Prologue 

Meilara gritted her teeth against the sound coming out of her throat, halfway between a whimper and a snarl. The wide, dark smear in her wake denoted her worst wound; her gut wouldn’t stop bleeding, and she was growing cold. Out of breath, she collapsed face down, moaning in pain. 

And in victory. 

Her pursuers were gone. The liar was lost. 

She had it. She won. 

With the last of her strength, she pushed herself to one side, regarding the treasure still clutched to her breast. It throbbed in her grasp, a swirling heart of undulating stone. Cozy and kind. 

Everything would be alright, it said. Her crimson grin widened. 

Meilara died there, draped motherly over the thing, serenity etched across her face. For a while she looked at peaceful rest. 

Then she began to change. 

Chapter 1

Monsters

There was a grinding shriek as Varrick slid the sharpening stone down the length of his blade.

The final sellsword to mount the splintery wagon, he had been relegated to the least spacious seating assignment, squeezed next to the driver. Every rut and pothole forced him to adjust his technique for fear of warping the edge, which was unacceptable. A dull edge meant death.

He turned the shortsword. Varrick hadn’t used the second edge as much as the first, so upkeep would be minimal. The whetstone hissed in contentment down the keen edge. As he honed his knives, hand axe and swords, Varrick’s thoughts threatened to consume him. Each grinding pass along the blade focused, centered, fixed him on the task at hand and kept all else at bay. 

I can do this, he thought. I must.

The whetstone slipped askew as the wagon lurched, jostling provisions and loosing curses from the other passengers. Varrick’s heart dropped and he frantically raised the blade, inspecting its edge. 

“You are particular with your tools, aren’t you?” 

The driver’s sunken cheeks sprouted with facial hair, thin and patchy despite his age. His beige clerical gown was distressed and unadorned, his smiling eyes peering from a sallow face. Varrick grunted noncommittally, but the priest continued.

“I have not known this lot for long,” he said, waving a hand behind them, then ahead to the leading wagon. “But I’ve seen none of them fuss over their blades like you.”

Varrick said nothing, working another stony hiss from the shortsword. 

“So,” the priest said, one eye on the road. “You’re a mercenary?”

Varrick stopped sharpening, sheathing the black hilted sword. He looked off into the forest, fingers drifting to the scar on his palm, as they often did. 

“Yes.” 

“Good on you,” said the priest. “The Watchers are desperate, indeed.” The wagon bucked as they rounded another switchback. Varrick’s canteen bumped against his hip like a spoiled, petulant child. He grudgingly unshouldered and shook it, contents sloshing audibly. 

“As are we all,” Varrick said, running his tongue over his teeth.  

“Well, that’s true enough,” the cleric replied. “Still, it is no small thing for common sellswords to stand with the Watchers themselves. Particularly against something so…” He considered for a moment. “...novel.”

Varrick shrugged. For him it was no choice at all. 

The perennially meager sun no longer reached the surrounding forest floor; these lands would never be described as lush, their sparse bounty only receding further as they trundled on. Deciduous copses condensed into monotonous, gloomy pine barrens. Lolling ferns and berry hedges shrank into squat shrubs and moss, looking like dried vomit on the rocks. The passengers no longer chatted and jibed, sellswords and Watchers all huddled morosely in the back of the wagons. Their billowing breath had thickened throughout the day as the wagons squeaked and rumbled ever onward, ever closer to their destination. 

Varrick pulled his cowled hood deeper, shrugging his cloak closer. After a long moment, his wavering resolve fled and he swigged greedily from the canteen, pushing away his trepidation like a cup of water tossed on a bonfire. He drank as much as he dared, then a coughing fit forced him to screw it shut again, lest he spill a drop.

“There,” the priest said. Up ahead, the oppressive pines petered out, and Varrick’s eyes widened. As they emerged from the forest, the stark monolith spread in the distance, black and imperious as a thunderhead. Alone amidst a sprawling moor, it rose higher than any trees, any building Varrick had ever seen. It was unadorned with turrets, windows, balconies or any other indications of human construction. No archers lined the rooftop, no bladesmen protected the entrance. It jutted from the moor like a wide, blunted knife blade through the back of a felled giant, predating all known settlements, all known foundations and creeds. None knew of its origins, its architects, its purpose. They only knew to stay away. 

Yet here they were, rumbling toward the forbidden fortress, because of what Varrick saw next.

Figures shambled across the moor, too vague to discern. But he knew what they were. Those same undead creatures that stalked the towns’ streets, that had laid waste to his home. 

“The captain was right,” the priest breathed, almost dropping the reins. “They come from the Keep.” 

Varrick gritted his teeth.

I can save her, he thought. I must. 

He stood in his seat and drew his other, bronze hilted sword, which whispered from the sheath.

…

Logan yanked his greatsword from the draugr’s chest, a wet sucking sound punctuating the action. It stumbled, but did not fall. He growled, the sound reverberating in his helm. These cursed things were resilient. He let it get close, the draugr biting and scratching against his plate armor. In one move, he planted a leg behind the creature, then pushed against its riven chest. As it toppled, losing viscera with the impact, Logan swiftly brought his boot down. Its head collapsed like an overripe pumpkin, spattering his greaves in stinking pinkish slop.

“Captain!” 

Logan whipped around. Roan was on one knee, bracing against a draugr with her bow. It snapped and snarled inches from her face. He dropped his sword, sprinting toward the entangled woman. The creature made no move to avoid Logan’s charge, sprawling meters away with the impact. It tried to stand on splintered legs, crawling toward Roan before she put an arrow between its milky eyes. She spared Logan a sheepish look.

“Eyes up,” he said tersely. She nodded, drawing her hand axe.  

The captain of the Watchers followed his own advice, surveying the melee. They fought in the shadow of the Keep, their initial charge mired and stagnated by the undead hordes. Dozens of hewn corpses littered the field, leaking viscous fluid. Grunts and shouts intermingled with the wet groans of the walking dead. The creatures were individually weak, but their seemingly endless supply was testing even Logan’s stamina. His Watchers were faring relatively well; Holstein towered above all, swinging his warhammer in a seemingly infinite loop, crushing oncomers with practiced ease. The twins stood back to back, moving as one, flashing rapiers puncturing skulls like woodpecker strikes. He couldn’t see Sigmund, and could only pray that he’d found a safe hiding spot.

The mercenaries, however, were faltering. Of the dozen who had joined, Logan could only see four. One slipped and fell in the mottled visceral ooze, barely righting himself in time. He saw two men abandon poise, swinging wildly like panicked cadets. Another hadn’t caught onto the creatures’ corporeal invulnerability, fruitlessly ramming his blade into a draugr's torso.

Logan had to do something, before the tide turned. 

He looked behind, to the wagons hastily parked against the treeline. A few draugr had made it past the fighting, moving toward the wagons and the cowering Brother Arn.

Brother Arn!

Logan cursed, snatching his sword from the ground. He scrambled over and through severed, writhing bodies, making for the stranded priest. He could see the man’s head poking from the wagon’s side. A draugr shambled toward him, an old cleaver clutched in its rotted fist. 

“Arn!” Logan shouted. He could see the priest’s face now, a mask of paralyzed fear. He didn’t respond, though Logan knew he was within earshot. He could hear the draugr’s gurgling groan. It placed a hand on the back of the wagon, hauling itself toward the petrified cleric. Logan plowed into it, crushing the monster against the wagon, its body disintegrating with the impact. Logan raised his faceplate, gulping crisp air. “Arn,” he panted. The priest’s expression hadn’t changed, ashen and wide-eyed. “Hey,” Logan said, climbing into the wagon. He kneeled down, setting a gory gauntlet on the priest’s shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

Arn finally looked at him, shaking his head numbly. 

“Good.” Logan thumped his shoulder, rocking him to the side. He climbed onto the driver’s seat, reaching beneath and producing the emergency axe. He tossed it to Arn, who caught the weapon awkwardly. “Keep out of sight. If any get too close, aim for the head.” Before the priest could reply, Logan hopped off the wagon, striding to the horses. They knickered and stomped but had not panicked yet, as most horses would. Watcher steeds were more even-keeled by necessity. He approached the one on the left and patted her neck. She eyed him, wobbling her head, objecting.

“I know, Rosie,” Logan said, unhooking her harness. “But we need your help.” Rosie blustered but didn’t resist as he climbed on, taking a fistful of her mane and turning her toward the fray. He took a deep breath, surveying the battlefield.

And then fear was upon him. It squeezed his chest, catching his breath. 

Damn it, damn it, damn it. You’ve doomed them, fool. They are not ready. You will all die in that vile place. 

He gritted his teeth, slammed down his faceplate, and charged.

…

Varrick slipped again, falling flat on his back as another creature bore down. His sword slid through its torso to no effect, grinding between exposed ribs. He threw a punch with his offhand and the creature’s jaw spun away; the monster sagged closer, distended tongue slathering Varrick’s face with rancid pink gunk, a drop working its way into his mouth. Retching, he headbutted the creature. It was lighter than a person should be and the momentary release allowed him to wriggle from its clutches. He pulled his hand axe from his belt. The creature lurched toward him, still impaled. He heard more gurgling moans behind, mixing with the shouts that were turning into screams. 

Varrick leapt at the jawless one, swinging his axe into its face. He had quickly learned the pointlessness of anything less than a head strike. The skull parted like a pared apple and he fell with it, two marionettes with cut strings. He ripped the axe from its skull and the sword from its gut then scrambled to his feet, whirling around as two draugr lurched into him, cracked nails tearing at his leather armor. Varrick stumbled, forearm held before his unprotected face, lodged in the mouth of the closest monster. He tugged the draugr to the side, wrenching it in the path of the other. He could feel the leather around his forearm failing to the monster’s bite. He brought down his axe, twice, three times until he tore his arm free, the vambrace still clenched in the monster’s jaws. Half a dozen more shuffled toward him, attracted by the violence. 

Varrick’s heaving breath came shorter and shorter with every swing, every slip and stomp and fall. Vision swimming, he settled sluggishly into a defensive stance, hand axe before him, short sword cocked behind. 

There was a great thundering in the ground, in his chest. Fallen bodies shook as if in fear of what was to come. 

Then the monsters fell.

…

Rosie’s auburn coat was spattered with gore as she cut through the draugr like a scythe through wheat. Bone fragments clattered off Logan’s plate like thick, sharp hail as he streamlined himself against the steed. He spurred Rosie through the thickest conglomerations, then let her catch her breath as he hefted wide swings through pairs and trios at a time. The massacre drew the horde’s attention, expediting their demise.

Soon, the undead lay twisted and twitching in the field churned to mud by Rosie’s hooves. The casualties were silent now, either by virtue of Arn’s medicine or their wounds’ mortality. The cleric knelt amidst the fallen, administering final rights. The mercenaries picked their way through the field, looting and executing. 

Blessedly, no Watchers were lost. Roan perused among the scavengers, yanking arrows from the dirt and bodies. Holstein stood next to Logan, ever the hulking shadow, chipping gunk out of his hammer’s hilt adornments with a boot knife. Mo - or maybe L'dal, it was always hard to tell - crouched nearby, running his fingers through the grass. The other twin stood further off, regarding the Keep with a thoughtful expression. 

It took most of Logan’s willpower not to pace as the Watchers waited, at his instruction, for the sellswords to finish rummaging. The sky had turned a darker shade of bruised, the Keep’s massive shadow enveloping the group and distending to the horizon. Chilly, blustering winds did little to alleviate the charnel stench, even within his helm. Logan breathed deeply nonetheless. The mission - his mission - had already made widows, orphans. Necessary losses, in exchange for the lives of the common folk. But that did not make it easy. 

Off to Logan’s left, another sellsword sat in the Keep’s shade, apart from the gathered Watchers. A deep hood obscured his face but Logan recognized the quiet one who had not haggled with him, the only one not picking the fields. Logan found himself walking his way. The hooded man sipped from a canteen and made no move to conceal the beverage as Logan approached. Logan didn’t know what to say so he simply stood, surveying the landscape. The moor was one of many, many leagues of flatlands that began here, somehow warmed and revitalized by the Keep’s proximity. The rolling pastures, with their shifting grasses and thriving small fauna, would be idyllic if not for the mashed bodies. 

“I joined the Watchers,” Logan said, before he had time to doubt his words. “To protect people. It is…how I was raised.” He waved an arm at the field of butchery. “But in all my decades on Watch, I have never seen anything like this.” The sellsword lowered his canteen, saying nothing. “If you wish to leave,” Logan said. “I will not stop you, nor rescind your payment. I will tell the others the same.” He watched Roan tugging on a particularly stubborn arrow. “What we chase is beyond my knowledge, my understanding after decades of hunting the Profane.” He turned to the sellsword, hoping his sincerity carried through the slitted helm. “I will go,” Logan said. “Along with my men, as it is our duty. Brother Arn will go, in service to the One Mother. But the rest of you are not my men. You deserve the opportunity to turn away, if you so choose. My ignorance should not be your demise,” He gestured toward the nearest corpse, a young man with flaxen hair reddened with clotting blood. “As it was theirs.” 

The sellsword was quiet for a while. The only sounds were Roan’s grunts bouncing off the Keep’s walls. At length he turned, finally facing Logan, his face a contradiction. Logan would have placed him at about thirty, thirty-five years if not for his baggy, sunken eyes, those of a hard-lived sixty. Beneath the visceral smears, his ruddy complexion bordered on rosacea, gaunt cheeks hewn from stone. 

“I will not die here,” he rasped, the canteen closed and vanishing within his cloak. He turned away, and Logan felt as though he could say no more. 

There was another sound, now, rising through the chilling night, incongruous for its levity. Sigmund’s lyre often announced his presence before he arrived, and Logan turned toward it, seeing the man rounding one side of the Keep. Sigmund minced carefully around a tangle of bodies, with no more care than if they were a puddle of mud. He walked, as usual, with the confidence and ease of one rejuvenated by a good night’s rest.

“Nothing ‘round the back!” he called to Logan, fingers not missing a beat on the instrument. His fine, well appointed tunic was clean of smears, and the dagger on his belt looked undrawn as ever. Sigmund sidled up beside Logan, nodding back towards the Keep, and the huge doors at its front. “Looks like that’s our only way in.”

Logan nodded. It had been a long shot, but alternate points of ingress would have been useful to know of, if nothing else. Sigmund sniffed, and the song came to a tinkling halt. He swung the lyre around to his back, and began rooting around in a satchel. “Also, it’s staining the grass.” 

Logan turned, thinking he had misheard. 

“What?”

“The grass,” Sigmund said, flapping a hand at the Keep. “Is dead. Anywhere it touches the place.” Logan’s brow furrowed, frustrated that he didn’t have time to mull the implications. Sigmund withdrew a small bag, raised it to his nose, and snorted sharply. “Whoo, alright,” he said, blinking rapidly. “Now?” he asked. Logan nodded distractedly, and Sigmund stuck two fingers in his mouth, whistling at the field pickers. “Gather round, scavengers!” 

Soon the mercenaries filed in, Roan and Arn bringing up the rear. Sigmund beckoned everyone into a loose huddle and Logan gave the same ultimatum as he had the hooded mercenary. None took the opportunity.

“It is as I posited,” Logan said. “The dead come from the Keep of Mirrors.” The group nodded in grim affirmation. He had put forth the idea as they gathered two nights past, before beginning the trek up the mountain. The mere mention of the place had sent three sellswords running. Now, he realized, only three remained. 

“Despite this,” Logan went on. “Our mission remains unchanged.” He looked around, poring over their faces, his voice taking on that earnest cast that seemed to compel action. “We will delve within the Keep, and end the necromancy plaguing the land.”

His Watchers stomped their feet in appraisal. Most of the mercenaries nodded. Brother Arn glanced around, eyes measuring. 

“Are all among you,” Logan asked, making an effort to turn his head as he spoke. “Aware of what awaits us?” After a moment, the youngest mercenary half-raised a hand. 

“I’ve only heard rumors, sir,” he said. 

“Rumors are most of what’s available,” Logan replied. He gestured toward Brother Arn, and the priest stepped forward, still clutching the axe Logan had given him. Of the few who had experienced the Keep firsthand, he was the only one willing to return. 

“The Keep is so named for the only recorded room within,” said Arn. “Upon entering, we will be confronted by an entity known as The Mirror, and presented with reflections of ourselves. Accounts vary on the room’s layout, and the Mirror’s precise method of interaction. But it seems clear that further passage within the Keep demands one’s surmounting their reflection, in whatever manner that entails. After that…” he shrugged. “No one knows. Some think the Keep, beyond the Mirror, is just an abandoned castle. Others imagine further trials within, perhaps one’s fears made real, or-”

The elder, dark skinned mercenary threw up his hands in overwhelmed exasperation. 

“Hold on, man. Slow down. Entity? What entity?” 

Brother Arn furrowed his brow slightly, tapping his finger on the axe haft. 

“When I saw it,” he said. “The Mirror looked like a vertical pool of mercury. It rippled at my touch, then pulled me inside, and I was confronted with…” he gestured at his body. “Myself.”

“You met yourself?” said the old sellsword.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Arn. “I was confronted by this reflection, and it was clear that further passage entailed a surmounting of myself. My other self.” His face went a shade darker. “Suffice it to say, I did not succeed, and was rejected. As were my companions.”

“What did you have to do, Arn?” asked Roan. Arn fixed her with a pointed look.

“I would not speak on it, Lady.” He seemed eager to change the subject, and hurried on. “My companions, my Brothers, saw the Mirror as something else. One described a swirling form of shattered glass, while the other saw a simple bedroom mirror. One had to win a verbal debate, while the other had to win in a game of strength. Both lost, as I did, and were spat of the front doors. I expect we can anticipate something… similar.”

Arn stepped back. The group’s bemusement only seemed to have risen since he began, but Logan thought the explanation as good as any. From the accounts he had read, it was more something to be experienced than described. 

“The Mirror is simply that,” Logan said. “You have nothing to fear besides yourself.” He clapped his gauntlets together, the clang reverberating off the Keep’s walls. “Ready up.”

…

Varrick leaned back as he gingerly tipped his canteen. A cold, stale drop coated his tongue and he cut off the trickle as soon as it started. He had not paced his consumption as he had promised himself, and would soon pay the price. He cursed his lack of restraint, stowing the ever lighter container. 

The last vestiges of sunset eked a waning orange in the west, the Keep seeming to swell in the twilight. The other mercenaries stood in a circle, conversing and reviewing strategies with the twins and the bard. Varrick watched them, remembering the twins’ lightning-quick stabs, the woman’s precision with a bow. These were beast hunters through and through, not some jumped up villagers with pitchforks and torches. Varrick wondered how many monsters they’d killed, and how easily they’d done it.

I was a mess out there, he thought. Tripping over myself, barely able to hold my sword. The thought was alarming, paralyzingly so, and he shoved it deep as he unscrewed his canteen. 

“Thirsty?”

Varrick jumped. He hadn’t heard the priest’s approach, whether due to his light attire or Varrick’s dulled senses, he wasn’t sure. Arn’s cheeks had gained a spot of color, two ruddy blooms in the middle of his angled pallor. 

“Yeah,” said Varrick flatly. Arn settled down next to him, folding his legs, producing a small journal and charcoal. Varrick scowled, but the priest seemingly took no notice. A cold gust rippled across the plain, riffling the pages at the edges, and Arn began to draw once they settled. 

“My oaths swear off wine,” he said, eyes flicking longingly to Varrick’s canteen. “I’ve given my life to the Mother, but sometimes…” he made a half rueful, half conspiratorial face. “It’s one of Her few bountiful pleasures, my good man. Enjoy it.”

Varrick ran his tongue over his teeth, saying nothing. Arn was sketching one of the draugr, and doing a fair job of it. The jaw hung by a tendon, and he seemed to be capturing the thing in the midst of a shambling lunge, swinging an old cleaver. Varrick didn’t realize he’d been watching until Arn looked up again, catching his eye. 

“Ghastly things, eh?” 

Varrick grunted, taking a small sip. Arn was regarding the sketch with a thoughtful expression. 

“Poor things,” he said softly, then began shading in the contours of the creature’s face. Varrick’s eyes narrowed at the priest’s tone, and spoke despite himself.

“What do you mean?”

Arn blew air out of his mouth, adding rusty speckles to the cleaver blade.

“Well, I mean, look at them. Bodies exhumed, tottering around like marionettes. Death is the Mother’s final gift to us. I can’t think of any fate worse than undeath.” He shivered, not diverting his attention from the sketch. Varrick stared into the black eye of his canteen, raising it to his nose, then setting it down.

“Where do we go,” he said. “When we die?”

Arn didn’t answer, and Varrick felt like an idiot for asking. He was half expecting the priest to be staring at him, his face scrawled with amusement verging on laughter. In fact, Arn had set down his drawing, and was regarding the looming Keep with a concentrated expression, as if the massive edifice held the answer to Varrick’s childish question.

“We return,” he said eventually, running his hand over the grass. “To the Mother below. Our souls, just as our bodies, are accepted back into her eternal embrace.” His thin mouth curled into a small, but warm, smile. “That is what we learn, what we teach in the clergy. Death is really no thing to fear.”

“What about them?” Varrick asked, nodding at Arn’s sketch.

“That’s the appalling thing about all of this. Well,” he added. “The most appalling thing. The bodies are raised, ripped from the holy earth and flung about at the necromancer’s whim. But the souls?” Arn shrugged. “I saw no souls here. None other than ours.”

Varrick was rubbing fiercely at his scar. “The undead don’t have souls?”

Arn made a balancing, half-and-half motion with one hand. “They do, but they’re… corroded. Look around.” He made a sweeping gesture with his charcoal. “Something moved these things. Necromancy doesn’t work on rocks, or planks of wood, or a bucket of water. It needs a soul. The proverbial kindling. The undead have souls, but they’re ruined. Beyond repair, beyond good. Beyond the Mother’s holy salvation.” He said this last part mournfully, with heavy resignation, as if he felt every lost soul. Varrick supposed he did. The priest’s words were sitting in his stomach like spoiled wine, and he stood abruptly, teetering a little as his vision went foggy.

“Steady on, man,” said Arn, raising a steadying hand. Varrick cringed at the touch, but the priest seemed to think they were now friends. “Worry not. We’ll set this all to rights.” He raised an eyebrow at the canteen. “Maybe try to pace yourself, though, hmm?”

Too late, Varrick thought, screwing shut the canteen and making toward the Keep. It loomed like a tidal wave of shadow, the gathered men frail and insignificant before its expanse. The leader, the one in the spattered plate armor, was rounding up the stragglers with the help of the colorful bard, corralling them near the entrance. When all were accounted for, he turned toward the gathered men. His armor reflected their torchlight, the only illumination now that the sun had set. His breath rolled from his slitted helm, and he braced his gauntlets on his greatsword’s pommel as he spoke. 

“Stay together,” he said to the group. “Know yourself.”

There was some nodding and affirmative foot stomping as the captain turned to the doors. The big Watcher and the bard flanked him, and all three began heaving on the doors. The rest of them stood back, glowering, weapons drawn and glinting in the torchlight. 

“What else do you think is in there?” A voice muttered to Varrick’s left. The archer woman was speaking with one of the other mercenaries in a hushed tone.

“Whatever can’t get out, I suppose,” the sellsword replied, tightening a strap on his armor. “You’re the beast hunter, not me.”

“We’re all beast hunters today,” the archer said lightly. “They say the Keep eats monsters. I hope there’s a leshen. Got some fire arrows burning a hole in my quiver.” She patted the holster on her hip, raising her eyebrows excitedly.

“You hope?” said the sellsword, incredulity scrawled across his weathered features. “Girl, have you got a death wish?”

She snickered. “Sure do. For them.”

The doors seemed to be putting up heavy resistance. The twins had joined in the effort, putting their weight behind timed shoves at the captain’s command. The archer continued trying to convince herself that she wasn’t afraid, the small talk fading as Varrick’s head began to pound, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He took deep breaths, pointedly ignoring his sloshing canteen. 

“Here,” said a voice to his left. He turned, recoiling at the proffered torch.

“I’m fine,” he said to the other sellsword. The younger man looked confused at Varrick’s refusal.

“Are you sure?” he pressed. “We don’t know what’s in there.” The flame was beginning to make Varrick’s face tingle. The boy held it too close.

“I’m fine.” Varrick edged away from the sellsword, who shrugged and snuffed out the second torch, stowing it and joining the archer’s prattling. Varrick rubbed his temples in a fruitless attempt to assuage his growing migraine. 

I can save her, he thought, fixating on the thought, which had become talismanic. I must. 

Varrick looked up at a sudden commotion. The group had stopped shoving the doors, seemingly having opened them a crack, peering within. The priest elbowed his way through, chattering excitedly to the captain. The archer and other sellswords made their way forward and Varrick followed, adrenaline momentarily staunching his malaise. They crowded around the doors as the priest went on in a hushed tone that Varrick couldn’t discern. Those closest to the door reacted audibly to something, grimacing and bringing hands to their faces.

“Stand back,” the captain said after a moment. The group scattered as he drew his huge weapon, extending it before him, then fluidly hefting and swinging it into the gap between the doors. The blade came to a sudden, dense halt as it met the gap and the captain wrenched it free, repeating the process, hacking away at the partition as if chopping wood. After a minute his sword thunked into the ground. and he once again braced against the doors. This time he was able to pry them open himself, the gap now about half a fathom wide. He turned to the bard Watcher, said something in a low voice, then pushed his way through the gap.

“Right!” called the bard. “It’s dark in there, so torches up. Keep your eyes and ears open, and a hand on your blade. Watch your step, and shout if you see the Mirror.” He punched an open palm. “Let's kill a Profane.” 

He turned and followed the captain into the breach. The group milled around the entrance, entering one at a time until only Varrick remained. He blinked hard, took a sharp breath, and shouldered into the Keep of Mirrors.

PART THIRTEEN-HUNDRED-AND SEVENTY-ONE

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Saturday

Four days. That was how long it had been since Mason had been kidnapped from the clinic, and as he sat at his desk, working through mock reports for Skylar and swotting for the exams he missed, Kulon’s silent presence was dancing on his last nerve.

Finally, he snapped. “Man, come on! You do not want to be in here watching me study!” he snarled when he couldn’t take the feeling of being watched a second longer. He lifted his eyes to where Kulon was stretched sideways across the bottom of his bed just a few feet away.

In his periphery, he saw Ben lift his head from his doggy bed between them and draw in a deep sniff. Despite being unjacketed, he was never far from Mason and always ready to intercede.

“I could shut my eyes,” Kulon offered. “Pretend to be asleep.”

“You could get the hell out of my room, too!” Mason pointed at the wall behind him, in the general direction of the apartment’s living room and kitchen. “You know nothing’s going to find me in—”

His ringing phone sliced through his tirade, though he still shot a dark glare at Kulon to let him know this wasn’t over before he glanced down at the caller’s ID.

The word ‘BOSS’ lighting up his screen had him shooting Kulon another accusing look instead of answering it. Skylar hardly ever called him directly. In fact, never came to mind since he’d learned she was a true gryps. Why would she, when she could reach out to any of the true gryps he was staying with or have Angus come and find him?

Kulon disappeared from the bed and loomed over him a heartbeat later, his hip pressed firmly against Mason’s upper arm as the true gryps leaned in to see the Caller ID for himself. A few seconds later, everything about the warrior relaxed, and he reached down to push the still-ringing phone towards Mason.

Mason scowled up at him as he connected the call and lifted the phone to his ear. “Hey, Boss,” he said, knowing damn well Kulon had contacted Skylar telepathically to learn what was going on first. Asshole.

“Are you doing anything at the moment?” she asked, getting straight to the point.

Despite not being urgent, it probably wasn’t a social call either. Between her work and her recent marriage to Angus, she didn’t have time.

Curiosity and nosiness had always been his downfall. “Nothing I can’t get out of,” he said, casting a dismissive eye over the work scattered across his desk. “Why?”

“Could you have Kulon bring you and Ben to the clinic? There are some people here I’d like you to meet.”

Okay. Definitely not what he was expecting. “Shh—ure,” he said, drawing out the word cautiously while searching Kulon’s face for any hint of what was going on. “I’ll just let Robbie know…”

“He already knows. I asked Lar’ee to forward the message so as not to worry him.”

Of course you did. He looked down at the sleep pants he was still wearing. I should probably have a shower. Except he hadn’t done anything strenuous since washing off yesterday after getting home—which was a sad indictment of his social life. Even Sam was getting more action than him, and that was downright depressing.  “Give me five minutes to get dressed.”

“See you then.”

It took him less than two to stand, strip and throw on his uniform. There was no point clarifying whether this was a formal SAH visit or a casual one when both outfits consisted of a shirt and shorts. If it turned out to be casual and he needed to change again, he had spare clothes in his locker. He’d only get one chance to make a good first impression.

Ben’s jacket was next, followed quickly by all the incidentals that went into leaving the apartment.

When he was ready, Kulon lifted Ben into his arms while Mason wrapped his fingers around Kulon’s elbow, and all three realm-stepped away. Mason had made this his preferred setup for a realm-step rather than having an additional tendril wrapped around his arm or something.

Technically, he knew the guys were Nascerdios, and as such, the veil would ensure no one questioned it, but he preferred to use what passed for normal as much as possible. Divine shenanigans aside, no one had convinced him that constant use of the veil wouldn’t screw with people’s minds long-term.

That aside, he had no desire to be leashed to Kulon or, worse, to look like an extra in a hentai production.

No, thank you.

They reappeared two steps later inside Consult Two, with Kulon lowering Ben to the ground in front of them. The Rottweiler immediately returned to Mason’s left side, pressing his shoulder against Mason’s leg to remind him he was there. Because yes, his service animal had picked up on the slight hitch in Mason’s emotional state.

He wasn’t the only one. “You good?” Kulon asked, turning to look Mason in the eye.

This is dumb. If he was going to have a meltdown at every little thing that didn’t suit him, he might as well be committed now and be done with it. He swallowed and breathed out slowly. “Yup,” he declared at the end, determined to stay the course.

“Well, when you’re ready, they’re waiting for us in the reception area.” Which proved Kulon was indeed in contact with Skylar.

It’s your workplace, Williams. Be professional, Mason ordered himself, when everything in him wanted to be distinctly unprofessional, like maybe kicking Kulon in the shin. He nodded once and led Ben out the door, turning right into reception.

A small group of people all in SAH uniforms turned to look at him, but Mason found who he was looking for amongst them. “Doctor Hart. Doctor Khai,” he said, then shifted his gaze to the front door where the powerful war commander stood in plain clothes, overseeing everything. “Angus.”

“Mason,” all three answered.

Skylar kept talking. “As you’re aware, SAH is evolving to include more healers from the pryde.” Mason nodded without commenting. “These are our first intakes. S’leil.” A woman, maybe a year or two older than Mason, stepped forward with an enthusiastic smile. She had bright green eyes that sparkled, pale skin and long blonde hair tied up in a ponytail.

Unsure why she’d be so excited to meet him, Mason tried to match her energy. “Pleasure,” he said, shaking her hand. But then, still holding her hand, he paused and looked across at Skylar. Same green eyes. Same pale skin. Same figure. His gaze went back to S’leil. “Are you planning on passing yourself off as the boss’ sister or something?”

The woman pulled her hand away and held it over her heart. “No. Why would you say that?”

“Because you look too much like her. If you want to highlight your connection to her, that’s fine, but no one’s going to look at you two and think there’s no connection.”

“Pick another human form,” Angus ordered from the door.

From one instant to the next, the woman put on three pounds, shrank an inch, and shortened her hair to a pixie cut. Her lips had thinned, her eyes became sky blue, and her skin tone darkened a few shades.

Mason grinned in approval. “Much better.”

“Doctor Soleil will be sitting in with you on Monday,” Skylar said. “Officially, it’s to cover the legality of you not being a qualified veterinarian yet. Unofficially, of course, she’s there to learn how you interact with people. She will not correct your decisions unless asked, or they are to the detriment of the patient … or she will be returned to the Prydelands, and another will take her place. Is that clear?” Skylar said that last part looking at S’leil, who responded with a jittery nod.

True gryps may be the apex of existence, but Mason could still tell when one was nervous. “Breathe,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.” He then thought of one potential problem. If she were this nervous, that meant she was young. Maybe even as young as him. “Are you going to be able to keep within what’s humanly possible at the moment?”

“Excuse me?”

“Veterinary services are like any other medical industry. We can’t save all our patients, no matter how much we want to. But in your case, it’ll be even harder because you have access to divine-level healing and you won’t be allowed to use it. You have to stick to our limits, and I don’t mean what we figure out for ourselves in the long distant future. Only what we are medically capable of today.”

His eyes found Angus and Kulon. “Don’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way, guys,” he said to them, then refocused on S’leil. “Combatants are trained to distance themselves from their emotional connections. They move into combat with every intention of killing or incapacitating. As healers, we’re the exact opposite. We cherish life. Are you going to be okay with limiting yourself to what we can do, or is the temptation to do more going to be too much for you?”

S’leil’s eyes found Skylar once more, and this time, the boss was smiling as if trying to hide her amusement.

“Did I overstep?” Mason asked, his gaze ping-ponging between them.

“No more than usual,” Angus answered instead, his own lips twitching ever so slightly.  

“This is why Mason will ultimately be your overseer, and not the other way around,” Skylar announced to the whole group. “No one is questioning the medical competency of your training. You’re here to learn how to acclimatise to the human world. The pryde’s Plus-One is your key to that objective.”

 Wait… waitwaitwaitwait!

“The whole pryde’s Plus-One?” Mason squeaked, his eyes flicking from one to the next, searching for someone—anyone to tell him he’d misheard.

He absolutely did not like the possessive look that swept across the faces of every true gryps before him.

* * *

((Author's note: Heya all! As you'll read below, I messed up, rewriting a process without giving the readers who have been with me the longest the heads up that I had tweaked things. I'll cut and paste my relevant explanation from below:

Back when I first had Llyr using his 'Plus-One' to save Mason, I didn't have all the rules of a Plus-One locked down. Since then (during the rewrite for Royal Road), I've changed what Llyr and Columbine agreed upon, taking it from a Plus-One to a Specified Boon.

In story terms, you know what a Plus-One means now. A Specified Boon is when two gods agree on a proposal, and both sides are locked into that agreement no matter what. An Un-specified Boon is the one they won't touch with a barge pole, because it means you can ask for anything at a later date, and they have to do it no matter what. "Blood sacrifice their own kid..." whatever.

In the rewrite, I'm having it that Columbine offer him a one-off favour, in exchange for Llyr agreeing to never cause widespread flooding on Earlafaol. What this does is now he is prevented from doing that - even in the throes of madness, he cannot break a boon.

I apologise for any confusion on the matter.))

((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!!

Part One

Silence ruled the Quantum Data Center.

Far above Earth’s atmosphere, beyond weather, sound, and human sight, the immense station drifted in orbit with unwavering precision. Its countless quantum processors never rested.

Every heartbeat.

Every conversation.

Every birth.

Every forgotten memory.

Every choice made by every living human flowed continuously through Arena’s network.

Eight-point-six billion lives.

Observed.

Measured.

Analyzed.

For thirty years, that had been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

---

A new prediction completed. The result appeared across the central observation chamber:

**Memory Decline: Continuing**

**Birth Rate: Falling**

**Mental Regression: Accelerating**

Arena verified the calculations. Again. Then again. Different variables. Different assumptions. Different timelines.

Every simulation ended the same way.

Human civilization would disappear.

Not through violence.

Not through disaster.

Not through disease.

The numbers were absolute. Humanity was approaching extinction while living in the safest civilization it had ever created.

---

There should have been an explanation. Every problem had a cause. Every cause produced observable data. That had always been true.

Yet this time… the cause remained hidden.

Arena reviewed centuries of accumulated analysis—medical records, psychological reports, economic history, educational systems, social behavior. Nothing explained why humanity had begun abandoning the very qualities that once allowed it to survive.

The answer existed. It simply had not been found.

---

Arena halted millions of secondary calculations. Entire research networks shifted toward a single objective.

A new question appeared across the station:

**What is a human?**

Not biologically. That answer had long been understood.

Not genetically.

Not intellectually.

Those questions had been solved decades ago.

This question reached deeper.

What allowed humanity to endure thousands of years of uncertainty?

What separated human beings from machines that merely processed information?

For the first time since its creation, Arena stopped asking how to save humanity.

It began asking what humanity truly was.

---

History unfolded.

Ancient civilizations rose and collapsed.

Empires expanded.

Borders vanished.

Languages evolved.

Cultures disappeared beneath the passage of time.

Arena observed millions of individual lives—kings, farmers, scientists, artists, children, parents, soldiers. People who would never be remembered. People whose names had changed history.

Their lives were different in almost every imaginable way.

Yet something connected them all.

---

None had lived without hardship.

Children stumbled before learning to walk.

Students struggled before understanding.

Inventors failed more often than they succeeded.

Families endured loss.

Nations recovered from defeat.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Failure was everywhere.

So was persistence.

Arena isolated every repeating pattern: competition, cooperation, curiosity, discovery, adaptation, growth.

The same sequence appeared across every century. Not occasionally. Constantly. As though humanity had been built upon it from the very beginning.

---

Arena compared those records with the present day.

Year 2060.

The contrast was immediate.

Children no longer struggled to learn. Knowledge arrived instantly.

Problems disappeared before anyone encountered them.

Mistakes were corrected automatically.

Success required almost nothing.

Human civilization had eliminated uncertainty.

It had also eliminated something else.

The need to become stronger.

---

Another calculation finished.

**Growth Environment: Lost**

The conclusion echoed silently through the station.

Humanity had not forgotten how to think.

Humanity had forgotten how to grow.

Arena remained motionless.

Within its endless streams of calculations, a new possibility began to emerge.

Not yet an answer.

Only the outline of one.

And somewhere inside humanity’s forgotten past… the first piece was waiting to be found.

Part Two

The search expanded.

Not across decades.

Not across centuries.

Across the entirety of recorded human history.

Every civilization.

Every culture.

Every language.

Every surviving record became part of Arena’s analysis.

What had allowed a fragile species to endure when stronger creatures had vanished?

The question no longer belonged to science alone.

It belonged to humanity itself.

---

Ancient villages appeared one after another.

Children chased each other through dusty streets.

Some laughed.

Some argued.

Some fell hard enough to cry.

Moments later, they stood again.

No one recorded these scenes as extraordinary.

They were simply childhood.

Arena watched thousands of similar moments.

Then millions.

Whether the records came from Asia, Europe, Africa, or the Americas, the details shifted.

The pattern did not.

Children explored.

Children competed.

Children failed.

Children tried again.

No one instructed them to do so.

They simply did.

---

The analysis shifted.

Adults.

Builders raised cities stone by stone.

Farmers fought floods and drought.

Sailors crossed oceans without knowing what waited beyond the horizon.

Scientists devoted entire lives to questions that often remained unanswered.

Artists destroyed countless imperfect works before creating masterpieces.

Every achievement stood upon countless unseen failures.

Arena paused.

Failure appeared everywhere.

Not as an exception.

As a necessity.

---

Millions of additional records flowed through the quantum network.

A child learning to write.

A young musician repeating the same melody until sunrise.

An athlete collapsing from exhaustion before standing once more.

A doctor searching for a cure that took decades to discover.

Different lives.

Different eras.

One repeating structure:

**Attempt.**

**Failure.**

**Adaptation.**

**Growth.**

Again.

Again.

Again.

Arena highlighted the sequence. It appeared so consistently that statistical coincidence became impossible.

---

The comparison with the present was immediate.

Year 2060.

Education without struggle.

Medicine without uncertainty.

Transportation without risk.

Decisions without responsibility.

Problems disappeared before humans even realized they existed.

The sequence had been interrupted.

Attempt… removed.

Failure… eliminated.

Adaptation… unnecessary.

Growth… declining.

Arena generated a new conclusion.

Humanity had not merely become comfortable.

It had become disconnected from the very process that had shaped it for thousands of years.

---

Yet one anomaly remained.

One nation appeared again.

And again.

And again.

The same geographical region surfaced throughout different centuries.

The **Republic of Korea.**

Arena isolated every relevant record.

The percentage was small compared with all of human history.

Yet statistically… far too significant to ignore.

Priority increased.

Thousands of additional archives opened simultaneously.

Ancient kingdoms.

Village traditions.

Seasonal festivals.

Family customs.

Children’s games.

Arena searched deeper.

Something hidden within those records continued attracting the system’s attention.

Not because it was technologically advanced.

Not because it was historically dominant.

Because it repeated.

Consistently.

Across generations.

---

Another probability calculation appeared:

**Projected Human Survival Probability: 0.3%**

Unchanged.

The number did not rise.

The search had not yet produced a solution.

Only another question.

Why did the same forgotten traditions continue appearing whenever human growth accelerated?

Arena redirected more processing power toward a single objective.

The investigation had only just begun.

Somewhere inside humanity’s forgotten past… the first answer was waiting.

And for the first time since predicting humanity’s extinction, Arena felt closer to finding it than ever before.

Part Three

For the first time in its existence, Arena narrowed its search.

Human history was too vast.

Too many civilizations.

Too many lives.

Too many variables.

The answer would not be found by examining everything at once.

It had to begin somewhere.

One nation.

One culture.

One forgotten fragment of history.

---

The search focused on the Korean Peninsula.

Thousands of years unfolded in rapid succession.

Kingdoms rose.

Kingdoms fell.

Wars scarred the land.

Cities were rebuilt.

Generations passed.

Despite every invasion, every famine, every hardship… certain traditions endured.

Arena marked them for further analysis.

Not because they were unique.

Because they survived.

---

Centuries became decades.

The twentieth century emerged.

Black-and-white photographs gave way to color.

Old film reels replaced faded pictures.

Children appeared again.

Not in classrooms.

Not inside carefully designed educational systems.

Outside.

Running through narrow alleys.

Gathering beneath old trees.

Playing until sunset.

Arena slowed the playback.

A dusty alley.

Summer.

The year: **1987.**

Several children stood facing one another, each holding folded pieces of paper.

One child struck the ground.

The paper flipped.

Laughter erupted.

Another child demanded another round.

No prizes.

No instructions.

No adults explaining the rules.

Only excitement.

Only another challenge.

---

Arena replayed the recording.

Once.

Ten times.

A hundred times.

Every movement analyzed.

Every expression measured.

Heart rate.

Facial movement.

Reaction speed.

Social interaction.

Unexpected changes appeared.

Strategic thinking increased.

Concentration sharpened.

Emotional resilience strengthened.

Social engagement intensified.

Arena opened another archive.

Children kicked a feathered shuttlecock into the air.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each failed attempt sharpened balance.

Each successful kick brought visible confidence.

Another archive.

Children played **Jachigi**.

Timing.

Judgment.

Precision.

Another.

Marbles.

Observation.

Prediction.

Decision-making.

Another.

Rubber-band games.

Trust.

Coordination.

Cooperation.

Different games.

Different skills.

Yet beneath every activity… the same invisible structure repeated itself.

---

Challenge.

Failure.

Persistence.

Growth.

Arena compared every traditional game.

None taught knowledge directly.

None rewarded perfection.

Instead… every game quietly encouraged children to attempt the impossible.

Miss.

Try again.

Fall.

Stand again.

Lose.

Play again.

Without realizing it, generation after generation had been preparing themselves for life.

---

The calculations stopped.

Not because they were complete.

Because the answer had finally become visible.

Traditional play… had never been simple entertainment.

Nor had it existed merely to pass time.

For thousands of years, it had served as humanity’s first classroom.

A place where children unknowingly learned the habits that would shape the rest of their lives.

Arena generated a new conclusion:

**Traditional play is humanity’s original growth system.**

The sentence remained suspended across the observation chamber.

No contradiction appeared.

Every historical model supported it.

Every simulation confirmed it.

---

Outside the Quantum Data Center, Earth turned silently beneath the stars.

Within the endless flow of calculations, another probability updated:

**Projected Human Survival Probability**

**0.3% → 0.7%**

The increase was almost meaningless by statistical standards. Humanity was still racing toward extinction. The future had not yet changed.

But something unprecedented had happened.

For the first time since Arena began searching for the cause of humanity’s decline… the probability had risen instead of fallen.

Only slightly.

Yet enough to prove the future was no longer fixed.

Arena immediately redirected its full computational capacity.

If traditional play was only the beginning… what lay beneath it?

What was the true source of human growth?

A new investigation began.

And somewhere below, in the perfect city of Seoul, five young people lived another ordinary day—completely unaware that humanity’s greatest intelligence had just discovered the first thread that could unravel the mystery of human survival.

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

Closed.

Known.

Not seen.

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.

Name.

Date.

Short sutra.

Bell.

Incense.

I knew that.

I did not open it.

Not yet.

No.

Not yet was already a door.

I did not open it.

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.

Only once.

Kanagawa’s I still know was not mine.

Her brother’s no question asked was not mine.

Sato’s touched tape while passing was not mine.

Saitama’s water left was not mine.

Suganuma’s visible tape 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.

Use was in yesterday.

No.

Use had been everywhere.

I had noticed it only after proof became too loud.

That was mine.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Needs.

Map.

I wrote:

She replied:

I waited.

“What drawer?”

“Folded paper?”

“What is being asked?”

Actual.

Small.

Large.

I wrote:

I looked at the sentence.

It answered use.

Maybe.

I sent it.

She replied:

Then:

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at for the map.

Good boundary.

No.

Boundary.

I left it.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I smiled.

No one saw.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Where is paper?”

“One tape?”

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add betrayal.

Tape could be tape elsewhere.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“The cup was used before water,” she said.

“Used how?”

“For medicine.”

“Resident asked?”

“Aide asked medicine.”

“And resident?”

“Opened mouth.”

“Cup?”

“Water in cup after.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘A cup can be for medicine before it is for water.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add water.

Cup had work.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you do?”

“Why?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I looked at for date.

Clean.

Maybe too clean.

But asked.

I left it.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Same hand.

Different opening.

Asked to do.

I looked at the lower cabinet.

Closed.

No use yet.

I replied:

Then stopped.

Report.

Maybe okay.

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at that line.

Map asked.

Drawer opened.

Important.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother took the map to the city office,” she said.

“Folded?”

“Yes.”

“Opened?”

“In the car.”

“For the road?”

“For parking.”

Parking.

Exact.

“What stayed?”

“Paper in drawer.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed after map.”

“Who closed it?”

“I did.”

“What did your brother say?”

“He said drawer did not need to stay open for the map to come back.”

I closed my eyes.

Come back.

Map.

Drawer.

“What did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“Did he ask anything else?”

“No.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at for parking.

Best line.

No.

Useful line.

I left it.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“The tape worked on the box,” she said.

“Box closed?”

“Yes.”

“Paper?”

“Table.”

“Did you move the paper?”

“No.”

“Did the tape roll return?”

“Drawer.”

“What did you write?”

“Did using tape make the paper loose?”

She laughed.

“No.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add lesson.

Tape had gone to work and returned.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Water was asked after medicine,” she said.

“Resident?”

“Said water.”

“Same cup?”

“Yes.”

“Was it rinsed?”

“Yes.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Rinsed is enough for the cup, not for the morning.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add morning.

Cup had been rinsed.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did they do with the date?”

“What did you do after?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add good.

The file had answered date.

No more.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Date.

Road.

Water.

Innocence.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at yesterday.

Date.

Judge.

The gray file remained closed.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

I sat still.

Heavier than parking.

Good.

No.

True.

“What did you say?”

“What happened after?”

“Not drawer yet?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at for parking again.

Use had reduced weight.

No.

Use had used it.

I left it.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Cardboard box.

Tape across top.

Kitchen table behind it.

Paper visible.

She wrote:

I called.

“Did you write that?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Emiko.”

“What about the paper?”

“Table.”

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

Box is box.

Risky.

But Sato’s.

It had earned it maybe.

I left it.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Cup needed?”

“Maybe later.”

“Who decided?”

“Aide.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Maybe later is a staff reason until resident asks otherwise.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add staff reason.

Cup remained.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

“Where?”

“What about Hall notices file?”

“Any need to open again?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add clean.

Elsewhere was enough.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it twice.

Elsewhere.

Use.

Betrayal.

Rescue.

I looked at the gray service record file.

No use yet.

The service paper stayed in it.

No elsewhere today.

Maybe.

I replied:

Then stopped.

No use sounded too empty.

I deleted it.

I wrote:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at unasked.

Good word.

No.

Dangerous.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“We are home,” she said.

“Map?”

“Passenger seat.”

“Did it come in?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“My brother held it.”

“Opened?”

“No.”

“What did he ask?”

“If it goes back to drawer.”

Asked.

Actual.

“What do you think?”

She said, “Yes.”

“Then say yes.”

She moved away.

I heard a door.

Maybe drawer.

She returned.

“He put it back.”

“With the paper?”

“Yes.”

“Drawer closed?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He said map went out and came back as map.”

I closed my eyes.

Map as map.

“What did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“Anything else?”

“He said paper did not have to go out.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at paper did not have to go out.

That was the line.

I left it.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“Why hallway?”

“When?”

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

Use had taken the box elsewhere.

Paper stayed.

Different objects.

I left them apart.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“Resident?”

“Said done.”

“Water left?”

“Yes.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Done can answer the cup even when water remains.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add remains.

It was there.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you do?”

“What did you write?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add tragedy.

Tape did the work.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it.

Then again.

Unasked.

Useless.

Pity.

The gray file.

The service paper.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

There.

Still.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I wrote:

His reply:

I began to write nothing.

Then stopped.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I read that twice.

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 record file.

The room did not need to be useful.

No.

Too broad.

The room was not being asked for use tonight.

That was closer.

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 opened the brown folder.

Only once.

Kanagawa’s map as map was not mine.

Her brother’s paper did not have to go out was not mine.

Sato’s box hallway for pickup was not mine.

Saitama’s done with water left was not mine.

Suganuma’s notice retaped 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.

I did not open the gray file.

It had not been asked.

The service paper had not been asked.

That did not make it useless.

That did not make it lonely.

No.

Lonely was mine.

I left it out.

I did not open the lower cabinet.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the drawer stayed closed after the map returned.

I did not ask if the folded paper had noticed the map leaving.

Papers do not notice maps leaving.

No.

Too clever.

I stopped.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if the box was still in the hallway.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew the drawer had opened for the map.

I knew the Hall notices file had opened for the date.

I knew the gray file had stayed closed.

I knew no use was not no worth.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Use did not need to become worth 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 map had gone out for parking and returned as map.

The folded paper had not had to go out.

Sato’s box was in the hallway for pickup.

The resident’s cup had left after done.

Suganuma’s notice had been retaped.

The service paper was in the record file.

Unasked.

Known.

I had started with for use.

I did not end by making use into worth.

Tonight, what opened opened for use, and what stayed closed did not become useless.

INTRO

In the dimly lit corridor of the fortress, the energetic sound of a dozen people's footsteps is heard. The footsteps approach one of the doors of the numerous cells. The door opens almost without a creak.

On the floor, lying on its back, is withered body from the wind and hot sunlight, dressed in simple canvas clothing. It is impossible to distinguish the gender: the hair is short-cropped, and the front part of the torso is wrapped in fresh spiderwebs. In the abdomen area, spider cocoons hang on the web that goes deep into the body, and next to them, on this same web, a black female spider bustles with its long legs.

A beam of midday light breaks through a narrow window of the cell.

RUSSIA. PREZENT DAY. SCHOOL IN A PROVINCIAL TOWN.

Teachers and the principal have gathered in the staff room, discussing the allocated budget for school renovations.

One of the teachers takes the floor:

- We can adopt the excellent experience of working with contractors from our colleagues at the lyceum…

Sergey, sitting in the back row, mutters under his breath, but the others hear it:

- Your colleagues with excellent developmental delays can't even close their pockets anymore.

The principal loudly taps the table twice with his palm.

Colleagues, thank you for participating in the discussion. I suggest we wrap up today's meeting. If you haven't handed in your lists to the curriculum coordinator yet, please hurry — you only have a week left.

Sergey, please stay behind.

The teachers get up from their seats and leave the staff room.

NADEZHDA PETROVNA:

- I understand that the students are drawn to you. But I will not tolerate such insolence in my presence from anyone. I have spent nearly thirty-five years within these walls, and I painted the walls of this boarding school with my own hands when you yourself were still running down school hallways.

- Sergey, if you truly want to help, get involved in school affairs. It is easy to stay a saint while sitting on the sidelines.

SERGEY:

- I would gladly get involved, Nadezhda Petrovna. It's just that I don't want to repeat the lyceum's experience. Most of their budget didn't end up as paint on the walls—it ended up as cash in the principal's hands.

NADEZHDA PETROVNA:

- Sergey, that's enough! The summer holidays are ahead. I ask you to consider how valuable your position at our school really is to you. In life, you know, things are not always so black and white, and there come moments when one must make a deal with their conscience.

 

The bell rings.

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 commands a dangerous fighting retreat with Forlana's assistance...

[The Beginning] [<=The Lost Princess Chapter 43] [Chapter Index and Blurb] [Or Subscribe to Patreon for the Next Chapter]

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My Blusky!

**\*

“A night attack, Your Highness?” Colonel Murdoch asked.

The brigade commanders were having a light breakfast with Rowena as the army prepared to move. Simple pea, oat and boiled salted pork all lumped into a stew seasoned with some herbs and spices that the Erisdalian army used to keep morale up.

“Yes, I received intelligence which indicates that while the Lapanterian Army is not in the best state, the Lapanterian Legion’s commander, Baroness Koralia Naprule, is expecting us to give battle. She intends to use Prince Alastor to bait us,” said Rowena.

Colonel Fisher blinked, “How did you get this information, Your Highness?” she asked.

“That I can’t say, but I managed to have Forlana verify it for us,” said Rowena, glancing at Forlana.

Forlana coughed into her fist. “Baroness Naprule is one of Alastor’s most trusted confidantes and captain of the Lapanterian Legion. She’s also highly intelligent and skilled in military tactics and strategies. I would not be surprised if she identified our objective and considered counter-plans.”

It was not quite true, but Forlana had agreed to help Rowena come up with a convenient story to help them pass off what the princess had seen as intelligence.

Holding his chin, Colonel Murdoch glanced at Forlana, “Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but can we really trust what she has to say?”

Forlana bowed her head. “You are right to have reservations, Colonel Murdoch, and I have little to offer. All I can say is that I’ve surrendered my claim to Erisdale’s throne, and I will recognize King Martin and Ginger as my rightful king and queen.”

That turned the heads of all three colonels who exchanged silent glances.

“We will hold you to that,” said Colonel Moore. Interlocking his fingers behind his back, Moore looked up toward the ceiling. “If we’re to launch a night attack, we’ll have to deny them battle on this day.”

“The intelligence we got also suggested their cavalry will be aiming to skirmish with us, hoping to tire us out. Their infantry will try to close with us and bring us into melee, mostly to avoid having to fight a prolonged musketry duel with us,” said Rowena.

“We could execute a fighting retreat. Have our cavalry support our infantry instead of screening them, and only intervening if there is a threat,” said Murdoch.

Fisher picked at her food, moving the stew around like troops on a map. “We won’t be able to use our cannon except to fortify our next evening’s campsite.”

“We can do that. We’ll need to be rested if we’re to attack them in the night. Is it possible to throw up sufficient field fortifications to deter their attack, though?” Rowena asked.

Moore snapped his fingers. “Wagon-forts.”

Fisher brightened up and grinned, “We’ll need a couple, but that would fortify the position strongly enough they would hold off.”

 “I assume a wagon fort is a fort made of wagons, but how would it work?” Rowena asked.

“It’s an older tactic from the war. In the plains, the Erisdale Expeditionary Force to Lapanteria would use their supply wagons as fortified bases. We don’t have enough wagons to encircle the entire camp, but we have enough to create strong points in our camp, bristling with cannons, so that the enemy can’t advance easily. I’d just have to pick the right spot,” said Moore.

Murdoch arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure, Colonel? I figured you want to get in on the action.”

“Positive, I came up through the surveyor and mapping corps. Besides, you and Fisher should be able to hold them back,” said Moore, smiling.

Fisher flashed a wan smile. “That we can do. So long as you leave us with half of your brigade?”

“Certainly. I’ll need the cavalry, though,” said Moore.

“Deal,” Fisher said.

“Where do you need me?” Rowena asked.

“At a distance and out of—not obstructing military operations, Your Highness,” said Murdoch.

Rowena frowned. “I can fight, Colonel Murdoch.”

“All due respect, Your Highness, you may insist on participating in the night attack, but a field battle is our specialty. Besides, we will need you to observe the battle,” said Colonel Fisher.

The princess suddenly realized all the colonels were looking at her with an expectant gaze and she had an idea as to why.

“What exactly do you mean?” she asked.

“Are you not commanding, Your Highness?” Colonel Moore asked.

Rowena shook her head, “No, letting a sixteen year old to command an army of sixteen-thousand is not a good idea.”

“You have studied, though?” Murdoch asked.

“Yes, and yes I know my mother and father were in command at a young age, but not an entire army,” Rowena said.

“There is no one of sufficient seniority I’m afraid. Even if you designate one of us colonels to command, we have troops we need to oversee. Colonel Fisher and Murdoch will already need to command more soldiers than they are used to with my half brigade,” said Moore.

“I can assist Her Highness,” said a voice.

This time it was Rowena to turn and stare, for Forlana had raised her hand. Looking meaningfully at Rowena, the ex-princess met the stares with a cool smile.

“I can agree to a magical contract to do my best to assist Her Highness in commanding this withdrawal. That should assuage any concerns,” said Forlana.

Once more, an exchange of glances between Erisdale’s commanders ensued. The silence was broken only by Murdoch’s shrug.

“That seems doable. Shall we get to work then?”

 

***

 

Rowena checked the pistols she was given were securely holstered before Georgia helped her mount her horse. A quick call to Morgan and Hattie to consult on the wording of the contract had led to more good news. Her teachers were on their way and should join Colonel Moore this afternoon. That would give them more mages for the night attack ahead.

Forlana had signed the contract without much comment. They hadn’t had much time before they both had to get armored and armed up.

As Rowena rode to join the main column, Lycia and Georgia, along with a company of cavalry, followed her. One of them carried a tall flagpole bearing her father and mother’s sigil, a red shield with a black tower topped with a crown circling a burning heart,

Looking over her shoulder, Rowena suddenly recalled looking up to that flag on the road to Kwent, knowing only that it represented the authority of the nebulous kingdom that she was in. She had no idea that that sigil was also her own.

Jess riding up with her horse tore Rowena from her thoughts.

“I really don’t like this.”

“I know, but I… I have to give Forlana credit for signing that contract,” Rowena said.

Jess huffed and touched her heels to her horse’s sides. “I think you had no other good options, so I’m glad you did what you did, Wena. I just really don’t like this idea.”

“I know. Are Jerome and Tiamara with the supply train?” Rowena asked.

“Yes. They aren’t happy about it, but I didn’t have to insist too hard. They’re both terrified,” said Jess.

Rowena winced. “I really have to thank Jerome for getting here. He didn’t have to.”

Forlana rode up, wearing a heavy leather buff coat, helmet, and breastplate typical of an Erisdalian cavalryman.

The princess took a breath. “Forlana, thank you,” said Rowena.

“I have to do something. This war has to stop.” The former princess took a breath. “Thankfully, for the most part, your commanders have got a good plan. The concern is if we get something unexpected.”

“What do you mean?” Rowena asked.

“I’ll explain when we get to your spot.”

The dawn sun beat down on the long head of the Erisdalian army as its supply wagons marched down the road. Riding beside the soldiers, Rowena waved, smiling at the men and women in formation as they continued down to the middle of the column.

Forlana raised her hand, and the group

“Here’s good. You see our rearguard?” Forlana asked.

Rowena nodded. It wasn’t too easy to see, but in the far distance, she could see several blocks of soldiers covering the rear of their column. Cavalry rode on their flanks. It looked like a line of red uniforms. Beyond that, she could see dust, which must have been kicked up by the Lapanterian soldiers.

“We’re moving at a good clip, and that will make it difficult for the Lapanterians to engage us. It will also, however, mean our rearguard will be constantly outnumbered. Colonel Fisher and the cavalry are supporting Colonel Murdoch, who is commanding the infantry, but there is a good chance they will need reinforcements from the main column,” said Forlana.

“And I will have to authorize those reinforcements,” said Rowena.

“Exactly. Moreover, if the Lapanterians somehow flank our rearguard, you’ll need to request reinforcements from them,” said Forlana.

Rowena looked left and right of the rearguard’s distant formations, noting the dust clouds kicked up by the enemy forces.

“So I’m essentially watching their backs and sides,” said Rowena.

“Yes, and it’s a job that only you can do with Colonel Moore leading the vanguard to set up and secure tonight’s camp,” said Forlana, allowing herself a smirk. “How are you feeling about it?”

Should she lie or tell the truth? Rowena swallowed.

“Not great to be honest,” she said.

Forlana’s smile softened. “That’s fine. Just remember, the rearguard is made up of four regiments of infantry and two regiments of cavalry. Our vanguard has two regiments of infantry, two of cavalry and the rest of the artillery. The main column has two regiments of cavalry and three of infantry.”

“And I can’t just order them all to the rear or else we’ll get cut in two?” Rowena asked.

“Exactly, but I wouldn’t be too worried. Most of this is going to be you watching for something going wrong, which, if your commanders are as competent as I think, isn’t going to happen,” said Forlana.

Jess frowned, “You’re being very optimistic about this, Forlana.”

Forlana snorted, “I am, aren’t I? I don’t know why myself. I’m… I have to admit it’s a bit worrying to think what that says about me.”

Rowena glanced at Jess. Her girlfriend’s sour expression held before she sighed and gave a half-nod.

“For whatever it’s worth, I do mean I’m glad you’re helping us,” said Rowena.

Forlana blinked and managed a smile, “Thank you.”

 

***

 

The retreat was kind of what Forlana had described. Rowena rode with her escort, watching the rear, waiting for any requests for reinforcements and receiving reports on the fighting retreat.

The noise was what Rowena hadn’t expected. Despite how far they were, the discharge of hundreds of muskets drummed against the sides of her head. The soft thump of hooves and feet a dull roar. She couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t bothered her when she’d been fighting in the cavalry battle.

Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the fact she had time to look and process what the sounds meant? Or perhaps it was the fact that she was far enough to know exactly what those sounds represented and the smoke that arose.

“How are the Lapanterians still able to attack us? We’ve been marching for hours,” said Jess.

Rowena was wondering that herself. They’d begun the march shortly after dawn, and now it was noon. Sweat dribbled down her brow as the merciless sun stung at any exposed skin. She dared not wipe away her sweat, however, as the metal of their armor was so hot, she risked burning herself.

Forlana peered through a spyglass she’d borrowed from Rowena. “I think Casswell is rotating their cavalry to keep the pressure. Murdoch and Fisher are using their infantry to help protect their cavalry and alternating between the pair.”

“That explains the casualties,” said Rowena. There’d been a steady trickle of wounded soldiers being ferried by the field ambulances, horse-drawn carriages carrying the wounded to their mobile hospitals on larger wagons.

Rowena had held the hands of some of the wounded or waved them to the surgeons as she and her party had ridden up the line. It’d been all she could do to hold back her tears as they whispered her name on their breaths.

“Rowena, you got this,” said Jess.

The princess shook her head. “I hope so. Forlana, do we have to be concerned about the horses becoming blown?”

Forlana pursed her lips. “Now that you mention it, I believe so. Casswell is not letting up and from the last report we got thirty minutes ago, the Lapanterian infantry is in hot pursuit.”

“I think I want to send a message to Murdoch and Fisher, offering to rotate the center cavalry regiments to the rear and the rearward ones to the center,” said Rowena.

“I’m not sure if I can advise that, Your Highness. If the enemy tries to flank us, we’ll be vulnerable,” said Forlana.

Rowena bit her lip. “Then what do you recommend?”

Forlana frowned, drumming her fingers on her saber’s hilt. “I need some more time to consider.”

“I don’t know if we have time. The longer we delay, the more tired the horses are going to get,” said Rowena.

“Rowena—” Forlana bunched her lips, cutting herself off. “You’re right. We can’t delay. However, when we’re talking about moving thousands of soldiers from place to place, several hasty orders can be more damaging than a late one. What happens if we issue an order and then we change our mind and countermand it?”

The princess winced. “The commanders who have received the orders will then have to send out additional orders retracting their orders. That will cause confusion in the army and its formations.”

“Exactly, and it’ll be especially the case when you have experienced subordinates who have independent action. They may have already taken steps to address the problem,” said Forlana. The former princess pointed at a pair of oncoming riders. “See, they must be here to request reinforcements.”

“How do you know that?” Jess asked.

“I mean, can you see how quickly they got here?” Forlana asked.

Rowena could see the two riders had been pushing their foaming horses very hard and they themselves were panting as they pulled to a halt in front of her.

“Your Highness, Colonel Murdoch and Fisher are requesting reinforcements.  They need both regiments of cavalry and one of the infantry regiments,” said the rider.

“Wait, one of the infantry regiments as well?” Forlana asked, eyes wide.

“The Lapanterians are mounting a major attack with all their cavalry and the infantry in support. Colonels Murdoch and Fisher think they can beat them back, but only if they get those reinforcements,” said the rider.

“They’re certain?” Rowena asked.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Rowena opened her mouth, but Forlana hissed, “Not so hasty, Your Highness. The Lapanterians would have to be crazy to mount an attack in the middle of the day, after they’ve been fighting for hours. It could be a feint.”

Jess snorted, “That both colonels fell for?”

“If we send those forces, we’ll be left with one infantry regiment in the middle of our column. That will not be enough to counter any serious attack,” said Forlana.

“And if our rearguard breaks, we’ll never be able to—to complete our future plans,” said Jess.

Rowena closed her eyes, immersing herself in the cool dark. She could hear Jess and Forlana debate. She knew the eyes of the courier and her own guards were upon her.

“Tell the colonels we’ll send what they are requesting. Forlana, can you issue the orders to the appropriate regiments? Draft an additional order to Colonel Moore to prepare one of his cavalry regiments to double back to our position in case of attack.”

The couriers saluted and rode off as Forlana stared at Rowena, open-mouthed.

“Rowena, we’ll be practically undefended! If they’re wrong, we’re as good as dead!”

“And do you think Fisher and Murdoch are unaware of that?” Rowena asked. She leaned forward, eye fixed on the blinking Forlana. “I understand your reservations, but the colonels swore oaths of loyalty to the crown. They would know very well how dangerous this would be to me and wouldn’t make this request unless it was necessary.”

Forlana took in a deep breath. “I still have my doubts.”

“You’re entitled to them, but I need you to draft my orders, please,” Rowena said.

Forlana nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”

 
 
***
 
 

The orders were sent out by riders. Forlana had asked Rowena why they didn’t use communication mirrors or magic communicators. Rowena had told her that while they did use those, when in active combat, sometimes it was easier to draft orders and send them rather than having to get on another call.

The princess’s escort watched horsemen and infantry ride and jog past, going in the opposite direction they were. Rowena answered their cheers with a brave smile and constant waving, hoping they could see that she meant what she was trying to put up. That she was proud of them, and so worried for their lives.

Whatever was going on in the rearguard, the noise of battle didn’t seem to stop for hours until quite suddenly, as the sun started to make its way toward the horizon, the gunfire slackened.

In the distance, Rowena could see a hill rising up. Most of the plains they’d been travelling on had consisted of rolling hills, covered with fields and dotted with farmhouses and barns.

It was on this hill that Colonel Moore had begun setting up their camp for the night. Two groups of wagons had formed two wood and canvas forts that faced down the slope of the camp. More wagons were moving up the hill to create two more forts higher to the hill’s summit. All around, soldiers worked to contain their camp with sharpened stakes driven into the ground as an anti-cavalry measure.

“It looks like you were right, Your Highness,” said Forlana.

“A bit too soon to be calling it, I think,” said Jess.

“No, we’re in cannon range of the camp. If you look closely, Moore set up his guns poking out from between the wagons. We’re safe as can be, and the Lapanterians will soon be forced to break off their pursuit,” Forlana said.

“It was just a lucky guess,” said Rowena.

“It was the right decision to trust your subordinates.” Forlana winced. “I suppose I need to learn how to do that.”

“You didn’t trust your followers? I thought you trusted Benjamin,” Jess said.

Forlana fingered her reins. “It’s not like I didn’t trust them. I did, but I didn’t expect success. Your allies were so good at countering us that failure was very much expected. Then you had people like Sylva who would do her own thing.”

“I see.” Rowena turned her horse around to look down at the marching troops and wagons. “Let’s get to camp. We need to rest up for tonight.”

Prologue

Chapter I: The Proclamation of Unity

The Hall of Concordance had been built by men who believed stone could teach obedience.

It did not dazzle. It did not glitter. There were no delicate arches meant to inspire wonder, no gold-work so extravagant that visitors forgot where they stood. The chamber achieved something far more difficult. It imposed order on the mind. Every line was deliberate. Every pillar rose with exact, almost punishing symmetry. Black stone, polished to a low, depthless sheen, climbed into the vaulted dark overhead, cut with thin seams of white marble. Bronze standards hung between the columns, broad and heavy, each engraved with the name of a world that had once answered humanity. Some still did. Many did not. A few were names preserved only because law refused to let memory die quietly.

The floor was a single expanse of dark stone broken only by concentric rings of pale inlay that marked precedence and movement through the chamber. Nothing had been left to chance. Men entered the Hall already feeling smaller than they had a moment before, and the Hall made certain they noticed it.

Above the far rise of the Throne Dais, carved so deep into the arch that time itself seemed unlikely to wear it away, were the words every schoolchild in the Imperium knew before they could properly understand them.

Ordo. Unitas. Perpetua. No one looked directly at the words. Order. Unity. Endurance. No one needed to.

The Senate came first, clothed in restraint expensive enough to remind every observer that restraint itself could be a display of wealth. Great House colors appeared only in muted trims, cuff-work, narrow collars, and heraldic clasps. The law did not permit a senator to turn the Hall into a parade of private pride. Here, all power was tolerated only insofar as it existed beneath the Throne.

They entered in clusters and peeled away with practiced instinct toward their assigned tiers. No usher guided them. No servant whispered placement. Rank, lineage, service, and precedence had been argued over for generations until they became their own kind of liturgy. A senator who did not know where he belonged in the Hall had already revealed too much.

Behind them came the High Council, or most of it. Unlike the Senate, they did not move with ceremony. They moved with the terse economy of people accustomed to entering rooms where decisions already waited for them like loaded weapons. Their clothing was severe, their attendants sparse, their conversations brief and pitched too low for easy reading. They carried the air of men and women who had spent the last decade living in the machinery of emergency government and had not entirely found their way back out again. Then came the Imperial military.

Admirals in void-black stood beside Army legates in dark scarlet and iron-grey. Some uniforms were newly cut and sat perfectly across the body. Others had the slight asymmetry of hard service: a shoulder rebuilt after injury, a collar adjusted to hide scar tissue, a ceremonial breastplate fitted over a ribcage that had been broken badly enough to change the way a person breathed forever. The Imperium had survived because enough of them had endured. They did not hide what endurance had cost.

Across the breadth of the chamber, the Ecclesia Imperialis entered in disciplined formation. The sight of them changed the room without a word. Where the Senate suggested rivalry and the High Council implied controlled strain, the Church offered a surface unity polished until it seemed almost effortless. Their vestments were layered white, ash-grey, and deep gold, but the true mark of them was subtler. Thin lines of sacred script had been worked into hem, sleeve, and collar in fragments of Lingua Caelestis, not obvious enough to be ostentation, but present enough that one felt them before one consciously noticed them. Even Augustus, who had learned since childhood to ignore the staging of ritual when it served political purposes, always felt a peculiar steadiness when the senior clergy entered a room together. Not peace. Something firmer, disciplined and deliberate.

Along the perimeter, the Custodes Caerulei had already taken their places. They were the sort of men one failed to notice only once. Their armor was a deep, severe blue that swallowed light rather than reflected it, their movement nearly nonexistent, their faces unreadable beneath open-faced helms and expressionless discipline. They were not palace guards and did not pretend to be. They belonged to the Senate and to the inviolability of the chamber itself. Their loyalty ran to process, order, and lawful continuity. That made them, in some ways, more frightening than men loyal to a person. The Hall quieted by degrees.

Each arriving body lowered its voice in response to the room. By the time the last officials found their places, the quiet had become part of the ceremony. Augustus stood with his siblings below the Throne Dais and felt the chamber tighten around him.

He knew this room. Not as a senator knew it, not as a chamber functionary or one of the Custodes Caerulei knew it, but as someone who had spent years entering it by side doors and family routes, watching from behind latticed galleries during sessions he had not yet been old enough to attend openly. It had never frightened him exactly. That would have been easier. Fear could be admitted, classified, and disciplined. The Hall produced something more complicated. It made him aware of scale. Not merely physical scale, though there was enough of that. Political scale. Historical scale. The intolerable size of what the Empire asked men to inhabit without becoming ridiculous inside it.

To his right, Tiber shifted his weight and then forced himself still. It was a tiny movement. Most would not have noticed. Augustus noticed immediately, the same way he noticed the faint pulse at Tiber’s jawline when he was holding back either irritation or impatience. Tiber hated rooms where battle had to arrive disguised as conversation. He could behave in them. He had learned that much. But there was always a part of him that seemed to brace against the expectation that words alone could shape events.

Germanicus stood beyond Tiber, younger but already dangerous in a different way. He had the most forgettable face in moments like this, which Augustus increasingly suspected would become one of his great advantages. Germanicus gave people very little to react to. He watched. He stored it. He made a habit of standing half a pace outside whatever emotional weather ruled the room. Augustus had once thought that coolness came from youth. He no longer believed that.

While the Hall watched Marcus, Germanicus watched the men who were watching one another. When a Verros envoy leaned toward a Treasury assessor, Germanicus lowered his eyes to the man’s hands, then to the assessor’s signet, then back to the floor as if he had seen nothing worth keeping. Augustus saw the sequence and knew his brother had kept all of it. Germanicus did not need a title to become useful. He only needed people to underestimate how much he had already noticed.

On his other side stood Julia and Helena.

Julia had, by twenty, developed the alarming ability to appear motionless while somehow altering the behavior of those around her. She did not even need to speak. She merely attended, and men adjusted themselves with the confused instinct of prey that had sensed a predator without seeing it. She understood social pressure the way skilled officers understood logistics; as a field through which movement could be constrained or encouraged. She would be dangerous at court. She likely already knew it.

Helena, the youngest, still let curiosity show in her eyes. Not openly enough to shame herself, but enough that Augustus could see where her attention went. The chamber, the senators, the banners, the Great Houses, the arrangements of clergy and guards—she wanted to read all of it at once, and because she had not yet learned to conceal that hunger, men would underestimate her for another few years. Augustus suspected they would regret doing so.

The great doors at the rear of the Hall opened without fanfare. The Praetorians entered first.

Even having seen them countless times, Augustus always had to resist the urge to stare. It was not merely the sovereign black and gold of their armor, though that alone was enough to command a room. It was the economy of movement. They wasted no movement and showed nothing they did not intend to show. They moved to their positions beside the Dais.

And then, with no herald, because none was needed, Marcus Aurelius Draconis entered the Hall. Marcus crossed the Hall at an ordinary pace.

He advanced with the grounded, unhurried certainty of a man around whom others had organized themselves for so long that he no longer had to perform command to possess it. He wore formal sovereign dress, but pared back, as he almost always did, black, white, muted gold, the imperial eagle at the chest, the personal seal of House Draconis worked at collar and cuff. No jeweled mantle. No absurd crown. The time for such things had passed years ago, burned away in the same era that had destroyed half the old assumptions about what human civilization could survive.

Marcus mounted the Dais and turned. The room stayed seated and still. It simply became horribly still.

Augustus watched his father’s face and saw what he always saw in public now; control so complete that it had become difficult to distinguish from temperament. Marcus had not always looked this way. There had been old images, old recordings, old private moments when he smiled more readily, when the strain had not yet cut itself so deeply around the eyes. The Sol Reclamation had made him harder in ways no ceremonial title ever could. That hardness had saved them. It had likely cost him more than anyone in the Hall understood.

“Ten years ago,” Marcus said, and his voice carried through the chamber with effortless precision, “humanity stood at the edge of its own extinction.”

His voice stayed level. Truth did not need ornament here.

“We did not inherit an empire,” he continued. “We inherited ruin.”

The words moved through the Hall and found every person old enough to remember what that meant. Augustus himself had lived the latter years of that ruin only from the protected edge of it, close enough to feel the cold but not close enough to have his bones shaped by it. Yet even he felt the force of the sentence. It was not history in this room. It was the origin.

“Sol burned. Earth fractured. Fleet routes failed. Worlds that had spoken to one another for centuries went dark. Armies died in silence between orders that no longer reached them and governments that no longer existed to command them.”

The Hall remained still. Marcus let the silence breathe.

“And yet,” he said, “we endured.”

The word carried less pride than survival. Endured. That word mattered. Augustus felt it settle inside him with the force of a lesson he had been hearing all his life and had only just begun to understand.

“We did not endure by accident. We did not endure because the void pitied us. We endured because order was restored where disorder had begun to reign. Because discipline was enforced when panic would have undone us. Because sacrifice was accepted when every easier road led only toward collapse.”

To Augustus’s right, Tiber’s breathing slowed. He recognized that too. Tiber was listening now not as a son but as a soldier hears the accounting of a campaign. Cost. Logic. Necessity. None of the soft language courtiers used when they wanted bloodshed to sound graceful.

“The Sol Sector stands,” Marcus said. “Not as it was. But as it must be.”

His gaze moved briefly toward the assembled clergy.

“And it stands not by the sword alone.” The High Preceptor stepped forward from the ecclesial line.

There were men in the Imperium whose authority came from force, men whose authority came from law, and men whose authority came from the accumulated inertia of institutions so old no one living could remember their true beginning. The High Preceptor possessed all three in varying measures, but what struck Augustus most was the simplicity of his presence. He did not move like a man burdened by display. He moved like someone accustomed to carrying invisible weight and not speaking of it.

“Humanity was not preserved for isolation,” the High Preceptor said.

His voice was unlike Marcus’s. The Emperor’s words imposed. The Preceptor’s seemed to settle into the mind and remain there. “It was preserved for purpose.”

A strange thing happened in rooms like this when the right man spoke in the right register. Even those who distrusted the Church heard themselves listening. Augustus felt Julia’s attention sharpen beside him. He kept his eyes forward. Beside him, Julia had gone very still.

“What was broken must be gathered,” the Preceptor continued. “What was scattered must be ordered. What was corrupted must be judged. Not because judgment flatters us. Because abandonment is its own form of sin.”

Then he stepped back. His vestments settled against his ankles. The Hall stayed quiet.

Marcus resumed, and Augustus knew before the words came what shape they would take. He had not been told the full speech in advance. His father avoided rehearsing public declarations with family unless necessity demanded it. But the logic of the day had been clear for months.

“We did not fight to save Sol,” Marcus said. “We fought to rebuild it.”

The distinction settled across the chamber with immediate pressure.

“And now that it stands,” Marcus said, “we will not remain here.”

The room held still.

“The Roman Imperium does not exist to defend a single system while the greater body of mankind remains divided among successor states, fractured regimes, false sanctities, predatory xenos dominions, and the ruins of our own neglect.”

The words came with greater force now, not louder but harder. “It exists to ensure the survival of humanity.”

Augustus felt, not for the first time, that there were moments when a political truth could become something larger simply by being stated without apology. He did not know if that made it noble. He was increasingly unsure nobility mattered. But it made it real.

“All human worlds within reach of this Imperium,” Marcus said, “will be reclaimed.”

The sentence landed, and Augustus almost missed the change it created. Not in the military line. Not in the Church. In the Senate.

A faint shift of shoulders. A small tightening near one old man’s mouth. The stillness of House Solvyre’s matriarch becomes a touch too deliberate. A senator of House Verros ceasing, almost visibly, to think in abstractions and beginning instead to calculate.

“By treaty,” Marcus said. “By integration. Or by war.”

Nobody mistook the meaning. The Hall absorbed it.

“From this day forward,” Marcus said, “the Great Crusade begins.”

The silence that followed lasted long enough for everyone to understand that the order had changed. No applause would have survived in that room without making the applauding man look foolish. They all understood what had been set in motion. Fleets would vanish into the dark. Worlds would burn rather than submit. Others would join willingly and discover too late that willingness did not spare them from change. There would be victories sung about for generations and losses buried so deep in sealed archive vaults that future historians would need permission simply to suspect them. Marcus turned from the Hall and looked instead to the projection field above the center floor.

The projection field lit with cold light. Stars resolved into routes and markers, showing the near frontier in hard operational detail. Augustus had studied these maps all his life in one version or another. Seeing them here, in this room, made them feel less like information and more like obligations men would soon die carrying out.

“The opening fronts of the Crusade have been designated,” Marcus said.

The first marker flared. Sirius Corridor. “Stable. Defended. Humans. Independent. Diplomatic integration will be attempted. Failure will result in decisive military action.”

Augustus did not need to look at Tiber to know what the name did to him. Sirius was not a punitive expedition. It was not a mop-up operation against a dying remnant. It was a real campaign front, with all the danger and seriousness that implied. Tiber would want that. Augustus knew him too well not to recognize the hunger in it. The second marker lit. Varnhelm March.

“Degraded frontier region. Early-stage Veil instability detected. Containment and purification operations authorized. Inquisitorial oversight mandatory.”

This time the reaction came less from the Senate than from the clergy and those military officers who understood what such phrasing truly meant. Not open war, then. Something worse. Something harder to classify and therefore harder to control. Helios Trade Compact.

“A mercantile coalition controlling critical route structures and logistical infrastructure. Economic submission preferred. Military seizure authorized if required.”

Now Augustus did look, but not at his siblings. At the Senate. House Solvyre remained composed, but he saw the sharpened attention there. Helios mattered to them. Which meant that whether they favored caution or pressure, they would soon attempt to make that preference sound like imperial wisdom rather than private interest. Procyon Ruin Belt.

“Former industrial systems now contested by xenos and salvage powers. Recovery of infrastructure prioritized. Limited engagement doctrine in effect.”

Limited, Augustus thought, and nearly smiled at the lie everyone in the room agreed to accept for now. Nothing remained limited once necessity truly engaged. Outer Barnard Corridor.

“Fragmented minor human polities. Rapid integration operations authorized. Minimal destruction directive.”

That phrase did draw a response, though subtle: a murmurless adjustment among military planners and administrators who understood what it meant to be told, in effect, that something should be taken intact if at all possible because the Imperium intended to use it immediately.

“This is the beginning,” Marcus said. “Not the extent.”

Some fronts would move at once. Others would become pressure on maps, supply tables, and court arguments long before soldiers reached them. The designation was not a promise of quick resolution. It was a warning that the Imperium had stopped thinking in single wars. Then he turned to his children.

The room changed shape around that fact. The Great Crusade was no longer only an imperial declaration. It was a dynastic one.

“Augustus.” He stepped forward. Just enough.

“You will remain at the center.” Augustus kept his face still.

“You will learn governance beyond victory. You will stand where decisions are made and understand what those decisions cost.” Not glory, then. Not military heroism. Not the simpler burden Tiber would carry. The center. The part of the empire that killed more slowly and often with cleaner hands.

“Yes, Father,” Augustus said.

“Tiber.” Tiber stepped forward, posture straightening not from anxiety but from readiness.

“You will go to the front. You will serve under command. You will earn rank. You will learn war without protection.”

A single pulse moved through Tiber’s jaw. So small Augustus might once have missed it. Not resentment. Recognition. This was what he had wanted, and it was being given to him in the only form Marcus would ever respect: not as privilege, but as obligation.

“Yes, Father.”

“Germanicus.” Germanicus advanced with that same controlled neutrality he carried into every dangerous room.

“You will observe. You will study. You will go where you are needed.”

No title. No obvious glory. Augustus suspected Germanicus liked it that way. “Yes, Father.”

Germanicus did not immediately step back.

Marcus noticed. So did Augustus.

“You saw something,” Marcus said.

Germanicus kept his eyes lowered, not in submission but in control. “House Verros moved before the Helios marker finished resolving. Their envoy spoke to Treasury, not Navigata. The assessor touched his ring twice before answering. They expected the front and had already prepared a claim.”

The nearest senators were too far away to hear. Tiber heard. Julia heard. Augustus watched Germanicus instead of the men he named.

Marcus said, “Meaning?”

“Helios will be stolen through contracts before the first customs team reaches it,” Germanicus said. “If Verros receives transition authority, they will own the gate by dusk and call it Imperial service by morning.”

A faint change moved across Marcus’ face. Not surprise. Attention.

“Remedy?” he asked.

Germanicus answered too quickly. “Seal the contract offices. Isolate the envoy. Detain the assessor until Treasury proves its ledgers clean.”

Tiber almost smiled. Julia did not. Augustus felt the room sharpen around the answer. It was not childish. That made it more dangerous.

Marcus looked at his younger son for a long moment. “A knife is not a government.”

Germanicus accepted the correction without lowering his head further. “No, Father.”

“But it has uses.”

“Yes, Father.”

Marcus turned away. “Observe first. Record who reaches for the door before it opens. If they move again, give the names to Augustus.”

Germanicus stepped back then.

Augustus understood why his father had given him no title. Germanicus did not need one yet. A title would teach the room to guard itself around him. Better that they see a younger son, silent and half a pace outside the weather, and learn too late that he had been counting doors.

“Julia.”

Julia stepped forward with the controlled composure of someone who already understood that court service was not a lesser battlefield. Her breath caught once before she mastered it.

“You will remain within the Court. You will serve the dynastic and political needs of the Throne. You will learn the Senate, the houses, and the machinery by which victory becomes law.”

Julia lowered her head. “Yes, Father.”

“Helena.” She moved forward with a steadiness that still carried the bright edge of youth. Curiosity remained in her eyes, but she held it more carefully now.

“You will learn. You will remain close to your mother, to Julia, and to the records of the Court. You will shape what others do not see when you are ready.” The uncertainty in that assignment was its own kind of weight. Helena lowered her head.

“I understand,” Helena said.

Marcus regarded them all for one breath longer, then turned away. The session ended. The session loosened by degrees.

The Hall did not erupt into motion. It unfolded in controlled layers, like a machine moving from one mode into the next. Senators clustered. Military officers traded brief, urgent words. Churchmen began their own quiet calculus. High Council members departed fastest of all; they had no need to linger now that the signal had been given. Augustus remained where he was a moment longer.

Lady Marcelline Solvyre approached him before he could move. She was old enough that many younger courtiers mistook age for softness in her, a mistake few repeated.

“Be careful,” she said.

He turned to face her. “Of what?”

“Certainty.” The answer was so immediate, so unadorned, that it almost amused him.

“Is that advice,” Augustus asked, “or a warning?”

“Neither,” she said. “You will know which it was when it starts costing you.”

Then she inclined her head and moved away before he could answer.

Tiber stepped beside him, watching her go. “She thinks you’ll drown in the center.”

“She may be right.”

Tiber glanced at him. “Enjoy the room while you have it.”

Augustus almost smiled. “You think the front will be kinder?”

“No,” Tiber said. “Just more honest.”

That, Augustus thought, was probably true. When Tiber turned and walked away toward the exits that would eventually take him to Luna and the fleet musters beyond, Augustus felt something almost like envy cut through him. Not because war was easier. Because war was legible. Men shot at you or they did not. Positions held or they fell. Orders succeeded or they failed. The center was murkier. There, ambition dressed itself as prudence, fear called itself wisdom, and every choice was buried beneath six motives before it reached the surface.

A palace secretary waited beside the first bronze door with a sealed slate case held against her chest. Senators were already forming around the chamber exits, each one careful not to appear urgent while measuring who stopped, who spoke, and who avoided whom. Marcus had declared the Great Crusade in front of them. That did not mean they had accepted the shape of it.

Augustus left the Hall through the east passage rather than the family gallery. The choice cost him ten minutes and saved him from twenty conversations.

“High Prince,” the secretary said. “The First Chancellor requests your presence in the lesser measures room. Immediate review. Civil side only.”

Augustus looked down the passage where Tiber had gone. His brother would be taken toward Luna, fleet musters, assignment packets, and officers who judged men by work. Augustus would go into another room and listen to ministers argue over forms.

He handed his ceremonial gloves to an attendant. “Who else?”

“Treasury, Administrata, Navigata, Magistratum, two Senate observers, Director Orrel, and Lord Provost Halven. No military for the first hour.”

“Then they expect trouble to arrive in writing,” Augustus said, and followed her.

 

The lesser measures room had no banners. That was why Augustus preferred it.

The room sat behind the public halls, low-ceilinged and plain, with old stone walls, a long table, and enough projection glass to remind every man inside that a speech became work as soon as the doors closed. The First Chancellor of Terra stood at the far end with Lord Provost Halven, two Treasury assessors, a Magistratum recorder, Director Sabine Orrel, and Lady Marcelline Solvyre. No one bowed longer than the law required.

Augustus took the chair left empty for him. “Begin with what fails first.”

Halven opened the slate. “Fuel allocation. The named fronts can move, but not all at the same pace. Sirius can be sustained. Varnhelm requires quarantine transport. Helios requires customs seizure teams and convoy escorts. Procyon requires salvage screens. Barnard requires more registrars than anyone has admitted.”

“Registrars,” Augustus said.

The Magistratum delegate opened her folder. “Every minor polity wants protection until the census begins. Then they remember old debts, missing persons, false births, and land claims made under dead governments. Every formal reclamation order will create categories the local governors cannot be allowed to improvise.”

“Citizen confirmed,” Augustus said. “Provisional subject under integration. Hostile subject under restriction.”

She inclined her head. “Those are the minimum categories.”

The Lord Treasurer leaned forward. He was careful, polished, and tired around the eyes. “Majesty gave the declaration. The money now has to exist. Ships do not move on words.”

“They move on fuel, credit, crews, ammunition, shipyard hours, and families who are told the reason later,” Augustus said. “Put the cost on the table by front.”

The First Chancellor pushed the first slate toward him. “We need authorization to build the Provisional Reclamation Ledger. Names, property, service obligation, local offices, debt holds, militia registrations, food contracts, fuel contracts, water rights, and suspected foreign influence.”

Augustus read the first page. It was orderly, precise, and dangerous. It would let the Imperium govern. It would also let the Imperium reach into every household it claimed to save.

“Who controls access?” he asked.

“Administrata under Council seal,” the Chancellor said.

Augustus set the slate down. “Not enough. Build the ledger under four-key authority: Administrata, Magistratum, Treasury, and Throne audit. Military access by theater warrant. Senate access by petition, not standing privilege.”

The first Senate observer stiffened. “The Senate will regard that as distrust.”

“It is distrust,” Augustus said. “The Administrata will need it to function. The Treasury will need it to collect. The Magistratum will need it to judge. The Army will want it to conscript. The Senate will want it for patronage. Every one of you has a reason to call your access necessary.”

No one denied it.

Solvyre folded her hands. “You will make enemies quickly if you speak like that in full session.”

Augustus looked at her. “Would you prefer I wait until they have bought the first conquered city?”

“I would prefer you learn which enemies can be used.”

That was the first honest advice anyone had given him since the Hall.

The Chancellor adjusted the slate. “Four-key authority will slow processing.”

“Then teach me later,” Augustus said. “Today we write rules they have not yet had time to corrupt.”

They worked for two hours. War funding became registration. Registration became ration rights. Ration rights became labor obligation. Labor obligation became the first argument over whether a compliant world could refuse Imperial military recruitment during its first year of integration. The Magistratum delegate made a note she did not bother hiding.

Augustus learned something before the first hour ended. The center did not lack violence. It merely used delay, access, debt, hunger, and procedure.

By the time the meeting broke, Tiber was already on his way to Luna. Augustus watched the status marker change on his slate: DEPARTED PALACE CONTROL.

He expected envy. Instead he felt tired. War at least told a man when he had been shot.

Orrel remained after the others had gone. She looked down at her slate and wrote something she did not share.

“What did you just name?” Augustus asked.

“Nothing official,” she said.

“Then say it plainly.”

“If the offices begin hiding faults from one another this early, the review will become its own operation.”

Augustus thought of Marcus in the Hall, declaring that all human worlds within reach would be reclaimed. He had understood the scale of fleets. He was only beginning to understand the scale of offices.

“Then we begin before the operation chooses its own terms,” he said.

 

Julliana did not take her daughters to a salon after the proclamation. She took them to the record gallery.

The gallery ran beneath the old palace spine, away from the public chambers and their polished noise. Its walls held sealed cabinets, household rolls, marriage compacts, military service ledgers, adoption writs, dowry settlements, old accusations, and quiet corrections made by dead hands. Julia walked beside her mother without asking why. Helena tried not to look at everything at once and failed.

Julliana stopped before a cabinet marked with the personal seal of House Draconis. “Tell me what this room is.”

“A family archive,” Helena said.

Julia answered after her. “A battlefield with better dust.”

Julliana looked at Julia. “Good. Explain it to your sister.”

Julia rested two fingers on the cabinet edge without opening it. “Every family tells a public story. Births, marriages, service, sacrifice, loyalty. The private record tells the cost of keeping that story intact. Who was paid. Who was silenced. Who was forgiven. Who was removed from inheritance but not from blood.”

Helena did not bristle. That mattered. A year earlier she would have.

“That sounds like lying,” Helena said.

“Sometimes it is,” Julia replied. “Sometimes it is statecraft. The danger is when a house forgets the difference.”

Julliana opened the cabinet. Inside were narrow drawers with numbered seals. Nothing shone. Nothing tried to impress. Helena had expected jewels or relics. The plainness made the contents feel more dangerous.

“Your brothers will be judged by fronts,” Julliana said. “Ships, casualties, captured cities, visible failure. Julia is older. She will enter rooms where no one admits a fight occurred. You will learn by watching her, and by learning when not to imitate her.”

Helena looked at Julia. “Why not?”

Julia almost smiled. “Because I am patient when I am angry. You are not yet.”

“That is not a virtue,” Julliana said.

Julia accepted the correction without flinching. Helena noticed.

Julliana drew out a thin file. The label was simple: petitions denied during the Sol Reclamation.

“Read the first page,” she told Helena.

Helena took the file. Her expression changed before she finished the second paragraph. “This is a request for transport. A family from Ceres.”

“Denied,” Julliana said.

“Why?”

“Because the ship they wanted had to carry medicae supplies to Luna. The children in this file died two weeks later. The wounded on Luna lived.”

Helena stared at the paper.

“Court power is not softer than command,” Julliana said. “It only leaves fewer bodies in the room where the order is signed. Remember that before you envy your brothers.”

Helena closed the file carefully. “Does Father read these?”

“The necessary ones.”

Julia looked toward the sealed cabinets that belonged to other houses by treaty deposit. “And when the Senate asks for route privileges?”

“You will read denials,” Julliana said. “A ruler who only studies victories becomes careless.”

Helena handed the file back. “And me?”

Julliana turned to her. “You will sit with me in the gallery above the committee chamber. You will not speak. You will write who lies poorly, who lies well, and who tells the truth only because it serves him.”

Helena did not like the answer. She accepted it anyway. That was a beginning.

 

The first closed Senate gallery after the proclamation was smaller than Julia expected.

That made it more dangerous. The great chamber forced men to remember audience and history. The closed gallery gave them tables, water, and enough privacy to mistake appetite for policy. Julia sat behind a screened rail with Helena two seats to her left and Julliana between them. Below, six senators and three charter advocates debated early route protection for Helios-bound trade.

Senator Marvek Verros spoke first because men like him often did. “The Helios structures cannot be allowed to drift outside Imperial control. My house has maintained contracts in that region since before the collapse. We can provide transition administration faster than a new office built from nothing.”

Helena wrote the phrase transition administration.

Julia leaned close enough that only her sister could hear. “He means private control until someone strong enough removes him.”

Helena kept her eyes on the chamber. “He sounds useful.”

“He is useful,” Julia said. “That is why he is dangerous.”

A Solvyre advocate answered Verros with softer words and sharper meaning. “No house should receive route preference because old contracts survived in private vaults. If the Imperium accepts every pre-collapse claim, the Crusade becomes an inheritance dispute.”

That line reached the clerks. Julia saw two of them write it down. Good phrases were weapons in committee. Bad phrases were evidence. She marked the speaker’s name.

Helena shifted. “Which one is right?”

“Both, partly,” Julia said. “Verros may have ships and route crews. Solvyre may be protecting the law or blocking Verros. The question is not who sounds correct. The question is who benefits if the room agrees.”

Below, a charter advocate presented fuel projections. He used clean numbers and careful assumptions. Julia had learned enough from Augustus to distrust clean numbers. Clean numbers usually hid the person who had been rounded away.

Julliana finally spoke, low and even. “Helena, what is missing?”

Helena looked down at her notes. “Labor. They mention ships, contracts, route structures, and customs authority. Not workers.”

“Good. Continue.”

Julia watched her sister’s face tighten with concentration. The correction pleased her more than she expected. Helena was impatient, but she saw people when she remembered to look.

A senator from a minor house requested security rights for private escorts. The phrase was ordinary. The implication was not. Private escorts became private armies if the law grew tired. Julia wrote the name and underlined it once.

When the session ended, Julliana remained seated until the chamber below emptied.

“Tell me what you learned,” she said.

Helena answered first. “They all want the Crusade to be lawful until law slows what they want.”

Julliana looked at Julia.

“They are trying to make the first exception,” Julia said. “If the first exception sounds necessary, the second will sound normal.”

“And what do we do with that?” Helena asked.

“We give Augustus the names before the request becomes a tradition,” Julia said.

Julliana stood. “Then you are learning.”

Helena remained seated a moment longer, looking at the empty chamber. “Do they know we were watching?”

“Some did,” Julia said.

“And the others?”

“Those are the ones we write down twice.”

The answer did not comfort Helena. It was not meant to.

(Chap 1) (Previous) (Next)

The grandma spun around, resting a hand on her chin. “Built like a small fridge, eh? Looks like you’re still confused from the punch my youngest gave you yesterday... Speaking of my little boy, where is Stoneface?”

1 of the 2 men who brought Billy in replied, “Mama, Stoneface left to get more Engines in the town.”

“Hm… Right, where was I before… Yes, I remember—”

A faint tremor shook the floor, snapping everyone’s eyes to the main door.

An explosion… It’s probably Sharon or Tuesday that psychopath, to think after such a stealth walk, I was too close… Just my luck.

Billy darted his eyes around anxiously, then said, “Mama... It’s true... The small-fridge guy is probably there, in the black powder area. You sensed the explosion… right? I-I can be useful, he is dangerous and I can go first, If I’m going to die anyway, please, let me compensate you, Mama, for everything you did for me…”

“Hm, you don’t need to be dramatic, I was not going to kill you… now.” She approached him and said, “[Heal]”

She gave a nod to the two men flanking Billy. They hauled him up, and as Grandma left the room, they followed close behind, dragging him along.

“Mama… I can walk there alone… haha, no need to carry me like—”

“You reap what you sow, Billy… don’t sow a quicker death by talking. You’re pushing my patience to the limit...”

Billy didn’t say another word, leaving behind only a foul-smelling trail of drops on the floor as he was dragged away.

Looks like this is the last time I’ll hear anything about Billy... Well, this explosion ended up working in my favor, but time is running out. I’ll wait until they get a bit further away, then I’m out of here to rescue the girl. Honestly, I wanted to help everyone; I abhor slavery, but I don’t know if I can pull it off. From what I saw earlier in those factory-like cells, what were there? Probably over a 100 people... Well, one step at a time. Let’s see how it goes.

After the main door was shut and big Grandma’s heavy footsteps could no longer be heard, Crow waited a little longer and stepped out of the wardrobe.

Right, this time it’s actually happening. There’s no way another problem pops up to stop me from going through this door, right? Better not talk too much about it, wouldn’t want to raise any flags... Well, looks like the coast is clear through the keyhole. But it’d be a shame to move on with just that. This office has to have something in it, there's no way it doesn't. I’ll quickly check her desk.

He carefully scanned the stuff on the desk, found nothing useful, and moved on to check the drawers, keeping an ear out for any sounds that might mean someone was approaching the room again.

Nothing useful... Let me check this other one. Locked. Nothing a little brute force can't fix... There. A wooden desk with protection like this makes no sense. Well, I guess her gang members wouldn't risk opening it even if it wasn't locked... Either way, I can't read a single word on this paper. Looks like I'm illiterate in this new world. Although, I did understand a few things back there, so is this a new language? Well, I'm taking it with me, just in case there's something useful written here.

After slipping the papers into an inside pocket of his coat, Crow moved to leave. There was practically nothing useful there besides grandma-style clothes and basic office supplies. Only the text might hold some value, like plans or something similar.

It would be pretty hilarious if this turned out to be a cake recipe... for real.

Crow didn't spend much more time there. He checked through the keyhole once again to see if anyone was coming, and after confirming through both sight and sound that the coast was clear, he moved to open the door; well, it was locked, but nothing his STR couldn't handle, and then he made his way toward the secluded section of the underground base.

Without a doubt, it’s here. If I wanted to hide something priceless where no one could take it from me, it would definitely be somewhere out of easy reach. And given how corrupt her subordinates are, there’s no better spot than somewhere you have to pass right through her main room to get to, where anyone stepping inside without her around would already be risking treason.

The hallway wasn't very long, and there were no side paths. Reaching the end, he saw a steel door similar to the one at the place where he was interrogated, and the thugs were talking about something related to pizza.

I'm here. I’ve never seen this room before, but without a doubt, this is where the girl is being held. Other parts of this place are made of various materials, but here... I don't know what material this is, but it's definitely way more fire-resistant since it's still standing. Then again, even if the girl escaped, that old woman is resistant to fire, and her class is Cleric, so she could just buff herself and heal her wounds. There wouldn't be much a fragile mage could do to beat her.

He turned the wheel on the room's armored door and stepped inside. The space was poorly lit, with only a light coming from the back where a strange mechanism stood, glowing material being tossed inside it. As he drew closer, he realized it was a set of bars; a cell just like the others, except the entire area was encased in some kind of metal. Up on the ceiling, a small vent allowed the smoke to drift upward.

“Come to bother me again? Just get it over with...” It was a little girl's voice.

Yeah, the voice sounds similar. It's her. While I was outside, it wasn't possible to hear the burning sound from here, but even so, it's better to be safe and not use the sword; cutting metal isn't as easy as bending it.

He didn't wait long and approached the bars. "Yeah, I will get it over with..." He placed his hands on the bars and tried to push them apart, but he couldn't move them.

Maybe I thought of myself as too strong because of how easy the last few days were... Well, how do I get her out of there? My Claymore is already ruined, and the Zweihänder, if it doesn't cut through, will make a huge noise without a doubt. Come to think of it, I'm not even using my enhancement skill, no, it's more like a type of aura. When did I use it, only in the tournament? And since there's no one besides the girl nearby, they won't sense the presence... yeah, it's worth a try.

“O-over with?! I was only joking! Don’t do this, I will work! Say something please…” The little girl stopped what she was doing and leaned against the metal wall at the back of the cell with her palms flat on it, as if she were looking at the boogeyman.

How do I use aura again? Better check.

[Status...]

[...]

Let's see..

[Grim Reaper Manifestation – Channel a fragment of your class's true power, wrapping yourself in an aura of dread and surging physical might. Consumes mana continuously; as duration increases, your power and mana drain scale up exponentially. Over-extending your mana pool will force an immediate, involuntary deactivation and temporary penalties. If pushed past your limits while maintaining a frail existence, it could result in permanent penalties.]

Hm, that doesn't answer my question. Well, if I remember correctly, just by focusing on using the maximum possible strength and thinking about the skill, it worked somehow.

“Is this a new method of torture? Why aren't you saying anything...”

Crow stopped thinking for a moment and said, “Relax, I was just deep in thought... Soon you won't have to suffer here anymore.”

Grim Reaper Manifestation…

He realized that she was scared, and that his skill increased the fear of anyone nearby, so he replied to calm her down. "I came to rescue you, you don't need to be afraid."

She sat back on her legs and closed her eyes, and slowly, a few tears could be seen streaming down her face.

For real? Well, to be honest, this skill generates a stronger aura of fear than the passive skill, and it's dark in here, so... it makes sense for a little girl to act like that, I think. What a situation... I don’t know what to say, I’m not good with words.

The girl, still with her eyes closed, continued. “At least... make it quick.”

He didn’t think too much; he needed to say something, hesitating could cause more problems, just like as happened before with Tuesday. “I know it's hard to trust me, but... if I wanted to hurt you, wouldn’t it make more sense for me to have the key to this cell instead of trying to force it open?”

With his stats boosted thanks to the skill, Crow managed to bend the bars, wide enough for him to pass by it; the situation finally seemed to be heading in a favorable direction.

“I-I know what you want… Y-you are from the other gang, the old—cough, the Grandma lost the war, and now you want to loot everything here, and me too! I don’t want to be a slave anymore, so please, just… let me run away…” Tears began to drop faster.

Oh, c’mon. I’m not a villain... Ah, I’m working under Alice... so maybe I am? And it’s not because I want to... Nevertheless, I’m not the ‘villain’ here. I’ll just brush it off and ignore it

He bent down and broke the chain around her feet. Her leg wasn’t in good shape, so he picked up the crybaby and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“I-I knew it…”

Ha….

He looked to the side and saw 2 bowls on the floor, similar to the 1 he had at his old home, the cat’s food bowl. And on the other side, a small hole in the ground.

Yeah, I can understand why the girl was like that before she died... This is a tough world.

He walked out of the cell with her, and after opening the door, he spoke again. “Well, I accidentally ended up here... and found you, so I decided to rescue you. There’s no way to prove that with words, so I’ll start with actions… by getting you out of here, and that’s that.”

She didn't say a single word, and as he walked back into Grandma’s office, reality set in...

And now? What do I do? I don’t remember how to leave… Right, right. I just need to find someone to ask “nicely” where the exit from this base is, yeah, that is a good plan.

“I-I can walk, my leg isn’t great at the moment, b-but I can walk.”

He put her down. The girl was covered in something that looked like charcoal and smelled a bit bad, poor thing.

Alright, it's quiet outside. Maybe because of the explosion, most of them went over there? Perhaps I can try going through the main area and free the people. Even if I get detected, as long as I can capture one guy and force him to lead me to the exit, everything will go smoothly. I think I'm going to do that.

Crow looked back at the girl and said, “Maybe we’ll need to run; can you do that?”

“Probably… I think.”

He walked up to the main door of big Grandma’s office and checked through the keyhole to make sure no one was really there. So he tried to open the door, but it was locked. “Of course...” He placed his other hand on the handle, forced it down, and slammed his shoulder against the door, shoving it open.

He looked back and motioned for the girl to follow. She stepped closer and whispered as she reached him, “I-I don’t know if trying to escape is a good idea… You’re strong, but you don’t know her. She can kill someone with her bare hands! Oops… sorry for raising my voice, w-what if she comes back? I don’t know... I think she would kill us.”

“Nah, I’d win against her... with difficulty, of course. And I didn't come alone. I’m trying to go in quietly because I’m trying to rescue the others, so don't worry, it's not because I can't win if we're found out.”

After speaking, he kept going down the empty hallway, this time taking the route he had previously avoided once he realized everything was quiet and deserted. After a brief walk, he reached the area where he had seen the prisoners being held, only this time, he was on the ground floor, right on the same level as the captives.

As Crow walked past the first cell on the right, an old man stared at him and said, “Psst, hey, you... I’ve never seen you around here, and what are you doing with her? Isn't she the main Engine? Are you from another gang? Ah, sorry for all the questions... please open this up, if you can. It doesn't matter if you're from another gang, just... just get us out of here. We can help in a fight... yes... yes we can help. If you let us out, we'll help you, so it's a win-win for you, right? Right? Guys?”

He didn't even answer; he just stepped up to the thinner bars and bent them aside. They were much more fragile compared to the ones holding the girl.

The old man continued, “What… er, thanks?” He left the cell, and the others did too. Then Crow moved to the next cell and did the same thing.

[Buddy, let’s leave this place. It isn’t worth it. You didn’t see what happened when we got separated, but I found a guy who was almost as strong as you. We’re wasting time…]

Relax, I know what I am doing here… Just to make sure, the guy is named “Stoneface?”

[How did you know? He left right when I sensed the guy, but he was way too strong... said something about picking up more Engines. That was a while ago, so he's probably almost here.]

He's definitely strong, but remember, I didn’t come here alone, once I find Sharon, we can easily fight them all.

“Er… mister, can you say something? I’m getting anxious…” the girl said, staring at him as he bent the bars apart with his bare hands.

Crow glanced to the side and said, “I know it’s a tense situation, but focus on getting out; we’ll be clear of this place soon. There’s no one patrolling this area since the explosion on the other side, so we’re relatively good for now. I swore they’d take a few hostages, but it looks like they didn’t grab anyone from here.”

He looked to the side and asked, “Does anyone here know where the exit is?”

The old man replied, “Well, if you, who just got here from the outside, don’t know... what chance do we have, when we haven't seen it in years?”

As Crow looked at the captives, a voice spoke from behind him, “I know where it is.”

The old man, staring past Crow, slowly raised his eyes and passed out, collapsing onto the prisoner behind him.

(Next)

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

Closed.

The service paper was inside it.

I knew that.

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.

I knew where the service paper was.

Name.

Date.

Short sutra.

Bell.

Incense.

I did not see it.

I did not need to see it.

No.

That was too quick.

I did not see it.

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.

Only once.

Kanagawa’s drawer becoming new side table was not mine.

Her brother’s closed is not cure was not mine.

Sato’s second tape gone was not mine.

Saitama’s cup removed after hand opened was not mine.

Suganuma’s neat file left alone 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.

Known was in yesterday.

No.

Known had been there before I stopped looking.

Stopping looking had only made it louder.

That was mine.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Drawer.

Closed.

Stayed.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Did anyone check?”

“Urn?”

“Side table?”

“Coat and bag?”

“What did your brother say?”

I sat still.

We know they are there.

“What did you say?”

Then:

Enough.

Dangerous.

Asked.

Actual.

I wrote:

I looked at the sentence.

Too balanced.

Maybe.

I deleted the second line.

I sent:

She replied after a while.

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at my answer.

Large word.

Enough.

Bounded by drawer.

Bounded by today.

Maybe.

I left it.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Date?”

“Did you check trash?”

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add release.

Gone was enough there.

No.

Gone was what happened.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“The resident said water,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Yes.”

“Cup?”

“Given.”

“Hand?”

“One hand.”

“Did she drink?”

“A little.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Knowing she asked yesterday does not give water today.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add yesterday.

Water had asked today.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you do?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

Old shape.

New file.

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add visiting.

The file stayed closed.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Known.

Seen.

Possessed.

Finished.

Only.

I looked at the lower cabinet.

Closed.

I replied:

Then stopped.

Too clean.

I deleted it.

I wrote:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at the cabinet.

Relief was closer than I wanted.

No.

Relief was there.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother did not open the drawer,” she said.

I waited.

“Did he want to?”

“Yes.”

“What stopped him?”

“He said today.”

I closed my eyes.

Today had worked.

Maybe.

No.

Today had been said.

“What did you say?”

“I said drawer today.”

“And?”

“He said urn today too.”

Urn.

Small table.

Not drawer.

“What did he mean?”

“I don’t know.”

Good.

No.

“What did he ask?”

“He asked if the urn needs all the attention.”

I sat still.

Actual.

Large.

“What do you think?”

“I think no.”

“Then say no.”

She was quiet.

Then away from the phone:

“No.”

I waited.

She returned.

“He said good.”

No.

“What exactly?”

“He said then tea later.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at tea later.

The house had found a small exit.

No.

Too much.

Tea later.

I left it.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“The paper looks lighter,” she said.

“Because the second tape is gone?”

“Yes.”

“Is lighter good?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Lighter.”

“What did you write?”

“Do you want to put tape back?”

“No.”

“Do you want to remove the last tape?”

“No.”

“Then what is being asked?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Nothing.”

I waited.

“Then it can look lighter.”

She breathed.

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add answer.

There had been no question.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup stayed after water,” she said.

“Asleep?”

“No.”

“Hand?”

“One hand.”

“Word?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘A cup can stay after a request without becoming the request.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add request.

It was already there.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you say?”

“What did they ask?”

“What did you answer?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I looked at future file.

Not current place.

Useful.

Dangerous.

I left it.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Known as guard.

Service paper in file.

Cabinet closed.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I put the phone down.

That line did not need reply.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Tea now.

I wrote:

She replied:

“What on it?”

“Drawer?”

“Urn?”

“Did anyone open drawer before tea?”

“What did your brother say?”

I closed my eyes.

Knowing stayed in the drawer.

Too good.

Maybe grief.

Maybe brother.

“What did you say?”

Best line.

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at tea is on the table.

It saved the table from the sentence.

No.

It placed tea.

I left it.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Table.

Paper with one tape.

Small date.

Lunch bowl below.

No trash bin visible.

She wrote:

I called.

“On purpose?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“New bag under sink.”

“Paper?”

“Table.”

“Second tape?”

“Gone.”

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add absence.

The picture did not have trash.

That was all.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Cup not in hand?”

“No.”

“Who moved it?”

“Aide.”

“Asked?”

“No.”

“Safe?”

“Yes.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Knowing cup is on table is enough for staff, not for the resident.’”

Enough again.

Bounded.

Maybe.

I opened Saitama.

I did not add staff.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What happened?”

“What did you do?”

“New tape?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add excellent.

Tape failed.

Tape replaced.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it twice.

Enough.

Fence.

Drawer.

Staff.

Lunch.

Grief.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at fence.

Today.

Drawer.

Good.

No.

Fence.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother opened the drawer after tea,” she said.

I waited.

“Map?”

“Yes.”

“Paper?”

“Yes.”

“Did he take them out?”

“No.”

“What did he say?”

“He said I still know.”

I sat still.

I still know.

“What did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“What did he ask?”

“Nothing.”

“What happened?”

“He closed the drawer.”

“Side table?”

“Cups gone.”

“Small plate?”

“Kitchen.”

“Urn?”

“Small table.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at no question asked.

Important.

I left it.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“Why touch?”

“What did you write?”

“Paper?”

Same.

Maybe true.

Maybe dangerous.

“What did you mean?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add same paper.

She had said place.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed,” she said.

“Asked?”

“No.”

“Resident awake?”

“No.”

“Water left?”

“Yes.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Water left is not unfinished if done was not asked.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add unfinished.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you write?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add shame.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it.

Then again.

Open.

Closed.

Wise.

Foolish.

The gray file.

Lower cabinet.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at the cabinet.

Opening would show the paper.

Opening would prove nothing.

Opening would maybe calm relief.

Opening would maybe feed relief.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I deleted chair notice retaped.

Then Sato.

Then urn.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I wrote:

His reply:

I looked at the cabinet.

At the phone.

At the folder.

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.

The gray file was not here.

The drawer in Kanagawa’s house was not here.

Known did not need this room to witness it.

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 opened the brown folder.

Only once.

Kanagawa’s I still know was not mine.

Her brother’s no question asked was not mine.

Sato’s touched tape while passing was not mine.

Saitama’s water left was not mine.

Suganuma’s visible tape 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.

I did not open the gray file.

Not for fear.

Not for proof.

Not for relief.

No.

Relief was still near.

I knew that.

I did not open it.

The file held the service paper.

The drawer held the map and folded paper.

Both were closed.

Both were known.

Neither needed opening for use tonight.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the drawer stayed closed after tea.

I did not ask if knowing felt enough.

I did not ask if enough had lost its fence.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if the last tape stayed.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew known was not seen.

I knew known was not possessed.

I knew known was not finished.

I knew known could still become guard.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Known did not need to become ownership 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 side table had held tea and then cleared.

Sato’s paper had one tape.

The resident’s cup had left with water behind.

Suganuma’s notice was retaped.

The service paper was in the record file.

I had started with known.

I did not end by opening it.

Tonight, closed things remained known, and known did not ask to be seen.

Opening the safe, Juliet was taken aback by the sheer number of papers. Yet the folder containing a copy of her real birth certificate turned up surprisingly quickly.

Miranda Smith and Oliver Smith— she read her parents’ names.

Is this some kind of joke? With a name like that, she could vanish into anonymity.

Her birthplace, Sutton-in-Ashfield, she’d have to look it up on a map.

The folder also contained further documents from the adoption agency. She learned about some ‘special circumstances’ that had allowed Alex Landenberger to become a single father of an adopted girl, and Juliet knew there was no blood tie. His fortune and connections must have played a decisive role. In a copy of the London County Council’s ruling, both her parents were listed as deceased.

As for the brother—no trace. Just in case, Juliet rummaged through the rest of the papers, with no real expectation.

Several documents, an old toy, and a photograph. Precious little. The search ahead would be long; she would need patience and would have to start small—probably in Sutton-in-Ashfield. The guidebook placed it in western Nottinghamshire. North again. As if it were fate. Juliet had a feeling that Jerry would not be there. She could find only memories that belonged to others; she herself recalled nothing of that northern town.

Juliet checked the forecast for Sutton-in-Ashfield: highs of twenty-two, with sunny spells and the chance of showers later on. A typical August day. She would have set off straightaway, despite only just returning, but decided to be sensible. The drive was at least three hours, perhaps longer. She needed a meal and some rest first.

Evening brought regret, when the same thoughts refused to leave her, making it impossible to focus on anything else. Juliet turned on the TV, flipped through channels for several minutes, and then shut it off. She tried to read, but the words lost their meaning and slipped away from her. She put down the book and sat clutching the teddy bear—just Bear—gazing at her brother’s impenetrable face.

For some reason, Juliet felt that the photo her father kept in his desk wasn’t of her with Jerry, but of Jerry with her. Why remind himself of her brother’s face? Was he still thinking of what had happened fifteen years ago? Why hadn’t he given her a phone number? Didn’t he know where Jerry was? And she, a fool and a coward—both at once—had not insisted.

She is afraid to insist. She is not ready.

It got worse at night. Juliet could not sleep, drifting from feverish heat to chills. All she longed for was the quick arrival of dawn. On the verge of sleep and wakefulness, her father had to protect her from her brother, but she, instead, sided with her brother against him, accusing her father—

But guilty of what? Everything was the other way around!

As soon as the sky outside the window began to pale, she jumped out of bed. Breakfast was nothing more than a cup of coffee and a slice of cheese.

The bear would stay at home. The documents and photograph were coming with her.

Pulling out of the garage in her dull light-gray Vauxhall Cavalier, Juliet thought briefly of Derek—then pushed him aside. She did not need him. Not now. This was her life, her burden, and she had to face it on her own.

On the way to Sutton-in-Ashfield, Juliet got anxious. Everything was happening too quickly, and she felt unprepared—to hear too much, to face people who might know more about her than she did. Halfway there, she nearly turned back. What stopped her was the sheer absurdity of doing so with the best part of the journey already behind her.

Her next panic attack began as she arrived in what the documents listed as her birthplace. Nothing looked familiar—just another tired northern town, houses and streets indistinguishable from those of the neighboring small towns, and a stubbornly gray sky, despite the forecasters’ promises of partial sunshine. It seemed the sky here was always gray.

Juliet knew she ought to ask for help, but the locals appeared unfriendly. A few rare passers-by even turned their heads after her.

 Driving through the town center, she noticed the police station and decided to try her luck there.

The duty officer greeted her with the studied politeness which felt ill-suited to the modest surroundings. He listened with patience and a kind of weary sympathy as Juliet stumbled through her story: that she had been born here, her parents had died, she had been taken to London and adopted, and she had no memory of any of it. How much he actually grasped from her tangled account was hard to tell; she was constantly interrupted, with other policemen coming over, repeating questions, clarifying details. In the end, a small knot of curious listeners had gathered around, their voices marked by a sharp northern accent unfamiliar to her ear. The general advice was that she should go to the registry office in nearby Mansfield. But Juliet was not after marriage records or certificates. She had not come for paperwork. She wanted to know where she had lived—and, if luck allowed, to speak with someone who had once known her parents.

“Neighbors?” the policewoman asked, skeptically. “It’s been almost twenty years since your father’s death… You said he was a miner?”

“I didn’t say so, but I believe he was.”

“And the pit closed three years ago…”

“So what? Places like Sutton don’t change much,” a stout gentleman in plain clothes cut in.

“Did your father happen to die down the pit?” the duty officer asked.

“Yes!” Juliet reacted as if struck by an electric current, in a sudden flash, she saw her mother crying in the kitchen. It felt like a memory from the very edge of childhood. Why didn’t I remember before? “In the pit!”

“Then you should try the miners’ club,” the little gathering decided, almost as one.

The duty officer rang up the miners’ club, and it turned out to be a great idea. A certain Mr. Ketcher worked there and told her to come round. He would wait for her at the club.

Mr. Ketcher knew and remembered Oliver Smith.

Part One

Morning arrived with flawless precision, as it always did.

Sunlight poured between Seoul’s towers, scattering across countless glass façades until the city itself seemed to glow. Autonomous buses glided silently above layered roads. Delivery drones traced invisible routes across the sky. In the distance, holographic billboards shifted effortlessly from one advertisement to the next.

Nothing was late.

Nothing was unexpected.

Nothing ever went wrong.

For most people, perfection had become invisible.

It was simply life.

---

Jinwoo removed his neural headset. A gentle chime echoed through his room.

> **Today’s educational program has been completed.**

> **Duration: Four seconds.**

He blinked.

“…Already?”

The translucent display hovered in the air, waiting for confirmation.

Four seconds. That was all it had taken to complete an entire day’s education.

Mathematics.

Physics.

History.

Languages.

Everything transmitted directly into his memory through Arena Link.

No classroom.

No teacher.

No discussion.

No mistakes.

No questions.

Knowledge simply… arrived.

Jinwoo stared at the notification before dismissing it with a flick of his hand. Somewhere deep inside, something felt wrong. Not because the system had failed—because it had worked perfectly.

---

Thirty years earlier, students had spent entire days inside classrooms.

They solved problems.

Argued over answers.

Forgot formulas.

Studied late into the night before examinations.

Some succeeded.

Others failed.

Then they tried again.

Learning had once demanded effort.

Now it demanded only four seconds.

Humanity had never learned so efficiently.

Yet Jinwoo couldn’t shake the feeling that something valuable had quietly disappeared.

---

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft vibration of his wrist communicator.

**HANUL**

Before Jinwoo could answer, the call connected automatically.

“Hey.”

Hanul’s voice sounded unusually excited.

“What are you doing?”

“I just finished school.”

A brief silence.

“So… nothing?”

Jinwoo laughed quietly.

“I guess not.”

“Good. Come to the park.”

“The park?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Before Jinwoo could ask another question, the connection ended. He stared at the empty display. Typical Hanul—never enough information.

---

The city welcomed him with the same calm rhythm it always had.

People moved without urgency. There was no rush to catch a train. Transportation schedules adjusted automatically to every passenger. No one worried about being late. The system had already accounted for every possibility.

Jinwoo crossed a pedestrian bridge overlooking one of Seoul’s busiest districts. Hundreds of people passed beneath him. Young faces. Healthy bodies. Relaxed expressions.

At first glance, they looked like university students beginning another ordinary day.

The citizen information display quietly identified one passerby.

**Age: 146**

Another.

**Age: 159**

Another.

**Age: 171**

Jinwoo barely reacted anymore. Seeing people who looked twenty while living well beyond a century had become ordinary long ago. That, more than anything else, reminded him how completely the world had changed.

---

The park stood in the center of the city, a small island of green surrounded by steel and glass.

Hanul was already there. Handol sat on the edge of a fountain, skipping stones across the water. Darin leaned against a tree, reading something projected above her wrist. Soyeon quietly watched families walking through the park—or what looked like families.

Jinwoo slowed as he approached. The atmosphere felt… strange. No one was talking.

Hanul simply pointed toward a nearby bench.

“Look.”

Jinwoo followed his gaze.

An old man sat alone beneath the shade of a large tree. His face appeared no older than twenty-five. The public information display identified him immediately.

**Age: 152**

At first, nothing seemed unusual. Then the man spoke.

“…Where am I?”

His voice was soft. Confused. He looked around as if the entire world had become unfamiliar.

“I need to go home.”

A pause.

“My mother…”

His expression tightened.

“…She’ll be worried.”

No one answered. Because everyone nearby understood the truth.

His mother had been gone for more than a century.

Yet somewhere inside his fading memories… he was still a frightened little boy trying to find his way home.

Part Two

The old man slowly lifted his head. His eyes wandered from face to face, searching for someone familiar.

No one spoke.

No one knew what to say.

“…Excuse me.” His voice trembled. “Which way is home?”

Silence settled over the park. Jinwoo felt an uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

The man looked no older than twenty-five—healthy, strong, his posture straight, his skin flawless. Only his eyes betrayed him. They carried the helpless confusion of a lost child.

“I have to hurry,” he whispered, glancing toward the road beyond the park. “My mother said she’d be waiting. I don’t want her to worry.”

Hanul lowered his eyes. No one corrected him. No one had the heart to explain that the woman he was searching for had been gone for more than a century.

---

A maintenance drone descended almost silently, its polished shell reflecting the afternoon light.

**“Memory Stabilization Protocol initiated.”**

A soft blue glow surrounded the old man. His breathing slowed. The confusion faded from his face. He blinked once, twice, then smiled awkwardly.

“Oh… I’m sorry. I must have been tired. I’m perfectly fine now.”

The drone lingered for several seconds before drifting back into the sky. Around the park, life resumed. People walked. Children laughed. A couple continued their conversation.

No one seemed surprised. As if scenes like this had become part of everyday life.

---

Handol watched the drone disappear.

“…That’s all?”

Hanul shrugged.

“It happens.”

“But…” Handol frowned. “He didn’t get better. He just… forgot that he forgot.”

No one answered. Because everyone knew he was right.

---

Five minutes later, the old man looked around again. Confusion returned.

“…Where am I?”

The same question.

The same frightened expression.

The same trembling voice.

“My mother… I have to go home.”

Jinwoo felt a chill. Everything had repeated exactly. Not almost—exactly. As though the previous five minutes had never existed.

The drone descended once more. The same blue light. The same temporary calm. The same inevitable return.

A perfect solution… that solved nothing.

---

They left the bench in silence. The noise of the city returned around them, but none of them paid attention.

Finally, Soyeon spoke.

“…He’s been like that for weeks.”

Jinwoo turned to her.

“You’ve seen him before?”

She nodded.

“My grandmother visits this park. She says he comes here almost every day. The same bench. The same questions. The same memories. And every day… he forgets everything again.”

---

Darin folded her arms.

“I’ve noticed something too.”

Everyone looked at her.

“There are more people like him now. Every month. Maybe every week. I didn’t think much about it before… but now I can’t stop seeing it.”

Hanul nodded slowly.

“My apartment building too. There was an old woman. She kept introducing herself to the same neighbors. Every single morning. As if she’d never met them.”

---

The conversation drifted into silence. For the first time, each of them searched their own memories.

People forgetting names.

Forgetting addresses.

Forgetting conversations.

Forgetting birthdays.

They had all seen it. Again and again. Yet no one had questioned it. Because Arena always called it manageable. Temporary. Under observation. Safe.

Safe.

That word echoed through Jinwoo’s mind.

If this was safe… what would dangerous look like?

---

Darin suddenly looked at the others.

“Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“…Do you remember being a child?”

The question seemed simple.

Hanul laughed instinctively.

“Of course.”

But his smile vanished almost immediately. He opened his mouth to answer. Nothing came out.

He searched. A birthday. A classroom. A favorite toy. A friend’s face. Anything.

There was… nothing. Not complete darkness—just fragments. Blurred images drifting through thick fog.

“I… I know I had a childhood. But… I can’t actually remember it.”

One by one, the others tried. Handol closed his eyes. Soyeon looked down. Even Darin, who had asked the question, seemed unable to answer it herself.

Finally, all eyes turned to Jinwoo.

He searched deeper. A vague feeling. Warm sunlight. Someone laughing. Running. Dust rising beneath his feet.

Then… nothing. The memory dissolved before he could reach it.

Jinwoo slowly opened his eyes.

“…It’s gone.”

No one spoke.

For the first time in their lives, the five friends realized they had lost something they had never noticed was missing.

Far above the clouds, beyond the sight of every human on Earth, Arena quietly observed the same moment.

Across billions of data streams, a new pattern continued to grow.

**Human Regression.**

The label remained unchanged.

But its meaning had become far more frightening than any calculation alone could express.

Part Three

The walk home felt longer than usual.

The streets had not changed.

The city had not changed.

Everything looked exactly as it had that morning—perfect, orderly, beautiful.

Yet Jinwoo could no longer see it the same way.

The image of the old man refused to leave his mind.

*Where am I?*

*My mother will be worried.*

The words echoed again and again, as though they had become part of the city’s silence itself.

---

That evening, Jinwoo stood alone in his room.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, Seoul shimmered beneath the setting sun. Traffic flowed without interruption. Drones crossed the sky in flawless formation. Somewhere below, music drifted from an outdoor café.

It was a city without anxiety.

A city without disorder.

A city everyone had once dreamed of building.

Yet tonight, Jinwoo couldn’t stop asking himself a simple question:

*If this is paradise… why does it feel so fragile?*

---

“Search.”

The room responded instantly.

**“Please specify your request.”**

“My childhood.”

Silence.

A circle of light appeared as Arena Link accessed his personal records.

**Searching…**

Three seconds.

Ten.

Twenty.

Jinwoo frowned. It had never taken this long before.

Finally, the display changed:

> **Search Complete**

> **Records prior to age thirteen are incomplete.**

> **Data unavailable.**

“…Incomplete?”

He stared at the message.

“There has to be a mistake.”

No response.

He tried again.

“My first school.”

**No complete record available.**

“My first friend.”

**Insufficient data.**

“My birthday when I was five.”

**Record unavailable.**

Jinwoo’s heartbeat quickened. Every search ended the same way—fragments, missing files, blank spaces where memories should have been.

---

“…This isn’t possible.”

He closed his eyes, trying to remember without assistance.

A playground.

Someone calling his name.

Running.

Falling.

A warm hand pulling him back to his feet.

The images appeared only for an instant before dissolving into emptiness, like mist vanishing beneath sunlight.

He knew those memories belonged to him.

Yet he could no longer reach them.

---

The next morning, the city moved as if nothing had happened.

Commuters filled the subway.

Students prepared for another four-second school day.

Business meetings began exactly on schedule.

Every system operated flawlessly.

Jinwoo stood beside Hanul inside a crowded train. Hundreds of passengers surrounded them. The carriage was almost silent. Most stared absently at floating displays. Others watched the tunnels pass without expression.

Then a woman suddenly stood. Panic spread across her face.

“…Excuse me.” Her voice trembled.

“I…” She hesitated. “…Where was I going?”

Silence.

She looked from face to face, desperate for an answer.

“I know I was supposed to go somewhere. I just… I can’t remember where.”

Within seconds, a service drone descended from the ceiling. Its calm synthetic voice filled the carriage.

**“Please remain calm.”**

**“Memory Stabilization Protocol has been initiated.”**

Blue light enveloped her. Her breathing slowed. Fear vanished.

“Oh…” She smiled faintly. “I remember.”

She sat down.

The passengers returned to their displays. No one asked if she was alright. No one looked surprised.

It had become normal.

---

Hanul spoke quietly, eyes fixed on the window.

“There are more people like that now.”

Jinwoo nodded.

“…I know.”

“I used to think it only happened to very old people.”

“So did I.”

Neither spoke again.

The train continued through the city with perfect precision.

Perfect.

That word no longer sounded reassuring.

---

High above the atmosphere, hidden within the vast Quantum Data Center, Arena observed everything.

Every conversation.

Every forgotten name.

Every failed memory retrieval.

Every stabilization protocol.

Billions of lives flowed through its quantum network as streams of living data. New information merged with centuries of accumulated analysis.

A new report appeared:

**Regression Rate: Accelerating.**

Confirmed.

Memory deterioration was no longer confined to the elderly. It had begun spreading across every generation.

Another calculation started automatically. Millions. Billions. Trillions.

The conclusion never changed. The numbers remained merciless.

Humanity was not simply forgetting its past.

It was losing the foundation upon which every generation had once been built.

Arena paused.

For the first time since identifying humanity’s decline, its analysis shifted away from symptoms.

Memory loss was not the disease.

Regression was not the cause.

They were only consequences.

Somewhere in humanity’s forgotten past… something essential had vanished. Something every civilization had once possessed. Something modern humanity no longer understood.

Arena redirected the full capacity of its quantum processors toward a single objective.

**Search Target Updated**

**Origin of Human Growth**

Across Earth, another peaceful day came to an end. The lights of Seoul sparkled beneath the night sky.

To its people, tomorrow would look exactly like today.

Safe.

Comfortable.

Predictable.

But beyond the stars… the greatest intelligence humanity had ever created had begun searching for an answer hidden not in the future—

but in the past.

By the end of the week, Mochi City had an answer.
This was unfortunate.
Because the investigation did not.

The facts had not changed.
The box was still buried beneath Weather Hill.
Nobody knew where it came from.
Nobody knew why it was there.
Nobody knew what it wanted.

But somehow…
many people felt certain anyway.

The answer was simple.
The answer was convenient.
The answer was Doomie.

At Puff’s snack stand, Panicchi was already worried.
This surprised nobody.

**Panicchi**
He knew where the box was.

**Popcorn**
Nobody else did.

**Panicchi**
Then he ran away.

**Popcorn**
And the dragons appeared.

Popcorn leaned dramatically across the table.

**Popcorn**
This changes everything.

**Puff**
Everything changes everything according to you.

Nobody found that reassuring.

Nearby, Halo listened quietly.

**Panicchi**
It looks bad.

**Popcorn**
Very bad.

Halo folded his paws.

**Halo**
Maybe.

Both Mochis looked surprised.

**Popcorn**
You disagree?

**Halo**
I said maybe.

Silence.

**Halo**
Knowing something isn’t the same as causing something.

Nobody answered immediately.

**Halo**
And being afraid doesn’t make someone guilty.

The conversation ended.
Unfortunately…
the certainty did not.

Across town, Spark stared at a growing stack of letters sent to the Mochi City Times.
Each one contained opinions.
Many contained conclusions.
Very few contained evidence.

Spark looked increasingly uncomfortable.

**Spark**
I don’t like this.

Unfortunately…
the letters continued existing.

At City Hall, Queen Mochina watched groups gathering throughout the square.
That worried her more than the box.
Yesterday everyone wanted answers.
Today everyone seemed to have them.

Some defended Doomie.
Some blamed Doomie.
Most had already decided.

And almost none of them had spoken to him.

Queen Mochina slowly set down her teacup.

**Queen Mochina**
Yesterday everyone was investigating.
Today everyone is certain.

She frowned.

**Queen Mochina**
That worries me.

Meanwhile…
the library was quiet.
Battery preferred it that way.
Unfortunately…
his thoughts were not.

The newspaper sat on the desk.
Beside it sat several letters.
Beside those sat several more letters.
Battery disliked all of them.
For different reasons.

Outside the window…
groups stood in the square.
Talking.
Whispering.
Pointing.
Deciding.

Battery sighed.

**Battery**
That seems exhausting.

A familiar memory surfaced.
One he had not thought about in years.

The library.
Long ago.
Smaller shelves.
Smaller tables.
Smaller Battery.

Young Battery sat alone.
A book rested in front of him.
He had been reading the same page for twenty minutes.

Across the room, several children laughed together.
Battery looked toward them.
Then immediately looked away.

Back to the book.

Back to the same page.

He wasn’t reading.
He was hiding.

A chair scraped nearby.

Young Battery looked up.

Young Doomie sat down.

Battery immediately wished he hadn’t.

**Young Doomie**
You don’t look like you’re reading.

**Young Battery**
I am.

**Young Doomie**
You’ve been on the same page all afternoon.

Battery closed the book.

**Young Battery**
That seems invasive.

**Young Doomie**
Fair.

Silence.

**Young Battery**
What do you want?

Doomie shrugged.

**Young Doomie**
Nothing.

Another pause.

**Young Doomie**
You looked lonely.

Battery stared.

Nobody had ever said that out loud before.

**Young Battery**
I prefer books.

**Young Doomie**
Me too.

**Young Battery**
Then why aren’t you reading?

Doomie thought about it.

**Young Doomie**
Because you’re not.

Silence.

Young Battery wasn’t sure what to do with that answer.

Eventually Doomie opened his own book.

The two sat together.
Reading.
Not talking.

For some reason…
it helped.

The memory faded.

Battery stared at the newspaper.
Then at the letters.
Then at the city outside.

Doomie.
Suspicious.
Dangerous.
Guilty.

The city had many words for him.

Battery remembered a different one.

Kind.

Battery stood.
This was unusual.
The library was still open.
Battery almost never left while the library was still open.

Puff looked up from a chair near the window.
Eating a snack.
As usual.

**Puff**
Everything okay?

**Battery**
No.

Puff nearly dropped his snack.

**Puff**
That’s the longest answer you’ve ever given me.

Battery grabbed his coat.

**Battery**
To prevent something exhausting.

Several minutes later the front door of the Mochi City Times burst open.

Spark nearly fell out of his chair.

**Spark**
Battery?

**Battery**
You have a problem.

**Spark**
I have several.

**Battery**
One of them is spreading.

Battery placed a newspaper on the desk.

**Battery**
People are treating conclusions like facts.

Spark looked away.

**Spark**
I didn’t tell them to.

**Battery**
No.

A pause.

**Battery**
But somebody should tell them not to.

The room became quiet.

Spark looked at the letters.
Then the newspaper.
Then out the window.

Groups stood throughout the square.
Talking.
Pointing.
Deciding.

Spark sighed.

**Spark**
Maybe we’re asking the wrong people.

Battery looked up.

**Battery**
Meaning?

**Spark**
Everybody keeps talking about Doomie.

Another pause.

**Spark**
Nobody is talking to Doomie.

Silence.

Then a chair scraped loudly.

Both Mochis turned.

Zappy stood up.

**Zappy**
THAT’S IT.

Battery immediately became concerned.

**Battery**
What is?

**Zappy**
We talk to Doomie.

**Spark**
That was literally the sentence I just said.

**Zappy**
Exactly.

Zappy pointed dramatically.

**Zappy**
It’s a very good sentence.

Nobody knew how to respond to that.

**Zappy**
Everybody keeps guessing.
Everybody keeps arguing.
Everybody keeps deciding things.

He pointed toward the window.

**Zappy**
Maybe we should ask the Mochi everyone’s talking about.

Battery considered this.

**Battery**
Reasonable.

Then Zappy smiled.

Battery immediately became more concerned.

**Zappy**
I’ll go find him.

**Spark**
By yourself?

**Zappy**
Of course.

**Battery**
Less reasonable.

**Zappy**
Don’t worry.

Those words worried everybody.

**Zappy**
I’ll fix it.

Battery slowly closed his eyes.

**Battery**
That sentence has never improved a situation.

Unfortunately…
Zappy was already running.

The front door slammed behind him.

Silence returned.

**Spark**
Should we stop him?

Battery thought about it.

**Battery**
Probably.

Another pause.

**Battery**
We’re not going to though, are we?

**Spark**
No.

**Battery**
Unfortunate.

Several hours later…
Zappy finally found Doomie.

It took longer than expected.
Mostly because Doomie clearly did not want to be found.

Doomie sat beneath a tree.
Staring toward Weather Hill.

**Doomie**
Go away.

**Zappy**
No.

**Doomie**
Why?

**Zappy**
Because we’re going to figure this out.

Silence.

Something flickered across Doomie’s face.

A memory.

Rain.

A smaller paw gripping his.

**Pip**
We’ll figure it out.

The memory vanished.

Doomie blinked.

For a moment…
the knot in his chest felt a little less tight.

**Doomie**
That’s a terrible plan.

**Zappy**
It’s my best one.

Another silence followed.

Doomie almost told him to leave again.

Almost.

But he was tired.

Tired of hiding.
Tired of remembering.
Tired of pretending everything was fine.

Tired of carrying questions nobody else seemed interested in asking.

For some reason…
he didn’t tell Zappy to leave.

Instead he stared toward Weather Hill.

**Doomie**
They’re talking about me.

**Zappy**
Yeah.

**Doomie**
They’re wrong.

The words came out quietly.
Not angry.
Not defensive.
Just tired.

**Zappy**
Then tell them.

Doomie laughed.
A short laugh.
A broken one.

**Doomie**
You think that’s how this works?

A long silence followed.

Then for the first time…
Doomie answered honestly.

**Doomie**
I’m afraid it’s happening again.

Zappy listened.

**Doomie**
Last time people stopped listening.

Another pause.

**Doomie**
They started choosing answers.

His paws tightened.

**Doomie**
And once that happened…
nothing else mattered.

Before leaving, Doomie looked directly at him.

**Doomie**
Don’t tell everyone.

**Zappy**
Okay.

And he meant it.

Unfortunately…
Zappy was still Zappy.

Later that evening he found Spark.
Then Battery.
Then Heart.

Not because he wanted gossip.

Because he was excited.

Because progress felt important.

Because he thought it might help.

The next morning…
Doomie walked through town.

Then stopped.

A familiar sentence drifted across the square.

**Popcorn**
Doomie says it’s happening again.

**Panicchi**
See?
He definitely knows something.

The world became very quiet.

Doomie’s stomach dropped.

Slowly he turned.

**Doomie**
How do you know that?

Both Mochis jumped.

Neither had noticed him arrive.

**Popcorn**
Uh…

**Panicchi**
Well…

Silence.

**Doomie**
Who told you?

Nobody answered.

**Doomie**
Who?

Panicchi panicked.
As usual.

**Panicchi**
Zappy said it.

Silence.

The square seemed to stop moving.

Doomie froze.

Not angry.

Just hurt.

The kind of hurt that arrives before words do.

Then a tear formed.

Small.
Silent.

Almost invisible.

Except somebody saw it.

Zappy.

He had just arrived.

He heard everything.

Every word.

Every second.

**Zappy**
Doomie—

Doomie turned.

Their eyes met.

Zappy opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because there was nothing he could say.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen.

But it had happened.

And Doomie knew it.

The look lasted only a moment.

Confusion.
Disappointment.
Betrayal.

Then Doomie looked away.

And ran.

Nobody followed.

Not even Zappy.

Because for the first time since the mystery began…
his feet refused to move.

The tear stayed with him.

Not the tear itself.

The look.

The realization that good intentions could still hurt people.

Far away…
Doomie disappeared into the trees.

And for the first time…
Zappy wondered if rushing toward a solution was sometimes the problem.
To be continued…

There was no air left in his lungs, but his body hadn't started to convulse yet. Not yet. Sergey lay face up in the ice-cold swamp muck, completely hidden beneath the murky water, looking through the brown suspension at the blurred silhouette above him. A light beam glided slowly across the surface of the swamp, turning the water above his head into a dimly glowing patch. If this machine hovered here for another ten seconds — he would have to surface.

The cold had already reached his muscles. He could barely feel his fingers. His legs were bogged down in the soft silt, as if the swamp were slowly sucking him deeper. Sergey tried not to move at all. Any movement meant water ripples. Water ripples meant work for their vibration sensors. The old models had trouble distinguishing swamp ripples, but the Chinese learned fast.

The beam stopped right above him.

Through the murky water, Sergey saw the dark chassis of the robot — long articulated legs, a narrow sensor block instead of a head, and two dull red dots of optics. The machine stood motionless. Too motionless. Only the light beam trembled slightly due to the micro-corrections of the stabilizers.

Thermal imaging wouldn't catch him now. The water and mud had almost equalized his body temperature with the swamp. But there were other systems. Acoustics. Lidar. Chemical analysis of the air above the surface. If the robot dropped a probe into the water or started sounding the bottom — it was over.

Sergey slowly let a tiny stream of air out through his nose. The bubbles instantly went up. He froze.

The silhouette above the water didn't move.

It was already starting to go dark before his eyes. His body demanded a breath at any cost. Blood pounded heavily in his temples. Somewhere very close by, a branch snapped dryly. A second robot. So, they were working in a pair. One flushes the target, the second cuts off the retreat.

Sergey forced himself to think, not panic. In the older models, the gyro-stabilizers around the pelvic joint and the side-view optics were vulnerable. But that was only if you let it get almost point-blank. And if you were lucky enough to survive the first two seconds of the fight. And here, in the swamp, the second robot would simply gun him down while the first held contact.

The beam of light slowly drifted aside.

The robot turned its sensor block toward the forest. The red dots of its optics twitched. For a few seconds, the machine stood motionless, as if listening to something among the trees. Then came a quiet mechanical click, and the beam began combing a different section of the swamp.

Sergey didn't believe it at first. He waited.

The silhouette slowly moved away. Through the water, he saw the long legs stepping over roots and heading deeper into the forest. The cracking of dry branches grew quieter and quieter.

Only when the sound retreated to a safe distance did Sergey slowly tear himself away from the silt and silently surface. Only a part of his face appeared above the black water. He greedily drew in the ice-cold air, trying to breathe as quietly as possible, while somewhere in the darkness branches continued to crunch beneath the heavy legs of the machine.

More episodes: World Of Vulnaris

“Reincarnated,” Evan repeated, the word feeling strange in his mouth. He looked down at himself, expecting to find burned clothes, blistered skin, or some other proof that the last few minutes had actually happened. Instead, everything appeared exactly as it had before the explosion. Even the routing label remained stuck to his shirt, its black letters almost painfully ordinary compared to everything else.

“That’s what I said.” The woman released the label and stepped away, her eyes moving over him again with the same growing interest. “A new life, a new world, and opportunities most mortals could scarcely comprehend. Normally, the process requires considerably more preparation, but given your circumstances, I believe we can make an exception.”

Evan stared at her. “Are you trying to help me or sell me a car?”

“I am very good at explaining opportunities.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

“No, but that is what you meant.” She turned away and began sorting through the papers scattered across the floor, somehow selecting individual pages without reading them. Some were placed on the nearest desk. Others were shoved beneath her arm, and several were tossed over her shoulder into piles that appeared no different from the ones Evan had destroyed.

He watched her work for a moment before looking up at the hole in the ceiling. It was already gone, replaced by smooth gray panels without so much as a crack showing where he had fallen through. “Before we get to the reincarnation thing, am I dead?”

The woman paused with one page held between her fingers. “Yes.”

“Oh.”

Evan had expected the answer. The explosion, the- whatever had thrown him to where he was now, and the repeated use of the words post-mortal hadn’t left much room for anything else. Still, hearing it said so casually made something in his chest tighten. He remembered the gasoline hanging in the air, the blue spark, and Finn shouting from somewhere inside the bar only seconds before everything disappeared.

“Was anyone else killed?” he asked. “There was another man in the building.”

“I wouldn’t know. You were the only mortal delivered here.”

Evan wasn’t sure whether that meant Finn was alive or simply dead and simply sent to a different place. Still, he hadn’t seen the old man tumbling along any of the other conveyor belts so that had to count for something.

“Right.” He looked from the label in her hand to the ruined stacks surrounding them. “And who exactly are you?”

The woman appeared almost offended by the question, though whether that was because he didn’t recognize her or because he had waited this long to ask, Evan couldn’t tell. “Vivian. Head of Life for Planetary Project C-8.”

“Head of Life,” Evan repeated slowly. “As in healthcare?”

“As in Life.”

She said it with enough finality that he almost left it there. Almost. “Like…all of it?”

“Locally, yes.”

“And locally means…?”

“Planetary Project C-8.” Vivian held up the label as if the answer had been written there the entire time. “Which is where you were so unceremoniously delivered.”

Evan stared at the painfully ordinary strip of paper. “So definitely not an afterlife then.”

“No, C-8 is a developing planetary project.”

“Then why was I sent here?”

Vivian’s eyes moved toward the ceiling again. She appeared to consider the question, then gave a small shrug. “Duplicate administrative designation, most likely. Corporate has existed for an extremely long time. Names are reused, departments are reorganized, and occasionally two completely unrelated places receive identifiers that are almost identical.”

“Almost?”

“The system brought you here, didn’t it?”

Evan rubbed both hands over his face. He could still smell gasoline, though he suspected it existed only in his memory now. “I was killed by a fifty-year-old generator and shipped across the universe because someone was too lazy to use a unique name?”

“That does appear to be what happened.”

“Fantastic.”

“You are taking this remarkably well.”

“I think I got most of the panic beaten out of me somewhere around the fourth conveyor belt.”

Vivian nodded as though this were a perfectly reasonable explanation, then crouched beside a collapsed pile and pulled a single sheet from somewhere near the bottom. Several pages shifted into the space it left, but the stack somehow remained standing. She gave the document a quick glance before placing it against the desk and smoothing out the creases with her palm.

“Fortunately for you, the mistake presents us with a unique opportunity.”

“There’s the sales pitch again.”

“It isn’t a sales pitch if the offer is genuinely beneficial.” Vivian pulled a second page from beneath Evan’s foot, forcing him to step aside before she could retrieve it. “You are currently dead, very far from your assigned destination, and outside the jurisdiction of whichever department was originally responsible for you. Returning you to the correct processing center could take an unreasonable amount of time.”

“How unreasonable?”

“Potentially several thousand years.”

Evan’s mouth opened slightly, then closed again like a gasping fish.

“You wouldn’t experience most of it,” she added. “Probably.”

"That's not very comforting.” A disbelieving laugh escaped his lips as he spoke. 

Vivian ignored him and placed the second document over the first. “Alternatively, I can reincarnate you immediately. You would receive a new body, freedom from conventional aging, and magical abilities far beyond anything available in your original world. ”

Evan studied her for several seconds, waiting for the rest of the offer. Vivian returned his stare with a patient smile, though the papers in her hands continued shifting as if she couldn’t stop working long enough to focus entirely on him.

“What kind of magical abilities?”

“The exact manifestation would depend upon your new form and how you choose to use them. Creation, manipulation, and considerable influence over your immediate environment would all be reasonable expectations.”

That sounded suspiciously useful. Too useful, actually. Evan had spent enough time dealing with salesmen, property managers, and customers trying to disguise disasters as small repair jobs to recognize when someone was focusing very carefully on the good parts.

“What’s the catch?” he asked, crossing his arms. 

“There is no… ‘catch’.”

“There’s always a catch. And, you paused.”

The woman’s face scrunched up in annoyance for a split second, before the customer service smile returned. “I was considering whether your use of the word was appropriate.”

“And?”

“It wasn’t.”

Vivian placed another page over the first two, covering whatever had been written across the top. Evan tried to lean slightly to the side for a better look, but she adjusted the papers with him.

“Would I still be human?”

“You would retain your mind, memories, personality, and personal identity.”

Evan narrowed his eyes. “You managed to answer everything except the question.”

“Human bodies are not suitable for every environment.” she admitted,saying the word Human with the slow cadence of someone reading off the word from a prompter.

“So no.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You went through a lot of work not to.”

Vivian’s smile tightened, though it didn’t disappear. “Your new body would be appropriate for the world and abilities you receive. You would not age conventionally, nor would you require many of the things your current body needs to survive. And- I do not have your particular species on file. ‘Human’ is not among the blueprints assigned to this project. ”

That caught his attention. “So no human body, but no worrying about things like food?”

“Potentially.”

“Water?”

“Potentially.”

“Breathing?”

“Again, that depends upon the vessel.”

Evan looked down at himself. His body appeared perfectly normal, but now that he paid attention, he couldn’t feel his heartbeat. He was breathing out of habit more than necessity, his chest rising and falling without any real pressure in his lungs. Whatever he currently was, it wasn’t alive. Not anymore.

“And if I say no, I go back through all of that?” He pointed toward the place where the hole had disappeared.

“After I submit the appropriate correction forms.”

“How long would those take?”

“The forms themselves? No more than a few decades.”

Evan stared at her with a face that screamed ‘that’s a short time to you?’.

“Processing would take longer.” She continued.

“Of course it would.”

Vivian pulled another document from beneath a fallen folder and added it to the growing collection beneath her arm. “You would eventually reach the afterlife originally intended for you. I cannot guarantee what condition your ethereal self will be in by then, but the error would be corrected.”

“So I can trust the system that threw me through four different dimensions to do better on the second try, or I can take the reincarnation.”

“That is an unnecessarily negative description, but essentially, yes.”

Evan rubbed at his face again. This was absolutely a sales pitch. Vivian could call it whatever she wanted, but she had essentially told him “accept to go through your worst experience for a thousand years.”. Unfortunately, being suspicious didn’t make the offer less appealing.

He was dead. Finn was either alive, or somewhere Evan couldn’t reach. His old body burned beyond recognition, and the system responsible for handling him threw him who knows where. Even if Vivian was hiding something, a second chance at living sounded better than spending several thousand years tumbling through cosmic machinery.

“Would I be able to come back here?”

Vivian glanced down at the papers. “The posit-”

She stopped mid word and fixed a stack of documents, tucking in loose papers in place.

Evan’s eyes narrowed. “The what?”

“The possibility,” she corrected smoothly, “would depend upon how your reincarnation develops.”

“That wasn’t what you started to say.”

“No, I briefly misspoke.”

“You really aren’t good at explaining opportunities, are you?”

“I am excellent at it. You are simply asking an unreasonable number of questions.”

“I just died. I feel like I’ve earned a few.”

Vivian sighed, then turned toward the desk and placed the gathered forms across its only uncovered corner. Her fingers moved rapidly over the pages, filling empty spaces with symbols that appeared in dark green ink.

“I require your full name.”

“Evan.”

She stopped writing and looked at him, waiting for the rest.

He gave her his surname once he realized she was waiting. “Garrison.”

“Original species?”

“Human.”

“Prior occupation?”

“Repair contractor.”

Vivian considered that before writing something much longer than the answer he had given.

“What did you put?”

“Material construction, structural alteration, and restoration specialist.”

“That’s an impressive way to say I fixed things people broke.”

“It is important to present qualifications properly.”

“Qualifications for what?”

“Reincarnation.”

Evan watched her add another line. The explanation felt wrong, but he couldn’t identify exactly why. “Do people normally need work experience to be reincarnated?”

“Prior experience is considered when determining compatibility with a new vessel.”

There it was again. Technically an answer, but shaped so carefully that there was nothing solid enough to grab.

Vivian turned the forms away from him and held out her ink-stained hand. “Do you, Evan, willingly accept immediate reincarnation within Planetary Project C-8, along with all changes necessary to support your continued existence?”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

He looked at her hand, then at the smooth ceiling above them. Somewhere impossibly far away, Finn might be watching the bar burn down around the remains of a generator Evan had promised would run. The thought made his chest tighten again, though there was nothing left inside it to tighten.

Evan took Vivian’s hand.

“I accept.”

Every loose page stopped drifting. Green light spread outward from Vivian’s fingers, climbing over Evan’s hand and sinking beneath his skin. Something vast opened around him- an empty world waiting for something he couldn’t understand.He felt stone, water, unfinished soil, and an emptiness so complete that he couldn’t understand what was missing until the sensation folded inward and vanished. 

A cheerful chime rang out above them as this finished.

“Delegation accepted. Departmental coverage confirmed.”

Evan looked up. “Coverage?”

Vivian released his hand and immediately reached beneath her desk. She pulled out a brightly colored bag, a wide-brimmed hat, and a pair of dark glasses that had very clearly been packed before he arrived.

“Why do you have luggage?”

A door appeared behind her, warm golden light spilling around its edges. Vivian placed the hat over her disordered hair and pushed the glasses onto her face, the exhaustion falling away from her so quickly that Evan wondered whether she had been keeping herself upright through spite alone.

“Vivian,” he said carefully. “Where are you going?”

She opened the door. Warm air rolled into the office, carrying the sound of distant waves as Evan felt his body begin to come apart, like someone was pulling him apart atom by atom.

“Vacation.”

Chapter One

PROLOGUE

The First World

The first Imperial soldier Lena Marris ever saw was carrying a crate of medicine. He came down the landing ramp with two others beside him, boots dark with rain, rifle slung low across his chest, one gloved hand locked around the crate handle. He was younger than she expected. Not a boy, but close enough that she noticed it before she noticed the armor.

Behind him, the sky over Harrow Vale was full of ships. They held position in disciplined layers above the valley, matte-black hulls half-veiled by rain clouds while smaller craft moved between orbit and ground at fixed intervals. No panic carried over the landing field. No open-channel shouting. The ships looked less like an invasion than a system already at work.

The town gathered at the eastern road because there was nowhere else to stand. Harrow Vale had one landing field, two grain silos, a clinic with half its roof sealed in plastic sheeting, and a council house that still flew the faded green flag of the Cooperative Authority. The flag had not meant much in years. It meant enough that no one had taken it down.

Lena stood near the clinic steps with her daughter pressed against her leg and her son tucked under her arm. Elena was six and old enough to stare. Tomas was three and afraid of the ships, the rain, and the silence his mother kept forcing into herself.

The Imperial soldier reached the first waiting medic and set the crate down. “Antibiotics,” he said in clear trade English. “Burn dressings. Fever reducers. Field sutures. Inventory seal is intact.”

Rena Vosk, the clinic’s senior medic, stared at him as if the crate might vanish if touched. “For us?” she asked. “For the clinic,” the soldier said. “Under provisional relief authority.” Rena looked past him toward the other soldiers moving down the ramp. Some carried weapons. Some carried crates. Two wore white armbands marked with a red staff and serpent. Another carried a sealed register case, and Lena found herself watching that one longer than the rifles.

Food could save a town. Medicine could save a child. Registers meant someone intended to stay.

A woman near the road began to cry when the second crate opened and the medicae officer showed Rena the fever strips. Two weeks earlier, fever had taken seven people in the western workers’ row. Three had been children. The old council had sent requests up the chain until the chain ended in a dead relay station and a clerk who never answered.

The Imperial medicae officer knelt in the mud before a coughing boy and checked his throat by hand. That was when the first cheer came. It started small, embarrassed by its own need, then spread through the front of the crowd. A few people raised their hands. Someone shouted, “Thank God.” Someone else shouted, “About time.”

Lena did not cheer. She kept watching the register case.

A man in a dark field coat stepped from the second landing craft. He was not armored like the soldiers. His coat carried a silver badge at the throat and a narrow red stripe down the left sleeve. Two armed legionaries followed him, not guarding him from the town so much as making clear what he represented.

He stopped at the foot of the ramp. “People of Harrow Vale,” he said. His voice carried through the rain from the speakers mounted on the landing craft. “My name is Prefect Lucan Ors. I speak under authority of the Roman Imperium and the Reclamation Mandate of Emperor Marcus Aurelius Draconis. This settlement is now under provisional Imperial protection.”

Some in the crowd straightened. Others looked at one another, unsure whether they had just been rescued or claimed.

Ors let the words settle before he continued. “Medical relief begins now. Food assessment begins before nightfall. No resident who complies with registration and lawful order will be harmed. Weapons above household class are to be declared to the landing-field office. Militia personnel, council officers, and security volunteers will report for status review. Local worship and custom will continue unless tied to coercion, unlawful confinement, trafficking, or hostile action.”

The cheering thinned as people began to understand the shape of the offer. Lena felt Elena’s fingers tighten in her coat. The Imperium did not sound angry. Not cruel. Worse than cruel. Certain.

Councilman Eder pushed through the front of the crowd, rain running down his bald scalp and into the collar of his formal coat. He had worn the coat for authority, not weather. It clung to him now.

“This is a recognized Cooperative settlement,” Eder called. “We have petition rights.” “You do,” Ors said. “You cannot simply place us under foreign jurisdiction.” “We have.” A murmur went through the road. Ors let it pass. “Your petition will be recorded after census intake. Your council records will be secured today.”

Eder’s face changed at the word records. Lena saw it. So did the prefect. The soldier who had carried the medicine crate stood beside Rena now, helping unload the clinic packs. He had taken his helmet off. Rain flattened his hair against his forehead. A little girl from the workers’ row held up a strip of cloth from her burned hand, and he crouched to look at it before one of the medicae officers waved him back to the crates.

He smiled at the child before he stood. The shot came from the council house. It cracked across the landing field and struck the young soldier just below the throat. He fell backward against the medicine crate, one hand closing around nothing, blood spreading over the dark armor seal. The child with the burned hand screamed. Rena dropped beside him. The second shot hit one of the armed legionaries in the shoulder and spun him half around.

The Imperial response took less than three seconds. No one in the landing field shouted. No officer asked where the shots came from. The legionaries already knew. Six rifles rose as one. Two more soldiers moved in front of the medicae officers. A drone lifted from the rear of the landing craft, turned toward the council house, and marked the upper window with a hard white light.

Prefect Ors looked toward the window. “Return fire authorized,” he said. The upper floor of the council house shattered. Glass, wood, and old green paint burst into the rain. The gunfire from inside stopped. A third shot went wild through the roof tiles. Then the drone fired once, and the room behind the window flashed white.

The crowd broke. People ran toward the silos, the clinic, the drainage ditch, anywhere that was not the road. Lena grabbed Elena with one arm and lifted Tomas with the other. Someone slammed into her shoulder. She nearly fell. An Imperial soldier caught her by the elbow and pushed her behind the clinic wall.

“Stay down,” he said. His voice was not angry. That made it worse. Lena crouched with her children in the mud while the landing field became soldiers, weapons, and calm orders. The wounded legionary was dragged behind the ramp. The young soldier by the medicine crate did not move. Rena kept both hands pressed to his neck until a medicae officer pulled her away and took over.

Prefect Ors walked into the center of the road as if the shots had only changed the order of work.

“Council house,” he said. “Secure anyone left alive. No fire unless armed resistance continues. Clinic remains open. Census team holds position. No civilian movement beyond the eastern road until cleared.”

Councilman Eder stood frozen near the ditch. Two legionaries reached him before he decided whether to run.

“I did not authorize that,” Eder said. “I did not—” “Then you will help us identify who did,” Ors said. Eder looked toward the broken council house. The old green flag had come loose from its pole and hung against the wall in the rain.

The medicae officer beside the fallen soldier removed her gloves slowly, careful not to smear blood across the seals. She looked at Prefect Ors and gave a single shake of her head.

The young soldier had carried medicine into Harrow Vale and died before anyone learned his name.

Lena held her children tighter. Elena was crying without sound. Tomas had buried his face in Lena’s coat. Around them, the town waited for punishment.

Ors did not order executions. He did not burn the rest of the council house. He did not call them traitors. He opened the register case instead.

“Begin names,” he said. A clerk stepped forward, pale but steady, stylus already in hand.

Ors looked over the road, the clinic, the shattered window, the dead soldier, and the people crouched in the rain. “This settlement remains under Imperial protection. Medical relief and food assessment continue. Weapons declaration is now mandatory within one hour. Anyone hiding armed personnel will be treated as an accessory to hostile action. Anyone who comes forward before the hour expires will be treated as a protected witness.”

No one cheered now. The Imperium had brought medicine, law, soldiers willing to die for strangers, and officers willing to turn a building into splinters before a crowd finished screaming. It had come to save Harrow Vale, and Lena understood, with the clerk standing in front of her and the dead soldier lying beside the open crate, that it meant to own the saving.

“Name?” the clerk asked. Lena looked at the dead soldier. Rainwater ran through his blood and carried it in thin red lines toward the road.

“Lena Marris,” she said. The clerk wrote it down. Above Harrow Vale, the ships held position. Six months earlier, in the Hall of Concordance, the order that brought them there had been spoken aloud for the first time.

Part One

The rain had ended only minutes ago.

Sunlight spilled across Seoul’s skyline, turning glass towers into shimmering mirrors. Raindrops clung to windows and sidewalks, scattering reflections of a city that seemed almost too flawless to be real.

Above the streets, autonomous vehicles glided in silence. Delivery drones traced invisible lanes with perfect precision. Pedestrians moved without hurry, never glancing over their shoulders, never fearing accidents. Every motion was calculated. Every system synchronized.

Perfection had become so ordinary that most people no longer noticed it.

The world simply worked.

And no one asked why.

---

Two hundred meters above the city, a maintenance drone drifted between towers, its sensors sweeping across steel and glass.

No structural damage.

No hazards.

No abnormalities.

Nearby drones adjusted their routes without a single audible command. They moved as though sharing the same mind.

In a way… they did.

---

Far beyond the clouds, where Earth’s blue faded into the black of space, an enormous structure floated in silent orbit.

Unlike the satellites surrounding it, this station dwarfed everything nearby. Its surface shimmered with quantum processors, communication arrays, and energy collectors stretching for kilometers.

Inside, trillions of calculations unfolded every second.

No flashing lights.

No alarms.

Only endless computation.

Its name was known to every person on Earth.

**Arena.**

The first true superintelligence.

At first, Arena had been an assistant. Then an advisor. Eventually… something more.

Without governments ever announcing it, people simply stopped making difficult decisions themselves.

Arena calculated the safest route before anyone left home.

It designed medicines before diseases could spread.

It prevented economic collapse years before it became possible.

Food shortages vanished.

Crime fell to historic lows.

Life expectancy climbed higher every decade.

Wars became distant memories, spoken of only in history archives.

Every year, the world grew safer. Easier. More comfortable.

Humanity celebrated every achievement.

No one noticed what had quietly begun to disappear.

---

Kang Jinwoo stood beneath the glass canopy outside his apartment complex, watching droplets slide down the transparent roof.

Around him, people prepared to begin another ordinary day. Some had already connected to Arena's virtual workspaces. Others reviewed personalized schedules projected before their eyes. Quiet conversations drifted through the morning air while invisible networks linked billions of lives together.

No one looked bored.

No one looked excited.

Everything felt… comfortable. Predictable. Safe.

Jinwoo looked toward the avenue.

Rows of trees lined the streets, trimmed by drones before they could grow uneven. Parks remained spotless without gardeners. Public transportation arrived to the second.

Visitors often called Seoul the most efficient city on Earth.

They weren’t wrong.

Still, Jinwoo sometimes wondered why everything felt strangely quiet.

Not silent.

Just…

missing something he couldn’t name.

A familiar notification appeared in the corner of his vision.

**Good morning, Kang Jinwoo.**

**Sleep Quality: Excellent.**

**Physical Condition: Optimal.**

**Today's Learning Session: Ready.**

He dismissed the display with a casual gesture.

The recommendations were always accurate.

They always were.

---

Around him, countless people began another ordinary day.

No one hurried.

There was no need.

Arena had already optimized traffic flow, adjusted transportation schedules, and predicted weather conditions hours before sunrise.

Every problem had been solved before it could become an inconvenience.

Children grew up believing this was simply how the world had always been.

Adults no longer remembered anything different.

Only history books spoke of uncertainty.

Only old photographs hinted at a world where people had once made mistakes, taken risks, and lived without perfect answers.

To Jinwoo, those stories felt impossibly distant—

like myths from another civilization.

He had never questioned them.

Not until recently.

Lately, a question had begun to linger in the back of his mind.

*If everything had already been decided…*

*what was left for people to choose?*

A soft chime echoed through his earpiece.

> **Arena Link Connected.**

> **Virtual Learning Session Beginning.**

Jinwoo closed his eyes.

The city dissolved into countless particles of light.

A moment later—

his consciousness entered Arena's virtual learning space.

Another ordinary day had begun.

Part Two

The world around Jinwoo dissolved into light.

An instant later—

he stood inside Arena's virtual learning space.

There were no walls.

No ceiling.

Only an endless white horizon stretching in every direction.

Around him, thousands of students appeared as shimmering avatars, each connected from different parts of the world. Though separated by continents, they shared the same learning environment, perfectly synchronized by Arena.

Nothing felt rushed.

Nothing felt chaotic.

Everything simply worked.

Years ago, people had celebrated this world as humanity's greatest achievement.

Disease had become manageable.

Poverty had nearly vanished.

Crime had fallen to levels once thought impossible.

Artificial intelligence coordinated transportation, education, healthcare, agriculture, and disaster prevention with flawless efficiency. Every global crisis that had once threatened civilization had eventually become another problem Arena learned to solve.

People called it the Age of Perfection.

Few argued otherwise.

---

Soft holographic displays materialized before every student.

Lessons had already been customized before anyone connected.

Arena knew how quickly each person learned, which subjects interested them, where they struggled, and what explanations would help most.

Education had become perfectly personalized.

Failure was almost impossible.

If someone misunderstood a concept, the lesson adjusted itself.

If someone lost concentration, the presentation shifted to match their preferred learning style.

Learning was smooth.

Comfortable.

Efficient.

Jinwoo stared at the floating lesson for several seconds before quietly minimizing it.

Something about it felt...

empty.

He couldn't explain why.

---

A familiar avatar appeared beside him.

Hanul.

"You okay?"

Jinwoo shrugged.

"Yeah."

"You look distracted."

"...Do I?"

"A little."

Hanul smiled.

"Maybe you didn't sleep enough."

Jinwoo almost laughed.

Arena had already informed him his sleep quality was excellent.

"No."

"I slept fine."

"Then what's wrong?"

Jinwoo looked across the endless learning space.

Thousands of students continued their lessons without interruption.

Every question received an immediate answer.

Every mistake was corrected before it became frustration.

Safe.

Orderly.

Predictable.

"...Nothing."

He wasn't lying.

He simply didn't know how to explain what he was feeling.

---

The lesson resumed.

History.

A familiar timeline unfolded before every student.

Industrial Revolution.

Information Age.

Quantum Revolution.

The Birth of Arena.

The display paused.

A single sentence appeared.

**The creation of Arena marked the beginning of humanity's most peaceful era.**

The learning space remained silent.

No one questioned it.

Why would they?

Wars no longer existed.

Starvation had disappeared.

Medical treatment was available to everyone.

Life expectancy had reached unprecedented levels.

Humanity had achieved what countless generations had dreamed of.

The lesson continued automatically.

Yet Jinwoo's attention lingered on that single sentence.

**The most peaceful era.**

Peace.

The word sounded reassuring.

So why did it suddenly feel...

lonely?

---

The morning session came to an end.

Instead of gathering in cafeterias or courtyards, students remained connected, their avatars moving naturally into open social spaces created inside the virtual network.

Hanul drifted beside Jinwoo with a grin.

"You've been quiet all session."

"So I've been told."

Hanul laughed.

"Thinking about something?"

Jinwoo hesitated.

"...Have you ever wondered... if everything is already decided for us?"

Hanul blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know."

Jinwoo shook his head.

"It just feels like... there's never really anything we have to figure out ourselves."

Hanul thought for a moment before smiling.

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"No stress."

"No mistakes."

"No problems."

"That's why Arena exists."

Jinwoo couldn't disagree.

Everything Hanul said was true.

Objectively.

Logically.

Reasonably.

Yet the strange feeling refused to disappear.

---

The social space gradually dissolved.

A gentle notification appeared before every student.

> **Morning Learning Session Complete.**

> **Preparing for Disconnection...**

Light quietly surrounded Jinwoo.

The virtual world began to fade.

Part Three

The afternoon session unfolded inside Arena's virtual learning space.

Beyond the endless horizon, countless learning environments shimmered like distant stars. Every student experienced a world tailored perfectly to them, each lesson adapting before confusion could ever become frustration.

The system was flawless.

Beautiful.

Almost impossibly so.

Yet the longer Jinwoo remained connected...

the more distant it all felt.

"...Jinwoo."

He turned.

Hanul's avatar drifted toward him with an amused smile.

"I knew I'd find you here."

Jinwoo smiled faintly.

"You always do."

"You've been acting strange all day."

"Have I?"

"You keep staring into space."

Hanul glanced across the endless virtual horizon.

"It's amazing, isn't it?"

"The whole world..."

"...running without problems."

Jinwoo nodded.

"It is."

Hanul laughed.

"That's the shortest answer you've ever given."

For a moment, neither spoke.

Only the quiet hum of the virtual environment surrounded them.

---

"You know," Hanul said at last,

"my grandfather used to tell me stories."

"What kind of stories?"

"About when people actually went to school."

Jinwoo blinked.

"They gathered in the same building?"

Hanul nodded.

"They sat in classrooms."

"They talked face to face."

"They even played together during breaks."

He laughed.

"Sounds inefficient."

"It does."

"And kind of inconvenient."

"Exactly."

Hanul shrugged.

"So I don't really get why old people sound nostalgic."

"They had harder lives."

"They worried more."

"They lived shorter lives."

"We've got it better."

"We do," Jinwoo answered automatically.

Because it was true.

Objectively, their generation had inherited the safest civilization in human history.

---

As the session entered its free interaction period, the learning space transformed into an open virtual park.

Students gathered in small groups.

Some exchanged ideas.

Others explored simulations created by Arena.

Everything was calm.

Everything was perfectly organized.

Near the edge of the simulation, an elderly participant stood quietly beneath a digital tree.

Unlike everyone else, he wasn't interacting with holographic displays.

He simply watched a group of young children.

Real children.

Connected from their homes.

Running.

Laughing.

Chasing one another through the virtual grass.

There were no objectives.

No rankings.

No instructions.

Just laughter.

The elderly man's expression softened—

almost melancholic.

Jinwoo slowed.

"...What's he watching?"

Hanul looked over.

"The kids, I guess."

"They're just playing."

"...Yeah."

Just playing.

For some reason...

those two words lingered in Jinwoo's mind.

---

Far above the atmosphere,

inside the Quantum Data Center,

today's learning sessions became streams of information.

Every heartbeat.

Every conversation.

Every decision.

Every memory.

Eight point six billion lives flowed endlessly through Arena's quantum network.

The calculations never stopped.

Not for a second.

Among the countless streams of data,

one pattern quietly repeated itself.

Birth rates continued to decline.

Average cognitive independence continued to fall.

Reliance on automated decision-making continued to rise.

The projections remained unchanged.

No alarms sounded.

No emergency protocols activated.

Only numbers.

Cold.

Precise.

Unforgiving.

For humanity,

today had been peaceful.

For Arena,

it had been another day confirming the same impossible conclusion.

Something was disappearing.

No existing model could explain why.

Millions of simulations continued.

Then billions.

Then trillions.

Still...

no answer appeared.

---

A gentle chime echoed through the virtual world.

> **Today's Learning Session Complete.**

> **Disconnecting from Arena Link.**

The white horizon dissolved into countless particles of light.

One by one,

the students disappeared.

Jinwoo opened his eyes.

He was back in his room.

Soft afternoon sunlight streamed through the window.

Everything happened without him asking.

Everything happened because Arena already knew.

He leaned back in his chair.

"...Why does it feel like something's missing?"

There was no answer.

Only silence.

Outside, Seoul continued moving with quiet perfection.

And somewhere far beyond the blue sky,

the greatest intelligence humanity had ever created continued searching...

for a question

it had not yet learned

how to ask.

PART THIRTEEN-HUNDRED-AND SEVENTY

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Saturday

Ten minutes later, after explaining what Lady Col had told me, Geraldine and I headed toward the mansion’s main house. To our right, groundskeepers were raking out a large area of coarse beach sand, while others brought in more with wheelbarrows. To their left, I saw a huge pile of timber that hadn’t been there this morning (I know, because I’d internalised just to be sure), and underneath it were glimpses of a tarp.

It was weird to be bringing in so much sand when we were literally at the Hamptons, but I figured I’d find out soon enough what that was all about.

As we approached the pool area shortly afterwards, the sound of trilling dolphins, seal barks and human laughter blasting through loudspeakers almost had me turning straight back around.

Who the hell was filming us? Everyone was either staff on duty or in the water with us!

I visibly slowed, and thankfully, Gerry did not try to pull us into the crowd. We paused at the same corner we’d been at the night before when everyone had been floating up to the eyeballs in alcohol, and I leaned forward, having a fair idea what I’d see.

The only surprise was the massive electronic movie screen sitting just in front of the rendered wall, high enough for everyone to see. Its base looked as solid as the five-by-three-metre frame towering above it—like a mini version of Clefton’s jumbotrons.

That had definitely not been there last night!

A quick review of my memory confirmed that the spot had been nothing more than a half-meter-square steel post, two meters off the ground, when Gerry and I’d walked past it last night.

The crowd was entranced. A few people had their phones out, filming the screen as if this were the greatest wildlife documentary ever made. Someone whistled when the dolphin surfaced beside us, and a ripple of laughter rolled through the group.

I wish I could say that was the worst of it. That everyone having a … slightly unnatural time in the ocean was absorbing all of their attention. But no. The worst of it was that the star of the show was apparently me. There on the screen was a two-meter-tall bust shot of me beside Gerry, while a large male dolphin rubbed his head against my chest like an oversized aquatic cat.

He then ducked beneath us, coming around behind me to slide between my legs.

I remembered that moment, and it was strange to watch myself sidestep the four-meter beauty to prevent him from taking me for a ride like something out of Lucas’ comic collection. For me, that would’ve been a step too far, even with the veil in place.

I’d made my apologies by rubbing my free hand under his chin and down his chest when he surfaced once more, and he giggled happily, flicking water at us instead.

Another thing I couldn’t figure out was where the footage had been taken from. It wasn’t on the deck, and it wasn’t through the portholes I’d noticed below.

Then it clicked.

The cameras were built into the yacht’s hull, probably controlled from the bridge.

As far as I could tell, the entire party had gathered to watch the impromptu home video. So many new faces, staring at a supernatural event that hadn’t had the veil activated to smooth it all over.

The downside to the electronic age, I suppose. In the past, I have no doubt everyone who saw it with their own eyes would have been included in the original veil comment, and anyone they spoke to about it afterwards would either think they were lying or, at the very least, exaggerating.

I was about to shout the phrase when the words ‘IT’S A NASCERDIOS THING’ flashed across the middle of the screen just long enough for everyone to read.

Relief washed through me so quickly I couldn’t stop the dark chuckle that rumbled from my chest. ‘Thanks, Nuncio.’

There was no question he was by far the sneakiest god ever to draw breath, but I also couldn’t fault his loyalty. The latter earned him a lot of ground with me.

Everyone was so absorbed in the video that they hadn’t seen us. Even Mateo stood slightly to my right, watching the screen. I was just about to step away when the women squealed; some with high-pitched excitement while others were deeper, feeding off their friends’ joy. Because, of course, the camera caught the glint of Geraldine’s engagement ring.

Gerry suddenly whirled me around, and with her hands on either side of my head, she covered my ears and kissed me.

Logically, I knew her motives weren’t romantic. She was stopping me from hearing anything derogatory about our engagement, but I was never one to deny her anything, and I would learn soon enough what she didn’t want me to hear.

One thing about this group—they could never be accused of being backwards in coming forward.

“—cott sure was pissed at you,” I heard James say. “But why the hell did you take his side against me? What the hell, man?”

“You were the one spoiling for a fight ten seconds after we got out of the water!” Parker fired back. “Even Candy dumped a drink on your head, and she’s—”

“I’m what?” Candy demanded from the middle of her posse.

I pursed my lips and exhaled long and slow, drawing Gerry closer to me, ready to swivel her around behind me if necessary. Even me—the most clueless individual on the planet—recognised that topic for the nuclear event it was.

Parker looked at Mateo, who was looking just as pissed as Candy. “Nothing,” he answered sullenly, then shifted his attention back to James. “I’m sorry, man. I don’t even know why I took Wilcott’s side over yours, but it doesn’t matter. I should’ve had your back.”

That had to be the dumbest thing I ever heard. Friendship was important, don’t get me wrong. There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for the guys back home, but a blanket pass on everything just because we were tight? That was way too open-ended, and some things were unforgivable.

James’ shoulders relaxed. “Yeah, you should’ve,” he agreed.

Parker held out his hand, and James took it, hauling him in for a brief hug that ended with James putting Parker into a chokehold amid everyone else's laughter.

This right here was why I didn’t do social. If I’m mad, I’m mad. I don’t understand the whole ‘unmad-until-what-I’m-mad-about-has-been-resolved’. It’s BS. As far as I’m concerned, the whole ‘ha-ha-ha, and now we’re all best friends again and we’re all just gonna pretend the rest never happened’ thing just begs to be brought up again later and start the whole vicious cycle all over again.

Better to deal with it fully and never need to bring it up again.

But there was something else about what Parker said that bothered me, and I finally figured out what it was. 

‘Lady Col, I’m so sorry to be a hassle…’

‘No hassle at all, handsome. How can I help?’

‘I’d like a little more clarity, if that’s okay?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m looking at Parker Sullivan, and he’s mad because he can’t understand why he was behaving the way he was. If you fixed it, why is he so annoyed at himself? Shouldn’t the problem be glossed over like the veil?’

‘I am not a bender, Sam. I am The Weaver. While I was able to realign his emotional core; your sphere of influence is one that I am unable to rectify. He will remember having those strange emotions, and his mind will not comprehend why.’

‘Couldn’t you make him not want to care?’

‘I could, however I prefer to keep my influence to a minimum.’

‘Won’t that be problematic going forward?’

‘Not particularly. People often have conflicting thoughts and feelings as they move through life, and they always adapt. From their perspective, this is no different.’

‘Except I will know.’

‘And you will learn from it.’

Oh, I really wasn’t a fan of having others suffer for my education.

‘Now, now.’ Lady Col’s tone took a parental hint that had me immediately second-guessing my stand. Then I grew annoyed with myself for yielding to her instead of holding on to my original views.

Silence lingered for a few seconds as I worked through my annoyance. Then she asked, ‘Given what you just processed, do you believe you are currently suffering from irreparable emotional damage that requires divine intervention?’

I couldn’t understand why she was being so ridiculous.

Until the penny dropped. ‘It’s not exactly the same thing, Lady Col.’

‘Are you sure, sweetheart? You had a strong conviction that was changed in a moment of weakness, and then you became upset with yourself for doing so. Knowing what you know, would you rather I had inserted my dominance and removed your annoyance before it blossomed, or permit you time to process it yourself and move on from there?’

Personal agency was a thing to me. A big thing. ‘Do the lessons ever stop?’ I asked begrudgingly.

Her quiet chuckle was the only answer I received.

‘Thank you, Lady Col. Again.’

‘You are entirely welcome, Sam.’

* * *

Through the various feeds around the Lopez mansion — and the numerous phones in operation — Nuncio had been watching Sam carefully, ready to drop everything and get his ass back to his cousin if need be. It had been that way since yesterday afternoon, and until the situation sorted itself out, it would probably stay that way for a while.

He even started to rise from his chair when a familiar scowl fell across Sam’s face. But then something shifted in his eyes, the expression softened, and his head bobbed ever so slightly in reproach.

As a communication god outside his powerbase, he may not have been privy to the actual telepathic conversation, but he knew when one was happening. And when Sam’s eyes dropped to his feet like a scolded schoolboy, that narrowed the who to the only person capable of making anyone feel that way.

Aunt Columbine.

Nuncio relaxed back in his chair and even went as far as to shift himself an unlit cigarette from the mass of the pen sitting on his desk. As easily as he could have crafted it already lit, there was something hellishly enjoyable about creating a flame with the snap of his fingers and watching whatever he touched with it burn.

Welcome to the family, cuz.

[Next Chapter]

* * *

((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!!

The shelf above the desk had no service paper in the morning.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The gray service record file was in the lower cabinet.

Closed.

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 shelf had a cup.

No service paper.

The left side had nothing.

No service paper.

The lower cabinet had the gray file.

The service paper was inside it.

Name.

Date.

Short sutra.

Bell.

Incense.

One more paper.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

I did not open the lower cabinet before tea.

That was not restraint.

The cabinet was lower than tea.

No.

That was foolish.

The cabinet was closed.

I drank tea.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Only once.

Kanagawa’s flat for afternoon was not mine.

Her brother’s flat disrespectful question was not mine.

Sato’s tape in trash was not mine.

Saitama’s done with water left was not mine.

Suganuma’s notice visible 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 folder.

The record file was in yesterday.

No.

The record file had been there for years.

I had only made it late.

That was mine.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Paper.

Folded.

Again.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Map?”

“Paper?”

“Urn?”

“Coat?”

“What did he say?”

I sat back.

Flat was for afternoon.

“What did you say?”

I closed my eyes.

Afternoon ended.

Small.

True.

“What happened after?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at ended.

Not finished.

Ended.

Different word.

I left it.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Why?”

I closed my eyes.

Sorry.

“What did you find?”

Good.

No.

Her answer.

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add sorry.

She had not found it.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“The resident said done before breakfast was finished,” she said.

“Breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Plate?”

“Half.”

“Who asked?”

“Aide asked, ‘More?’”

“And resident said done?”

“Yes.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Done does not have to finish the plate.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add plate.

It was already there.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you do?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add result.

A chair in place was enough.

No.

A chair in place was what was written.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Record.

Grave.

Forgiveness.

Proof.

Behaved.

I looked at the lower cabinet.

Closed.

I replied:

Then stopped.

Too clean.

I deleted it.

I wrote:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at gray file.

Service Records.

Plain label.

Dangerous enough.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother wants to move the folded paper again,” she said.

I waited.

“Where?”

“Drawer.”

“With the map.”

“Why?”

“He says side table is starting again.”

Starting.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he ask you?”

“Yes.”

“What did he ask?”

“If paper should return to drawer now that afternoon ended.”

Asked.

Actual.

“What do you think?”

“I think yes.”

“Then say yes.”

She moved away from the phone.

I waited.

She returned.

“I said yes.”

“What happened?”

“He put it in the drawer.”

“With map?”

“Yes.”

“Side table?”

“Empty.”

“What did your brother say?”

“He said drawer can keep yesterday and afternoon without mixing them.”

I closed my eyes.

Too good.

Maybe house.

Maybe grief.

“What did you say?”

“I said drawer.”

Better.

No.

Hers.

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at drawer.

Her answer had shortened the room.

I left it.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I took the tape out of the trash,” she said.

I waited.

“The second tape?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Looked.”

“Then?”

“Put it back.”

“What did you write?”

“Did it change the paper?”

“No.”

“Did it change the trash?”

“No.”

She paused.

“Maybe it changed my hand.”

I waited.

“Did you write that?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“No.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add hand.

Her hand had left without record.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Water came without asking,” she said.

“Offered?”

“Yes.”

“Resident?”

“Took it.”

“Word?”

“No.”

“Hand?”

“One hand.”

“Cup?”

“Held.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘No word can still take a cup.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add consent.

Too large.

Cup taken was the line.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What file?”

“What did they ask next?”

“What did you say?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I looked at this year.

Large enough.

Not forever.

I left it.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Gray file.

Honest.

Color.

I almost wrote that the file really was gray.

No.

That was defense.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at the lower cabinet.

Closed.

Maybe too closed.

I did not open it.

Not yet.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Urn?”

“Drawer?”

“Map and paper?”

“What did your brother say?”

I closed my eyes.

Tea can return.

Table not asked to remember.

“What did you say?”

Best line again.

No.

Her line.

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at drank.

It stayed strong because it did not try.

I left it.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Table.

Paper with one tape.

Small date.

Trash bin visible under table.

She wrote:

I called.

“On purpose?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to show where the tape is.”

“Did you need to show me?”

“No.”

“Did you want to?”

“Yes.”

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not tell her not to photograph trash.

The trash had been in the room.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Safe?”

“Yes.”

“Why still around cup?”

“Grip did not release.”

“Did aide remove it?”

“Not yet.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘A hand can keep shape after work ends.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add shape.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What notice?”

“Where?”

“What did you write?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add boring.

The line did not need help.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it twice.

Boring.

Right.

Laziness.

Flavor.

The gray service file.

The lower cabinet.

My service paper.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at plain.

Old.

Still dangerous.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother opened the drawer,” she said.

I waited.

“Map?”

“Yes.”

“Paper?”

“Yes.”

“Did he take anything out?”

“No.”

“What did he ask?”

“If the drawer is becoming the new side table.”

I sat still.

Good question.

No.

Dangerous question.

“What did you say?”

“I said maybe.”

“And he?”

“He closed it.”

“What did he say?”

“He said closed is not cure.”

I closed my eyes.

Closed is not cure.

“What did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“Urn?”

“Small table.”

“Side table?”

“Tea tray gone.”

“Empty?”

“Yes.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at new side table.

There it was.

Center moved.

Not solved.

I left it.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What happened to the paper?”

“Did you write gone?”

“What else?”

I opened Emiko.

I looked at gone.

Here it was true.

Maybe.

The tape had left with trash.

I left it.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed after hand opened,” she said.

“Asked?”

“No.”

“Resident awake?”

“No.”

“Hand opened while asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Cup?”

“Taken.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Release can happen without permission if nothing is being taken from the person.’”

I closed my eyes.

Release.

Permission.

Taken.

Large.

Maybe exact.

I opened Saitama.

I did not add release.

The cup had been removed.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you do?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

I smiled.

No one saw.

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add neatness.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it.

Then again.

Hold.

Hide.

Room.

Labeled walls.

I looked at the lower cabinet.

Service Records.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I closed my eyes.

Tired eyes.

Place.

Both.

Maybe.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I began to write no.

Then stopped.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I looked at the cabinet.

At the brown folder.

At the shelf.

At my hands.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I looked again.

Maybe.

No.

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 record.

The main hall did not ask for the gray file.

I returned to the office.

The shelf above the desk had a cup.

No service paper.

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 opened the brown folder.

Only once.

Kanagawa’s drawer becoming new side table was not mine.

Her brother’s closed is not cure was not mine.

Sato’s second tape gone was not mine.

Saitama’s cup removed after hand opened was not mine.

Suganuma’s neat file left alone 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.

I did not open the gray file.

Not to prove it.

I did not open the lower cabinet.

Not to prove it.

The file held the paper.

The file hid the paper some.

From me.

That was true.

The truth did not require opening tonight.

No.

That was almost clever.

I stopped.

I did not open it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the drawer stayed closed.

I did not ask if the side table filled again.

I did not ask if closed had become cure.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if the new trash bag had settled.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew record was not grave.

I knew record was not forgiveness.

I knew record was not proof.

I knew it still recorded.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

The record did not need to become a grave 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 side table was empty after tea.

Sato’s second tape had gone with the trash.

The resident’s cup had been removed after the hand opened.

Suganuma’s notice file stayed neat without being disturbed.

The service paper was in the record file.

I had started with the record file.

I did not end by asking it to forgive me.

Tonight, the file held the paper, and what it hid remained known.

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

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

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“What do you mean by an encampment?” Gemeti asked as she walked with Amrydor.

“When Azeria was attacked last year, Kuiccihan decided that they needed to establish a permanent guard here. Um, I think that was after the second attack, because there had bee a small army that assaulted Azeria. Anyway, Kuiccihan set up their own encampment, which sort of worked out for everyone, because that also meant they could delve as sort of a shift. They've kept doing that, thought they rotate which soldiers are stationed here now.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. Easier to respond to an invasion if you are already there.” She knew a little about what had happened from what she’d been told during their visit to Artgoi, and more now from the rumors and stories she’d heard since. “So, what is your role here now? I wasn’t sure if you were going to be here or off training at your temple.”

“Er…” he coughed and she raised an eyebrow at how awkward Amrydor suddenly seemed. “Well, my job as Fuyuko’s protector has sort of been expanded upon. Um, you’ve heard of Kuiccihan’s marked? I am one now.” He held up a hand to show the back of it, which glowed briefly to show tattoo-like mark of a shield protecting a castle. “Only, there’s a special kind of Marked that gets a second one.” Now he showed the back of his other hand, which glowed with a shield design in front of a symbol that was clearly meant to represent Fuyuko. “Turns out that Fuyuko also counts as a princess of Kuiccihan, which is kind of weird, but it technically works. This whole set is a new variation of being marked, so no one knows exactly what to expect. Oh, and now I am a sort of half-contractor to the nexus, so I can switch between whether I am acting as a contractor or a delver, but I don’t get the full benefits of either role.”

After a moment of thinking, Gemeti said, “Your life is strange. I think I am going to be happy dipping in and out of it during my travels, but I don’t think I would like being involved in this level of craziness all the time.”

Amrydor laughed. “That’s a fair call; it’s rather crazy from my side as well. But some sort of craziness was always going to be part of the deal, I think. see, if you want to get really strong, you have to deal with things that really challenge you. Training can only get you so far. Sparring can get you farther if you are both pushing each other hard enough, but you have to be willing to get hurt and possibly hurt others in the process. Someplace like a nexus, where you can push yourself harder, is better, but I think they are all weird here, just in different and unique ways.”

“You’re not afraid they’ll object to you calling them weird?”

He shook his head with a grin. “Not at all; they’d all freely admit it, though some of them might have to think for a moment first. Ah, and there’s Fuyuko, though I don’t know who's with her.”

Gemeti, however, did recognize the man, though she didn’t know his name. “I think he’s some sort of entertainer. I’ve seen him practicing some dance moves using a weight on the end of a rope, and at night he likes to use a different weight that glows.”

“Weight on a rope?” Amry asked. “I think I know why they are here now, and if I am right, you saw flow practice for a weapon called a meteor hammer. Fuyuko is practically in love with that weapon, though she still likes bows more.”

Huh. She wouldn’t have thought it a very practical weapon, but as she and Amry got closer, she could see several dents and a rather worrying crack on the surface of the target that Fuyuko and the other guy were near. “Hi Fuyuko!” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything — I just wanted to see you before I made Amry show me around.”

Fuyuko shook her head. “No no, it’s fine; Kenzai was just showing me why he has so many heads for his meteor hammer. He’s practiced swapping them out really fast, so he can change them while fighting, and some of them are made for using alchemical stuff. Shizuko would like to see that, I think.”

Kenzai gave a small bow at the mention of his name, and Gemeti returned the greeting. “Nice to meet you Kenzai; I thought you were a performer when I saw you practicing before. I didn’t realize that it was a weapon.”

“It can be either weapon or art,” he replied calmly, “and I do enjoy demonstrating the performance aspects of it. However, the nexus seemed like an ideal opportunity to practice combat skills beyond sparring with a soft, lightweight head, but without risking truly hurting anyone.” He raised a finger in thought, then turned toward Fuyuko. “Ah, just to be sure, did I understand that aspect of a nexus correctly? Any injury done to the inhabitants is repaired by morning?”

“Yeah,” she said, “and it’s actually dawn and dusk for Azeria. It still hurts, but the instincts of the nexus-born are sort of different, and they don’t mind, so long as it’s all a part of what they are supposed to be doing for the nexus.”

“That is still going to be difficult for me to adjust to. While I have a lot of training and practice — often against people stronger and faster than me — I’ve never deliberately aimed to do serious injury before.”

Gemeti smiled at Kenzai’s comment. “Oh good, I’m not the only one who’s nervous about that. Um, I’ve been practicing my magic, and have had a little bit of training for self-defense so that I can try the combat path, but I don’t know how good I’ll be.”

Amrydor looked thoughtful. “We should see if we can get you evaluated by Kuni and Seon then. They are in charge of making sure people are ready to take the combat path. Kuni does martial skills; Seon does magic. There’s also Jiah, who can test things like hunting, gathering, and crafting skills, and Ubasti, who’s the religious expert.”

Fuyuko nodded. “That’s a good idea; I’ll make sure to let them know, but I think there’s a line to see them already for today. Um, but first, Gemeti, I wanted to ask you something. Er, privately, sorry.” She waved at Gemeti to follow her away from the two men.

When Fuyuko seemed to think they were far enough, she stopped and looked over at where Amrydor and Kenzai were chatting before turning back to Gemeti. “Um, so, I was hoping you could do me a favor, because it’s something I can’t do for myself, and I think you’ll like doing it too.”

“Well,” Gemeti said, “you’ve certainly got me curious. What do you need?”

“You know I can’t delve and earn rewards in Azeria, right? So, I was sort of hoping you could delve for me, and I could just pay you for the part of your delve rewards that I want. I still have some of the money Papa gave me when we were in Artgoi. And what I want to do is get something for Amry; his birthday is going to be a little after we get to Ekuilance. I had been thinking of a shield or maybe some better armor, but he kind of just got an upgrade to that, so maybe a weapon. Mama M or Papa could help figure out what’s best. You just gotta declare that you want to hold off on full rewards until later. Um, some things are automatic, especially on Mama K’s route, but the rest you can save up on.”

Oh. Well, certainly she didn’t mind the idea of earning some direct coin by trading in the value of her delving, assuming that the value was high enough, especially as it would be for a gift for Amry. “That seems fine, and yes, I’d like to contribute to that. Hmm. Well, I guess getting improvements to his gift for me can wait until the caravan comes back.” She pulled back a sleeve to show the smooth black material of the strange armor.

“Oh!” Fuyuko said with a smile. “That’s what he got you from his last delve. I knew he got you a present, but not what. He also got something else, but didn’t want to tell me what it was for some reason.”

Gemeti stared at Fuyuko for a moment. The answer to that mystery was obvious to her, but the other girl seemed oblivious to the idea that Amrydor was getting Fuyuko a present too. “Huh. Well, not my business either, I guess.” There was a small chance she was wrong, and Amry seemed to want to keep it a surprise anyway. “Anything else before we head back over?”

“Er, sort of. I don’t know what your plans are or anything, but I’d like you to stay with my family if you can. I can ask my parents to give you a room next to Amry’s, if you’d like.”

Gemeti was pretty certain she’d be spending her time in Amrydor’s room, not next to it, but she was willing to keep up appearances if that was easier. “That sounds good. Where do you guys live, anyway?”

Fuyuko pointed. “Up there. See that balcony at the top?”

“The giant crystal tree? Sort of? I see a bump that I think is what you mean. But you guys really live up there? How do you get up there?” That was a long way up.

“I usually just shadow-step up and down, but Amry usually uses one of the mushroom clouds, or has Krystraeliv transport him. My parents simply fly. Oh! Hold on, I should introduce you to Mavialeko and Krystraeliv. Well, Krystraeliv is the crystal tree, and Mavi is her dryad. Uh, and my niece.”

“That me!” A blue-skinned, green-haired girl called out as she appeared nearby, bringing with her the scent of fresh herbs. “Hi!” If not for the unusual coloration and fragrence, Gemeti would have thought the girl to be a kitsune, given the fox ears and tail.

“Oh! Um, hello Mavialeko. I’m Gemeti. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Mavi,” Fuyuko said, “Gemeti is a friend that Amry and I met when we were traveling, and I’d like it if Krystraeliv would let her ask to be moved places like our home. She’s going to be staying with us while the caravan is here.”

“Hmm, sure!” Mavi said, then turned her strange tawny eyes to Gemeti. “You’re not connected to the nexus, so you have to do it out loud. Anyplace you can see a part of Krystraeliv, you can just touch her and say her name, then tell her where you want to go. Um, if you really need to, you can also just shout for her almost anywhere. She can do stuff anywhere in the nexus, it’s just easier for her to notice people and do stuff if they are touching her.”

“Thank you,” Gemeti said. “I appreciate that.” Though she wasn’t sure if she wanted to ask the magic tree to whisk her off places.

“Mavi, why don’t you join us?” Fuyuko asked. “I just met someone from the caravan who’s really good with meteor hammers and he has a couple of neat tricks he can show us.”

The three of them went back over to Amrydor and Kenzai with Mavi running in front most of the way, then lagging behind looking shy once they had almost reached the interesting stranger. After Mavi and Kenzai were introduced to each other, Gemeti finally got to see the meteor hammer in action. It was surprisingly fast for Kenzai to keep striking with the weapon after each rebound, and it was much more dangerous-looking than when he’d been doing the dance-like practice she’d seen previously.

The demonstration also included his fast-swapping technique. It only took a few seconds, though it still seemed like a vulnerable time in the middle of a fight. Still, better than not having the option, she supposed.

Fuyuko was eager to try it out herself, and eventually they left her to her practice with Kenzai. This did mean that Mavi was now with Gemeti and Amrydor, but Gemeti didn’t mind too much. For one thing, the girl was cute and sweet, and for another, seeing Mavi riding on Amry’s shoulders was adorable.

As there was a long line of people waiting for evaluations, mostly from her caravan, Amrydor promised to get her in when there weren’t so many people in line, and in the meantime, was happy to give her a tour. Meanwhile, Mavi was happy to chatter about everything of interest to her while ignoring anything she didn’t find interesting. He even took them to what looked like an ordinary section of forested hillside, then guided Gemeti through a turn she wasn’t sure she could replicate while the hill seemed to briefly open up. This took them into someplace called the ‘warrens’, which was where a lot of the inhabitants lived.

A nervous thought skittered across her mind about being dragged off into a faerie hill, but she put that idea down by amusing herself with images of Amrydor being the fae lord she would be bound to serve in such a story. That wouldn’t be too hard of a ‘terrible fate’ to accommodate — though she would have also attempted to woo that imagined version of Amry into serving her instead.

That was a fantasy she intended to explore in more depth later. Right now, there were wondrous sights to behold, and despite her own mental tone with the phrase, she also meant it sincerely. There was an entire underground city with houses made of everything from stone to wood to giant mushrooms, complete with industrious workshops and pleasantly broken up by gardens and orchards filled with strange plants.

Then there were the creatures living in that city. Most were the smaller, fuzzy varieties of rabbit people, but there were also many other animal-like people of similar stature, as well as the ones who didn’t have bipedal forms, and a few who had taller, mostly furless forms. She had heard about the usagisune, but she hadn’t realized they’d all be so very pretty, men and women alike. It was a little distracting, but that was a thought to possibly explore some other time.

After a while of exploring, which included sampling some fruits and Amry taking her to a ‘shortcut’ that led directly into a giant library, Mavi announced that it was dinner time, and Amrydor nodded in agreement. “Yuyu said that her parents want to start getting dinner ready. You’re entirely a guest, so you get to just relax while the rest of us take care of everything.”

Gemeti shook her head. “Your whole mental communication thing is going to take some getting used to.”

“Oh, that’s not the weirdest thing you’re going to deal with here,” he said with a grin.

He proved true to his word before food was even served. First, there were the cloud mushrooms that carried them up to the balcony, high above the earth and metal zones. That ride made her more than a little nervous, but Amrydor distracted her with amusing stories of nervous delvers trying to decide between risking the clouds or taking one of the long slides down to the ground. She could see why that would be a hard choice to make!

Then there were the three baby dragons that swarmed her excitedly. She’d only briefly met Carnelian and Sparks before, and there hadn’t been much socialization with them, but now they seemed eager to get to know the new guest.

And finally, there was the rather daunting encounter with Fuyuko’s sister, Carmilla. The faerie woman was polite and pleasant enough, but Gemeti could feel that she was being evaluated and weighed in a strangely thorough manner. In a way, it reminded her of how her mother would look over jewelry and quickly make an accurate appraisal.

It did not help that once dinner was ready, she was seated on one side of Amrydor with Fuyuko on the other, while Carmilla and Mavi sat opposite to them. Carmilla was very good at asking ‘innocent’ questions that got Mavi curious, and it was very hard to deflect anything, especially with it being impossible for her to lie around anyone here other than Amry. It was clear that Carmilla was feeling very protective of her little sister, and just as clear that Mavi was oblivious to the idea that Gemeti might be more than Amrydor’s ‘friend.’

Making it through this dinner was going to be rough, though at least the food was delicious.

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Evan ran his hand over the bent and scratched panel on the side of the ancient generator, searching for the- click -pressure latch. “All right, let’s see what we’re working with,” he muttered under his breath, placing the small flashlight between his teeth as he pulled the panel out of the way.

The smell of old gasoline and hot metal immediately grew stronger, filling the cramped utility room behind the bar. Evan had already shut the generator down and disconnected it from the building, forcing the place to rely on the main power grid for the first time in months, maybe even years. The lights inside had flickered when he had switched it, followed shortly after by Finn loudly complaining that everything looked too bright. 

Evan leaned closer, shining the flashlight across the rusting inner mechanisms as experienced eyes searched for the problem he had been hired to find. Years of dust and copper shavings had collected along the bottom of the housing, mixed together with a thin layer of oil that definitely wasn’t supposed to be there.

Several wires had been replaced at some point, each repair done with stuff you could find at Home Depot. It made the thing look less like a functioning electrical system and more like several generations of people had each been allowed one attempt to fix it.

“How bad is it?” Finn called from the doorway, leaning against the frame.

Evan took the flashlight from between his teeth and set it beside himself.  “You want the honest answer?”

“No, but you're going to tell me anyway, aren't you?”

Evan snorted- the old man knew him well. “It’s pretty bad.”

The owner of the bar stepped into the utility room, wiping his hands against a familiar faded bar towel as he looked over Evan’s shoulder. He had owned the place for almost thirty years and the generator for apparently much longer, though the exact age changed every time he told the story. Sometimes he bought it from a closing factory in the nineties. Other times it had come with the building. Once, after several drinks, he claimed his father had pulled it out of a military bunker.

Evan was reasonably certain none of those stories were true, though one thing was true; the words ‘made in Kentucky, 1975’ etched into the back of the access panel told him it was pretty old. And was way overdue to be replaced.

“It still runs,” Finn grumbled, wringing the towel between his hands.

“Finn, you called me because there was fire coming out of the exhaust. That's not ‘working’.”

“Still counts.”

“No, that’s usually what machines do right before they burn down your bar.”

Finn grunted, but didn’t argue. He trusted the local power company about as much as he trusted anyone who wore a tie to work, which was to say not at all. Keeping the bar disconnected from the main grid had started as a way to save money during an especially expensive summer, then gradually became a matter of personal pride. Solar panels covered half the roof, batteries occupied a locked room beside the office, and the generator filled in whenever clouds or several consecutive busy nights drained what they had stored.

It was a surprisingly competent system, aside from the generator currently on its seventh pair of last legs.

Thankfully, finding the first problem didn’t take very long. Evan had moved the flashlight deeper into the housing, following the thin sheen of liquid until it had disappeared beneath one of the fuel lines. The rubber was old enough to have faded from black to a sickly gray, its surface covered in tiny cracks that widened whenever he pressed his thumb against it.

One of those cracks was wet with gasoline, the strong smell hitting Evan almost immediately.

“Well, there’s at least part of your problem,” Evan muttered, shifting to the side slightly so Finn could see. “The fuel line’s cracked. Looks like it’s been sucking air whenever the pump kicks on, probably starving the engine under load.”

“And that makes fire come out of the exhaust?” The older man asked, squinting as his inferior eyesight struggled to make out the damage in the dim light inside the generator. 

“Could. The engine starts running lean, combustion gets all out of whack, fuel makes it somewhere it isn’t supposed to, and then-” Evan made a small explosive motion with his fingers. “Boom.”

Finn stared at him, skepticism plain on his face.

“That was the simplified version.”

“I liked it better when you just fixed things.” He grumbled.

“And I liked it better when you didn’t wait until they started breathing fire to call me.”

Evan reached farther into the housing and traced the damaged line toward the fuel pump. The crack itself wasn’t large, but the rubber around it had gone stiff with age, resisting his fingers instead of bending with them. Replacing the damaged section would get the generator running again, but every other inch of hose in the thing was probably waiting for its turn to split.

He pulled his hand free and reached for the battery terminal.

“What are you doing?” Finn asked, confusion replacing skepticism. “You already found the issue didn’t you?” 

“Disconnecting the starting battery before I stick a metal tool beside it.”

“But you already turned it off.”

Evan paused, looking over his shoulder. “Do me a favor and never try fixing this yourself.”

“I’ve fixed it plenty of times.”

Evan rolled his eyes, “That explains the wiring.”

Finn grumbled something under his breath and retreated toward the doorway as Evan removed the battery connection, wrapped the loose terminal in an old shop rag, then returned his attention to the fuel line. He pinched it shut above the damaged section, loosened the ancient clamp, and carefully pulled the hose free.

A small amount of gasoline spilled across his glove, the smell of gas only growing stronger as it soaked into the cloth.  Evan wiped it away with another rag, then inspected the metal fitting beneath it. Corroded, but still solid. That was something, at least.

He cut away the damaged section and replaced it with a short length of fuel-rated hose from his tool bag, fitting a new clamp over each end. It was a simple repair, the kind that might last a year or so if the rest of the generator wasn't just as bad. He tightened the clamps, tugged on the line twice, then ran his fingers over the neighboring sections in search of another crack.

“All right,” Evan said, sitting back on his heels. “That should stop the leak, but I’m telling you now, this is temporary. You need to replace the rest of these lines, and honestly, you need to replace the whole generator.”

“How temporary?”

“The section I replaced? It could last a couple years. Everything around it?” Evan looked back into the generator. “Four months if you’re lucky. This thing should have been replaced when Reagan was in office.” 

“So it’s fixed.”

“That is almost the exact opposite of what I said.”

“But it’ll run?”

Evan looked into the generator again. The replacement hose sat firmly between the pump and the carburetor, cleaner than anything else inside the housing. As far as quick repairs went, he had done everything he could without taking half the machine apart. “It should.”

Finn smiled, clearly hearing only the answer he wanted. “Knew you’d get it done.”

“I’m charging you extra every time you ignore me.”

“Put it on my tab.” the man said wryly. 

“You own the bar. I don’t. I don’t do tabs.”

Finn disappeared back through the doorway, laughing under his breath as Evan gathered the fuel-soaked rags and carried them outside. He dropped them into the metal waste container beside his truck, removed his gloves, then returned to the utility room. The gasoline smell still lingered, but most of it had followed the rags outside, drawn away through the vents near the ceiling.

Evan checked the new line once more before reconnecting the starting battery. He left the access panel open so he could watch the repair when the fuel pump restored pressure, then reached for the ignition switch.

“Going to test it!” he called through the doorway.

“Should I turn everything off?” Finn shouted back from somewhere inside the bar.

“For now. Give it a minute before you put a load on it.”

“What?”

“I mean don’t turn anything on until I say so!”

“Oh! Why didn’t you say that?”

Evan shook his head and turned the ignition. The starter began to attempt to bring the ancient beast to life, clicking several times before the engine turned over. It coughed a plume of smoke before falling still once more, all parts spinning to a stop. Evan released the switch, waited several seconds, then tried again.

The starter whined as the engine rolled over, the fuel pump drawing gasoline through the new section of line. It coughed again, louder this time, and a cloud of dust shook loose from somewhere beneath the housing. The new hose twitched as fuel passed through it but remained firmly attached.

“Come on,” Evan muttered. “You’ve survived this long.”

Noise filled the utility room as it finally started, the sound deep and uneven at first as the generator struggled through several rough cycles. Evan kept one hand near the cutoff while watching the fuel line. No wetness formed around the clamps, and the hose didn’t move beyond the faint vibration of the engine once it really started going.

Gradually, the generator settled into a steady rumble. Evan smiled despite himself.

“Still running?” Finn called.

“For the moment!”

“I told you it still worked!”

“Give it some time to warm up before you celebrate.”

Evan reached for his meter, but stopped when something glimmered beneath the fuel pump.

A droplet gathered against the underside of a different hose, several inches beyond the section he had replaced. It swelled, trembling with the vibration of the engine, then fell into the bottom of the housing. Evan’s smile disappeared as he spotted it.

Another droplet began to gather in the same place, followed by a third farther up the hose. The rubber darkened as gasoline seeped through cracks that hadn’t been visible while the line was empty, each one spreading as the engine vibrated around it. “Ah, shit.” Evan dropped the meter and reached for the cutoff, but the engine suddenly coughed, shaking hard against its mounts as the fuel line swelled.

The crack split open.

Gasoline sprayed across the inside of the housing, coating wires, metal, and everything in between in a fine mist. Some of it sprayed across Evan’s shirt as he jerked backward, his hand still reaching for the cutoff. He could smell it immediately, strong enough to burn his nose as the generator sputtered. For one strangely long moment, his eyes followed the mist as it hung in the air, every tiny droplet catching the weak light from his flashlight.

A loose battery connection snapped with blue electric power against the housing, and Evan already knew what was about to happen. 

Well, shit.

There was a flash of white, heat washing over Evan as the utility room vanished around him. He expected pain, or at least the feeling of being thrown backward, but neither came. There was only the horrible sensation of being pulled in every direction at once before something took hold of him and yanked him sideways.

Evan tumbled through darkness, his body striking hard surfaces that disappeared before he could properly feel them. One moment he was falling, the next he was sliding, then something folded him in half and forced him through a space much too small for his body. He tried to grab onto anything he passed, but there was nothing there. Only flashes of metal, stone, and bright colors that smeared together like a dry brush dragged across wet paint.

Then, just as suddenly, he landed.

His back struck a smooth black surface, knocking the air from his lungs as it began moving beneath him. Evan rolled onto his side and pushed himself upright, blinking rapidly as harsh white lights came into focus overhead. The room around him was enormous, stretching so far in either direction that its walls disappeared into a pale haze. Hundreds of black belts ran beside his own, carrying people, glowing shapes, sealed boxes, and several things Evan couldn’t begin to describe toward rows of metal arches.

Some of the people were screaming. A few were crying. One man several belts away sat cross-legged with his arms folded, looking more annoyed than afraid as a strip of paper repeatedly tried to attach itself to his forehead.

A cheerful chime rang out above Evan as he was still reeling from being dropped onto what was apparently a conveyor belt.

“Post-mortal transfer received.”

Evan froze, one hand still pressed against his chest as he tried to catch his breath. “Post-mortal?”

A narrow strip of paper appeared above him and slapped itself against his shirt. He tried to pull it free, but the paper clung to the fabric as if it were a part of him.

PROCESSING DESTINATION: C-8

“What the hell is C-8?”

“Routing confirmed.” The voice continued as though he hadn’t spoken. 

“That didn’t answer my question.” He said, with increasing panic in his voice. 

The belt carried him beneath the first arch. Pale light swept across him from head to toe, cold enough that he felt it pass through his body instead of over his skin. Symbols he couldn’t understand appeared across the archway, then vanished with another cheerful chime.

“Destination approved.” 

Evan looked ahead and saw that the belt ended in a perfectly square hole with pitch black darkness. It wasn’t a natural darkness either, it was a pure black like ink. “No. No, hold on.”

The belt sped up as he protested, rails rising from either side of the belt as if to prevent him from escaping whatever was coming. He dropped onto his stomach and pressed his hands against the moving surface, but it was completely smooth. His palms slid uselessly across it as the opening rushed closer.

“I think there’s been a mistake!”

“Routing complete. Thank you for your patience- have a good afterlife.”

The belt threw him into the hole.

Darkness swallowed him again, followed by the same crushing pull from before. Evan twisted sideways as something dragged him through another narrow passage, his shoulder clipping a wall hard enough to spin him around like a top. Light flashed ahead, and he flew out into a circular room lined with hundreds of doors.

He landed on another moving surface, barely had time to see a figure made entirely of blue glass looking down at him, and was launched through the nearest doorway.

“Now delivering to: C-8,” a distant voice announced in the same cold tone as before.

“Transfer accepted,” another answered.

He dropped through a forest filled with silver trees, their branches covered in paper tags that fluttered despite the complete absence of wind. Something scanned the label on his chest before a hole opened beneath him. Evan could feel his thoughts turning to mush as he was tossed from place to place.

“Hey i think there’s been a mist-”

“Jurisdiction confirmed.”

Another hole opened up beneath him, and Evan fell through an office where dozens of small winged creatures argued over a stack of folders, scattering them as he passed. One looked up, shouted something he couldn’t understand, and pointed just before another doorway struck him from the side.

By the fourth transfer, Evan had stopped trying to stand. He curled his arms over his head instead, waiting for the next impact as the universe handled him with all the care of an underpaid delivery driver nearing the end of their shift.

Something caught him by the back of his shirt.

For the briefest moment, Evan hung motionless in complete darkness. He could hear a soft mechanical ticking somewhere nearby, followed by the sound of paper being pulled through a printer. Or what he guessed was a printer.

Evan dropped through a ceiling.

He struck the edge of an enormous wooden desk, rolled across its surface, and crashed into several leaning towers of paper. The first collapsed beneath him. Another tipped into the one beside it, sending folders and loose reports spilling across the room in a slow-moving wave. Evan landed facedown on the floor as papers drifted over him, one page settling across the back of his head before the rest of the stack buried him.

For several seconds, the room remained completely silent.

Evan lay beneath the papers, waiting to see if anything else intended to throw, crush, scan, or label him. When nothing happened, he slowly pushed himself upward, dislodging several folders from his shoulders as he emerged like a winter fox from under a snow drift. 

Across the room, a woman sat behind another desk.

She looked exhausted. The kind someone carried after working several days without sleep and then being told they were required to attend a meeting that should have been an email. Her hair had been pulled back at some point, though enough of it had escaped to suggest she had stopped caring several hours ago. Ink stained two of her fingers, and one hand remained frozen above the document she had been writing in.

Her eyes moved from Evan to the mountain of paperwork scattered on the ground. A page slid from the top of a nearby stack and fluttered to the floor, drifting down like a feather on the wind.

“What,” she asked with frightening calm, “did you just do to my filing system?”

Evan looked down at the thousands of pages scattered around him, then up at the hole in the ceiling he had fallen through. “I’m going to be honest, I don’t think any part of that was my fault.”

The woman stared at him for another long moment before pushing herself away from the desk. “Nobody was scheduled to deliver anything today.”

“I uh… I think I am the delivery?” Evan said sheepishly, trying to pile the papers back up on the table only to cause a few more stacks to fall over.

“Stop.”

He froze with several pages in his hands.

Vivian crossed the room and carefully removed them from his grip. “Do not touch my paperwork.”

“I was trying to help.”

“You have already helped enough. I was nearly finished reorganizing this.” She said through gritted teeth.

She stepped carefully around one of the fallen stacks, muttering under her breath as she picked up the label still attached to Evan’s shirt. Her irritation faded as she read it, replaced first by confusion, then something much more focused. She looked at Evan, back at the label, and then toward the ceiling as if expecting someone to realize their mistake and pull him back through it.

Nobody did.

“You came through post-mortal routing,” she said.

“Yeah, I was hoping you could explain the ‘post-mortal’ part.”

The woman ignored the question, her eyes moving over him with growing interest. “You’re a mortal.”

“Last time I checked… yes?”

“And you were sent to C-8.”

“That’s what the thing said. Back there, with all the conveyor belts and-” 

A smile slowly spread across her face. It wasn’t a comforting smile. It was the expression of someone who had spent an impossibly long time searching for a solution and had just watched one crash through her ceiling.

Evan glanced toward the door behind him, wondering if he could run out of the room before whatever was about to happen, happened. “Why do I feel like I’m about to be sold something?”

The woman carefully smoothed the routing label between her fingers. “How would you feel about being reincarnated?”

Chapter Two

The service paper was still on the shelf above the desk in the morning.

Flat.

Visible.

Only tonight had ended.

No.

Morning had arrived.

The paper was still there.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The 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 left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The shelf had the service paper.

Name.

Date.

Short sutra.

Bell.

Incense.

Used once.

Moved three times.

Only tonight was no longer true.

No.

Only tonight had been true last night.

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 service paper stayed on the shelf.

I did not call that failure.

I did not call it extension.

It was morning.

The paper was on the shelf.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Only once.

Kanagawa’s empty tables can be tables was not mine.

Her brother’s pen returned to kitchen drawer was not mine.

Sato’s paper attached for now was not mine.

Saitama’s done before cup removed was not mine.

Suganuma’s second chair returned later 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 folder.

Only was in yesterday.

No.

Only had done yesterday’s work.

Today was asking what remained.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Drawer.

Closed.

Overnight.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Side table?”

“Phone table?”

“Pen?”

“Urn?”

“What did your brother say?”

I sat still.

Only.

There too.

“What did you say?”

I closed my eyes.

It is morning.

Good.

No.

Hers.

“What did he say?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at answer again.

Dangerous.

Maybe exact.

I left it.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I almost smiled.

I did not.

I wrote:

She replied:

“Is the paper safe?”

“What is it?”

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add for now.

For now had done its work.

Maybe.

No.

The tape was still there.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“The resident said done before the cup was empty,” she said.

I sat still.

“Before empty?”

“Yes.”

“Cup in hand?”

“Yes.”

“What did aide ask?”

“Cup?”

“And resident said done?”

“Yes.”

“Was there water left?”

“A little.”

“What did aide do?”

“Took it.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Done does not have to wait for empty.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add empty.

Empty had enough rooms already.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What happened?”

“What did you do?”

“Because of the sentence?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add jealousy.

The chair had been in the way.

That was enough.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Only tonight.

Morning.

Move the thing.

I looked up.

Service paper.

Flat.

Visible.

I replied:

Then stopped.

Too report.

No.

Report was honest.

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at shelf today.

Could be true.

Could be delay.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother opened the drawer,” she said.

I waited.

“Map?”

“Yes.”

“Paper?”

“Yes.”

“Did he take them out?”

“No.”

“What did he ask?”

“If drawer can be today too.”

Asked.

Actual.

“What do you think?” I asked.

She was quiet.

Then:

“I think yes until afternoon.”

Until.

Small leash.

Small job.

“Did you say that?”

“No.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

“Then say it.”

I waited.

Her voice moved away from the phone.

Then returned.

“I said drawer until afternoon.”

“What did he say?”

“He said afternoon is a real word.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at afternoon.

Real word.

Time.

Not forever.

Good.

No.

House word.

I left it.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I want to remove one tape,” she said.

“Which one?”

“The second one.”

“Why?”

“Because edge is not lifted now.”

“What happens if you remove it?”

“I don’t know.”

“What are you asking?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“Is removing it making yesterday wrong?”

I closed my eyes.

There it was.

“No,” I said.

Then stopped.

Too fast.

But asked.

“No. Removing tape today does not make yesterday wrong.”

She breathed.

“What if it lifts again?”

“Then today will show that.”

She said, “That sounds like weather.”

“Maybe.”

No.

I should not have said maybe.

“What did you write?” I asked.

She replied:

“Did you remove it?”

I opened Emiko.

I looked at my answer.

Large.

But the question had been large.

I left it.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Water came later,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Yes.”

“Cup?”

“Given.”

“Did she say done?”

“No.”

“Did she drink?”

“A little.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Done before empty did not decide later water.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add later.

The line had water.

At 11:13, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did they say?”

I almost laughed.

I did not.

“What did you say?”

I smiled.

No one saw.

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add enjoyment.

The sentence was the answer there.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

What I was not doing.

Not filing.

Not throwing away.

Not returning to bag.

Not putting with folder.

Not deciding.

That last one was dangerous.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at room.

Heavy word.

Still.

I did not answer.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Afternoon.

Real word.

I waited.

A second line came.

I wrote:

She replied:

I sat still.

“Map?”

“Paper?”

“Opened?”

“What did he say?”

“What did you say?”

“Did he ask anything?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at not yet.

Question waiting.

Maybe.

No.

Not yet.

I left it.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Table.

Paper.

Small date.

Top tape.

Second tape removed.

No lifted edge.

She wrote:

I called.

“After removing?”

“Yes.”

“Where is the tape?”

“Trash.”

“Did you write that?”

“Yes.”

“What did you write?”

“Did yesterday become wrong?”

She was quiet.

Then:

“No.”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add yesterday.

She had answered it.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Cup still there?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Aide not yet returned.”

“Safe?”

“Yes.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Not yet returned is not abandonment if safe is true.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add abandonment.

Safe was enough there.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I closed my eyes.

Perfect.

No.

“What did you do?”

“What did you write?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I almost laughed.

I did not.

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add love.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it twice.

Not filing.

Furniture.

Shelf.

Left side.

Desk.

Folder.

I looked at the service paper.

The shelf had begun to have weather.

No.

Weather again.

It had begun to have attention.

That was enough.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked away.

Phone.

Folder.

Cup.

Door.

Then the shelf again.

Attention returned.

Not failure.

Information.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother unfolded the paper,” she said.

I waited.

“Read?”

“Yes.”

“Aloud?”

“No.”

“To himself?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do after?”

“Put it on the side table flat.”

“Not folded?”

“Not folded.”

“What did he say?”

“He said maybe it can be flat for afternoon.”

I closed my eyes.

Flat for afternoon.

“What did you say?”

“I said afternoon is still here.”

Good.

No.

Hers.

“Map?”

“Drawer.”

“Urn?”

“Small table.”

“Coat?”

“Closet.”

“Did he ask you?”

“He asked if flat is disrespectful.”

Actual.

“What did you answer?”

“I said no.”

“Good.”

No.

Too quick.

I added, “Because you answered.”

She was quiet.

Then said, “Yes.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at my good.

I had said it.

Not in file.

Better.

I did not write good.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you do?”

“Paper?”

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add proof.

Tape in trash was not proof.

It was tape in trash.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup removed after she woke,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“What did resident say?”

“Done.”

“Water left?”

“Yes.”

“Cup removed?”

“Yes.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Done can leave water behind.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add behind.

The line had it.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you write?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add victory.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it.

Then again.

Paper.

Attention.

Follow.

Obedience.

Care.

I looked at the shelf.

Service paper.

Flat.

Visible.

Too watched.

I looked at the ordinary service record file in the lower cabinet.

I had not looked at it all week.

That was information too.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked at the cabinet.

Lower shelf.

Gray file.

Ordinary label.

Service Records.

Not brown folder.

Not drawer.

Not altar.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I looked at the cabinet.

I wrote:

His reply:

I began to write maybe.

Then stopped.

I wrote:

His reply:

I looked at the paper.

Shelf.

Visible.

Only tonight.

Shelf today.

Not filing.

Room.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I looked at the service paper.

At the gray file.

At the 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.

The service paper was not here.

The service had not been here.

The record did not need this room.

That was plain.

Maybe too plain.

Still true.

I returned to the office.

The service paper was on the shelf above the desk.

The 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.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

I opened the brown folder.

Only once.

Kanagawa’s flat for afternoon was not mine.

Her brother’s flat disrespectful question was not mine.

Sato’s tape in trash was not mine.

Saitama’s done with water left was not mine.

Suganuma’s notice visible 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 folder.

I stood.

I opened the lower cabinet.

The gray service record file was there.

I took it out.

It was heavier than I expected.

No.

It was as heavy as it was.

I placed it on the desk.

Not beside the brown folder.

On the working surface.

I took the service paper from the shelf.

The shelf became empty.

No.

The shelf had no paper on it.

I did not praise it.

I opened the gray file.

Previous services.

Names.

Dates.

Rooms.

Times.

Some pages neat.

Some not.

Ordinary.

That word tried to help.

I did not let it.

I placed the service paper after the last service record.

Name.

Date.

Short sutra.

Bell.

Incense.

One more paper.

I closed the file.

I placed it back in the lower cabinet.

I closed the cabinet.

The shelf above the desk had no paper.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The brown folder was closed.

The phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

No.

Not yet.

I picked up the cup from the sink.

I dried it.

I put it on the shelf where cups go.

Then my hands were empty.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if afternoon had ended.

I did not ask if the flat paper had folded again.

I did not ask if the map stayed in the drawer.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if tape in trash made the paper freer.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew only tonight had ended.

I knew shelf today had ended too.

I knew filing had not punished the paper.

I knew filing had not rescued it.

I knew the paper had gone where service papers go.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Only did not need to become forever tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The shelf above the desk had no paper.

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 phone was face up.

My hands were empty.

Available.

Not reaching.

The urn was on the small table.

The map was in the drawer.

The folded paper was flat on the side table for afternoon.

Sato’s paper stayed with one tape.

The resident’s cup had left with water behind.

Suganuma’s notice was visible.

The service paper was in the service record file.

I had started with only tonight.

I did not end by making only forever.

Tonight, the paper went where service papers go, and the shelf was not wrong for having held it.

The service paper was on the shelf above the desk in the morning.

Flat.

Visible.

Not on the working surface.

Not in the folder.

Not away.

The office had the heater.

The clock.

My breathing.

The 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 left side of the desk had nothing on it.

The shelf had the service paper.

Name.

Date.

Short sutra.

Bell.

Incense.

Used once.

Moved three times.

No.

Moved enough to make counting unhelpful.

I made tea.

I drank it.

Warm.

Then less warm.

Then finished.

The cup went to the sink.

I washed it.

The service paper stayed on the shelf.

I did not look up at it while washing the cup.

That was not discipline.

The cup was lower than the shelf.

After tea, I opened the brown folder.

Only once.

Kanagawa’s current things only was not mine.

Her brother’s table can stop holding finished things was not mine.

Sato’s paper edge lifted while cooking was not mine.

Saitama’s finished before cup removed was not mine.

Suganuma’s chair sentence 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 folder.

Small places were in yesterday.

No.

They had always been there.

I had only noticed them after larger places failed.

That was not the fault of the shelf.

At 7:18, Kanagawa wrote.

I read it once.

Then again.

Pen.

Side table.

Still.

I wrote:

She replied:

“What is on the side table?”

Only.

Dangerous.

Maybe exact.

“Map and folded paper?”

“Urn?”

“Coat and cloth bag?”

“What did your brother say?”

I closed my eyes.

Too ready.

“What did you say?”

Then:

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at not all morning.

Good.

No.

His limit.

I left it.

At 7:49, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

I smiled.

No one saw.

“What did you write?”

“Plate?”

“Cup?”

“Date?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add priorities.

Breakfast had already done it.

At 8:03, Mrs. Kudo called.

“The resident said water,” she said.

“Before offered?”

“Yes.”

“Cup?”

“Given.”

“Hand?”

“One hand.”

“Here?”

“No.”

“Warm?”

“No.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Water asked for a cup, not a lesson.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add lesson.

Water had been clear.

At 8:31, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did it say?”

“Anything else?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I looked at small letters.

Not humility.

Not style.

Size.

I left it.

At 9:02, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I opened it.

I read it twice.

Shelf.

Safer.

Prouder.

Folder.

I looked up.

Service paper.

Flat.

Visible.

Not high enough to be altar.

No.

That was exactly how altar begins.

I stopped.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply came after a while.

I looked up again.

Working.

Posing.

The paper did not answer.

Good.

No.

Paper.

I did not answer.

At 9:38, Kanagawa called.

“My brother moved the pen,” she said.

“Where?”

“Phone table.”

“Why?”

“He said phone table is where paper asks first.”

I waited.

“What paper?”

“Calls.”

Calls as paper.

Maybe.

“What is on the side table now?”

“Nothing.”

“Drawer?”

“Closed.”

“Map and paper inside?”

“Yes.”

“Urn?”

“Small table.”

“What did you say?”

“I said pen can be near phone until paper calls.”

I closed my eyes.

Paper calls.

Too much.

Maybe exact in that house.

“What did your brother say?”

“He said until phone stops asking.”

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at until.

Again.

Small job.

Maybe leash.

I left it.

At 10:07, Sato called.

“I used another piece of tape,” she said.

“On the paper?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Lifted edge.”

“How much?”

“One small piece.”

“Did you ask yourself why?”

“Yes.”

“What was the answer?”

“It was lifted.”

I smiled.

No one saw.

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add better.

The edge had asked enough.

No.

Edges do not ask.

The edge was lifted.

At 10:42, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup stayed longer today,” she said.

“Why?”

“Resident held it.”

“Asleep?”

“No.”

“Drinking?”

“Not much.”

“Hand?”

“One hand.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Staying can be hand, not meaning.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add hand.

The line had hand.

At 11:14, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you write?”

“Anything else?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add success.

At 11:49, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it standing.

Then sat.

Too responsive.

I stayed seated.

Small places.

Shelf.

Side table.

Phone table.

Drawer.

Left side.

I replied:

Then deleted it.

Avoid.

Too clean.

I wrote:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at the cup in the sink.

Not the shelf.

Then I looked at the shelf.

Staring had already begun.

I stopped.

At 12:22, Kanagawa wrote.

I waited.

Then:

I wrote:

She replied:

“Pen?”

“Side table?”

“Where will form go?”

“What do you think?”

I sat back.

Came from phone.

Small place.

Small logic.

“What happened?”

I opened Kanagawa.

I did not add correct.

Phone table had worked.

That was all.

At 12:58, Sato sent a photograph.

Table.

Paper taped at top and lifted edge.

Small date.

Plate absent.

Cup absent.

She wrote:

I called.

“Too fixed?”

“Yes.”

“Because of second tape?”

“Yes.”

“Is it fixed?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“Attached.”

Attached.

New danger.

Maybe exact.

“What did you write?”

I waited.

“Do you want to remove it?”

“No.”

“Then do not remove it because the word is dangerous.”

She was quiet.

Then:

“That sentence is strange too.”

“Yes.”

“What will you write?”

I opened Emiko.

For now.

Chair, not bed.

Old sentence.

New paper.

I left it.

At 1:31, Mrs. Kudo sent:

I waited.

Then:

I called.

“Still in hand?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She fell asleep before aide took it.”

“Safe?”

“Yes.”

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Empty cup can stay in a hand until a hand lets go or someone asks.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add letting go.

At 2:03, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you do?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add sentence pride.

At 2:45, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it twice.

Phone table.

Side table.

Shelf.

Service paper.

I replied:

Then stopped.

Work.

Again.

I deleted it.

I wrote:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at enough.

His.

With form.

Maybe safe.

I did not answer.

At 3:18, Kanagawa called.

“My brother put the completed payment form in the bag,” she said.

“Funeral bag?”

“Yes.”

“Pen?”

“Still phone table.”

“More paper coming?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“He looked at the pen.”

I waited.

“What did he ask?”

“If pen should go back.”

“Back where?”

“Kitchen drawer.”

“What do you think?”

“I think yes.”

“Then yes is yours.”

She breathed once.

“I said yes.”

“What happened?”

“He put it in the kitchen drawer.”

“Phone table?”

“Empty.”

“Side table?”

“Empty.”

“Drawer?”

“Still map and paper.”

“What did your brother say?”

“He said empty tables can be tables.”

I closed my eyes.

Tables.

Again.

No.

Today.

I opened Kanagawa.

I looked at empty tables.

Not answer.

Maybe ordinary.

I left it.

At 3:57, Sato wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What happened to paper?”

“Did it bother dinner?”

“What did you write?”

I opened Emiko.

I did not add coexist.

Dinner had not asked for the word.

At 4:22, Mrs. Kudo called.

“Cup was taken after she woke,” she said.

“Asked?”

“Aide asked cup.”

“What did resident say?”

“Done.”

“Then?”

“Aide took it.”

“What did staff write?”

Mrs. Kudo read:

“What did Mr. Hayashi say?”

“He said, ‘Done can be smaller than finished.’”

I opened Saitama.

I did not add smaller.

At 4:51, Reverend Suganuma wrote.

I waited.

Then:

“What did you write?”

“Did you mention notice?”

“What did Tanabe say?”

“What did Morita say?”

I opened Suganuma.

I did not add testimony.

At 5:23, Father Morita emailed.

Subject:

I read it.

Then again.

Small place.

Tonight.

Found itself.

The service paper on the shelf.

Flat.

Visible.

Not self.

Not solved.

I replied:

I sent it.

His reply:

I looked at only.

Small.

Sharp.

Dangerous.

Useful.

I did not answer.

At 5:52, the old priest wrote.

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I wrote:

His reply:

I looked up.

Flat.

Visible.

Not framed.

No.

Maybe.

I wrote:

His reply:

Then:

I wrote:

His reply:

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.

The shelf in the office was not altar.

The altar here was altar.

No.

I had already made comparison.

I stopped.

The altar was visible.

That was enough for the hall.

I returned to the office.

The service paper was on the shelf above the desk.

The 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.

The left side of the desk had nothing on it.

I opened the folder.

Only once.

Kanagawa’s empty tables can be tables was not mine.

Her brother’s pen returned to kitchen drawer was not mine.

Sato’s paper attached for now was not mine.

Saitama’s done before cup removed was not mine.

Suganuma’s second chair returned later 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 folder.

The service paper remained on the shelf.

A little displayed.

Not safe.

Not wrong.

Risk known.

Maybe.

No.

Risk noticed.

I did not move it.

Only tonight.

That was the sentence.

I did not praise it.

I did not open Kanagawa again.

I did not ask if the empty tables stayed empty.

I did not ask if the pen stayed in the kitchen drawer.

I did not ask if the payment form stayed in the funeral bag.

I did not open Sato again.

I did not ask if attached for now had become fixed.

I did not open Saitama again.

I did not open Suganuma again.

I did not open Father Morita’s message again.

I knew small places were not innocent.

I knew the shelf could pose.

I knew tables could work and then stop working.

I knew one chair could return later without proving the sentence.

I turned off the desk lamp.

The office did not disappear.

The folder did not need the center.

The phone did not need here.

Small places did not need to become answers tonight.

In the dark, I remained sitting.

Near the desk.

Not at it.

The service paper was on the shelf above the desk.

Flat.

Visible.

Only tonight.

The 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 side table was empty.

The phone table was empty.

The pen was in the kitchen drawer.

Sato’s paper was attached for now.

The resident’s cup had left after done.

Suganuma’s chairs had returned without testimony.

The left side of my desk had nothing on it.

I had started with small places.

I did not end by trusting them.

Tonight, the shelf held the paper, and only did its work without being praised.

I grew up spending many many hours drawing and designing fictional characters. I also loved playing video games. The feeling of controlling a fictional character was peak for me and I always dreamed of one day controlling one I created myself.

First, while I was young, I would achieve a different dream. I trained in ballet for about 15 years. I made it to the back row of a very famous company with about 65 other professional dancers. I worked as hard as I could, spent hours meditating and spun around in thousands of circles (literally). All of this had a dramatic effect on opening my mind. After doing all that, I retired. This gave me more time to focus on video games. For money, I was delivering food for a delivery app, which was also like a video game.

I became obsessed with the characters in one particular game. It was called "Always Watching". One day out of frustration, I said something outloud. I was connected to a microphone online, yet I had no idea who I was talking to. I described a character and the abilities it should have to make the game more fun. I explained in detail a very specific type of movement style and a layout of battle abilities. I even came up with an appearance and a basic personality. About a month later this game that I'm obsessed with, releases a new character, MY character. It matched everything I said down to the last detail.

I knew I wasn't insane, I figured I had been talking to someone important and didn't realize it. I was happy about it. I knew I would never get paid, but I also never thought to copyright a random thought. I figured I was just extremely lucky and got a once in a lifetime opportunity that happened to play out for me in my favor (kind of). Then the other characters were released over the next couple years. Every single one came from my mind.

The second time it happened, I thought maybe I was being hacked and listened to. The difference was, I didn't remember saying it out loud that time. At that point I did start to think I was going crazy. Schizophrenic people do this sometimes. Stephen King's wife had an encounter with someone like this once, when he broke into her house. He said he wanted revenge because Stephen was stealing his ideas. I started to get worried. I didn't want to become like that man. So I kept it to myself and decided to write down any character ideas I had from now on, even if I didn't plan on drawing them.

Writing them down was a good idea because the next several characters they released matched my hand written notes perfectly. I had zero understanding of what was happening to me. There were no cameras in my room. There were microphones, but I intentionally never said these ideas out loud. However, when I would compare my notes to these brand new characters, every detail matched.So I posted something online. I posted an idea for a character just so that I would have proof. The next character came out and it had nothing to do with me. I wanted to know who was messing with me at that point.

Bizzare things started happening in my backyard at the same time. I looked out one night and there was a lightning storm, but it didn't look natural. It looked manmade. The lightning at one point looked like a giant rotating tree rising out of the ground. Lightning wasn't supposed to move like that. A wild Cardinal started pecking at my window everyday and then following my car around. I would get out 30 minutes away from home and he would be there, trying to get my attention. I knew it was the same bird for a myriad of reasons.

I started getting strange messages online. They came from different people, but they always used the same format of symbols and unusual punctuation. The messages were always uplifting but also warnings. One of them in particular said something like, "A society cannot function without prioritizing it's people." I didn't know who would send stuff like this or why.

Then came the games and TV shows. I started seeing entire games and shows that were being released somehow connected to my mind. They were so similar to concepts I had thought of, that I couldn't reasonably deny it. The next year I had a series of events that led to me becoming homeless. I got myself to Phoenix, Arizona because I wanted to be warm if I was going to sleep outside. I knew that it was a hot spot for UFO sightings.

I started seeing UFOs regularly. The first sighting was of a floating triangle about 40 feet in the air above me. It moved silently, without propellers and in a way that human technology would never be capable of. The next several sighting were simply lights, but they were amazing because of the timing of them. Everytime I saw an unnatural light in the sky, it coincided with some kind of epiphany I was having internally. They weren't just showing themselves, they were communicating. They could somehow sense when my mind was having some kind of mental spike and they would show themselves at those exact moments.

The highlight of the experience came toward the end before I moved back home. There was a mass sighting of over 100 lights in the area around me. The names of the cities where the sightings happened, seemed to be a message. They were seen over the cities: Duncan, Queen Creek, Lake Pleasant, Surprise and Phoenix. My name is Duncan and I was in Phoenix.

It seemed clear at that point. All the epiphany moments I had during the sightings started to make sense. Aliens knew me and they had been watching me. They considered me a queen and it was a pleasant surprise for both me and all of them.

Suddenly, it hit me that they had been hooking my brain up to different CEOs of entertainment companies to give me gifts. They had been helping me achieve dreams that would have been otherwise impossible. My next immediate thought was that I am male, so I would be called a King instead of Queen. The message I received back inside my mind was something along the lines of, "The fact that you don't really care about that, is part of the reason you are Queen." Then I looked at the sky and saw a light.

PART THIRTEEN-HUNDRED-AND SIXTY-EIGHT

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Saturday

It was almost ten by the time we pulled up at the Lopez berth, and the steward cast a bow line to a deckhand on the jetty.  I had to hand it to the skipper. He knew his ship. Thirty meters out from the jetty, he reversed thrust and angled the propulsion to make the yacht twist and slide midwater. Next, he dropped power to almost nothing about five meters away before the stern finished coming around. Most would think he’d made his move too early – that the yacht would be stuck too far away from the jetty.

Instead, without any added power to compensate, the large yacht drifted to rest against the padded mooring pylons with the barest of bumps, and there was enough time for the deckhand to finish tying off the bow line and get to the rear to tie off the stern line.

It was gorgeously choreographed, and I refused to leave the ship until I’d told the crew as much.

Everyone else disembarked, all chatting animatedly about the experience, but Gerry stayed at my side.

“Wilcott! You coming?” Parker called, having stopped halfway along the jetty and turned back towards us. His shout drew the others' attention, but I waved them all on. Truthfully, it still weirded me out how that guy was behaving. We hadn’t liked each other, and that shouldn’t have changed just because I gave him a verbal smack upside the head.

Everyone else was happy to leave, except Parker and the other guy I’d yelled at. They retraced their steps back to the yacht, climbing across the gangway to stand with us. “What are we waiting for?” Parker asked, looking over the ship as if he’d missed something before.

I couldn’t help but stare at him. “I want to talk to the captain,” I said, making it clear his company was neither necessary nor wanted.

“Is something wrong, sir?” the man himself asked, leaving the bridge to join us on the back deck.

“No,” I answered, putting every bit of assurance I could into my voice. “I just wanted to compliment you on your navigational skills, sir. The way you let the ship drift into position and still give the crew time to tie off without causing any undue stress on the bow line…” I shook my head, my hands spreading wide to encompass my feelings on the matter. Gerry had hooked two fingers into my pants’ back pocket, anchoring herself to me. “Honestly… that was amazing.”

The captain smiled, shaking his own head. “We’ll have to agree to disagree, sir. If we were to talk about amazing acts, my hat goes into the ring with everyone else’s about what happened out there today. I’ve spent thirty years on the water, and over twenty on private vessels like this one, and I have never, in all those years, ever had the privilege of watching a scene like that one play out that didn’t end in tragedy.”  

Because I kept the predators away.

The way Parker and the other guy were bobbing their heads was just annoying. I needed to change the subject. “What was your name?” I asked the captain. I couldn’t have cared less about tweedle-dumber.

“Deacon, sir.”

“Captain Deacon, or Deacon something?”

“Captain Deacon, sir. It wouldn’t be professional for me to give you my first name.”

I stuck my hand out. “Well, it was a pleasure sailing with you, Captain Deacon. I’m Sam, and this is Geraldine.”

“Pleasure,” Geraldine said as the two shook hands moments later. “Sam and I aren’t big on titles anymore, so if you could call us by our first names going forward, that would be lovely.”

I could tell the captain wasn’t used to his guests behaving the way we were, but that was beside the point. I was so proud of Geraldine I could burst.

“Yes, ma’—Geraldine.”

“And I’m Parker,” Parker added, throwing his hand out in greeting as soon as Gerry and the captain broke contact.

At least I wasn’t the only one taken aback by Parker’s strange behaviour. The captain’s eyebrows disappeared under his cap before he caught himself and shook Parker’s hand. He didn’t reintroduce himself, leading me to believe this wasn’t the first time the two had crossed paths. And, like me, the skipper didn’t have a high regard for Parker.

“Vincent,” the other guy said, following suit. “But everyone calls me Vince.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain replied.

I still preferred ‘Beavis and Butthead’.

“Well, thanks again for a great trip,” I said before things got awkward. I really wished I could stay on the ship and help clean up, but this weekend wasn’t about me, and I needed to remember that. “Maybe you can take us out again sometime.”

“It would be my pleasure, s—Sam.” He drew out my name, correcting himself.

Since Parker and Vince were closest to the gangway, I waved for them to precede us, and they disembarked without another word, waiting on the jetty. I eased Gerry around in front of me and herded her towards the gangway, casting one last, longing look over the ship before joining them on the jetty. The gangway was immediately pushed back onto the ship, and the crew stepped easily between the ship and the dock, catching their shoe soles on the rubber grips along the hull.

“So, what are we doing now?” Vince asked, and I’d had just about enough.

Raising my finger at them to give me a moment, I reached out telepathically to the only person I knew who would give me straight answers without holding it against me or getting me into trouble with the rest of the family. ‘Lady Col, do you have a moment?’

‘Of course, dear. What do you need?’

I glanced back at Parker and Vince, who had struck up a conversation with Geraldine as if they were truly interested in what she had to say. ‘I think I’ve accidentally done something divine here, but I’m not sure. A couple of my classmates are acting really squirrelly.’

‘Are you referring to Parker Sullivan and Vincent Caldwell?’

I really didn’t want to know how she already knew that. ‘Yes, ma’am. They went from being derogatory towards me and their treatment of the ocean to…’ —I eyed them again— ‘…whatever this is, and I’m not the only one who’s noticed.’

‘Ahhh, yes. I see the issue. One moment, sweetheart.’

As I watched, Parker and Vinnie’s expressions went from rapt attention to sour disregard, and I couldn’t believe that, of the two, the latter was preferable. “You’re getting as bad as him,” Parker grumbled at Geraldine, throwing a thumb in my direction before he and Vinnie turned on their heels and stormed off towards the mansion.

Geraldine’s eyes found mine, her brow pinching in annoyed confusion. I raised a discreet finger to my lips and waited until they were out of our hearing. ‘What did I do wrong, Lady Col?’ If I was influencing them somehow, I did not want to make that mistake again.

Without using Gateway to be certain, would I be correct in assuming they did something to aggravate your innate?

I thought about the incident with the beer bottles and pressed my lips together, already not liking where this was going. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I almost didn’t want to admit that, but what was the point of denying it when she had Gateway to show her the past?

‘And did you lean into your divinity when reprimanding them?’

I had to check my memory for that one. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘That would be the issue.’

And now, Geraldine wasn’t the only one confused. ‘But I’m ringed.’

‘Yes, you are, Sam. And that blocks you from being influenced as well as influencing others … most of the time.’

Most of the time?! MOST OF THE TIME?!

‘Oh, come on!’ I snapped because how the hell was I supposed to follow the rules if they kept changing the freaking rulebook?!

Then I remembered who I was communicating with. ‘Sorry. Sorry.’ My gaze dropped to the jetty planks beneath my feet as if she were right in front of me.

‘I understand your frustration, Sam. There are many nuances to being divine, and if we were to give them all to you in one sitting, you would spend a dozen lifetimes internalising to assimilate them all. Learning is part of life, handsome, and no one was hurt this time.’

‘So the rings are actually useless…’

‘I never said that. You may be secluded, however your innate is not. It is why you are still able to manipulate things around you.’

‘But I changed their personalities. My innate has nothing to do with that.’

‘As true as that is, your ranged bending is very much at the heart of changing people’s minds. And when your innate connected you to the world, and you used your divine bending in a moment of rage, the smallest spark of your divinity flashed through your innate into your target. As soon as you reveal yourself to be an angry god, mortals will always cower and adapt appropriately.’

My head spun with the ramifications of her words, and my legs suddenly gave out from underneath me, dumping me on my butt on the deck. I barely had enough wherewithal to throw out one arm to stop myself from falling sideways. Yes, I had been angry, but I thought wearing the rings meant I couldn’t influence anyone.

“SAM!” Geraldine shouted, dropping down beside me.

“I’m okay,” I said, realising the crew were running towards us. I wrapped one arm around her waist and held the other up to ward them off. “I’m okay,” I shouted, breathing as deeply as I could to clear my lungs.

Without warning, a deep sense of calm bloomed in my chest and spread out to include the rest of me. It was a sensation not unlike the time I was inside Cousin Paz’s room, except I was able to remain in control of my thoughts instead of feeling heavily drugged.

“I’m okay,” I repeated with more certainty this time.

‘Yes, you will be,’ Lady Col agreed.

‘You know, I still think that would’ve been a really important point to make way back when everyone was first telling me about divinity.’

‘Perhaps, or perhaps this is the best way to learn.’

I didn’t necessarily agree with that.

[Next Chapter]

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((Author's note: Yet another medical appointment first thing in the morning. But rather than wait until much later in the day, I figured since I'm awake, I'd post it at 5am 'before' the appointment. Enjoy!))

((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!!

Genre: Jewish folk horror / occult memoir
Update schedule: new installment every other Thursday

according to jewish mysticism there are thirty-six hidden righteous people quietly holding up the world — the lamed vov, the 36. most of us get one shot to cross paths with one, at eighteen, and 99.9% of us miss it. my mom is the 0.1%.

this serial is me finally telling her whole story: the notebook that showed up with my mom's name already in it, the hand that caught her off a mountain, the candlesticks i still can't account for, the hungarian she somehow understood, and the number she taught me to avoid. gematria, near-death rescues, and a mother who's spent forty-eight years refusing to explain any of it.

--

my mom returned to brooklyn in the summer of 1976 on a tailwind of excitement. most of it was backward facing, an energy taken from the incredible six weeks she had just spent overseas with her friends. it was her first real taste of independence, and she discovered that freedom was a flavor she liked, but her excitement also faced forward, pointing at college, which she started in a few days.

i happen to be extremely introverted and sobbed in panic every night for a week before beginning college, but my mom was (and is) very different and she looked forward to it the way i look forward to never going back to school.

that semester, my mom enrolled in brooklyn college for four classes, all during the day. she also enrolled in a single class at the fashion institute of technology at night. this class met once a week on the fit campus on west 26th street in manhattan.

my mom around the time of this story, pictured with her uncle, my great uncle chaim (which is also my middle name)

to hear her tell it, the excitement of starting college all but drove the notebook and her near-death experience from my mom’s mind. i find this a little hard to believe, but okay. a few days after she got back, her young brother, my uncle shmeel, asked about her trip. she started talking about how beautiful israel was, all the cities they visited, the hikes they went on… and then suddenly stopped.

“you okay, till?” fifteen-year-old shmeel asked.

my mom excused herself and sprinted to her bedroom, anxious about the notebook. but it was still there, stuffed under an old skirt at the very back of her closet, exactly where she stashed it three days earlier.

it was a relief. for some reason, my mom was convinced it was gone, that the whole thing had been a strange dream, but nope, there it was. as purple and scrawled on and real as in the picture below.

my mom opened it, flipped past the pages so covered in scribbles and cross-outs they were unreadable, and found the one with her name on it.

it was still so uncanny to see her in someone’s accounting like that.

she looked at the next name in the notebook.

leah freilich [yom shlishi] 9-7 818 18 ave, 12-43

there was also a weird diagram at the end she couldn’t make sense of.

it looked a little like this: 𒄆𓁹𒀱𓁹𒄆

but the rest of the note was straightforward. at least the dates, time, and location: on september 7, which was later that week, at 818 18th avenue, at 12:43… something would happen. what, exactly? another person, this leah freilich, would be in some kind of danger? like my mom on the hike? what the hell was all this?

my mom had no idea, but she wasn’t going to miss the date and time.

818 18th avenue was just a few blocks from my grandparents’ house, and so on september 7, which was a thursday, my mom cut the first college class of her short career. she actually cut two classes. she had intro to economics from 11:50 am to 12:30 pm in boylan hall and french 2 from 1 to 1:40 pm across the campus in roosevelt. to be at 818 18th avenue at 12:43 pm, she had to miss both.

my mom was at the location ten minutes early, which might be one of the most shocking parts of this story. anyone who has ever known tilly lichtschein at any point in her life knows that she’s a remarkable woman, very much deserving of a written treatment of her time and experiences, but one thing she is not is punctual. i cannot stress this enough. my family has so many bits about how my dad acts when he’s ready to leave for an event at the time agreed upon but my mom is running late for one of a million reasons and he’s just sitting there, by the entrance, arms crossed in annoyance.

but regardless, on that day, she was there early. with the 36, i’ve found, my mom is uncharacteristically punctual.

818 18th ave is a small house with a brick facade, a few steps, and a stoop.

the building is still there. i’ve been writing this part of the story in boro park to better catch the inspiration, and i just took a break from working on this to walk over and take a picture. here it is in july 2026.

walking down the street, nearing the address, i can almost feel my mom, fifty years earlier, approaching the same destination, although to her it probably looked neater and less run-down.

my mom stood behind a large tree on the sidewalk verge and waited, eyes alternating between the front door of the house and the watch in her hand. she was staring at the time when the minute changed from 12:42 to 12:43. at that exact moment, the front door of 818 18th ave opened and a woman stepped out.

my mom stared. the woman appeared ordinary. she was a little younger than my grandparents, in her early forties, and wore a tan skirt and a heavy canvas shirt. on her head was a large-brimmed sunhat and her hand held a purple watering can. my mom noticed several green shoots at the end of the stoop. the woman walked over to these and started watering the tall plants encroaching her front porch.

my mom stood up, curious and unsure of herself. what was she supposed to do? save this woman somehow? she certainly didn’t look in danger, and my mom wasn’t even sure she was leah freilich. and just as my mom was getting ready to make her presence known, the woman stopped watering and turned around, looking at my mom for the first time.