Chapter Text
Edrich was shaken awake unceremoniously. He might have been more angered by this, had his head throbbed any less, had the memories of what exactly had knocked him out not come rushing back in a blur of adrenaline and panic.
Or had the one person he looked up to see shaking him awake not been the snake bastard Sekka.
He blinked, wide eyed and mind trying to catch up, at the man, in his usual regal armor, before jerking upright to take in the surroundings.
They were in the courtyard of the Sekka estate. And that brat, the sword brat in the pretend arm garb, was languidly approaching the snake bastard from behind. Edrich felt his eyes widen, mouth opening to warn his comrade, but the man seemed to have noticed his gaze straying before the words even left Edrich’s mouth, turning sharply on his knee to block a downward strike.
The snake bastard grunted with the strain, and Edrich felt that terror from before swell in his chest at the sight. The swordmaster Sekka, being overpowered just the same as Edrich and all of his forces had been.
That confirmed it in Edrich’s mind, his body scrambling back instinctively from the clash. The other, the brat, was strong. Far too strong.
The Sekka called over his shoulder at Edrich, his voice strained and raw under the force of the other’s sword, throwing sparks and filling the immediate area with a pressure that made all of the hair on the back of Edrich’s neck stand straight up.
“Get out of here! Gather the forces! There’s a traitorous sect in Arm!”
And Edrich ran. He scrambled, already disgraced, his mane cut away like a prize to be taken. He ran, metaphorical tail between his legs, to inform the liege, to gather help, to stop this madness.
The Sekka Household had been lost.
They had been betrayed.
There was a figure, clad in black, loitering in the backstreets of the Capitol. This wasn’t out of the ordinary. There were plenty of beggars and peasants in the streets. Nor was the way they spoke to thin air. There were plenty about who were inebriated at the hour as well.
What set this person aside, though, was the fact that they had been frequenting the same three or so alleyways over the course of two days, for multiple hours at a time. Along with the fact that they were never seen outright entering or leaving the alleyways. They always seemed to just disappear up into thin air when someone looked too close or entered the alley looking for trouble or change.
For those that entered for the latter, especially the children, there would be, tucked neatly in a small pouch where the figure once stood.
This information made its way to Rei Stecker’s ears from the mouths of those lucky children, those the wind had taken pity on.
There were also rumors, spread far quicker than he had ever seen in his time, of unease in the palace, of the Imperial Prince being cursed by the Sun God. Of their God being displeased by the exile and hunt for the Sun twins all those years ago.
Rei was not a deeply religious man, but you couldn’t live in the Mogoru Empire without being subject to the national religion and all its dramas.
Trying to trace the whispers back to the source only lead to dead ends. There seemed to have been no real beginning, but the news was so widespread that it was impossible to just have been by chance.
The Empire’s, and Rei’s own, attention was ultimately diverted from the rumors when, for no apparent reason, the Bell Tower went up in flames. Or, more accurately, in an explosion.
Rei, probably being one of the only people left alive who truly knew the real nature of the Alchemist's Bell Tower, couldn’t help his relief at the news, at the destruction. The public story was that no one was hurt in the explosion, but..
If it really was the judgement of the Sun God.. If their God really had issued a punishment for that dark place.. Rei could only hope they had killed as many of the alchemists down in the underground as possible.
Cale looked around, taking in the group around him.
Choi Han, Beacrox, Bud, Rasheel, as well as the unconscious of the group, the lioness, Syrem and Rock and Clopeh Sekka of this world... Then finally, making their way over from the front of the estate, Sui Khan, and Clopeh, the latter now dressed in his usual armor once more.
Everyone was here.
Cale hummed to himself. This had gone well. Surprisingly so. The buff of this world was a true boon, one that Cale would have to try and push for on future contracts with the worlds.
Once everyone was gathered around, barring Sui Khan with Rock, Cale wasted no time in ripping the transportation scroll, bringing them all back to their would be home.
The Super Rock Villa.
Something panged uncomfortably in Cale’s chest, but he wasn’t sure if it was truly of him or the power nestled in his body. It didn’t matter in the end. Not with the rock ancient power of this world safely tucked into his spacial magic bag, along with the White Crown that Choi Han had found on Syrem’s person.
It was odd, the way that the Dominating Aura here was sealed into the crown in this world, instead of the dragon’s bones. Cale would have to ask the World about it at a later time.
Now, though, there were things to do.
“Raon.” Cale greeted the child who came barrelling out of the hidden cave entrance into his arms, the mighty dragon thankfully slowing his motion before he would inevitably knock the breath from Cale’s lungs.
“Human!” Raon greeted in turn, though his gaze locked onto the Sekka bastard of this world, the tilt of the, not so small anymore, dragon’s eyes going dangerously slanted.
Cale followed his gaze, looking at the prisoners. His eyes found Choi Han’s, cutting meaningfully across to the limp other Clopeh.
Choi Han nodded once, pointedly falling in step with Beacrox and Bud carrying the prisoners, putting himself between them and their own crazy bastard.
Clopeh didn’t miss the action, and that same pitying look turned to Cale again, and was once again ignored just the same.
No time to dwell on that.
“Raon.” The dragon of 6 years looked up at the address, and Cale smoothed a hand over his round head. “Let’s go to Eruhaben and the others.”
They had unfinished business with a bitch of an Imperial Prince and his people.
There was disorder. Not in the ranks, because they had been through far too many battles to be truly unorganized in their tasks, but in the higher command. Choi Han could see it.
Something was happening. Something that wasn’t directly affecting Roan, and thus throwing everyone off. Everything in the last seven years had been focused on Roan. And suddenly, inexplicably, there had been a shift.
There had been no wyvern raids in the last couple of days, which was already odd, given the patrols tended to be overhead at least once every two days, and the most recent sighting should have been last night. But there was none.
Something was happening. Choi Han didn’t know what. A gathering of forces? An attack somewhere unguarded? Something else entirely?
He didn’t know. He didn’t like not knowing. Not knowing when the next battle would be, the next chance to ward off the cloying sense of dread with the thrill of a fight.
He wanted to fight. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry.
None of that had changed in the last years.
None of that would change in any of the time to come.
Choi Han hoped desperately, in the back of his very being, tingling up his spine dully in a place he hadn’t had true access to since Korea, that this would all end. He hoped there would be real rest, somewhere down this line. Somehow.
But not yet.
Something was happening. And Choi Han was part of the hero’s party. He was the hero of this kingdom.
He had to keep moving. Keep fighting.
Keep living.
That's all there was to it.
He couldn’t rest yet.
There was still work to do. People to protect. And Choi Han thrived on protecting others, even if he couldn’t feel anything but that clinging feeling of despair, deep in his bones.
There was disorder up above, but not to Choi Han. To Choi Han, there was only a straight path. Forward, despite the way he could see that path leading.
There was nowhere to turn. This was his lot in life, his despair to carry the burden of. And he would carry it to the end of this war, or the end of his life. Whichever came first.
Jack was cold.
He never used to feel the cold. Not to this depth. There was always an inherent warmth to his healing powers. Always the comforting heat that came from the sun and the people around him, even if there was none of the comfort with it.
The people he healed were warm, under his hands, under his healing, under his care. The pope had been cruel, but he was still one of the sun’s people. Still had that inherent warmth.
His sister had been warmth incarnate. She had been comfort. Had been safety even when Jack was the older of the two of them.
She had been killed.
He had killed her.
There was no more warmth, neither in his skin, his muscles, sinew and bones, or his soul.
There was only cold.
He only ate the food provided to him, because the thought of dying, wasting away, ending without being able to pray for his sister’s soul in the warmth of their God.. It filled him with more dread than even the idea of dying itself.
He was not allowed to die. Not until he saw the sun again. Not until he atoned, prayed for his sister, begged she not be punished for the darkness forced upon her, the dead mana that had ravaged her until the urge to purify had been too much and Jack had-..
He had..
It was black, mostly, the memory.
But he knew, knew by the warmth that had been enveloping his hands when his mind had started functioning once more, knew by the eviscerated dust that had once been Hannah.
He had lost control of himself, and who knew what had become of his sister’s corrupted soul. Her very being.
And once the warmth had faded from his hands, once he’d cried himself hollow, once the jungle had burned around the cave, once he had been found and dragged, there had only been cold. That hollowness. Empty.
There was only one reason that Jack had lived as long as he had. Hadn’t let himself waste away and join his sister.
Because what if there was no one to join.
What if he had destroyed her very being, her soul. Or what if their God refused to take her because of the dead mana saturating Hannah at the time of her death.
What if she was just.. Gone.
What if she wasn’t allowed to pass to the next life, wherever it may be.
What if there was no Hannah for Jack to follow in death.
What if he still could help. Could still beg the God that had blessed him with his half saintly power, could trade himself in the light of the sun for his sister's soul if need be.
What if he died without even trying, and there was nothing left for him in death either. What then?
So Jack couldn’t die. Not yet.
He had to weather the cold, the ache, the despair, because what else could he do.
He could eat. He could press into the corner of the stone wall, or as much of a corner as there was in the rounded cell.
The metal chair was cold.
The metal bed was colder yet, the mattress little more than a blanket itself.
The equally metal door-
The metal door swung open.
And into Jack’s cell, stepped not the one that usually brought his meals. Not the Pope. Not even Sir Bernard, on the very rare occasions he would stop by the door just to gawk.
No. It was a man with hair as red as drying blood.
He stopped dead in the doorway, blinking blankly down at Jack like he also didn’t expect to see the other, before murmuring a soft, “Huh.”
Jack had the presence of mind to realize he probably didn’t look like much at the moment, should probably be wary or just straighten up around the stranger, but he couldn’t bring himself to move at the moment. Everything was too cold, and he hadn’t been brought food today.
The man stepped into the room after a moment though, like he wasn’t entering a cell with a prisoner, and didn’t even seem to pay Jack any more mind than that, moving to the corner of the room under the table and chair, and kicking them out of his way with a clang that rattled Jack’s brain and put his teeth on edge.
The man knelt, uncaring of his previously impeccably pressed pants, and laid his hand on the floor where the table had been.
Jack felt a bit of bemusement grow where the cold pit usually lay, though the feeling overshadowed nothing.
And then the stone under the man’s hand seemed to shift with an unknown source. The cold that had permeated Jack’s entire being for the last seven years dropped into a pit of pure dread and despair, the already frigid temperature of the room dropping rapidly enough that Jack was sure he’d see his own breath if he was breathing at all.
And from the new hole that Jack had been unaware of for years, the man pulled a pure white, holy looking book.
The feeling of death emanating from the thing made all the hair on Jack’s arms and neck raise and goose flesh to break out over his skin, and the feeling only lessened when the man tucked the item away into a small spacial magic bag on his hip.
And just like that, the cold that had been permeating all of Jack’s being, weighing down his mind and lungs and body for years.. Vanished.
Not fully, not the grief, but the feeling, longing for rest, for a peaceful death, to join his sister, it eased. To the point that, once it was gone, Jack was astounded he hadn’t snapped and given into the urge.
His eyes rose from where they had fallen to stare blankly at his hands, up to the man with red hair.
He was digging through his bag once more, having stood and dusted himself off, before pulling a different item from the pouch, and bringing a completely opposite feeling.
The feeling of sitting directly in a sunbeam.
And Jack could only slowly process that the man had stepped forward and crouched before him, still reeling from the, now unfamiliar, warmth spreading through his body.
It burnt him, a little. Like the feeling of running frigid hands under hot water suddenly. Sharp and painful, easing into the delicious warmth that Jack had been lacking all these years, filling that hollow place where the other half of his soul once had been with the warm forgiving feeling of their God.
The warmth was coming from his hands now, and he slowly blinked down at the small, compact hand mirror that was pressed into his slender, malnourished fingers, barely processing the man’s words.
“I think this belongs to you. Would you like to get out of here?”