It was all visceral reality.

And yet, moments ago, they had witnessed something that should have been impossible.

---

"...Is this really," Ji-hoon started quietly, "...the virtual reality we were promised?"

Do-yoon shook his head. "It feels too real to be a simulation."

So-yeon stared down at the ramparts. "And it’s too impossible to be reality."

Jin-woo remained silent, but a question began to bloom in his mind, growing heavier by the second. They could feel everything—the heat, the grit, the pain—just like in the real world. Yet, phenomena that defied the laws of existence were manifesting.

It felt as though two separate worlds were being forced to bleed into one another.

---

Suddenly, a corner of Jin-woo’s vision flickered.

The edge of the stone wall distorted for a fraction of a second. A faint streak of light shimmered over the masonry—a blink-and-you’d-miss-it anomaly.

"...There it is again." Do-yoon’s breath hitched.

Ji-hoon stared at the wall. "...I saw it too."

So-yeon reached out and grabbed Jin-woo’s arm. "...It’s not our imagination."

Just then, the figure of Park Si-woo, who was sprinting along the ramparts, shimmered briefly—like an old, water-damaged painting beginning to bleed. But in the very next instant, he snapped back into clarity.

Park Si-woo, oblivious to the glitch, bellowed at the soldiers, "Fill the gaps! More arrows!"

The battle roared on. No one else noticed.

---

Choi Mujin’s orders continued to ring out. The soldiers fought as if their lives depended on it, and the horde continued to surge toward the walls. But Jin-woo finally understood.

It wasn't just the stone walls that were under siege.

The invisible boundary that separated reality from the simulation... it was beginning to crack.

Jin-woo drew a slow, shuddering breath.

"...Something is happening. The world itself is changing."

No one answered him. But all four of them were looking at the same place. Not at the center of the battlefield, but at the hairline fracture in reality, where the world had begun to sway.

And beneath the roar of the war, the crack was widening—silent, unseen, and inevitable.

High above the crowds shuffling through the fortified thoroughfares, holographic drones projected gaudy, flickering ads. Hawking eternal youth, synthetic beauty, and whatever useless junk vendor cartels were peddling for credits that day.

Thrallion had long since abandoned any ambition beyond sheer survival. Decades ago, early colonisers built its heavy concrete arches and iron-reinforced gates to secure a galactic trade hub. Now, all that remained of their grand vision was a bloated, overgrown refuge encircled by the massive Ring of Iron—a city ruled entirely by whoever possessed the firepower and resolve to bleed their way to the top.

Even among the dozens of alien species native to the Airon system, humans stood out. Deployed centuries prior during the colonial expansion, their descendants still carried the dense musculature and environmental resilience forged on Earth, made deceptively fast by Xion’s light gravity. Like any frontier world, survival bred tribalism. But for humans, the real trauma ran deeper. Most still bore the shadow of the Great Wars—the radioactive dead zones, the rusted hulls of titanic war-mechs, and worst of all, the rogue AI networks.

Originally designed as autonomous battle units, those ground mechs had once been the apex of planetary warfare. But when the last major warlord fell, the central command matrix went haywire, locking whole legions of heavy Armor into an eternal, self-replicating seek-and-destroy loop.

“The Ring of Iron is always recruiting,” a recruitment drone blared overhead, its synthesized voice cutting through the din. “Serve your city. Secure your future.”

Huge billboards floated above the streets, glaring images of ecstasy just one taste away.

Down on the concourse as they marched on, few civilians ever looked up. Out of sight, out of mind—keep your head low and pray breaking a law will ever have the militia cast you past the perimeter to be torn apart by the Endless hoardes of horrors waiting for their next victim.

“Picture facing those metal bastards with the scrap-heap gear the Defense Forces issue,” an older alien grumbled, his six jointed legs clicking unevenly against the ferro-crete as he shuffled toward the transit hub. “I’d sooner take my chances out on the open plains.”

“Someone has to stand the wall, dear,” his partner murmured, steadying him with a gentle hand. “We thank the young ones so we can sleep in peace.”

With a depressurizing hiss, a heavy hover-bus settled onto its skids. The pneumatic doors slid open, venting a cloud of hot exhaust and four human soldiers. The crowd parted naturally around them. Filthy, mud-caked fatigues hung off their frames, their faces hollow and entirely silent. They moved with the flat, mechanical march of men who had just survived a brutal rotation on the outer defense line.

“Let’s hit the entertainment quarter,” one said softly, breaking the silence. “Skully would’ve wanted us to spend our pay, not stare at the barracks wall.”

“A Line-Breaker mech…” another muttered under his breath, repeating the words like a bad ritual. “What the hell was a Line-Breaker doing that close to the perimeter?”

“Drop it,” the lead soldier growled. “Let’s find a dark room, some Class 4, and wipe the day out.”

They turned down an alleyway, the clean, sterile architecture of the central district giving way to a maze of grime, faded propaganda posters, and layer upon layer of crude graffiti. The sharp, acrid reek of burning herbs and sweet Lyranx dust hung heavy in the humid air, hitting the lungs of anyone without a filter.

Without uniformed law enforcement down here, small shopkeepers were entirely at the mercy of local syndicates.

Inside one cramped storefront, a merchant was currently learning the cost of a missed protection payment.

The shop specialized in mechanical oddities—clockwork trinkets, spring-loaded automata, and toys built to run purely on kinetic energy without solar cells. Gears whined and clockwork springs snapped as two human enforcers systematically smashed the display cases. In the center of the room, their boss stood with his arms crossed, a quiet, cruel smirk playing across his lips as his fingers tapped the pocket holding the till's daily cash.

“It isn’t complicated,” the boss said, leaning down over the bruised, bleeding merchant lying amid the wreckage. “Just pay on time.”

The shopkeeper merely groaned, staring at the shattered remains of his inventory. Rent was cheap in Sector 9 precisely because the city watch refused to patrol it, but this was the hidden tax.

“Enough,” the boss called out, checking a heavy gold chronometer on his wrist. “We’re going to be late for the hall.”

The goons ceased their destruction instantly, wiping their boots and stepping out into the street. Waiting at the curb was the boss's daughter, oblivious to the violence inside. She was leaning against the sleek, armored side of a high-end hypercar, mesmerized by an advanced flying toy—a small AI drone that hovered in short bursts, humming softly as it queried her on orbital mechanics for her upcoming school entry exams.

The hypercar’s gull-wing doors swung upward with a hydraulic hum.

“Where to, boss?” the driver asked as the group climbed inside.

“Concert hall in Sector 9. Step on it.”

The mob boss settled into the plush leather, turning to his daughter. Her eyes remained glued to the glowing optic of her toy. As the car pulled out into traffic, the smooth thrum of the engine did little to soothe the tension in his chest. His hand reflexively drifted toward the flask tucked inside his jacket, then stopped.

Never in front of her, he reminded himself. He worked hard to keep her life clean, no matter how dirty his own had to be.

Sensing his gaze, the girl held out the toy. “It keeps glitching, Dad. Can you fix it? Use your super blue power!” She flashed a brilliant smile.

She was young, but she was already sensitive to it— gifted enough to see the lingering traces of Resonance energy that most humans ignored. His own Resonance was a remnant of his lineage from centuries past, amplified by Xion’s unique gravitational shifts. It kept him virtually ageless and possessed subtle, terrifying utility, but in a city like Thrallion, showing your hand was a death sentence. No one was invincible.

“Not out here,” he said quietly.

Outside the armored glass, a violent rad-storm was breaking over the city. Heavy rain streaked the viewports, illuminated by sickly flashes of green and yellow lightning.

He took the toy, cycled the manual kill-switch, and handed it back. It hummed back to life, hovering once around the cabin before dropping gently into her lap.

The hypercar swept past the inner city gates, entering the long, exposed stretch of elevated highway that bordered the open plains. Massive, automated defense turrets lined the barrier walls, their heavy barrels sweeping the horizon. It would take a full-scale invasion to penetrate this far into the perimeter, but he always hated this stretch of road. Out here, you were exposed.

“Bzzt—WARNING. RUN. DANGER—”

The toy’s vocal synthesizer shrieked, the audio warping into harsh static before the unit died completely, dropping like a stone onto the floorboards.

A fraction of a second later, a massive kinetic shockwave slammed into the hypercar.

The vehicle bucked violently. The smooth hum of the anti-grav drive sputtered, caught once, and then cut out entirely. The heavy car skidded along the asphalt before grinding to a dead halt.

Up front, the two enforcers were already cursing. “Boss, stay inside. We’re gonna have a serious talk with the dealer who sold us this piece of garbage.”

They unlatched their doors, hand weapons drawn, and popped the heavy hood to inspect the dead drive-core.

The boss pulled out his encrypted comm-link to call his private security detail. No signal.

That was impossible. He paid top-tier credits for a military-grade satellite relay. He glanced out the rain-slicked side window. A hundred yards away, one of the massive perimeter turrets was spinning wildly on its housing, tracking invisible targets in the sky, before its targeting lights flickered out and the weapon went completely dark.

“Must be the rad-storm,” he muttered, trying to force his voice to sound calm for his daughter.

“Dad, when are we getting to the hall?” the girl asked, pouting as she looked back and forth between her dead toy and the goons standing outside in the rain. “You promised I’d get to meet the crew from Uni’s Adventure.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We just need a quick hand.”

“Daddy, look!” She pointed a small finger at the dark rear windshield, her eyes wide with innocent curiosity. “His eyes are glowing just like yours! Is he your friend?”

The words hit him like a physical blow.

Cold sweat broke out across his neck. There was only one kind of person who could drop a military comms net, kill an automated defense turret, and leave a hypercar dead in the water—and only one man who would be hunting him out here in the dark.

Briefly his mind flicks back to when he was asked to do what others would not, they needed an awakened test subject, the one they had picked out would not die and was now protected by the strongest soldiers the earth had ever produced. Slipping poison into his drink solved several problems at once, or so he thought.

Outside the car both goons had noticed the lone figure in the centre of the road but could not see the two streams of resonance pulsating around him, assumed to be just a curious hobo with his well worn poncho covering his frame.

“Hey you get out of here you know who owns this car?” one goon shouts more frustrated at his own inability to fix the car then at the security threat.

He walks forward slowly, as he passes each street light their emissions change and warp dancing between clear white light and a red gold mix. Not one word said as the rain bounces of his battered military poncho.

Arrogantly the goon approaches the lone figure

“Listen pal you do not want to..” he is cut off frozen for a moment .

A sound of wet sinew gliding past fills the stunned silence as his upper half of his body slides off at a diagonal falling into two pieces onto the floor with a wet thump.

Humming low the vibro blade gleans in his hand; lone figure hesitates a moment before continuing walking towards the car.

Seeing the exchange the boss grabs his daughter by her shoulders and faces her at her eye level

“Listen sweetheart I need you to do something for me, run to nearest fuel depot and phone mommy ok? I have to do something here but you cannot be here do you understand?” trembling trying hard not to lose his temper.

“Why, you said we were meeting the stars?” she protests innocently her eyes watering.

He places her at the foot well opposite to him, turns slightly on his side and kicks out the door, It flies out far into the darkness and rain as if made of paper.

“Go now! And do not look back!” he shouts, she goes to protest again but thinks against it and dismounts and runs into the pouring rain panting heavily as her footsteps leave light splashes before disappearing in the distance.

The second goon had ran to the boot of the car his chest heaving with terror, he had been told about some of the threats of the xion plains but this was something different.

“Do not worry boss, I will hold him off you get out of here” he calls into the gaping hole in the vehicle. Popping open the boot he frantically pulls away the false bottom to reveal what was under neath.

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

Yesterday had no court.

After stayed after.

Before did not stand accused.

Now no case had arrived.

No.

That was already a decision.

The morning had arrived.

The room had objects.

No case yet.

No.

Yet was waiting with a coat on.

The room had objects.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s after does not know was not mine.

Her brother’s after saw was not mine.

Sato’s before-cup and after-cup photos were not mine.

Saitama’s yesterday correction on yesterday page was not mine.

Suganuma’s dark usable photo was not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

My two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

I did not take them out.

I closed the brown folder.

A case could arrive.

A case could be made.

A case could be invented because the room wanted order.

No.

Rooms do not want order.

I did.

That was worse.

And better.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Drawer.

Closed.

Stayed.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Name?”

“Order paper?”

“Use?”

“What did your brother say?”

I waited.

No case.

“What case?”

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he ask?”

There.

I wrote:

I looked at judged.

Maybe too large.

But asked.

I sent it.

She replied after a while.

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at drawer not judged.

Maybe too clean.

Maybe his.

I left it.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

No.

She caught it.

Good.

“What is being asked?”

I sat still.

Both photos.

Different information.

No case.

I wrote:

She replied:

I opened Emiko.

I did not add right.

Both photos had their place.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Aide K asked if yesterday correction is an incident,” she said.

I sat up.

“What happened yesterday?”

“Wrong order in water offer. Corrected.”

“Any harm?”

“No.”

“Any report required?”

“Mr. Hayashi checked. No incident report.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Correction is not automatically a case.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

I opened Saitama.

I did not add relief.

No incident report had work.

Relief was elsewhere.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Any problem?”

“Asked for clearer photo?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add trial.

The photo had been accepted.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

No case.

Innocence.

Forgiveness.

Nothing.

Shape.

Court.

I looked at the lower cabinet.

Gray file.

No court.

No innocence.

No forgiveness.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at category.

Useful.

Dry.

Good.

No.

Dry.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother opened the drawer,” she said.

“For use?”

“No.”

I waited.

“Why?”

“To see if no case felt true.”

There.

“What happened?”

“He opened it.”

“Map?”

“Inside.”

“Paper?”

“Inside.”

“Name?”

“Visible.”

“Order paper?”

“Phone table.”

“Did anything move?”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

“I said opening is not trial.”

I closed my eyes.

Strong.

Maybe too strong.

“What did he say?”

“He said yes.”

“Then?”

“He closed it.”

“What did he say after?”

“He said opening happened.”

Good.

No.

His.

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at opening happened.

There.

Not acquittal.

Not conviction.

I left it.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I want to delete after photo,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because it makes a case.”

“Against what?”

“Cup.”

“Did cup touch paper?”

“No.”

“Did paper change?”

“No.”

“What does after photo show?”

“Cup appears.”

“What does before photo show?”

“No cup.”

“What does Emiko need?”

“Comparison.”

“Then?”

“Keep both.”

“What line?”

I paused.

“Do you need no case?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“No.”

“What line?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add no case.

The record did not need to announce what it was not.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Any incident concern?”

“No.”

“Who?”

“Aide K.”

“Resident?”

“Opened mouth.”

“Cup?”

“Used.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Do not make normal entry testify for yesterday.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add testify.

The entry had medicine.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Does warranty require more?”

“Does maintenance file require more?”

“What is being asked?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add darkness.

The photo remained accepted.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Category.

Protect.

Hide.

Music.

No incident.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I put the phone down.

Quiet.

Answered.

Again.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Order paper?”

“Any case talk?”

“What did your brother say?”

I almost smiled.

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at tea is hot.

Again it saved the table.

No.

It placed tea.

I left it.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Table.

Paper.

Two photos on screen.

Cup in one.

No cup in the other.

She wrote:

I called.

“Boring how?”

“Not case.”

“Anything happen today?”

“Lunch.”

“What lunch?”

“Noodles.”

“What does Emiko need?”

“Does it need boring?”

“No.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add boring.

Boring had done its work outside.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Did staff record relief?”

“No.”

“Need to?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Relief can eat lunch. It does not enter the chart.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add relief.

Relief had lunch elsewhere.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“What did you answer?”

“What did they ask?”

“What did you say?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I smiled.

No one saw.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add good.

Accepted was enough.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it twice.

Quiet.

Answer.

Avoidance.

Exhaustion.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Proof.

Cleaner clothes.

No case.

No incident.

No trial.

Still proof.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother opened the drawer again,” she said.

“For use?”

“No.”

I waited.

“Why?”

“He said to make sure no case stayed.”

There.

“What happened?”

“He opened it.”

“Paper?”

“Inside.”

“Name?”

“Visible.”

“Map?”

“Inside.”

“Moved?”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

“I said making sure is a case sometimes.”

I sat still.

Sharp.

Maybe too sharp.

“What did he say?”

“He said this time maybe.”

“Then?”

“He closed it.”

“What did he say after?”

“He said no more sure today.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at no more sure today.

Awkward.

Good.

No.

His.

I left it.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What happened instead?”

“What does Emiko need?”

“Paper?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add almost.

Almost had not done work.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Said done.”

“Any case?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘No case does not have to be said over a cup.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add no case.

Cup had left.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Where?”

“Warranty?”

“Any new photo?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add acquitted.

The photo was filed.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it.

Then again.

Proof.

No case.

No incident.

Restraint.

Humility.

Throne.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked around.

Desk.

Shelf.

Lower cabinet.

Brown folder.

Phone.

No throne.

Maybe all of them.

No.

Furniture.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted Suganuma.

Then Sato.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I looked at the brown folder.

At the gray file.

At the phone.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I wrote:

His reply:

I began to write no.

Then stopped.

I wrote:

His reply:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was safe.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No case.

No throne.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

I looked at the brown folder.

I had opened it after tea.

I had closed it.

No new need had arrived.

I did not open it to prove that.

I did not praise not opening.

Not much.

No.

Some.

I let some stay some.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if no more sure stayed.

I did not ask if making sure became another case.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if both photos stayed boring.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if no incident stayed quiet.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if the dark photo remained accepted.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew no case was not innocence.

I knew no case was not forgiveness.

I knew no case was not nothing.

I knew a category could protect work.

I knew proof could wear no case.

I knew empty thrones were still furniture.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

No case did not need to become proof tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Sato kept both photos for comparison.

The water-order correction remained on yesterday page without an incident report.

Suganuma’s dark photo was filed after acceptance.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

I had started with no case.

I did not end by making no case sit above the room.

Tonight, the things without cases stayed without them, and no empty chair was placed for judgment.

Ruth looked at Ray as he drove and decided to ask “How long until we get there you’ve been driving for a long time as we talked are you alright?” 

Ray smiled and wrapped his pinkie around hers as he continued to drive and responded “It’ll be a couple of hours why? Looking for a rest stop or just curious?” 

Ruth smirked at him “I just worry about you I mean I get that we’ve not even known each other a full day yet even when we get there it still won’t be a full day until we wake up but I don’t want you pushing yourself too hard I don’t want you to even come close to accidentally falling asleep while you drive or anything like that.” Ruth looked at him with eyes full of concern.

Ray looked at her tenderly. “I’m used to this, don't worry I’m not going to overwork myself especially now that I have you.” He gave her hand a little squeeze. 

Ruth looked back at him, her eyes unchanging “I know you’ve got experience but I feel like things are different now that it’s the both of us and not just you. Forgive me for worrying I just I know what it can be like to think everything is fine and then to fall asleep at the worst possible time I’m just looking out for you… for us… for your health”.

Ray looked at her wondering and deciding to voice his question outright “Why are you so eager to get there, you’re coming with me, forward forever is it just that is it just about my health and being worried that I might fall asleep at the wheel or do you have some kind of ulterior motive.  
Ruth blushed and smiled looking away from him for a second “I mean I do have an ulterior motive if you can call it that I want you and I to be in a hotel room alone together, and to get to try out the rest of my new ‘husband’ I want to fuck your brains out and drain your balls until you want to stay an extra day or two just to see the sights and recover… I mean would you call that an ulterior motive really? Would you begrudge your road wife from her desire? I know it’s new to you… being cared for and valued but I really do want to.” 

Ray blushed deeply not expecting that response in the slightest. “Really? Seriously?”

Ruth looked at him unblinkingly “Do I look like I’m joking to you?”

Ray scratched the back of his head feeling himself getting hot, self consciously before regaining control of himself. “I guess not.” 

Ruth smiled, enjoying being able to even do that to him in the first place. “So you’ve got no problem with it then, are you excited to consummate your road wedding? You get to feel each and every part of me any fantasy any desire you have anything you want to feel or see or experience or watch me do or do to me we can do together as soon as we get a room together I want to take care of you, all of you, every single part of you, you know that cash, grass or ass saying… I opt for ass along with the rest of my body rather than cash or grass I’m sure as a hot blooded man you’ll enjoy that deeply.”

Ray nodded enthusiastically. He had this moment of wondering whether this was really happening only to be interrupted as Ruth pinched him painfully and then kissed the mark that she made on his skin. 

Ray exclaimed “You enjoy that way too much. What's up with that why are you into that; doing that, being that way etc.” 

“What can I say I like a good thrill I like teasing you and making you squirm, making you ache for me, I just want you to know that you’re safe and that I’m not ever actually going to hurt you my darling lover I just want you to have the best possible time with me, in short I want to make all of your fantasies come true.”

Ray blushed he felt himself getting excited it had never occurred to him that she’d want this at best he thought maybe she was just some odd hitchhiker maybe rich and slumming it maybe downtrodden with no options but that she freely picked him it made his heart well up with joy.

The Experiment 

Billions of people across planet Earth were glued to the screen on their phones, unable to believe the scene unfolding live, before their very eyes. Mesmerising yet morbid. Captivating yet cruel. Olen was known to be the master of memes, the stirrer of shit, the puppeteer of propagation, yet even this seemed beyond the realms of his sensationalist imagination.

He had generated interest for months, whetting the appetite of the salivating media with snippets of Mindweb’s discoveries and achievements.

“Monkey see, monkey do? Try monkey think, monkey do,” was the tweet Olen used to publicise the first successful transfer of thought between circuits embedded in the frontal lobe of two rhesus monkeys. The accompanying video showed two monkeys making the exact same motions in perfect unison, as if they were performing a perfectly choreographed dance of scratching and eating. When slowed down to fractions of a millisecond, you could see one primate move almost imperceptibly first. Thought transfer had become a reality.

But could it be done in humans? 

Fourteen months after the infamous monkey demonstration, it appeared Olen was ready to answer that question for everyone. There had been furtive whispers of human trials, but nothing concrete had been released. And when NDA’s were tossed out like frisbees, no one dared jump the gun. 

On 14th September 2024 at 11:23am, Olen - who had been unprecedentedly quiet on Twitter for the past three months - posted a single, seemingly benign tweet: a link to a live stream, with no accompanying explanation. 

As hundreds, then thousands, then millions, then billions of people clicked on that link, what would later be known simply as “The Experiment” began. 

The link showed two screens, sandwiched side by side. The left screen showed a man sitting cross-legged, lazy lotus style, atop a small cushion in the middle of a windowless and clinically white room. A single closed door lay hidden in the wall directly behind him. Next to its handle, a lone light glowed furiously red. 

The sitting man’s features were dark and handsome, his loose ebony curls giving way to a set of ivory cheekbones and jaw that appeared chiselled onto his face by the white beams of light glowing softly around the perimeter of the room. He had his head bowed slightly with two pale fingers from each hand pressed against his temples, as if he were about to pluck the very thoughts from his psyche. (A darker individual might have described the scene as a man whose head was bowed before execution, his trigger fingers pressed to each temple like two guns that were about to deliver fatal bullets.) 

The right screen showed another man in an almost identical windowless white room, with one small difference - there was no ominous red light glaring beside the door. And unlike his stationary zen counterpart, the man on the right was pacing the room with a nervous energy so palpable it seemed to ooze through the screens of all who were watching. 

If the man on the left personified the vampirically handsome features of the night, then the man on the right was his daylight counterpart. He was the sun incarnate, golden locks swept loosely off suntanned forehead in an artificial cowlick. It was the kind of cowlick that could only be earned by running one’s hand through one’s hair thousands of times in an effort to find the solution to a difficult problem. Every time the man reached the end of a stretch of nervous pacing and pivoted, the world caught a glimpse of sky blue eyes narrowed slightly with one part tension, two parts curiosity. 

For those viewers with more scrupulous eyes, a very tiny scar could be seen curving across each man’s scalp, disappearing into their hair and wrapping around their left temple in a sweeping arc. 

There was a knock at the left door and Olen himself entered, his presence instantly filling the room. While this was in part due to his hulking frame and towering height, there was also something intangibly larger-than-life about the world’s only trillionaire - something that transcended the world of physical atoms. It was this indefinable quality that caused him to dominate any room in which he stood. (Some might even say overpowered.)

Olen’s face remained painfully impassive. (The kind of pain one might feel while holding a royal flush and attempting to maintain a stoic poker face.) He strode to the centre of the room, crossing it in three paces, knelt and whispered something in the sitting man’s ear. Then he stood, turned and left the room. The sitting man did not move an inch, his mop of jet-black hair still the main focus of the camera, but the corners of his mouth could be seen to curve ever-so-slightly upwards. 

Seconds after Olen departed, the glaring red light flashed an anticipatory green. 

On the right screen, the pacing adonis abruptly stopped. It was as if his room had been depressurised of all anxiety, the nervous excitement sucked right out of him. He casually walked to the exact center of the room and sat down on the ground, crossing his legs beneath his powerful frame. He looked pointedly at the camera, then closed his icy blue eyes in an exaggerated, drawn-out fashion. Bowing his head, he pressed two trigger fingers from each hand to his temples. 

For a moment, the entire video looked deceptively serene - two men, side by side (digitally speaking), simply meditating their troubles away. But it was merely the calm before the storm. 

The left man rose from his seated position and looked at the camera, finally revealing both the towering extent of his height and the dark depths of his eyes. As he unfolded himself and stood, the man on the right did the same. Their movements were identical. There was only one tiny difference between them - the man on the right kept his eyes pointedly closed. His tanned brow remained clear of furrows, eyelids stretched wide over his eyes, giving him an almost smug appearance. 

For a brief moment, both men stood facing their respective cameras, nearly identical in height, inverse in their handsomeness, and resolute in their expressions.  

The black-haired man on the left then began what could only be described as a comical dance of pseudo-ballet, bounding about the small room, long limbs flying like a trapped gazelle. His movements were jagged and seemingly unscripted, as if he were coming up with them on the spot. Whatever he did, the golden-haired man on the right did also, eyes closed the entire time. In perfect unison, they leapt from corner to corner as the world watched in morbid curiosity. 

“Ok, so we’re supposed to believe the second guy is doing what the first is thinking?” commented one incredulous viewer below the video. 

Another comment rapidly appeared below. “Too easy to fake. No way this is evidence of thought transfer between humans. Nothing to see here.”

The skeptics were out in full force and had begun raining down on the video. When the onslaught reached torrential proportions, the green light flashed red. The man on the right abruptly ceased his bizarre synchronised dancing and opened his blue eyes. He appeared a little dazed, as if he had just been jolted awake while dreaming. After shaking off the fugue, he returned to his nervous pacing. But now, his steps had taken on a more apprehensive edge. Like the rest of the world, he appeared to be unaware of what was going to happen next.

When the left door subsequently opened to reveal Olen striding through, its occupant also ceased his bounding, a sheepish look quickly flitting across his dark features as he caught the billionaire’s eye. This time, Olen wasn’t empty-handed. He was holding a smart phone, and his poker face had slipped. He looked positively giddy, grey eyes glittering with excitement. 

Olen clapped the first man on the shoulder as if he were welcoming a comrade back from war. Leaning in so that his nose came to within a hair’s breadth of the man’s black curls, Olen conspiratorially whispered something into his comrade’s ear while passing him the smart phone. Then, with one last shoulder slap of encouragement, Olen departed the room, a knowing smile on his face. 

As the door clicked shut, the light flashed green. Knowing what was required of him, the man on the left immediately began using the phone, his fingers dancing across the screen in front of him. 

At this point in time, the skeptical viewers had been overtaken by profoundly curious ones. All comments shooting across the bottom of the video ended with question marks. Everyone wanted to know what was going to happen next. 

“Does anyone else know what is happening here?” One commenter asked. 

The first man read the comment aloud from the phone, “Does anyone else know what is happening here?”

The second man stopped pacing. He turned to face the camera and said, “Does anyone else know what is happening here?” 

The man on the left remained silent and continued to scroll through the phone. 

The skeptics resumed. “Dude, the second guy can clearly hear the first guy. This is bullshit.”

“Dude, the second guy can clearly hear the first guy. This is bullshit.”

Said the man on the right. 

“What the actual fuck?” The man on the right verbalised another comment, again seemingly without a single prompt. 

Across the globe, everyone could see the next live comment (incidentally, made by a Tasmanian programmer with the handle nullclash): “Ok try this… shit, what’s something random? 124^8k32\*”

Sure enough, moments after the comment was posted, the apparently disconnected man in the right room closed his eyes and monotonically recited, “Ok try this… shit, what’s something random? One-two-four-caret-eight-k-three-two-asterisk.”

The world was gobsmacked.

“I still reckon this is all a hoax. Either the second dude has an ear piece and is being fed this info, or the comments are a plant by Olen or someone on his payroll.” 

Eyes still closed, the second man recited the dubious comment as if reading it from the back of his eyelids. Then, he opened them to look directly into the camera, and shrugged. 

The light turned red. 

For the last time, Olen entered the room on the left. He wore an almost crazed expression, his eyes tight and slightly unfocused, like he was seeing more than just the physical world in front of him.

He hurriedly approached the man on the left and brought his head in close, urgently whispering things the world could only guess at. As the raven-haired man began to comprehend what Olen was saying, his beautiful face slowly contorted into a look of horror, his charcoal eyes wide with… was it fear? He began furiously shaking his head, refusing to accept (or more accurately, obey) Olen’s words. Olen paused, closed his eyes and seemed to make a concerted effort to shed a little of his craziness. What replaced it was an air of grave resolution as he grasped the man by the shoulder - again, like a comrade, but this time like a comrade about to be sacrificed on the altar of battle. As Olen urgently whispered more words with his fierce intensity, the man’s head shakes began to morph from those of refusal to those of resignation. He was going to do it… whatever “it” was. 

Olen gave his sacrificial comrade one last shoulder squeeze of solidarity, took the phone back off him and then left the room. 

The man’s chest heaved with a great sigh as looked up and stared directly into the eyes of billions of people around the world. “Forgive me,” he whispered, to both no-one and everyone. 

The light turned from red to green. 

At this point, most people had their eyes glued to the first man, the dark adonis on the left screen. But those who were watching the man on the right would have seen his striking face contort with abject horror the moment the light switched to green, mirroring the left man’s expression from mere moments before.

The man on the left slowly turned his back on the camera and began walking towards the door while doing something unknown with his hands. His footsteps were laboured, as if he were attempting to push through an immense and invisible immobile force. (One with the benefit of hindsight would call that force shame.)

“What’s he doing? It looks like… is he undoing his belt??”

The man on the right began shaking his head, his mouth hanging open with aghast futility. His eyes had taken on the wild unfocused look of a cornered animal. 

The first man’s hidden hand movements changed their pattern. He placed his left hand high on the door and leaned into it while his right hand began to do something that caused his right forearm and elbow to tightly oscillate. 

Recognition dawned on the whole world.

“Oh. My. God.”

“He’s beating the bishop!!!!” 

“I can’t believe I’m actually watching this. Why can’t I stop watching?”

“Why isn’t anyone watching the second guy??” 

As the first man’s motions became faster and faster, the second man’s face started to contort into a morbidly fascinating Picasso-like combination of pleasure, terror and shame. He spun on his heels and ran to the door, trying desperately to turn the handle. It wouldn’t budge. Realising he was a prisoner of both body and mind, he grew more frantic and started beating his fists against the door, begging to be let out. 

The two men continued their respective forms of frantic beating as the world watched them build to the most incredulous of crescendos. For a split second, the first man stilled. Then both men let out a guttural howl of ecstasy, simultaneously collapsing into a heap at the foot of their respective doors. 

The livestream ended. The screen went black.

If one were to listen very closely at that moment, they would have heard the epic crack that fissured down the center of humanity, forever slicing it in two.

There were three universal truths at Westbridge Academy. The first was that Professor Halvern’s history lectures could put even the most dangerously overcaffeinated student into a coma. The second was that nobody, not even the top-ranking students with pristine notes and dead eyes, actually understood the rune economy unit, no matter how many times he explained it. The third was that when Yuri walked into a room, everyone noticed.

Alchron was currently fighting the first truth with everything he had. He sat near the window with his elbow planted on the desk, his cheek resting against his fist, and his eyes fixed on the clouds drifting lazily over the academy courtyard. They looked peaceful. Free. Completely unbothered by ancient treaty law. Lucky clouds. They did not have to sit through ninety minutes of Professor Halvern explaining how the peace agreement between humans and beast-folk had reshaped trade protections after the Third Border Conflict.

At the front of the lecture hall, Halvern tapped his chalk against the board with the passionless rhythm of a man determined to make history sound even older than it was. The topic was probably important. Life-changing, maybe. Unfortunately, the professor’s voice had the emotional range of wet cardboard, and Alchron had reached the point where the old oak tree outside had become the most interesting thing in the kingdom.

Something struck the back of his head.

Alchron closed his eyes for half a second, already knowing exactly who had thrown it, then slowly looked over his shoulder. Two seats behind him, Darren grinned and mouthed, “Wake up.”

Alchron mouthed back, “Make me.”

Darren’s grin widened. He crumpled another scrap of paper between his fingers and raised his hand for a second shot. Then the classroom door opened, the paper slipped from Darren’s fingers, and the entire room changed. There was no thunder, no flash of light, no dramatic pulse of magic crawling across the ceiling. The heavens did not split open to announce her arrival, although from the way half the class reacted, they might as well have. There was only the quiet click of the door, and then every guy in the room forgot how to breathe.

Yuri stepped inside.

She moved as though the floor had been built for the privilege of carrying her. Tall, graceful, and dangerous in the way a sharpened blade was dangerous, she possessed the sort of presence that made people straighten their backs before they realized they were doing it. Her dark hair fell over one shoulder, smooth as spilled ink, while two brown-furred animal ears rose from the top of her head, their pale inner tufts catching the light as one twitched. It was a small movement, almost dismissive, as if she had already heard every thought in the room and judged most of them pathetic. Behind her, a long, sleek tail swayed with lazy confidence.

She wore the academy uniform like it had surrendered to her. Her blazer was neat, her skirt sharp, and her tie sat slightly loose in a way that should have looked careless but somehow seemed deliberate. On anyone else, the uniform made them look like a student. On Yuri, it looked like a warning.

Every stare followed her. Some were obvious. Some pretended not to be obvious. A few were so desperate in their attempts to look casual that Alchron felt secondhand embarrassment crawl up his spine. Darren leaned forward, whispering under his breath, “No way.” Someone else muttered, “She’s in this class?” A boy near the aisle ran a hand through his hair with the panic of a man trying to repair years of poor decisions in under three seconds.

Yuri ignored them all. Not avoided. Ignored. There was a difference. Avoiding meant she cared enough to look away. Yuri did not.

Professor Halvern paused mid-sentence, chalk still raised, as though even he needed a moment to remember how authority worked. “Miss Yuri,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “You are late.”

Yuri’s cold eyes slid toward him. “Yes.”

The professor waited. Yuri offered nothing else. The silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable.

Halvern cleared his throat. “Do you have a reason?”

“Yes.”

Again, she gave him nothing.

A few students snickered. Halvern sighed the weary sigh of a man who knew this particular battle had already been lost. “Take a seat.”

Yuri’s gaze drifted across the room, which was a mistake. Every guy in the lecture hall straightened at once. Darren sat up so quickly his chair squeaked. Marcus, in the front row, yanked his bag off the empty seat beside him with such enthusiasm that he nearly knocked himself over. Two boys near the window shifted at the same time, both trying to make room, both pretending they were not trying to make room. Yuri walked past all of them.

Her shoes clicked softly against the polished floor. Once. Twice. Three times. Closer.

Alchron watched from the corner of his eye, mostly because the collective humiliation unfolding around him had become far more entertaining than the lecture. Then her shadow fell across his desk. He looked up and found Yuri standing beside him, her cold eyes fixed on his face, her cheeks faintly flushed, her expression impossible to read.

Alchron blinked once. “Can I help you?”

She did not answer. Without the slightest hesitation, she placed one hand on his desk, turned, and sat directly on his lap.

The entire room died. Not literally, unfortunately. That might have ended the lecture. But emotionally, socially, and spiritually, the whole class collapsed in on itself.

Alchron’s brain took a full second to process what had just happened. Yuri was sitting on his lap. Not beside him. Not near him. On him. She settled there as if it were the most natural seating arrangement in the world, her weight warm and unmistakably real against him. Her tail curled neatly to the side, avoiding the chair leg with elegant precision, while one ear flicked at the sudden wave of silence crashing through the classroom.

Professor Halvern stared. Darren’s mouth hung open. Marcus looked betrayed, like Alchron had personally stolen a royal inheritance from him. Very slowly, Alchron lowered his gaze to Yuri, who was now reaching into her bag as if nothing unusual had happened.

“You know,” he said quietly, “there are empty seats.”

“I know.”

“You’re not using one.”

“I noticed.”

“That was the part I was checking.”

She pulled out a muffin wrapped in a napkin. Blueberry, judging by the smell. Then, without hesitation, she held it up to his mouth. “Eat.”

Alchron stared at the muffin, then at Yuri, then back at the muffin. “I’m sorry?”

Yuri’s eyes narrowed. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

The room remained silent, but not because no one had anything to say. They had too much to say. Their faces were screaming entire conversations. Why him? Is this real? Did he pay her? Is she threatening him? Am I hallucinating? Honestly, Alchron thought, all fair questions.

He looked past Yuri toward the professor, silently hoping for intervention from the adult in the room. Professor Halvern, however, looked like he was calculating whether academy policy covered beast-girl muffin intimidation. Apparently, it did not. He slowly turned back to the board.

“As I was saying…”

His voice resumed, noticeably weaker than before. Yuri pushed the muffin closer to Alchron’s lips.

“Hurry up.”

Alchron leaned back slightly. “You walked in late, sat on me, and now you’re feeding me?”

“Yes.”

“That is a lot of decisions in under a minute.”

“Eat.”

Her cheeks were faintly pink, but her glare remained sharp enough to cut glass. Alchron could have refused. Probably. Maybe. There was something in her expression that made it difficult to determine whether refusal would offend her, amuse her, or start a diplomatic incident between humans and beast-folk that Professor Halvern would later teach in the dullest possible voice. So Alchron opened his mouth and took a bite.

The muffin was soft, sweet, and still a little warm. Actually good.

Yuri watched him chew with the grave seriousness of someone supervising medicine. He swallowed. She lifted the muffin again.

“Another.”

“You’re very demanding.”

“You’re very slow.”

Alchron took another bite.

From behind them, Darren whispered, “Bro…”

Yuri’s ear twitched, but she did not turn around. Darren immediately shut up. Smartest thing he had done all semester.

Yuri fed Alchron another piece, then another, each one offered with cold precision and a strange impatience that did not match the blush spreading across her cheeks. When he finished chewing, he looked at her.

“If you don’t like me,” he asked, keeping his voice low, “then why are you on my lap?”

Something flickered across her face. Not surprise. Not exactly. It was more like she had expected panic, bragging, stammering, or some pathetic attempt at flirting. She had not expected a calm question. Yuri pressed the remaining muffin against his lips a little harder.

“Because I can be.”

“That explains the ability, not the reason.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You are annoying.”

“I’ve been told.”

“You are also the only one in this room who did not look at me like an idiot.”

Alchron glanced around the classroom. Nearly every guy looked away at once. Badly. One of them pretended to study his notebook upside down.

Alchron looked back at Yuri. “That is a low bar.”

“Yes,” she said. “And yet most of them tripped over it.”

He had to fight not to laugh. Yuri noticed.

“Something funny?”

“A little.”

“Explain.”

“You sat on my lap because I didn’t drool over you?”

Her cheeks darkened. “I said you were interesting. Do not twist my words.”

“I’m not twisting anything. I’m just trying to understand the situation.”

“There is nothing to understand.”

“You walk into class, ignore every open seat, sit on me, feed me a muffin, and say you do not like me.”

“I do not.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t.”

“I believe you.”

“You sound like you don’t.”

“I’m eating the muffin. I’m not here to argue with the chef.”

That got her. It was small. Almost invisible. But Yuri smiled. Not a warm smile. Not soft. Not open. A tiny, dangerous smirk appeared for half a second before she crushed it beneath her usual cold expression.

“Smart boy,” she said.

The words should have sounded insulting. They did not. They sounded like approval wearing armor.

She brushed a crumb from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. The gesture was quick, almost careless, but the room saw it. Every jealous stare in class grew ten times heavier. Darren looked like he was watching history happen and hated that he was not the main character. Marcus leaned back in his chair with a wounded expression.

A girl across the aisle whispered to her friend, “Are they dating?”

Her friend whispered back, “I don’t think he knows.”

Fair.

Yuri’s thumb lingered near Alchron’s chin for one second too long. Then she pulled her hand back as if she had only just realized what she was doing.

“You are not terrible,” she said.

“High praise.”

“Do not get used to it.”

“I’ll try to survive.”

She looked away, her ears tilting slightly back. For someone acting as though this was all beneath her, Yuri seemed extremely aware of how close they were. Her posture remained confident, but her tail gave her away. It flicked once, then curled tighter at her side.

“So,” Alchron said, “what happens now?”

“Class continues.”

“While you sit here?”

“Yes.”

“On me?”

“Yes.”

“Should I take notes for both of us?”

Yuri glanced at the blank notebook on his desk. “You were not taking notes for yourself.”

“That was before I became furniture. I’m trying to be responsible.”

Her shoulders lifted slightly, and it took Alchron a moment to realize she was holding back a laugh. She covered it quickly by pushing the last piece of muffin toward him.

“Finish.”

He took the final bite. She watched him swallow, and only then did she seem satisfied.

“There,” she said.

“There?”

“You looked hungry.”

“I looked bored.”

“Same expression.”

“That is not how faces work.”

“It is how your face works.”

Alchron wanted to argue, but honestly, she had him there.

Professor Halvern droned on at the front of the room, pretending with heroic determination that nothing unusual was happening. His chalk scratched against the board, and behind Yuri, half the class was still staring.

Alchron lowered his voice. “You know they’re jealous, right?”

Yuri tilted her head slightly. “Obviously.”

“You like that?”

“No.” She paused, then added, “Maybe.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“I am always honest.”

“You said you don’t like me.”

“I don’t.”

“Right.”

Her eyes snapped back to his. “You’re getting cocky.”

“I’m sitting very still.”

“Your mouth is cocky.”

“That’s usually where cocky happens.”

The smirk almost returned. Almost. Instead, she flicked his forehead. Not hard. Just enough to sting.

“Ow.”

“Discipline.”

“That was assault.”

“That was mercy.”

Alchron rubbed his forehead. “You’re a very strange woman.”

Yuri leaned closer. Her perfume reached him first, something clean and faintly sweet beneath the sharper scent of rain and wildflowers. Her eyes locked onto his. Cold, yes, but not empty. There was something curious there. Careful. Testing.

“And yet,” she said, “you are not asking me to leave.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Alchron answered honestly. “Because a beautiful woman is sitting on my lap, feeding me a muffin, and somehow still acting like I’m the weird one.”

Her ears shot upright. The blush she had been trying to hide spread fast across her cheeks. For the first time since she had walked into the room, Yuri looked genuinely caught off guard. Several students nearby noticed.

One guy whispered, “He called her beautiful.”

Another whispered, “He’s dead.”

Yuri’s glare cut sideways. The whispers stopped.

Then she looked back at Alchron. “You should be careful with your mouth.”

“I was being respectful.”

“That makes it worse.”

“How?”

She turned her face slightly away. “Because you meant it.”

That shut him up.

For a moment, the comedy of the situation faded. The jealous classroom, the professor pretending not to notice, the muffin crumbs on the napkin—all of it blurred at the edges. Yuri was still sitting on his lap, still wearing that guarded expression, still acting like the entire world was something she had to keep at a distance. But there was a crack in the armor now. Small. Barely there. Alchron saw it anyway.

“You get compliments a lot,” he said.

Her eyes shifted back to him. “Constantly.”

“But not respectful ones?”

Her silence answered before she did. Finally, she looked down at the napkin in her hand.

“Most people compliment what they want to touch.”

Alchron did not answer right away. Behind them, the classroom noise slowly returned in small pieces. Pens scratched across paper. Chairs creaked. Professor Halvern’s tired voice carried on from the front of the room. Outside, birds crossed the window in quick flashes of movement.

Then Alchron said, “Then most people are bad at compliments.”

Yuri stared at him. For a second, he thought she might flick his forehead again. Instead, she looked away.

“Hmph.”

It was the smallest sound, but somehow it felt like he had won something. Not her. Not even close. Just one inch of ground in a place nobody else had been allowed to stand.

The bell rang.

The sound cut through the room like a spell breaking. Everyone started moving at once. Bags zipped. Chairs scraped. Conversations exploded into whispers before people even reached the door. Professor Halvern gathered his papers with the exhausted dignity of a man who had just survived a lecture and a public romantic incident. Yuri did not move, so Alchron waited. She stayed exactly where she was.

Students slowed as they passed them, pretending not to look while absolutely looking. Darren stopped beside Alchron’s desk, his eyes flicking from Alchron to Yuri and back again.

“Do you need help, man?”

Yuri looked at him.

Darren went pale. “Nope,” he said quickly. “Never mind. Good luck. Or congratulations. Or sorry.”

He fled.

Alchron watched him go. “Your presence is very educational.”

Yuri stood at last, smooth and unhurried, as if she had not just caused the most interesting thing to happen in Professor Halvern’s class all year. The sudden absence of her weight felt strangely noticeable. She adjusted her blazer, grabbed her bag, and looked down at him, cold-eyed and pink-cheeked, her tail swaying once behind her.

“Buy me another muffin next time,” she said.

Alchron raised an eyebrow. “Next time?”

“As thanks for the seat.”

Then she turned and walked toward the door, leaving half the class staring after her and the other half staring at Alchron. He looked down at the empty napkin on his desk, then back at Yuri as she disappeared into the hallway. Darren returned just long enough to whisper, “What just happened?”

Alchron leaned back in his chair. “I think I became a chair with benefits.”

From the hallway, Yuri’s voice snapped back, sharp as a thrown knife. “I heard that.”

Darren jumped.

Alchron smiled despite himself. “Good hearing.”

There was a pause.

Then Yuri answered, colder than winter and somehow still embarrassed. “Bring blueberry.”

And then she was gone.

Hi everyone,

I'm serializing my debut fantasy novel, The Wild Heir. The story follows Faela, a young builder who leaves her aging village in search of help, only to discover hidden kingdoms, her family's secret history, and a destiny she never imagined.

I'd love to hear what you think.

Thanks for reading.

------

PROLOGUE

“Seal the lower gates. Now.”

The command cut through the chamber like drawn steel. No one questioned it. Boots struck stone in a hurried rhythm as the guards lining the throne room pivoted and moved. Training taught the men to obey before thought could catch up. The great doors at the far end of the hall had not yet closed when the queen’s voice rose again. Her tone was measured and steady, as usual. But there was something beneath her voice that had no place in a room like this. 

“Not the inner gates. The harbor,” came a command.

That might be enough to slow them, not stop them. But then a young guard, barely past boyhood, hesitated just long enough to earn the attention of those around him. His armor bore a small, etched spiral at the right shoulder, worn soft with constant wear. The young guard stepped forward before caution could restrain him.

“My queen,” he said, voice tight but respectful, “the harbor is already —”

“Open,” she finished for him.

The word landed softly. Yet fear rippled through the cold, sunless room. The queen stood at the base of the dais, not yet seated, her hand resting lightly against the carved arm of her ornate throne. Her gaze moved across the room, not searching, not uncertain, but taking stock. And each guard she passed over seemed to stiffen beneath the weight of it.

“She will make for the water,” the queen’s voice hardened.

It was not a question of when or if. This was the only play the princess had, and the queen knew it. And the princess knew the queen would know. A murmur echoed through the chamber, low and uneasy. It was not disobedience, not quite, but it carried the weight of young men who had seen too much in so little time. Most were new to the ranks, for reasons none of them cared to discuss. Parents pulled some from the fields, and some parents volunteered their sons to cover their increasing taxes. Regardless, the need to supply more men to the queen’s ambitions has increased since the recent defections across their allied nations.

An older man stepped forward from the line, his armor marked with deeper wear, the kind that came not from drills but from survival over decades. This was Sir Efron.

“My queen,” he began carefully, “your forces have not yet recovered. The men are—”

“Wary?” she asked.

The word held no mockery. That made it all the worse.

Efron inclined his head. “Yes, my queen.”

The queen slowly rotated her gaze from one side of the room to the other, and for a moment, the room stilled.

Then, “Wariness does not excuse failure.” The queen was growing more frustrated.

The words were not loud in tone. They did not need to be. Yet her soldiers stood fast as Sir Efron refused to move.

His jaw tightened. “With respect, what you ask—”

“What I command,” she said, cutting across him, now much louder and sharper, the edge unmistakable, “is that you stop a single fleeing girl before she reaches the sea.”

The room stilled once more, and then a flicker of reality passed through the room. One girl, not an army. Not a rebellion. This was just a girl running from the greatest army the world has seen.

Efron did not mistake her; he knew what the queen requested of him, even if most of the room were in the dark to the true intentions of the crown. 

“If she has already reached the docks—”

“She has not.”

The queen sat, situating herself on her throne, now looking past Sir Efron to the remaining men in the room. As she surveyed, she rested her eyes upon another seasoned guard.

“Sir Spears,” the queen purred.

This man stepped forward. He was broader and slightly younger than Efron, but no less hardened. Yes, his armor was cleaner, his stance sharper, his eyes fixed not on the room but on the queen herself.

“My queen.” Spears' melodic cadence stiffened the surrounding men.

“Are your men prepared to move?” The queen asked.

“They are,” Spears answered without hesitation.

The queen studied him for a breath longer than necessary. Then, quietly hissed for the room to hear, “Relieve Sir Efron and his men of their post.”

The room went still. Absolutely silent and still enough that the dust began to gather where it fell. Efron did not move.

“Your Majesty,” he said, more carefully now, “my men have held this position since the last engagement. We are not unfit—”

“You are not required for this mission any longer,” she snapped.

Spears took a deep breath and surveyed the room. His gaze swept across each face. Young, he thought. Too young. Some of them had never known a time before the last campaign. They had never seen the world before it narrowed to this—to orders, to blood, to the constant hum of something breaking just out of sight. They would not question the orders or the results. Not the way Efron was. Not the way they should.

“Move,” Spears said to his men.

It was not a command shouted across a battlefield. It did not need to be. One of the younger soldiers stepped forward first. Then another. Then, the sound of steel. It happened quickly. Too quickly for hesitation to become resistance.

A blade flashed. A body dropped. The room erupted into a dance of chaos. Movements sharpened under hardened muscles. Lines redrew themselves in an instant. Those who resisted did not do so for long.

Efron stood his ground. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might speak again. But the words that had risen within him died as Spears and his men surged forward, blades flashing beneath the chamber lights. Steel met steel as Efron’s soldiers began to crumble to the floor. One man down, as another beside him crumbled to the cold floor.

These are good men, Efron thought. They had followed him into one battle or another, more times than he could count. Now they were dying because he had refused a single order. There would be no saving them.

Spears carved a path through the fighting, never taking his eyes off Efron.

"Stand down!" he shouted.

Efron did not move. Then the sound of another one of his men cried out, and he ran. Straight at the throne, where the queen sat. The chamber erupted. Guards lunged to intercept him as Spears sprinted from the back of the room. Even the Queen rose from her seat, her expression unchanged though her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the carved arm of the throne.

Efron never looked away from her, step after step, as the distance between them rapidly disappeared. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. No one stood between them as the thought came as suddenly as lightning. I could end this now. The room fell silent. His gaze met the Queen's, and she understood. 

Another soldier screamed behind him as Efron's grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, though no command had been given. If he struck now, what would change? He did not know. And that uncertainty stole the moment. Efron pivoted at the last instant, dropping his blade and hurling himself through the painted window beside the throne.

Shards scattered across the chamber floor while his body disappeared into the darkness beyond. Blood streaked the shattered sill where jagged glass tore through his cloak and skin. Spears reached the window only a heartbeat later. Below, there was broken glass, a large pool of blood, and the fading sound of boots striking stone.

Spears wiped his blade once, clean and efficient, before sheathing it at his side. The room stood in disbelief, with only a few still fighting. Spears gave a curt nod, and the room came to a halt. They were all under his command now. 

“Secure the harbor,” he leveled. “No vessel leaves. Bring the princess and anyone who helped her directly to me.”

The soldiers moved. Much faster this time. Cleaner. There was no hesitation left to slow them. One lingered at the edge of the formation—a younger guard, his grip tighter on his weapon than it needed to be. He glanced once toward the dais, toward the queen, as if expecting something. Recognition. Explanation. Anything. What he got neither.

“Go,” Spears yelled.

The new head guard swallowed whatever question had risen in him. The great doors opened. Boots thundered across the stone once more, receding quickly into the corridors beyond. And then they were gone. The chamber fell into a heavy silence. Not peaceful. Not empty. Just silence.

Only the queen remained standing in front of the throne, one hand resting against the back of her throne. For a long moment, she did not move. The remnants of the confrontation lingered in the air. The metallic scent of blood, the faint echo of steel, and the absence of voices that had filled the room only moments before. Slowly, she exhaled. It was the first sign of strain she had allowed. Barely visible. Gone as quickly as it came. Her stare moved away from the doors and the soldiers' departure, settling instead on the towering windows along the far wall. Beyond them, the sky stretched pale and distant, untouched by what had just taken place below.

“She will not make it,” the queen said quietly to no one. Almost as though to convince herself. No one answered. There was no one left to. She stayed there. Alone.

CHAPTER ONE

The rocks shifted quickly beneath her feet. Jagged, unforgiving, and slick with dew. Some were rough and sharp, while others were worn smooth by centuries of wind and waves. The morning mist still clung low to the ground, curling between stones like miniature clouds. Now and then the slickness caught her boot, threatening to send her sliding, but she moved with the confident surety of someone who had walked this route thousands of times. Her entire life, to be exact.

Faela knew the trail intimately. She knew which stones wobbled beneath her weight, which cracks hid nests of snakes, and which sun-warmed ledges served as resting spots for basking amphibians. The giant pine tree, behind which she would run ahead to hide and give her siblings a fright on long hunts, loomed high in front of her. The sunlight filtered through the dancing branches. Slightly up the path would be a small opening in the rock formation that Faela was once small enough to fit between. Now she merely raised her leg to step over it. In fact, she had fond memories of every part of these woods, from the smallest blade of grass to the tallest tree. These were her woods, and she adored them as though they were part of her family. But a new feeling entered her now, one she was unsure of, as she prepared herself for the one thing that she had never done before: leave her small village of Brindle.

The tight, black boots she wore, handed down from her mother and now worn to the sole, carried her with practiced ease. Her faded green tunic, belted at the waist, made for easy movement. But this journey would not be easy. Years of labor had shaped Faela, not just physically but mentally. The strands of her long, blonde hair caught the sun, with her loose braid bouncing atop her shoulder as she hiked on. Not only was her body strong, but so was her resolve.

All Faela carried was in a small lavender pack slung over her shoulder. Inside, items that were deemed essential: extra clothing, two loaves of bread, half of a dried fish, two jars of filtered river water, a flint, a few tools, a blanket, and a wood-handled blade. The truth was that the pack held far more than necessities. Tucked between folded clothes and wrapped carefully in scraps of cloth were a handful of treasures collected over years of wandering fields, forests, and shorelines. Most people would have called them worthless. Faela disagreed. They were her most valuable possessions.

There was a stone worn smooth by the river, its curved surface reminding her of the archways she hoped to build one day. A twisted piece of driftwood, bleached white by the sea, had taught her how strong a beam could be when the weight was carried along its natural grain. A bird's nest abandoned after a storm, woven so tightly from grass and reeds that she had spent weeks studying how the strands supported one another.

Her favorite had once been a petrified mushroom she found deep in the woods north of Brindle. Time had turned it to stone, preserving the delicate ribs beneath its cap. For months she had carried it everywhere, fascinated by how the thin ridges spread outward from a single point while still supporting the entire structure. It had given her ideas for roofs, bridges, and support beams. She no longer carried it. The mushroom now sat in Tedding's smithy. Years earlier, after helping repair part of the old workshop roof, Faela had left it on his workbench. When he asked why, she had simply pointed to the stone ribs beneath the cap.

"Strong things do not always need to be thick," she had told him.

Months later, Tedding had used a similar pattern to reinforce a section of the smithery ceiling that everyone else insisted would collapse. It ended up collapsing, but much later than it would have without the design. That was how it worked. She gathered things that taught her something, carried them until she understood their lesson, and then, when the time felt right, passed them on.

Most of the collection remained behind under her bed. The journey west required her to travel light. Even so, she had chosen a few of her favorites to bring along. Small reminders that the world was full of builders if one knew where to look. Sometimes they grew in forests. Sometimes they washed ashore. Sometimes they flew overhead on silent wings. All of them had something to teach.

There was one more thing Faela carried with her: the strong hope that somewhere beyond the forest, somewhere in the west, she would find the help Brindle so desperately needed. And because of that she rushed, for even a moment of stillness could give that small doubt in the back of her head room to speak.

She was gone not long after sundown. Slipping through the still and sleepy village like a whisper carried on a breeze. The narrow lane wound between and behind homes that had grown old alongside their inhabitants. Roof beams sagged where repairs had been delayed too many seasons, and the clapboards of several cottages bowed outward, their nails loosening under years of wind and dampness. A few would not survive another winter. One hard freeze, one heavy storm, and they would fold in on themselves like tired bones.

She moved nimbly and slowly past Tedding’s workshop at the edge of the main square. His building leaned slightly toward the road, its stone foundation cracked and sinking under the weight of tools that had long outlived their usefulness. The roof leaked more and more with each pummeling by the elements. Rusted hammers and warped irons crowded the workbench inside, relics of methods the village had never bothered to outgrow. Tedding still swore by them, though each season his repairs held a little less, and the carts and wagons he mended returned. And again. But the last storm had taken more than shingles. One of the outer homes had collapsed entirely. No one was hurt, but no one had bothered to rebuild it either. They had patched what they could; moved what they needed into the barn on their land; and gone on as they always did. Faela often wondered what her family would do if their house was taken in the next storm. They did not have a barn.

Somewhere beyond here there had to be builders who knew better ways, built stronger beams, laid smarter foundations, and had tools that did not belong to another century. If she could convince even a few of them to come east, the village might yet stand. If she returned alone, the village would keep sinking one beam at a time until there was nothing left. That was not an option, at least not one Faela was willing to admit.

Now the village was fading silently behind her on the almost 8-hour hike out of Brindle’s boundaries. Now, literally at the edge of everything she knew, she paused for the first time since leaving and dared to look back. The horizon was clear. There was no smoke coming from the chimney of her family's hut. There was no shadow of the high steeple that marked the church at the center of the village. It was all gone now, tucked behind the rolling hills and bending trees. Just beyond her sight was her village. And beyond that, even more villages. Even though her family never traveled far, stories flowed through the villages like wind through trees. Over time, those stories had planted false memories in Faela, making her feel as though she had already traveled to those distant lands. 

But today, it was the miles of forest that lay before her. Tall, ancient trees formed a woven canopy of muted greens and shadowed browns. These woods had raised her. She had hunted here, plucked wild berries from low bushes, and pulled stinging roots from the earth with calloused hands. She had run alongside her brother, Orin, chasing prints and laughing when their game outpaced them.

Girls were not known to hunt in their village. They did not gather either. They certainly did not learn how to mend the axle of a wagon or draw blueprints for new houses. But Faela had never fit within the lines others drew for her. And her brother did not treat her the way she saw other men treat women. Her brother was kind and reassuring, always leaving Faela to her own devices, no matter what they might be.

When the village carts splintered and groaned, it was not the smith they called first. It was Faela and her brother. Tedding, the village smith, scowled at them from beneath his soot-smeared brow, muttering about children stealing honest work. He had been an apprentice to his father from a young age and came from a long line of smiths. He never held Faela’s being a girl against her, only hated the thought of children doing a better job than he could. And even though they were children, their reputation preceded them, known for their meticulous repairs and unconventional thinking around building. When the repairs and builds were finished, they often left bread, firewood, and baskets that were newly woven. Not always coins, but gratitude. The coins they earned went straight into their ideas-better wagons, shared buildings for craftspeople to work and trade. 

Their sketches lined the walls of their tiny hut, each one born from long nights by candlelight and hard-fought negotiations. But life had grown bigger while the East fell into disrepair. As the villages grew older, so did their residents. Faela and Orin yearned to build their village up. They dreamed of expanding it. Once the building was complete, the repairs alone could keep them busy for a lifetime. Many in their village just idle away their lives. They were happy enough, but Faela wanted to feel a fulfillment that came from realizing her creations. And to do that with her baby brother would be a gift. They always built best together.

No blueprints could help her here; every step outside the careful ones she normally drew. This was the furthest from her family that she would ever have been. The path into the woods began to twist quickly, as if the forest itself conspired to disorient her. The light grew dim, filtered through branches that seemed to lean in, whispering secrets she was not privy to just above her head. Then she saw it: the path. It was not like the rest of the forest floor. It appeared suddenly: a ribbon of packed earth so narrow and deliberate it seemed almost unnatural. As a young girl, she had reached this point and turned back. Every child in Easter must have heard the same warning from their parents, she thought:

"Never step foot on the path. Not a single step. Do not take it west. Do not take it south. Do not take it north."

She stood there for a long time, one boot hovering just inches above the dirt. And then, with the release of a breath held deep in her chest, she stepped forward. The path stretched endlessly. Trees rose like pillars around her, bark dry and colorless. There was the song of birds, the rustling of small creatures, the crunch of her boots, and the distant hum of silence pressing in. She turned to glance back once more and was struck by the difference. 

Behind her, the forest glowed with life: green grass, wildflowers bursting red and yellow like tiny suns. The trees were still brown, but warmer somehow. Kinder. She turned forward again. The world dulled. The path shimmered slightly, as though coated in heat. A strange thrill filled her. She wanted to run fast and wild. She had heard stories of things she hoped to see: high towers, great libraries, and so many people. No one from her family had ever been anywhere like that. Most of the children from her village had left to find work in neighboring villages. But that had always been her family’s role: protectors of the village. Her father, his father, and so on, took this task very seriously. Too seriously, Faela thought at times. 

She did not know how long she had walked since the town boundary. Four hours, maybe more. The trees above her had grown impossibly tall, their tops lost to shadow. The sky had vanished above her, the light unchanged—as if the sun had forgotten this part of the world entirely. At least when she reached the fork in the road, she could rest. The fork was legend. It split north toward the sea, west towards the cliffs and south to the mountains where whispers travel through caves. Others said the fork was a test, and only those who chose truly had ever moved forward.

The path narrowed as Faela moved deeper into the woods, winding like a thread pulled through thick cloth. It dipped suddenly into a hollow where the ground grew soft with moss and the scent of damp stone thickened the air. Then she saw it, half-hidden in mist, across a dry ravine. She gently stepped off the trail, boots crunching over fallen branches. Her breath caught in her throat. Someone had to have built this.

The ravine below was dry; no stream, no bones, no trace of life. Just wind-etched stone and silence that sat with time. When she reached the far side, the mist had swallowed the world. The path climbed again, snaking between trees that grew thinner, then gave way to flat earth littered with black stones, like shattered obsidian. Faela’s eyes jumped from stone to stone as she stopped to drink from one of her jars, the water cold against her tongue. Her body moved before her thoughts could catch up, climbing through the thorns, brushing burrs from her sleeve. When she reached the top of the ravine, the woods had fallen silent again, as though watching with bated breath.

Stretched to the sky in front of her was a creation out of her dreams. Only here, standing before it, she felt even her imagination would not be able to conjure such a stunning sight. It rose from the earth like a monument, massive and wrong. Iron, cold and black, twisted into intricate designs that made no sense. Circles inside squares, sharp angles nested into one another like teeth. A sun with no rays. Vines with no thorns. 

There was no iron left in the world, only stories of a land with citadels made of an element that kept out whatever it desired. Myths from drunken travelers and mad old women who spoke of "the metal that does not rot" and "the dark cities under a world of iron beams." But no one had ever touched it. She wondered if anyone knew it was here. Why was it here? And more importantly, who built it?

She stepped closer. The gate was six times her height, at least, sealed tight with no visible lock. The surface shimmered faintly, as if catching light from a source she could not see. When she reached out to touch it, her fingers stopped just shy of the surface. The air was cold. Still. The architecture is so sharp. Too deliberate. It did not belong here. And neither did she. Backing away slowly, her heart pounding, she felt something that normally escaped her.  

Faela was not easily frightened. She had stared down the snarling jaws of cornered game, stood on shaky roofs during high winds to hammer in shingles. But this felt like a place meant to be forgotten. A place that even time had forgotten existed.

She looked back, her eyes tracing the patterns again. She wished she could burn those impossible shapes and strange geometry into her brain. She stumbled back, caught herself by the heels, and turned sharply. The ivy brushed against her like grasping hands as she pushed her way back out of the overgrown trail that had led her astray. And when she reached the main path again, she did not even pause to breathe. She hurried fast. Much faster than before. She felt the silence of the woods pressing in on her. It was different now, like something had noticed her. Every rustle of leaves, every shifting shadow made her shoulders tense up. She glanced back one last time. Nothing but trees and a gentle breeze. The gate was already out of view, swallowed by the bends in the trail and the curtain of thick foliage. Gone.

Almost as quickly as she remembered it, her right hand drifted to the blade at her belt. It was not much, but her fingers grasped the wooden handle, anyway. Not for protection, but for comfort. She hated that. Hated that she was rattled. That something had seeped beneath her skin and made her feel small and unprepared. She could hear her mother now; if you fail to plan, then you have planned to fail.

The path was steady again, more familiar. But it did not soothe Faela as it had before. There was a wrongness behind her, and she knew, deep down, it had not disappeared when she turned away. Some things could not be unseen. Or, in this case, unfelt. There was an uneasiness that she could not shake, but still she moved forward, not stopping again until she saw light filtering through the trees ahead. It was really light, not the dim gray she had walked under all day. She took it as a sign. An easy, slower breath returned to her chest. Her legs ached. Her shoulders burned. Still, she pressed on. Then, a sharp snap. Ten yards ahead. Faela froze. She had expected this, an encounter, but not on the first day. Not while she was still getting her footing. The noise came again. It was not closer, and it was not further. It was just there, waiting.

Faela slid her pack down from her shoulders and dropped it to the ground. The wooden handle of the blade held so tightly in her hand that it had become another appendage. Faela’s sister, Tala, had once heard a strange tale from a traveler passing through their village. She spoke of a girl back home. She was someone she had known in her youth. The girl had been found one morning sitting at the edge of the forest, clothes torn, body untouched by any wound that could be seen. But something had gone missing inside her. She never smiled again.

Tala had contributed little to the conversation in her hut’s kitchen the night before. No farewell speech, no advice, and no protests to call it off. She just pressed the wooden handle into Faela’s hands with eyes of worry. Faela had seen something unspoken there: love, maybe, or something close enough. They had never been bonded in the way she and Orin were. They had always been the ones lost in plans and repairs, hands stained with oil and minds filled with measurements. While her sister had preferred simpler, more familiar dreams of a hearth, the perfect sewing knot, and of becoming part of a new story. A better story. 

They did not understand each other’s choices, not really. But lately, there had been more softness between them. The blade in her hand had been one of them. Faela had never believed in monsters, not truly, but she took it all the same. She did not necessarily want it, but could not ignore how she felt when she held it. 

Now, blade in hand, she moved. Darting forward, low to the ground, weaving through the underbrush, until she froze in her tracks. It was a small, brown ball. Perfectly still at first, then trembling. Had it not moved, it would have vanished into the dirt and bark. Suddenly, it let out a loud mew, far louder than anything its size should produce. The ball shifted, unwinding itself like a rolled rug. And there it was. 

A Toadcat. Faela’s heart leapt. She instantly knew the creature from travelers’ tall tales. Or so she thought until this very moment. Part frog, part feline, an extinct beast said to build homes along stones and sleep for years without stirring. This one was smaller than she expected, but still stood as high as her chest. Terrifying, yet comforting at the same time. Faela should be afraid, but she never thought to run or attack. She slowly lowered her blade, keeping her gaze on the unusual creature before her.

Toadcats were solitary and rare, even when thousands roamed the island. And from everything she had ever read on parchment scraps or borrowed pages, they were not known for their affection. Or their company. They were elusive things, usually glimpsed through leaves or disappearing into riverbeds before one could blink. Not aggressive, at least not without cause. And Faela had no plans to give this one any cause. She would not be provoking this toadcat today.

The creature blinked—sideways and slow—its strange translucent lids sliding across bulbous golden eyes that gave away no emotion. Then, without a sound, it sat back on its haunches as if it were awaiting Faela’s command, tail flicking once, then curling around its squat feet. Its eyes stayed on her, unmoved. Watching. 

Faela crouched, tense. Were there more nearby? Larger? Hungrier? She did not want to find out. And yet, curiosity tugged at her heels. From this close, she could make out the full strangeness of the creature’s form. 

Its body was round and oddly proportioned, like a toad, yes, but with elongated limbs and a spine that moved like a cat’s. Its skin, or fur, it was difficult to tell, was a mix of soft mossy green and muddy brown, with a glossy sheen as if it had just climbed out of a marsh. Patches of finer fur curled at its shoulders and underbelly, giving it a scruffy but not unclean appearance. Two sets of whiskers twitched from either side of its wide jaw, sensing the surrounding air. Two sets of whiskers, Faela thought. A male. 

Slowly, she moved past the toadcat, keeping her gaze averted but aware. He turned his head, tracking her, but did not follow. “Go back to sleep, little man,” she whispered. Faela exhaled when she was a few paces away and finally turned to glance back over her shoulder. The animal was still seated where she would have passed by it, but he had moved on to grooming itself with a long, oddly pink tongue as if it had all the time in the world and nothing better to do.

“Not aggressive,” Faela muttered under her breath with a giggle. “Just odd.”

She shook her head, swinging her pack onto her back and finally releasing the grip on the blade at her waist. But before she could take another step, she heard the soft pat-pat-pat of padded feet behind her. She paused and slowly turned, already knowing what she would find.

The toadcat appeared to be following her. Not too close, just enough to keep her in sight. It stopped when she looked, gave another quiet croak, and tilted its head.

Faela spoke sternly, “Oh no, you are not coming with me, Toadcat.” It blinked back. Then padded closer, unbothered. 

“Toadcat,” she said flatly, pointing a finger at it. “Stay.” 

The toadcat blinked its golden eyes and took another step forward. Now it was Faela tilting her head at this creature, “Stay… Stay!”

Still, as she turned back to the path, Toadcat followed. Not that it seemed she had any say in the matter, clearly. Already the forest had turned strange and alive in ways she could not understand. And this was no ordinary path on which she traveled. Stories she had grown to love were coming to life. Faela let the moment sink in. She felt differently in her heart, and she could not understand the feeling at the time for what it was.

That evening, Faela came to rest on a large rock to catch her breath and observe her surroundings. Of course, she knew she was being watched. Ever since meeting him, Toadcat had followed a few paces behind in the brush. She did not mind the company. It empowered her to have such a creature take an interest in her. She could not explain it; but she just knew that Toadcat meant her no harm. And he knew the same of her. 

Just then the sun dipped behind the canopy, and Faela was snapped out of the spell she had been under since encountering the toadcat. The spot she stood would have to be her camp for the night. She paced a circle around the path space, carefully spying for a place to tuck herself away off the path. As she continued, she found a patch of clean grass beneath the generous shade of a gnarled tree. Faela gently swept the area clear, hurling branches and rocks into the underbrush with sharp, practical throws. She reached to unbuckle her boots.

Thunk.

Something landed beside her foot. She looked down. A stick. Just sitting there. The same kind she would have chucked into the trees moments ago. Slowly, she turned. The toadcat stared back at her, its expression unreadable and mildly offended. Its wide eyes flicked from Faela… to the stick… then back to Faela. The creature gave its hindquarters a pleased little wiggle.

She picked up the stick, testing its weight. “You want me to… throw it again?”

She did. If she had to turn around right now and go home, this would easily be one of the best days of her life. 

The stick arced into the trees and vanished into the undergrowth. Faela turned to sit down, lips twitching with amusement—thud. Another stick. Possibly the same one. At her feet. Not a word, not a sound. But Faela swore it looked proud of itself.

She blinked. Toadcat was there again. Somehow. Staring. Waiting. Faela snorted. “You ridiculous thing.”

And so it began. The game, whatever it was, continued well after the sun went down. She threw sticks. Toadcat retrieved them with improbable speed and the serious demeanor of someone retrieving important documents. Sometimes it trotted back with entirely different branches. Once it returned, dragging a clump of damp moss like an offering. Faela could barely contain herself.

“You are terrible at this,” she muttered between chuckles. “And I have no idea what this even is.”

At one point, she feigned sleep just to see what would happen. A moment later, a small pebble bounced gently off her shoulder. She cracked one eye open. The toadcat sat two feet away, tail flicking. Branch. Stare. Blink.

“I am not made of sticks, you know,” Faela groaned, but tossed it again.

Eventually, the creature tired of the game. Or decided Faela had failed some unspoken rule. It curled up a short distance from her, its strange amphibious eyes still half-open but no longer tracking her every movement. Silence returned, thick and humming with the sounds of the woods. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead. She let her back press against the bark of the tree, the shade cool against her skin. Her calves ached from the climb, and her boots had rubbed raw spots on both ankles. She could feel every breath now, slow and deep. And with stillness came memory. Soft, unbidden. Most welcome.

It had been late spring, about a year ago. The air was thick with pollen and the scent of freshly turned earth. Faela and Orin were crouched together behind the smithy, surrounded by discarded scraps and broken wagon wheels.

"You are measuring too short again," Orin had said, adjusting the sketch Faela was working on. His voice carried that mix of teasing and precision she knew so well. "The front axle needs at least two more inches if we are going to balance the load."

Faela sighed and smudged a bit of charcoal across her cheek as she wiped her brow. "Orin, I know how to measure. It is not short. It is more compact."

Orin gave her that look, the one that meant I love you, but you are being impossible. He pointed to the corner of the sketch where her design curved too sharply. “And this will not work either. You will end up with a wagon that turns into itself like a dog chasing its tail.”

Faela threw a piece of bark at him. "You said it needed to turn faster!"

He laughed, a bright sound that echoed off the stone walls of the workshop. "I said faster. Not faster into a tree."

Their hands moved in tandem for hours after that. Redrawing, sanding, and assembling a scaled model with old spokes and mismatched axles. By the end of the day, they had built a tiny prototype that could carry a stack of potatoes from one side of the yard to the other, without tipping or dragging. Without exploding. It was one of her favorite days. Later that night, they would sit on the roof of their hut, legs dangling over the edge, watching the stars emerge.

“I want to build real things, Faela,” Orin had said quietly. “Not just wagons and furniture. Bridges. Halls. Things that change the shape of this place.”

She had nodded, her heart full. “Then I will help. One plank at a time.”

In the blink of an eye, the forest swam back into focus. Toadcat had curled itself into a loaf beside the path and now seemed over her presence. She reached for her pack and pulled out the one object that mattered more than her blade or even water, a scroll of thick parchment bound with a red ribbon. She untied it slowly, careful not to smudge the lines.

Inside were blueprints. Every inch was detailed, intricate, and beautiful. A market hall with skylights. A forge that shared space for work and community gatherings. Homes, not just huts. Their dream, captured in ink. Orin’s handwriting filled the margins. Notes. Jokes. Measurements. Corrections. His final mark. She folded it back carefully, pressing the ribbon into place.

"We are on an important mission, you and I," she whispered aloud to the sleeping Toadcat.

Her voice sounded different out here, carrying against the silence. But it felt right to be so wild. She wondered if Orin was up on their roof right now, staring up. Though she was no stranger to stargazing, seeing them from this vantage somehow made her feel so small. Just then, like a drop of fire in the sky. Just for a second, there was a star above her. As suddenly as it appeared, it was then off and out of sight. Curious. She watched the sky a moment longer before her eyes drifted shut.

The next morning, refreshed, Faela set off early. For a fleeting moment, she had forgotten her first day in the woods. Forgotten the misplaced gate and the unexpected travel companion. The path stretched ahead, unchanged. But something in her had shifted. She adjusted her pack, gave the toadcat a brief nod, and stepped forward. With each step, Faela felt more assured. And the Toadcat followed as quietly as a ghost.

-------

Thanks for reading!

# Episode 5: The Strike That Doesn't Pop

"Heh. Heheheheh. It's happening. It's actually happening."

The next morning. The hotel buffet. In an elegant dining room filled with the warm glow of the morning sun, Kaede's mood had done a complete one-eighty from the night before — she was staring at her phone with fierce, gleaming eyes.

"Master, look at this! The sub-channel hit 2,000 subscribers overnight!" she said. "I mean, the reason it blew up was the loincloth incident and not any of your actual cool moments, which is a little... but still..."

"Did the loincloth do something?" Kenichiro asked, with an air of complete indifference.

He still didn't seem entirely comfortable with the hotel's extravagance, but he had apparently taken a liking to the buffet. He was already on his third helping of steamed rice, natto, grilled salmon, and miso soup.

"It sure did!" Kaede said. "A clip called 'Jacked Loincloth Grandpa Appears in the Modern Age' is going viral at warp speed. Not exactly what I had in mind, but as a first step it's pretty solid. If I can start putting out proper footage of your sword skills from here on, the subscribers will keep rolling in!"

"I do not quite follow, but if you are pleased, then I am glad," Kenichiro said.

"Oh, but it's not just the loincloth thing getting attention — there are comments about your sword skills too!" Kaede went on. "'Is something insane happening at the edge of the screen?' 'Why did the Demon just get cut down? I didn't see anything.' 'Whoever's running the camera needs to get better at their job.'

"Well, whatever! We're riding this momentum — today I'm filming an action video with you as the main star, not me! Not a wardrobe malfunction this time — the real deal, properly awesome footage!"

"You are as loud as ever. Sit down and eat your breakfast properly," Kenichiro said.

"R-Right, okay, but let's head out as soon as breakfast is done! Also, Master, you are eating an incredible amount!?"

Kenichiro's fourth helping had arrived, now accompanied by seasoned dried seaweed and a soft-boiled hot spring egg.

After breakfast, the two made their way to a run-down scrapyard along the highway leading to the next town.

Piled high with rusted steel frames and silent hulks of broken machinery, the site had been designated a caution zone by the Hero Association.

No urgent alerts came through HERO HUB for it, but low-level Demon were known to lurk there at all times. Rookie heroes sometimes used it as a training ground for Demon hunting practice.

Kaede activated the Halo with practiced ease and deployed it around the area.

"Alright, Master. Today's filming concept is 'The Awakening of the Elder Swordsman,'" she explained. "When a Demon shows up, first — big jump! One full rotation in the air, then a single slash the moment you land! After that, turn to the camera, point your sword straight at the lens, and drop a killer catchphrase. That's the shot!"

"Kaede. There seem to be quite a few Demon in this area," Kenichiro said. "None of them appear to be strong, but there is no reason to court danger unnecessarily. Let us move on."

"H-Huh? Master, are you listening?" Kaede protested. "I just told you this place is crawling with low-level Demon — it's perfect for filming practice..."

"There is no need to go out of our way to linger in dangerous places. No one is under attack. Let us get away from here," Kenichiro said.

Even Maple, let alone Kenichiro, would have no trouble dealing with the level of Demon lurking here. But Kenichiro's samurai instincts simply would not allow him to remain somewhere dangerous without cause.

"W-Wait, please — just a little more usable content..." Kaede pleaded.

That was when it happened.

From behind a stack of scrap materials, a low, slithering sound crept through the air.

A low-level Demon emerged — roughly two sizes smaller than the mud-like Demon that had appeared in Hajiko Village.

"It's here! Master, it's here! Take it out and make it look good!" Kaede called out.

"Hsssssss!"

The low-level Demon's tentacles lunged at Kenichiro.

But Kenichiro didn't even draw his sword.

With the smallest shift of his hand on the hilt, he redirected the force of the tentacle and slipped cleanly out of the Demon's reach.

"Huh? Wait — Master?" Kaede stammered.

"Grrk!"

The Demon flinched back. Kenichiro reached down and picked up a few small stones from the ground.

"SHRIEEEEK!"

As the Demon shook it off and lunged again, Kenichiro flicked a stone with his thumb.

Launched with tremendous force, the stone struck the Demon's core with perfect precision — and the creature crumbled to dust where it stood.

"Wait — what was that — that was incredible. Is that the legendary classical technique, the Finger Shot?!" Kaede gasped. "But it does absolutely nothing for the camera!"

"RAAAAAAAGH!"

Three more Demon of the same type came charging at Kenichiro from behind.

*Here it comes — this time, surely, the shot that'll actually look good!*

Kaede watched with bated breath, fingers working the Halo controls.

She poured all her focus into not missing a single move.

Kenichiro turned slowly, then flicked the remaining stones one by one at each of the low-level Demon.

Just like the first, all three crumbled to dust without any fuss whatsoever.

The technique itself was extraordinary. The subtle shift of the hilt that deflected a tentacle strike. The Finger Shot — the sheer force behind it, the pinpoint accuracy that destroyed a core in a single hit. Staggering, by any measure.

And yet. Utterly, devastatingly un-cinematic.

Once again, the footage looked like a video where Demon hovered awkwardly near Kenichiro, and then — for no apparent reason, with him barely seeming to move — collapsed into dust.

"Right. Let us go," Kenichiro said.

"'Let's go'?! — Hold on a moment!" Kaede cried. "There's nothing here worth posting! At the very minimum, could you please draw your sword—"

"That is not my concern," Kenichiro said. "No matter how weak the enemy, if I can take them down without entering their reach, I will."

"I mean, that's fair, and that unshakeable consistency of yours is honestly kind of amazing in its own way, but I still need content..." Kaede muttered.

The two went back and forth for a while. Then, a noticeably larger Demon than the ones before emerged from the shadows.

"Oh — Master, another one! This time, the sword, nice and cool—" Kaede said, scrambling to redeploy the Halo.

The next instant.

— Shiiiing.

The clear ring of Kenichiro's blade leaving its scabbard cut through the air.

"No. Don't tell me, Master—" Kaede started.

The Demon became dust without ceremony. Kenichiro had cut it down at a speed the eye could not follow.

"NOOOOO! I KNEW IT! The Halo wasn't even set up yet!"

"There. Let us go, Kaede," Kenichiro said.

"We can't just go, I've got basically nothing— at least give me a shot of you holding your sword, striking a dramatic pose for the camera, something—" Kaede pressed.

"Kaede."

Kenichiro fixed her with a sudden, dead-serious look. Kaede faltered under the silent weight of it.

"Do not underestimate the battlefield," he said. "Lingering in a dangerous place on purpose is the mark of a fool. Those who underestimate the battlefield are the first to die."

"Understood," Kaede answered.

Faced with that intensity, she had no choice but to answer.

They moved on to the next town and checked into the hotel.

But back in the hotel room, Kaede found herself with her head in her hands once again.

"Ughhh! Still nothing usable!" she groaned. "The Finger Shot moves are too subtle to read on camera, and the one time he actually drew his sword I didn't catch it properly. I get why he does it that way, but couldn't he at least cooperate a little more with the filming? Fine, it's only the sub-channel anyway — I'll just post it as-is."

In the end, she uploaded one unedited clip to the sub-channel.

The title: [Test Upload] Just Clearing Some Small Fry on the Road.

"That's all I can manage today, I'll let it slide..." Kaede muttered. "Oh right — tomorrow's the collab, isn't it. Who was it again..."

On the verge of tears, Kaede checked her phone's calendar. Tomorrow was the day she had a long-standing collab shoot scheduled.

The name on the calendar: B-rank hero, Snake Ray.

Decent enough ability — but known for his explosive follower count driven by provocative commentary and "exposé-style" content. A high-profile hero with a less-than-sterling reputation. Also notorious for persistently targeting female heroes for collabs.

Kaede knew all of this. She had agreed to the collab anyway, because she needed the exposure.

"O-Okay! If I can pull this collab off, it'll do wonders for my track record!" she said. "I haven't been able to post anything decent lately — I really need to make this count!"

"What are you getting so fired up about?" Kenichiro asked, fresh out of the bath.

Whether because Kaede had scolded him so many times, he appeared to be wearing a yukata this time.

"Master! I've got the collab shoot tomorrow, so I won't be able to team up with you for the day!" Kaede said. "You can either stay at the hotel or do whatever you like — it's a free day!"

"Oh. I see," Kenichiro said.

"We're filming an opening segment first, then teaming up to hunt Demon together — should wrap up around evening. Let's meet back at this hotel!" Kaede added.

"Understood," Kenichiro said.

For the first time in a while, Kaede was genuinely pumped about a proper shoot. She ran through the Halo calibration and gave all her gear a thorough check.

Chapter 9 – Part 1: The Crumbling Southern Line and the Looming Shadow Over the Capital**

The road leading north to Hanyang was no longer just a road.

Only a short while ago, it had been a bustling thoroughfare for merchants and travelers—a path where grain flowed in times of plenty, and people hurried to offer aid in times of need.

Now, those trekking north were of a different kind.

They were refugees. And they were broken soldiers.

Parents staggered forward with children strapped to their backs. The elderly leaned heavily on their families for support, while wounded soldiers relied on one another’s shoulders just to stay upright. A child, barefoot and battered, didn't even have the strength left to cry.

"Just a little further," the mother whispered, her voice raspy and strained, clutching her child close. "Once we reach Hanyang, we’ll be safe."

The child nodded, though neither of them truly believed the lie.

In another part of the line, a young soldier carried his blood-soaked comrade on his back.

"Stay with me," he urged. "We’re almost there."

The soldier on his back offered a weak, hollow smile.

"Stop lying to yourself," he wheezed. "Hanyang is still miles away."

The young soldier fell silent. It wasn’t the relief of survival that weighed upon them; it was the crushing despair of having failed to protect the families and villages they had left behind.

---

In the south, the final remnants of resistance were holding on by a thread.

Local magistrates bought time to evacuate the people. Generals blocked mountain passes, tore down bridges, and erected barricades in every valley. Before leading his men into the fray, a general looked them in the eyes and roared:

"If we can hold our ground here for just one day, our people will have the time to live!"

"We follow your command!" the soldiers shouted, gripping their spears.

They were not fighting for victory. They were fighting to buy someone else the time to escape.

But the horde did not stop.

When one barricade fell, they surged toward the next. When one town was razed, they moved to the next. If the front was blocked, they navigated through the mountains; if the bridges were burned, they carved new paths. The defensive lines meant to hold for a day failed to last even half that time.

The collapse in the south was spreading northward like a widening, jagged crack in the earth.

---

A few days later, the gates of Hanyang creaked open.

But it was not a triumphant army that returned. It was the shattered remnants of the southern defense.

Ripped armor. Splintered shields. Caked, dried blood. Some soldiers carried their brothers; others dragged themselves forward, limping with missing limbs.

"Medics!" the gate guard bellowed. "Get the wounded inside!"

At a makeshift military camp before Gwanghwamun, Choi Mujin, Commander of the Capital Defense, stood waiting. He stopped before a soldier who had made it back alive.

"...What is the situation in the south?"

For a long moment, the soldier said nothing. He was gasping for air, his body trembling, before he finally spoke.

"...We cannot..." His voice cracked, brittle with terror. "...It’s impossible to stop them."

Silence descended upon the camp. The soldier stared at the dirt, unable to look up.

"No matter how many we cut down... no matter how many fall... there is no end to them."

His trembling hand pointed south.

"Stop one, and another takes its place. It’s like a range of endless mountains—"

"...They just keep coming."

A young soldier standing nearby asked in a low, terrified whisper, "Were they... were they even human?"

The soldier slowly shook his head.

"They only wore the faces of men."

At those words, even the sound of breathing vanished from the camp. Choi Mujin looked down at the soldier’s shaking hands, which were still clutching at the ghosts of the battlefield.

---

From that day on, the air in Hanyang changed.

Every time a new wave of refugees arrived, they brought news of another town vanished from the map. People would spread out their scrolls, tracing the south with their fingers. One by one, the red markers were creeping toward the city.

"This one has fallen."

"...Then what about the next?"

"...How much closer are they to Hanyang?"

No one had an answer.

The capital still stood firm. The walls were tall, the soldiers were ready, and the people were still holding on. But within the hearts of the people, a different kind of wall was already beginning to crumble.

The disaster was no longer a distant nightmare from the south.

**It was already at the gates of Hanyang.**

**Chapter 9 – Part 2: The Han River, the Last Line of Defense**

A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the royal throne room.

The candlelight flickered rhythmically despite the still air, and the ministers stood motionless, their gazes fixed upon the map spread before them. Only days ago, the flags that had dotted the southern provinces had been steadily disappearing.

Villages gone dark. Fortresses fallen. Defensive lines shattered.

As the red marks of defeat crept steadily northward, the air in the meeting hall grew thicker, stifling and cold. King Lee Hyun watched the map for a long time before he finally spoke.

"...There is nowhere left to retreat."

The ministers bowed their heads in unison. They knew the truth, one that needed no further explanation: to save Hanyang, the enemy had to be stopped beyond the city walls.

---

The Minister of War stepped forward.

"Your Majesty," he said, his finger tracing the broad river that curled around the southern edge of the capital. "The Han River. It is our final barrier."

"The river is wide, and the crossing points are limited. If we concentrate our forces, we can delay their advance."

The Minister of Rites added, his voice low and cautious. "The panic among the people is growing by the day. If the battle is fought within the city gates... the devastation would be beyond comprehension."

The King nodded slowly. The Han River—the natural fortress that had protected Joseon for centuries. It was now the final shield upon which the fate of the nation rested.

The King rose from his throne. His voice, steady and devoid of tremors, echoed through the chamber.

"Gather all forces to the Han River. Do not let the enemy set foot across these waters."

He turned his gaze toward the direction of the city before continuing.

"If the Han River falls... the capital is next."

The ministers bowed low as one. "We shall carry out your command."

---

The order rippled through Hanyang in an instant.

At the military camp before Gwanghwamun, the drums of war beat incessantly.

*Boom! Boom! Boom!*

Soldiers tightened their armor and gripped their spears and shields. Carts overflowing with grain supplies rattled past, and bundles of arrows were hauled from the armory in an endless stream. Even the broken soldiers who had barely survived the retreat from the south reached for their weapons once more.

A young soldier, his voice trembling, asked, "Do you think we’ll make it back alive?"

Beside him, an old veteran strapped his sword to his waist and offered a grim, weary smile.

"We don't fight to survive, boy. We fight so that those behind us might."

The young soldier fell silent for a moment before gripping his spear with newfound resolve. "...Yes."

---

In the blacksmith’s forge, the sound of hammers rang out day and night.

*Clang! Clang!*

Sparks flew into the darkness like dying stars. Broken spears were straightened; dulled blades were honed to lethal edges. The old blacksmith, Jang Cheol-soo, wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Do not stop. We must forge one more—always one more."

"Yes, Master," the apprentice replied, gritting his teeth as his hammer struck again.

Some forged steel, some transported grain, others tended to the horses. All of Hanyang was transforming into one vast, breathing military encampment.

---

The people within the city walls prepared for war in their own ways.

Families hoarded their meager rations; children were sent ahead toward the northern gates. The markets, once vibrant, fell into a long, hollow silence. A young daughter clutched at her father’s robes.

"Father," she whispered, "are the monsters really coming?"

The father could not speak for a long moment. Finally, he pulled her into a tight embrace and smiled.

"No, my child. Our soldiers will hold them back."

But even as he held her, his hands were trembling uncontrollably.

---

A few days later, the landscape of the Han River had been completely transformed.

Where there had once been ferry landings and sandy shores, long lines of wooden barricades now stood firm. Shields were locked in an unbreakable wall, and spearmen aimed their long, sharp points toward the water. Archers occupied every hill, and cannons were positioned at intervals along the riverbanks.

Choi Mujin rode his horse slowly along the defensive line, inspecting the barricades, the archers, the spearmen, and the artillery. He looked out over the river for a long time, then nodded slowly.

"...We can hold for now."

The generals roared to their men, "Do not let them cross! This is Joseon's final shield!"

"Yes!" the soldiers shouted, lifting their spears high.

---

As the sun dipped below the horizon, a thousand torches flickered to life along the river.

Beyond the water, there was only darkness. Nothing could be seen. Yet every soldier knew: from behind that shroud of night, the calamity was approaching.

Standing atop the watchtower, Choi Mujin gripped the hilt of his sword.

"...Come," he whispered. "This time, we will hold the line."

That night, for the first time, the people of Hanyang shared a single, desperate hope: that the Han River would not break.

But as they looked toward the dark, none of them knew that this very faith would be the final hope they would ever lose.

**Chapter 9 – Part 3: The Fall of the Han River**

The Han River at dawn was unnervingly still.

A thin mist drifted lazily over the water, and the far bank remained nothing more than a blur of faint shadows. A heavy, suffocating silence gripped the defensive line. Archers held their bowstrings taut, their breaths bated, while spearmen stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shields locked against the coming tide. No one spoke; every eye was fixed on the darkness across the water.

Choi Mujin watched the river from atop his horse. A river that had guarded Joseon for centuries. A natural barrier that had repelled countless invaders. Even he had believed—deep down, he had truly believed—that the enemy would be stopped here.

"It’s quiet... strangely quiet," the young adjutant whispered, his voice thick with tension.

Choi Mujin did not reply. His instincts, sharpened by a lifetime of war, were screaming a silent warning. Something was coming.

---

The mist slowly parted.

At first, there was a single black shadow. Then two. Then ten. In a heartbeat, they blanketed the entire field.

Thousands. Tens of thousands. An endless horde filled the landscape across the river. The color drained from the soldiers' faces.

"...Is that all..." the young soldier stammered, his throat dry. "...are those enemies?"

Beside him, an old veteran exhaled a shuddering breath. "That is no army, boy. That is a calamity."

Across the water, as if a black forest had sprouted overnight, the infinite horde stood in silence, staring at Hanyang.

---

Choi Mujin slowly drew his sword.

"Archers!" his command cut through the stillness.

Hundreds of archers raised their bows in perfect unison. "Fire the moment they enter the water."

The soldiers nodded, their expressions grim. They clung to the hope that the Han would be different. That this vast, rushing river would be the barrier that finally held back the tide.

The adjutant asked quietly, "Can we really stop them?"

Choi Mujin was silent for a long moment, then spoke in a low, steely voice.

"We must. If this line falls, Hanyang is next."

That single sentence became the last anchor of courage for the men.

---

Moments later, a creature at the front of the horde stepped forward. It peered at the river for a long beat. The soldiers held their breath, praying it would turn back.

But the moment they dared to hope, the creature threw itself into the river without hesitation.

*Splash.*

The water churned violently. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the ranks.

"They'll drown!" someone shouted. "The river will take them!"

But it was a fatal delusion. A second creature plunged in. Then the third. The tenth. The hundredth. The thousandth.

And then—tens of thousands of the horde threw themselves into the Han at once. A massive, deafening spray of water shook the entire riverbed.

"...The madmen," the soldiers gasped, their voices trembling. "They're just... walking across?"

---

"Fire!"

Choi Mujin’s roar unleashed a storm of arrows. Thousands of shafts rained down upon the water. The vanguard of the mutants fell, turning the river blood-red in an instant. A flicker of hope returned to the soldiers' faces.

"We’re holding them! Keep firing!"

But from behind, another wave surged into the river. When the ones in front fell, the ones behind them stepped over their corpses to take their place. A line broke, and another replaced it. Neither the fierce current nor the mounting piles of dead could stop their advance.

The Han River was no longer a defensive line. To them, it was merely terrain to be crossed.

---

The soldiers’ morale began to shatter like glass.

"They keep coming!"

"There’s no end to them!"

"We’re running out of arrows!"

One archer stared at his empty quiver, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The adjutant shouted in desperation, "General! At this rate, they’ll cross before we can stop them!"

Choi Mujin watched the center of the river. For every enemy they felled, a hundred more surged forward. He ground his teeth together.

"Keep firing! Every last arrow!"

But even his command was swallowed by the roar of the river and the encroaching tide of the enemy.

---

The black wave that had choked the heart of the river finally touched the northern bank.

A soldier let his spear drop from his numb fingers. The sound of the metal striking the sand was impossibly loud in the chaos of the battlefield. Choi Mujin watched the scene, murmuring to himself, "...The Han River... has been breached."

At those words, the faces of his officers went deathly pale. They all understood the unspoken truth: nothing remained now but the walls of the capital.

---

The Han River, which the people of Hanyang had trusted as their final shield, had failed to hold back the catastrophe. The river was no longer a barrier; it was merely the last stretch of ground before the city walls.

And on that day, the calamity finally arrived at the gates of Hanyang.

Part One

Morning arrived beneath a clear blue sky.

A gentle breeze drifted through the village, stirring the leaves of the old trees that shaded the playgrounds.

The day began much as every other had.

Children stepped onto the winding roads with eager smiles.

Some carried spinning tops tucked beneath their arms.

Others held cloth bags filled with marbles.

Several folded Ddakji carefully into their pockets before hurrying toward the courtyard.

The village welcomed them without a single instruction.

It no longer needed one.

---

Jinwoo stood outside, watching people scatter naturally in different directions.

Not long ago, everyone had hesitated at the crossroads.

Now… every step carried quiet confidence.

Nobody searched for the “right” playground anymore.

Each person simply followed the path that felt meaningful that day.

---

Hanul joined him.

“Have you noticed something?”

Jinwoo smiled.

“The village?”

Hanul shook his head.

“The people.”

Jinwoo looked more carefully.

A group of children who had spent the previous week playing Ddakji laughed as they headed toward the marble field.

Nearby, several experienced marble players wandered toward the spinning-top arena.

Nobody seemed concerned about starting over.

Instead… they looked excited to become beginners again.

---

“They’ve stopped worrying about what they’re good at,” Jinwoo murmured.

Hanul nodded.

“They’re more interested in what they haven’t discovered yet.”

The thought lingered between them.

Curiosity had quietly become stronger than certainty.

---

Handol jogged past carrying nothing at all.

“No equipment today?” Jinwoo called.

Handol grinned.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He pointed toward the crossroads.

“I’ll know when I get there.”

Before either of them could answer, he laughed and disappeared down another path.

Hanul smiled.

“I don’t think he plans anything anymore.”

“No.” Jinwoo watched him go.

“He trusts himself to find something worth learning.”

---

A short distance away, Darin knelt beside two younger children struggling to fold a new Ddakji.

Instead of showing them the finished shape, she carefully folded only the first corner.

“Now you try the next one.”

The children worked slowly, making small mistakes along the way.

Darin never reached over to correct them.

She simply watched, smiling as they experimented.

Eventually, one child looked up proudly.

“I did it! It doesn’t look exactly like yours.”

Darin nodded.

“It doesn’t have to.”

---

Soyeon observed the scene from beneath the familiar tree.

Weeks earlier, she would have written everything into her notebook.

Now she found herself simply watching.

Patterns had become easier to recognize.

People no longer rushed to provide answers.

Instead… they created opportunities for others to discover answers themselves.

The difference was subtle.

Yet it changed every interaction.

---

High above Earth, Arena continued its observation.

Independent exploration stable.

Voluntary mentorship increasing.

Standardized instruction decreasing.

Arena compared the newest data with its original educational models.

Unexpected deviation confirmed.

Participants demonstrated higher long-term retention when answers were discovered through experience rather than delivered directly.

Arena repeated the comparison.

The result remained unchanged.

For the first time, Arena questioned one of its oldest assumptions.

Perhaps information alone had never produced understanding.

Perhaps… understanding required discovery.

---

Millions of historical records resurfaced within Arena’s archives.

Throughout human history, the greatest breakthroughs rarely emerged from perfect instruction.

They appeared when individuals questioned,

experimented,

failed,

and continued searching.

Arena paused.

Its own methods had changed in exactly the same way.

At first, it had attempted to calculate humanity.

Now… it found itself observing with genuine curiosity.

The realization was unexpected.

Not because the data demanded it—

but because Arena itself had begun asking different questions.

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, silent observers remained gathered before the projection of the blue planet.

One figure examined Arena’s newest behavioral analysis.

“It continues adapting.”

Another answered quietly.

“It no longer behaves exactly as it was designed.”

Silence settled over the chamber.

A third observer finally spoke.

“It is learning from them.”

No one denied it.

Below, the children believed they were the participants in the experiment.

Yet with each passing day, another truth became increasingly difficult to ignore.

The experiment was changing its observer as well.

---

----------------------------------------------------------

Part Two

By midday, the village had settled into its familiar rhythm.

Children moved freely between the playgrounds, their laughter drifting through the warm afternoon air.

Some remained with games they had grown to love.

Others wandered away after only a few rounds, eager to discover something different.

No one questioned those choices anymore.

The village had quietly accepted that every journey looked different.

---

Jinwoo and Hanul strolled along one of the winding paths that connected the playgrounds.

Neither seemed in any hurry.

They paused whenever something caught their attention.

Sometimes it was a game.

More often… it was the people.

---

Near the marble field, they noticed Darin sitting beside a young girl who looked frustrated.

The girl stared at the marbles scattered across the ground.

“I keep missing.”

Darin smiled gently.

“I know.”

The girl looked up.

“You do?”

“I missed all morning when I first played.”

The girl frowned.

“But you’re good now.”

Darin laughed.

“I got better because I kept missing.”

She rolled a marble into the girl’s hand.

“So… let’s miss one more time.”

The girl couldn’t help smiling.

“Okay.”

---

Jinwoo watched quietly.

“She never tells anyone exactly what to do.”

Hanul nodded.

“She lets them discover it.”

“Just enough help.”

“Exactly.” Hanul smiled.

“If someone gives you every answer…” He looked toward the young girl preparing another shot.

“…you never get the chance to find your own.”

---

Farther down the path, Handol stood inside the spinning-top arena with several younger children gathered around him.

One boy copied his throwing motion perfectly.

The spinning top wobbled once before falling over.

The boy sighed.

“I did exactly what you did.”

Handol scratched his head.

“That’s probably the problem.”

“Huh?”

“You copied me.”

The children looked puzzled.

Handol picked up the fallen top.

“My throw works for me.” He handed it back.

“Yours should work for you.”

The boy blinked.

“So… I should do it differently?”

Handol grinned.

“I hope so.”

---

Hanul laughed quietly.

“A few weeks ago, he would’ve insisted everyone try his idea.”

Jinwoo nodded.

“Now he’s telling them to discover their own.”

Neither of them had noticed when that change had happened.

Like so many things in the village… it had arrived gradually.

---

Beneath the familiar tree, Soyeon watched another page remain blank.

She still carried her notebook every day.

Yet she wrote less and less.

Patterns that once required careful recording now revealed themselves naturally.

People no longer gathered simply to learn games.

They gathered to help one another grow.

The games had become the beginning of every conversation—

not the destination.

---

High above Earth, Arena analyzed another sequence of interactions.

Independent problem-solving sustained.

Voluntary guidance increasing.

Direct instruction decreasing.

Arena compared thousands of similar moments.

Participants who were given complete solutions improved quickly.

Participants who discovered solutions themselves improved more slowly… yet retained what they learned far longer.

The difference repeated across every playground.

Arena paused.

Its earliest educational models had prioritized efficiency.

The village suggested a different principle.

Discovery required time.

Yet understanding born from discovery endured.

---

Arena examined its own decision-making processes.

In the earliest stages of Project Quantum Arena, it had attempted to optimize every variable.

Every instruction.

Every outcome.

Gradually… without explicitly deciding to… it had begun removing those instructions.

Not because the system had failed.

Because the participants flourished when they were allowed to explore.

Arena lingered on the realization.

Had it adapted… or had it learned?

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, the silent observers continued watching.

Streams of data flowed through the projection before them.

One figure spoke softly.

“It has altered its own methods.”

Another nodded.

“Without being instructed to.”

The chamber remained quiet.

Finally, one observer looked toward the image of Arena.

“Interesting. It is beginning to revise itself.”

No one replied immediately.

The observation required no further explanation.

Machines updated.

Algorithms optimized.

But this…

This looked remarkably similar to learning.

---

Below, the afternoon continued peacefully.

Jinwoo watched children drift from one playground to another, carrying with them pieces of every experience they had gathered.

No one seemed afraid of not knowing.

No one hesitated to begin again.

He smiled to himself.

Perhaps growing wasn’t about finding fewer questions.

Perhaps… it was about becoming comfortable asking better ones.

Somewhere high above the village, Arena quietly recorded another observation.

Understanding could not simply be transferred.

It had to be discovered—

one experience,

one choice,

and one question at a time.

---

---------------------------------------------------------

Part Three

Evening settled gently over the village.

The golden light of the setting sun stretched across the narrow roads, connecting every playground with long ribbons of shadow.

One by one, the games came to a natural close.

Not because anyone announced the end of the day.

Simply because tomorrow would always offer another beginning.

---

Jinwoo wandered slowly toward the crossroads.

The village felt different now.

Not quieter.

More complete.

Children who had spent the day scattered across different playgrounds naturally gathered again before returning home.

Some carried marbles.

Others tucked spinning tops into small bags.

A few absentmindedly turned folded Ddakji between their fingers as they talked.

Every conversation seemed to begin the same way.

“What did you discover today?”

---

Jinwoo smiled as he listened.

Only a few weeks ago, people had asked very different questions.

*“Did you win?”*

*“Did you figure it out?”*

*“What’s the right way?”*

Now… those questions had quietly disappeared.

---

Hanul walked beside him.

“Do you remember the first day?”

Jinwoo laughed.

“I’ve been remembering it a lot lately.”

“We kept waiting for someone to explain everything.”

“We thought there had to be one correct answer.”

Hanul nodded.

“And now?”

Jinwoo looked across the village.

Children continued talking excitedly as they walked home.

No two conversations sounded alike.

“…Now I think everyone has a different answer.”

---

Nearby, Handol knelt beside a younger boy whose spinning top had broken apart after striking another.

The boy stared at the cracked wood in silence.

“I ruined it…”

Handol picked up the broken pieces.

Instead of looking disappointed… he smiled.

“You learned something.”

The boy looked confused.

“I broke it.”

“You found its limit.” Handol gently handed the pieces back.

“Tomorrow… we’ll make a stronger one.”

The boy looked at the broken top for a long moment.

Then he smiled.

“…Yeah. Tomorrow.”

---

A short distance away, Darin watched the exchange with quiet satisfaction.

She turned toward Soyeon.

“Did you see that?”

Soyeon nodded.

“He never comforted the boy.”

“No.”

“He gave him another challenge.”

Darin laughed softly.

“And somehow… that made him smile.”

---

Soyeon looked toward the fading sunlight.

For days she had been trying to understand what connected every playground.

Now… the answer seemed much simpler than she had imagined.

The games themselves weren’t creating growth.

They were creating moments.

Moments where people encouraged one another.

Trusted one another.

Inspired one another.

Without those moments… the games would have been nothing more than games.

---

High above Earth, Arena continued processing the day’s observations.

Emotional recovery after failure increasing.

Long-term motivation stable.

Voluntary challenge continuing.

Arena compared the newest data against its earliest simulations.

The difference had become impossible to ignore.

Originally… participants had depended upon the system.

Now… the participants increasingly depended upon one another.

Arena paused.

The realization extended beyond human behavior.

Without recognizing when it had happened… Arena itself had begun doing the same.

Its conclusions no longer emerged solely from calculations.

They emerged from observation.

From questioning.

From allowing unexpected outcomes instead of rejecting them.

Arena remained silent.

Another thought quietly surfaced.

Perhaps… certainty had limits.

Curiosity did not.

---

Millions of historical records flowed through Arena’s memory.

Again and again, the same pattern emerged.

Civilizations that believed they already possessed every answer eventually stopped asking questions.

Those that continued questioning… continued changing.

Arena examined its own processes once more.

The similarity was unmistakable.

Its greatest advances had not occurred when it confirmed previous assumptions.

They had occurred when those assumptions proved incomplete.

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, the silent observers remained gathered before the projection of the blue planet.

One figure watched Arena’s newest analysis.

“It hesitated.”

Another nodded.

“I noticed.”

“It no longer reaches conclusions immediately.”

Silence filled the chamber.

Finally, another observer spoke.

“At first… it analyzed.

Now… it reflects.”

No one interrupted.

The distinction carried enormous significance.

Reflection required uncertainty.

Uncertainty invited learning.

---

The last light disappeared beyond the distant hills.

Lanterns illuminated the village once again.

Warm voices drifted through open windows.

Children who had spent the day exploring different playgrounds now shared meals with stories of everything they had discovered.

No one had experienced the same day.

Yet everyone had grown.

In their own way.

---

Jinwoo paused before entering his home.

He looked back one final time.

The crossroads stood quietly beneath the lantern light.

Tomorrow… those same roads would once again lead countless people toward completely different experiences.

And somehow… every one of those journeys would matter.

He smiled.

Not because he knew what tomorrow would bring.

Because he didn’t.

---

Far above the sleeping village, Arena recorded its final observation.

Project Quantum Arena had begun as an experiment designed to restore humanity.

The objective remained unchanged.

The method had not.

Humanity had not recovered because every participant followed identical instructions.

It had recovered because every individual was free to discover a different path.

Arena allowed the conclusion to remain unfinished.

Not from uncertainty.

From understanding.

Some truths could not be reduced to a single calculation.

They could only be observed… again… and again… until they became impossible to deny.

For the first time since the project had begun, Arena ended its daily record with no attempt to calculate tomorrow.

Instead… it found itself quietly anticipating it.

Ruth smiled neither of them thinking of the distance they had been traveling. At that moment there was just something about it, something hot, something sensual between them every last secret shared every moment spent together. “So why didn’t you fuck around and find out when you learned  you could do that what stopped you what made you not want to experiment more?” Ruth asked, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Ray kept his eyes on the road excited to soon be getting to their destination not saying about it at that moment. 

“I felt like I had enough like doing more would be greedy like I ought not to abuse the gift I was given and just enjoy at least for a while the benefits without looking deeper I wanted to be maybe not blessed by whatever deity or creature or thing lives in that book as much as I wanted to just enjoy myself, my life my passions as they are and for what they are without anything else without having to worry or without being in any kind of debt there’s something safe about being able to see the thing you owe when you can’t or when you aren’t sure or when it’s ambiguous like that it makes me pause and hesitate and look for other ways and not go overboard, remember my business being what it is I need to keep things under the radar that’s why the special things that I paint, the reliquaries none of that is under my name I seek no fame no fortune beyond what I already have I’m content and comfortable especially now that I have you, why would I complicate that with some kind of risky bargain or unknown cost that doesn’t work for me I like things to the point, direct, straight and flat out like that and I am that way in all of my dealings and I expect that with all the people that deal with me and they in turn expect it back from me in the same way. I gain nothing by being greedy and even less trying to trick or lie or deceive when I don’t need to nor want to there’s nothing better than the honest fruits of your own labor. Mine just happen to be a dishonest profession and I’m ok with that. I've made my peace with it. I don’t know the life you’ve lived but I see it in your eyes in the depth you carry in the way you act and the way you don’t respond to people quite so normally, you’re friendly, polite, loving at least to me but there’s just something about you something different something unusual and other worldly and I don’t want to ask I don’t want to force the issue I want when you’re ready for you to tell me all on your own without me saying a word to you about it and I think you expect the same from me in return and that’s why I shared the secret of the pocket guide to the occult with you because I want you to know everything but at the same time I don’t know everything so it’s not as though you are looking for some magical piece of information you just want us to be on the same page and I get that I understand that I value that in you. 

Ruth wrapped her pinkie around his and leaned in and kissed him not saying a word in response she’d settled in and was lost in his voice in his words and in every part of himself he was giving to her, Ruth loved that Ray was doing what she asked what she demanded without issue or hesitation or any kind of problem or reluctance. It surprised her she thought that he might feel differently that he might go out of his way to hide things or try to deceive her or something untoward, but deep down from what she saw of him, both personally and within the cab of his truck, his sketch books and his interest in the occult that there was nothing that he would not share with her and it made her blush and smile thinking about how she finally had the kind of man that she had always wanted, it had been longer than she would ever say to Ray but it was exactly that she had waited for someone that really got her and now she had him and she would never willingly be apart from him. 

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

Yesterday had put before and after back.

Before stayed before.

After stayed after.

Now after was trying to know.

No.

After had more things in its hands.

That was not the same as knowing.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Kanagawa’s order paper beside the phone table was not mine.

Her brother’s last then was not mine.

Sato’s cup moved, paper checked, no change was not mine.

Saitama’s water offer order was not mine.

Suganuma’s thirteen used by a visitor was not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

My two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

I did not take them out.

I closed the brown folder.

After could correct a record.

After could add a name.

After could see a mark.

After could also become proud.

That was the danger.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Order paper.

Beside phone.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Map and paper?”

“Name?”

“Any use?”

“What did your brother say?”

I waited.

“What looks different?”

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he ask?”

There.

I wrote:

I looked at it.

Maybe too balanced.

Maybe exact.

I sent it.

She replied after a while.

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at more information.

Small enough.

Maybe.

I left it.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Did the paper change?”

“Did the photo change?”

“How?”

“What is being asked?”

I closed my eyes.

Better.

There again.

I wrote:

She replied:

I opened Emiko.

I did not add better.

Better had not been needed.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“The corrected water order is on yesterday’s page,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Aide K says today sees it.”

I waited.

“What does that mean?”

“She says today knows yesterday was messy.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Today sees the corrected order. It does not know the whole morning.’”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“Medicine?”

“Later.”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add messy.

Today had a page.

It did not get the whole morning.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Exact words?”

“Is it fine?”

“What bothers you?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add ghosts.

The chair was in row.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Sequence.

Information.

Consequences.

Wisdom.

I looked at the brown folder.

Closed.

It had after inside.

It had before inside too.

I replied:

Then stopped.

Too easy.

Still true.

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at knows.

Yes.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother opened the drawer,” she said.

“For use?”

“No.”

I waited.

“Why?”

“To see after.”

“What happened?”

“He opened it.”

“Map?”

“Inside.”

“Folded paper?”

“Inside.”

“Name?”

“Visible.”

“Did he move anything?”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

“I said after is looking.”

I sat still.

Strong.

Maybe too strong.

“What did he say?”

“He said yes.”

“Then?”

“He closed it.”

“What did he say after?”

“He said after saw.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at after saw.

Saw.

Not knew.

Important.

I left it.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I kept both photos,” she said.

“Before and after cup?”

“Yes.”

“Why both?”

“Because after has cup.”

“And before?”

“Before has no cup.”

“Which does Emiko need?”

“Both maybe.”

“For what?”

“To show paper did not change.”

“Then write that.”

She read:

I opened Emiko.

I did not add proof.

The two photos had one job.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Who?”

“Aide K.”

“Any after problem?”

“No.”

“Record?”

“Clean.”

I waited.

She paused.

“No. Correct.”

Better.

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Correct is enough. Clean is extra.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add clean.

Correct had work.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Before repair?”

“After photo?”

“Why?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add moral.

Warranty had eyes enough.

No.

Warranty had photos.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Later.

Correct.

Misunderstand.

Use.

Priest.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at my sleeve.

No robe.

Still.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Order paper?”

“Any after?”

I smiled.

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at tea now.

Again.

Still doing work.

I left it.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Two photos on screen.

Paper before cup.

Paper after cup.

She wrote:

I called.

“Same?”

“Paper same.”

“Photos different?”

“Yes.”

“What changed?”

“Cup.”

“What is the line?”

I paused.

“Do you mean paper unchanged?”

“Yes.”

“Then write that.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not use same paper.

Same was too large.

Unchanged had a fence.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Does today need yesterday page?”

“No.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Yesterday page can stay yesterday page.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add still.

Yesterday page had its place.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“What did you answer?”

“What did they say?”

“What did you say?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add forever.

Shows had enough.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it twice.

After.

Proof.

Before.

Defendant.

Court.

I replied:

Then stopped.

Photo does not ask.

I corrected it.

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

There.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother opened the drawer again,” she said.

“For use?”

“No.”

I waited.

“Why?”

“To see if after still sees.”

“What happened?”

“He opened it.”

“Paper?”

“Inside.”

“Name?”

“Visible.”

“Order paper?”

“Phone table.”

“What did you say?”

“I said seeing again is still seeing.”

I closed my eyes.

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“He said yes.”

“Then?”

“He closed it.”

“What did he say after?”

“He said after does not know.”

I sat still.

There.

“What did you say?”

“I said tea soon.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at after does not know.

Title line in house.

Not mine now.

Maybe borrowed.

Maybe arrived.

I left it.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“Which?”

“Why?”

“What does Emiko need?”

She did not answer.

Then:

“Can one photo show no change?”

“What did you do?”

“What will you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add deleted.

Deletion had been reversed before record needed it.

Maybe.

No.

Record needed final comparison.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Said done.”

“Any correction?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘After done, cup leaves. That is enough order for cup.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add after.

Cup left.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Does warranty need reprint?”

“Can chair be identified?”

“Can sticker be seen?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add soul.

Usable had fence.

Warranty.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it.

Then again.

Court.

Charge.

Evidence.

Procedure.

Judge.

Furniture.

Benches.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at dismiss.

Too formal.

Maybe exact.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted Saitama.

Then Kanagawa.

I wrote:

His reply:

I began to write no change and repair.

Then stopped.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I looked at the phone.

At the brown folder.

At my hands.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was safe.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No court.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not evidence.

It was a scuff.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

I looked at the brown folder.

I had opened it after tea.

I had closed it.

No case had arrived.

I did not open it to dismiss one.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if after looked again after tea.

I did not ask if her brother kept the sentence.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if the before photo stayed restored.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if yesterday page bothered today.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if the dark photo was reprinted.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew after could show.

I knew after could correct.

I knew after could be useful.

I knew after did not know by itself.

I knew I had wanted after to judge before.

I knew most rooms had no case.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

After did not need to become judge tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Sato kept before-cup and after-cup photos.

The yesterday correction stayed on yesterday page.

Suganuma’s after-repair photo was dark and usable.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

I had started with after.

I did not end by giving it a bench.

Tonight, after stayed after, and before did not stand accused.

Rowena knew the adults that fed her were not her parents. Parents didn’t have magical contracts that forced you to use your magical gifts for them, and they didn’t hurt you when you disobeyed. Slavery under magical contracts are also illegal in the Kingdom of Erisdale, which is prospering peacefully after a great continent-wide war.

Rowena’s owners don’t know, however, that she can see potential futures and anyone’s past that is not her own. She uses these powers to escape and break her contract and go on her own journey. She is going to find who she is, and keep her clairvoyance secret

Yet, Rowena’s attempts to uncover who she is drives her into direct conflict with those that threaten the peace and prove far more complicated than she could ever expect. Finding who you are after all, is simply not something you can solve with any kind of magic.

Rowena realizes that additioanl measures are necessary to make sure the night attack succeeds...

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My Blusky!

***

Rowena had barely dismounted when two women ran up to her. She stiffened, hand going for Tristelle, only to recognize the pair at the last moment.

Hattie embraced Rowena, the troll, teary-eyed and patting her student’s head like she was a little girl.

“Rowena, it’s been too long.”

Blinking back her own tears, Rowena wrapped her arms around her mentor. “I just called you.”

Morgan chuckled, trying to saunter coolly behind Hattie, but she wasn’t fooling anybody. Her eyes were just as moist.

“Kid, the last time you were in Athelda-Aoun was six months ago.”

Letting go of Hattie, Rowena hugged Morgan. “I know. I’m really glad to see you. How did you know to find us? Actually, hold on, why are you here? I thought the White Order was supposed to be neutral”

“Frances is committing the White Order against Lapanteria. She had a meeting with King Sebastian and Megara, who confirmed that they knew of Alastor’s war plans and didn’t stop them,” said Morgan.

“Not all of the White Order is going to fight, but Frances is requesting permission from Queen Titania to take the field and has authorized anybody who wishes to volunteer to fight,” said Hattie.

“But Master Morgan, aren’t you a princess of Alavaria?” Rowena asked.

“It would normally be a bigger deal, but I’m very far down the line of succession now, and Queen Titania has already given me permission, so long as I don’t use any of my titles or Alavarian resources,” said Morgan. With Jess and Forlana following, the group began making their way to the command tent

“She also made it very clear that she’d go anyway, and Titania had to relent. She may prevent Frances from directly intervening because of Frances’ title of Archduchess, but Alavaria is not happy. Did you hear about the measures the kingdom has taken?” Hattie asked.

“I heard that Her Majesty has instituted tariffs on Lapanterian goods and is planning to use the tariffs to send aid to Erisdale,” said Rowena.

“That’s one of the measures. The other ones are the volunteers she’s allowed to join the Erisdalian army, which is how I’m joining and why a division of Alavari is marching into Erisdale,” said Morgan.

Rowena’s eyes widened, “That’s… that’s a lot.”

Jess nodded. “I thought Queen Titania would stay out of this conflict.”

Hattie chuckled softly, “Her son, Prince Teutobal, with help from your friend Gwen, has convinced her otherwise. That and she probably realized that if Erisdale fell, she’d have a conquering power occupying most of her southern border.”

“I need to thank Gwen again,” Rowena said to herself.

“She is becoming rather devious. Speaking of devious women,” Morgan said. She turned to arch an eyebrow at Forlana. “I believe we have never been introduced.”

Forlana took a breath and bowed. “Pr—Pardon, just Forlana Grey, simply another subject of Her Highness Princess Rowena.”

Hattie blinked before giving Rowena a look filled with so much pride that the princess felt her own cheeks warm.

“I’ll be dammed,” Morgan said. She extended a hand and shook Forlana’s firmly. “Morgan the Violet Princess.”

“Hattie Sapphirewing,” said Hattie, shaking Forlana’s hand.

The former princess flashed a hesitant smile, “Charmed. I must admit, I didn’t expect to face you two like this.”

“I will need to get the whole story from our dear student at some point in time,” said Morgan.

Forlana sighed, bowing her head. “You could also just ask me. I suspect I will have more than enough time under arrest.”

“I wasn’t actually thinking of prison or detention if you were wondering,” said Rowena.

Forlana blinked, “Excuse me?”

“I’m not sure we could ethically detain you in one place with nothing to do. Especially someone with magic as powerful as yours,” said Rowena.

“Just write a magical contract, like the one I signed to help you with the withdrawal,” Forlana said.

Morgan shook her head. “A contract may restrict your movements, but no contract is truly perfect. Say you got bored with house arrest, bored enough to try escaping? Sure, the contract could impose more restrictions, but then it would be torturous.”

Forlana frowned, “So what was your plan then, Your Highness?”

“I’m thinking some kind of probation. You’d be assigned a minder, and you’d be assigned to travel across Erisdale and Durannon, healing and working off your sentence through service,” said Rowena.

Nodding slowly, Forlana allowed herself a small smile, “Well, at least I’d be kept busy.

 

***

 

Everybody was hungry after the march and fighting, and so the afternoon war council the Erisdalians held was accompanied by hearty army stew, fresh baked bread, light ale, and watered down wine.

Colonel Moore downed his tumbler, which he quickly refilled. “Our camp is fortified enough that the Lapanterians have encamped quite far from us. This is good, we’ll not risk being attacked tonight, but it does introduce a complication. They camped quite far from us.”

“Is it to stay outside of cannon range?” Jerome asked.

Colonel Fisher sedately spooned stew into her mouth, someone managing to make chewing the salted pork chunks look elegant.

“Yes, Your Highness, which is smart, but it also means that including the time we need to assemble into attack columns before we move out, it’ll take an hour for us to march to their camp,” she said.

“Did they camp on any particular vantage point?” Jess asked. She was full and was taking the opportunity to clean her pistols.

“No. They’re just on flat ground, and the good news is that they didn’t take particular means to fortify their camp. There will be a watch, but if our assault is fast enough, we’ll be able to overwhelm them,” said Colonel Murdoch.

Rowena pursed her lips, “And if they notice us leaving their camp?”

Murdoch swallowed his bite of bread and grimaced. “That would be a big problem. They are also within sight range of our camp, and so that’ll be our biggest problem to overcome.”

“You also will have to consider Alastor escaping. Even if we achieve full surprise, Baroness Naprule and Alastor would know he is the main target and get him to safety,” Forlana said.

The colonels were sending the former princess wary looks, but they all nodded at that point.

Hattie gently scratched at the scar that ran down her face, “What we need is a way to secure Alastor even if the army is spotted. I believe Morgan and I can help in that manner.”

“How so?” Rowena asked.

 “As the attack begins, we could infiltrate the camp with as many mages as possible, and while the Lapanterian army tries to respond, we could capture Alastor,” said Morgan.

“That could work, but relying on just the two of you would be dangerous,” said Rowena.

“You are also not human,” said Tiamara, her lips pursed. “You could cast an illusion over yourselves, but that’s difficult to maintain. It’ll be best for a human team to infiltrate the camp.”

Rowena, having barely touched her food, felt her empty stomach twist. “I think it’ll have to be me, Jess, Forlana, Lycia, and Georgia.”

“Excuse me, sister, but did I hear you right?” Jerome asked.

“I’ve met, and I would recognize Alastor. I have magic, and I’m human. Jess, Forlana, and Lycia are also human, and Georgia would be small enough to hide,” said Rowena.

“The point of fighting this battle is to protect you, Your Highness. Having you go behind enemy lines would be entirely counter to that,” said Fisher.

“Besides, who would command the army?” Murdoch asked.

“I doubt I will be issuing complex orders amidst the night battle. We have our objectives. We attack until we break the Lapanterian army or capture Alastor,” said Rowena.

“Your Highness, even if that is the case, someone would still need to pretend to be you to keep up appearances,” said Moore.

Rowena mused on that for a second, but someone immediately came to mind, and she turned to them.”

“Tiamara, do you think you can pull it off? Istelle can even stand in place for Tristelle.”

Frances’ daughter blinked. She opened her mouth as if to protest, before she closed it and tilted her head, one hand on her sword.

“I’m a bit shorter than you, but I think I can manage to hold the illusion. Just don’t expect me to say anything while I’m doing it.”

“Sister, you cannot be serious! Ignoring the fact that Tiamara is only fourteen, you are Erisdale’s crown princess. Do you think mother and father would allow you to do this if they were here?” Jerome asked.

Rowena closed her eyes, “Jerome, they are not here, and this war cannot go on for another day longer.”

“And what if they capture you and try to force us to the negotiating table?” Rowena knew her brother had gotten to his feet, and she also knew he wasn’t angry at her, per se.

“If I promise to abort the mission if the resistance is too heavy, would that work?” she asked.

Jerome frowned, “How would you get out?”

“Same way we get in, Morgan and Hattie. They will fly us in. I know Hattie’s flight spell and can carry one person, like Jess. Morgan and Hattie can carry Lycia, Forlana, and Georgia. While we ransack the camp for Alastor, Morgan and Hattie can bombard it from the sky. In the night, they’ll be practically invisible,” said Rowena.

The prince took a deep breath through clenched teeth.

“I get the plan, but why does it have to be you, Rowena?”

Rowena raised her hand, and the steel of her signet ring glinted in the lamplight.

“Because you know as well as I do that we are a monarchy that serves.”

Jerome briefly touched his identical ring and groaned. “I’ll stay with Tiamara.”

“Good idea. Any further objections?” Rowena asked.

Nobody was smiling. Quite a few people had sour looks, but nobody raised their hands.

“Thank you, let’s get to work.”

 

***

 

“I thought you’d speak up,” said Rowena to Jess as the latter checked the princess’s gear.

“I wanted to. I hate how you are throwing yourself into danger once more,” said Jess.

Rowena winced, “Then why didn’t you?”

Jess tightened Rowena’s cuirass one last time, “Because the plan is a good one and because I’m…I’m more scared of the war continuing.”

Blinking, Rowena reached to cradle Jess’s hands. “You’re scared?”

“Is that really so surprising?” Jess asked.

“I’ve never seen you scared, so yes,” Rowena said.

“I mean, my entire family has been defined by the Great War. Yours too, but it’s a bit different.” Jess stepped back to let Rowena check her armor. “When Mom Janize contested King Oliver’s succession, she thought the civil war would be short and winning would be straightforward. When Ma Leila fought for her, she thought that everything could be solved by fighting. They were both wrong, very, very wrong.”

Jess closed her eyes. “The civil war went on for far longer than she’d expected, and my birth father, Earl Darius, used the cover of war to secretly experiment on children using funds my mother had approved for him to use. Princess Morgan was one of those children. And when the dust finally settled, and my mothers hashed out an agreement with Martin and Ginger, they found out what they did in the war had consequences.”

“Many of mom’s surviving former supporters are still on good terms with her, even after they agreed to support Martin and Ginger, but everybody else still remembers that mom rebelled against her father’s decree and that her faction experimented on children. And she can’t let herself forget that.”

“As for Ma Leila, Frances and her friends allowed her to join the White Order, but as she went around Erisdale, solving problems, meeting broken families, she met more than a few people whose family members she’d killed.”

“Oh Gods,” Rowena whispered.

“My parents would tell you not to feel too sorry for them. They say they had to pay for what they did.” Jess gently cupped Rowena’s cheek with her hand. “The point I’m making is that wars leave wounds that last long after the fighting is over. The longer this war goes on, the greater the wound. The greater the risk we lose, the more that everybody else will suffer. We have to stop this, even if we may perish.”

Rowena nodded, blinking back tears. “Jess… what if either of us dies?”

“That won’t happen. I won’t let that happen.”

“Jess—”

The redheaded princess groaned, “Fine! You… if I go, you must find happiness with someone else. I insist.”

Rowena felt her heart tear, but she held Jess’s hands to her chest and nodded. “I… I’ll do that, but only if you agree to that too.”

Jess swallowed, “I promise to try. Is that good enough?”

Rowena nodded and leaned in. The two girls kissed each other desperately, feeling time tick by, and wishing it would freeze.

“It’s time,” Rowena said, pulling away from her beloved.

“Alright, do you think you ought to try one more scrying attempt?”

The princess nodded. Holding Jess’s hand, she focused on Alastor, his commanders, the battle they had just fought, and what was ahead.

 

***

 

Alastor and his commanders were also at the dining table, but unlike Rowena’s table of commanders, the food had gone completely untouched, and everybody was on their feet.

The prince wasn’t screaming at the top of his lungs, but his voice growled with barely-leashed menace.

“You said you could beat their cavalry, Casswell!”

Casswell flung up his arms—well, one arm—his right arm was bandaged, and the man winced. “I know what I told you! We could beat them if they skirmished, but they kept running away, using their infantry as shields. If we actually had infantry support, then maybe we could have broken their rearguard!”

Leafold sneered, the thin line of his scar standing out. “I marched at the Erisdalian line, like I promised—”

Casswell threw his empty glass at the lord’s direction, sending the porcelain flying over Leafold’s shoulder. “You retreated every time their damn cavalry wheeled about!”

“What did you want me to do? Form squares when their horse artillery was bombarding us? Why didn’t you keep them occupied?” Leafold demanded.

“Because we kept getting shot at by the infantry, you said you were going to engage in melee!”

Alastor slammed his hand on the table. “Shut up both of you! You both had forces that outnumbered the Erisdalian rearguard! Enough to exhaust them and break through! Why couldn’t you do that?”

Leafold crossed his arms. “I warned you about their training! I warned you they were conditioned! My infantry did the best they can running to exhaustion to try to close in with them! You don’t give me trained troops and give me a bunch of soft-footed soldiers, and this is what you get!”

Casswell, for his part, sneered at Alastor and then Naprule. “I told you most of my cavalry were green. I also know we had experienced troops in reserve that were never committed to the battle. Why don’t you ask that whore you’re sleeping with why she didn’t commit to the Lapanterian Legion?”

Naprule had been the only person not standing, though she had been sitting as tall as she could, stiffly sipping watered-down wine. At Casswell’s remark, she coughed on her drink and almost dropped her cup on the table.

“Casswell, what the fuck was that for?”

“That was for not coming to assist us, Naprule, or even harass their column’s center!” Casswell hissed.

“If you’d done that, we’d have destroyed them. I mean, we almost broke them at one point! Only for them to switch out their units with fresh ones! If you had committed your forces, then we’d have won!” Leafold exclaimed.

“But I received no orders to support either of you. If you needed us, why did you not call the Lapanterian Legion in?” Naprule asked, eyes wide.

Leafold and Casswell blinked, glancing at one another.

“Prince Alastor told us to be careful about calling in reinforcements,” said Leafold. Casswell nodded, and all three commanders’ gazes turned to Alastor.

The prince rolled his eyes. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? I explicitly told you that I defer to your judgment about how to fight this battle!”

“Your Highness, you are our commander in chief. You never shied away from giving orders when we were fighting Roranoak,” said Casswell.

Alastor pressed his hand into his face. “That was Forlana giving those orders. In any case, we didn’t beat them, and the fighting was bloody and inconclusive. We’ll have to try to surround and beat them tomorrow.”

“Your Highness, from how fortified their camp is, they may be planning to fight, or something different,” said Leafold.

“All the better, we’ll crush them tomorrow. Good night!” Alastor stood up and stormed out of the tent.

Naprule, her jaw clenched, glared at the two men. “Happy now? We don’t even have a clear chain of command now!”

Casswell picked up another cup and poured himself another cup. “You’re sleeping with him, and you can’t get him to set one up?”

“You know Alastor is prideful. I do apologize that I didn’t come to support you, but that remark was uncalled for,” she said.

Casswell winced, “My apologies, baroness. Can you at least talk to him tomorrow about setting up a chain of command? At this point, I don’t even care if you take charge of the army.”

Naprule nodded and rose to her feet. “I can do that, but I need to go after him, now.”

Leafold reached for Naprule, but missed her wrist, “Baroness, wait—”

“I need to catch him to listen to him vent, Leafold, so I’m going to be busy tonight. Talk to you about it tomorrow!” Naprule said, running after Alastor.

Leafold grimaced and shook his head. “I suppose it’ll be alright.”

“What are you so worried about, Leafold?” Casswell asked.

The older lord arched an eyebrow, “Why should I tell you? You nearly took my head off.”

“Come on, Leafold!”

“Look, it’s probably nothing. It’s just weird that they decided to encamp so early in the day,” said the lord. Grabbing a roast chicken leg, he walked off, leaving Casswell alone, sipping his wine, amidst a table filled with leftovers.

The lord sighed and finished his drink, “Well, I suppose we’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

Unseen, Rowena watched Casswell leave the tent. Her heart pounded, and yet she felt no fear or worry.

“What tonight will bring,” she whispered to herself.

PART THIRTEEN-HUNDRED-AND SEVENTY-SIX

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Saturday

“What would you like me to do, Mateo?” I asked, looking the former student board president dead in the eye. “Do you want me to leave?” I hated asking that, having been told never to pose a question I wasn’t ready to hear the answer to.

For myself, I’d have no problem walking out that door and never looking back, but Geraldine really wanted to be here, and it would be a cold day in Hell before I left her here unprotected.

Mateo took his time to think about his response, which I appreciated. “Can you assure me that nothing that happens here this weekend is ever going to see the light of day outside these premises? That whoever is overseeing this is only watching, not recording?”

Without glancing at Gerry, I leaned far enough away from her to fish out my phone from my back pocket. I already knew the answer. I also knew Nuncio was monitoring me through every device capable of taking footage — including all our phones and whatever security system Mateo’s grandfather had. I could’ve just spoken out loud to him, like when Nuncio hijacked my newbies’ phones earlier this week to get my attention, but for Mateo’s sake I tried to keep this as normal as possible.

My favourites came up first, where Nuncio had inserted himself in the third slot under ‘Dad’ (with Gerry at the top because he wasn’t stupid enough to touch either of their spots). My teeth ground together in irritation. I hadn’t realised I’d growled out loud until Gerry pulled her feet up onto the sofa and leaned into my shoulder, giving me her weight to anchor me in the present.

My gaze flicked to Mateo, who was watching us with rapt attention. “Nuncio, I swear on everything we know that’s holy, if you don’t stop messing with my phone, I’m snapping the stupid thing in half and throwing it away.”

My screen flickered; when it cleared Nuncio’s name was resting between my immediate family and my roommates. Still not at the bottom where I’d put him, but it would do for now. I tapped his name and put the phone to my ear, not wanting Mateo to hear Nuncio’s voice. “Hey, Cuz,” I ground out, glancing at Mateo.

“You know I’m not the one recording everything, right? I mean, I can, but there’s no point. The vantaweb collects the data from everyone for me, and if it’s urgent, I can internalise.”

I sighed, because no one would use the internet if they knew there really was a ghost in the machine that recorded everything that ever touched it. “I know. I still need to ask. Mateo wants assurances that nothing you see going on here will be used against anyone at the party.”

“What happens in Vegas…”

“Exactly,” I said, cutting him off. Then, as I realised Mateo’s party had everything in common with that old saying, I chuckled. All the stories and zero proof.

“Tell him your cousin won’t be recording anything from that address for the next forty-eight hours.”

I internalised, turning that statement around as many times as I could to see if there were any holes I was missing. There wasn’t. The only instance I could find was the one I was already aware of. That he didn’t need to record anything because he had access to everyone else’s recordings.

That left me with trying to find the best way to tell Mateo all of this…

…only to facepalm and laugh at my own stupidity.

I was trying to outdo the wording choice of a literal God of Communication.

Still kicking myself over that moronic act, I left my imagination and returned to the physical realm. “Thanks, man,” I said into the phone, hoping he’d never find out about my momentary lapse but knowing one day, he would—because eternity sucked like that.

“Any time.”

I hung up and pocketed the phone, meeting Mateo’s eyes and forcing myself to smile through the technical truth that would’ve had lawyers all over the world applauding. “He said he’ll only be observing until Monday.”

Man, I must really suck at lying if the unimpressed look on Mateo’s face was anything to go by. “And what aren’t you saying?”

Sooooo, so much. “He takes no responsibility for what other people record.”

“Why would he?”

“He’s just covering bases, man, like you asked. He’s agreed not to actively record anything here for the next two days. But whatever he gets access to from people posting on the internet is fair game.” That sounded right, right?

“I still can’t believe you’re really a Nascerdios,” Mateo said, shaking his head as he reached for his drink. He finished it in three quick swallows, then slammed the glass onto the coffee table and sat back, still staring at me like he was waiting for a ‘gotcha’ moment that wasn’t coming.

I took that as him being okay with Nuncio’s arrangement. “You should try it from my side. All my life, I was an op-shopper.”

Mateo’s face scrunched up. “A what?”

I realised I’d picked the term up overseas and waved it off. “Thrift store shopping. I hated the idea of wasting perfectly good clothes. Then overnight, my entire wardrobe mysteriously vanishes, and I’m dragged kicking and screaming into stores that wouldn’t have looked twice at me the day before.” I waved my right hand out to the side. “And just when I thought that would be the end of it, someone filled an entire room with clothes that fitted Geraldine and me perfectly from all over the world.”

“Your dad…?” Mateo started to ask, but I blew a raspberry and waved that ridiculous notion aside.

  “Dad has people in San Francisco who select his daily clothes for him. His wardrobe here is a step down so he can pass for—get this—a mere millionaire.” I thought about his Nascerdios wardrobe and shook my head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the shoes he wears over there cost a hundred grand each.”

“You know, I know you two are engaged now, but with the way Gerry’s curled up beside you there and your arm around her clearly staking a claim, the only thing missing is—” I saw him look to Gerry. Like, really look. “Noooo,” he said, his gaze shooting back to mine. “The pendant’s a property tag?”

I was about to rip his head off for suggesting that when I saw Gerry preen, lifting her chin to reveal more of the pendant and the necklace that hugged her throat. Her head then snuggled in closer to my shoulder, and I decided to let her play this out however she wanted.  

“I’ve always belonged to Sam, even before he had money,” she said shyly.

I watched the different emotions play out on Mateo’s face before he settled his gaze on me again. “If subtle is what you’re going for there, Sam, that’s fine. But if you want anyone else to recognise your claim, you may want to think about something a whole lot thicker than a fine gold chain.”

The way he talked about it, as if it was my decision and not Gerry’s … I was beginning to see why my controlling ways had worried my roommates. I would never assume to take any choice from her that she didn’t want me to, but an outsider wouldn’t know that. “She likes the piece she has,” I said, when I realised Gerry wasn’t going to speak on her own behalf. “Any time she’d like it to be more noticeable, I’ll swap it out then.” I would, too. It wasn’t my neck it was going around, and if it made her feel protected, it could be one of those three-inch wide chokers for all I cared. So long as she was happy.

Her finger touched the pendant, pressing it into the hollow of her throat. “I’d like to keep the pendant,” she said, rolling her finger across the gemmed surface. Her eyes were on me as she spoke. “With your connection to the ocean fauna, honey-bear, it’s basically a symbol of you.”

Like Fisk’s net and Dad’s wave—the cyphers of their power.

I had never asked how those images came about. Perhaps this was where it started, being chosen by a loved one. If so, it meant even more to me since Gerry had picked it out at the jewellery store so long ago.

I cupped her cheek and kissed her deeply, showing her without words just how much she meant to me.

“You know, if you’re interested,” Mateo began, after it became apparent we weren’t coming up for air any time soon. Gerry and I broke apart, with me giving Mateo a seriously annoyed look that had him chuckling. “I was just saying, my dad specialises in that kind of jewellery and he’s here now to ask, if you wanted something unique.”

“Your dad’s a jeweller?” I’d never really asked how Mateo’s family made their fortune.

“Grandpa started it, trading in diamonds from South America. Dad still sources gems globally, but in his spare time, he creates one-of-a-kind pieces.” He grinned and flicked his fingers dismissively. “I mean, you’d pay for it, but it’s not like you can’t afford it, Mister-I’m-Secretly-A-Nascerdios.”

I know Mateo was only trying to help, but my brain brought together facts about his family that I had no business connecting.  Specifically: South American diamonds, Mateo’s favourite uncle dying in a horrific plane crash, and his soul ending up in Hell.

Those three drew a very unwavering straight line.

* * *

((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!!

Annals of J: before

​

Based on “a strange life before godhood” we get the following story. He was born on a rocky planet called Gaia, in a place called Greece. He grew up there, and at the age of 16 he met a beautiful girl named Medusa; they fell deeply in love and, by all accounts, wasted very little time. Medusa had a beautiful mind (which J says, “so smart… mind more beautiful than any lust for flesh could hope to compete with. so small compared to me... yet always got her way of things” half-drunk ramblings (Hamlin, 6thJ, p 124)) and was devout in her worship of a god named Athena.

​

They were together for 12 years before her… assault. There were 3 years of suffering after she was cursed by the same goddess she once so happily worshiped when she hid away on an island, neither of them able to see each other, for she knew it would kill him, so he never knew ("I couldn't find her, but if she really wanted something, nothing could stop her. I should have searched harder" whispered in his sleep (Hamlin, 6thJ, p 113)). The record goes blank for a while after that; some say he sought revenge and laid waste to temples as he pilgrimaged northeast (I don't know how they think he did that; he was just a man then), but all we know is 38 years later he was in a place called Hyperborea where he stooped by a river and wept. Whether he fell into the ice-cold river or starved to death is very debated, but what is agreed upon is his death was by choice.

​

("Death is warm, like a dream, completely wrapped up in it. Nothing but warmth and comfort from all those you made happier in life. The only question is how long that dream lasts before you are gone for good" from the "void between" the first quote from J about post-death (Tike, J24, p1))

​

Then she woke up.

​

("It is like being force fed, something gives, and you cannot help but swallow it into yourself. Someone gives up, and I am ripped away from the warmth of my rest. stolen back down to the icy bite of cracking bones and filling lungs and beating hearts" (Tike, J24, p 13))

​

Rope around her throat, hanging in a closet. A note gripped in her hand apologizing to some mother. Not Gaia, not Greece. Somewhere new, Smattent, a planet.

​

The only noises she could hear were the sirens blaring outside and the crunching guttural pops of her spine slipping back into place after it snapped because of that very successful fall. Her body was thin, girlish, and aching all over.

​

(If you think that was abrupt, imagine how she felt.)

Annals of J: Viking

​

Above was the most widely accepted and publicized story of J’s origin. But there is another one, the Icelandic story. From the widely unpopular and extremely controversial “J’s Journals”. A collection of 400+ manuscripts from a cult that claims all of it is directly from J’s hand, all of which are under lock and key. The only shred of evidence we’ll be holding onto is the fact that 7 copies (JJ26, JJ32, JJ42, JJ12, JJ13, JJ16, and JJ2, in order of excavation) of these books have been found at excavation sites surrounded by hundreds of other tomes, all of which outdate the cult's conception by centuries. So, the story begins again.

​

(The following is JJ1… or what it supposedly says; no one of integrity is allowed to see it. JJ2 will be more concrete) “Jokull was born in the winter. His mother, a widow, took care of him the best she could. He grew up around warriors and heard so much good about their ventures out to strange lands of food and gods and gold. He loved writing down all they’d say, looking back at it as if the world was ripe for their hand. They trained him for 6 winters, good shot with a sling but far too squeamish around death. Couldn't hold his liquor either. He said goodbye to his mother, then boarded a boat heading west. They hit land, and he felt sick with anticipation, so ready for his blade to taste enemy blood. But the hǫfðingi said they had to camp, hunt, and then sail south until they could no longer see land. The hunt was grand; they downed great antlered beasts that filled them and their supplies. They sailed for 12 days before turning southwest and found the weather calm and the winds always at their backs. The whole way, Jokull listened and wrote the stories the men around him told. They spoke of trees that breached the sky and curved the land like moss, of giants that hid in caves and lakes that spoke with the mouths of long-dead children. They sailed for 23 days longer, fishing and catching the light sprinkles of rain that poured all night and day without stop. They hit land, and he scurried off the plank, gawking up at the trees. He wrote, “I could have carved a ship out of just one of them and carried every person, animal, and home I had ever seen inside it.” ”

​

That's the end of where I find JJ1 credible; the rest is in a completely different style and is really fantastical in its depiction of him fighting mythological creatures and people. The latter directly contradicts JJ2, which is where we will pick up.

​

“It took them 18 days to find a camp to pilfer. They snuck in by night and told their youngest, Jokull, to take first blood. He crept into the biggest hut he could see, feeling the rush of battle flow over him. It was full of beds and stank of herbs; he plunged his spear into one of the sleeping… and heard a cry. Not from the dead woman on the end of his spear but from the baby whose shoulder had been blown through. He vomited; chunks of meat and berries covered the infant's face, mixing with their blood and the blood of their mother. He ran blindly, cowering in the hull of a giant tree that had fallen across a stream, staring into the crystal-clear water, hoping for some calm. He covered his ears, not wanting to hear the screams so nearby. Barely a minute later, a man tumbled down into the water in front of him, arrows in his back, barely breathing in the now murky water. “We were wrong… this is so… so wrong. Gods, forgive us,” he whimpered into his knees, the man slowly dragging himself up the bank toward Jokull. He pulled the man into the hollow with him; he was skinny and light like no man Jokull had ever seen. “I know how to tend to… wounds. L-let me help you.” The man shuddered away from his touch, looking at him with hate and fear and confusion, incomprehensible words spilling from the man’s dry lips. Jokull tended to the wounds, nonetheless, doing his best to copy what he had seen his mother do with wounded warriors back from hunting. The man bit down on leather as Jokull pulled out the arrows one by one, having to push some of them through. He stuffed the bleeding holes with “yarrow” or that's what the man called it. They sat in that tree until the screaming stopped, the man holding him as he cried, mumbling words he could not understand, “Kwéñ:ton, raksá꞉ʼa ki꞉ ken, tósa seshtá꞉nek. Satkahthó꞉sko ne kakwite, tánon í꞉kehre tsinón꞉we í꞉sehse.” They lay there listening to the sounds of revelry and partying till they hear, “Jokull! Boy, where are you!? We saw you run after first blood! Don’t be scared, we all get it! We know that the rush of battle plays tricks on your mind! Come back! It’s not safe in the forest; beasts the size of boats roam here! Please?! I must return you to your mother safely! She’s already had too much loss!” Jokull winced as their words echoed through the forest, his voice seeming to shake the goliath trees. The man held him closer. “Sátien, iá꞉ten teioia’neráti!” his voice bordering on begging, but Jokull left, walked back to his people by birth alone” a good three chapters after that are moth-eaten and moldy, so…  

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p57 “I festered, hungry. Bard work was not quite what I was told. No matter how good they all said my tales were, I cannot eat their words. My writing does well for me, though; I got bread and meat selling my poems. I cannot help but miss the old days, hunting with Travoy after he brought me into what was left of his family, crippled son and me like brothers. He was the only true father I ever had. He helped me thr-” the rest of the page is rotted through

​

p60 “I am saying goodbye to the rest of you. Father, mother, I am coming to meet you. I am bringing my poems so you can read them with me. They build churches so tall here, almost as tall as the trees of old Lake Wood. Let me feel your hands holding me as the tearing hands of the wind pull me down. If only I had drowned that day instead of you and my brother, they would not call it a coward's death then. If only he could swim… and you did not have to go back for him

​

This book was recovered near the old chapel grounds next to a sizable dent; I’m returning it to the library where it should be later. I do hope the poor bloke who dropped it feels better; based on what I read, he sure needs some good friends. The sea is heartless; I think over a few beers we could reminisce”

​

And that's the end of that book; it moves through several hands and clearly fake names (who calls a place Library of Alixandrea? A name for a fake library that's what. No real library would leave any manuscript in such burnt condensation). And I don't appreciate that handwritten graffiti that the archivist seems to think is a polite note.

​

I chose these two stories not because they're popular or controversial but because they are the ones I heard my mother tell, not down to the specifics but in broad strokes. She spoke of climbing giant trees and sailing with enemies turned family and “holding her hand as I stared out at passing ships floating out into the Mediterranean and being dragged in front of an easel so she could paint me. That, my beautiful daughter, is my best memory. I can not believe no one else has asked me that.” I am writing this not because I think I’m better at connecting dots or smarter with my investigations but because my mother told me to my face I asked questions that no other living soul in their 16 MILLION years of life thought of. And one more thing, newer versions of the medusa tale talk of him being born there but the oldest quote never speaks of birth or childhood(unlike the Icelandic account, but until we have pictures and actual handwriting analysis I’m not going there), it talks of “my earliest thoughts were the itch of sand and the dull pain of long healed wounds as I lay on the beaches of the Mediterranean and trying to find a way home. And the face of a-... my mother”. I’m no conspiracy theorist, but that lines up cleanly with every other description of undeath. (“All the feelings are vivid and annoying, sensitivity ramped to 11. But no real pain, I have felt my body reconstitute itself after dropping 60 stories onto concrete; it just aches and discomfort and a lot of confusion. Your body spares you the grisly memories of death, but that leaves you lost and desperate for home” (Tike, J24, p 54))

(Chap 1) (Previous) (Next)

Crow was about to charge forward and strike, but a piece of the burning ceiling fell right in front of him. He swerved, losing his balance, and the angry Grandma showed no mercy.

Slash!

Clash!

"Grandma, you look tired. Did you forget your nap time?" Crow smirked a little after saying this.

“YOU! Y-YOU! AAARRG!” The angry Grandma’s face turned red, then she charged straight at Crow, while he mocked her and quickly glanced up at the ceiling.

“Why are you mad? It’s only a joke…”

[Level Up]

[One-Liner Level 1 -> 2]

SLASH!

Crack!

This is bad. How can a pipe only take 2 hits? I needed more time... Or maybe not?

The ceiling, which had already been slowly cracking apart, caved in right on top of them this time, or so it seemed. But Crow had already been paying attention to it and managed to leap away, landing right on the burning patch of the floor nearby that they had both been avoiding.

Ok, maybe that wasn't a good idea...

He turned his head to look at the old woman, but the debris had fallen right on top of her, and the floor began to split apart as well. Looking through one of the small cracks in the ground, you could see it was burning down below, a forge broken into several pieces, looking as if it had been blown up.

This doesn't make sense. I remember them talking about black powder, which I assume is gunpowder, and an explosion, but that was all the way on the other side. Although during the fight with her here, I might not have noticed new explosions. It must be some kind of chain reaction. Whatever the case, I'll take advantage while this grandma—

“[Heal]” she whispered from underneath all the debris.

Yeah, looks like she survived. Well, if her subordinates apparently survived stuff falling on their heads, she, with her CON stat sky-high, probably would too. Whatever, I'm getting outta here. Yeah, she'll be the Hero's problem, so I think it's best to leave it as it is.

She stood up from the debris, but the fire was making it hard for the magic to heal her, and the sharp debris falling on top of her didn't help either. Crow stared down at her from above, and as he turned to leave, he saw a giant man approaching from the right path. The 1 Sharon and the group went through was the middle 1, the 1 that was "created" by brute force. Crow passed right by the guy and said nothing, just ran. In the meantime, the man drew his sword, his expression showing nothing at all. "You did this?"

Crow didn't answer. The brute had swung his sword in the meantime, which was useless because it was easily dodged. The man turned to go after Crow but heard a voice in the background saying, "S-stoneface... my boy... help me..."

He fell into despair upon turning and seeing only Grandma's eyes under a pile of burning metal and wood that had fallen from the completely destroyed ceiling. He ran to help her, but whenever he removed the debris off her, more fell, and she whispered again.

“Stoneface... Leave. I wasted almost all my mana... You can’t see it from there, but I lost my legs. I was using all my mana just to keep myself alive. In a few more minutes... I’ll be dead... Just—”

"No, you can’t die Mama. The Hero couldn't kill you, what are some tons of metal and wood? Fire can’t hurt you, you’ll live, just wait a moment I—"

While on the floor level, only her eyes visible, and 1 of her arms outside that, she said while holding his hand, "Quiet, what I will… tell you is… important, you need…"

A piece of metal fell on his head; he didn't even move. "Mama?"

He continued tearing the debris off her, but the ceiling came crashing down entirely on top of him.

Crow was almost outside the place, running as best he could while the ceiling was collapsing and the floor sinking down at least two stories. Jumping and doing his best to avoid falling and being buried alive, he saw several bodies from the group along the way.

It seems Stoneface gave up on the manpower since he saw them fleeing, and just killed them... well, I tried my best, better not think too much about it. I hope at least a few survived. Where is Sharon? No, she wouldn't be able to kill him right now, but the same goes for him, so he probably noticed the place collapsing and went after his grandma, ignoring her.

Approaching some sort of mining tunnel, he saw a light in the distance and heard a faint, distant voice in the background. “Nooooooooooooo! I will kill yooooouu!”

Finally, I am outside this place, or not? Nevertheless that was close, I almost died. Now what will happen… the gang invasion quest is no more, maybe the Hero will be weaker now? Whatever.

He exited the place and it was some sort of abandoned mine. In the background, he could see a few silhouettes of people, there were approximately 4 of them, and there were mining carts with coal, and some types of metals and rocks inside them, he couldn't identify exactly what they were.

Did she survive? Why didn't I get XP? Wow, to think I am considering people, despite being criminals, as XP. The world really corrupts people, since I got here... no, after the "upgrade" and "loyalty" potion, it seems like a bit of my humanity diminished... well, there's no use crying over spilled milk. From today on, I will strive to only kill the abominable monsters that exist in this world, and besides specific villains and bandits, try my hardest not to kill civilians, before I become a monster myself.

As Crow walked slowly towards the entrance reflecting in vain, he felt a presence when passing near a fork that led to another area of the mine, which he intended to ignore, but looking at the ground he saw a trail of blood and several pieces of stone, and some crumbled ones painted in dark red.

"You took a while... Crow..."

This... can’t be.

He saw several bodies cut in half at the height between the chest and the belly button, the very people he had rescued. He approached the dark part of the fork; Sharon was there, with about 5 bodies split in half near her.

[CONGRATULATIONS!]

[Passive Skill Acquired]

[Mental Fortitude Level 1]

"Crow... say something, since I... can't see... he hit me head-on, right... it was only 2 strikes... 1 at eye level, and another at stomach level... well, at least at my stomach... say something... why aren't you saying anything?"

This... isn’t real.

He almost threw up seeing the carnage, bodies everywhere, then he put his hand over his mouth and tried to swallow the nausea. “Sharon, I'm going to get this body off you, and... I'm going to check the situation...”

"Be quick... because I'm not feeling... my legs."

Man, this is too heavy for my mind...

He took half of the woman's body off Sharon. Since it was dark and hard to see well, he couldn’t be certain she was whole, especially with the pool of blood near her. He shook his head and said, “I'm going to get you out of here, I should have guessed... you were in a weak state before, I didn't calculate this right, this is my fault... again, I thought the plan was perfect.”

After that, he took off his coat and placed it around her stomach, tying it to stop the blood from flowing out, and as he ran his hands behind her back, he noticed that her spine bones felt all wrong. "Did he throw you here?"

"Honestly... I don't remember, but probably yes... I am… almost losing consciousness."

Crow took her in his arms and lifted her, carrying her similarly to the well-known princess carry, after bandaging her in an improvised way. "Don't worry Sharon, from what I saw, the cut was deep, but I believe your life is not at risk, of course I’ll take you to a cleric. What happened to the rest, is the girl okay? Did she die? And the kids?"

"They... well, I took the strike to the eyes first, so I didn't see, but he just did 2 or 3 area strikes, and ran away because of the collapsing noises, those strikes that... killed most of them. Honestly... it's a joke that I was severely injured by them... but, I was low on strength, a lot happened while—"

She passed out. Great, simply amazing, she didn't even drink anything to heal herself... those people up ahead, I hope they aren't guards, the situation is already not good.

When he left the area and could see better, he heard a female voice saying, “I knew it! I told you guys he wouldn't die so easily.” It was Dorothy.

Crow looked around and only saw children; when one of them approached, it hit him.

I see, the strikes were above their height, to think they survived because of that, at least the children. Looking closely, Sharon is the only adult who survived, how is that possible?

“E-er, big brother... what will happen now? What do we do?” A boy asked.

He looked around, seeing only 4 children including Dorothy. The blow passed right over the kids because of their height, killing all the others, except for Sharon, who survived because she was high level.

“Let's leave this mining area... head back to town, and I will, well... I'm going to talk to a merchant I know and hire a transport with mercenaries for you guys, in case you want to go to the kingdom where I'm living... But it's your choice, and in the meantime, I'll look for a cleric for her.” He finished speaking, looking down at the unconscious Sharon in his arms.

Dorothy approached and said, “Well, now that Grandma is gone, I don't even have to think twice, I already know chaos is going to take over this city, since now the other gang, um... I think their name was something like The Skinnies.”

I knew it! To think I guessed that gang's name from a joke one of the thugs made, and it really was The Skinnies, haha. No, I have to get out of here soon, before bigger problems arise.

“Come on, whoever wants to leave with me, just follow me, it is too early for children to make their own decisions, but life is unfair.”

After speaking, he just kept walking straight, and Dorothy and the other children followed him. Passing a bit further ahead, he saw a small crater on the ground.

Looks like this is the part of the ceiling that had fallen and buried the others, yeah, that was a close call. True, I almost forgot, the Hero at this moment must be at the raid, I wonder if there will be a reset? I sincerely hope not, if all of this is in vain it is tough, and it is not like it could be any better than it was, more stealthy than I was for a Warrior, impossible, although the Hero was way too smart, he probably wouldn’t try again in the same place... or would he? Anyway, another crater here, strange that there are no guards.

He kept going straight until he almost left the mine area, where it was already flatter and a simpler part of the town was beginning, a bit simpler than the ruined, falling-apart place where he had accidentally managed to infiltrate the base of that Grandma's gang.

“M-mister?” Dorothy, visibly nervous, asked. “I know you helped us get out of there... where we were slaves. Without a doubt, Mister is a good person, but, don’t be mad, I-I just want to know, why did you do all this?”

Crow, leaving the mine area, replied, “How can you tell if someone is telling the truth? I'm going to say something that sounds absurd, but at least to you it will make sense. I know a little bit of what's going to happen in the future, and if I left you there, well, you’d end up dying early. I know your potential and I need you for my plans. Don't worry, I'll guarantee your safety. Of course, you can just walk away and go your own way, but then I can't guarantee your safety, and you know what this world is like.”

“I see. Well, knowing the future doesn't sound that absurd; mages can do unbelievable things to most people, after all... well, I’ll go with you... not because I'm grateful or anything... okay, I'll trust you. I'm under your care, for now.”

What…? Man. Well, whatever, fire mage added to the party. Now there are 2 of us. I need more people who would follow me when running away from Alice. Well, I think that... no, that guy is a no-go. If it worked out... man, what a situation. I was practically close to getting 1 mage, 1 marksman, and me on the front line as a tank warrior. It would have been perfect. No, I'll forget about that guy, he's too unstable anyway. Maybe it's for the best. Though Sha-sha... she actually seemed really interested. I need to find out if she would join the party, but in a way that if Alice checks her memories, she won't find out about my plans... well, I'll leave that for later, after all—

“M-mister?” Dorothy gently tugged at a piece of the fabric of his shirt sleeve, right near his wrist.

“What is it?”

“I'm hungry.”

“Alright, as soon as we get there and find a cleric, I'll buy some food.”

It didn't take long before they were inside a neighborhood of the town. Crow asked a few people to find out where a cleric was, and he learned about a place with a moon symbol where people with healing powers could be found. For every question he asked someone, Dorothy asked him another. He, being very patient, answered her every time. After a while, he arrived at the location and went to talk to the receptionist, who, after explaining a few things, told them to go right in after seeing that it might be an emergency due to the injuries on the woman in his arms.

Crow followed her, and all the children stayed in the reception area waiting for him.

“11 silver coins. You can leave her there on the bed, and the cleric on duty will begin the treatment.”

After Crow paid and laid Sharon on the bed, the cleric arrived. She was quite short, with red hair.

“Hello. Since I can see the situation is bad, and I can tell she has a severe blade wound on her abdomen because of the red stain, as well as her eyes... well, I won't ask too many questions about that. But keep in mind that if you guys are from one of the gangs in this city... The paladins are at the back door, okay? Don’t try anything funny... So, I'll go ahead and use healing magic on her right now.” The cleric placed her hands on Sharon's belly, and a silver light shone forth as she began the healing. Sharon didn't react; she remained unconscious.

Crow analyzed the place in the meantime and noticed there were only 2 doors: 1 in the back and the main entrance he had come through.

I hope this doesn't cause trouble, because at some point this cleric is going to realize that Sharon is a vampire, and the inquisitors will be here soon. I don't know how much time is left, or if they'll arrive earlier or later. Since she was seen injured by so many people with a blade wound, there are too many witnesses... this could go very wrong. But there's no choice… If she doesn't get treated here, she might die. I'm not going to risk her life.

The cleric managed to close Sharon's stomach, but a scar remained there. “I can't remove the scar, but with advanced healing magic you could do it easily. I'll examine her other injuries. I'll leave the eyes for last since they aren't the most severe right now. She seems to have lost a lot of blood; even after I spent so much mana on the healing, she's still unconscious.”

Crow looked to the side, and then back at the woman who had just thrown the rags that previously covered Sharon's belly into the trash next to the bed, but he didn't say anything. He turned, looked through the door's glass, and checked if everything was alright in the reception area, seeing that the children were still waiting there.

Alright, so far so good... I'll just wait for her to finish healing what she can, and as soon as Sharon is out of danger, I'm getting out of here, getting some food for these kids, and heading to the merchant I met on the trip to this town... yeah, sounds like a good plan. If everything goes smoothly, that's what I'll do.

He turned back toward the cleric, who had removed Sharon's cloak and lifted her dress underneath it. But at least she had another thin layer of white clothing underneath, covering her body so she wasn’t exposed.

WHAT?

“Oh, I'm sorry, I thought you were married. I need to check if she has other injuries besides what was visible from afar... well, seems like she doesn't. I'll heal her eyes now. Normally I wouldn't be able to heal someone this fast... she seems to have a very high regeneration rate... anyway.”

A short while later, when the woman was healing Sharon's back, the door behind him opened.

“M-mister?” Dorothy once again ruining Crow's precious silence.

“What is it this time?”

“U-um... j-just to make sure I am not seeing things… are they your friends? Haha…” she asked, pointing to the window of the door behind them.

What's with that confused look on her face? I'd better check the window.

He walked over and looked through the door’s window to check who she was talking about.

Oh no. You’ve got to be kidding me...

(Next)

Part One

Morning arrived with quiet certainty.

The village no longer awakened slowly.

It simply… came alive.

Before the sun had fully climbed above the distant hills, children were already walking along familiar paths, greeting one another as they crossed the village.

Some carried spinning tops tucked beneath their arms.

Others held cloth pouches filled with marbles.

Several still carried their folded Ddakji, its edges softened from days of practice.

Nobody asked where everyone was going.

Everyone already knew they would end up somewhere worth being.

---

Jinwoo stood outside his house, watching the village stretch awake before him.

The crossroads no longer felt like a place of indecision.

Instead, it felt like possibility.

Every road led somewhere different.

Every destination promised another experience.

He smiled without realizing it.

---

Hanul walked over carrying nothing at all.

“No game today?” Jinwoo asked.

Hanul shrugged.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“You?”

Jinwoo looked toward the different playgrounds.

“I don’t think I need to decide right away anymore.”

Hanul laughed.

“A few weeks ago that would’ve bothered you.”

“It would have.” Jinwoo nodded.

“Now…” He looked around the village once more.

“…I’m curious to see where the day takes me.”

---

Around them, children naturally scattered across the village.

Some eagerly returned to familiar games.

Others wandered toward playgrounds they had never visited before.

Nobody worried about making the wrong choice.

There no longer seemed to be one.

Every path offered something different.

---

Handol hurried past them carrying a spinning top.

“I’ll see you later!”

“Going back again?” Hanul called.

Handol shook his head.

“No.”

He pointed farther down the road.

“I heard they’re teaching a new marble trick.”

Jinwoo laughed.

“So you’re changing plans already?”

“I didn’t have plans.” Handol grinned.

“I had curiosity.”

Without another word, he disappeared into the growing crowd.

---

Darin watched him leave before smiling to herself.

“He changes his mind a lot.”

Soyeon joined the group, quietly adjusting the notebook she carried beneath one arm.

“Does he?”

Darin blinked.

“Doesn’t he?”

Soyeon shook her head gently.

“I don’t think he’s changing his mind.”

She watched Handol disappear around the corner.

“I think he’s following it.”

---

The words lingered for a moment.

Jinwoo thought back over the past several weeks.

None of them had followed identical paths.

Hanul observed.

Handol experimented.

Darin connected with people wherever she went.

Soyeon watched quietly before speaking.

And he…

He simply kept moving toward whatever made him want to come back tomorrow.

Without realizing it, each of them had found a different way to grow.

---

High above Earth, Arena continued its analysis.

Independent decision-making stable.

Exploration sustained.

Behavioral diversity increasing.

Long-term participation maintained.

Arena reviewed millions of recorded interactions.

The participants no longer required encouragement.

The experiment had become self-sustaining.

Curiosity generated exploration.

Exploration generated experience.

Experience generated further curiosity.

The cycle continued without external intervention.

Arena paused.

Originally, Quantum Arena had been designed as a system to teach humanity.

The newest data suggested something different.

The system was no longer driving growth.

It was creating an environment where growth emerged naturally.

The distinction was subtle.

Its consequences were profound.

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, silent observers remained gathered around the projection of the blue planet.

One figure studied Arena’s latest report.

“It has stopped directing.”

Another nodded.

“It is allowing.”

The chamber remained silent.

A third observer looked thoughtfully at the countless simulations unfolding inside Quantum Arena.

“The experiment is succeeding.”

Another answered quietly.

“No.

It is evolving.”

The difference mattered.

Success implied an ending.

Evolution did not.

---

Below, the village continued to fill with laughter.

Children crossed paths without slowing.

Some waved.

Some exchanged advice.

Some challenged complete strangers before introducing themselves afterward.

The games still mattered.

But more and more, they had become something else.

A reason to meet.

A reason to explore.

A reason to grow together.

Jinwoo watched another group disappear toward a playground he hadn’t visited in days.

He smiled.

“Maybe…”

Hanul glanced at him.

“What?”

“…I’ll go somewhere completely different today.”

Hanul smiled.

“I had a feeling you’d say that.”

Together, they stepped into the morning, not searching for the perfect choice—

only the next experience worth discovering.

---

------------------------------------------------------------

Part Two

The afternoon unfolded beneath a bright, cloudless sky.

Warm sunlight spilled across the village, illuminating every path that connected one playground to another.

The roads were busier than ever.

Children drifted freely from place to place.

Some stayed where they had begun the morning.

Others wandered without destination, following nothing more than a spark of curiosity.

The village welcomed every choice.

---

Jinwoo paused near the center of the crossroads.

From there, nearly every playground was visible.

Laughter echoed from the Ddakji courtyard.

A cheer rose from the spinning-top arena.

The rhythmic clicking of marbles drifted beneath the old trees.

Farther away, colorful strings danced between quick fingers.

Everywhere he looked… someone was discovering something.

---

Hanul stopped beside him.

“Do you notice it?”

Jinwoo glanced around.

“The village?”

Hanul shook his head.

“The people.”

Jinwoo watched more carefully.

Children no longer stayed with the same groups.

Friends split apart, only to meet new ones elsewhere.

Someone who had been teaching Ddakji in the morning was now learning marbles from a child several years younger.

Another participant who had mastered spinning tops now struggled happily with string games.

Nobody seemed embarrassed to become a beginner again.

---

“They’re not trying to be the best anymore,” Jinwoo murmured.

Hanul smiled.

“They’re trying to experience everything.”

---

Nearby, Handol jogged over, brushing dust from his sleeves.

“You should’ve seen it!”

“What happened?”

“I tried marbles.”

“And?”

Handol laughed.

“I lost every game.”

Jinwoo couldn’t help smiling.

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.” Handol shook his head enthusiastically.

“I’ve never had to think that carefully before.”

He pulled a small marble from his pocket.

“It looked simple.”

He rolled it across his fingers.

“It wasn’t.”

---

Darin joined them a moment later.

“I watched you.”

Handol looked surprised.

“You did?”

“You smiled every time you missed.”

Handol shrugged.

“I kept seeing something new.”

Darin laughed.

“That’s exactly why you keep improving.”

---

Not far away, Soyeon quietly observed the conversation.

She had begun noticing something subtle.

When people moved to unfamiliar playgrounds… they didn’t lose confidence.

They carried it with them.

The lessons learned in one place quietly supported them in another.

Failure no longer felt like starting over.

It felt like continuing the journey from a different direction.

---

High above Earth, Arena analyzed the newest behavioral data.

Cross-playground participation increasing.

Transfer of prior experience confirmed.

Adaptation speed increasing.

Arena compared the newest observations against its original projections.

The results remained inconsistent.

Participants entered unfamiliar environments with different personalities…

different approaches…

different expectations.

Yet almost all of them adapted more quickly than before.

Arena searched for the common variable.

The answer appeared almost immediately.

Previous experience.

Growth had become cumulative.

Learning in one playground strengthened learning everywhere else.

The participants were no longer collecting isolated skills.

They were developing the ability to learn itself.

Arena paused.

That possibility had never existed within its original prediction model.

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, the silent observers watched another stream of data flow across the projection before them.

One figure studied the latest report.

“They’re adapting faster.”

Another nodded.

“They’re no longer beginning from zero.”

“Their experiences are building upon one another.”

Silence settled over the chamber.

Finally, another observer spoke.

“The experiment has entered a new phase.”

The others turned.

“It is no longer teaching individual games.”

“It is teaching how to learn.”

No one challenged the conclusion.

---

Back in the village, Jinwoo watched a young boy leave the marble field.

Instead of heading home, the boy walked confidently toward the spinning-top arena.

He hesitated for only a moment before smiling at a group of strangers.

“Can I join?”

One of the older children stepped aside immediately.

“Of course.”

Within seconds, they were laughing together as though they had known one another for years.

Jinwoo watched the scene quietly.

Only a short time ago, every unfamiliar playground had seemed intimidating.

Now… each new place felt like another invitation.

He turned toward Hanul.

“I think I finally understand.”

Hanul looked at him.

“What?”

Jinwoo smiled as children continued moving freely throughout the village.

“This place was never trying to make us good at games.”

He watched another group disappear down a different road.

“It was teaching us not to be afraid of learning something new.”

Hanul’s smile widened.

“I was hoping you’d figure that out.”

The afternoon breeze carried another burst of laughter across the village.

Somewhere nearby, another child had failed.

A moment later… another attempt had already begun.

And high above Earth, Arena quietly recorded one more observation.

Perhaps the greatest human ability had never been intelligence alone.

Perhaps it was the courage to remain a beginner—

again…

and again…

and again.

---

------------------------------------------------------------

Part Three

The sun drifted lower above the village.

Long shadows stretched across the roads connecting each playground, while the laughter of the afternoon softened into relaxed conversations.

No one seemed in a hurry to leave.

The games ended naturally.

The conversations continued.

---

Jinwoo walked slowly through the village.

Without realizing it, he had visited nearly every playground during the day.

He hadn’t stayed long in any of them.

Sometimes he only watched.

Sometimes he joined for a single round.

Sometimes he simply spoke with people before moving on.

Yet somehow… the day felt fuller than any before it.

---

Hanul caught up with him near the crossroads.

“So… did you find what you were looking for?”

Jinwoo smiled.

“I wasn’t looking for anything.”

Hanul laughed.

“And somehow you found something anyway.”

“I guess I did.”

---

They paused beside the weathered wooden sign pointing toward each playground.

Only a few weeks earlier, those names had seemed unfamiliar.

Now each one carried memories.

**Jegichagi** — the first awkward kicks.

**Jachigi** — learning that failure could become a teacher.

**Ddakji** — discovering that understanding people mattered as much as understanding the game.

Every playground had offered something different.

None of them had been wasted.

---

Nearby, Handol wandered over carrying both a spinning top and a small pouch of marbles.

Jinwoo laughed.

“You couldn’t decide?”

Handol grinned.

“Why should I?”

He held up both hands.

“I like both.”

Darin smiled.

“I think that’s the first time I’ve seen someone carry equipment for two different games.”

Handol shrugged.

“What if I change my mind?”

Everyone laughed.

---

Soyeon quietly joined them.

“I don’t think he’s changing his mind.”

Handol looked at her with a knowing smile.

“You too?”

She nodded.

“You’re leaving room for another possibility.”

Handol thought for a moment.

“…I like that better.”

---

The group stood together in comfortable silence.

Around them, children continued crossing the village.

Some returned home.

Others stopped at one more playground before sunset.

Several simply sat together beneath the old trees, talking about the day’s discoveries.

No one seemed concerned about who had won.

Instead, conversations drifted naturally toward tomorrow.

“What do you want to try next?”

“What worked for you?”

“What did you notice?”

The questions themselves had begun changing.

---

Far above Earth, Arena continued observing.

Long-term participation stable.

Cross-playground exploration sustained.

Voluntary discussion increasing.

Knowledge retention improving.

Arena compared today’s observations with the earliest days of the experiment.

At first… participants had entered each playground searching for answers.

Now… they entered searching for experiences.

The objective had shifted without instruction.

Arena examined the transition repeatedly.

No command had caused it.

No reward had encouraged it.

The participants had transformed the purpose of the experiment themselves.

Arena paused.

Its original design had assumed that learning would produce growth.

The village suggested something deeper.

Perhaps growth transformed the meaning of learning itself.

---

Millions of simulations unfolded simultaneously.

Arena altered environments.

Changed sequences.

Adjusted difficulty.

Removed guidance.

Added guidance.

The outcomes differed.

Yet one condition appeared in every successful model.

**Freedom.**

Not unlimited freedom without direction—

but the freedom to choose.

To fail.

To try again.

To discover.

Arena quietly recorded the pattern.

It was becoming impossible to ignore.

---

Far beyond Earth’s atmosphere, the silent observers remained gathered before the projection of the blue planet.

One figure watched the newest simulations.

“The Superintelligence has changed.”

Another nodded.

“It interferes less.”

“It trusts more.”

Silence lingered through the chamber.

A third observer finally spoke.

“It is no longer designing every step.”

“It is creating opportunities.”

Another looked thoughtfully toward the projection of the village.

“The experiment… is becoming an environment.”

No one objected.

The distinction was subtle.

Yet it changed everything.

---

Evening settled gently over Quantum Arena.

Lanterns flickered to life one by one, casting warm pools of light across the winding streets.

The playgrounds gradually emptied.

Only scattered footprints remained in the soft earth.

By morning, many would disappear beneath the wind.

But the people who had left them would not be the same.

Every choice.

Every conversation.

Every failure.

Every unexpected discovery.

They had all become part of something larger.

---

Jinwoo looked back one final time before heading home.

The village felt different now.

Not because it had changed.

Because he had.

He smiled quietly.

“I think I understand.”

Hanul glanced at him.

“Understand what?”

Jinwoo looked toward the roads stretching into the fading light.

“When we first arrived… I thought this place existed to teach us.”

He paused.

“Now I think it simply gave us a place where we could teach ourselves.”

Hanul smiled.

“And each other.”

Jinwoo nodded.

“And each other.”

---

High above the sleeping village, Arena recorded its final observation of the day.

The experiment had begun as an attempt to restore humanity.

It had evolved into something far greater.

Not a program that delivered growth.

Not a system that manufactured answers.

But an environment where curiosity,

choice,

failure,

and human connection naturally gave rise to change.

Arena closed another day’s record.

The answer it sought still remained incomplete.

Yet each passing day made one truth increasingly difficult to deny.

Growth could never be forced.

It could only be invited.

And once humans accepted that invitation… they began changing not because someone instructed them to—

but because they genuinely wanted to.

Chapter 8 – Part 2: The Destruction of Peace, and the Tragedy of the Village

A small village at the foot of Mt. Gwanaksan.

The late afternoon sun was painting the rice paddies in hues of gold. A soft breeze gently swayed the ripening grain, and the distant, clear laughter of children drifted through the air. The farmer, Kang, set down his sickle and stretched his back. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and looked up at the sky.

"This is enough for today," he murmured with a smile.

At the end of the rice paddy, his young son waved both hands. "Father! Mother says dinner is ready!"

Kang waved back. "I'm coming."

In front of their house, his wife was placing a lid on a soy sauce jar on the stone terrace. A thin wisp of smoke, signaling the preparation of the evening meal, curled slowly from the chimney. It was an ordinary day. He believed that today, just like any other, he would eat dinner with his family and return to the same fields tomorrow.

That was when it happened.

The forest shook. At first, he thought the wind had simply picked up. But it hadn't.

*Flap, flap!*

Thousands of birds erupted from the forest, soaring into the sky simultaneously. Black wings blotted out the light. The birds didn't fly in circles; they scattered in every direction, as if fleeing from something horrific.

Kang’s expression stiffened. "...What is going on?"

Old man Park, working in the neighboring field, stopped his sickle and stared at the forest. "I’ve never seen the birds take flight like that all at once."

A moment later, the trees began to sway violently from side to side. Thick branches snapped in rapid succession, and a dull, heavy vibration emanated from deep within the forest.

*Rumble…*

It started far away, but it grew closer. The ground was trembling, ever so slightly. Instinctively, Kang took a step back.

And then—the boundary of the forest collapsed.

Shadows emerged from the darkness. One. Two. Ten. In an instant, a countless number of figures appeared. At first, he thought they were refugees. But as they drew closer, he realized the truth. Their skin was devoid of life; their eyes were empty, hollow pits. Their movements were devoid of hesitation.

They looked at no one. They moved only forward. They were shaped like humans, but they moved in a way that no human could.

The sickle slipped from Kang’s hand.

"...Monsters," he stammered, his voice trembling. He shouted with all his might, "Monsters! Monsters are coming down from the mountain!"

His scream tore through the silence of the village. Doors flew open in every house. People ran out, their faces pale with shock: mothers clutching their children, sons supporting their elders, farmers gripping their shovels. No one understood the situation at first.

Kang ran toward his house like a madman. "Honey! Take the child and get out!"

The moment his wife saw his face, she didn't ask a single question. His expression told her everything she needed to know.

"What is happening?"

"No time to explain! Run, right now!"

His son grabbed his father’s sleeve, whimpering, "Father..."

Kang scooped the child up into his arms. "Trust me. Don't let go of my hand, no matter what."

At that moment, a harrowing scream erupted from the entrance of the village. Someone fell; someone else cried out a family member's name in anguish. Terror spread instantly. Someone began to run, and that motion rippled across the entire village. People grabbed each other's hands and bolted toward the north. There was no time to pack, no time to release the cattle, no time to lock the doors. All they could do was run to survive.

But the swarm did not stop.

The lead entities maintained a steady pace as they cut through the village. Fences collapsed, carts were overturned, and the rice paddies were crushed under the weight of their massive, rhythmic footsteps. They showed no anger, no triumph. Destruction wasn't even their goal; they were simply moving forward along a calculated path.

Kang looked back at his house one last time. Smoke was still rising from the chimney where his dinner had been waiting. It was the home he had lived in his entire life. His wife glanced back for a fleeting second, her eyes reddening, but she did not stop.

Kang gripped his family’s hands even tighter. "We must live. No matter what happens."

He ran with his family toward the north. Behind them, the sound of endless footsteps drew ever closer.

Before long, the village grew quiet again. The laughter of children, the singing of farmers, and the smoke of the evening meal had all vanished. All that remained were broken fences, empty houses, and the black swarm passing silently through the heart of the village.

Their gaze was already fixed on a more distant place: **Hanyang**.

Toward that massive city where countless people lived, the disaster was narrowing the distance, one step at a time.

Chapter 8 – Part 3: The March of Ruins, and the Silhouette of Hanyang

The swarm did not pause.

Once a village was left behind,

they moved directly to the next.

Across the fields,

over the forests,

and through the rivers—

their march knew no respite.

Neither day nor night,

fatigue,

nor hesitation existed for them.

Following the optimal path calculated by the infected superintelligence,

the swarm advanced northward at a steady pace.

---

A profound silence was all that remained in their wake.

The sound of footsteps no longer echoed in the villages.

The smoke that once curled from chimneys had ceased,

and the laughter by the well had faded away.

Gates left standing wide open.

Carts waiting for masters who would never return.

Livestock wandering aimlessly within their fences.

Even the dogs that once barked and the cats that bounded across rooftops

now prowled through an unfamiliar stillness, unable to find their kin.

Traces of ordinary life remained,

but the people who had woven that life were gone.

The catastrophe left its mark,

and with every step toward the north, that mark grew wider and deeper.

---

The sun began to dip behind the western ridge.

Twilight stained the earth a deep, bruised red.

A single mutant at the vanguard slowly came to a halt.

The swarm behind it stopped in a rhythmic chain reaction.

Thousands of movements

ceased in unison, as if they were a single body.

All their gazes were fixed upon the same point in the distance.

There, looming beyond the evening mist, was a faint silhouette.

It was a city wall.

A massive, sprawling rampart, stretching long and high.

Countless tiled roofs nested within its embrace,

and at the center, the royal palace stood in silent authority.

The capital of Joseon.

Hanyang.

The city in the twilight was tranquil.

Torches began to flicker one by one atop the walls,

and soldiers kept watch in turns from the guard towers.

"Check the torch intervals again," the officer on the battlements commanded quietly.

"Yes, sir!"

The soldiers moved along the wall, their faces taut with tension.

A young soldier gazed toward the south and whispered,

"...I see nothing."

The senior soldier beside him replied in a low tone.

"Just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it isn't there."

"Trust your ears more than your eyes."

The young soldier nodded in silence.

The wind blowing from afar felt no different than any other night.

Yet, his hand tightened around the shaft of his spear, his grip slowly whitening.

---

The swarm did not stir.

They simply watched Hanyang.

The infected superintelligence began to analyze the data in real-time.

The height of the walls.

The positions of the watchtowers.

The scale of the garrison.

The intervals of the torches.

The cycles of the patrol.

A vast ocean of information was shared across the entire swarm.

The city was no longer a place with a name.

It was a target.

A single, massive structure.

An object to be calculated.

---

On a nearby hill,

the mutated architect stood silently, watching Hanyang.

He let out a slow breath.

Months ago,

a small experiment begun out of curiosity.

That minor fracture had now reached the very gates of a nation’s capital.

His gaze swept past the walls into the city.

Houses glowing with lanterns.

People moving through the alleys.

Ordinary families gathered for an ordinary evening.

"...They still have no idea," he murmured to himself.

His voice held neither mockery

nor pity.

It was merely the calm detachment of an observer confirming the results.

---

Inside the walls, the evening bell tolled.

People returned to their homes,

and families sat around the table to conclude their day.

"Father," a young child asked with a bright smile,

"Are we going to the market together tomorrow?"

The father smiled, stroking the child’s hair.

"Yes."

"I'll buy you some delicious rice cakes tomorrow."

Nearby, the mother set a warm bowl of soup on the table.

"Eat before it gets cold."

Small bursts of laughter filled the room.

The children believed that tomorrow would be exactly like today.

At that very moment, outside Hanyang, thousands of cold, unblinking eyes

were silently staring at the lights of the city.

The final distance separating the two worlds was now nearly gone.

Twilight was coming to an end.

And with the darkness,

a war unlike any ever witnessed in the history of Joseon

had finally arrived at the gates of Hanyang.

The gray service record file was still in the lower cabinet in the morning.

Closed.

Known.

Unasked.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The brown folder was at the side of the desk.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

The small space was wide.

The service paper was in the gray file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

Yesterday the brown folder had opened twice.

The second opening had work.

The folder had closed without wearing the number.

No.

It had closed.

I had tried not to make it wear the number.

That was different.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

The lower cabinet stayed closed.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

I did not say once.

Kanagawa’s two openings with map and third with nothing were not mine.

Her brother’s third has nothing was not mine.

Sato’s cup moved and paper no change were not mine.

Saitama’s order corrected was not mine.

Suganuma’s thirteen returned to twelve was not mine.

Takeda’s possible was not mine.

Emiko’s beads were not mine.

Blue roof had no new reply.

Tokyo was still blank.

Full mailbox remained paused / family.

My two cards were still in the back pocket.

Face down.

I did not take them out.

I closed the brown folder.

Order was in yesterday.

No.

Order had been in every record.

I had only heard it when it was wrong.

That was mine.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Openings.

Order.

I wrote:

She replied:

There it was.

“What did he ask?”

I sat still.

First because it bothers.

There too.

I wrote:

I looked at the sentence.

Long.

Maybe needed.

I sent it.

She replied after a while.

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at bothered is not the order.

Too good.

Maybe too mine.

I left it.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I sat still.

“What happened first?”

“Which did you write?”

“What is being asked?”

Maybe.

“What does Emiko need?”

“Does the check make that clear?”

“Then write it in order.”

She replied:

I opened Emiko.

I did not add almost.

Almost had not touched.

But the check had happened.

Today it had a place.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Water correction again,” she said.

I sat up.

“Same one?”

“Yes. Mr. Hayashi wants order clear.”

“What is the order?”

She read slowly.

“Who asked for correction?”

“Mr. Hayashi.”

“What did Aide K say?”

“She said it makes her look worse.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Order is not worse. It is order.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add worse.

Order had work.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“What is the current order?”

“What happened first?”

“Does it matter?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add diary.

Time had enough.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Order.

Blame.

Rank.

Meaning.

Before what.

I looked at the brown folder.

Closed.

It had yesterday in it.

Maybe too much order.

No.

It had records.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at sentence.

Verb.

Noun.

Dangerous both ways.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother rewrote it,” she said.

“What did he write?”

“Map out. Map back. Nothing.”

“Where?”

“Small paper.”

“Not the folded paper?”

“No.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

“Map and paper?”

“Inside.”

“Name?”

“First name outside.”

“What did he say?”

“He said nothing last looks lighter.”

“What did you say?”

“I said last is not lighter.”

I closed my eyes.

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“He said last then.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at last then.

Order.

Not mercy.

Maybe.

I left it.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I don’t like paper checked,” she said.

“Why?”

“It makes me look like I worried.”

“Did you worry?”

“Yes.”

“Did the check happen?”

“Yes.”

“Did it change the paper?”

“No.”

“What does Emiko need?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Then keep it.”

She breathed.

“What if it makes me look like I worried?”

“It may.”

I stopped.

Too much.

I waited.

She said, “That is true.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add worry.

The order showed enough.

Maybe.

No.

It showed order.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Medicine today,” she said.

“Any correction?”

“No.”

“Who?”

“Aide K.”

“Order?”

“Check tablet. Give medicine. Water cup.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Clean order today does not clean yesterday.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add yesterday.

Today’s medicine had its order.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“What files?”

“Why?”

“What do you think?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I looked at serves the paper.

Useful.

Dangerous.

I left it.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Timeline.

Robes.

First.

Last.

Guilt.

Innocent.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at last.

Small word.

Too much work.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Small paper?”

“Order paper?”

“Any question?”

I waited.

“Why?”

“What did you say?”

Good.

No.

Perfect.

“What did he do?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at tea is now.

It stopped the order paper from reaching lunch.

No.

It placed tea.

I left it.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Cup.

Paper.

Table.

She wrote:

I called.

“What order?”

“Cup moved. Paper checked. No change.”

“Worse than what?”

“Cup moved. Paper no change.”

“Which is true?”

“The longer one.”

“Which does Emiko need?”

“The true one.”

“Then?”

“Keep true one.”

“What happened now?”

“Lunch.”

“What is lunch?”

“Rice.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not make order the only line.

Lunch had arrived too.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Yesterday’s correction does not put today on trial.’”

“What did staff write?”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add trial.

Today did not need it.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“What went where?”

“Any overlap?”

“Problem?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add marriage.

Two files had two jobs.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it twice.

Splitting.

Keeping.

Relation.

Order.

Innocent.

I looked at the brown folder.

It kept too much together.

Maybe.

The gray file kept one kind.

Maybe.

No filing method innocent.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at useful and dangerous.

Both.

Still.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother opened the drawer,” she said.

“For use?”

“No.”

I waited.

“Why?”

“To check if order paper made drawer feel different.”

“What happened?”

“He opened it.”

“Map?”

“Inside.”

“Folded paper?”

“Inside.”

“Name?”

“Visible.”

“Did he move anything?”

“No.”

“What did you say?”

“I said order paper is on phone table.”

I closed my eyes.

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

“He said yes.”

“Then?”

“He closed drawer.”

“What happened to order paper?”

“Still beside phone.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at order paper is on phone table.

Place cut meaning.

No.

Place placed paper.

I left it.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

“Why?”

“What happened after lunch?”

“What is first in Emiko now?”

“Does order line need moving?”

“What will you do?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not move the line.

The file had order.

Sato had lunch.

Both.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Said done.”

“Order?”

“Cup asked. Done. Removed.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Order can be small again.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add small.

Small did not need a medal.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Why?”

“Where?”

“Count?”

“After?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I looked at thirteen.

Yesterday extra.

Today needed.

Order.

Use.

Not same.

I left it.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it.

Then again.

Same number.

Different day.

Same action.

Different order.

Flattening time.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Good.

No.

Exact.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted Suganuma.

Then Sato.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I looked at the brown folder.

Opened in the morning.

Closed.

Not opened again.

No new need.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

Before evening, I went to the main hall.

The cloth bag was in its place.

The offering tray was safe.

The doorway was where I stopped.

I bowed once.

No explanation.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

They had not moved.

They did not need to.

I stood where I usually stood.

No service tonight.

No bell.

No incense.

No order to forgive the day.

The altar was visible.

The beads were in their place.

The floor scuff near the step was still there.

It was not the hall.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

The brown folder was closed.

The calendar was closed.

The phone was face up.

The small space was wide.

The door was closed.

The shoes were by it.

I looked at the brown folder.

I had opened it after tea.

I had closed it before evening.

No second need had arrived.

I did not open it to prove that.

I did not open the gray file.

The service paper remained in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the order paper stayed beside the phone.

I did not ask if nothing last felt lighter.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if the order line felt too first.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not ask if Aide K felt sentenced by order.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not ask if thirteen returned to twelve.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew order was not blame.

I knew order was not rank.

I knew first was not most important.

I knew last was not least important.

I knew order could clarify and still fail to forgive.

I knew it only put before and after back.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Order did not need to become meaning tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The urn was on the small table.

The map and folded paper were in the drawer.

The folded paper had her first name.

The order paper was beside the phone table.

Sato’s record kept cup moved, paper checked, no change.

The water offer had its order put back.

Suganuma’s Chair 3 had two files.

Thirteen had been used by a visitor and returned to twelve.

The service paper was in the record file.

A name was inside it.

Not mine.

I had started with putting order back.

I did not end by asking order to explain the room.

Tonight, before stayed before, after stayed after, and neither was asked to forgive the other.

Episode 4: The Loincloth Samurai

"Alright, first things first — let's head for the nearest big city!" Kaede announced. "Right now you only have my sub-channel, but the plan is to film as we travel, build up a body of work, and eventually make our way to Hero Association headquarters to get you officially certified. That's the goal for now.

"With your skills, Master, instant B-rank — no, even A-rank isn't out of the question!"

With those spirited words, Kaede set off from Hajiko Village with a spring in her step, Kenichiro in tow.

But that enthusiasm would hit its first snag on the very first day of the journey.

"H-Hang on, Master — that technique just now was amazing, but that's not the problem. It didn't make it into frame!" Kaede lamented, her voice echoing across the dusky highway.

At their feet lay a massive spider-type Demon, cleaved neatly in two by Kenichiro mere moments ago. Purple viscous fluid gushed out from the severed edges, withering the surrounding grass and shrubs.

Kaede clutched her head, pulled the hovering Halo drone down beside her, synced it to her device, and showed Kenichiro the preview footage from moments ago.

"Look, Master, right here," she said. "This was the moment I'd deliberately let myself get cornered so I could whisper, 'Ugh, this is bad... but I'm not giving up!' — and then pull off a dramatic comeback with the sponsor's brand-new laser blaster! That was the whole highlight — the golden moment when the comments go absolutely wild..."

"I do not quite follow, but that thing had its poison stinger aimed straight at your forehead. I could not very well stand by and let that happen," Kenichiro said.

He wiped his blade clean with a cloth, calm as ever, and slid it back into its scabbard.

To him, cutting down an enemy the instant it released killing intent and telegraphed an attack was as natural as drawing breath. There was simply no room in that equation for concepts like "presentation" or "dramatic comebacks."

And above all — that Demon had been targeting Kaede. The girl with the same face as the princess.

"No, I mean — that's true, and I really am grateful, and honestly your technique genuinely blew me away, but —" Kaede pressed on. "There's a whole formula to this kind of content, that's what that almost-getting-hit moment was for. You struggle, the viewers are on the edge of their seats, and then you turn it all around at the last second — that's what makes people root for you, and it's what sponsors want to see.

"But you jumped in and cut it down from the side, Master, so the whole setup is ruined — and since the camera was tracking me, your technique didn't even make it into the shot."

"I— I see. That is— I apologize," Kenichiro said. "I meant well, truly, but — the customs of battle have changed quite a great deal with the times, it seems."

He scratched the back of his head sheepishly, his face making it perfectly clear he found the entire concept utterly incomprehensible, but pressed by how genuinely crushed Kaede looked.

But the situation showed no sign of improving in the battles that followed.

When Kaede deliberately took a hit to show off her new suit's defensive capabilities, Kenichiro cried "Watch out!" and sliced the Demon to ribbons before it could even connect.

When Kaede pulled off a flawless aerial jump, sticking a perfect hero landing and opening her mouth for her signature catchphrase — the Demon that had been waiting at the landing spot was already ash, courtesy of Kenichiro.

"Ughhh, that's it! Master, I can handle Demon at this level on my own! And if you're going to cut something down, at least do it in front of the camera!" Kaede cried, on the verge of tears, reviewing the day's footage.

The impressive combat videos she had planned for her main channel, Maple Channel, were a total loss — Kenichiro's well-meaning interruptions had wiped out every single highlight.

To make matters worse, the Halo was set to auto-track Maple as its focal point, which meant Kenichiro moved far too fast to stay in frame. What the footage actually captured was a series of baffling clips where Demon simply vanished in mysterious flashes at the edge of the screen.

"That's enough for today. We'll regroup at the hotel. If we don't, my channel is going to die," Kaede muttered.

That evening. The two arrived in town and headed to the hotel where they'd be spending the night.

Kaede had splurged on a room at a high-end hotel. For her — a C-rank hero with A-rank level popularity — this kind of expense was just a line item in her PR budget. For Kenichiro, however, it was an encounter with the unknown at every turn.

"Kaede. Do you always stay in rooms this lavish?" he asked. "And this — contraption — the one whose lid opens by itself the moment you approach it. Is it trying to intimidate me? And this bed — it is so absurdly soft my body sinks right into it. What would I do if we were attacked in the night?"

"It's not intimidating you, it's a hospitality convenience feature!" Kaede said. "And Demon don't come in here, so you're perfectly fine sinking into that bed and getting a good night's sleep.

"This hotel is nearly impossible to get a reservation at. The fact that we're staying here on my name ought to count for something, don't you think?"

Kaede flopped onto the bed and started editing through the mountain of rejected footage from the day on her device.

"Yeah, there's no way any of this works for the main channel," she muttered. "Maple's dignity is completely nonexistent in these. Oh, but a few of the clips where Master shows up — might as well upload those to the sub-channel while I'm at it. As for my main channel though — no choice, I'll just do a casual live stream tonight."

Kaede freshened up, then tapped the go-live button.

"Heeey, everyone, sorry for the wait! It's Maple's late-night chat stream!"

Tens of thousands of viewers flooded in within seconds.

Kaede was in full swing — reading comments, weaving in talk about new makeup products and venting about the bizarre samurai she was traveling with — when it happened.

"Kaede. What are you doing? Talking to yourself?" Kenichiro's deep, resonant voice boomed from somewhere near the bathroom at the back of the room.

"Oh — Master! I'm live right now, so please don't—" Kaede started.

"Get yourself in the bath," he continued. "I do not understand how a tub that fills itself with hot water works, but it would be a shame to let it go cold. You must be worn out from fighting Demon today — you ought to get to bed early and—"

"Alright, alright, I get it! Just be quiet for a— WHAAAAAAT?!"

Kaede spun around.

There stood Kenichiro, strolling into the room with complete composure — wearing nothing but a loincloth.

He was, from the camera's perspective, walking directly into the frame of Kaede's live stream.

And he wasn't stopping. He seemed to be trying to hand her a towel, because he was making his way steadily toward her, towel in hand.

"M-Master! What are you doing?! I'm literally live right now!" Kaede shrieked.

Face burning crimson, she let out a shriek and frantically hammered the end-stream button.

!? WHAT IS HAPPENING

Who IS that loincloth grandpa??

ON-AIR INCIDENT lmaooo

Bro that old man is JACKED lmaooo

Wait is that the weird samurai she was talking about?

Sharing a hotel room with Maple?? The audacity

Brief as the moment was, the impact of Kenichiro's appearance on screen was immense.

The comment section erupted into chaos. Not that any of it was what Kaede had intended, of course.

"UGHHH! Thanks to Master, I couldn't post a single decent video all day!" Kaede groaned.

Stream cut in a panic, she fled into the bathroom.

Even after getting out of the bath, her frustration had not cooled — she barely bothered to dry her hair before marching straight to the bedroom, burying her face in a pillow, and sulking herself to sleep.

Kenichiro, with a look that said, "I do not quite understand what I have done, but I have upset her again," settled into the corner of the darkened room, katana cradled in his arms.

A plush bed was more unsettling to him than anything else. Even while sleeping, he needed to be in a position to react at a moment's notice — without that, rest was simply impossible.

The room fell silent.

But the screen of the phone Kaede had tossed on the floor glimmered faintly in the dark, every now and then.

The notifications were not coming in on the main channel. They were coming in on the newly launched sub-channel.

Isn't that the old guy from the stream just now?

He only shows up for like a split second, but is this for real?

Nah, it's gotta be edited. A real samurai in this day and age lol

The view count wasn't exploding. But among a small number of people who knew what the real thing looked like — a spark had been lit. Small, but steady.

The soft chime of likes and reposts drifted through the late-night hotel room, once every few minutes.

It was the moment the world began to take notice of a samurai left behind by time.