Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Now standing in a strange room he had never seen before, Amon stared down at his bloodied hands before glancing at the walls. Someone—presumably himself, judging by the smeared fingerprints—had scrawled over every surface the same phrase again and again: “Everyone will die, including me.” The effect was less menacing and more like the desperate ramblings of a teenage girl with a crush, wondering where it all went wrong.

He had only been minding his own business, sulking after his call to his dad went to voicemail for probably the fifth time that week—and it was only Wednesday. At least, being on another continent, he could pretend it was because his father was impossibly busy and not deliberately ignoring him, as he so often did whenever his research became more interesting than his own son (which, by the way, was most of the time). Amon had even gone so far as to move halfway across the world to China for “studies” in the hope of catching his father’s attention, only for the man to barely glance up from dinner at the news of his departure.

So there he was, in a country where he barely spoke the language, stuck in a computer science major he had only a passing interest in—mostly chosen to spite his father, who wanted him to pursue research like himself. Classes bored him to death, so he spent most of his time gaming online or pulling mean-spirited pranks on his classmates.

Then came the fateful day. While scouring the internet for something ridiculously expensive to waste his dad’s money on (a petty act of revenge after his calls had been ignored twice in the same day), he stumbled upon a cheap-looking “magical artefact”—a monocle that promised its wearer infinite luck. Ridiculous, sure, but still worth the price just to annoy his father. And thanks to the wonder that was China’s one-day delivery (a convenience his own stupid, cold, and boring country had never offered), the monocle arrived the very next day. Amon, amused, threw it on for a few ridiculous selfies—only to find that the next thing he knew…

He was waking up with a splitting headache. When he forced his eyes open, all he could see were dull, grimy walls streaked with blood. So much blood. Judging by the raw burn of his fingertips and the grotesque, slowly healing gunshot wound in his forehead, most of it was his.

What a way to go… But if it really had been Amon who did this—

“The blood-scrawled nonsense is admirable, but I’d have gone for a bit more dramatic flair,” he hummed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Maybe leave behind some fake evidence about an encroaching doomsday—like a long, coded letter that’s really just filled with nonsense.”

Amon stared at his reflection in the dirty, blood-smeared mirror and immediately noticed he looked different. Smaller. Maybe it was his age—he couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen—or maybe it was the fact that he was so skinny he could practically trace his entire skeletal system. Malnourished, definitely. And this face… well, it wasn’t nearly as handsome as his real one. Still, Amon was confident that with a decent diet and some proper skincare, he could fix that in no time.

What really stood out, though, was the crystal monocle resting over his right eye—the exact same one he’d bought online to waste money and amuse himself. The fact that nothing else of his had carried over into this new body except for that monocle made it pretty clear to him that this whole mess had something to do with it.

And no, this wasn’t a dream. He was sure of that. His hands burned, his forehead throbbed, and Amon hated pain in all its forms. There was no way even his subconscious would torture him like this in a dream.
First things first—he needed to figure out where and when he was. Judging by the prehistoric-looking furniture and the dim, flickering lights, he doubted he was anywhere close to modern China—or anywhere remotely modern at all.

Once the pounding in his skull eased, Amon began exploring the tiny room that was presumably his, though he had no intention of stepping outside just yet. Eventually, he came across a book tucked away in the drawer of “his” desk.

'Sequence 9, Marauder Potion Formula

Main Ingredients

1 Blood-Speckled Black Mosquito
1 Core of a Candle Devourer

Supplementary Ingredients

100 milliliters of Another’s Blood
Nail fragments from nine different individuals
1 Sapphire
10 grams of Verbena Powder

Sequence 8, Swindler Potion Formula

Main Ingredients

1 Human-Faced Cage Grass
1 Larva of a Soul-Confusing Insect Swarm

Supplementary Ingredients

100 milliliters of Pure Water
20 milliliters of Another’s Tears
1 Lapis Lazuli
10 grams of White Chestnut Balm

As his eyes skimmed over the bizarre ingredients, a wave of memories not his own crashed into him. They belonged to this body’s original owner—this world’s “Amon.” Apparently, he had stolen the information from a gooey pile of flesh in some underground black market. This Amon had a habit of targeting the weak, or scavenging the already dead. Fallen Beyonders—whether from losing control or dying in fights—often had valuables on them: coins, trinkets, or information worth selling. Of course, he had to be careful not to draw the attention of the “Official” Beyonders while doing it.

But why did this Amon have a penchant for stealing? Well. Being an orphan sucked. Being an orphan in the poorest quarter of Tingen City was practically a death sentence. Even families with two working parents could barely keep food on the table. The only reason this Amon had survived this long was sharp cunning and… very frisky hands. Those hands had also been the reason he stumbled into the world of Beyonders in the first place.

He had managed to claw together a half-decent education with the money and scraps of information scavenged from his “trysts”—at least enough to read and write, even if his choice of ink left Amon deeply disappointed. Seriously, blood? It flakes after it dries. Didn’t everyone know that? With odd jobs and thieving, he’d eventually scraped together both the knowledge and resources to make and ingest his first potion.

After that, life had become slightly less miserable. His enhanced skills as a Marauder made stealing easier—he could slip away unnoticed, swipe trinkets without even touching them—but he was still jobless, still struggling, still clawing for scraps. He told himself he only needed one big score, one perfect theft, to set himself up for life.

That chance had come when he spotted a rich-looking university student strolling about as though carrying something priceless. Amon couldn’t resist. He stole it. It was an antique-looking notebook. But when he tried to read it… that was where the memories cut off. Presumably, whatever was written in that damned notebook had driven him into hysteria—and to his own bloody end.

Now caught up enough on this body’s history, Amon let his eyes roam the room again—only to notice one glaring detail.

The notebook was gone.

Amon fixed his crooked monocle on his right eye and couldn't help but let out a small, "...Interesting."

But the moment his fingers brushed the monocle, a sharp pain exploded through his senses, nearly knocking him off his feet. A chorus of loud murmurs surged in his ears—words he couldn’t make out, though he guessed they were probably in Hermes or Ancient Hermes. His spirituality trembled dangerously, threatening to collapse.

And then—clear words broke through. Not Hermes. Not Ancient Hermes. Not even some nonsense-induced babbling.

It was Mandarin.

“Who…?”

Amon ripped the monocle off, gasping for breath. His body had only just clawed its way back from near death, and his spirituality, already average at best as a Marauder, was now practically nonexistent. Even the smallest tremor felt like a catastrophic implosion he could barely endure.

Clutching his forehead, he staggered onto the rusty, uneven bed and sat down heavily. After a while, once his breathing steadied, he cautiously slid the monocle back into place. This time, nothing. No voices. No whispers. No Mandarin.

Was it the motion—pinching the silver rim between his thumb and finger, adjusting it slightly—that triggered those maddened voices? He had done that exact thing back in his own world… and woken up here.

Curiosity gnawed at him, urging him to try again. Normally, Amon was the type to chase whatever mystery caught his eye. But something in his gut told him that, in his current fragile state, any further tinkering could easily kill him—or worse, twist him into one of those grotesque monsters he’d seen other Beyonders become.

So, for once, he let it go. The monocle stayed where it was. Amon sighed and leaned back, staring at the dark, stained ceiling of his shabby little room.

…He should probably clean up.

With great reluctance, Amon got up and began wiping away the blood. The dirt and grime he could tolerate for a few days without triggering his inner neat freak, but dried blood? Absolute nightmare. And before anyone jumped to conclusions—no, Amon hadn’t killed anyone in his life. Not yet, anyway, though not for lack of trying. His expertise in cleaning blood came from his college roommates. Both girls. And both entirely shameless. Not that Amon minded—he was pretty shameless himself after all.

By the time he had cleaned both himself and the room enough that most of the blood was gone, his stomach growled. Instinctively, he went to check for a fridge or snack pantry—only to remember this version of him didn’t have either. Because poverty. Yay. Amon rifled through his pockets, then checked the secret hiding places where the other Amon had stashed money. Nothing.

“…”

Hungry and broke, the well-fed college brat turned malnourished eighteen-year-old orphan could only accept his new reality and venture out penniless. It was fine, he told himself. He was a Sequence 9 Marauder. And although he was still new to this strange world of Beyonders, but the original owner had gathered a meticulous amount of information about this world. It was only a matter of time before all those memories synced fully with him.

The apartment building was a dingy, half-rotted complex—one tiny room to his name and a bathroom shared with three other residents. Thankfully, they were all away at work, so no one had seen him scrubbing blood off his hands and face.

The moment he stepped outside, the stench hit him like a brick. Rotting sewage pipes, smoke, humidity thick with bacteria—it was poverty distilled into air. If only he had a face mask. This climate was murder on skin. Then again, his skin was already a disaster, so he soothed himself with that thought and pressed on.

His mission? To find a victim, of course.

Not here, though. The locals were just as poor as he was. Stealing from them wouldn’t get him much—and, technically, it was “wrong.” His father had hammered morality into him back when Amon’s childhood pranks had first crossed into outright theft, all in a futile attempt to have his father pay attention to him. Amon himself didn’t particularly care about morals, but fine. Better to keep his record clean—for now. After all, back home, he had the safety net of his father’s legal team to bail him out. Here? Not so much.

Eventually, he spotted a target: a fat merchant who, from the original Amon’s memories, was an absolute ass to his seven-year-old assistant at the butcher shop. Perfect. With a casual bump—barely even touching him—Amon slipped the man’s wallet into his own hand. His eyes lit up like a crow spotting something shiny. It was really that easy? And this was only scratching the surface of his Marauder abilities... The possibilities made him giddy.

But when he flipped the wallet open, his excitement dimmed. A single crumpled pound note and a few dirty soli coins.

“…Really?”

Yes, one pound was a lot for someone like this world’s Amon—but Amon was used to limitless credit cards, piles of cash he literally forgot existed, and QR code payments that made spending effortless, so something like this was spare change to him.

Well, not from now on apparently.

He sighed, pocketed the money, and tossed the wallet into a dumpster before heading off in search of clothes and food.

Amon bought himself a pair of decent-looking clothes, discarding the old ones without a second thought, and then found a quaint little café for lunch. On the way, he’d lightened the purse of another passerby—a woman with a pearl necklace thick enough to strangle a horse. Surely she wouldn’t miss two pounds, ten soli, and six pennies.

When he looked at the menu however... Amon was starting to have second thoughts. Wow. It was almost like he was back at home—his real home—with his father. Ugh. That man couldn’t cook to save his life, yet somehow thought boiling peas, potatoes, and pork all together without a single pinch of salt was a perfectly acceptable meal. And then he’d dump it in front of Amon like it was some great feast. Honestly, it had been so unbearable that Amon was forced to learn how to cook, just so they wouldn’t starve. He still remembered whining about it, only for his father to say something about “building independence.” Independence, my foot. If his father had actually cared, he would’ve just hired someone. But no, apparently it was “too cruel” to get a personal servant out in the middle of nowhere where he worked on his weird black oil research. Too cruel for a servant, but not too cruel to leave him, his precious only son, trapped out there with nothing but boiled pork water.

Amon puffed his cheeks, snapped the menu shut with a little frown, and decided he wasn’t going to eat anything that reminded him of that. If he wanted to sulk, he could sulk properly—with sweets. At least with sugar, people couldn’t screw things up too badly. If it wasn’t good enough, you just dumped more sugar on top until it was. Simple.

Now with pure sugar running through his veins, Amon’s muddled head finally started to clear. He could feel his spirituality recovering, though he didn’t dare touch the monocle again—he had the nagging suspicion it might be the kind of thing that ended with his premature doom. At least, not yet. For now, he had a sandwich and some roasted meat packed away for dinner before finally leaving the café.

With a few hours to kill before sunset—and before his spirituality fully recovered enough for another go at the crystal monocle—Amon wandered about town, entertaining himself in the most harmlessly criminal ways possible. A shiny trinket here, a bauble there. He stole a hairpin from a passing lady only to slip it into her husband’s hair when no one was looking, then helped himself to a kid’s candy and ate it while observing the world go by.

His memories told him he wasn’t the first person from Earth to stumble into this world, something only confirmed when he noticed the elaborate tarot cards a so-called fortune-teller was trying to swindle him with. Emperor Roselle, they called the man—whoever he was, he had clearly been an Earthling too. Unfortunately for Amon, the old fellow was either dead or had already gone home, leaving no helpful breadcrumbs behind. Typical.

Sighing, Amon absentmindedly flipped over the card representing his “present” while the beast-tamer lady got a lecture from the real fortune teller.

The Fool.

Huh. Of all the cards, that one was almost… fitting. At least, based on the half-baked knowledge he’d picked up from one of his roommate’s endless tarot ramblings back on Earth.

When the lecture was finally over, Amon considered slipping away. No chance was he about to waste his already pitiful funds on vague nonsense. Still, he couldn’t resist his little sleight of hand to peek at his “future” card before leaving.

The Lovers.

Love. Deep connection. Compassion. Heartfelt choices. Always do what is most loving.

Amon nearly burst out laughing on the spot. Yeah, sure. He was an unloved orphan right now with exactly zero friends and even fewer acquaintances. What deep connections? Even back when he’d still had a father, there hadn’t exactly been a wealth of tender bonds between them. And compassion? Please. Amon couldn’t remember a single time he’d ever made a decision with “compassion” in mind.

Truly… what a joke. To think he’d almost taken the cards seriously after The Fool had nailed his current situation. But really, anyone could spin vague advice into something that felt accurate. Amon had more than enough common sense to see through that.

Still, as the sun dipped lower, he decided it was time to try heading home. And hey—maybe the Lovers card would prove right after all. Maybe when he finally made it back, his father—rattled by his strange disappearance—would shower him with overdue attention and they’d live together in peace and harmony.

…

Hah. As if.

Finishing his stolen candy, Amon finally reached his new “home.” He tossed down the takeout food with all the enthusiasm of a wet rag and locked the door shut before collapsing onto the bed. For a moment, he just sat there, trying to steady his nerves.

Whatever.

If he was going to die, well… that wasn’t the worst outcome. At least he wouldn’t be alive enough to complain about being dead. Small blessings, right?

With that very comforting thought, he nudged the monocle onto his right eye.

Would this really take him back to his own world? He didn’t exactly have much to look forward to, but it was still his life. His dumb little routines. His bad cafeteria coffee. His father.

He scowled at the thought. True, he hated the sight of that man these days… But he was still his father. And the last time they’d spoken… yeah, that had been a disaster. Amon had screamed at him, unloaded so many profanities and accusations, and had even said that he didn’t love him. The first time their fights had reached to this level.

And the worst part? He hadn’t even meant it. He just… he wanted the man to care enough to prove him wrong. At least once.

It was in the middle of that sulky train of thought that the air around him suddenly froze, thick and strange, like the whole world had inhaled at once.

And then—he felt the pull.

The crazed murmurs returned, softer this time, almost tolerable. Something—some force—seemed to muffle them, wrapping his ears in a strange, warm protection. His body felt weightless, floating, until even the whispers faded into nothing.

When he opened his eyes, an endless expanse of ethereal gray fog stretched before him. And there, at the center of it all, sat a vast, black throne. Upon that throne, a figure loomed—massive, imposing, and shrouded entirely by the fog.

“@&187;₹1)9—“

Amon winced, his spirituality buckling, body suddenly weak.

The voice cut off with surprising awkwardness, followed by the sound of a bashful cough.

“Forgive me… I forgot that my voice is not appropriate for normal humans to hear,” the deep voice said. Then, more carefully: “You… who are you?”

Amon stared at the imposing figure hidden behind the gray fog and felt utterly helpless.

“Isn’t that what I should be asking you?” he muttered, crossing his arms as if that gave him any leverage here.

The figure stilled for a moment, then rumbled, “That’s reasonable… Fine. I will tell you who I am.

“I am… The Fool.”

Amon blinked at him. Then squinted. Then finally deadpanned, “You do realize self-deprecating humor is an early sign of mental illness, right?” His unspoken words were clear: ‘Are you okay??? Should I be worried about being stuck here with you?’

At that moment, the fog seemed to pause.

“…”

Chapter Text

Said ‘self-deprecating’ Mr. Fool couldn’t help but stare speechlessly at the human in front of him, his countless tentacles made up of his spirit worms hidden behind the gray fog so as not to make the poor human go insane, trembled then shifted, paused, and trembled again.

Any other deity would have smitten this human in front of him, but The Fool, a lonely old man who had not been in the company of anyone except the bastard Tianzun for the last few thousands of years, could only feel an odd sense of helplessness and a little surprise. There was even a small part of himself that couldn’t help but feel… refreshed?

So he merely explained himself in a neutral tone, “I wasn’t attempting to make a joke.”

Amon’s eyes widened even further, “So you’re saying that’s your actual name? Like— for real?” Whose parents hated their child this much to name them something like this?

“…” The Fool stared at Amon, then replied silently, “I don’t know.”

Amon blinked, “You don’t know… so you have amnesia?”

Considering most of his memories had now been corrupted by Tianzun to shatter his mind, and even trying to access them would make it even harder for him to resist Tianzun’s influence in him, that was rather on point.

“Yes.” All The Fool remembered about himself was what he had been repeating to himself constantly for the past few thousand years, ‘Resist Tianzun, don’t let him take control. Conserve and protect your divinity and humanity. Don’t let Tianzun win.’ Along with two lists of names marked as ‘Allies’ and ‘Enemies’. Apparently, his self had sealed himself in this place knowing that losing his entire identity was one of the possible outcomes.

“Ah, I see.” Amon didn’t really see, with the gray fog and all, but that’s all he could say at this moment. Hey, he was an insensitive asshole, but he wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t the kind to kick anyone who’s down… or maybe just kick them a tiny bit if it was funny. Amon deserved at least that much entertainment for holding his actual sadistic self back.

“Since you already introduced yourself, it’s my turn. My name is Amon.” Technically, this body’s actual name was something else, something Amon actually didn’t know as this body had no one who knew him and regarded him with his name much, and one simply doesn’t use their own name out loud so even his memories were useless. Besides, the previous Amon had no paperwork of him either, so technically, Amon could just go by his actual name instead of adopting a new one, making it much more convenient. There was no one who would even be able to know that Amon wasn’t the name of this actual body either.

“Amon…” the strange being repeated his name, with certain wonder, or was it confusion? As if trying but failing to remember something. Amon just chalked it up to it having amnesia.

“So… you are the one who brought me over here?” Amon asked, vaguely waving his hands at his surroundings, the boundless gray fog that seemed to stretch infinitely.

“Yes.” The Fool— okay calling this individual that in Amon’s mind was getting a little tiring, he would now refer to him as Mr. Fool. That sounded much better— agreed.

“So you can bring just anyone up here? Why me specifically?” Amon did a dramatic gasp, “Is it because I am special?” He added teasingly.

“…” Ignoring the human’s erratic behavior in front of him, Mr. Fool continued, “No. You have been the only person I have been able to ‘access’ for dozens of centuries.”

“So I am special.” Amon hummed proudly. “Any particular reason why?”

“…I think I know why.” Mr. Fool said, his low voice ringing through the boundless gray fog, his eyes—hidden to Amon—looking pointedly at Amon’s right eye, or more specifically, the crystal monocle over it. “That monocle… is the uniqueness of the Error Pathway.”

Amon frowned, "Those words literally mean nothing to me.”

Mr. Fool nodded, agreeing to his mistake and continuing, “What you have on you right now, is one of the three objects I needed for advancement. But due to some unforeseen circumstances, I must have been forced to try and advance with only two of the required uniquenesses. Maybe it was to fight off a powerful foe or having been put into some corner, I have forgotten now. My attempt failed and I had to quarantine myself here in my Sefirah Palace in order to fight madness and resist losing control. That monocle… may be the last thing I need to finally regain my powers.” His tentacles shivered at the temptation. The temptation of finally being shown some hope after so many countless centuries of loneliness. But he resisted. He couldn’t harm this human. No, that was his bottom line. A bottom line he needed to uphold now more than ever to conserve his already bare humanity.

“Can I… have it?”

If it were a normal situation, Amon would have definitely said no. This was his key to return back home and the only thing he had on himself aside from his memories of being Amon from Earth. Besides, it was also a sign of pettiness towards his father whose money he deliberately wasted on this junk.

But… this was not a normal situation. He could feel the unsaid desperation and hope in Mr. Fool’s voice. Like a parched man finally finding water after years of thirst. Yes, Amon was the kind to derive pleasure from stealing candy from children, but he would return the candy to the child if the child was starving to death.

“Sure, but what will I get in exchange?” Amon finally answered, crossing his arms, “From what you have told me, this monocle is extremely valuable. I would be a—hah, fool— to hand it over for free.”

“That is reasonable.” Mr. Fool nodded, the excitement so strong he didn’t even give a second thought to Amon’s bad pun. “Then, activated immediately after this exchange and till the end of time, I will have your back. As long as it doesn’t harm an innocent or isn’t unreasonable, I will respond to your wishes accordingly.”

Amon’s eyes widened, “And… how valuable is your backing?”

“Very.”

Amon pursed his lips, considering the offer. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that the being in front of him was not human, it was some sort of deity maybe even like The Evernight Goddess or The Eternal Blazing Sun. Having the backing of this kind of powerhouse would be a way more efficient way of finding his way back home than going in blind and achieving nothing by himself. His father might have been a researcher, but they were from a family of extremely influential businessmen, and Amon had been raised to preserve his family’s legacy no matter what he wanted, he knew that favors and backings were many times more valuable than physical and monetary things.

“Fine then.” Amon agreed, there wasn’t a need to sign a contract since he doubted he could call a team of lawyers on a mythical deity, at least not with his current capital. Besides, he had always been a good judge of character, and his intuition told him that whatever this being was in front of him calling itself The Fool was being genuine in his request. A kind of genuineness you could hardly find in current day and age aside from sheltered kids.

“I agree to this equivalent exchange.”

Mr. Fool nodded, “Then, please close your eyes. I don’t wish to hurt you.”

Amon didn’t doubt the request and closed his eyes like asked. See dad? He could be obedient and filial. You just needed to be polite with him first!

Once again, Amon felt a strange warmth over his ears, as if someone was gently protecting them, not allowing him to hear what could hurt him. And then he felt it— something wet and cool on his legs, making him shiver. The slimy appendage crept up his legs, wrapping around his leg as it went up. Was that… a tentacle? But as soon as he started wondering what the strange appendage was, his spirituality wavered and his body shook.

“Don’t pry into what you cannot comprehend.” A strange voice, presumably Mr. Fool’s, spoke directly into his ear, the soothing cool tone calming him down considerably. Amon nodded and continued to try and think of nothing as the appendage wrapped around his waist.

But that was extremely hard, especially when the thing went directly under and up his shirt instead of over it, possibly due to his shirt being extremely loose and hanging over his thin frame like a curtain. So instead, he thought of all the weird tentacle not safe for work things he had watched multiple times back in his own world and suddenly he felt extremely humorous.

Ah, this was almost like the poor innocent character being taken advantage of by the alien monster who wanted to impregnate her with its eggs.

“…why are you smiling?”

“Nothing.” Amon contained his laughter and before he knew it, the slimy appendage had already reached his neck, coiling around it like a snake before reaching for his cheek, and then his monocle. But then as soon as he felt the appendage touching the crystal monocle, the entire appendage disappeared, like shattered glass.

The weight on his ears was also removed almost abruptly, allowing Amon to hear a sharp gasp of what sounded like pain and thousands of slimy things curling and writhing around each other.

Amon tried to open his eyes “Mr. Fool are you—“

“Don’t open your eyes— You’ll die!” Mr. Fool’s pained voice stopped whatever Amon was trying to do as he waited with bated breath and could only rely on his ears as what sounded like thousands of tiny shrieks of pain and tiny slimy things writhing against each other filled the fog.

After what felt like ages but wasn’t longer than a minute, the sounds calmed down and all Amon could hear now were labored gasps and desperate gulps of air.

“…Can I open my eyes now?”

“…Mn.”

Amon opened his eyes, and noticed a faint wall of gray fog around him like a dome, as if Mr. Fool had raised up a shield protecting him from whatever had just happened even if he was on the brink of madness and shattering. This further proved Amon’s hypothesis that he could trust whatever this thing was.

“Are you alright Mr. Fool?”

“…No.” the labored voice replied, “But I’ll be fine in a bit. I severed my connection to that tentacle as soon as I realized something had gone wrong before it could completely latch onto my real body. I’ll recover in a bit.”

“I see…” it sounded a little complicated but Amon reasoned with himself that it was a lot like the damage transfer mechanic in video games or cutting your poisoned limb off before the poison could reach your whole body. “So your attempt failed?”

“Yes…” Mr. Fool said, his labored voice now holding a sense of not despair but something close to it, like the kind of tiredness you could only feel after countless back-to-back failures. “It seems like that uniqueness has merged into your self somehow. I can neither pry it off of you nor even touch it, let alone take it for myself. Even touching it destabilizes my entire self…”

Amon hummed in thought. “But this monocle is the thing that is connecting me here to you, correct?”

“Yes. It was through your monocle that I was able to connect to your body in the physical plane and bring your spirit body up here. Although I can’t touch the uniqueness… it is an uncontested fact that it’s connected to me and the gray fog.” Which was understandable, considering the nature of the object and the Sefirah Castle.

“So as long as I have it on me I’ll be connected to you?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Even when I’m in the bathroom?”

“…”

Amon smiled, pinching the monocle on his right eye, “Then should I start charging you for the show?”

“…You—!”

“I was kidding.” Amon said with a small smirk, “I don’t mind people watching.”

“…!!”

“Oh please, don’t start acting so scandalized all of a sudden. It wasn’t me who was groping a guy’s bare torso who I just met.”

“That…!” Mr. Fool struggled, the gray fog twisting and shivering inexplicably, “It was because your clothes are too loose! You are too thin— you should eat more!”

“Victim blaming? Really?” Amon sighed dramatically, “And eat more how? I’m just a poor orphan who could barely put a single meal on the table a day for most of my life.”

Amon had intended his line to be humorous, but instead Mr. Fool got quiet. Almost like a worried parent concerned about their child’s health.

“Is… that so? I apologize then…”

Well, the air had certainly gone awkward now. Amon quickly changed the topic.

“Apology accepted.” He nodded, “So now that the exchange has failed, does that mean I won’t get my benefits?"

The gray fog finally eased and Mr. Fool’s normal voice rang through, his figure seemingly shaking his head.

“No, the exchange still holds true. You still tried to give me the uniqueness as per the part of our deal. It would be unfair of me to withhold my end of the deal just because there were some issues on my end.”

Truly… Amon felt bad. He felt like he was scamming the poor guy. Just who had this kind of heart of gold in this day and age?

“Then let’s say that the uniqueness still belongs to you and you’ll take it once you’re able to?” Amon offered.

“That is reasonable.” Mr. Fool agreed, then slowly he added, “…Thank you.”

“But then we’ll still have to figure out how to get this ‘uniqueness’ or whatever you call it to you right?” Amon said, “Because from what you’ve told me till now, you can barely interact with the real world as you are now. Which means you won’t be able to help me much.” And the real help he needed was to get back to his real world.

“Yes.” Mr. Fool agreed, “What we know for certain till now is that the uniqueness is connected to you. If perhaps you could get the ability to control the uniqueness then you would be able to transfer it to me in a way that wouldn’t hurt either of us. The best way to do that is to go up the sequence and get enough power to gain authority over your uniqueness. You are a sequence 9 Marauder correct?”

“Yes.” Amon didn’t ask how this thing knew his pathway but he wasn’t in the mood to decrypt that at the moment.

“Then I may be able to help you as my memories start to come back. Considering that your existence allowed me to wake up, that also means that there is a real chance that as you grow stronger, my powers are also unsealed and so would my memories. That could also allow me to help you even more even if the uniqueness couldn’t be transferred to me at the moment, hence a boon for both of us.”

Amon, still new to this strange world of Beyonders, didn’t really understand much, but knowing that whoever this thing was was most probably more knowledgeable of this extraordinary world than him, his hypothesis might be correct— or at least much more accurate than his own, so he could only agree.

“Then, Amon was it?” Mr. Fool started, his imposing hidden figure becoming even more imposing as the gray fog surged around the two, bursting with a faint sort of energy and excitement, “Would you become my Blessed?”

Blessed… wasn’t that the term used for the people closest to god? Or evil gods?

So was Mr. Fool on the level of a god? Or possibly even above that?

“Fine.” Amon replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he pinched his monocle, like some sort of mock tipping of a hat. “I’ll become your Blessed.”

The air around them thickened, then let loose and Amon could feel that The Fool was feeling pleased at the moment.

“Then, my Blessed, you would certainly need a group of allies, people from the real world who would be able to help you in terms of information and other things I am yet to be able to provide you with.” Mr. Fool said, then looked at two of the countless red stars surrounding the gray fog shining more brightly than the rest.

Amon watched with great amusement as Mr. Fool extended his hands towards the two shining stars, “These stars shone a lot in the past, but neither of those times could I access them and pull the people representing these stars’ spirit bodies up into the Sefirah. But after your presence… with my current power I think I can do two.”

With that, the two stars shone even brighter, the gray fog dissipating and then becoming a whirlwind as two more figures shrouded by the gray fog appeared into the boundless gray fog.

The two figures, the masculine one who held himself with great caution and the body mannerisms of an experienced Beyonder, and the feminine one whose body language was a lot more naive and excited as compared to the man and in clothes which seemed befitting for nobility of Loen.

The two figures regarded one another with uncertainty, then at Mr. Fool and Amon who stood close to each other, specifically Mr. Fool, who was sitting in this high black chair whose presence seemed a lot more imposing and exuding an aura of refinement and power.

Finally, the feminine person said in a soft and uncertain voice of a girl, “Are… are you two the ones who brought us here?”

Amon fixed the crystal monocle on his right eye and regarded The Fool, “No, that would be him—” He said, stepping away and regarding the figure shrouded in mystery and fog behind him. “The Fool, or you may call him Mr. Fool.”

“Mr. Fool…?”

“Yes.” Mr. Fool chuckled in a low yet heavy tone, calmly speaking as if replying to the polite greetings of the visitors, “This is an attempt.”

An attempt…?

Both the figures stared at the two mysterious people veiled in the grayish-white fog and couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding.

The girl tried to calm herself and replied in a somewhat perturbed yet courteous way as expected of a noble, “Then sir… Mr. Fool. Is the attempt over? Can you permit our return?”

“Of course, if you make a formal request, you can return at this very moment.” Mr. Fool said. Amon could hear the small smile in his voice. Was it pleased at being regarded with such caution and apprehension as befitting of its status, or was it just happy to have more people to interact with? Amon did not know, but it was fun to observe the show from the sidelines, standing a little ahead and beside Mr. Fool like some sort of right-hand man, or better yet, his ‘Blessed’.

The body language of the two visitors regained some of their composure at the well-intentioned tone, and the girl even went ahead and gave up on holding herself back, speaking so fast in excitement she almost fumbled over her own words,

“This is such a wonderful experience! I have always hoped for something like this to happen— I have always had an interest in the world of the mysterious— what I mean is that, sir, what can I do to become a Beyonder?”

“Firstly, it is unbefitting of me as a host to make you all stand when I was the one who called you over.” Mr. Fool said in a low pleased hum, and with a snap of his fingers a number of stone pillars shot up around them, above them a vast dome encapsulating everything. Then a large bronze table rose from the endless gray fog right in front of Mr. Fool, along with twenty chairs along its length symmetrically, and a single odd one much closer to The Fool’s seat. The back of each chair shone faintly with a crimson red, the same crimson of the stars surrounding the gray fog and from where Amon had noticed the two new visitors being pulled in, drawing the outlines of weird constellations that differed from reality.

“Take a seat.” Mr. Fool said, waving a hand at the newly arrived chairs.

Amon took the odd seat closest to Mr. Fool, and the man—Alger—took the seat beside him and face to face with the girl—Audrey.

After inspecting his surroundings, Alger opened his mouth and answered Audrey’s question,

“The best way is to join the Churches of either the Evernight Goddess, the Lord of Storms, or the God of Steam and Machinery.”

Amon’s eyes shone as he listened to the man listing the brief history and existence of Beyonders and how only a few of them existed in this day and age as compared to the old days of the Iron Age.

Although his subconscious already knew all of this information in bits and pieces, being told all this upfront surged his memories and solidified his knowledge and what this body’s previous owner knew.

He wasn’t sure what Mr. Fool meant when he said that he would give Amon ‘allies’, but this certainly was something very priceless. The man looked like an experienced Beyonder, and the girl, although weak and naive, held an air of nobility and status few could achieve even with high Beyonder powers. As someone raised with a business mindset as iterated before, Amon knew just how priceless these connections had the chance to be.

“I know all that, mister, but I don’t wish to give up my freedom…” Audrey said slowly after waiting for Alger to finish.

This was when Amon took the chance to speak, “There are other ways of course,” he said, “Yes, becoming a part of official organisations like the Nighthawks or the higher echelons of the government or coming from a Beyonder family are the best ways… they are merely all a means to an end of what is actually required to become a Beyonder. That is, potions.” He then turned to the man and said with a smile, “Of course, you know this. So why hold back on the poor lady, hm?”

Alger shook in his seat for a second. He still did not know the identity of the strange man who had introduced Mr. Fool to them. Obviously he had been there since before he and the girl had been taken here and he held at least some form of familiarity with the mysterious lord shrouded in this gray fog, and his seat was separate and special, one closest to Mr. Fool.

Whoever this person was, he couldn’t offend him, no matter how casual he may look and speak.

So, Alger nodded and turned to Audrey, “I have the formulas of two sequence 9 potions.”

Amon observed as the two exchanged information, Alger telling Audrey of the dangers of potions, how to ingest them, and the specific abilities of both the potions he had on him, Sailor and Spectator.

“I also have the sequence 9 of the Marauder Pathway, but it seems like the lady here has already set her mind on the Spectator pathway.” Amon added casually while also keeping an eye on Mr. Fool in between to see his reactions, but could barely see anything through the thick gray fog obscuring his figure. But from the way his hand was tapping aloofly over the table, Amon could tell that its mood was at least good. Interested in the trade of information in front of it.

After finalising the specifics of their trade, Audrey turned to Mr. Fool excitedly,

“Honourable Mr. Fool, would you please permit me to take the liberty of requesting you to be the witness of our trade?”

“It’s nothing.” Mr. Fool agreed easily.

Alger stood up and bowed with his right palm against his chest, “It’s an honour, Mr. Fool.”

“Continue,” Mr. Fool lowered his right palm and smiled.

After Audrey and Alger confirmed the way of their trade, Audrey turned to look at Mr. Fool with sparkling eyes and suggested in a tone of interest, “Mr. Fool, would you mind making a few more ‘attempts’ like this?”

Alger also agreed and even went so far as to tell Mr. Fool how he could be of use with his experience and background, as this opportunity had great chances of rewarding him greatly.

Amon smiled loftily as he turned to Mr. Fool, body language casual and unbothered as he leaned on his right hand and said in a casual tone, “How about it, Mr. Fool? Would you turn this into a regular weekly thing?” He hummed as he watched the figure look at him, “I feel like it could greatly benefit all of us present here.”

Mr. Fool hummed and then stopped his rapping as he smiled at the seated individuals in front of him.

“I’m a person who likes a fair and equal exchange.

“Your help will not go unrewarded.

“Every Monday at three in the afternoon, try your best to be alone. After I make a few more attempts and figure out certain things, perhaps you can apply for a leave of absence ahead of time. You will no longer need to worry about being in inappropriate situations.”

Audrey excitedly pumped her fist against her chest in delight and even Alger seemed pleased at this decision. After all, all these terms aligned perfectly with their wishes.

“Then shall we give ourselves code names?” Amon began, regarding the two strangers, “After all, I doubt you two would like to reveal your real names here.”

“Good idea.” Mr. Fool nodded, pleased.

Audrey’s eyes also shone with excitement, “Then since Mr. Fool’s name is derived from Tarot Cards, how about the rest of us also choose our names from Tarot Cards to keep the theme?”

“That sounds like a fantastic idea.” Amon clapped his hand, after all a theme was one of the first few requirements of cults—well, gatherings of this sort!

Seeing that Mr. Fool nodded at Amon’s words, Audrey and Alger took it as agreement.

“Then I wish to be The Justice!” Audrey said excitedly.

“Then I would like to be referred to as The Hanged Man.” Alger added with a nod.

Amon listened to the names and couldn’t help but be reminded of the Tarot Card reading from that afternoon.

His present had shown the card of The Fool, which represented his current situation almost perfectly at the time while also sort of hinting at his connection to Mr. Fool.

And the card that represented his future, which told that Amon’s future would be forged with new relationships that could mean Madam Justice and The Hanged Man while also insinuating a deeper bond with someone. Could that mean how he was now the Blessed to Mr. Fool? A Blessed would surely be regarded as a really close bond, right? Maybe that card reading hadn’t been a complete scam after all.

Amon smiled, pinched the monocle on his right eye and announced happily, “Then I will be The Lovers!”

Chapter Text

“Alright, that will be all for today’s gathering.” Mr. Fool finally said after a few more discussions.

Alger and Audrey rose and bowed with their right hands on their chests, “By your will.” Even Amon, feeling playful, rose and bowed, “By your will, Mr. Fool.”

“Let’s look forward to the next gathering,” Mr. Fool said as he severed the connection. The crimson ‘stars’ brightened once more as their light receded like water, and Alger and Audrey’s figures turned into a blur as they phased away.

Amon, who hadn’t been sent back yet, looked at the aloof-looking Mr. Fool sitting in his high-backed chair, his gloved hand holding his head as if he were nursing a headache. Now that Madam Justice and The Hanged Man had left, the fog concealing Mr. Fool’s form had also receded a little and went back to how it had been when Amon had just come up—thick enough to hide details but thin enough for him to make out the rest. He was pretty sure in Mr. Fool’s eyes the fog didn’t even hinder his view—of Amon at least—considering he was able to pinpoint Amon’s crystal monocle, yet Amon couldn’t make out if Mr. Fool was wearing glasses or not.

“Did that gathering take up most of your powers?” Amon couldn’t help but ask.

“Mn.” Mr. Fool hummed in reply, seemingly too tired to provide answers with actual words.

Amon nodded and then started observing the surroundings—the new dome-like place for their gathering as well as the countless crimson stars around them glowing faintly.

“How were you able to pull those two up to this place?” Amon held his chin in his hands and asked.

“They most probably were in possession of some object that once belonged to me or was connected to me in the past, and praying to it allowed me to connect to their spirit bodies,” Mr. Fool replied slowly.

“But I didn’t pray to you, right? That means the nature of this ‘uniqueness’ is different from their artifacts,” Amon said lightly. There wasn’t much to do back in his room, so he wasn’t in a hurry to leave—in fact, he wanted to chat a little more with this strange fellow. And the air around here was cool, almost as if he were in a well–air-conditioned room. Meanwhile, his actual room in real life was… well, let’s just say he was worried he might start hallucinating pretty soon due to the amount of mold there was.

But that’s when Mr. Fool’s posture stiffened. “Some people are approaching your room. They are Beyonders. Sleepless pathway.”

Amon’s eyes widened a fraction. “You can see that much?”

Mr. Fool didn’t seem to hear him as he quickly continued, “I don’t have enough power right now to help you in the real world, and I won’t be able to contact you again till I recover the spirituality I just spent. All I can help you with is the knowledge that you may be in a dream.”

“A dream?” Amon barely had time to grasp the words before a force shoved him backward. In the blink of an eye, he was back in his own body, lying in his room.

But before he could get his bearings, his door slammed open, breaking its lock. Before Amon could even process what was happening, he was pinned on the wall by a good-looking young man, probably a good few years older than Amon’s current age, with the romantic temperament of a poet.

“What purpose does your secret organization have?”

Huh?

“Listen, as much as I like being pinned against the wall by a handsome man older than me, you’re really not my type.”

Amon’s words rattled the young man enough that his grip loosened, giving Amon the chance to slip free. Faced with a situation that pushed his physical limits, Amon was pleasantly surprised to find his body remarkably nimble and responsive. His fingers, in particular, possessed such precision and strength that even an e-sports champion would envy them.

So these were the powers of a Sequence 9 Marauder. Every enhancement he possessed served one purpose—making theft easier. Then… logically, he should fight like a thief, shouldn’t he?

Drawing on his heightened senses, Amon immediately noticed the gun tucked beneath his assailant’s jacket. With nothing more than a subtle motion of his hand, the weapon slipped from its owner’s grasp and appeared in his own—without him ever needing to touch it.

Leveling the gun at the young man, Amon flicked off the safety, his other hand raised in mock surrender. “Now,” he said evenly, “would you care to explain why you broke into my room and attacked me? I could always call the police.”

The young man looked startled at how effortlessly his gun had been taken, but then a flicker of understanding crossed his face. His expression eased as he mirrored Amon’s calm smile. “Well, I’d certainly like to see you try. Especially considering we are the police.”

We…? So there were more people with him? And Mr. Fool had said something about being trapped in a dream—was the other hidden figure behind that?

Still holding the pistol with casual confidence, Amon pressed himself lightly against the windowframe as though the whole encounter were nothing more than a stage play. He tilted his head, grin widening. “Since we’re doing this properly, may I at least have the honor of knowing my alleged crimes before you maim me in the name of justice? It’s only polite.”

From what he recalled of the original Amon’s memories, there was nothing serious enough to warrant this. He had only ever stolen or wandered into places he shouldn’t have. He had never harmed anyone. His only real ambition had been to stand on his own feet, a dream he had nearly achieved after becoming a Beyonder—on what seemed like the perfect pathway for him—only to ruin it by stealing something he never should have touched, days after advancing. Aside from petty theft, there were no real charges they could lay on him—unless they counted taking his own life. But even then, how could they prove it when he stood here alive and whole?

“The deaths of three college students—Welch, Naya, and Klein. Do those names mean anything to you?”

“Nope. Never heard of them in my life,” Amon replied, his eyes darting around the room for anything that might aid his escape.

The young man clearly wasn’t buying it. Amon noticed the way his body tensed, ready to strike again. Without wasting a second, Amon swung the gun toward the lantern in the corner and fired. The glass shattered, plunging the room into darkness.

As a Marauder, his senses were just as sharp in the dark as in the light. Seizing the opportunity, he smashed the gun against the window, shattering it. But just as he was about to leap outside, something slammed into him, knocking him back.

“You might be good in the dark,” the young man’s voice cut through the shadows, “but I’m even stronger in it—”

Amon caught sight of the leg arcing toward his face. He snatched a shard of glass from the floor and flicked it with precise aim. The young man dodged, but the distraction was enough for Amon to scramble to his feet and dash for the door.

He didn’t make it far. Something rough coiled around his legs—not the cool, almost comforting tendrils of Mr. Fool, but sharp, fibrous vines that tore through his pants and sliced into his skin.

“Is your loyalty to your organization so great that you’d risk your life for it?” the young man drawled, swaggering forward with a smirk that said he already considered the fight over. “Just tell us your group’s name, and what they were planning in Tingen with the Antigonus Family Notebook. Do that, and you’ll only face prison. Otherwise, we’ll take the answers from your spirit body.”

“I seriously have no clue what you’re talking about,” Amon groaned, struggling against the vines as they wound around his arms, forcing him to drop the stolen gun.

“So, let me get this straight,” the young man said, retrieving the weapon and pointing it at him. “An unofficial Beyonder just happened to stumble upon one of the most dangerous artifacts in existence—right after its suspicious previous owners all wound up dead? Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

“I’m actually a victim here too, you know,” Amon grumbled. “I woke up with a splitting headache only to realize I’d not only shot myself but also somehow survived!”

Even as he spoke, his fingers worked quickly. He plucked a leaf from the vine binding his hand and, with the dexterity his Marauder powers granted, flicked it toward the barrel of the gun.

The timing was perfect. As the young man fired, the leaf met the bullet inside the barrel. The result was a sharp explosion that sent sparks flying. The man yelped, dropping the gun as he stumbled back, clutching his scorched hand.

The vines let go, and Amon seized the chance to quickly grab the gun he had hidden in his drawer a few meters away. He pointed it at the vulnerable young man—and then faltered.

A dream.

Mr. Fool had told him he was most likely trapped in a dream right now.

Even if he threw away all of his remaining morals and crossed the line by shooting this person—who was most likely a cop—he wouldn’t escape. He’d still get caught. And now, having just attempted to seriously take someone’s life, even if he managed to prove his innocence regarding the notebook and the deaths of those students, he would still be in deep trouble for this.

Would faltering now and running instead—refusing to take a life handed to him so easily—work in his favor, make him seem innocent?

Amon quickly weighed the pros and cons of pulling the trigger versus not, and in the end decided to trust his instinct—to run.

He leapt through the shattered window, but just before he landed, reality shifted around him. For a moment, Amon almost thought he had been drugged—before jolting awake in his bed, wheezing, as if he had just surfaced from a nightmare.

Amon looked around. It was his room, untouched and perfectly in order—like the fight had been nothing but a dream.

“What the—”

The door opened, and three figures stepped in: the young man from before who had attacked him in his dreams, an older, handsome middle-aged man, and a striking woman with blue lipstick.

“Captain Dunn Smith, captain of the Tingen branch of Nighthawks under the Church of Evernight,” the man introduced himself with a tip of his hat.

“Daly Simone,” the woman said with a smile.

“And I am Leonard Mitchell,” the young man added loftily, leaning against the doorframe. “Great fighting skills, by the way. Who taught you?”

“...video games.”

“...?”

~

After another mindfuck where his mind was literally penetrated (in the non-sexy way) by the woman, confirming that whatever he was saying was actually the truth through psychological evaluation of his spirit itself, Amon was finally cleared of all suspicions, including confirming the fact that he was not from any secret organization and that him becoming a Beyonder was entirely from his own abilities and had no connections to odd individuals.

“So all three students committed suicide?” Amon said, his legs crossed as he sat on his bed, looking up at the three adults in front of him.

“Yes,” the Captain said. “We were able to confirm from Mr. Moretti’s diary that the three had begun doing some research over the book, his last entry being crazed ramblings about how he had failed to deliver the notebook to a certain individual before killing himself, with the words ‘Everyone will die, Including me’ scribbled in his diary.” Dunn Smith then looked at Amon seriously. “Are you really sure you don’t know where the diary is?”

Amon rolled his eyes. Hadn’t they already been over this topic during the psychological evaluation?

“I really don’t,” Amon huffed. “The person probably stole it from me again during the brief moment that my body was dead. And I already don’t have most of my memories after I stole the notebook.”

“How did you steal the notebook, anyway?” Daly asked, intrigued. “Well, the question is more like—why? Usually, thieves go for things like money or jewels.”

“Because it was the most valuable thing on any person in that street that day,” Amon answered truthfully. “My Marauder abilities allow me to sense that stuff.”

Dunn hummed thoughtfully. “Though I was aware of a Marauder’s abilities to some extent, I did not know that it could detect the value of something in this sense as well…”

Finally, the young man who had attacked Amon—Leonard Mitchell—spoke up. “Captain, I have an idea.” He smiled as he looked at Dunn and then at Amon. “How about we use this guy to find the Antigonus Family Notebook?”

“I already said I don’t know where it is,” Amon repeated with a frown.

“But you just said that you were able to sense it quite easily, correct?” Leonard said with a wave of his hand. “Not only could you help us pinpoint its exact location when we have neared it, but if it were in the hands of an enemy, you can easily steal it from them without even having to be too close, right?”

“And why should I work with you?” Amon argued, purely for the sake of arguing.

“Probably because you will be arrested otherwise,” Daly answered with a smile of her own. “Innocent in this particular case or not, you are still an unofficial Beyonder, hence a danger to everyone around you. As Nighthawks, it is our duty to capture you for the safety of everyone else.”

“Sounds like I don’t have much of an option then… Isn’t this basically threatening at this point? Can I sue?”

Captain Dunn ignored his words, even further adding more to this offer. “You are still in danger from the people behind this case, as well as not yet being cleared of any remnant effects of the Notebook. It would be best for your own safety as well to work with us.”

“And what happens after I’m done helping you guys? Would I still be arrested?”

“That would depend on your performance.”

Performance… What was this? An internship? But instead of the failure being just not getting the job, it was that he would be imprisoned for life?

“Can I think about it?” Amon finally ended up with this. Although he knew that he had no other option right now, the main problem here was that he still did not know what Mr. Fool would think about this. He had technically agreed to become that thing’s Blessed, so he was not entirely sure if he could join the Church of another god at the same time. Wouldn’t that be the same as cheating? Would Amon be a two-timing scumbag for that? He still had to discuss whether this Blessed-God situationship he had with Mr. Fool was open or not.

“Take all the time you need,” Daly said kindly, which instantly made Amon shiver. Kindness from women like these always came with a catch—

The catch quickly made itself known as Amon’s hands were cuffed behind his back by Leonard, who was also smiling.

“Like we just said earlier, we can’t allow an unofficial Beyonder to run around freely, now can we?”

“...”

Mr. Fool… please wake up soon, before your Blessed cheats on you!

Chapter Text

“Captain… why is there a pouty child in chains behind you?” Rozanne, one of the clerical staff of the Blackthorn Security Company and the Nighthawks, asked with some confusion.

“I’m being kidnapped,” Amon said in the most aggrieved voice he could muster, peeking out from behind Leonard’s back. “These people said they’re going to do very bad things to me.”

“…Right.” Rozanne didn’t look convinced and turned to the three Nighthawks instead.

“He’s a rogue Beyonder, connected to the case of the three university students’ deaths,” Captain Dunn explained. “We’ve verified his innocence, but we still need to detain him until we decide what to do.”

“Oh…” Rozanne glanced back at Amon with something like pity. “But he looks so young…”

“How old are you, anyway?” Daly asked. “You don’t look old enough to live on your own.”

“Uh…” even Amon wasn’t sure—this body’s original owner had been an orphan with only a vague idea of his age. “Like… sixteen, seventeen?” he tried.

“Why so unsure?” Leonard asked.

“Orphan things?” Amon shrugged, brushing it off. “Probably seventeen now that I think about it. Sixteen feels too young for all this back pain and creaking bones.”

“…”

The Captain sighed and addressed Rozanne instead. “Rozanne, please prepare some refreshments for Amon while I make arrangements for his stay.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I’ll finish my paperwork, then,” Daly said. “Leonard, make sure the boy doesn’t escape.”

“Of course I won’t— I’m a Sequence 8, and he’s just a Sequence 9.”

“A Sequence 9 who bested you in combat.”

“That doesn’t count!”

Daly laughed, waving goodbye as she followed Dunn down the stairs.

Leonard exhaled and turned to Amon. “You can sit—” only to see the boy already lounging on the sofa, happily unwrapping candy from the table. “…Make yourself at home, I guess.”

Leonard sat beside him, studying the younger-looking boy’s features with an odd expression.

“So,” Amon began once he felt he’d consumed enough sugar to power a refrigerator for hours, “Blackthorn Security Company?”

“A front for the Nighthawks. Ordinary people can’t know about Beyonders,” Leonard replied smoothly.

At that moment Rozanne returned. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

As a university student with an unhealthy obsession with energy drinks, there was only one possible answer. “Coffee!”

“Isn’t coffee bad for children?” Leonard frowned. “It stunts your growth, you know.”

Amon blinked before remembering that, right now, he was a scrawny kid—not the tall, handsome campus heartthrob of his original world.

“Whatever you say, mom.”

“M-mom?!”

Amon turned to Rozanne, his eyes sparkling with the practiced look women adored in children: half-mischief, half-obedience, like a spoiled boy suddenly on his best behavior.

“Thank you so much, Lady Rozanne! I’m sure anything made by you will be as perfect as your beauty.”

Rozanne covered her mouth, smiling. “Oh, you—! Flattery won’t get you anywhere.” She said this even as her hands betrayed her, passing Amon all the refreshments she’d brought—including Leonard’s portion.

“Not even a Sequence 8 yet, but already mastering the ways of a Swindler…”

“Leonard, did you say something?”

“…Nothing.”

~

“This is where you’ll be staying during the length of your temporary detainment until we know what to do with you,” Captain Dunn Smith said as he led Amon to the holding cell deep beneath the Church of Evernight. “I apologise for the less than desirable lodgings, but I tried my best to make it comfortable for someone of your size—”

“It’s better than my current place,” Amon cut in, genuinely impressed. Yes, it was a holding cell, but it was clean and orderly, with fresh bedding and even a small connected bathroom. A table and chair had been recently dusted. But what truly captivated Amon was the atmosphere. It was cool. Almost like being back on Earth, sitting in his room with the AC blasting on the lowest setting.

Captain Dunn frowned, suspecting the boy was just putting on a brave face. “Are you sure? It’s a bit chilly here—”

“It’s perfect!” Please don’t turn up the temperature! Amon silently pleaded.

Coming from modern China and enduring its brutal summers for years, he had come to equate cold with comfort. To him, chill air meant bliss: long afternoons spent curled up on the couch, gaming with the AC set to maximum. But if the temperature dropped too far, it stopped being comforting. Then it reminded him of something else entirely—the biting cold of that small house near Chernobyl, where he had sat alone everyday waiting endlessly for his father to return home, desperate for his daily scrap of human warmth.

“…I see.” Captain Dunn didn’t really look like he was seeing. His expression was complicated, tinged with a sadness he couldn’t quite hide as he gazed down at Amon.

Amon, however, didn’t pay it much mind. He slipped inside, running a hand across the sheets to test their softness—yes, they were very soft, fresh, and clean. The Captain had clearly tried to make the cell as hospitable as possible. Amon was almost touched.

That was when Leonard entered, carrying a small stack of books in case Amon grew bored. Reading wasn’t exactly Amon’s favourite pastime, but in a world without phones or televisions? He’d take what he could get.

“Is there anything you’d like us to bring from your place?” Dunn asked once Amon had settled down.

“Nothing really…” Amon hummed, thinking it over. He had no plans of returning there anytime soon, and there wasn’t much worth taking anyway—until his eyes widened. “Oh, right! In the drawer of my desk, there’s a sheet of paper—the potion formulas for my Sequence 9 and 8. I’ll need that. Oh, and my wallet on the table, and my gun.”

Dunn studied him for a moment. “Am I right to assume all of that is stolen?”

Amon’s face all but said, Well, duh.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Dunn sighed, handing him a pair of clothes. “They may be a little big, but we’ll have fitted ones prepared later. If you need anything else, ring the bell. There are always staff present at the Company, so you don’t have to be afraid.”

Amon accepted the clean—though obviously second-hand—clothes, staring at them for a moment before asking, “Do you treat all your prisoners this nicely?” Honestly, he’d thought a private bathroom was already the peak of hospitality.

“Only if they’re kids.”

This old man would be horrified to see the kind of dorm rooms college students were crammed into back in his world—rooms so dismal they could make even this prison cell seem comfortable, almost luxurious by comparison.

“I’m not a kid. I’m seventeen.”

Dunn placed a hand gently on his head, smiling. “Then all I can ask is that you keep taking advantage of this old man’s blindness.”

Amon stared at him in silence as the Captain removed his handcuffs, revealing faint bruises on the boy’s pale, fragile-looking wrists.

“I’ll get some medicine for those,” Dunn said softly, standing from his crouch before heading out.

Amon watched his retreating figure, then looked at his own hands, then the cell, then back at Dunn again—before finally turning toward Leonard with a slow, mischievous smile.

“Hey. Leonard, right?”

A strange sense of dread crept up Leonard’s spine, but he forced his voice to stay calm. “Yes?”

“Is your Captain single?”

“…?!”

Amon waited, eager to savor the young poet’s flustered response—but instead of Leonard’s voice, another one rang in his ear. Deep, mysterious… and oddly panicked.

‘No! He is too old for you!!!’

Ah. That was definitely Mr. Fool. Had his powers already returned this much?

‘As my Blessed, I forbid you from dating old men!’

Amon pouted and answered aloud, “But problematic age gaps are hot!”

Leonard: “…?!”

‘You’re not allowed to date until you finish college!’

Mr. Fool, are you supposed to be an ancient god… or a conservative Asian parent?!

Leonard suddenly felt like his Captain’s virtue was under threat. In a panic, he shouted after Dunn’s retreating back, “Captain! Why don’t you send Madam Daly off while I get the medicine?” And then bolted.

“…Does he not realize he forgot to lock my door?” Amon muttered. Not that locking the prison cell would’ve done anything with his Marauder abilities, but still. It’s the thought that counts.

Amon pinched the crystal monocle over his right eye, and Mr. Fool’s panicked voice in his mind became even clearer.

“Hey, Mr. Fool, have your abilities recovered enough?”

There was a brief pause, as if Mr. Fool had just realized he’d embarrassed himself. A small cough followed, and then his voice returned—calm and composed, the same as during the Tarot gathering.

‘Yes. My spirituality has recovered enough to contact you like this in the real world,’ the God said. ‘If you require my assistance in the future and I am not available, you may pray to me using my honorific name. Even if I cannot respond immediately, your prayers will be preserved within my gray fog, allowing me to answer as soon as I am able—without you needing to keep calling again and again.

‘My honorific name is:

‘The Fool that doesn’t belong to this era;
The Mysterious Ruler above the Gray Fog;
The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck.’

Amon quickly committed the honorific name to memory as Mr. Fool instructed him.

“Alright.” Amon nodded, hopping onto the bed and swinging his legs idly. “So… Mr. Fool, am I allowed to cheat on you?”

‘…?’

“Like—are we in an open relationship? Are we exclusive?”

‘…?!’

“Of course, I promise you’ll always be first in my heart, no matter how many gods I involve myself with!”

‘…?!?!?!’

Amon waited, but only silence lingered in his head.

“…Ah. The call disconnected.” Did Mr. Fool just psychologically hang up on him?

Maybe he shouldn’t have teased the old man quite that much… or at least waited until he’d gotten an actual answer. He still didn’t even know if he was officially allowed to join the Nighthawks.

With a sigh, he flopped back on his new bed in his new room—vastly better than the dump he’d woken up in earlier.

“Ah… woe is me, woe is me~” Amon sang dramatically as he plucked the shittiest-looking romance novel from the pile Leonard had brought. Different world, different era, didn’t matter—bad, cringey romances would always be the peak of entertainment.

~

That morning, Leonard arrived at the Blackthorn Security Company and, as usual, greeted the drowsy Rozanne, tipping his hat to the Captain and Frye, who were finishing paperwork before heading downstairs to check on the brat they’d acquired the day before yesterday. Teasing aside, Leonard was fairly certain the boy—Amon, that was his name—wasn’t much of a threat to the Nighthawks. The kid possessed skills even seasoned Beyonders struggled to master in a lifetime, and his natural mischievous personality alone seemed enough for him to digest his potion without even needing the acting method, let alone risk losing control the way the Captain and others feared.

That was one of the main reasons everyone was making sure his stay was comfortable. They were used to confronting unofficial Beyonders and putting them down when necessary, but it was almost unheard of for someone so young to become one—out of sheer necessity, no less. The Captain’s heart had been won over the moment he first visited the boy’s place, and Madam Daly’s too, though she didn’t show it. Even Leonard couldn’t help but feel pity for him. He knew that, in the same situation, he would have chosen to become a Beyonder just to survive in this cruel world.

When Kenley was sent to recover Amon’s belongings, he came back in tears, telling anyone who would listen how pitiful the boy was: no family, no personal possessions, raising himself since childhood, and forced to walk on the path of a Beyonder just to keep living. Before long, everyone in the company had developed at least a favorable view of him, unofficial Beyonder or not. Leonard knew for a fact that Captain Dunn had already prepared the documents to officially hire Amon into the Nighthawks—only a few details and the boy’s signature were missing. It felt as if the whole office was simply waiting for Amon’s decision.

Like the day before, Leonard went first thing in the morning to ask the kid what he wanted for breakfast. But unlike yesterday, the cell was empty. The lock was open, scratched and bent, clear signs of tampering. Leonard’s alarm shot up immediately.

Had they grown complacent? Was the boy more dangerous than they thought? Or had he realized they weren’t to be trusted and chosen escape over a life in chains?

Whatever the case, Leonard hurried to the Captain’s office.

“Ah, Leonard—I was just about to call you for—”

“Captain,” Leonard cut in, breathless. “The kid’s gone.”

“Gone?” Dunn’s head snapped up.

“Yes. His cell’s open, with the lock having signs of tampering.”

The Captain grabbed his coat at once. “Alert the clerical staff. Seal all exits and—”

A loud scream cut through his words.

“Old Neil?!” Leonard and Dunn exchanged a sharp glance. Without another word, they rushed toward the source of the cry—a small room originally built as a kitchen but long abandoned and converted into storage. It sat only a few doors from Old Neil’s chambers, where he practised his mysticism.

When the two of them arrived, they saw Kenely and Seeka Tron already there, peering curiously into the room.

Leonard rushed inside and was met with Old Neil’s face—which looked… happy?

Huh?

“What’s going on here?” Captain Dunn asked, his slightly rough voice carrying across the Nighthawks. All of them immediately straightened to greet their Captain—everyone except Old Neil, who sat comfortably in a chair eating what looked like roasted chicken and meat with vegetables sautéed in a sauce that smelled both sweet and spicy at once.

“Dunn! Look what the new boy made!” Old Neil said excitedly, waving toward the spread of dishes lined up on the table.

Finally, the boy in question—Amon—appeared, carrying a giant pot that exuded a rich, creamy aroma. Some kind of decadent soup.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Dunn!” Amon greeted brightly, flashing a dazzling smile at the middle-aged man before turning to Leonard. “Ah, and you too, Leonid. Good morning…”

What was with that shift—from blindingly cute to lukewarm?! And how many times did Leonard have to tell the boy that was not his name?!

“What are you—” Leonard began, but Amon ignored him completely, instead lifting a plate of sticky pork belly seared with brown sugar and coated in spicy, salty sauces. He held it out to Dunn with a wide grin.

“Mr. Dunn! Please try this! I worked very hard on it!”

Leonard scoffed. Obviously, the Captain wasn’t foolish enough to eat food from someone they hadn’t fully trusted yet—

“Mn. It’s quite delicious.”

“Captain?!” Leonard’s head snapped toward his superior, eyes full of shock and betrayal.

“Amon, what are you doing here?” Dunn asked calmly, ignoring Leonard’s expression.

“Old Neil visited me this morning,” Amon replied easily. “He looked quite hungry and worn out from his overnight emergency shift at the Chanis Gate, so I offered to make him something to eat. And while I was at it, I noticed there were a lot of ingredients in the pantry about to spoil, so I thought—why not make breakfast for everyone in the Blackthorn Security Company?”

At that, Kenely and Seeka Tron perked up from their place at the doorway. “It’s all for us?!”

“Of course,” Amon said with a serene smile. “Mr. Kenely, there’s even enough for your girlfriend. I overheard yesterday that she’s been feeling tired from her work lately, so I made sure to prepare a variety of energizing dishes for her nourishment.”

“Ah… how could there be a better child than you?” Kenely said, his eyes brimming with tears.

Was no one going to point out that Kenely had that conversation with Rozanne at the entrance of the Blackthorn Security Company—far away from Amon’s holding cell? How had the boy even overheard that? It was creepy!

“And Madam Tron,” Amon continued smoothly, “I also made some fatty fish. It’s said to boost the brain and enhance creativity—something I thought would help with your writing.”

“Oh, really, you…” Seeka Tron looked deeply moved, even going so far as to hug the boy—after which the tearful Kenely eagerly joined in.

How did this boy, who had barely been here for more than a single day, know that Seeka Tron was a writer hoping to publish her books? Why was no one else here aside from Leonard alarmed by this?!

“You—you’re literally skin and bones!” Kenely exclaimed once he finally pulled away from the hug. “Don’t worry about us adults, kids should eat first. You need to gain some weight or who knows which rascal might try to pick you up and carry you off!”

Captain Dunn, Old Neil, and Seeka Tron all nodded in agreement, leaving Leonard completely speechless. Was everyone going to conveniently forget that this so-called child, a freshly turned Sequence 9 Beyonder, had just outwitted and bested an experienced Sequence 8 in combat the other day?!

“Yes, you should eat more,” Dunn Smith agreed, piling a heaping portion of food onto a plate and handing it to Amon. The boy tried very hard to look both touched and bashful at the gesture—without letting the tiny smirk tugging at his lips show. Once again, something only Leonard seemed to notice.

This… was this some kind of Beyonder ability tied to manipulation? Was the boy already a Sequence 8 Swindler? Or was Leonard simply witnessing pure, natural manipulation skills at their absolute peak—without a single potion or sealed artifact involved?

Even the old man in his head couldn’t help but comment:

‘This boy… he’s going to have no trouble digesting any of his future potions.’

~

After everyone had finished their special breakfast, Amon had managed to win over nearly every member of the Blackthorn Security Company with nothing more than one thoughtful gesture. Truthfully, he’d simply grown bored of the bland meals that bastard Leonard kept bringing him every day and had wanted to test how his Beyonder abilities might influence his non-combat skills—like cooking. The rest was history.

Everyone insisted on washing their own dishes instead of letting Amon do even more work; they felt guilty that a child years younger than them was taking care of them. Finally, just as Leonard was preparing to escort Amon back to his holding cell, Captain Dunn cornered the both of them.

“Leonard. Amon. Come with me to my office.”

Amon trailed along with faint curiosity, wondering what business the old man could possibly have with him.

Inside the office, Dunn placed a stack of papers on his desk. The top page bore the picture of a boy.

“We just received this mission this morning. I was meaning to assign it to you and Amon together.”

“Wait—Amon?” Leonard’s head shot up in surprise.

Dunn Smith nodded, settling into his chair. He lit his smoking pipe with practiced ease and exhaled slowly. “Yes. This will be Amon’s first field mission. He isn’t officially a member of the Nighthawks, of course, but I believe it will help him understand our work better, push him toward a decision sooner, as well as allow us to assess his full capabilities—especially since the Evernight Church hasn’t had possession of the Marauder pathway, or any of its Beyonders, until now.”

Amon picked up the papers with a spark of interest in his eyes. “So it’s a kidnapping case?”

Dunn’s expression brightened, clearly pleased by Amon’s genuine curiosity. He nodded. “Yes. The boy’s name is Elliot Vicktroy, youngest son of a tobacco merchant. He was kidnapped earlier this morning.”

Amon’s eyes lit up like a child in a candy shop. This… this was his chance to live out the detective life of his dreams! And naturally, as any good detective must, the first step was to pinpoint where the boy had been taken.

“Mr. Dunn, could I see a map of Tingen?” Amon asked suddenly, catching both Dunn and Leonard off guard.

“Alright. Leonard,” Dunn instructed.

Leonard quickly retrieved the large, detailed map of Tingen and spread it out across the Captain’s desk.

“Mr. Dunn, could you indicate the spot where the boy was last seen?”

The Captain obliged, pointing at a street on the map.

Now, it was Amon’s moment to shine. Drawing from both his “escape room” skills from his previous life and this body’s lived experience of the streets—the nooks, crannies, and even the habits of crooks in different districts—Amon launched into his deduction.

“Well, considering Elliot was taken here, the kidnappers must have used a carriage to transport him. But not just any carriage—one manned by one of their own men. Two of the four possible paths out of here pass through heavy carriage traffic, meaning other drivers would notice immediately if the coachman wasn’t familiar. That risk of exposure would be too high, eliminating those two streets. Another path cuts straight through Machinery Hivemind territory—far too dangerous. Which leaves only this street as the viable option. From there, they would have logically taken this route, then that one, because of this and that—”

He moved with startling speed, scribbling over the map, crossing out roads, circling routes, and narrating his deductions in a blur of logic that left both Dunn and Leonard speechless.

“—meaning this is the only area where they could have taken the boy!” Amon concluded triumphantly, drawing a large circle around a small neighborhood of streets and houses.

“You…” Leonard was utterly stunned.

Amon sighed. “I’m sorry this deduction leaves us with such a vague area. I know I could’ve done better. But my memory has still been fuzzy since… well, since my death. And I don’t know this part of Tingen too well. I mostly specialize in the more crime-ridden districts, you know?”

His roommates back on Earth had been literal fanatics for mysteries and deductions, constantly dragging him into various escape rooms and mystery-box case file games. The stakes? Whoever solved the case fastest earned the right to control the house’s music for an entire week. Amon had quickly learned to sharpen his detective skills—or suffer another week of thirst-trap K-pop songs with unhinged moaning sound effects blaring from the speakers.

Leonard gaped at the boy, then glanced at Captain Dunn—who mirrored his stunned expression.

“Does the kid have something of value on him?” Amon asked.

“He should have a silver pocket watch and a gold necklace, according to their butler,” the Captain replied evenly.

“Well, if the kidnappers didn’t toss those items before stashing him—which I find unlikely—then I could use my Marauder abilities to sense valuables and pinpoint their location.” Amon puffed up slightly with pride. “Of course, my powers get a little diluted if I expand my range too far, but if I know exactly what I’m looking for? Piece of cake. We could just circle the streets by carriage until my Marauder senses lead us to them.”

When neither of the older men responded, Amon looked up at them with thinly veiled impatience and confusion—only for Dunn to place a large hand on his messy black hair and give it a firm pat.

“You’re a very talented young boy.”

“…” Amon froze, utterly speechless, his cheeks heating.

Dammit. Curse his daddy issues!

(When in doubt, always know that blaming your dad is a reasonable crash out.)

The Captain then handed Amon a bag. “These are fitted combat clothes for the mission, reimbursed by the Church as a mission expense. Change into them, and take anything you’ll need from the armory before heading out.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dunn.”

With that, Amon took his leave—though not before making a quick detour to the kitchen to swipe the sweet-and-sour braised pork belly he had set aside earlier.

Back in his holding cell, he pulled up a wall of spirituality with a silver knife, just as Old Neil had briefly instructed yesterday. The old man had been positively giddy about inducting the boy into the world of mysticism. When he figured that everything was alright, Amon began to chant Mr. Fool’s honorific name.

Technically, he should’ve had offerings—flowers, or something costly that his god favored—to improve his chances of being heard. But Mr. Fool had never told him what he liked, and besides, wasn’t he one of the being’s Blessed? Surely he should get some sort of concession.

“The Fool that doesn’t belong to this era;
The Mysterious Ruler above the Gray Fog;
The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck.”

Amon paused, then continued according to the rituals Old Neil had mentioned—along with scraps of memory of his own.

“I pray for your attention.
I pray for you to listen.”

Almost instantly, his surroundings seemed to shift. A gaze settled over him, faint hints of gray fog curling at the edges of his vision. Mr. Fool was watching.

And yet… he didn’t reply.

Seriously? Still continuing with the silent treatment?

Had Amon teased him that much? Sure, his words were often in jest, but the questions he asked were important. It felt like dealing with an unreasonable girlfriend—one who got upset over something small, then sat back expecting you to fix the problem without ever telling you what you did wrong.

Fortunately, Amon knew exactly how to handle upset girlfriends.

Food.

So he carefully placed the plate of homemade braised pork belly in front of him. This was another reason he’d wrangled Old Neil into letting him cook that morning—handmade treats always worked better when trying to placate someone. He’d even saved the best, crispiest, juiciest pieces specifically for Mr. Fool, rather than giving them to the Captain or himself.

An illusionary door appeared in front of Amon, and the boy watched, amazed, as hands that looked like those of a puppet reached out from beyond. They picked up his offering of juicy meat and vegetables, then vanished back into the endless gray fog as the door shut once more.

Wow.

Still no words.

Well, it was only a matter of time.

Amon rose from his kneeling position, brushed the nonexistent dust from his clothes, and quickly changed into his new outfit before meeting Leonard, who was waiting for him at the armoury.

“Pick whatever you like. I’ll show you how to fill out the paperwork after that.”

Amon nodded and began browsing the racks of guns, blades, and neatly organized charms.

“By the way… I was wondering.” Leonard suddenly spoke up as Amon tested the weight of a pistol, comparing it to the one Leonard had just returned to him. “Old Neil doesn’t have the keys to your cell… so how did you get out?”

Amon turned, flashing an innocent smile. “Well, the rules you guys set said I only needed a senior Nighthawk’s permission to go outside, right? No one ever mentioned a key—or that I wasn’t allowed to pick the lock.”

“?!”

So the boy could have opened his cell at any time?! But how? Being housed so close to the Chanis Gate, with the special charms layered around his room, should have completely nullified his Beyonder powers. Could this kid really be such a natural thief that he didn’t even need his Beyonder abilities to pick a high security lock?

“You—”

“Hm?”

“…Just. Just pick your damn weapons already.” Leonard sighed.

Chapter Text

The Fool—if that was even its name; it had long since forgotten—stared at the perfectly plated dish before him. A slab of fatty meat, glistening with juices, rested beside roasted vegetables, arranged with deliberate care.

Why had his Blessed given him food? He was no human, nor did he need sustenance. Centuries—perhaps millennia—he had endured in his Sefirah Castle with nothing but his own thoughts and Tianzun’s ceaseless ravings: ‘Give up. Yield the Sefirah. Return your memories. Be happy again.’ Words that clawed at him until he no longer remembered what happiness even was, or if it had ever belonged to him.

And then, after an eternity of silence, a mere Sequence 9 boy stumbled into his world. That moment—the instant he first saw his Blessed—had felt like happiness. Or hope. Enough to drive back Tianzun’s poisonous voice, to hide the fragile human from his gaze, and to remind the Fool—no, him—that some sliver of humanity still remained. Humanity he had believed stretched thin into nothingness across endless ages of solitude.

He would protect this boy. He would use this chance, however fleeting, to wrest free of Tianzun’s grip and rid himself of that wretched influence once and for all.

But that was for the future. Right now, he had to decide what to do with a plate of food he had summoned into the Sefirah on pure whim. After all, this was the first sacrifice his Blessed had made for him, he couldn’t simply… refuse it.

Should he… eat it? He didn’t need to, but it wasn’t impossible. Perhaps the act itself—the human act—would help anchor him more firmly to what he had lost.

Tentacles, hazy and half-illusory, slipped out from beneath his robe. They prodded at the meat, then turned toward him like children asking, ‘What now, boss?’

“Don’t ask me,” he muttered, batting them away. “I’ve no idea either.”

He knew utensils were involved, but which ones? Frowning, he reached through the bond to his Blessed, calling upon the crystal monocle—the singular uniqueness of the Error Pathway. Time rewound, and he watched his Blessed set a meal before companions.

A fork. A knife. Simple tools, easily conjured from the gray fog. He even formed a table, ornate and dignified, to set the sacrifice upon. Hesitant, his tentacles grasped the knife, carved a sliver of meat, and raised it to his lips on the prongs of a fork. The Fool opened his mouth, closed it, and waited.

Nothing.

Puzzled, he summoned the vision again then realized his mistake. Humans chewed. Of course.

How exhausting…

Then, as he bit down, his eyes widened. Juices burst across his tongue, rich and savory, while the charred edges gave way with a soft crackle. Flavor—sweet, sharp, and spiced—flooded his senses until he sat frozen, silent, unable to think.

He swallowed. Then immediately took another bite. And another.

Vegetables followed—crisp, earthy, sweet. Bite after bite vanished until the plate gleamed clean.

…Delicious.

Humans experienced this every day? Unfair!

Almost frenzied, he rewound the moment, eating again. And again. And again. A dozen times or more until, with an effort of will, he forced himself to stop.

Sinking into his bronze chair, he stared into the gray fog, speechless. Even the tentacles trembled with excitement, spirit worms thrumming like a pulse beneath his skin.

It seemed like his Blessed had some talents he hadn’t even considered could be useful to help him regain his humanity.

He almost reached out through their connection and asked his Blessed for more before stopping himself.

He… just what kind of image would his Blessed have of him if he were to beg him for… for something like food!

No… no, he couldn’t.

The Fool clenched his fists as if physically trying to will himself to stop himself from doing something embarrassing.

Well…

Next time his Blessed gave him food… it wouldn’t be unreasonable for him to ask for a drink… right? That tea he saw his Blessed serving the Captain looked really tasty.

The Fool’s mood instantly soured.

Oh yes, there was that too. His Blessed’s weird attraction to that older male…

That scene alone almost made him want to pull his Blessed up above the gray fog and pull his ear as punishment. But then he saw the way his Blessed picked out what he thought were the best portions and bites of the food and saving it for his Mr. Fool and all his rage melted like butter in an oven.

This… he would allow this breach of trust this time.

His tentacles danced with energy as they replayed that scene over and over again, the careful consideration on the boy’s face, the way his Blessed plated everything so carefully and attentively, and then replayed the scene of when his Blessed chanted his name to sacrifice the food to him.

The first time his name had been called out in… forever.

Almost absentmindedly, The Fool leaned back and replayed the prayer again and again. For an old man stuck in this boring place for millenia with no proper company, this was his entertainment, and as he continued watching his Blessed chant his name, he could even faintly feel his humanity increasing, even if it was just a tiny amount.

For just a tiny moment, he allowed himself to drown in the memories, the first few since he had lost them all to the fight with Tianzun.

~

“By the way, is it normal for you people to get cases like these?” Amon asked Leonard as they boarded the carriage to rescue the kidnapped boy.

“Not really. The Blackthorn Security Company is mostly underground—it’s just a front,” Leonard explained. “But if someone odd happens to request our services, we can’t refuse without risking our cover. This particular mission probably landed with us because the other security companies are stretched thin after Welch’s death.”

“Welch… he was one of those three victims from the notebook, right?”

“Yes. And he came from an influential family. That’s why other families are nervous.”

Amon made a small sound of acknowledgment and turned his gaze to the window. The last time he had gone out, he’d only explored the West Borough and its nearby streets before being caught by the Nighthawks. Now, watching the city roll by felt almost surreal, like he had stepped into a time machine. Even the little European towns and heritage sites he’d once visited on vacation weren’t like this—certainly not this lively.

Leonard caught sight of the boy’s wide-eyed look and smirked. “What? First time on a carriage?”

“Yeah,” Amon admitted absently, his thoughts elsewhere. He compared the ride to a car from his original world before adding, “It’s kind of bumpy, though. And honestly, the cushioning could be better. Also, who designed these windows? I have to crane my neck just to look out. They should be lower—what if the passenger were a kid? Or in a wheelchair? Accessibility is terrible. These people really need to step up their services.”

Leonard regarded him with a bemused smile. For a boy who claimed to have grown up with nothing, Amon’s standards were ridiculously high.

“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Amon turned back to the window.

“Are we there yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Hm…”

When the scenery lost its charm, he busied himself by plucking the little furballs from the carriage cushions.

“Are we there yet?”

“...No, Amon. We are not there yet.”

“Ugh. My ass hurts.”

“...”

Eventually bored of even that, Amon shifted his attention to Leonard, staring at him with unblinking curiosity. Time for him to entertain himself—

He opened his mouth, only for Leonard to snap preemptively,

“—No, we are not there yet.”

Amon pouted. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“No, but you were about to.”

“I was only going to ask why you dress like a stripper.”

“A— a what now?!”

“A stripper,” Amon repeated slowly, like Leonard was the idiot here. “You know, the ones who take their clothes off in bars for money—sometimes even give you a lapdance or a blowj—”

“—Stop! Stop!” Leonard cut him off in a panic, shushing him frantically. “I know what strippers are! I know what sex work is! And why the hell do you even know about this? You’re a kid!”

“I’m a kid, not a dumbass.”

“You…—!”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Leonard inhaled slowly, forcing his patience. This was just a child. Amon was just a child. He needed to be the bigger person here, to set an example of how one should behave in a proper society.

“These are perfectly respectable clothes,” Leonard said with what he hoped was an even, dignified tone. “Perhaps a little flamboyant, yes, but appropriate for daily wear. It is rude to make such comments about another’s attire—especially a stranger’s.”

“Mr. Michael… are you saying we’re strangers?” Amon’s voice cracked with wounded disbelief. A faint mist glazed his eyes, as though the delicate little flower might collapse into tears at any second. “And to think—I’d started looking up to you like the older brother I never had. Because, you know… I never had a family.”

His voice cracked entirely. He buried his face in his hands, loud, heaving sobs spilling out between his fingers—a picture of pure misery.

“You—! This is not… That’s not what I—!” Leonard stammered, panic clawing up his throat. Words tripped over one another, his mind utterly blank. He had always thought himself good with kids—easy charm, soft voice, patient smile—yet here he was, the reason one was crying his heart out. He didn’t even correct the boy over his wrong name this time!

“Okay, okay, don’t cry—please don’t cry,” Leonard begged, leaning forward as though closeness alone could fix it. He clapped his hands nervously. “Uh… do you want candy? You like candy, right?” He remembered how Amon had demolished every sweet within reach back at the Blackthorn Security Company.

“Yes, yes, candy! I’ve got—” Leonard patted his coat, his trousers, his vest. Empty. Of course. What kind of Nighthawk carried candy? “...No, I don’t actually have any. But I’ll buy you some later, alright? A whole bag—”

Amon’s shoulders shook harder, his sobs growing wetter, messier.

Leonard’s panic deepened. He tore through his coat again as if a caramel might miraculously appear. Instead he came up with his gun, a few slumber charms, a broken quill from his dreadful poetry attempts—finally, a handful of soli and a single 1 pound note.

“There! Take this—” He pressed the money into Amon’s hands, desperation raw in his voice. “Just please, stop crying—”

A sharp rap struck the carriage door. “Gentlemen, we have arrived at your destination,” the driver called.

And just like that, Amon brightened. The tears vanished as if they’d never existed, replaced by a sly glimmer of mischief.

“What—” Leonard froze. He caught the boy slipping his newly earned cash as well as a small empty glass vial into his pocket.

The same vial Leonard had watched him fill with water back at Blackthorn instead of some useful Beyonder item. He’d asked about it then, and the boy had only winked, promising a ‘show’.

And the show… had been him.

Mortification seared through Leonard. His shoulders sagged, his mouth opening, then closing again, no words left to give.

“...”

Amon rapped on the carriage door to get the driver’s attention. “Mister, could you have the carriage circle these streets for a while?” he asked brightly. “Make sure to cover as much ground as possible, please and thank you~!”

The old man smiled, muttering to himself, ‘What a polite, well-mannered child. You don’t see kids like this much these days’, before following Amon’s instructions and setting the carriage in motion again.

“...” Leonard kept staring at Amon, who only returned the look with a wide, innocent smile. At last, Leonard decided not to sacrifice what little pride he had left and shifted the subject.

“So, how are you finding the Blackthorn Security Company?” Leonard asked. “Is your stay comfortable?”

“It’s wonderful there. The people are very nice,” Amon replied with a pleasant-looking smile. And the air conditioning is great too!

“Hm…” Leonard hummed. “Then why haven’t you made your decision yet? The Captain is really looking forward to having you on the team, you know. And whatever it’s like… it’ll certainly be better than being locked up for life.”

Amon’s expression soured for a brief moment before he turned to look out the window. In a low, almost mysterious tone, he murmured, “I’m still thinking about it.” He had yet to gain a reply from Mr. Fool!

Leonard studied him for a few moments, then sighed quietly to himself. It was only natural—after all, for a child with such a lonely past, the promise of stability and companionship might easily be met with hesitation, even fear of commitment. Leonard could understand why Amon remained apprehensive, and he was certain the Captain did as well. That was why so much time was being given to the boy, why his every demand was indulged, why he had even been allowed on this small mission—a gentle way to ease him into the rhythm of a Nighthawk without overwhelming him.

The child may be naughty… but aren’t kids supposed to be mischievous? The fact that Amon pulled so many pranks on him and played with him meant that he was comfortable showing that side of himself to Leonard. This was progress! A good thing!

Amon, who had unknowingly started training Leonard into a masochist, focused on using his Beyonder powers to sense a silver pocket watch and gold necklace. Even as a Sequence 9, which was considered the lowest and weakest Sequence, he had such a sharp sense for valuables around him that he could even steal something inside a closed drawer within a ten-meter radius. As someone from modern Earth who had played a lot of video games and RPGs, he could only imagine just how much stronger the higher Sequences could be and how they would play like.

He would also like to know Mr. Fool’s Sequence, assuming that gods and deities like Mr. Fool were also Beyonders. He had barely any knowledge of other pathways or what they did, and he didn’t know much about Mr. Fool aside from the fact that he was a reawakened ancient deity and someone with the temperament of an incredibly feisty girlfriend.

Finally though, he sensed them, the seductive value of pure gold and silver, from that building they were just about to pass.

“Leonardo, I found him.”

~

After knocking the kidnappers outside the door into a deep sleep, Leonard slammed his fist onto the handle, breaking it down and bursting into the room. The man inside, still half-asleep and rubbing his eyes, barely had time to register their presence before Leonard’s punch sent him back into unconsciousness. At the same time, Amon dealt with another kidnapper—a man returning from groceries—dropping him just as swiftly.

“As you see, most of these civilian missions are easy for us Nighthawks—” Leonard began, almost casually.

But an illusionary feather drifted down from the ceiling, unseen by anyone in that room.

Then Mr. Fool’s voice erupted in his mind:

‘Get down!’

Amon reacted instantly. He seized Leonard and dragged him down with himself just as a grotesque appendage lashed out, tearing through the space where they had stood. The kidnappers they’d subdued began to twist and convulse, their flesh warping until they merged into a monstrous, misshapen beast.

Leonard’s expression hardened. What had been a routine civilian rescue had now transformed into a Beyonder battle. In one fluid motion, he drew his revolver, the silver glint of a bullet chambered and aimed straight at the creature. He stepped in front of Amon like a shield.

“Get the kid to safety, first!”

Amon didn’t hesitate. He scooped up little Elliot, still asleep under the lingering influence of Leonard’s poem, and dashed toward the exit. The monster was faster. It loomed before him, one massive arm sweeping down to crush them both.

But Amon’s hands were full, and he had no blade. Improvising, he flicked a shard of broken wood up from the wrecked furniture with his foot, kicked it higher, and then drove it straight into the beast’s eye. The creature bellowed, reeling back in pain. In that sliver of distraction, Amon melted into the shadows, allowing Leonard to seize the opening Amon had created. His voice rose in verse, his poem spilling into reality as thick vines burst forth. They coiled around the monster, lashing through its body, burrowing deep. Then, with a final surge of his will, Leonard’s words made the vines tear the creature apart from within.

Only once the monster’s remains stopped twitching did Amon step out of the shadows toward Leonard, who was still frowning.

“Why did the kidnappers suddenly mutate into monsters?” he asked.

Leonard hesitated, weighing possibilities, before letting out a quiet sigh. “No use puzzling over it. The world of the Beyonder is the world of the strange. It’s reasonable to assume one of them was a Beyonder who lost control right before dying.”

Lost control…

Amon’s eyes drifted to the grotesque carcass sprawled on the floor, stitched together from the bodies of what had once been three ordinary humans. His stomach turned; his nose wrinkled at the stench.

This was the first time he had seen such a thing with his own eyes, not through borrowed memories of the body he currently inhabited. The thought chilled him: would he, too, one day lose control—warping into something just as vile?

Leonard caught the unease on Amon’s face. He wanted to reassure him, to soften the truth, but knew he couldn’t. Not now. This wasn’t the time to coddle. The Captain had likely chosen this mission to show Amon the ordinary side of their work, but reality had revealed itself instead: the real duty of the Nighthawks, not as the Blackthorn Security Company, but as the official Beyonders under The Church of The Evernight.

Elliot stirred faintly in Amon’s arms, and Leonard noticed the boy’s sleeve stained with blood. A shard of flying debris had cut him during the fight. Urgency snapped Leonard into motion. “We need to move—now.”

They hurried toward the stairwell. But halfway down the hall, Amon froze. His gaze locked onto a door opposite the room where Elliot had been held. His Marauder senses flared—something within pulsed with immense value, radiating temptation. His fingers twitched with the urge to steal—

“Amon!” Leonard barked. “What are you doing? The kid will bleed out at this rate!”

The haze shattered. Amon shook his head and forced his feet to follow Leonard down the stairs. Outside, he passed Elliot to the waiting police, who rushed him aside for treatment.

Leonard leaned against a stone wall, tension finally bleeding from his shoulders. Watching the policemen work, he exhaled and muttered, half to himself, “Your first mission, and it turns Beyonder. Can’t say if that makes you lucky… or unlucky.”

‘How is he even confused? Obviously unlucky. What if you’d gotten hurt, little Blessed?’

Amon only smiled faintly, adjusting the skewed monocle on his right eye.

‘Still… commendable. The way he adapted once things turned south—quick, decisive, perfect execution.’

…Mr. Fool, are you an ancient, infinitely powerful deity, or a sports commentator for a low-budget football match?

‘Also, my dear Blessed—’

“Yes, my dear Mr. Fool?” Amon muttered sarcastically under his breath, making sure no one was close enough to hear.

‘I saw what you did back at the carriage. Don’t bully your future colleague.’

Amon had already begun pouting when the last word struck him. He froze. “Colleague? Wait—does that mean… I’m actually allowed to join the Nighthawks?”

‘Mn.’ The response was casual, almost amused. ‘But remember this: never chant the goddess’s honorific name—nor any other deity’s, save mine. As you saw before, doing so draws their gaze to you… and through you, to me. The uniqueness of Error must remain hidden. If not, both of us will be exposed’

And then came the torrent—guidelines, warnings, contingencies, and all the conditions under which he must or must not call for help.

Amon listened, lips twitching. He couldn’t help comparing it to an overprotective mother sending her child off to his first day of kindergarten, rattling off do’s and don’ts while adjusting his backpack.

He almost wanted to say what he would have once told his mother back then—

But he couldn’t.

Because he never had a mother.

Amon sighed, cursing the fact that his useless father had once again stolen a perfect moment from him—denying him even the chance to make a good joke by being bitchless.

~

“I see. So that’s what happened.” Captain Dunn sighed, taking a slow drag of his cigarette after Leonard finished recounting the mission. “I’m glad you’re both unharmed. And Amon—” his tone softened just slightly, “—I’m happy to hear you’ve decided to join the Nighthawks.”

Amon’s face lit up at the older man’s words, beaming with pride. Leonard, watching from the side, had to fight the urge to gag.

“Alright then,” Leonard cut in briskly. “I’ll start on the mission report. Amon, you’re coming with me so I can teach you how to write and file one properly.”

It hit Amon then—having a real job meant doing real paperwork. Groaning dramatically, he fiddled with the monocle perched on his eye and trudged after Leonard, only to be stopped short by the Captain.

“Amon. Your face.”

Before he could react, Dunn pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently wiped at the dried flecks of blood spattered across Amon’s cheek—the remnants from Leonard’s battle with the monster.

Amon nearly stumbled at the gesture, heat prickling at his ears. But before he could say anything, Dunn’s hand darted down—straight into his pockets.

“Also,” Dunn said evenly, withdrawing a handful of trinkets, coins, and valuables, “since you’re officially a Nighthawk now—no stealing.”

Amon froze, horror flashing across his face. It was as if the man had just told him his dog had died—or worse.

“W-Wait! No! But—!” He lunged for his treasures, only for Dunn to simply lift his arm, holding them far out of reach with his height. “They’re dead anyway! They don’t need it—!”

“No.” Dunn’s tone brooked no argument.

Amon almost whimpered. His treasures!

“At least the cash, then! That… That one pound and three soli was not stolen—Leonard gave it to me! It’s a gift!”

Dunn’s brows furrowed. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward Leonard, wordlessly asking why on earth he would hand over that much to a child.

Leonard coughed into his fist and promptly looked away. If anyone found out how easily he’d been manipulated by a child, his image would crumble on the spot!

Chapter Text

After signing a few documents and filling in the bare basics—name, age, and so on—Amon was, officially, a Nighthawk.

Honestly, he was surprised at how quick and painless the process was, especially for this era. Just how badly did Captain Dunn want him on the team…?

He’d even received an advance payment, both to help him settle in and—Amon was sure—to stop him from pouting and hmph-ing every two minutes after his “treasures” had been so cruelly confiscated.

But now came the real trial. With his new freedom came one devastating truth: he could no longer live in his cozy little prison cell-turned-bedroom.

“No! You can’t drag me out of here!” Amon wailed, clinging to the bars while Frye and Rozanne tried to coax him out.

“Are you really sure?” Rozanne asked, her voice helpless. “If finding a new house feels overwhelming, w-we can help you look! Right, Frye?”

Frye nodded immediately.

“I don’t wanna! I like this place!” Amon puffed his cheeks and hugged the doorframe with the possessiveness of a dragon defending its hoard.

“Is it the money?” Rozanne pressed. “With your salary, you could rent a place much bigger and more comfortable than this! Do you realize how many families would dream of an income like that?” This was the kind of salary that could comfortably support a family of four and then some!

“One of my friends works in real estate,” Frye added quickly, eager to help. “He can find you something good.”

Amon realized persuasion wasn’t working. Time to bring out the heavy artillery.

His eyes shimmered with unshed tears, lower lip trembling, the perfect picture of a small child being robbed of his favorite toy. As the first tear slipped down his cheek, both Rozanne and Frye froze in alarm.

The boy was crying.

“Captain!” Frye barked at a passing Old Neil, panic rising. “Get the Captain, now!”

Meanwhile, Rozanne flailed uselessly, hands hovering as though she might catch the tears midair.

“D-Do you two not like me?” Amon sniffled wetly. “I know I’m not the easiest person to deal with. I’m messy, I play tricks, I’m not… I’m not what people want. Everyone likes good, obedient kids, and I promise I’ll try, really I will, if it means everyone here will like me!” His voice cracked, perfectly timed. “I-I get it if you don’t want me. Even my own parents didn’t… they left me to die when I was just a child…”

“…?!”

Thankfully, at that moment, the Captain walked in with Old Neil and Leonard following right behind, having caught just enough of the scene.

Old Neil gave Dunn a relaxed smile. “Come on, Dunn, let the kid stay here. There’s technically no rule against it. Besides, it’s safer. The people after the Antigonus Notebook are still out there, and with his future work as a Nighthawk, he’ll only be in more danger.”

Dunn glanced at Old Neil’s grin, then down at Amon’s tear-glazed eyes. He sighed, walked over, and crouched until he was eye level with the boy (a gesture Amon hated—ugh, he missed his old height). The Captain’s voice softened. “Amon, is there any particular reason you want to stay here?”

Oh, there were plenty. For starters, the temperature was always perfect. There weren’t any rats, pests, or even mosquitoes lurking around. The airflow was clean, no damp mildew or suspicious moss on the walls, and best of all—no endless staircase commutes to and from work. As someone who’d spent his life between homeschooling and campus dorms, Amon had never developed the habit of walking everywhere. In fact, he despised travel—pure, unadulterated chore.

And what was he supposed to do in some lonely little apartment with no smartphone, no TV, and no internet? Stare at the wall? Knit? At least here, he had constant entertainment: bugging Leonard when he felt sadistic, letting Old Neil’s lectures batter his patience when he felt masochistic, sweet-talking Rozanne and Kenely into giving him treats, or simply admiring Captain Dunn’s big, strong—

“Amon?” Dunn’s voice cut through his spiral.

The boy scrambled, fumbling for something more acceptable.

“I— I like it here!” he blurted, then softened his tone. “It feels… safe.” Lies always worked better when dipped in truth. “And there are always people around. I don’t… I don’t want to be alone.” He arranged his face into that perfect mask: not openly crying, but clearly hurting—‘trying not to show it’ while very much showing it. “Not again…”

Hook. Line. And sinker.

Amon watched with smug satisfaction as everyone’s expressions melted from shock, to pity, to quiet resolve. Everyone except Leonard—who was clearly holding back laughter, finally in on the joke instead of the butt of it. Good. Amon liked that man. Next time he “forgot” Leonard’s name, he’d only downgrade it to a slightly less ugly nickname.

Dunn held Amon’s gaze for a long moment, then gave a small nod. “Alright. You can stay.”

His large hand came down to ruffle the boy’s hair with surprising gentleness. “But remember—you’re a Nighthawk now. That means you’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Amon froze. His face tried for a scowl at the indignity of being patted like a child… but his ears betrayed him by burning red.

“…Mn.” It was the only sound he could manage, his voice suddenly unreliable.

That’s when the cockblocker, Mr. Fool, ruined everything.

‘No dating till you’re at least thirty!’

Wasn’t it ‘graduate college’ before? Why did the age suddenly go up?!

“Then the matter is resolved?” Captain Dunn rose, still wearing that maddeningly gentle smile.

“…Yes.” Amon’s answer came weak, his throat still tight from fake tears, which only made him look more like some pitiful, innocent flower.

‘No seducing him!!!’

He wasn’t seducing anyone! Amon really needed to schedule a long, serious talk with his so-called boss about workplace overreach and abuse of power in both professional and personal contexts.

“Alright then, I’ll return to my duties now.” Dunn glanced to the rest of the Nighthawks. “You all should get back as well.”

One by one, they drifted off until even Dunn was about to leave. Then he paused, turned back, and said: “You have today free. Do what you want. I suggest getting yourself settled before starting official work.”

Amon nodded. He still needed more clothes, some supplies to turn his ‘cell’ into a proper room… and, of course, time to explore.

And also—

When the base finally quieted, Amon raised a wall of spirituality with a silver knife and fixed the monocle over his right eye.

“Mr. Fool, what did you need from me again?”

‘Yes. I want to know the history of this world—major events across the last few epochs, which gods or deities held sway, both orthodox and the… less orthodox.’ Mr. Fool’s deep, sonorous voice echoed in Amon’s ears. ‘I wish to know what transpired during the time I slept. Perhaps by learning this, I can recover fragments of my memory…’

Wow. That was a mountain of research. Shouldn’t he be asking for employee benefits by now? Did he even count as an employee, considering he wasn’t being paid—just strung along by the promise of “support”?

“Well, the stuff about the current churches, gods, and secret organizations I can learn from Old Neil or the books here at the Nighthawks’ library. But spending my first day off at work? No, thanks.” Amon thought for a moment before smirking. “Let’s go to Tingen University!”

~

Professor Azik Eggers. That was the man’s name—the one who held the prestigious title of Professor in Tingen University’s history department. No small feat, considering only one person in each branch could claim that position. To Amon, it was proof enough that this man’s knowledge was top-tier.

The first thing Amon did was simply walk into one of his lectures and sit down as if he belonged there. It was a trick he’d perfected: if you acted like you had every right to be somewhere, people rarely questioned you. This morning’s lecture happened to be about the history of the current Fifth Epoch—how the Orthodox gods ushered in the era of humanity and so on. Amon barely paid attention, but he knew Mr. Fool was hanging on every word. Whenever his gaze wandered and his monocle stopped pointing at the board, Mr. Fool would deliver a sharp mental slap to drag his eyes back to the front.

When the lecture finally ended and students began to file out, Amon approached the professor with a smile.

“Professor Eggers, I had a few doubts about today’s lecture. Would you mind sparing me a bit of your time in your study?”

Azik looked at him as though he had been expecting this and nodded.

“Of course. Knowledge exists to be shared and discussed.”

The two of them walked to the professor’s study—a comfortably furnished, luxurious space with just the right amount of scholarly clutter.

“It’s rare these days to find students so invested in history,” Azik remarked as he poured them both coffee. Amon was delighted; of course an academic’s study would serve the best coffee—perfect for his caffeine addiction. “You were asking quite a lot of questions in class as well.”

That wasn’t him, of course. It was Mr. Fool, who had spent the entire lecture pestering him with questions to ask or points to clarify.

Amon put on a smile. “Well, what can I say? I’ve recently found myself quite fascinated by the subject.”

Azik’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re also not one of my students—or at least, not one I’ve seen before.”

Ah. Caught.

But Amon came prepared. He smoothly produced his official badge, marking him as an external partner to the Awa County Police—a detective. The Captain had handed it to him that very morning, along with the rest of his new identification papers.

“That’s right,” Amon said calmly. “My team and I are working on a peculiar case. We’ve found ourselves in a bind, since the investigation requires a fair bit of historical expertise to properly unravel.”

Azik inspected the card, then handed it back with a smile. “A detective at such a young age… remarkable. What would you like me to tell you?”

“The case involves one of the more prominent families from the Fourth Epoch. I’d like a general overview of the great families of that era, their ties to the kingdoms and gods of their time, and how things evolved into what we know today.” That should cover most of what Mr. Fool wanted about the Fourth Epoch. As for the earlier ones—he’d figure out a way to ask later.

“I see. Then you’ve certainly come to the right place.”

What followed was an impromptu lecture on the key events of the Fourth Epoch, with Azik supplementing his words by recommending books Amon could check out from the university library, as well as rarer texts he’d have to track down himself.

Truth be told, Amon almost dozed off more than once. Every time, Mr. Fool barked at him to stay focused. Worse, Mr. Fool kept feeding him questions to ask, forcing Amon to parrot them back. Azik, however, seemed delighted, mistaking his persistence for genuine enthusiasm.

After nearly an hour, the professor finally said, “I have another class soon, so we’ll have to pause here. But if you’d like to continue, feel free to visit me anytime during my office hours. You’re also welcome to sit in on my lectures. I’ll inform the other faculty about your situation—so you may consult them as well, should you wish.”

“Thank you, Professor Azik,” Amon said, adjusting the monocle on his eye. He could already sense the dangerous direction this was heading—Mr. Fool was far too excited about the prospect. Shit. “But I’d really hate to trouble you like this…”

Azik chuckled warmly. “It’s no trouble at all. For a professor, there is no greater joy than sharing knowledge. I don’t mind.”

I really mind though!!!

Amon sighed. It seemed like there was no escaping this one.

As he stepped out of the room, he brushed past a girl entering. Almost on instinct, he triggered his theft ability, and in his hands appeared a slip of paper. No—on closer inspection, it was a photograph.

A photo? But he’d targeted the girl’s most valuable possession. Did that mean this picture was what she treasured most?

He studied it while the girl spoke with Professor Azik—something about apologizing for her brother missing an interview, and how he had died in an accident.

The photograph showed three people, likely siblings: the eldest brother, a slightly younger boy, and the youngest—a girl, probably this girl herself. No parents. What caught Amon’s attention most, though, was the middle child. The face… aside from being very much his type, it stirred a flicker of recognition.

Then the pieces fell into place. The girl’s mention of her brother’s death. This familiar face.

Klein Moretti. The same person from whom Amon had stolen the Antigonus Family Notebook. Which made this girl his sister. What a coincidence—that the student and possible protégé of Azik Eggers would also be tied into today’s chance meeting.

“Ah, young lady, you dropped this.” Amon called, handing her the photo. He had no use for something so worthless in value, and besides—the Captain had forbidden him from stealing. Of course, Amon had every intention of continuing his little hobby in secret, but carrying around a sentimental photograph was more trouble than it was worth.

“Oh—!” The girl’s eyes widened as she snatched the photo back, clutching it like something sacred. “Thank you so much… this is very important to me.”

‘This girl looks… very sad.’ Mr. Fool made an odd comment in Amon’s head.

Amon nodded, ready to leave, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the sadness clouding her expression. Maybe it was Mr. Fool’s offhanded comment. Maybe he was just bored, with nothing else to do that day but his errands. Whatever the reason, he turned back with an open smile.

“Do you know where they sell decent clothes for men my age?”

The girl blinked, surprised, then quickly tried to answer. “Uh—there’s this shop downtown. It’s affordable but has good quality. If you walk down X Street and turn right after a few minutes you’ll—”

Too much to remember.

“Why not just show me yourself?” Amon suggested lightly. “Unless you still have business with Professor Azik?”

“Eh? Ah, no… I’m done here.” She hesitated, then met his smile and sighed. “Alright, I’ll show you.”

“Great!” Amon clapped his hands and, in a gentlemanly gesture befitting a Loen resident, offered his hand. “By the way, my name is Amon. And yours?”

“…Melissa. Melissa Moretti.”

And so the two youths, who appeared to be of the same age, left Tingen University together. Overhead, an illusory white feather drifted down from the sky, unseen by all.

All except Professor Azik, who squinted at its descent. Seeing nothing, he could only shake his head and prepare for his next lecture.

~

Despite this being a spur-of-the-moment decision, Amon couldn’t help but think he had made an excellent one. He had always loved shopping—burning through his father’s money had been one of his greatest pastimes back home—but shopping alone? That was unbearable. It dredged up far too many unpleasant memories. If he couldn’t drag along a passive victim to suffer through his shopping sprees, he usually stuck to online shopping. Unfortunately, this world didn’t even have the luxury of malls, let alone the internet. That meant knowing where each shop was and walking there like some commoner.

But now, thanks to Melissa, both his problems were solved in one go. He had a shopping partner and a guide.

“Hm… not really feeling this black coat…” Amon muttered, examining yet another long, black overcoat—the third or fourth one in an almost identical shade. Apparently, this was the pinnacle of men’s fashion here.

Melissa let out a breath from where she was perched on a boutique chair, chin propped in her palm. “It looks good on you. Why are you rejecting every single thing I’ve picked out?” She still wasn’t entirely sure how she’d ended up here. One moment she’d agreed to guide him around the city, the next she was playing fashion consultant for a boy she’d only met an hour ago. He was… strangely persuasive.

Amon groaned, tugging the coat off. “Is this seriously all men wear? Black coat, white shirt, black pants? Ugh. It looks great on someone like Captain Dunn—broody and all that—but I want something more… stylish. Something closer to Leonard’s vibe, but without being so… Leonard.” He waved vaguely, as though the thought of Leonard’s wardrobe was both inspiring and annoying.

Melissa didn’t know who this Dunn or Leonard was and all she could do was watch as Amon tried on another pick of hers and rejected that too.

“Ugh, don’t think they do custom designs?” Amon finally asked after another few suits.

“I think so… they’re gonna be expensive though.”

“That’s fine.” He grinned. His recent advance paycheck was practically begging to be used—no rent, no bills, no utilities, all covered thanks to the Nighthawks’ underground labyrinth. Which meant all his money was free to burn. “I’ll just grab some basic shirts and pants, and have the rest custom-made. Maybe throw in a few coats.”

He’d always wanted to try the long, dramatic style of those wizards from Harry Potter, but even he knew that would look ancient in this world. Standing out was fun, but looking like a fossil wasn’t. So he decided on a mix: turtlenecks, vaguely patterned shirts, and the kind of fashionable coats he wore back home—enough to draw the eye without screaming “otherworldly time traveler.”

Melissa frowned, her thriftiness kicking in. “Are you sure you’re allowed to spend this much? Won’t your parents say anything?”

Amon smirked. “They’d have to exist first.”

It took a second for the words to land. Melissa’s eyes widened, her face heating. “Oh—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—! I was just—”

“Don’t worry about it.” Amon shrugged, brushing it off with a practiced ease.

Melissa hesitated. “What about siblings?”

“None. At least, not that I know of.”

“Oh…” Melissa’s gaze lingered on him as he rattled off instructions to the boutique staff, gesturing for them to “improvise” and “surprise him” with whatever they thought would suit him. The confidence was absurdly out of place for someone barely older than her, and yet… it worked. Eventually, though, the thought gnawed at her enough that she asked quietly, “Is it lonely?”

Amon blinked. “Huh?”

“Without a family, I mean.” She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. “It must be hard to…” Her words faltered, and she shook her head. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t pry.”

“No, no, you’re fine.” Amon flashed his usual grin, “And to answer your question… I don’t know? It’s hard to miss something you never had, I guess.”

Melissa’s lips pressed together. Then, after a beat, she said, barely above a whisper, “I just… I lost my brother recently. And I don’t know how to move on.”

Ah.

Okay, maybe dragging a grieving girl on a shopping spree wasn’t his smartest idea. He probably should have thought that one through before coercing her into boutique-hopping.

Amon suppressed a grimace. Comforting people wasn’t his thing. Gross. Emotions, grief, tears—leave that to someone else. But he did know one universal trick for distracting people from their problems.

Food.

“Hey.” He turned to her with that same smug brightness he wore like well used battle armour. “Want to grab something to eat after this? My treat.”

Melissa waved her hands, flustered. “Oh, no, you don’t have to—”

“Oh, but I insist!” Amon cut her off with exaggerated cheer, his smile far too persuasive to be natural. “Consider it payment for today’s excellent guiding services.”

Caught under that grin, Melissa hesitated, then finally let out a small laugh she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in. “Alright. Fine.”

No matter the universe, Amon’s nose for sniffing out cozy cafés with sinful desserts never failed him. Before Melissa knew it, they were seated at a small corner table, the soft smell of sugar and coffee in the air, while Amon studied the menu with the intensity of a man planning a bank heist.

Crap. There were too many dessert options. Cheesecake, chocolate pudding, fruit parfaits, buttery pastries stacked with cream—how was a man supposed to choose? He could just order them all and pack the rest, but then he’d miss out on the thrill of choosing the one, the glorious bite that turned out every bit as perfect as it looked.

Parfait? Cheesecake? Pudding? Pastries? Decisions, decisions.

And then—

‘That sweet iced tea looks good…’

“…?”

Amon’s eyes flicked up. The voice was unmistakable.

As if realizing he’d slipped, Mr. Fool’s voice pitched awkwardly higher before forcing itself back into a flat, monotone drawl.

‘Last time you sacrificed to me, there were no complementary materials for your ritual. Since it was your first time—and because you are my Blessed—I forgave your disrespect. But isn’t it human custom to always have a drink with a meal?’ A pause. Then, with a tone that was almost childishly accusatory: ‘You didn’t give me a drink.’

Amon bit down on the grin clawing at his face.

‘For this disrespect, I demand another sacrifice of human sustenance. With a drink this time. This is only because of the… previous disrespect—okay!’

…seriously?

Please. Amon knew for a fact Mr. Fool knew the word food. The pompous switch to “human sustenance” was nothing but overcompensation, trying to keep up the lofty, mysterious act while basically whining about not getting fed.

Honestly, wasn’t this exactly the girlfriend experience? The whole routine of “No, I don’t want anything” only to nibble off your plate, or insisting she’d only eat if you did too, lest she look like a glutton? Shifting all responsibility—and all guilt—onto the poor boyfriend?

Heh.

Amon’s grin stretched as his fingers brushed the monocle on his right eye. Under his breath, just quiet enough for Melissa not to notice, he murmured with wicked amusement:

“By your will.”

‘…’ Mr. Fool couldn’t shake the feeling he was being mocked, though there was no proof. So he held his tongue and sat in silence, watching with rapt attention as his Blessed ordered a lavish spread of food and desserts for himself and his human companion. All Mr. Fool could do was gaze with the forlorn yearning of a forgotten lover, while up above the gray fog he tapped impatient fingers against the bronze table, waiting for his Blessed to finally return to that so-called ‘home’—a glorified prison cell he’d somehow bullied his way into.

At last, the meal ended. Melissa excused herself so as not to worry her brother, and with only a half-hearted promise of meeting again, she left Amon alone.

Finally, Mr. Fool could speak again.

‘The desi pie too.’

“Yes, yes—whatever my dearest Mr. Fool desires!”

‘…’ There it was again—that faint sting, as if he were being mocked.

He watched as Amon ordered a variety of snacks, sweets, and a chilled iced tea to take away. While Amon waited, his gaze wandered over the bustling surroundings, and Mr. Fool followed along, drinking in this strange new world that had shifted so drastically during his long slumber. He couldn’t recall what his own world had once looked like, but he had the vague sense it had been brighter. Perhaps the sun had shone more strongly? Or maybe it was just his imagination. Either way, he chose not to waste time dwelling on a past blurred by forgetfulness. Instead, he reveled in seeing this era through his Blessed’s eyes, watching everything with greedy fascination.

Once the food was ready, Amon made a brief stop at the library to pick up the books Mr. Azik had suggested, and by evening he returned to the Blackthorn Security Company.

Rozanne, seated at the reception desk, noticed him coming in burdened with a pile of books and bags of clothes. She raised an eyebrow.

“Books? What’s this—suddenly decided to study?”

“Yes! I just felt this sudden… urge to learn, you know!” Amon replied brightly.

Old Neil happened to be passing by on his way home. Catching sight of the scene, he chuckled and added, “Then let this old man teach you something useful tomorrow—how to file your purchases for reimbursement and get your money back!”

‘This old man is truly knowledgeable… and wise,’ Mr. Fool said with deep satisfaction, impressed.

Out of everything this ancient, newly awakened deity could admire—that was what impressed him? The art of milking your workplace for reimbursements? Amon felt the creeping suspicion that Mr. Fool was secretly nothing more than a penny-pinching housewife.

“I’ll go to my room now,” Amon announced, breezing past Captain Dunn and Leonard with a jaunty wave as he made his way down to his cell-turned-bedroom.

He set the bags of clothes and the stack of books on the desk, barely able to breathe from all the walking, when his god’s voice struck again.

‘Quick, sacrifice the food before it grows cold. Or the ice melts!’

“…” Not even a second of rest. With a weary groan, Amon dragged himself up, raised the wall of spirituality, and handed over the food. It vanished into the gray fog with suspicious speed.

Was Mr. Fool… a foodie?

Amon didn’t even have the energy to think through that thought as he wished nothing more than to crash down on his bed.

But respite didn’t come.

‘The books,’ Mr. Fool reminded him. ‘We still need to go through the recorded history of the Third Epoch.’

Of course. No rest for the chosen. Amon shuffled to his desk, opened the book, and began reading aloud.

Thirty minutes later, he was ready to scream. Lectures he could endure—half-listening while staring into space. But this? Turning pages on command, forcing his tired eyes over dry text? Torture. Pure torture.

‘My Blessed, the page—flip it,’ came the impatient rap in his mind.

That was the breaking point. “Isn’t this unfair?” Amon snapped, voice cracking. Real, frustrated tears prickled at his eyes. “I sat through boring history lectures for hours for you! Then I ran errands all day, bought you food—and now you won’t even let me rest? This is my day off! You’re overworking me!” His voice pitched higher, almost hysterical. “I could sue you for violating labor laws!”

‘…Are you actually crying?’ Mr. Fool’s voice sounded… unsettled.

“No!” Amon shot back, very much crying. “I’m angry.”

‘…I see.’

For a long moment, the god was silent. The only sound was Amon’s shaky breaths and the occasional sniffle. Finally, Mr. Fool said quietly, ‘Just… sacrifice the books to me.’

Amon frowned. “Didn’t you want me to learn this stuff too?” He was already raising the wall of spirituality anyway—never look a gift horse in the mouth.

‘Just… send them.’

An illusionary door opened, and a fog-formed hand reached through to take the books. But before retreating, it hovered awkwardly… then gave Amon’s head two stiff pats, as if unsure of the gesture. Receiving no reaction, it shrank back, ashamed, and vanished with the door.

‘Now go lie down.’

“…There’s more work?” Amon asked with dread.

‘No. Just lie down.’

Grumbling, Amon climbed into bed.

‘Pray using my name.’

Rolling his eyes, Amon obeyed. At once, the bed shifted under him, his spirit left his body, and he found himself once more in the Sefirah Castle.

“Mr. Fool…” he greeted, venom lacing his tone.

But the grand bronze table and giant’s chair dissolved with a snap of fingers. The gray fog swirled and reshaped, until what stood in its place was… a room. A spacious, sunlit study that might’ve belonged to some countryside villa—except outside the windows lay nothing but endless fog. In the center sat Mr. Fool, his form still obscured, yellow-black robes draped over him, gloved hands resting on a cane. In front of him: the pile of books and food.

“Is this place to your liking?” His voice carried its usual monotone, but Amon swore he could hear the faintest hints of hope and something else.

“It’s fine, I guess,” Amon said, glancing around.

“Sit.”

A beanbag-like seat materialized before a chessboard. Amon flopped into it, his muscles instantly relaxing as though the fog itself were coaxing the tension from his body. Tentacles slipped out from beneath Mr. Fool’s cloak, wriggling eagerly to the other side of the board.

Amon raised a brow. “So I’m white? Fine.” He moved a pawn.

The tentacles wavered in thought, one even tapping a tip against another as though mimicking a chin, before proudly moving a rook… diagonally.

Amon stared. Then laughed until tears came. “You—you don’t even know the rules, do you?”

The tentacles froze, vibrating in panic, then writhed toward Mr. Fool for backup.

Mr. Fool, halfway through a sandwich and book, looked up. “…No. I’ve forgotten.”

“Well then, I’ll teach you.” Amon grinned, setting the board again. The tentacles flailed brattily, as if shouting, ‘Don’t look at him—we’re your opponents!’

Hours passed in the mellow light of the Sefirah. After getting bored with chess, Amon instructed the tentacles to conjure up a board for monopoly, where Amon shamelessly cheated, altering rules mid-game to bankrupt his clueless, writhing opponents. The tentacles squirmed in despair, and Amon cackled in delight.

Eventually, exhaustion caught him. His eyes drooped, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep on the beanbag.

Obediently, the tentacles scooped up their Blessed, laid him gently on the bed, tucked the quilt around him, and even patted his head proudly.

Mr. Fool’s lips curved faintly as he watched. “Having fun?”

The tentacles wriggled, gesturing in a bizarre series of motions that translated to: ‘Blessed is nicer and more fun than Boss.’

“Nice and fun, hm…” The Fool chuckled, recalling the way Amon had cheated them blind just to see them squirm. His gaze lingered on the boy’s sleeping face, soft and unguarded.

Then he looked back down at his book, the fog curling close around him.

“…This is nice. I suppose.”

Chapter Text

It had only been Amon’s first few days as a Nighthawk in the Blackthorn Security Company, and Dunn had already decided to bury him alive under an avalanche of lessons. Shooting practice, hand-to-hand combat drills, lectures on the various Beyonder pathways and organizations, stern warnings about evil deities and forbidden entities—everything the Captain thought Amon know was dumped on him in a single day.

Even Leonard couldn’t help but make a teasing remark, “I can’t tell if the Captain really cares about your survival,” he muttered, “or if he just thinks you’re too dumb and needs to hammer the basics into your skull.”

That was a mistake.

The next time Leonard sat down at his desk, he discovered he was glued to the chair with a particularly vicious concoction Amon had made himself.

Amon allowed himself a crisp few minutes of pure laughter as he leaned against the wall watching Leonard struggled, stuck to his seat with the only options being to be remain seated or rip off the bottom of his pants off in the process of forcefully getting up.

Dunn eventually walked in after hearing the commotion, took one long look at the scene, and sighed as if this was already too much for him. “Amon. Go ask Old Neil for where we keep extra clothes in case of emergencies, just get the pants.”

Amon snapped off a theatrical salute, still grinning, and bounded down the hall toward Old Neil’s room.

It was the first time he’d ever stepped inside, and the sight nearly stole his breath. It was a small room, with barely enough place for a seat and two chairs but it was filled with all sorts of beyonder ands mysticism items—glittering stones, stoppered flasks filled with unidentifiable liquids, shelves groaning under the weight of books and crumbling manuscripts.

“Amon, boy.” Old Neil looked up from whatever volatile brew he was coaxing into stability. “What brings you here today?”

“Just wanted to look around,” Amon said with the barely contained glee of a child unleashed in a toy store. He hopped further into the room, eyes darting from shelf to shelf, already imagining what would happen if he tipped one thing into another.

That’s when something on the workbench caught his eye. A small stack of yellowing pages, covered in cramped symbols, with Old Neil’s scribbled notes scattered beside them.

“These are…?” Amon asked, already reaching.

Old Neil’s eyes lit up. “Ah! That, my boy, is none other than Emperor Roselle’s secret journal! To protect his innermost thoughts, he devised a cipher of strange symbols. Of course, your great Old Neil has cracked part of it. From my deductions, this is not a record of grand strategy, no—it is a diary! Look here, the repeated marks, clearly dates—”

Amon let his voice fade into background noise as he lifted the fragile pages. With a smirk tugging at his lips, he slid the monocle over his right eye and examined the “strange symbols.”

It was Chinese.

Simplified Chinese.

Chicken-scratch simplified Chinese, at that.

Really? This was Roselle’s great code? Any middle schooler could’ve written this. And with better handwriting.

Amon skimmed the lines, biting back a snort.

‘1184, January 1st. At the grand New Year Gala, Lady Florena was truly splendid.

‘January 2nd. My diplomats are all idiots.’

Was this the diary of a legendary emperor… or a twelve-year-old schoolgirl?

Still chuckling, Amon read further.

‘Seer, Marauder, Apprentice… to think I almost chose one of these pathways— compared to them, my Savant pathway looks like I struck gold!’

Marauder. That was his pathway. Why was it lumped in with “unlucky” choices?

Almost immediately, Mr. Fool’s voice intruded. “Marauder… isn’t that your pathway?”

Amon nearly blurted out loud before catching himself. He couldn’t afford to be seen talking to thin air—not when “hearing voices” was basically grounds for an evil-god intervention. Technically, he was serving one. Just that his “god” was an annoying, dessert-demanding grandma squatting in his head.

“The acting method…” Mr. Fool mused. “From the way he describes it, this knowledge isn’t widely spread in your time.”

Acting method? Amon glanced back down. Roselle had written about “digesting” and “acting.” Then the real bomb hit him—

Mr. Fool could read Chinese.

He blinked, processing. Then, well… duh. In a world with gods and Beyonders who bent reality, why wouldn’t a deity at Mr. Fool’s level understand languages? Historians had done the same back on Earth with Egyptian hieroglyphs. Probably. He wasn’t the type to keep up with that news.

Honestly, the only reason Roselle’s notes weren’t translated yet had to be because of his atrocious handwriting. Was he a doctor in a past life?

“Amon, are you listening?” Old Neil’s voice snapped him back.

“Ah, yes, of course,” Amon lied smoothly.

“As I was saying,” Old Neil continued, puffing up, “there’s no real point in you learning mysticism. Your sequence has little spirituality. Any Beyonder can attempt spirit vision, yes, but the strength varies. Take Leonard and Dunn—the Sleepless. Plenty of spirituality, but spirit vision is weaker for them than simple perception. I recall when Leonard first advanced, he fell down the stairs because he couldn’t control it!”

The old man wheezed out a hearty laugh.

“From what we know, only the Seer and Mystery Pryer pathways can truly master spirit vision.”

“Mystery Pryer? That’s yours, right?” Amon leaned forward, interest piqued. “So you can use it?”

“Of course!” Neil puffed up proudly. He tapped his forehead twice with two fingers, activating his spirit vision. “See? I can now observe your spirit—gleeful yet somewhat bored. Healthy, aside from slight weakness in the bones. And your eyes—”

‘Stop him!’ Mr. Fool’s warning came too late.

Neil’s gaze locked on Amon’s right eye. A moment later, he doubled over, coughing violently.

“Old Neil?!” Amon panicked, rushing forward.

‘Activate your spirit vision to assess his condition.’ Fool’s voice was sharp.

“My spirit—he just said I can’t use it effectively!” Amon hissed, crouching to steady the old man.

‘Use the uniqueness. You’ll be able to channel some of my abilities.’

“…Wait, what?” That was possible?

Trusting him, Amon touched his monocle, then tapped his forehead the same way Neil had. Instantly, the world shifted—auras, colours, shifting lights filled his sight. Old Neil glowed with an unstable purple haze.

“What does purple mean?!”

“His spirituality’s unstable. Don’t panic. He just glanced at me through your monocle. He’ll recover.”

And sure enough, as Amon kept watching, the colours bled back into balance, the violent shudder of spirituality smoothing out.

He set Neil gently against a chair, waiting for him to breathe normally again.

“I didn’t know I could use your abilities,” Amon said accusingly. “Would’ve been nice to know earlier! Like when I was attacked in my room and dragged off by Nighthawks?!”

Mr. Fool was silent for a moment. Then—

‘…It’s news to me too.’

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

‘When we first made contact, I tried using you to reach the real world. I failed. But now, for some reason, fragments of my power manifest through you. I suspect it’s because you’ve spent so much time in the gray fog. Your spirit has grown used to my presence. So when I push my spirituality into you through the Error uniqueness, it no longer rejects it.’

“So if I keep hanging around you upstairs, you’ll get stronger?”

‘…Maybe. I don’t know.’

Amon pinched the bridge of his nose. Weren’t gods supposed to know how their powers worked? What kind of second-rate deity had he ended up stuck with?

Then Mr. Fool’s tone shifted, almost sly. ‘There’s something else I want to try. Blessed, think of a sentence. Anything. Make it loud in your head.’

“…Fine.”

Amon thought as hard as he could:

‘Captain Dunn’s arms are really solid and sexy. I want to touch them.’

Silence.

“…Now what?” Amon asked innocently.

Mr. Fool’s voice came back strangled. ‘Y-You…! Relationships with others are forbidden! They interfere with our transaction!’

Amon’s jaw dropped. First it was “no dating until you graduate.” Then it was “not until you’re thirty.” Now it was “not at all”? Just what kind of—

Wait.

“Hold on—you can read my thoughts?!” Amon’s eyes lit up with mischief. “Then can you also see Leonard in tight red lingerie—”

‘I can only hear the thoughts you say out loud in your head!’ Mr. Fool cut him off sharply. ‘Not images! Not yet!’

“…Yet?” Amon’s grin stretched wider, downright wicked now.

‘...!’ For the first time in centuries, the Fool felt his innocence was in genuine peril.

‘Just—just get up to the gray fog during your lunch break. I need to teach you about the acting method. And about the diary. That’s what matters here!’

“Aye, aye, sir!” Amon saluted with exaggerated enthusiasm.

Then, with the crisis neatly brushed aside in true Amon fashion, he waved over an employee to help Old Neil to a chair, mumbling some excuse about the old man overworking and reminding them to feed him water and electrolytes.

After that, he skipped straight to Dunn, casually requested an early lunch break, and got it without a fuss.

And so, in the whirl of Amon’s antics and Dunn’s suspiciously early-onset dementia at thirty, one crucial detail was entirely forgotten:

Leonard Mitchell.

The poor man was still glued to his chair, pants and all.

“…They wouldn’t forget me, right?” he muttered weakly, tugging uselessly at the seat. “Right?”

The old man in his head only laughed.

~

Over the gray fog, Amon sat in a cozy chair on what seemed to be a veranda, surrounded by all manner of mystical-looking bushes. The endless expanse of mist stretched out beyond, while Mr. Fool sat across from him. More of his figure was visible than usual: the yellow-and-black cloak, the black glove, and beneath it all, the illusionary tentacles—an infinite mass curling and coiling into one another, spilling endlessly from under his cloak. Amon briefly wondered if the man had anything under that torso besides those writhing limbs.

Amon watched as Mr. Fool snapped his fingers, and the familiar pages of Roselle’s diary—the very ones he had once seen in Old Neil’s room—appeared before them.

“Did you pull them up here?” Amon asked, leaning across the table, his chin resting on the cool, vintage surface. Mr. Fool’s tentacles curled playfully around his legs, clinging to him as they always did. They seemed almost desperate for his attention. Amon indulged them with a few pats, watching as they twisted happily at the affection. Poor things, he thought. Probably half-mad from loneliness after being sealed away in this desolate place. He even felt a touch of pity for them—though they also made excellent targets for bullying. Keeping them soft and pliant was clearly in his best interest.

“No. I just recreated what I saw here using the Sefirah Castle’s powers,” Mr. Fool explained. After studying the pages for a moment, he nodded, then tapped the air again. Two more sheets appeared before Amon. Written in Leonese, they were clearly translations of Roselle’s diary.

Amon hesitated, then snuck a glance at Mr. Fool. Does… does he not know I can read Chinese?

Catching the glance, Mr. Fool assumed confusion. “These are translations of the diary pages. I thought you might find them interesting.”

So he really didn’t know…

Of course, it was a reasonable assumption. This Amon was a street rat, an orphan who had barely attended school. Roselle’s texts were written in a strange tongue no one else in this world had ever deciphered. Mr. Fool likely read them only through his godlike cheat. How could someone like Amon possibly understand them?

But Amon could—because this “strange language” was from his own world. He and Emperor Roselle were the same: transmigrators, outsiders not originally from here.

That was the greatest secret Mr. Fool had yet to uncover. The reason Amon had accepted becoming his Blessed. Mr. Fool had never asked what Amon hoped to gain from the relationship, perhaps because—even as an ancient deity—he needed Amon far more than Amon needed him. Despite being only a Sequence 9 mortal, Amon was likely Mr. Fool’s sole hope of regaining power… and escaping the crushing solitude of this place.

But what even was this place? Mr. Fool called it the Sefirah Castle, but that explained almost nothing. Was he sealed here by some ancient cabal terrified of his strength? Was he a banished evil god, locked away by his peers?

Finally, Amon couldn’t hold back the questions any longer. “Mr. Fool… why are you stuck in this place?”

The Fool, expecting questions about the text instead, looked faintly taken aback. Even his tentacles froze, as if the memory of his isolation was too heavy to summon. He almost dismissed it outright. A mortal had no business knowing such things. Yet when he met Amon’s curious gaze, the refusal caught in his throat. This was his Blessed—the one who had promised absolute servitude, his single believer in an age where his name was otherwise forgotten.

After a long pause, he said quietly, “I was attacked.”

“By who?” Amon pressed.

“A really, really powerful being.” Mr. Fool sighed. The pleasant, teahouse-like atmosphere no longer suited the conversation. With a wave of his hand, the scene dissolved into a library. The table vanished, and Amon now sat beside him. The barrier between them, however illusory, had dropped for the moment. Though Mr. Fool himself kept his distance, his tentacles betrayed him. They slid against Amon, curling beneath him like cushions, desperate to make him comfortable—as though convinced their Blessed deserved nothing less. If Mr. Fool could still feel embarrassment, he surely would have. But he had long since lost such emotions, and could only regard the tentacles with detached unease, as though they were alien creatures rather than his own limbs.

“This ties into what I wanted to teach you today, my Blessed,” Mr. Fool said, gazing up at the illusionary starry sky. “There are certain laws in the Beyonder world. Today, I’ll speak of the Law of Beyonder Characteristics’ Indestructibility. A Beyonder Characteristic cannot be destroyed or diminished. It can only pass from one vessel to another.”

“That sounds a lot like the law of conservation of mass,” Amon said without thinking.

“Does it? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t kept up with this era’s science.” His voice was distant, but his tentacles betrayed him again, patting and rubbing Amon’s head as though rewarding a diligent student. “It is exactly as it sounds. When a Beyonder dies, their Characteristic re-emerges from the corpse. Depending on its stability and nature, it may serve as an ingredient for potions… or become a sealed artifact.”

Sealed artifacts. Like the ones hidden behind Chanis Gate.

“So sealed artifacts are made from the corpses of dead Beyonders?” Amon asked.

“You don’t seem disturbed by that thought.” Mr. Fool’s eyes—if he had them—were hidden by the fog. His tone gave nothing away.

Amon shrugged. To him, it was no different than how legendary bosses in games dropped epic loot. Honestly, this world had never felt all that real to him. Even Mr. Fool seemed more like an NPC from some game or show than an actual being—or god. The same went for nearly everyone else Amon had met here.

It wasn’t heartlessness. It was simply how he was. Even in his past world, he’d cared for only a handful of people—his father, a few friends, some roommates. Everyone else had always felt distant.

And this entire transmigration had only deepened that sense of detachment. These new bonds felt unreal, like scripted roles in a play.

Realizing Mr. Fool was still waiting for a response, Amon spoke bluntly: “It just isn’t in my heart to feel for people I don’t care about.”

Mr. Fool nodded and continued. “The stronger the Beyonder, the stronger their Characteristic. And the greater the chance that fragments of their nature remain, even after death. For those at the level of an angel, a god, or beyond… death itself ceases to have meaning. They become their Characteristic. Their will persists within it. When someone new ascends through it, the two personalities inevitably clash. And if the newcomer loses… they are consumed. The old one revives through them.”

“I was…” Mr. Fool hesitated. “I was once such a Beyonder. Perhaps angel-rank. Perhaps higher. I must have known the dangers, so I refused to advance. But circumstances forced my hand. I had no choice but to risk it… and in doing so, I awakened a cursed deity within myself. I did not want his return, or whatever schemes he carried. So I locked myself inside this Sefirah Castle, sealed most of my memories, and chose to endure—both to resist his influence on my mind, and to protect the world from him.”

“So that evil god still lives inside you?” Amon asked.

Mr. Fool inclined his head. “Mn. His crazed whispers never cease. Every second, he tempts me to surrender.”

“Even now?”

“Even now.”

Through the fog, Amon searched for some trace of expression—but found nothing. Only the gray mist.

At last, he asked, “Then how can you be sure the one speaking to me right now is really you, Mr. Fool… and not him?”

The air shifted.

What had been the calm, distant stillness of the Sefirah Castle grew suddenly sharp and cold, as though the very fog itself recoiled from some unseen presence. The temperature dropped; Amon’s breath came out in a faint mist, and he felt the weight of countless eyes hidden within the haze.

From across the small distance between them, Mr. Fool’s unseen gaze darkened. It pressed against Amon like a tide, heavy, suffocating, as if the gray mist itself had thickened under the sheer force of his will. His tentacles, which had moments ago seemed almost playful, twisted and wrapped tighter around Amon—sliding up his arms, coiling at his waist, possessive, unyielding. They pulsed with an intensity that was both protective and suffocating, as though they wanted to hide him away, cocoon him, keep him sealed forever where no other being could reach.

“No,” Mr. Fool said, his voice low, rumbling with a resonance that made the air itself tremble. “No matter what happens, I will never allow him to lay a hand on you… nor even know you exist.”

The tentacles squeezed, pulling Amon closer. The weight of divinity, the sheer isolation of this godlike being, pressed down until it was hard to breathe.

“You are mine.”

The words carried no gentleness. They were a vow, a decree—etched into the very fabric of the fog around them, undeniable and absolute.

For a fleeting moment, Amon couldn’t tell whether it was a promise of protection… or a claim of ownership.

“Your break is almost over. Go.”

The tentacles withdrew at once, vanishing like smoke into the fog. Mr. Fool’s figure dissolved as well, leaving only empty gray mist behind—as though everything that had just happened was no more than a fevered hallucination.

Without so much as giving him the chance to speak, Amon was hurled out of the Sefirah Castle. His consciousness slammed back into his body, and he found himself in his small room once more. The lunch he had brought to share sat on the table, now gone cold.

“Mr. Fool?” he called, frowning. He touched the monocle at his eye, trying again. “Mr. Fool?”

Silence.

No answer came. The unsettling weight of the god’s presence was gone entirely, leaving Amon with nothing but the chill in his chest and a plate of untouched food. With a sigh, he ate quickly in silence, then prepared himself for his next lesson.

Far above the gray fog, in the vast and lonely palace, The Fool sat slumped upon his high-backed bronze chair. One hand supported his head; the other curled into a trembling fist. His tentacles shivered faintly around him, as though mirroring emotions he could no longer bear to feel.

That night, Mr. Fool didn’t summon Amon into the Sefirah Castle as he had every evening these past few days. Nor did he respond when Amon tried calling out. So, for the first time in what felt like a long while, Amon lay down to sleep alone.

The small room felt impossibly large without another presence filling it—the shadow of a cloaked figure reclining in a chair, the rustle of turning pages, the weight of strange appendages idly threading through his hair until he drifted off. Instead of the playful games he had begun to enjoy with Mr. Fool’s tentacles in that half-awake state above the gray fog, he found himself dreaming only of the past.

He was back in Chernobyl, in his old home. Not in his bedroom, but curled up on the living room couch, waiting for his father to step out of his study and give him a goodnight kiss. He tried to fight off sleep, blinking desperately to stay awake. But, as always, drowsiness won; he slipped into unconsciousness before the study door ever opened.

From that night on, his father had worked too late to ever come out in time. Yet Amon kept waiting, night after night, forcing himself to stay awake just to catch a glimpse of him. He fought exhaustion, hoping for a kiss that never came, until finally—after months of disappointment—he had given up.

The next day passed in the same silence. Mr. Fool gave no reply, no summons, nothing. By the afternoon, Amon’s mood had soured enough for even his new coworkers to notice. They tiptoed around him at first, then began offering small peace offerings—handing him sweets, slipping him candy as though he were a sulking child they hoped to coax into smiling.

He let them, working halfheartedly through the day until, somehow, it ended. Another stretch of time survived in silence.

And then—Monday came.

Which meant one thing: the second Tarot Gathering.

Chapter Text

Amon was sprawled across his bed, idly rolling coins between his fingers, when the clock struck three on Monday afternoon. In the next instant, the coins slipped from his hands as his surroundings melted away—he was seated once more on a bronze chair above the endless gray fog.

To his left sat Miss Justice and The Hanged Man, already facing one another. To his right was the figure who had ignored him for the past two days: Mr. Fool. He lounged in his high-backed bronze chair at the center of it all, posture perfectly composed, his tone and bearing calm, confident, almost indifferent—as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t silenced Amon mid-conversation and cast him out without warning, refusing to answer him since.

Miss Justice rose gracefully and dipped a brief bow. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fool~!” She turned with equal cheer toward the others. “Good evening, The Hanged Man, Mr. Lovers~!”

The Hanged Man mirrored her courtesy, first saluting Mr. Fool with solemn reverence before nodding to the rest. As soon as he sat down again, both he and Justice seemed to turn expectantly toward Amon—waiting for him to offer his greeting to their mysterious host.

Hah. As if.

Amon’s lips curved into a smile, hidden entirely by the fog but satisfying in its defiance. He greeted Justice and The Hanged Man politely, and didn’t spare Mr. Fool so much as a glance.

Any other god would have struck him down on the spot for such insolence. But other gods didn’t pull their Blessed close each night with curling tentacles, playing with their hair until they drifted off to sleep. Other gods didn’t suddenly cut off all contact either. In Amon’s mind, it was clear—Mr. Fool had crossed the line first, not him.

Mr. Fool gave no sign of being affected by the slight. Yet Alger and Audrey both felt the tension that thickened the air of the Sefirah Castle. Audrey, especially, could sense it. Now advanced to Sequence 9 Audience, her sharpened perception picked up on more than just the strained air between Mr. Lovers and Mr. Fool—she could tell that Mr. Fool’s serene composure was a little too carefully maintained. Her heart skipped, and she quickly reined herself in. Careful, Audrey. One must never try to peer too deeply into a god.

“First things first—congratulations, Miss Justice, on starting along your Beyonder path.” Mr. Fool’s cool, steady voice cut across the table, smooth and measured as ever.

“Thank you, Mr. Fool!” Audrey beamed, practically glowing like she’d just been knighted. To her, the fact that he’d seen through her at a glance was proof—absolute proof—of his unfathomable wisdom.

Amon squinted so hard he was half-convinced his eyes might get stuck that way. Oh, wow. This thing had stonewalled him for two whole days, hadn’t even looked at him when he arrived—and now here it was, lavishing attention on some… some random girl? Was this what it felt like to get cucked?

Unacceptable.

“Lady Justice,” Amon cut in, putting on his most gallant, knightly tone, “are you feeling well? The first few days after advancement are always the hardest—most dangerous, even. The risk of losing control is highest.”

He even leaned back a little in his chair, sighing like a tragic war hero. “When I advanced to the Marauder Sequence, I was plagued with headaches, my spirituality flaring out of control. A nightmare, truly—but I endured.”

Both Alger and Audrey turned to him, blinking. Wait. Did he just say when he advanced?

Audrey perked up like a puppy smelling a treat. “Mr. Lovers—you also only just became a Beyonder?” she asked, voice tinged with excitement. She wasn’t the only newbie! Maybe she wasn’t as out of her depth as she feared!

“Yes,” Amon replied without hesitation, his voice dripping with casual honesty. “Only a few weeks ago.”

He didn’t care what impression they got. Better they think him weak than waste his time expecting miracles. And besides—it was perfect ammunition. Heheh. Just imagine it: an ancient deity’s prized, handpicked Blessed… a Sequence 9 rookie Marauder. How utterly humiliating for Mr. Fool.

…Or at least, it should have been.

Instead of looking down on him, both Audrey and Alger seemed… impressed. Awe-struck, even. If strength wasn’t the reason Mr. Fool valued him, then clearly—clearly!—Mr. Lovers must have some mysterious, profound connection to the god.

Amon blinked, dumbfounded. He’d crafted that little reveal to stab at Mr. Fool, to shake his image—yet here these two were, practically elevating him to “Beloved of the Gods” status.

All his carefully honed manipulations—designed to topple the proudest defenses—shattered instantly against the brick wall of sheer gullibility.

…Unbelievable.

Grumbling in his mind, Amon pouted and let his thoughts wander while Miss Justice asked her first of three questions. Mr. Fool, in that infuriatingly calm tone of his, launched into an explanation about the so-called ‘acting method.’

Amon’s scowl deepened. Oh, fantastic. Of course. He explicitly remembered Mr. Fool saying something about explaining this very thing to him last time—only to then cut him off, toss him out of the gray fog, and proceed to ghost him for two whole days.

Okay, Amon. Breathe. This is, what, the tenth time in the last hour you’ve replayed that scene in your head? Kicking the mental version of Mr. Fool around like a football? Snap out of it. He doesn’t deserve to live rent-free in your head like this!

He forced himself to tune out again, catching only fragments. Something about Miss Justice admitting—accidentally—that she’d fed her pet a Beyonder potion. That at least got a snort out of him. Honestly, who does that? But even the image of a magical pet wobbling around half-drunk on potion fumes wasn’t enough to lighten his mood.

Especially not when Mr. Fool immediately moved on to rambling about—what was that? Civil Service Examinations? Oh, great. Yes, because what Amon really wanted was a lecture about paperwork and exams from an eldritch god.

Then came the diary request. Then the unveiling of his “honorific name.”

Amon nearly slammed his forehead on the table.

First, Mr. Fool finds a replacement to fetch the secret diary pages—yes, technically Amon knew he couldn’t get them all, but he was the one who found the first few! Where was his reward for that? Where was his payment?

And now this. Sharing his sacred, honorific name. Just handing it out like candy.

Amon’s fists clenched in his lap.

WHY DOESN’T HE JUST MAKE THESE TWO HIS BLESSED INSTEAD OF ME?!

As Amon seethed quietly in his chair, the meeting wound to its end. Miss Justice and The Hanged Man rose with their polite farewells, their spiritual bodies dissolving one by one into the gray fog.

Amon felt it too—the subtle pull as the Castle began to release him. He should have let it take him, should have slipped back into his body like the others.

But he didn’t.

Out of a sudden, reckless surge—part idiocy, part sheer, stubborn will—Amon’s fingers tightened around the monocle on his right eye. With his other hand he traced the movement Mr. Fool himself had taught him, activating his Spirit Vision.

Amon’s fingers curled over the rim of his monocle, tightening as his other hand traced the gesture Mr. Fool had once shown him. Spirituality surged, thin and sharp, and his vision bled into something more.

The gray fog trembled.

This time, he didn’t let it push his gaze away. He looked.

The veil parted, and what had always been hidden now unraveled before his gaze.

Mr. Fool was no man.

He was a heaving abyss of worms, of tentacles twisted from living script, etched with symbols that pulsed and reassembled faster than thought. Together they made the mocking outline of a god seated upon his throne—

Until his gaze locked onto its E̶̛̠̼͚̠͎̟̠̦̞͆̓̓͐̔͛Ȳ̷̺͕͍͔̦̅̚E̵̼̮̅͊͊̓̍́̊̑̔̕͘͠S̸̮̩̻̋̈̍̂̊̐̿̓̔͗͘̚̕͝

They bore into him, unraveling skin, mind, soul—

̷̛̹̱̝̙͖̲̹̼͕̳̪̟̳̰̣́͂̓͆̈́́͘

Then, nothing.

The sensation of self vanished. Sight, hearing, breath, heartbeat—all gone. Amon collapsed into a vast silence, the corruption already digging into him simply gone, stolen away by a power vaster than he could comprehend.

When awareness returned, he wasn’t in the bronze chair anymore. He was lying flat on the familiar bed, chest heaving as though he had nearly drowned. The cool fabric beneath him grounded him to life. Above him, shadows loomed—the immense, towering outline of Mr. Fool, tentacles curled taut around him, drawn close not in playfulness but as if they were desperately making sure he was still there.

The god’s voice, when it came, was flat—cold—but the tension in his form betrayed him. “…Why would you do that?”

Amon blinked once, then twice, dazed. Then his lips curved into a grin, bright and cheeky. “Well, I made you stop ignoring me, didn’t I? So… I won.”

The tentacles surrounding him tensed further, clinging almost possessively before withdrawing as if Mr. Fool realized what they were doing. His tone stayed even, but the weight beneath it pressed heavy against the air:

“What if you died?”

“Eh.” Amon shrugged, still smiling, utterly casual despite how pale he looked. “I knew I wouldn’t.”

“How,” the god asked, each syllable like a blade kept deliberately steady, “could you possibly know that?”

Amon propped himself up on an elbow, grin sharpening. “Because I knew you’d save me. And look—you did.”

The fog around Mr. Fool thickened, as if to smother the slight tremor running through his form. Tentacles shifted against the floor, restless, betraying a strain his voice refused to show.

“…You gamble with your own existence as if it were nothing.”

Amon only stretched back onto the bed with a lazy laugh, eyes glinting with mischief. “Because I knew I’d win.”

Mr. Fool said nothing. He loomed above, silent and inscrutable, every movement restrained to the point of trembling. Yet the truth hung heavy in the air—

He had saved Amon. Instinctively, desperately, without hesitation. Even knowing it would sap what little strength he’d clawed back, he’d done it anyway.

“And,” Amon drawled, fingers curling to catch hold of a trembling tentacle that had crept closer, “I hate being ignored.” His smile widened, sly and cruelly bright, even as his tone took on the weight of a command.

The Fool froze.

“I don’t care if you’re a god. You’re my god.” Amon’s voice was no longer lilting or mischievous—it was sharp, trembling with something deeper, something raw. His hand shot out, catching one of the retreating tentacles, and he yanked it toward him with a force born of pure refusal. The gray fog rippled as Mr. Fool stumbled closer, drawn into his Blessed’s orbit whether he willed it or not.

“You don’t get to ignore me,” His voice rang with a childish stubbornness, but underneath it throbbed a gravity that even the gray fog couldn’t smother. He pulled harder, dragging The Fool down until the god loomed directly over him, close enough that the air trembled between them.

And then, as if sealing an oath, he whispered, his eyes blazing with a fierce intensity—

“Not now. Not ever.”

Amon only allowed the words to linger for a few brief seconds before he let go of his grip completely. Instantly, the oppressive tension evaporated, and Amon’s expression transformed. He sat back slightly, tilting his head with an innocent, almost disarming smile.

“So,” he said, cheerfully as if nothing had just happened, “can you teach me about the Acting Method again? I wasn’t paying attention during the gathering.”

The words hung in the air like a bucket of cold water, and Mr. Fool froze. His form above the bed stiffened, the gray fog around him quivering faintly. For the briefest moment, something resembling—almost—human emotion flickered through the god’s stoic presence. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to betray that he’d felt it.

Amon, oblivious—or perhaps deliberately so—continued to grin, eyes sparkling with calculated mischief. Mr. Fool, unable to respond immediately, exhaled a faint sigh and, with measured precision, conjured up one of their favorite chairs. The chair hovered into place with an otherworldly grace, as if the very air itself respected its owner’s will.

“Sit,” Mr. Fool instructed, voice clipped, steady.

Amon, however, had other plans. Instead of settling into the chair, he clambered beside the god on the edge of the bed, pressing close—too close—his body leaning against Mr. Fool’s with a firm, possessive weight.

Amon tilted his head ever so slightly, his wide, luminous eyes brimming with mock innocence, the subtle lift of his chin silently daring Mr. Fool to challenge his actions.

Mr. Fool’s gaze flicked downward, momentarily at a loss. He opened his mouth, but no words came. His tentacles, sensing their Blessed’s return to familiar territory, erupted into activity—curling around Amon’s shoulders, braiding loosely around his arms, and patting at his hair like overzealous caretakers. They fussed, adjusted, and spoiled him, trying to make him comfortable in every way they could.

“No—stop that,” Mr. Fool muttered, voice low, sharp, yet failing entirely. His form trembled slightly as he tried to glare at the extensions of his own will, but the tentacles ignored his commands entirely. They swirled around Amon, nestling him into a cocoon of warmth and ridiculous over-attention, pressing him into Mr. Fool with enthusiastic loyalty.

Mr. Fool exhaled again, slower this time, the faintest flicker of resignation—or maybe admiration—showing in the stiff lines of his posture. His face remained unreadable behind the gray fog, but the subtle tension in his shoulders betrayed a single, undeniable truth: he couldn’t help but go along with it.

And so their lesson continued. Mr. Fool never explained why he had suddenly ignored Amon, and Amon, for his part, never asked.

Before they knew it, evening had deepened. The only reason Mr. Fool paused his mystical teachings—which Amon would need to understand in order to access more of his powers—was the growing weakness in his blessed’s body, something his tentacles had already diagnosed.

Alarm surged through him and through the writhing tentacles. He suddenly remembered that humans were very fragile creatures, especially the ones from lower sequences. Was his Blessed dying?

“I’m hungry,” Amon finally said, rubbing his stomach with an exaggerated pout. “You… I know you’re a god with no concept of time or food, but I’m human. I haven’t eaten all day.” His tone was accusing, but it was a playful accusation. The truth was, he had ignored his own hunger, caught up in the desire to gain Mr. Fool’s attention after days of being overlooked—but he also secretly enjoyed watching the tentacles squirm in panic and guilt.

“I’m sorry. I’ll let you down to the Sefirah Castle now,” Mr. Fool replied, flustered.

And just like that, Amon awoke in his bed at the Nighthawks base. Though he’d gone to sleep at three for the gathering, nearly five hours had passed; his stomach growled like an angry beast. Cooking seemed out of the question, so he grabbed some money and stepped out, greeting Rozanne and Kenely as he passed them exiting the Blackthorn Security Company.

Despite the area being poor and lacking options, Amon decided to head back to West Borough, trusting his memory to locate a decent place that sold roasted meat and desserts—something for both himself and Mr. Fool’s sweet tooth. He placed an order for two steaks, some sweet bread, and Mr. Fool’s favorite iced tea, intending to take it to-go.

As he stepped outside, he spotted Melissa again, this time accompanied by an older man who looked like her—most likely her surviving brother. He nearly waved, bored, but caught sight of their entrance into the Nighthawks church. They were still in black, still grieving; Amon wisely stayed put. People in mourning were no fun to talk to.

He idly surveyed the area, resisting the urge to “borrow” anything as per Captain Dunn’s instructions, until his food was ready. As he awaited a carriage back to the Blackthorn Security Company, he noticed Melissa and her brother exiting the church. A man in Evernight Church robes approached them, offering something they hesitated to accept but ultimately received with a bow.

Amon didn’t dwell on it—he found a carriage and stepped inside—but Mr. Fool’s offhand comment echoed in his mind:

‘That man wasn’t an Evernight follower.’

Amon’s interest piqued. Smirking, he thought back to Mr. Fool’s lessons and replied directly in his mind as taught. ‘So you can tell which people follow which gods?’

Mr. Fool’s deep, deliberate voice came slowly, casual yet heavy with intent. ‘…Kind of. The Nighthawks—the people who wear a crescent moon—they carry a distinct aura, a subtle weight. That man… he was drenched in another god’s scent. I haven’t observed many other orthodox gods’ followers, so I can’t say for certain whose.’

Scent? Was this some sort of omegaverse?

Amon bit back a wider smile and asked, intrigued, ‘So whose scent am I drenched in?’

‘Mine, of course,’ Mr. Fool replied, tone high and haughty, as if offended. ‘You are my Blessed.’

Amon hummed, mischief dancing in his mind. ‘So that means Mr. Fool has claimed me as his own?’

‘You… your mind is filled with nonsense. Focus on your studies. Tomorrow, you’ll visit that professor for history lessons.’

‘Alright, alright…’ Amon hummed, already looking forward to their shared meal above the gray fog. Throwing tantrums always worked great!

As Amon returned to the Blackthorn Security Company, he spotted Captain Dunn and hurried over with an eager greeting.

“Amon, glad to see you’re feeling better,” Dunn said warmly, smiling in relief. He seemed convinced that Amon’s day off had cured his recent bout of melancholy. “Did you enjoy yourself? I heard you mostly stayed in your room… Reading is a good habit, of course, but you also need exercise and sunlight if you want to grow properly.”

Amon basked in the attention—until it began veering too much into lecture territory. Cutting in before Dunn could continue, he quickly redirected the conversation.

“Captain! You know about that underground Beyonder market, right?” he asked, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “If you already know about them, why do you let them exist? Doesn’t that just mean more people might secretly become Beyonders?”

Of course, he already knew the answer. The question was only a stepping stone for his plan.

“These things will exist whether we fight them or not,” Dunn replied evenly. “Better that they operate in places we can monitor, in case trouble arises.”

“But isn’t it still dangerous?” Amon pressed, adding a childlike frown for effect. “There’s always something happening down there, yet no one pays attention unless disaster strikes. If we increased our presence, we could prevent problems before they happened—or at least gather clues in advance. We could save lives that way!”

Dunn paused to consider it. “Hm… It sounds reasonable, but…” He exhaled softly. “It isn’t practical. If the people there realize the Nighthawks are sniffing around, they’ll scatter. That would only make things worse.”

Amon’s lips curled into a smile. “So what you’re saying is… you’d need someone who fits in among the crooks, someone not recognized as a Nighthawk. Someone who already knows the underground scene.” He leaned forward, wiggling his eyebrows. “Doesn’t that sound an awful lot like a certain new recruit you just hired? How about it, Captain?”

Dunn’s answer was immediate. “No.”

Amon’s eyes widened. “What? Why not?”

“It’s too dangerous,” Dunn said firmly. “You’d be surrounded by unofficial Beyonders in a place too far for quick backup. Nighthawks work as a team, Amon. Sending you alone would break that rule, and sending two of you would draw attention.”

Amon pouted. This was important—he needed access to the underground to properly practice the acting method Mr. Fool had taught him. His potion pathway required acts that bordered on criminal, and if he didn’t find a workaround, Dunn’s suspicions would shut him down before he even got started.

“But Captain,” Amon countered, voice ringing with practiced passion, “Beyonder work has always been dangerous! I’d still be on standby for emergencies—it wouldn’t be any different than me waiting here at the Company. If anything, being stationed down there would shorten our response time and expand our reach. Isn’t our first duty as Nighthawks to protect the Goddess’s people and our city from extraordinary harm?”

‘Don’t speak another God’s name when you’re already my Blessed.’

He hadn’t even said her name!

Mr. Fool… I appreciate the jealous routine, really, but maybe now isn’t the time.

“Hm…” Captain Dunn tapped his pipe against his palm, thoughtful. Finally, he sighed. “Follow me.”

“…!” Did his plan actually work?

Amon practically skipped after Dunn as they ventured deeper into the Nighthawks base, into halls Amon had never seen before. Eventually, Dunn stopped before a heavy door and pushed it open.

A dim room stretched before them, lit only by rows of candles. The faint glow revealed stone slabs, each carved with a name.

“Is this… a cemetery?” Amon asked, startled.

“It’s a memorial,” Dunn replied quietly. His gaze softened as it swept across the rows of slabs. “Every Nighthawk who fell in the line of duty rests here. Which is most of them.”

“Oh…” Amon murmured, unsure why Dunn had brought him here.

“Do you know why most Beyonders die?”

“Fighting other Beyonders?” Amon guessed.

Dunn shook his head. “Because they lost control.”

“I see…” Amon had always known losing control was a risk. He hadn’t realized how common it actually was.

“Becoming a Nighthawk means living with that risk,” Dunn said. He reached into his coat and handed Amon a candle. Amon accepted, keeping his face carefully neutral while Dunn lit it for him. “Every name here belonged to someone who kept Tingen safe for years, along with the Beyonders from other Orthodox Churches. They are Tingen’s pioneers.”

Dunn motioned for him to place the candle. Amon stood before a stone and set it down among the hundreds already burning.

“That one belonged to a sharp young woman,” Dunn said softly. “She stayed at Sequence 9 for years, digesting her potion slowly. When she finally advanced…” He closed his eyes, pained. “She lost control and became a monster. We had to put her down. Leonard was a fresh recruit back then. Frye was present there too.”

“I’m sorry that happened,” Amon finally said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. Grief was strange to him—something he neither understood nor knew how to soothe. His father had tried countless times to instill sympathy in him, only to give up when Amon showed none, as though it were a defect expected of a child his age. Perhaps that was when his father’s affection began to fade, crumbling into dust that Amon tried—and failed—to grasp.

Now, in this bizarre world of gods, monsters, and powers beyond comprehension, he felt even more distant. All he could do was bide his time until he found a way back home. No matter how much of an asshole his father had been, he was still his father. And without Amon there, what if some manipulative woman drained him dry of everything he owned? His father was gullible like that—always trusting too much—so much so that even at five years old, Amon had felt it was his job to shield him from being cheated.

But going home meant leaving this world behind. Leonard, Rozanne, Kenely, Frye, Seeka, Captain Dunn… even Mr. Fool. He really was an unfeeling scum like everyone said, wasn’t he? He had cursed at Mr. Fool today for disappearing for two days, when he himself intended to abandon the god the moment he got the chance. His outburst had been nothing more than a crack in his composure—maybe homesickness, maybe fatigue.

Dunn, watching the conflict etched on Amon’s face, rested a hand on his head and patted gently.

“I just want you to understand the dangers of this world and this job,” Dunn said quietly. “I don’t want to see another name carved into the memorial hall—especially not one so young, so full of life.”

Amon didn’t even bother to get flustered this time. His thoughts were too tangled, circling endlessly around home. His real home.

“Why do you care?” he asked at last.

Dunn raised a brow. “Hm?”

“You only met me a few days ago. So why do you care?” There were plenty of orphans in worse conditions than he had been in. Compared to them, Amon had been lucky. In his experience, every act of love or kindness was selfish at its core—done in hope of return, or simply to feel better about oneself.

He frowned, bracing himself for a saccharine speech, some long-winded mess of sentimentality. Instead, Dunn’s reply disarmed him.

“Do people really need a reason to care about others?”

“That’s… not an answer.”

“It’s answer enough for me.”

Amon quickly changed the subject, feeling oddly lightheaded. “Why did she lose control?” He meant the woman whose name was etched into the stone where he had just placed his candle.

“Turns out she never digested her potion. Even after six years…” Dunn’s tone was heavy.

Digesting… That was exactly what Mr. Fool had lectured him about earlier that day.

“How long does it usually take?” Amon asked carefully.

Dunn sighed. “No one knows. That’s why no one is allowed to advance unless they’re certain. It usually takes years. Sometimes even ten aren’t enough for a Sequence 9.”

Ten years…

Amon’s stomach twisted. If he had to climb through the Sequences just to help Mr. Fool recover his powers and find a way home, then at this pace he’d die of old age before getting anywhere.

Sensing his Blessed’s frustration, Mr. Fool’s voice pressed directly into his mind:

‘Like I taught you—the acting method accelerates digestion. If you follow your Sequence’s principles, you can finish in just a few months, not years.’

“Of course, there are exceptions,” Dunn went on, unaware of Amon’s pensive stare. “Daly Simone—the Spirit Medium who interrogated you—took only two years to reach Sequence 7. Due to her high potential she was transferred to Backlund Church. Of course, geniuses like her aren’t common, so don’t take her case as a standard.”

Madam Daly… Yes, now that he thought back, she really did act like her potion’s name. maybe even that entire goth getup with blue eyeshadow and lipstick wasn’t her emo phase but her trying to follow the acting method.

But that also meant that she knew about the acting method. So then why hadn’t she shared it with her colleagues? Why let them stumble into death without that knowledge?

Amon quickly shoved those thoughts away and focused on what was in front of him. Right now, he had to win Dunn over.

“That’s exactly it, Captain!” Amon leaned forward eagerly. “If I go undercover in the illegal Beyonder markets, I believe help me digest my potion faster. I’ll gain practical knowledge, sharpen my abilities, and get in tune with them properly. Almost every young high-Sequence Beyonder I’ve seen embodies their pathway in some way—that’s got to be the key to digestion!”

Dunn studied his bright, animated face. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though his eyes still held doubt. “If you’re that certain… then fine. You’ll serve as our hidden informant in the underground Beyonder world.”

Amon lit up, cheering out loud.

“I’ll prepare the paperwork tomorrow,” Dunn continued. “But stay hidden. Avoid unnecessary danger. And I expect detailed written reports each week.”

“Of course! Anything you want, sir Captain!”

Before Dunn could react, Amon threw himself at him, wrapping him in a sudden hug.

Inside Amon’s head, a certain god nearly choked.

Chapter Text

Amon bid Mr. Azik farewell before taking his leave. The history lesson had been rather dull, but with Mr. Fool’s voice murmuring in his mind, he managed to hide the fact that he had been half-asleep through most of it. With that ordeal behind him, he returned to the Blackthorn Security Company, collected the daggers and knives he had requisitioned, and after exchanging farewells with the Nighthawks—reassuring Dunn he could handle himself—he set off toward his true destination—

The underground mysticism market.

But why had Amon chosen this place to digest his potion?

Mr. Fool had explained the principles of the Acting Method—that one must not only behave according to the Sequence’s name but also grasp its underlying concept. While Amon’s natural disposition already suited a Marauder, Mr. Fool suspected there were deeper principles he had to embrace to fully digest the potion.

Together, they had pieced it out: a Marauder was not merely a thief of objects. At the core, he must act as someone who takes without asking—petty theft, pickpocketing, ‘borrowing’ things with no intention of returning them, practicing boldness in seizing opportunities. But theft alone was not enough. A Marauder had to move in shadows, never reveal himself except when striking, and count knowledge among the things he stole. A true Marauder prepared meticulously—studying his surroundings, reading people, gathering secrets—so that every theft became precise and inevitable.

All his actions, all his ‘acting’, had to build toward one aim: to make the act of stealing as silent, cunning, and successful as possible.

There was also another aspect of ‘acting’ that Mr. Fool had said could speed up the pace of digestion, and that was the existence of an ‘audience.’ The higher the Sequence, the better. Thankfully for Amon, Mr. Fool was already a much higher Sequence observing his acting—but he needed more than that, since the Gray Fog interrupted Mr. Fool’s presence and influence in the physical world. And Amon couldn’t really make the Nighthawks his audience, not when Dunn had explicitly forbidden him from committing crimes, when his entire pathway was about committing crimes.

Now, where was the perfect place where he could do all this reasonably, while also gathering sufficient information for both himself and Mr. Fool? The Underground Mysticism Market, of course.

The previous Amon from this world had been incredibly knowledgeable about places like these and practically lived in them. That meant he already had some kind of reputation as a low-life crook, which suited Amon just fine. It meant his digestion would go smoothly, and no one would ever suspect him of being an official Beyonder.

That also meant he couldn’t wear his good clothes. Instead, he had to make do with a simple shirt and trousers he’d bought from a cheap second-hand shop. All he needed was deep pockets that could properly hide his treasures and weapons.

Stepping into the market, Amon looked around in slight awe at the lively place, thick with the air of mysticism. Although his spiritual perception as a Marauder was quite low, he was still a Beyonder and could sense the rare few actual Beyonder characteristics among the multitude of fakes floating around.

‘Selling fake goods in a Beyonder circle… do these people not know this is what causes Beyonders to lose control?’ Mr. Fool commented offhandedly in his mind, and Amon hummed in agreement, still scanning the stalls.

It had been a while since Amon had let himself go free and stolen as he pleased. Now that the opportunity had presented itself, he was buzzing with excitement, eyes darting around in search of his first victim—um, helper volunteer in his little task of potion digestion.

So for the next few hours, Amon wandered the market, slipping into shadows, building a mental map of the stalls, swiping bits of random change Mr. Fool wouldn’t start hyperventilating over, and keeping his ears open for any kind of scoop he could later feed to the Nighthawks.

Time slipped quickly, and just when he was about to call it a day, Amon spotted a familiar face—though not at all where he expected her to be.

Leaning over a particular stall, buying ceremonial items, was a small lady with brown hair and a bookish temperament:

Melissa.

What was she doing here?

Curiously, Amon edged closer, using his Marauder abilities to muffle his steps and dim his presence as he peeked at what she was buying. It was all ritualistic supplies, and from what he could sense tucked in her bag, there were also things like flowers, perfume, and small vials.

From the surface-level knowledge he’d pieced together about her, she was the studious, serious type with a tight grip on her pennies—a habit that reminded Amon a little too much of Mr. Fool himself. That similarity had sparked his curiosity about her from their very first meeting.

She didn’t strike him as the kind of person to dabble in the extraordinary. And while the items she was purchasing only cost a few pence apiece, for someone as frugal as her, that was still a considerable expense.

So, making up his mind, Amon put on his brightest smile and popped up beside her.

“Hello there!”

Melissa jumped in fright, like a startled deer caught in headlights. She relaxed only after recognizing him—the strange boy who had once forced her into a shopping trip.

“Oh… it’s Amon. Hello.” She said rather listlessly, adjusting her black dress, still in mourning for her dead brother.

“I saw you from the corner of my eye and wanted to know what you were doing.” Amon said casually, pretending to examine the items Melissa had picked out as though he didn’t already know. “Are those ceremonial ingredients? You’re a believer of the Church of Evernight, right? I heard they let you pray with objects like these to your Goddess every week during mass already, so why the extra purchases?”

Though Amon himself had never once stepped foot inside a church, working as a Nighthawk had forced him to learn the basics of church practices.

Melissa stayed quiet for a moment before finally opening her mouth. Instead of answering his question, she posed one of her own.

“Amon… since you’re here in a place like this too, that must mean you believe in the existence of something extraordinary?”

“Well, you could say something like that,” Amon answered vaguely.

“You said you were a detective consultant, right? That means you must’ve come across at least a few cases where things didn’t add up logically and could only be explained by the supernatural… or the mystic!”

Amon noted how her body language was growing tense and desperate with each word. Something was clearly wrong.

Still, he kept his easy smile and gently pressed her, “Why suddenly ask me that? Have you come across something of the sort?” Neither confirming nor denying anything—that was how a good scammer reeled information out of their mark. And just like a moth drawn to flame, Melissa leaned further in.

“My brother… he—” She gasped, then quickly steadied herself. “When he… died. He shot himself.”

“So, a suicide.” Amon kept his tone neutral, though he knew what she was really trying to say.

“No! He wouldn’t—Klein wouldn’t…” Melissa’s eyes glistened under a thin mist of tears. “I know life was tough after our parents’ death, but Klein had never shown signs like that—especially not to the point he could k-kill himself. He even had a prospective teaching position interview coming up at his university. Yes, he was nervous, but he was also happy, even hopeful!”

“Well… sometimes people are very good at hiding their true thoughts behind a mask, not wanting to trouble their family.” Amon smiled faintly, recalling how he himself had smiled at his father whenever asked if he was lonely being homeschooled living in the middle of nowhere, always insisting he was fine, that all he needed was his father. Well, that was when he was very young though.

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me too…” Melissa muttered with despair before stiffening, determination replacing her hesitation. “But I know what I saw that day—when I found his… his c-corpse. The state of his room. His… his journal.” Her voice fell into a rhythm, as though repeating words she’d rehearsed a hundred times: “‘Everyone will die, including me.’”

That was some damning evidence, the kind that would plant suspicion in anyone—especially someone as sharp as Melissa. Amon hadn’t realized she herself had been the one to discover her brother’s body. That little fact made it much harder to keep spinning lies.

“Then… yesterday, during mass with Benson, I spoke to someone about all this. He told me my suspicions were right, that there really was something extraordinary behind my brother’s death. He even gave me a piece of paper with instructions for a ritual—something that could let me reach a being who’d actually answer, who could explain to me why Klein had to die.”

The man she spoke of… was that the same one Amon had noticed her talking to the other day? Back then, he hadn’t been able to approach, his carriage having just arrived, and he hadn’t wanted to interrupt a mourning family speaking with what looked like a priest.

But the way Melissa described it now—coupled with Mr. Fool’s earlier remark that the ‘scent’ clinging to that man wasn’t one usually found on followers of the Evernight Goddess—

There was a high possibility the entity Melissa had been told to pray to was not an orthodox one.

“May I ask who you’ll be attempting to pray to?”

“I… I don’t know…” Melissa admitted, her voice small.

Amon sighed and slipped a hand into his pocket. He pulled out his Nighthawks badge and held it up for her to see. “I’m a Nighthawks member. We’re an official team of Beyonders working directly under the Church of the Evernight Goddess.”

Melissa’s eyes widened. “You…—”

“I have every reason to assume,” Amon cut in smoothly, “that whatever you’re planning will most likely result in your death—and maybe the deaths of others as well.”

“How would you—”

“Melissa,” Amon shook his head, cutting her off again, “haven’t you ever heard that you should never pray to an unknown deity? That’s how people die. The safest way for a normal person to survive in the world of Beyonders and deities is to ignore it. Live quietly. Don’t pry into what shouldn’t be pried into. Your brother Klein Moretti also died because he carelessly exposed himself to a world he wasn’t supposed to look into.”

Melissa’s head shot up. “You— You know my brother. How do you know his name, you…” Her eyes darted once more to the badge in his hand, and Amon could practically see the gears in her sharp little head turning and clicking into place. “Even the reason you went to visit Professor Azik—asking him about history for some tricky case… Amon, are you investigating the circumstances behind my brother’s death?”

‘She truly is one smart child…’ Mr. Fool remarked in the back of his mind, his voice caught between impressed and faintly concerned.

Amon understood. In this world, being too smart was often the quickest way to an early grave.

Caught red-handed, he could only admit, “Yes. I am.” He did not, however, mention his own involvement in that ‘accident’. There was no need.

Melissa took a step forward. The gloom that had seemed to cling to her since their first meeting was replaced with a fragile flicker of hope, as though she might finally grasp the reason why her beloved brother had to die. “Then can you tell me—”

“No.” Amon shook his head firmly. At Melissa’s indignant cry, he sighed and elaborated. “Like I said, there are things normal humans like you shouldn’t pry into. Your brother already lost his life to this world, and I doubt he would want you to take the same steps he almost certainly regretted taking. Do what Klein would have wished for you: graduate, find a good job, move you and your brother Benson somewhere comfortable. Live the rest of your life ignoring the mystic world. That’s the only way you’ll keep yourself—and your family—safe.”

Melissa pressed her lips together, and Amon softened his smile. “May I take the paper that man handed you?”

Wordlessly, Melissa passed it over. Amon slipped it into his pocket alongside his badge. “I’d also recommend returning those items. There’s no need for you to pray to any entity other than our great Evernight Goddess.”

Inside his mind, he heard the faint grumbling of his god.

“…Okay.” Melissa murmured, finally. She gave him a faint nod, then bid him goodbye.

Amon left her behind with an easy wave. He wasn’t too worried about the girl; she was clever, and after his warnings, she likely wouldn’t do anything reckless.

Sometimes all it took was a steady hand guiding someone away from the cliff’s edge.

He sighed as he rounded a corner, pulling the folded paper from his pocket. “And here I thought I came here today to do crimes, not to play filial citizen…”

‘Whose name is on that paper?’ Mr. Fool urged from the back seat of his mind, impatient as ever.

“I’m reading, I’m reading…” Amon muttered, scanning through the basic ritual instructions—until his eyes froze on the string of honorifics.

The Lord that Created Everything,
The Lord who Reigns Behind the Curtain of Shadows,
The Degenerate Nature of All Living Things.

“The True Creator…”

‘The Creator…’ Mr. Fool’s voice carried a strange note, which Amon immediately caught.

“Mr. Fool, you know this deity?” Amon asked, pinching the monocle on his right eye to sharpen his god’s voice in his head.

‘I don’t… I don’t know.’ Mr. Fool said with hesitation. Amon could almost picture his tentacles stirring restlessly, twisting in discomfort the way they often did whenever their main body wrestled with broken fragments of their memory. ‘Just… the name Creator feels familiar.’

Amon nodded, “Well, considering you’re a god yourself, before you lost your memories you must have known other gods. That would explain the sense of familiarity. And you said Creator instead of True Creator—that might mean you might be ancient enough to have known the real Creator Himself!” he added, his tone rising with a touch of excitement.

Old Neil had once told him about the Myth of Creation as written in the Holy Scriptures of the Orthodox Churches:

The Creator awoke from Chaos and shattered the darkness, bringing forth the first ray of light. He then fused Himself completely into the universe, becoming all of existence. His body became the land and stars. One of His eyes became the sun, while the other became the crimson moon. Some of His blood flowed into the seas and rivers, nourishing and nurturing life.

His lungs turned into the elves; His heart into the giants; His liver into the treants; His brain into the dragons; His kidneys into the feathered serpents. His hair became the phoenixes; His ears the demonic wolves; His mouth and teeth the mutants. His remaining bodily fluids became the sea monsters, whose essence was the Naga. His stomach, intestines, and the darker parts of His body turned into devils, evil spirits, and all manner of unknown maleficent existences. His spirit became the Eternal Blazing Sun, the Lord of Storms, and the God of Knowledge and Wisdom.

His wisdom gave birth to humanity. That was the First Epoch—the Chaos Epoch.

“Hmm… I don’t know.”

Well, that was to be expected.

Amon hummed an offbeat tune as he prepared to head back to his cozy prison cell and crack open that cheesy romance novel he’d just bought—when his spirituality suddenly stirred.

’Over there!’ Mr. Fool had sensed it too, quickly alerting his Blessed to the source of the disturbance.

Amon checked his supplies, dagger in hand, and rushed toward the presence.

Just his luck. First day on outpost duty and he already stumbled into something strange. Please don’t let it be a Beyonder gone berserk… he might hurl just looking at the thing before he even got the chance to kill it. Where was Leonard when you needed him to handle the dirty work?

The trail led him to a small, open room in an abandoned building. And there he realized—it wasn’t a rampaging Beyonder at all.

“Melissa?”

She stood before an ornate mirror, the same one Amon vaguely remembered her receiving from that strange man days ago. Its surface glowed with a faint purple hue, warping the air around it.

When she turned, it was not Melissa’s face he saw. Her features were twisted, her eyes slit like a serpent’s, her skin crawling with scales as the mirror fused with her hand, a sickly green light spilling over everything.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

This was way out of his paygrade.

Mr. Fool’s voice cut sharply through his panic ‘Perform a ritual and call on me to cleanse her. My power is still weak—you’ll need ritual materials.’

Amon’s gaze flicked to the scattered candles, flowers, and oils already arranged in front of Melissa. She stirred, slowly rising, her warped eyes locking onto him.

Quickly, Amon snapped his wrist, hurling a Slumber charm Old Neil had made him. Melissa collapsed, her eyes fluttering shut.

No time to waste. He sprinted to the altar, planting four candles at the corners, dousing the air with whatever oils and flowers might strengthen his link. The silver dagger went in the center. He began to chant:

“The Fool that doesn’t belong to this era;
The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog;
The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck.
Your devoted servant prays for your attention.
I pray you take these offerings.
I pray you cleanse Melissa Moretti of corruption and keep her safe from danger!”

The altar shuddered to life as gray fog seeped from nowhere. But even as the ritual took hold, Melissa stirred awake, lunging at him.

Amon twisted away, careful not to disturb the altar, and tried another charm. This time she was ready—snatching it from the air and tossing it aside.

’It will take a few moments,’ Mr. Fool’s voice echoed in his mind. ‘Until then, separate the mirror from her body—and shatter it with the silver dagger I blessed.’

Buy time? Against this thing?!

Amon forced his nerves down. A good Marauder carefully observed his surroundings and use everything around him to his advantage to pull off the greatest theft!

Melissa lunged again, her movements jerky but unnervingly fast. Amon slid back, letting her claws rake the rotten wood pillar beside him instead of his chest. Splinters flew; the structure groaned.

His eyes darted around. The room was cramped but cluttered: loose beams, dust-choked curtains, half-broken furniture. Perfect.

As Melissa charged, Amon grabbed a chair and flung it into her path. She swiped it aside with inhuman strength, but the momentary delay let him dart toward the far wall. He yanked the sagging curtains down and swept them over her as she turned, tangling her arms. She shrieked, scales rippling under the fabric.

“That’s right, struggle a little…” Amon muttered, circling like a predator.

Melissa tore free, but now her breathing was heavy, her steps less steady. The mirror fused to her hand pulsed faintly, its purple light flickering.

Now.

Amon’s eyes flashed. With a subtle gesture, he invoked Steal—the mirror tore free from her hand, ripped out of place as if snatched by invisible fingers. Melissa screamed, collapsing to her knees as the corruption lost its anchor.

Amon didn’t hesitate. He hurled the mirror across the room, sending it clattering into the far wall. In the same motion, he snatched up the blessed silver dagger from the altar, took aim, and let it fly.

The blade struck true. The mirror shattered with a piercing crack, shards dissolving into green smoke.

Melissa slumped forward, the scales receding, her face smoothing back into something human. Her eyes fluttered open—confused, but no longer monstrous before ultimately passing out from exhaustion.

Amon exhaled sharply, rolling his sore shoulders. “First day on the field as a Nighthawk and I’m already defeating monsters.” He smiled, “What a good employee I am.”

But then he looked down at his tattered clothes and small scratches from his scuffle and suddenly couldn’t make out what he could say to explain himself to the Captain.

“...”

Fuck. What if he was no longer allowed to be stationed here anymore?!

Amon sighed and scanned the ruined room, then gently picked up Melissa and laid her down more comfortably. He only needed to wait a few more minutes before the official Beyonders arrived. Because this place bordered the territory of the Steam and Machinery Church, the team who came were from the Machinery Hivemind—their leader, Amon assumed, was the captain.

They arrived armed and alert. Their eyes locked on Amon, who loomed over a fainted woman with torn clothes, his own outfit just as ragged— the sort of look that made them suspect a crook.

Amon smirked and slid his hand into his pocket. The Machinery Hivemind stiffened, expecting him to draw a weapon—

—but instead he produced his Nighthawks badge.

Amon chuckled at the surprised faces as the Hivemind slowly lowered their weapons, though they still regarded him with a guarded reverence.

“I’m Amon, from the Nighthawks,” he said cheerfully, offering the captain his identification.

The captain examined the badge, then Amon, brow furrowed. “I’ve never seen you before.” Official Beyonders from different churches usually worked separately, but on large cases they often crossed paths; some even formed friendships across churches, like Old Neil and his friend from the Mandated Punishers— so it was odd not to recognise him.

“I’m a new hire,” Amon answered plainly, stepping back with an easy posture. He glanced down at Melissa, who was stirring, and began to explain. “She’s family of one of the victims connected to a case the Nighthawks are handling — something to do with the Antigonous Family Notebook. In her grief she tried to summon answers from an entity unknown to her called The True Creator.”

That grabbed their attention.

The captain of the Machinery Hivemind considered this and said, “I’ve heard whispers the Aurora Order has been more active lately… it coincides with today’s matter. Maybe she made contact with one of their members.”

Amon nodded and let the professionals sweep the rundown room while he sat on a half-broken chair and waited until Melissa finally woke.

“Good morning!” Amon beamed. “You survived your first—and hopefully last—run-in with an evil god! I think that calls for a celebration.”

“Huh, what?” Melissa groaned, cradling her head as the official Beyonders helped her upright.

Amon gave her time to gather herself, then addressed the Machinery Hivemind. “She already knows about the existence of Beyonders and the extraordinary. Don’t lie to her about this situation.”

They all nodded.

Melissa took in her surroundings with wide eyes; horror crept into her features. Then she looked at Amon, guilt written on her face. “I’m so sorry. I know I should’ve followed your advice. I knew I shouldn’t have done the ritual, but… I think my grief clouded my judgment. I just wanted answers about my brother…”

Amon listened and nodded. It sounded reasonable. He blamed himself a little — emotions always felt foreign to him, so he rarely understood how people acted erratically in distress, sorrow, or rage. Maybe his father had been right to try to send him to therapy and get him medicated, but where would the fun be in that?

“We’ll take her from here,” one of the Machinery Hivemind members said — a woman in her thirties, probably sequence eight.

“Are you arresting me?” Melissa asked, frightened and still disoriented. “I… my brother…”

The woman smiled warmly. “No. It’s standard protocol to ensure the safety of civilians who become directly involved in Beyonder matters for a while. You’re free to inform your brother, but we advise against giving him the full details — he could be in danger.”

Melissa nodded.

Amon took that as his cue to leave. He was already running late and dreaded the lecture he’d get from Rozanne when he returned.

“Well then, I’ll be taking my leave,” he announced flippantly, patting down his ruined clothes. “I’ll ask Captain Dunn to send you the full report on this situation, since you’re taking over.” He gave an overdramatic salute. “Bye-bye, officers!”

Just as he turned to go, Melissa called after him.

“Thank you so much for today… Even though I ignored your advice, you still saved my life. Thank you.”

Amon smiled and winked, then left.

As he stepped out, he smirked and pulled out a few gold pound coins he’d filched from the Machinery Hivemind, playing with them, tossing them into the air and catching them. Ah, being a Marauder was the best.

No one saw an illusory white feather drift down into the ruined altar room as Amon exited the Underground Market and the Machinery Hivemind escorted Melissa back to their headquarters. The feather faded into dust, then shattered into a million transparent pieces.

~

“What’s with your clothes?” Leonard asked at the entrance to Blackthorn Security Company.

“I fought a monster today. Thankfully she wasn’t too disgusting to look at,” Amon answered cheerfully. He was about to step inside when Leonard’s voice stopped him.

“What is it?” Amon grumbled, annoyed.

Leonard pointed with a teasing smile. “You do realise you should hide all that before reporting to the captain, right?”

Amon looked down where Leonard indicated and realised with a start: his recent treasures were bulging conspicuously from his trouser pockets.

That was when he heard Rozanne’s voice inside, greeting Captain Dunn and noting she’d heard Amon outside.

Shit. The man who wanted to steal Amon’s treasures was coming.

“I’ll hide them for you,” Leonard offered. Amon stared at him, wide-eyed.

“You’d do that for me?” he asked, as if Leonard had offered him the moon or something.

“Well, I know you’re still going to steal regardless of whether we stop you. Might as well do it without concealing it from one of us,” Leonard said, transferring Amon’s stolen goods into his bag. Whether intentional or not, Amon was using the acting method, which lowered his chances of losing control — so Leonard felt he had to support his junior and back him in his endeavours, no matter how illegal.

“LionHeart… my partner in crime—I love you!” Amon pounced on Leonard, hugging him, making a certain deity in his mind cough and shout profanities.

“For the last time— my name is Leonard! Leonard!” Leonard’s protests fell on deaf ears as Amon continued rubbing his face against Leonard’s chest while a certain ancient god quietly began plotting Leonard’s demise.

Chapter Text

Amon was lounging in Mr. Fool’s domain above the gray fog, busy doing nothing and half-dozing as one of Mr. Fool’s tentacles lazily pushed the hammock he’d badgered the god into making for him. He wasn’t truly sleepy, per se— just feeling sluggish, recovering from a long morning spent writing a painstakingly detailed report on the market incident with Melissa at the Captain’s insistence. To top it off, he’d then endured grueling shooting and combat training that left his muscles sore and his shoulders aching.

The illusionary tentacles, sensing their Blessed’s discomfort, had appointed themselves masseurs, kneading at his shoulders while rocking the hammock at a slow, indulgent pace, giving Amon the best rest possible.

Technically, the Amon above the gray fog was only his spirit body, not his true body. A massage here shouldn’t have had much effect on his physical fatigue— but as they said, recovery of the body began with the recovery of the mind. And it was soothing nonetheless. One of the tentacles pressed against a stubborn knot in Amon’s shoulder— the one that had absorbed most of the recoil during training— and when the tension finally gave way with a satisfying pop, the tentacle perked up. It immediately turned toward Amon’s face, waving side to side eagerly, as if demanding praise.

Feeling rather generous, Amon gave it a half-hearted pat. The tentacle quivered, melted into a puddle of gray, then re-formed and shook again, making Amon chuckle. The other tentacles noticed this favoritism and began quivering in what could only be described as irritation, before ganging up on their own in a flurry of wriggling appendages— punishing it, it seemed, for daring to monopolize their Blessed’s attention.

Smirking, Amon propped himself up and watched with great amusement, treating the squabble as his evening entertainment.

The tentacles were just about to stage an all-out siege in between three factions of themself when Amon’s gaze flickered toward Mr. Fool.

The god sat as always, upright and regal in his high-backed chair, hands folded on his lap. His yellow-and-black cloak hid most of his form, showing only the pale curve of his neck, his chin, his still lip— and the fog-obscured outline of his face, fixed as ever toward the window. He had been seated like this for the past hour, or perhaps longer, whenever there was nothing else to occupy him.

Amon had looked out that same window before. The view changed with Mr. Fool’s moods— something Amon had begun charting with no small satisfaction. Sometimes it was a tranquil pasture of endless grass, beautiful but dull. Other times, like today, it was nothing but the infinite gray fog stretching into oblivion. Today’s choice told Amon all he needed: Mr. Fool was feeling melancholic.

Normally, Amon left him alone during these moods, knowing full well he wasn’t the type to be cheered up. But this time, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, Amon abandoned his comfortable hammock. The tentacles, too absorbed in their petty war, didn’t notice his retreat as he padded over to the throne.

The god didn’t stir. He didn’t even acknowledge Amon’s approach. Amon pouted. He hated being ignored.

So, to ensure maximum attention, he plopped himself down right on Mr. Fool’s lap. His shorter legs wrapped around the god’s cloaked torso— the bulk made even wider by the mass of tentacles coiling beneath the fabric.

“Mr. Fool~ What are you thinking about?” Amon sang, tilting his head playfully.

That, at last, broke the god from his reverie. He turned to look at his Blessed perched insolently on his lap— a blasphemy, truly. Any other god would have smitten the mortal who dared treat their divinity so casually. But Mr. Fool was not any god, and Amon was not just any follower. He was his only believer in this age, his Blessed.

“Mm. Nothing,” Mr. Fool rumbled in his deep, sonorous voice. His gaze flicked past Amon toward the squabbling tentacles, only to dismiss them almost immediately. He refused to let their ridiculousness infect him. His tentacles had never been this foolish before.

But he knew the answer to that unasked question.

The change was the human sitting on his lap. His Blessed.

His Blessed’s existence had overturned everything.

Well, that was to be expected. If he was a calm and still lake left undisturbed for centuries, then Amon was the mischievous duck—no, the obnoxious crow—that landed on its mirror surface, sending ripples and splashes everywhere as it made the solitary waters its new home.

Technically, it was a good thing. His humanity had begun surfacing after thousands of years. Some days, he could even delude himself into dreaming again. His memories remained blank and elusive, but in those fabricated dreams, his one and only anchor—his gateway to the outside world—always played the protagonist: Amon.

Yet every time a flicker of long-forgotten humanity stirred within him, a darker feeling rose with it— a heavy, slumbering dread pressing against his chest, whispering that it was wrong, urging him to stop. Was it the Celestial Worthy’s influence, trying to pry the Sefirah Castle from his grasp? Or was it some lingering warning from his own past self? He could not say. All he knew was that he was a greedy fool— one who had somehow found a semblance of peace even in the monotony of lecturing his Blessed about mysticism and the Spirit World.

Almost unconsciously, one of the tentacles—not yet conscripted into the ongoing holy war of the spirit tentacles—rose and wrapped gently around its Blessed’s torso. It anchored him, supporting his weight to ensure he would not fall. A thoughtful gesture, really… if one ignored the fact that even if Amon were to slip, the gray fog—so long as it obeyed its master, The Fool—would never let him be harmed. It would always cushion him, always protect him.

“You’ve been in an odd mood since yesterday,” Amon remarked casually, letting one of the tentacles crawl down his arm and across his palm. He absently flicked its smooth, cool texture with his fingers. “Is it about the True Creator?”

Amon had always been sharp from a young age, quick to notice people’s microexpressions, body language and the tiny flickers of fluctuations in their tone. Not that it could make him any more compassionate. Not that it helped him much outside of taking advantage of those weak moments of vulnerability, it wasn’t like he could offer up words of condolences and support.

Mr. Fool didn’t reply immediately. Just as Amon opened his mouth to prod him again, the god finally spoke.

“It is odd…” His voice was low, distant, as though spoken from another time. “To feel as though you recognise a name so strongly, yet remember nothing to justify that recognition.”

The tentacle in Amon’s hand stirred. From its tip blossomed a delicate cornflower, bright blue and alive in dullness of the gray fog. It placed the flower carefully above Amon’s left ear, then smoothed out his black curls with practiced patience.

“It makes me doubt whether the recognition itself is false,” Mr. Fool continued quietly. “Perhaps something I fabricated… to pretend that a past existed for me at all.”

The god once again peered out the window, the gray fog shifting and stirring until it shaped itself into an endless green pasture. Amon followed his gaze and frowned. To him, the sprawling garden looked no different from the fog. One was dull, the other colorful, yet both were equally lifeless and barren in his eyes.

He briefly wondered why Mr. Fool wouldn’t replace such a boring scene with something else— something lively, something refreshing.

Or perhaps Mr. Fool couldn’t. Perhaps he had no memories to draw from, no visions to build new landscapes on.

Another tentacle slithered up to join its brethren, vying for Amon’s attention. He obliged easily, tracing its illusory patterns which were ever-shifting yet ever-present with idle fingers.

“I’ve been wondering…” Amon began lazily.

“Hm?” The Fool stirred from his daze and glanced down at his Blessed, perched smugly on his lap like a crow claiming its rightful throne. His low hum urged him to go on.

“When we first met, you made me close my eyes before unleashing your tentacles on me— so I wouldn’t lose control.” Amon tilted his head. “But ever since, I’ve been able to see and interact with them just fine.”

“I’ve regained enough strength to veil them in layers of concealment and mystery,” Mr. Fool answered evenly. “The gray fog supplements me now. Back then, I didn’t even have the power to do that much.” His tone carried a faint regret, tempered by gratitude at no longer being so weak.

“That too I was wondering—” Amon glanced upward, meeting the gray fog instead of the god’s eyes. “How exactly are you regaining your powers? You told me raising my Sequence would strengthen you, but I’m still Sequence 9, same as before.”

The tentacles stirred around him as Mr. Fool hummed in thought.

“I think it’s your prayers.”

“My prayers?” Amon blinked. “You mean the sacrifice rituals I do every day to send you food, or the messages I deliver when you’re too busy daydreaming to reply?”

“Mm.” Mr. Fool’s gaze fixed fully on him now, one hand propping his chin as he studied his Blessed still on his lap. His stare would have made most mortals squirm in flustered silence. But Amon was no ordinary mortal; he only looked back, eyes wide with curiosity. “I think a god’s strength also comes from their believers’ prayers. They act as… an anchor. Yes, that was the word.”

“Well, that explains why gods all have churches or cults to worship them. Wait—” Amon frowned, “—how do you not even know something that basic? You’re a god! That’s like a human not knowing how to breathe.”

One of the tentacles promptly smacked him on the head— one far closer to Mr. Fool’s will than the others, which behaved more like unruly children.

“I don’t believe my past self had the chance to properly sort through my knowledge,” Mr. Fool said, his voice edged with something like a grumble. “What I was meant to remember and what I was not… much of it was stripped away. All I know for certain is my purpose, and what my abilities should be.”

Amon smiled faintly at the rare slip of emotion in the god’s tone.

“So what— I’ve got to spread your faith to other people to power you up?” he asked. It sounded far more fitting for a god’s Blessed than his current role, which was suspiciously close to a glorified food delivery boy.

“No.” Mr. Fool shook his head. “That’s far too dangerous. I still don’t know which deities are my enemies, which would try to stop my revival and descent. And without power beyond the Sefirah’s protection, I cannot defend myself.”

Amon tilted his head. Kind of a useless god, wasn’t he? Still, he was interesting enough to get a pass.

The Fool sighed inwardly. He did, in truth, have a list— a final safeguard from his past self before the memories were taken. A list of allies, enemies, and unknowns. But the names were… only names. What was the point of knowing that one of his enemies was someone called Leodero, but not which god or angel that name belonged to. He had pieced together that the Evernight Goddess carried the same strange recognition as one of the name ‘Amanises’ written in the list, but that name was filed under the column of ‘Unknown’ either way, making his knowledge useless unless he wanted to gamble.

What weighed on him most was not the names themselves, but their count. The list of enemies and unknowns was long. Staggeringly long.

And the list of allies?

Only one:

Adam.

What kind of deity had he been, to amass so many enemies… and only one ally?

He… he wasn’t an evil god, was he? Was that why he had been attacked, forced to ascend into this position? But no… he had bound himself here, hadn’t he? He had done it to shield the world from the Celestial Worthy. Why would an evil god choose to protect rather than destroy? Unless… unless even that purpose had been fabricated by his past self, to keep him from wavering, to stop him from ever surrendering the Sefirah. Perhaps the Celestial Worthy was the victim, and he the true deceiver. And if he really wanted to safeguard everyone like what was his sole realized purpose then he should just give up his Sefirah to Tianz—

“Mr. Fool?”

The Fool snapped out of his daze, his tentacles writhing with dangerous anxiety. He gasped— absurd, since gods did not need to breathe, and within him there were no lungs, no organs, only countless spirit worms twisting and knotting themselves in their futile imitation of a human form.

He was halfway through shoving Amon off his lap and away, away, away—somewhere Tianzun couldn’t reach, couldn’t harm his Blessed. But midway, his shattered consciousness faltered, changed its mind, and instead clutched his Blessed tighter, pulling him close, quivering hands wrapping around Amon’s back. Ah… he was so, so small and fragile under his arms. If he so wished—if Tianzun somehow gained control—he could crush him instantly, effortlessly.

“Mr. Fool—?!” Amon’s spirit body reeled from the whiplash of being shoved away only to be yanked back into a suffocating embrace. He squirmed, unsure where to put his hands.

Even the tentacles, which had been staging their own chaotic French Revolution, stilled. They coiled instead around Amon and their original body in a tight-knit cocoon, not only soothing Amon but also patting The Fool himself in some awkward, helpless form of self-comfort.

When no reply came, Amon stopped squirming and noticed—the great Mr. Fool was trembling, shaking as he held him in a desperate vice grip.

Well… whatever storm had raged through this god’s mind, at least this time he hadn’t been shoved out of the gray fog and ignored for days on end.

Sighing inwardly, Amon wrapped his own arms around his god, hugging him back. To his pleasant surprise, the black-and-yellow hood and robe that always draped Mr. Fool were silky smooth—yet not quite cloth. His fingers brushed it, and the surface rippled like water before solidifying again.

Ah… what a thoughtful Blessed he was. Amon praised himself silently as he patted his god’s back.

“Was it that evil god in your head again?” Amon asked. He had never seen Mr. Fool lose composure so suddenly, except that one other time.

“...Yes.”

Amon hummed, then pressed, “Can he just slip into your mind like this at random?”

“...No. I remain the superior personality, the one in primary control of the Sefirah. If he could take me by force, he would have done so long ago. It’s only when I—” Mr. Fool’s voice faltered, “It’s only when my mind is unguarded and vulnerable that he slides his whispers in, so faint I can’t even tell if they’re mine or his.”

Amon sighed again, this time in pity. Truly, the life of an ancient god was perilous beyond reason…

The gray fog stirred as Mr. Fool finally released him, the cocoon of tentacles also unraveling. For a fleeting moment, Amon bristled, expecting to be pushed away and ignored again—but instead, Mr. Fool lifted his own hand—yes, a hand, not a tentacle—and brushed a stray lock from Amon’s forehead, tucking it behind his ear.

“Someone is approaching your room in the real world,” he said, voice carrying the faintest shade of tenderness. “I’ll send you back down now.”

“Will you still be here?” Amon asked, a trace of fear clinging to him—fear that once he left, he might never return to this place, to him.

“…Mm.” A stray tentacle patted him lightly. “Now go.”

This time, his descent from the gray fog was smooth. When Amon opened his eyes, he found himself in his room, hugging a pillow.

Almost on cue, a voice intruded.

“Don’t you sleep a little too much?”

Leonard. Of course it was Leonard. Who else would interrupt his rest?

“Not everyone is a Beyonder from the Sleepless pathway,” Amon retorted, sitting up and adjusting his monocle. He was pleased to find the faint presence of Mr. Fool still lingering at the back of his mind.

“Yes, but I doubt you need more than twelve hours a day…”

“You’re just counting wrong. Your sense of time is broken from being Sleepless,” Amon said smoothly— gaslighting was his specialty.

“…Whatever.” Leonard sighed and stepped in without asking, making Amon pout. But what he pulled from behind his back instantly erased the displeasure.

“Here. Your stuff from yesterday.”

His treasures!

Amon leapt from the bed, eyes gleaming, and all but snatched the bag from Leonard’s hands. He carefully examined each item inside with reverence before scampering to his trunk—a recent purchase, necessary to contain his growing hoard. Inside glittered a chaotic collection: shards of glass, shiny pebbles, scraps of glossy posters, bits of polished plastic, along with the more traditional coins, lockets, and jewelry. All united by one common quality: shiny.

Leonard peered in with baffled amusement. “You… are you a crow?”

“Of course not. I’m human, stupid.” Amon shot him a look as if he were the fool.

“…”

Leonard gave up with a sigh. “Well, my tasks are done and the Captain gave me an early leave. I’m heading home.”

“Wait,” Amon piped up. “What time is it? Is the sun still out?”

“About four or five. There should be daylight for a few hours. Why?”

Perfect.

“So, does Tingen have any parks or open places? Somewhere I can roam?”

Maybe—just maybe—if he saw them through Amon’s eyes, Mr. Fool would gain a richer sense of the outside world. His dull gray refuge could be filled with better, livelier scenery. Of course, this was all for Amon’s sake, he told himself.

“You’re going out?” Leonard asked, surprised. “I thought training drained you.”

“My trainer said I should move a little for recovery. You know, to break down lactic acid from anaerobic respiration—” On catching Leonard’s blank look, Amon cut himself off. “Never mind. Just tell me where.”

Leonard studied him a moment. “You’ll be going alone?”

Amon gave him another look of pity. “Do you see anyone else around to go with?”

That struck a chord. Leonard’s expression softened, then he clapped his hands. “Then how about I come? It’s been a while since I’ve been to that park.”

Amon was ready to reject him outright… until he realized he’d need someone to smuggle his new acquisitions past the Captain.

“Yes! Please come!” he exclaimed with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

Leonard, seeing those wide eyes shining with admiration, felt his heartstrings tug. Ah… being looked up to really was the greatest feeling.

“Alright. I’ll grab my things, you get ready.” He waved with a smile and stepped out.

It was only then Amon noticed Leonard hadn’t closed the cell door.

“Hey—at least shut the door when you leave!”

But Leonard was gone. Amon grumbled and closed it himself.

“Hmph. No privacy these days. How’s a person supposed to change with the door wide open?”

‘…you do realize your entire wall and door are made of bars, right?’ Mr. Fool’s amused voice echoed in his mind.

“It’s the thought that counts! And you—stop watching while I change!”

~

Touching grass once in a while always felt good. Even if Amon was the kind of person who preferred rotting in bed with nothing to do but waste time playing games or plotting evil little schemes to make other people’s lives miserable, he could still appreciate going outside. The greenery, the life around him— it was refreshing. Growing up in that cramped house in Chernobyl with his father, he hadn’t gotten much of it. If he was lucky, he might spot a deer. Less lucky, it’d be wolves or bears, which always got him barred indoors for days on end.

Of course, having someone around he could tease for entertainment was a bonus.

“Leonard, here, try this!” Amon chirped, shoving a sandwich into his hands. He’d thrown together the pile of food in record time before leaving; lazy as he was, he kept ingredients prepped for days like this, so an “evening snack” never took more than a few minutes.

Leonard accepted it with quiet surprise. He was so touched he didn’t even bother correcting the boy’s habit of calling him Leonard.

Ah. Maybe the brat wasn’t so evil after all—

“Why is it so spicy?!” Leonard wheezed the moment he bit down, eyes watering. Instead of creamy mayo, meat, and vegetables, his tongue had been ambushed by a thick smear of some kind of infernal chili jam.

“Heh.”

Watching Leonard desperately chug a whole bottle of water, eyes red and streaming, Amon unwrapped his own sandwich— free of the devilish chili jam. He’d only made that particular concoction after discovering the Captain had a taste for heat. Mr. Fool, of course, hadn’t let him get away with offering ‘a mere mortal’ better-prepared food than his own god. That was how Amon found out Mr. Fool enjoyed spice as well—though he always asked for it with a hint of sweet. These days, the god requested the special sweet-and-spicy jam with nearly everything.

Speaking of Mr. Fool, he was probably sitting in his high-backed chair above the gray fog right now, happily eating Amon’s earlier offerings while watching the little picnic unfold.

Technically, Amon could eat up there too, but in the Sefirah Castle it was only his spirit body that could go up there, so technically he wouldn’t be eating anything. So whenever he felt generous enough to share a meal with the lonely old man, he sacrificed it, splitting the experience between them: Amon eating in the physical world, Mr. Fool in his Sefirah Castle.

Thinking of him made Amon glance up and around. The park was beautiful—lush trees, manicured lawns, flower gardens in bloom. Families couples strolled about while children played near the clear pond, where fish glimmered beneath the water’s surface. Amon wasn’t about to say he’d picked today’s outing precisely so Mr. Fool could ‘touch grass’ through him, no, that would sound weird and embarrassing. This was for himself, obviously. As he said so earlier, he liked going outside once in a while too. It was simply just convenient that this outing would most probably make Mr. Fool happy as well.

Still… Leonard had chosen well. At the gate, attendants had asked for identification, which Leonard flashed without issue. So it wasn’t exactly public—more like an exclusive retreat for people with the right money, titles, or tax bracket. Ah, the perks of wealth and respectable jobs.

“Do you come here often?” Amon asked once Leonard’s coughing fit had passed and he’d dared try another sandwich—eying it with suspicion, but chewing anyway. (For the record, most of them weren’t spiked… most of them.)

“Not really,” Leonard admitted after swallowing, relief clear on his face when the sandwich turned out normal. “I try to, sometimes, especially when I want to write poetry. But honestly, I rarely get the motivation.”

Amon thought he really should. This place was perfect for acting out Leonard’s Sequence. All he needed was a quiet spot beneath a tree, preferably near water, with a scattering of people in the distance and a starry sky overhead. Then he could recite verses about war, love, or whatever strange things poets insisted on writing about.

“I think you should write poetry more often,” Amon suggested brightly. “Isn’t your Sequence Midnight Poet? Since Beyonder abilities are tied to the Sequence’s name, shouldn’t your talent for poetry be enhanced too?”

Aw, was the kid actually trying to explain his own half baked attempt at grasping the acting method to him? Leonard remembered what the Captain had said—about how Amon had shared his little theory on potion digestion.

He was still far from grasping the actual acting method, but the heart was clearly there. And to think the brat was trying helping him too… Maybe the kid wasn’t so evil after all.

Meanwhile, Amon—who only wanted Leonard to embarrass himself with his truly awful verses—brushed grass from his clothes and stood.

“I’m going to take a walk,” he announced, utterly deadpan. “You stay here. Old people shouldn’t overexert themselves.”

Leonard: “...”

Amon strolled away from the picnic spot, hands tucked into his pockets, his silver monocle catching the fading evening light. He tilted his head this way and that, giving the lens a broad sweep of the park—the neat rows of flowerbeds, the gentle curve of the pond, children chasing one another across the grass. He was deliberately showing it all off, making sure Mr. Fool could take in the full view.

He still didn’t really know how the god’s vision through him worked. Sometimes Mr. Fool pointed out things behind him, far outside his field of vision; other times, he’d make Amon stare straight at a book just so he could read through his eyes.

Now that Leonard wasn’t hovering nearby, Amon was free to chatter with Mr. Fool, though he had no idea how to start. Then again, Amon had always been better at improvising than at carefully planning his words.

So he hopped over to the pond, leaned forward, and watched the fish glimmer under the scattering evening light. He pointed at the largest one.

“That fish is so fat. They must overfeed them here.”

‘...’ Mr. Fool was silent for a moment before replying evenly, ‘It’s probably the children giving them extra treats. And it isn’t right to call others fat.’

“It’s a fish,” Amon retorted, pouting. “It can’t understand me!”

‘Insulting others isn’t wrong only because they might hear you. You also shouldn’t let your thoughts take that shape.’ Mr. Fool sighed, making Amon roll his eyes. What was this, another lecture? His father’s scoldings at least used to hit home—this was just talk sliding right over his head.

‘Besides,’ Mr. Fool added, ‘if that fish were a Beyonder, it could absolutely understand you.’

“...Fish can be Beyonders?”

‘Didn’t you hear The Hanged Man mention it? Any animal that successfully takes a potion without losing control can become one. Ms. Justice’s dog is proof enough—it understands human speech because it ingested the Spectator potion. And in the old epochs, before humans rose… who do you think the first Beyonders were?’

Another sigh followed, heavier this time. ‘We even discussed it when I read about the earliest eras with you. Don’t tell me you weren’t paying attention.’

Sensing another full lecture incoming, Amon quickly cut in: “Speaking of Ms. Justice’s dog, do you think there are dogs around here?”

Sure enough, he soon spotted a family with a fluffy white dog trotting alongside their child. Amon practically bounced toward them.

“Can I pet your dog?” he asked, remembering his father teaching him to ask first. The couple agreed, and Amon crouched immediately, burying his hands in the dog’s ears and paws.

Dogs had always fascinated him. He’d had a puppy once—a stray his father picked up, supposedly to help Amon learn empathy and social skills. But the puppy hadn’t lived long. They’d buried it together, and now that he was remembering that time, it was also the first real fight between the two of them, everything only going downhill from there.

As if sensing the dip in his mood, the white dog pounced on him, licking his face until drool covered the monocle. Its tail wagged furiously, a small creature’s attempt at comfort.

Ah, dogs. Such simple beings. Give them a scratch, and they’d pledge their entire lives to you. They’d never last in this cruel world if not for their cuteness.

‘Don’t let it eat the uniqueness!’

The family quickly pulled their dog back, apologizing, but Amon waved them off with a smile. He didn’t mind a little dog spit—especially since he could always “share” it with Leonard later via a surprise hug.

Watching the family leave, Amon sighed. “Now I really want a dog… hey, Mr. Fool, do you think Ms. Justice would let me pet hers?”

‘Probably. But I don’t recommend getting close to a dog that can read your thoughts.’

“You’re boring.” Amon stuck out his tongue and moved on toward the flowerbeds.

The beds overflowed with blooms, most tied to Evernight—the slumber flowers, the night vanilla. Amon didn’t bother naming the rest; he never cared. Still, the thought struck him. Flowers were important in rituals. He’d never used them in his own prayers. Why would he, when he already had a direct line? Yet for some reason, he wanted to know if Mr. Fool had a preference.

“Mr. Fool, what’s your flower?” he asked casually, pinching a night vanilla petal between his fingers.

‘As in?’

“As in how The Goddess has slumber flowers. There must be one that points to you too.”

‘I don’t. But if I had to choose… seville chrysanthemums.’

Amon blinked. Those were literally everywhere, one could even found them chilling on the roadside. Meanwhile, other gods had rare, sacred blooms all to themselves.

His god was so low-maintenance…

Laughing at his own thoughts, Amon approached a nearby bush and plucked a single blossom.

‘...!’ Mr. Fool sounded startled. ‘Why did you do that? You shouldn’t pick flowers from public gardens!’

“They won’t miss one,” Amon replied breezily, tucking it into his chest pocket. “Besides, I made sure to pick the ugliest, most bruised one for you!”

‘...’ The Fool couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or insulted.

“What do these flowers mean, though?” Amon asked as he bent toward the Seville chrysanthemums, searching for another bright, vibrant bloom. Of course, he had lied earlier—he’d picked the very best flower for Mr. Fool. It was in his nature to always steal the most shiny and valuable things in front of him.

‘In flower language, Seville chrysanthemum means happiness and joy. Sometimes even longevity,’ The Fool replied evenly.

Amon tilted his head. “So let me get this straight—out of everything your past self could’ve left you, you don’t know your own history, how godhood works, barely even your powers outside of basic theory… but you remember flower trivia?” He smirked. “Somehow I feel like your past self was pulling a prank on you.”

‘...be quiet, you,’ Mr. Fool grumbled. But Amon knew it was just pouting; there wasn’t any real bite in it. Besides, making fun of tragic circumstances was Amon’s specialty.

“What about that blue flower you stuck behind my ear back at the Sefirah Castle?” Amon pressed.

‘I didn’t put it there,’ Mr. Fool muttered, sounding oddly wronged. ‘My tentacles did.’

Amon rolled his eyes. “Details, details. What does it mean? I think it’s called cornflower, but I don’t know the language.”

For a long moment, Mr. Fool was quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and strangely soft, and Amon had to focus to catch every word.

‘Bachelor’s Button—or cornflower—carries many meanings: delicacy, refinement, hope. They’re also tied to devotion and loyalty. But most of all, they mean ‘Single Blessedness’—to serve solely your god, without family ties or earthly loves. To give yourself wholly… to the one you worship.’

In other words: your only love is your god. You don’t need a lover, because you already belong, heart and soul, to ‘Him’.

Amon was quiet for a while, his ever-active brain and mouth suddenly going blank as he let the words sink in. He remembered the tender way Mr. Fool had not only allowed him to sit on his lap like some sort of blasphemer, but had also held him properly so he wouldn’t fall. He recalled the tentacle that so softly, so gently yet resolutely placed that bright blue flower on him—Mr. Fool not batting a single eye, as if that flower truly belonged in Amon’s hair, on his body. As if that flower was the perfect flower for him.

Finally, he choked out a small, “...Oh.” Speechless, he didn’t even realize the tips of his ears had warmed, the pristine pale nape of his neck flushing a delicate pink as he unconsciously picked at stray threads on his clothes, his throat tightening slightly

Before either the God or Blessed could act on that fragile moment, Leonard’s voice crashed through the stillness.

“Amon—! There you are. I’ve been searching everywhere!” Leonard huffed as he approached, already carrying their neatly packed picnic supplies. “It’s already night, we should head back. The Captain will kill me if he finds out I let you wander around in the dark alone.”

Amon looked at Leonard, staring for a few long seconds as the wiring in his brain slowly reset. Finally, he said the first thing that came to mind.

“Your clothes are stupid.”

“Huh—hey! What was that for! My clothes are perfectly fine, how dare you not understand—”

Amon let Leonard’s voice fade into the background as he began walking toward the exit gate, Leonard trailing at his side, still complaining about Amon’s lack of appreciation for fashion.

When Amon sat down in the carriage back to the Blackthorn Security Company, his hands rose subconsciously to his chest—to his breast pocket, where he had stored the brightest, most vibrant yellow Seville chrysanthemum for his god.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t managed to pick a second one; he’d been too busy processing Mr. Fool’s words. So he only had that lone flower with him.

Mr. Fool’s favorite flower, resting tenderly in his pocket.

He had asked about the flower out of simple curiosity. He had never intended to do anything with that information.

And yet… now he found himself imagining a small pot of Seville chrysanthemums growing in his room. Every day, he could set them in the sunlight, then return them to their corner before nightfall.

Maybe even try his hand at tea. Chrysanthemum tea was a thing, wasn’t it? And Mr. Fool did like his sweet iced tea.

Of course, that was just pure coincidence. He wasn’t planning any of this for Mr. Fool. No, this was simply a newfound interest in gardening, inspired by today’s lovely outing at the park.

The fact that he planned to grow the very flowers Mr. Fool liked, and that he might use them for prayers or brew sweet iced tea for his god, were all just… pleasant coincidences. They were just pleasant, meaningless overlaps.

Nothing more.

As the carriage neared the Blackthorn Security Company, Leonard leaned over and said, “Hey, hand me your treasures now if you plan to sneak them past the Captain. I’ll return them tomorrow.”

Amon stiffened. He had been so busy showing Mr. Fool around the physical world that he hadn’t stolen a single shiny, trinket, or bauble today. No coins, no jewelry, no glass shards—nothing. The only thing he’d brought back was… the golden flower tucked in his breast pocket.

Leonard noticed the way Amon’s hand clutched at that pocket, as though guarding something precious. He extended a hand expectantly. “Come on, give it quick—we’re almost there.”

The moment Amon saw Leonard’s hand reaching toward his chest, his body reacted before his mind could catch up. He jerked back, hissing like a cornered snake—or a crow guarding its nest.

Startled, Leonard pulled his hand back at once, both palms raised in mock surrender. His eyes widened with intrigue.

“Okay, okay, I won’t touch whatever treasure you’ve got in there. Geez… I only wanted to help.”

Amon just pouted, huffed, and turned away, refusing to say another word.

“But seriously—only one pocket of loot today? And it doesn’t even look like much,” Leonard said with a casual shrug and an amused smile, seemingly unbothered by Amon’s erratic behavior from just moments ago. “I thought you loved stealing.”

Well, Amon had thought so too… until today, when simply walking and talking with Mr. Fool had been enough to make him forget entirely.

Which was strange. Disturbingly strange. Was this some sort of side effect of being a god’s Blessed? Was it the gray fog’s influence? Or spending too much time in the Sefirah Castle with Mr. Fool?

Questions crowded his mind, yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask them. They were too embarrassing.

Ugh…

Seeing Amon remain silent, Leonard went on, “Even back during that mission with me, you suddenly stopped while carrying that hurt child because you sensed something valuable in another room.” Leonard sighed. Amon froze at the words, though Leonard didn’t notice and continued, “What did you sense anyway? I doubt anyone living in that rundown place had anything valuable enough to get that kind of reaction.”

How could he have forgotten about that?

The memory struck him sharply. He remembered what he had sensed beyond that door. The weight of it. The one thing valuable enough to root him to the spot.

It was—

“—The Antigonus Family Notebook.”

~

Above the gray fog, The Fool sat on his chair with boundless bright red stars twinkling all around him, some brighter than others. He wore his yellow-and-black cloak, black leather gloves, and rested his cane against the high-backed chair.

The god then looked down, where beneath his cloak an almost infinite mass of tentacles spilled out, moving continuously and without direction. If someone could pierce the thick gray fog concealing his features, they would see the frown and blame written on his face.

“You… you guys should really stop doing all those useless, embarrassing things.” He was, of course, referring to the cornflower incident that had caused his little Blessed to freeze up and stop talking to him for the rest of the trip. His voice carried an accusatory tone, but the tentacles didn’t flinch. Instead, they wriggled around as if mocking him for getting so flustered and acting so affected.

“...” Really… they had grown mischievous from spending too much time around his little Blessed.

With a sigh, The Fool seized the most restless tentacle and squeezed it mercilessly. The others froze, then fled in every direction as if terrified of their own source. He used the unfortunate appendage like a stress toy until the spirit worms inside nearly unraveled, before letting it drop. It slithered away as fast as it could, which The Fool found deeply idiotic.

What was the point of them hiding when they originated from his body to begin with?

This was exactly why the god refused to believe his tentacles were the physical manifestation of his will and humanity. He couldn’t possibly be this stupid or brain-dead. Right?

…Right?

Holding his forehead as if nursing a headache—which wasn’t possible, since gods didn’t get headaches unless they were on the brink of losing control—he sat on his throne in silence for a few minutes. Then, slowly, he lifted one hand, palm up. The gray fog responded, weaving into the shape of a bright blue cornflower.

Single Blessedness…

He brushed the petals with his other hand. Soft, vibrant, dazzling sapphire. For all their idiocy, his tentacles had chosen the perfect flower for his Blessed. He had to give them that.

One cornflower became many, until they formed a lush bouquet. Then he crafted a tall vase of glossy black—dark as his Blessed’s hair—and with the help of his tentacles, arranged the blooms within it. He placed the vase on the chair nearest to him, the seat marked with the faint illusionary symbol of the Error pathway—his Blessed’s seat.

For a long while he stared at the flowers. Then he leaned forward on the table, resting against his hands before finally lowering his head. Closing his eyes, he imagined his Blessed seated there—at the place of highest honor, closest to the god of the Sefirah Castle—blue cornflowers before him, staking his claim in the god’s heart.

He drifted into a brief, peaceful slumber. And in the quiet, the same tentacle that had once placed the cornflower on his Blessed’s head crept toward the vase. With a sly ripple, it spat out a brilliant golden Seville chrysanthemum, nestling it snugly among the cornflowers.

Chapter Text

“You’ve grown taller,” Daly Simone teased with a smile as she patted Amon’s hair.

“Really? He still looks tiny to me,” Leonard said, placing his hand on Amon’s head as if trying to squish him down.

Amon swatted both their hands away before fixing his hair. He was going out with the Captain today for the Notebook, so he had to look his best—regardless of the fact that four other third-wheelers would be tagging along.

He huffed and shot Leonard a side-eye. “I’ve grown a whole inch in the past two weeks—you better watch yourself before I regain my full height and become taller than you.” He was obviously talking about his height from his own era. With good genes from his father, he had stood over six feet! Meanwhile, Leonard was only five-foot-eleven. People of that height could only dream of being his six-foot self!

And technically, it wasn’t even impossible for Amon to regain that height. Beyond becoming a Beyonder, rising through the Sequences gradually reshaped a person’s body over time.

“Regain… you’re talking as if some strange extraterrestrial power made you short,” Leonard replied, clearly not taking his words seriously and brushing them off as a brat’s whining.

That was when Captain Dunn walked in, his face took on a smile at the sight of Daly. “Daly, glad you could make it.”

Daly returned the smile, hers more meaningful and teasing. “Of course. I was on this mission first when we were searching for the Antigonus Family Notebook. And I was once part of the Tingen branch too, you know. Better to have someone who knows the local Nighthawks join this mission.”

Leonard, noticing the ambiguous air between the two, glanced down at Amon—who was staring at Dunn like he was a particularly juicy piece of meat.

Leonard coughed, drawing everyone’s attention. With a broad grin, he looked at Daly and Dunn, voice laced with suggestion. “How about the two of you go out for a nice wine and dine after this mission? Reminisce about the good old days?” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Amon’s smile freeze. “You two were rather close back then, after all. Some of us even wondered when you’d finally get together!”

The effect was instantaneous. Both Dunn and Daly flushed—Dunn coughed and suddenly found the familiar wall paintings extremely fascinating, while the ever-confident Daly was now staring at her shoes as if she’d never seen them before, shuffling awkwardly.

Meanwhile, Amon… Amon was staring daggers at Daly, as though she had personally gone ahead and murdered not only his parents but his entire clan right in front of him. As if he were silently vowing to begin a century-long journey for the sake of revenge.

Above the gray fog, The Fool couldn’t help the corners of his lips curling in pleasant satisfaction as he watched the scene of his Blessed’s heart breaking in real time. Of course, he wasn’t evil—he wasn’t feeding off his Blessed’s pain and misery… It was just that his Blessed was his Blessed, which meant that now, his Blessed’s attention would once again return entirely to him.

A moment ago, rage and irritation had stirred within him at the sight of that woman and Leonard so brazenly touching his Blessed, as if his Blessed hadn’t already forsaken both his body and soul to none other than himself, The Fool. That was a god’s beloved property they had been so casually handling!

But with this sudden development, he no longer found the sight of the woman’s hands running through his Blessed’s hair annoying. Even that human Leonard—whose bare chest his Blessed had once hugged in a moment of weakness—suddenly seemed rather useful.

Perhaps, for this deed alone, he might even consider inviting Leonard to the Tarot Club one day—and forgive him for wearing those shirts that exposed his chest to his Blessed’s innocent eyes every single day.

The Fool leaned back on his bronze chair, lazily watching the following scenes unfold. Two more Beyonders from the Backlund branch of the Nighthawks had arrived, carrying a secret artifact he immediately recognized as something from a lower Sequence of his own pathway. No surprise, then, that the cursed puppet approached his Blessed first and tried to take over his body. It was, after all, merely following the Law of Beyonder Characteristic Convergence. Still, it filled him with a sharp, simmering annoyance.

The third thing that day that dared to lay hands on what was his…

Humans he could overlook—they were ignorant, clumsy creatures who didn’t know any better. But the puppet? It should have sensed his presence stamped all over his Blessed, yet it still dared…

Raising his hand, The Fool touched the image of the puppet with his finger, sending a wave of corruption into it. Only the tiniest fraction, of course—it was still needed to secure the Antigonus Family Notebook, an item whose retrieval would ensure his Blessed’s continued safety.

Enhancing his connection to the stray Beyonder Characteristic as he had with every other Characteristics from his pathway he declared with a booming, bellowing voice:

“Don’t touch what is not yours.”

The puppet flinched, snapping back as if trying to retreat into its sealed box, which made him click his tongue in irritation.

“Don’t act suspicious. Aid the Beyonders in their task.”

The puppet shuddered, then resumed its eerie, giddy behavior, slithering toward the Captain instead. The surrounding Beyonders quickly dismissed its earlier odd behaviour as just another quirk of a Sealed Artifact and carried on with their mission. Only Leonard kept throwing suspicious glances at both the puppet and his Blessed.

Smart man. He really would be an excellent addition to the Tarot Club. Unfortunately, bringing him in now would expose his Blessed's connection to The Fool—a risk he wasn’t yet willing to take.

A little longer. Just a little while longer, and he would have the power to properly support his Blessed.

As the Nighthawks boarded the carriage to follow the lead the puppet offered, The Fool waved away the ‘screen’ before him, leaving a stray tentacle on sentry duty to notify him if anything went wrong. He leaned further back in his chair and idly watched as his tentacles played with the trinkets his Blessed had sacrificed to him—odd objects chosen to amuse, distract, or irritate his god. Some of his Blessed's “treasures” were among them too, snuck into the gray fog to bypass his Captain, then forgotten here afterward.

One tentacle, having bent a coin too far, struggled to press it back into shape. When it snapped the coin the other way instead, it panicked, wriggling in distress. If it failed to fix it before their Blessed returned to the Sefirah Castle, it would surely be punished with a hateful glare and denied petting for days.

“Don’t break his stuff,” The Fool warned flatly as he shifted his seat into a couch taken from their shared room above the gray fog, feeling sleep overtaking him again.

Though things were improving, a creeping sense of doom lingered at the edge of his thoughts. Worse, he was certain the feeling wasn’t even his own. Tianzun? No… he had taken meticulous care to ensure Tianzun knew nothing of his Blessed. That left only one possibility: his past self. His sealed memories were warning him. Of what, though, he couldn’t yet tell.

Stranger still, though he had gradually recovered fragments of his power, not a single memory had returned. Not one second, not one scrap of knowledge. Perhaps his strength was still too little. Perhaps when his Blessed advanced another Sequence, he might regain more. And yet something whispered that he should not place hope in that possibility.

It was very likely he would not recover his memories anytime soon.

So, as was his nature, he would prepare for every possibility. That meant gaining knowledge anew—even if it meant boring his Blessed with more history lessons from that professor, and perhaps prying for Beyonder history through other channels, dangerous though they might be at this stage.

Just as The Fool was about to drift off, his Blessed’s pouty voice rang in his mind:

‘Mr. Fool…! I’m getting bored, entertain me~!’

The stress on his face eased into the faintest smile as he reclaimed the ‘screen’ from the sentry tentacle and looked at the image of his Blessed. His Blessed sat sulking with the two unfamiliar Beyonders, having refused to share a carriage with Leonard, Dunn, and Daly—no doubt to avoid watching the pair flirt all the way. Now, stuck with two old men peppering him with questions about his undercover work and whether such tactics could be used in Backlund, he looked ready to die of boredom.

The Fool might have found the conversation interesting, but he knew his Blessed. His Blessed required constant mental stimulation to truly shine, and it was a god’s duty to fulfill his devotee’s wishes.

Even if said devotee was the most blasphemous Blessed to ever exist, calling on his god so casually—for entertainment, no less.

Well, The Fool was a benevolent god. Perhaps not for everyone, but certainly for his Blessed. And as for payment in equivalent exchange… yes, he was getting rather tired of shop-bought Desi Pies. His Blessed always claimed baking one himself was too much work, but surely that would change if he made it a condition. Reasonable enough. And if it turned out even better than expected, The Fool might reward him with something shiny to decorate their room.

‘Mr. Fool?’

Ah—he had forgotten to answer.

Resting his cheek on one hand, The Fool forced his tone into its usual neutral tone, masking the indulgence in his expression.

“Mn. We could always review the lesson you weren’t paying attention to yesterday.”

‘...!’

He watched with amusement as panic overtook his Blessed’s face.

Whatever his past self or Tianzun might be warning him of, one thing was certain: his days had become far more entertaining.

Of course, things didn’t go smoothly—when did they ever? The puppet, strengthened after interacting with the Antigonus notebook, dared to think it could take revenge on his Blessed and The Fool for the earlier warning. That was simply the foolish nature of Beyonder characteristics: unlike humans, who felt fear and knew their place, they never did.

But his Blessed, sharp and resourceful as always, had already prepared from when he knew how to break free from the puppet’s control. The moment he felt the strings of control tightening, he pressed the knife hidden up his sleeve against his skin to break free—before The Fool could even intervene. Not wasting the chance, he hurled the blade straight into the clown’s skull and, without pause, snatched Leonard’s gun to ensure the kill. Moments later, the puppet was sealed once again, his colleagues freed from its grasp.

The Fool watched, fascinated, his tentacles shaking pompoms in silent cheer. A few even attempted to feed Him popcorn, as if to include Him in the festivities.

The only unfortunate part, as the dust settled, was that the puppet had been resealed before The Fool could deliver the punishment it so thoroughly deserved—and the Antigonus Family notebook had been whisked away out of his Blessed’s reach. That book was undoubtedly tied to one of His pathways; He had hoped to glean something useful from it. But the opportunity slipped through His fingers.

That was fine. At least Leonard—who was quickly rising to become His second-favorite human—had convinced Madam Daly to remain in Tingen for a few extra days, much to His Blessed’s absolute torture and wrath.

Hm…

Perhaps he could even nudge his Blessed to extract knowledge from Daly about the spirit world and mysticism. Though, admittedly, that would earn Him a fair amount of sulking. Cute and highly entertaining as long as it didn’t escalate to what happened that day.

So, as his Blessed sat there, staring in horror at Daly and Dunn exchanging ambiguous, soft smiles and refusing to be the one to say goodbye to the other first first, The Fool leaned into his mind and suggested,

“That lady has considerable knowledge of the mysticism world I may not yet know. Ask her to stay longer today and teach you.”

‘…?!’

“She can always finish her report later—with the help of your Captain. Don’t worry about her workload.”

‘…?!?!’

Satisfied, The Fool allowed a smile to tug at His lips as His tentacles wriggled in quiet amusement. He conjured a blank notebook in His hand, ready to be filled with whatever His Blessed might learn from the Spirit Medium’s lecture.

Chapter Text

Amon hadn’t been expecting anyone to visit the Blackthorn Security Company asking for him. He had just been helping Old Neil carve symbols into silver plates to be made into Slumber Charms.

Thanks to the dexterity he’d gained after becoming a Marauder-pathway Beyonder, his hands were steady and precise—perfect for lockpicking, knife throwing, or etching the tiniest detail into a charm. His success rate was so absurdly high that Old Neil had started abducting him every few days to do the delicate carving work, leaving the “easier” task of praying to the Goddess to himself.

On the surface, it seemed like an unfair trade, but it was actually the ideal arrangement for Amon. With his… excessively jealous god, he couldn’t even utter the name of another deity, let alone pray to one or conduct a ritual. Mr. Fool had explained that invoking other gods would expose Amon to them—and at their current level, neither he nor Amon could withstand that kind of divine attention.

Still, Amon was pretty sure that explanation was mostly fluff. More gaslighting, really.

Anyway, just as he finished carving the final plate of the day, Rozanne burst into the room with a suspiciously excited look.

“Amon! You never told us you had friends,” she sang, “And not to mention—a girl! And a pretty one too…” Her expression turned dreamy and teasing. “I know you’re still young for marriage, but it’s never too early to start planning and finding the one—”

Huh?

Old Neil immediately joined in, chuckling. “Oho~ is it our little Amon’s secret girlfriend? Well then, I won’t hold you here. Your task is finished anyway. Go on!”

Before he could even voice his confusion, Amon found himself shoved out of the workshop by Old Neil and dragged toward the entrance by an eager Rozanne.

“…”

These people… Sure, he’d put effort into acting like the lost child, the baby of the team—but weren’t they taking it a little too far?

Of course, where there was smoke, there was Mr. Fool ready to frown and accuse him of lighting the fire.

‘I thought I told you—no dating allowed.’

The voice was low, dangerous, and sharp enough to make Amon’s hair stand on end. Damn it… that was the tone old people used when you’d really messed up! Only his father had ever dared to use that tone against Amon, only twice too at that!

Helpless, Amon tried to defend himself. ‘I don’t have a girlfriend!’ he shot back in a wronged tone. ‘You would know best—you’ve been backseat-living my entire life for weeks now!’

But Mr. Fool didn’t sound convinced. ‘Hmph. What if it’s from before you became my Blessed?’ His tone darkened further, with a strange edge of… was that sadness. ‘Now that I think about it, you’ve never told me much about yourself before you became mine—my Blessed I mean. I always suspected you were hiding something… but a secret lover? Hiding such a thing from your god?’

‘I really don’t have a secret lover!’ Amon complained, exasperated. The only recurring figure he recalled from the previous owner of this body was some older man whose name maybe started with a T. And even then, he was pretty sure the previous owner hadn’t ever told the other guy his own name.

By then, they had reached the waiting area at the Security Company’s entrance. Sitting quietly on one of the couches was a well-dressed girl, waiting patiently. For a second, Amon almost didn’t recognize her—he was too used to seeing her in worn, hand-me-down clothes.

“Melissa?” Amon blinked in genuine surprise. “How did you find out where I worked?”

Melissa stood up from the couch. She was dressed in a neat, newly bought dress with a style that girls from middle to upper-middle-class families might wear. She gave a small, polite smile. “You told me you were a Nighthawk, so… I asked my new coworkers, and they told me this was the place.”

Rozanne immediately glanced down at Amon in alarm, her eyes silently accusing him of revealing classified information.

“Your new coworkers?” Amon asked, frowning. The last time they parted, Melissa had been taken away by the Machinery Hivemind for protective custody, and…

“…Don’t tell me.”

Melissa nodded slightly, her voice quiet. “Yes. The Beyonders from the Machinery Hivemind.”

“You… did you become a Beyonder?”

She shook her head quickly. “No. I only joined as clerical staff. They… offered me more, but I didn’t…”

“I think you two need some privacy for this conversation,” Rozanne cut in, smiling mischievously as she started ushering them both out. “I’ll tell the Captain it’s a special occasion with your girlfriend!”

Before Amon could even explain, he and Melissa were pushed out the door of the Blackthorn Security Company.

Outside, Melissa looked at him with quiet surprise. “…You have a girlfriend?”

“...Just a misunderstanding,”

“Well I propose to fix that misunderstanding with that girl, it’s never too early to find someone to settle down with.”

“...”

The protagonist of this misunderstanding… is you, Melissa.

‘Remember, no dating when you’re my Blessed.’ Of course, Mr. Fool took this opportunity to open his mouth.

‘Aren’t you going to apologize to me for wrongfully accusing me of going behind your back?!’

‘...Irrelevant.’

‘...’

How did Amon get stuck with this moody god again? Oh, right, because he wanted to go back home to his stupid father.

The pain and torture he was enduring just to meet that man again and stop him from worrying… his father had better start complying with Amon’s demands for attention once he was back.

“Amon?” Melissa’s soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“I was asking… why did you choose to become a Beyonder?”

Ah. So the girl was feeling conflicted.

Amon shrugged and recited the story he’d inherited from this body’s former owner. “I was a starving, broke kid. When I came across the potion for Sequence 9 of the Marauder pathway, I took it to improve my life. Later, I got caught up in a big Beyonder case. In the end, I was given a choice: join the Nighthawks, or get imprisoned for life. You can see what I chose.”

“Oh…” Melissa’s expression showed disappointment. She’d clearly been expecting something more… meaningful, maybe even guidance.

“If you’re conflicted about becoming a Beyonder,” Amon said, shaking his head, “then the answer is no. Unless you absolutely have to, all you’d be doing is putting your life at risk. A clerical position in an Orthodox Church’s Beyonder team is more than enough. If their pay is anything like the clerical staff at Blackthorn Security, then it’s plenty to live decently and support you and your brother. A family of two doesn’t need more than that.”

Melissa fell quiet for a long moment before asking softly, “The way you speak of them… do you regret choosing to become a Beyonder?”

Well, in the first place, Amon hadn’t really chosen anything…

“Can’t say.” He smiled, flashing a bit of charm. “All I can say is that I’m having fun. The incident that got me into this life was unfortunate, but… some good things came of it too. Since then, I’d say I’ve been happy. Of course, that’s only because I got lucky.”

Maybe it was because he’d ended up the Blessed of the God who wielded good luck?

Said god chimed in immediately, sounding like an insecure girlfriend grasping for reassurance: ‘So becoming my Blessed has made you happy?’ Then, realizing how that sounded, his tone flipped haughty: ‘Well, of course. Becoming a god’s Blessed is an extremely desirable thing.’

Mr. Fool, you tsundere…

“Amon?”

“Hm?”

“I may have told Benson a little about how you saved my life. I didn’t mention mysticism, of course. But… after hearing it, he wants to invite you to dinner at our new home.” Her voice grew quieter, hesitant. “Of course, you can say no… but Benson’s been really down since Klein’s death. I thought maybe… having you there might cheer him up a little.”

Normally, Amon was immune to people trying to tug at his emotions. But a young woman’s awkward, hopeful invitation— especially when that woman happened to be exactly his type in female form— was a dangerous exception.

Hmm… maybe he could try his hand at Melissa’s remaining older brother instead…

“…I have a feeling your mind is thinking unreasonable things again!” Mr. Fool snapped in his head.

Well— that was all the confirmation Amon needed.

“All right, how about this weekend?” he said.

Melissa’s face broke into a small smile. “Then this Sunday? What would you like to eat? I don’t know how to cook very many dishes…”

“That’s fine. I’d be intruding anyway— I’ll bring the ingredients and cook.” It was more convenient: he’d have to prepare something for Mr. Fool or order takeout regardless.

“But you shouldn’t make a guest—”

“I did not pose that as a question,” Amon said with a smile. Melissa gave up.

“All right, then. See you on Sunday?”

She returned to her work, and Amon went back inside the Blackthorn Security Company. As soon as he entered, he saw almost everyone on duty gathered in a circle in front of the reception desk, whispering.

“…”

Did these people not have jobs?

“Oh, Amon!” Kenely spotted him first; his eyes widened.

“Back so soon?” Royale chimed.

“Yes.” Amon answered slowly, still suspicious.

“Why did you leave your girlfriend so soon? I even asked the Captain to give you the rest of the day off!”

Amon sighed. “She is not my girlfriend. She’s too young for me.” Before anyone could process his phrasing, he continued, “She was the one involved in that case with the True Creator the other day. She just wanted to thank me, and asked whether she should join the Machinery Hivemind as a Beyonder.”

“Oh…” Faces fell, disappointed. Really, if they wanted Amon paired off so badly they should ship Daly back to Backlund!

“Anyway, where’s the Captain? I want to move my leave from today to Sunday.”

“Sunday? Why Sunday?” Seeka Tron asked.

“To have dinner with Melissa—” A ripple of excitement flashed across their faces again “—and her brother.” The enthusiasm dimmed, then Kenely leaned in, whispering loud enough for Amon to hear.

“Meeting the family is an important step! Before I propose to my girlfriend I have to ask for the family’s blessing!”

The faces brightened once more.

Mr. Fool’s voice stabbed at him in the mind.

‘You better not—’

‘I will not! Just leave me alone!’

With a slam, Amon shut the door behind him and marched for the Captain’s office. Well… at least his irritation would be resolved after seeing the Captain’s handsome face, hehehe.

“Oh, Amon!” Daly Simone exclaimed, yanking her hand back from Dunn’s where they’d been secretly holding hands under the table.

“…”

Amon closed the door and went in search of Leonard.

“Oh, Amon—! Hello, what do you nee—”

“Where’s the tallest building in Tingen?” Amon cut in.

“Huh?”

“The tallest building in Tingen. Where is it?”

“…That would be the top of Evernight Church. But why?”

Amon nodded and began to walk away. “To find the best place to jump off of.”

“Okay…” Leonard blinked, processing for a few seconds before he registered what Amon meant. “WAIT—HEY! DON’T JUMP OFF A FUCKING BUILDING—”

~

Since he’d managed to get his extra leave approved for Sunday, Amon didn’t have to wake early for work. That meant he could continue to lounge lazily in Mr. Fool’s domain, suspended above the gray fog in their room in the Sefirah Castle, even after he had woken—enjoying the way Mr. Fool’s tentacles massaged his scalp.

Next time he swore he’d teach them how to give him a proper facial; all this dust and grime in this Industrial-Revolution–like world was clogging his pores, and for the life of him he couldn’t find a decent face wash that didn’t strip his skin away as a innocent little effect. Even if his body over here was merely his spirit body, he could at least placebo himself?

Amon glanced at Mr. Fool, who was sleeping on the couch, head carefully tucked into his arms over the arm of the sofa. Though his upper body lay perfectly still and serenely unmoving, the tentacles that emerged from beneath him were as active as ever—dusting invisible and nonexistent filth from shelves like diligent housekeepers. Some played cards against one another, practicing between rounds in the hope that one day they might finally beat Amon at a match, while the rest, of course, were occupied with Amon.

When Amon felt he had lazed about long enough and boredom began to creep in, he waved the tentacles away from his body, rose from his comfortable nest, and looked around the room.

Now that he considered it… even though he’d been spending more time here than in his room in the real world, he hadn’t really explored—there didn’t seem to be much to explore.

Kicking his feet against the floor, Amon rose and patted stray tentacles off his clothes. Carefully stepping around the numerous coils littering the floor, he made his way toward the door. When he opened it, instead of a nicely furnished corridor to match their luxurious-yet-comfy room, he was met by nothing but endless, dull gray fog. Well, that was to be expected. Amon closed the door and peered out the window again. Good—after their picnic the other day, the outside had become livelier and far more pleasant to look at, convincingly realistic so long as one ignored that no such endless expanse of land could exist in the real world.

Amon moved to the bookshelf and studied the volumes. That was when he realized that although the shelf looked populated at first glance, a closer inspection revealed most of the books were blank—mere imitations with no text inside or out. Only a handful were real books, and those were the ones Amon had brought for Mr. Fool or for himself.

Well… it made sense: this place was shaped from Mr. Fool’s imagination, so only what Mr. Fool knew or remembered could be produced here. But that barren bookshelf was a stark reminder that, apart from Amon, Mr. Fool didn’t really have other memories, knowledge, or… a life.

Hm…

Amon made a quick mental note to buy a few extra books for Mr. Fool the next time he visited the market to pick up fertilizers for his Seville chrysanthemums, which had just sprouted. Technically, since Mr. Fool could ‘save’ any information Amon sent him, Amon could simply go to a library, borrow dozens of books, sacrifice them to Mr. Fool, have Mr. Fool copy them, and then return them later.

Using Mr. Fool’s powers like that… wasn’t he basically a glorified pirating website?

Laughing at the thought, Amon returned one of the random blank volumes to the shelf and looked around the room again.

Hm…

The room still felt a little plain and dull.

With a snap of his fingers, the tentacles snapped to attention like loyal soldiers answering a call and stood ready to serve their Blessed to the fullest.

Amon smirked. Lately it almost felt as if he was the true master of these tentacles rather than Mr. Fool.

For the next hour Amon directed the tentacles: first to expand the room to create more space to move in, then to conjure decorations here and there—when wildly gesturing and trying to explain to the stupid little tentacles failed, he used the power of cognition granted by the gray fog and drew exact blueprints for them to follow. Before long, his and Mr. Fool’s (and the tentacles’) room had been renovated into a much more lively and lived-in space.

He briefly considered adding a game corner, then decided—since he could—that he should make an entire game room.

But as soon as Amon opened the door again to step out into the boundless gray fog, a tentacle wrapped around his leg and stopped him.

Amon spun around to scold it, but instead saw Mr. Fool’s face looking up at him accusingly from where he’d just woken on the couch.

“Where are you going?” the god asked; his voice sounded oddly hoarse for someone who had just woken, even though he was, you know, a god. Did gods get sore throats? Or was Mr. Fool pretending to be human again? Amon remembered him mentioning that doing so could increase his humanity somewhat.

“I was just trying to make our house,” Amon pouted, affronted. Here he was, doing diligent and earnest work as a devout Blessed—creating a home and shelter for his god—while the languid deity slept, and yet he was being spoken to in an accusatory tone as if he were a naughty girlfriend sneaking out to meet an affair partner.

Mr. Fool scanned the room as if only now noticing all the changes, all the new things added.

The tentacle still wouldn’t release Amon; in fact, it had the audacity to reel him back in as if he were a fish trying to swim away.

“Don’t stray too far from me.”

“Why? Is that evil god you’re fighting going to get to me?”

“…No.”

“Then why?”

“Just… no. I am your god. As my Blessed, you shouldn’t question my orders.” Losing the argument, Mr. Fool pulled out his god card.

“…”

This useless, weak god…

Well, if Mr. Fool intended to use unfair means in this argument, then Amon could too.

So Amon adopted a pouty expression, his eyes growing slightly misty. The effect was immediate: a dozen tentacles rushed to him, fussing over him and trying to soothe him with all manner of things—some even produced baby toys, which irritated Amon, but he pushed that annoyance aside for the moment; he still had an argument to win.

He gently picked up a few tentacles, hugged them close to his chest, and looked at Mr. Fool with wide, innocent eyes. “Mr. Fool, but I have your strong and dependable—” he ran his fingers along one of the tentacles, making it shiver and writhe as if flustered, “—to protect me if anything happens, right?”

Mr. Fool frowned, watching the tentacles thrash about foolishly—the ones in Amon’s arms delighted, the others green with jealousy. “They are too stupid.”

“But aren’t they extensions of your will? Are you calling yourself stupid, Mr. Fool?”

“That…” The Fool sighed, “Fine.”

Amon smirked, but the smirk quickly vanished when the tentacle on his leg pulled him closer to The Fool, making him fall over and onto the god.

“But not now. All this noise is ruining my sleep.”

“...”

Aren’t you a god! Can’t you control your own gray fog and manipulate it to block out all the noise for you?!

Feeling the tentacles wrap around him and cling to him, Amon accepted his cruel fate and stopped resisting.

“...Mr. Fool?” he called out after a while.

“Hm?” The Fool looked down at his Blessed, who was pressed against his chest.

Amon stared at the thick fog covering the entirety of The Fool’s face and couldn’t help but ask the question that had been bugging him for a while, “What’s your name?”

The Fool seemed taken aback by the question. “Huh?”

“I mean…” Amon slowly started drawing circles on The Fool’s yellow and black cloak, having long since become addicted to its ethereal texture. “Surely you have, like, an actual name, right? I know I joked about what sort of stupid parents name their child The Fool, but—”

“—Wait, you said that?”

“...”

Fuck. Amon had forgotten that he had only thought that and not said it out loud. Maybe he really was out of his mind that day, somehow he had grown the ability to keep his mouth shut.

A stray tentacle came up and smacked Amon’s head, making him cry out in overdramatic pain and whimper as if he had been wronged. The Fool, unlike his gullible little tentacles, had long grown accustomed to his Blessed’s manipulation tactics and didn’t even waver as his Blessed cried against his chest as if he had just been bullied by the big meanie. Actually… hm… it kind of felt good and satisfying?

Just as The Fool was considering smacking his Blessed again to test his theory, Amon seemingly stopped trying to pull at The Fool’s nonexistent heartstrings and instead opted for the secret technique of changing the topic.

“So do you have a name?” he asked. “Something other than The Fool?”

The tentacles wrapped around Amon wriggled a bit as their main body also shifted a little, as if uncomfortable.

“I think I did…”

“You think?” Amon scoffed and rolled his eyes. Which earned him another prompt smack on the head, making him cry out again.

Hm… this really was quite satisfying…

“I do feel like I went with names other than my current one in the past… even one or two only my closest knew me by.” The Fool responded slowly, as if struggling to remember, “But it’s still a vague feeling… I can neither remember the names nor the people.”

“Then do you want to go by another name?”

“Hm? Why?”

“I mean, you said so earlier, right? Gaining humanity will also help you regain your powers, and although I still don’t understand how exactly your humanity increases, from what I know, having a more human-like name should help, you know?”

The Fool felt himself frowning, throwing an accusatory look at his blasphemous Blessed. “Do you not want to call me Mr. Fool?” He had taken quite a liking to his little Blessed calling him ‘Mr. Fool! Mr. Fool~’ in that cute naughty voice of his. Was his Blessed daring to…

“No no no!” Amon quickly waved his hands in a no, already feeling another smack coming. He didn’t know why exactly The Fool had suddenly become more violent than before, but he wasn’t in the mood to test boundaries right now. “It is for your internal thing! Your inner voice!”

“My… inner voice?” The Fool sounded confused.

Amon nodded vigorously, excited. “Mn! Maybe if you subconsciously identify yourself with a more human-like name, you could feel more human!”

Hm… that did make a little sense.

Seeing that The Fool had almost been convinced, Amon smiled internally. Finally, he could bring out what he really wanted to say.

“And beyond that, you could even make yourself look like a human!”

The Fool looked down at his Blessed again, seemingly annoyed and frowning. “What? Are you saying I should change my looks? Are my current looks not good enough?”

What was this insecure girlfriend behavior!

“Not like that—like—like—!” Amon struggled to come up with a believable excuse. Finally, he decided that the truth mixed with a little lie was the best way! “Like right now, I can’t see your real face because you’re a god, right?” He said, raising his hand up and through the gray fog, touching The Fool’s face—or what was probably The Fool’s face. He could even feel thousands of worm-like things wriggling under the surface, but the more he tried to feel around and imagine what it probably looked like in his head, the more his mind buzzed and his eyes went black—

His hand was quickly slapped away by a tentacle before Amon could lose control from trying to perceive a god’s true face.

“You—” The Fool sounded angry and exhausted. Really… why was his Blessed so suicidal?!

“I proved myself right though!” Amon argued, still smiling obnoxiously. “Your current form is that of a god, and yes it is your true form—but that doesn’t mean you can’t sometimes imagine yourself into a human form to gain more humanity. In fact, I think it would do wonders for your humanity!”

“Hm… that sounds reasonable.” The Fool nodded. “Fine then, but what face and name should I take?”

Amon’s smile widened as if he had been waiting for this exact moment. He quickly ordered one of the tentacles to bring him a pen and paper, and using the power of the gray fog he enhanced his cognition and drew the face he wanted on the paper.

“Since the great Mr. Fool is a strong and reliable figure for me, I can only give you the name and face of the most reliable and trustworthy man in all of Tingen—”

Amon showed his drawing to The Fool.

It was Dunn Smith’s.

“...”

Amon was promptly kicked out of the Sefirah Castle.

Turns out his Blessed only wanted to stick to his crush!

~

“Amon! Glad you could make it!” Melissa greeted with a smile and a polite hug as Amon entered their new house holding a bag of groceries.

“Of course, how could I miss it?” Not with his nosy coworkers all reminding him about it every second and telling him not to be late or wear the best clothes.

Amon stepped inside and looked around the nice-looking home. It looked both classy and comfortable and gave him some more inspiration for what to do with his and The Fool’s new house over at the gray fog—of course only when The Fool would forget about his anger with what Amon had just pulled earlier that morning.

Still, this house couldn’t even compare to Amon’s air-conditioned cool cell room with no humidity and no pests!

Melissa glanced at the bag of groceries Amon was holding as she led him in. “So you really were being serious about cooking…”

“Of course I was.” Amon said as he placed his bags of groceries on the kitchen table and started pulling out all his newly bought ingredients.

Melissa looked at the various different ingredients being pulled out and couldn’t help but ask, “What are you planning on making?”

“Well for starters I was thinking some fried fish covered in batter and some veg kebabs. For sides I was thinking of just some simple roasted vegetables with spices and some pickles. For dessert I was thinking of lemon cake and sweet bread with chocolate dip, and for the main course, meat and onion soup along with Desi Pie!”

Melissa stared.

“You… we would not be able to finish any of that! That is too much food!”

Dear Melissa… she had absolutely no idea how much of a glutton Amon’s demanding god was, misusing his ability to never be able to get full or overeat and wringing Amon for meals every second of the day.

Amon nodded, “Well you can always store the non-perishables for later since the weather is getting cold anyways, and besides, I may have angered someone I know a lot so I’m hoping to soothe their pain with some of their favorite foods.”

He had specifically chosen these meals as what would please The Fool the most! Especially the Desi Pie—Amon knew The Fool had been looking forward to having some of Amon’s handmade ones for a while!

“The person you angered…” Melissa smiled slowly, “Is it the same one with whom you had that ‘misunderstanding’ over?”

“...”

These people… they were never going to let Amon go, huh?

Unwilling to expose the fact that his coworkers—including his cheating Captain—were currently planning Amon’s wedding with Melissa herself, Amon just said, “Yes… you could say that.”

Melissa seemed pleased, as if she too had been whisked into caring about Amon’s non-existent love life. “Well, that’s wonderful! As they say, the way to the heart is through the stomach.”

Well… as Amon stared at the large amount of ingredients and imagined the amount of time and work he would need to do in the following few hours… he really hoped Melissa’s words would be true.

In the end, Melissa also helped Amon, but Amon only allowed her to help in menial tasks like cutting things up or keeping an eye out, because he did not want The Fool, the picky culinary god he was, to get a chance to nitpick that Amon’s offering wasn’t technically his own offering as he had made it with someone else.

When they were almost done, Melissa’s brother, Benson, also came back. After getting over his initial shock that the amount of food being made was enough for a family of ten adults, he helped Amon and Melissa set up the table and before long they were all eating.

Amon, with his amazing people skills and someone who didn’t have the word ‘shy’ or ‘shame’ in his dictionary, had no problem quickly getting familiar with the two siblings, and before long they were chatting as if Amon was a long-lost family friend.

“But really, it’s amazing that both of you, at such a young age, have gotten yourselves such amazing jobs, meanwhile this old man…” Benson sighed.

“Benson, you’re still young.” Melissa frowned and soothed her brother.

“Melissa is right, Mr. Moretti, it’s never too late to dream big and move up the social ladder,” Amon added helpfully.

“You two really are such smart kids,” Benson smiled warmly. “Maybe I should also start studying a bit here and there. Who knows where knowledge will come in handy in the future?”

Hm, wasn’t Ms. Justice planning on implementing the Gaokao or Civil Service examinations using her family influence?

Amon hummed and said, “Well, it’s never too late to study basic arithmancy and keep up with the current news and what’s happening around.” Math and current affairs— that was all Amon knew about the Gaokao and similar civil service examinations, having never taken them himself, nor ever having the interest to do so in his life.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea. Maybe this old dog can learn new tricks!”

“Benson, stop talking like a middle-aged man!”

The table laughed and continued their dinner.

Above the gray fog, The Fool was also quietly watching the dinner unfold. He observed the warm environment as the siblings practically accepted Amon as their own, sharing dishes, gossiping while talking, and overall creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere.

Looking at his Blessed in such a homey and familial environment made something sour rise in his own chest.

This was something he couldn’t provide to his Blessed. His Blessed who had grown up without any sort of family affection or support system, and who was now stuck with an old, ancient, reawakening god who may or may not have been an evil god in the past, bound to follow his will until the day his god would regain his powers completely. But by then, Amon would have long risen up the divine pathway and most probably become a divine being himself— at least a demigod, and most likely an angel under The Fool’s seat. And The Fool was the most in the know about how much humanity was stripped away from someone walking this path. Something like what he was watching unfold in front of him with Amon would simply become impossible for the future him.

Meanwhile, he… he couldn’t even have a meal together with his Blessed. His Blessed couldn’t eat real food up here in his Sefirah Castle, and The Fool couldn’t go down there and stay with his Blessed.

Sighing, The Fool leaned back, still solemnly looking at the “screen” in front of him of his Blessed with the other two humans.

Hm… didn’t those two recently lose one of their brothers? It was also the same person who was involved in that case that ultimately led Amon to connecting with him, The Fool. Although how exactly, The Fool was not sure, since he hadn’t been able to inspect the Antigonus Family Notebook.

If he remembered correctly… the name of that human was Klein? Klein Moretti?

“Klein…” The Fool rolled the word over his tongue carefully, testing how it felt coming out of his mouth. “Klein… Klein Moretti. No, just Klein…”

Of course, he had realized that what his Blessed had told him earlier that day was just Amon trying to find a way to cuddle up to his Captain because his real Captain had been rightfully whisked away by that woman in blue lipstick.

But he had also noticed that his Blessed was being half serious, as he always tended to be. That naughty kid was never forthright with what he actually wanted and always mixed his lies and truths and pranks together before speaking them out— the most annoying fraudster who would have no problem digesting the Swindler potion ten times over without even trying.

A human name… and a face…

The Fool, along with forgetting his memories, had also long forgotten his face. His current “face” was but his mythical form made up of spirit worms, the highest form of divinity he had to keep shrouded with the gray fog so as not to make his Blessed lose control just by being in his vicinity.

“Klein…”

That name sounded… good. It also sounded human enough…?

“Hm…”

A few of his tentacles conjured up a mirror and held it in front of his face, and The Fool saw his own shrouded visage reflecting back at him.

With some effort and the power of cognition, he remembered the face of the now-deceased boy his Blessed had seen in that photograph he had stolen, then returned.

With one final breath to stabilize his mental state, he willed his spirit worms to wriggle and shift, taking on the face of Klein Moretti.

The Fool opened his eyes, pushed away the gray fog from his face, and looked at his “face.”

“This looks… decent?” The Fool—no, Klein (he should start trying to call himself by that human name, see if it helped stabilize his humanity)—murmured as he gazed at “his” reflection.

With an awkward motion, he reached up and touched his face, then poked at his eye and immediately regretted it when it stung, making his tentacles wriggle in amusement and silent laughter.

“...”

This time, more carefully, he observed his features: black hair and brown eyes, a simple face with a deep outline and a bookish temperament.

Hm…

Why did he feel as though what he was seeing was “wrong,” though?

What exactly was “wrong”…?

Maybe it was his eyes?

The Fo—Klein tried turning his eyes a lighter shade and felt the “wrongness” grow even stronger.

Darker, then?

“Klein’s” eyes turned a dark brown and suddenly the feeling of “wrong” was replaced by a feeling of… was that satisfaction? Oneness? Realization?

Somehow… it felt like these were his true eyes.

“...!”

He… he had never thought of using his vague, aimless nostalgia in this way! Although employing this method in other things might not be realistic, he could use it this time!

Next were his hair. Klein Moretti’s hair was a bit more fluffy than what felt right. In the end, “Klein” decided on keeping a mix between slightly fluffy and straight hair, an average-looking haircut but neat enough, one that seemed to suit his face. With even more vigor, “Klein” played around with his hair color, realizing a darkish brown suited him best. His cheekbones should be like this, his nose a little more up there—no, no, down there, yes, that felt better.

After what felt like a few hours and seconds at the same time, The Fool—Klein—stared at his reflection in a strange sense of awe.

This was… this was his reflection. His face. His real face…!

He felt it. He felt it deep in his nonexistent, worm-infested and constructed heart.

Klein also briefly considered the possibility of trying to find out his name the same way but quickly pushed that thought away entirely. No, there were millions of names in this world, and millions more that could be but didn’t exist in this era. Unlike with his face, he couldn’t just guess one and decide whether it was his real name or not depending on how right or wrong it felt.

But that didn’t matter right now.

Because right now… he was staring at his actual, real face!

He had finally managed to remember something about himself—his real face!!!

It was at this moment that Klein heard his Blessed reciting his name.

Almost as if caught doing something shameful, Klein—no, The Fool—threw away the conjured mirror, fixed up his looks back to their original mass of spirit worms, and used the powers of the gray fog to conceal his face as before.

In his fluster, he even forgot that he had been angry at his Blessed and quickly responded to the prayer, almost on autopilot, wordlessly and hastily grabbing all the offered food Amon was sacrificing to him, shutting the “door” behind him as if afraid that his Blessed could somehow glance inside and see The Fool—no, Klein!—and his new, real face.

No, no, no, no!

He wasn’t ready!

He wasn’t prepared!

This face…

He… he needed to get used to knowing his face again.

Would he… would he show his Blessed his real face like his Blessed had said he wanted to?

Almost immediately the answer came to The Fool—Klein’s—mind: Yes! But also a resounding, Not now!

Of course his Blessed would be the first in this new era to see his real face. He was his Blessed, after all, the one who had helped him even realize it and remember it.

He just…

No. No. No.

It was too soon.

He just needed some time.

Some more time.

Before he didn’t feel like losing control just at the thought of his Blessed looking at his face, his face, his real face! The naughty, blasphemous Blessed might even reach out to touch his “face” in wonder, feeling over all the nooks and crannies and dents and skin his god had spent hours staring at his reflection perfecting to make them look as “himself” as possible. He couldn’t handle that!

Not before he himself got used to his own face!

When would that be…?

At least another dozen centuries!

‘Mr. Fool?’ His Blessed’s voice came to him, sounding a bit hopeful and eager. ‘Did you like my offerings to you this time? I even made a Desi Pie all by myself for you! And did you also like my extra gift?’

Extra gift?

Confused, Klein looked at the offerings he had so quickly grabbed without even properly checking. He was delighted to see a freshly baked whole Desi Pie all for himself, as well as all of his favorite side dishes and desserts and even three bottles of sweet iced tea and—

Klein’s nonexistent eyes widened.

His Blessed’s voice continued, ‘Hehe, I apologize for not giving you the flower I grew myself since it’s still a baby plant. But I saw a bunch of really vibrant-looking Seville Chrysanthemums on the roadside and they reminded me of you! So I got them for you! Do you accept my gifts, Mr. Fool?’

Klein reached out and picked up the carefully arranged and decorated flowers, wondering if his Blessed had even gone the extra mile and hand-made the bouquet for him… for his god. He touched the small numerous petals of the golden flowers and felt a surge of… something in him. Was that… happiness?

‘The Seville Chrysanthemum means happiness, that’s what you told me, Mr. Fool, didn’t you? With these flowers as my offerings, I pray that Mr. Fool is able to live a happy life!’

Almost subconsciously, Klein stuffed his face into the bouquet of flowers, making sure to use the gray fog first so the flowers wouldn’t get crumpled or bent.

‘Mr. Fool…?’

Happiness…

Did his stupid Blessed not realize that ever since the day he had accidentally awoken him and accepted his offer to become his Blessed, he had been happy? An emotion he hadn’t even expected to feel anymore… and yet… his Blessed had inexplicably taught him how to feel “happy” again.

Earlier, his Blessed had told that human girl that after the incident with the Notebook—after he had become his Blessed—his life had been happy.

Little did his little Blessed know… the same had been true for his god. For his Mr. Fool. For Klein.

Klein felt the corners of his lips twitch up in a faint smile.

Hm, maybe not a dozen more centuries… but only a few?

‘Mr. Fool…? Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you still ang—’

“—Klein.”

‘...Huh?’

“I’ve chosen my name. It’s Klein. You can call me… Klein.”

‘Oh… then, Klein?’

The giddy mood instantly shattered.

“...”

That name did not sound good from his Blessed’s mouth!

‘Klein? So I should call you Klein from now o—’

Klein interrupted his Blessed in a cold voice. “—No. Call me Mr. Fool or The Fool. You are not allowed to call me by my name.”

It did not have that adorable tilt to it! The way his Blessed said “Mr. Fool” was much, much cuter than how he said the boring old “Klein”! That coquettish way he began with “Mister,” the way he started the “F” with a higher pitch, and the rest of “Fool” left his mouth with a mischievous yet obedient lilt, rising just a bit before ending on that adorable “L” that curled the tip of his tongue. Klein just sounded normal in his voice!

‘Wait—then why did you say earlier—Huhhh. Should I call you Mr. Fool or Klei—’

“Mr. Fool! And that is final!”

‘...So is Klein your new name or not—’

“Don’t say that name! It is my name but you’re not allowed to say it!”

Poor little Amon, who had ultimately become the victim of his god’s bipolar behavior, could only open and close his mouth in sheer speechlessness.

In the end, the only realistic conclusion he could come to that made any semblance of sense was that his Mr. Fool was simply still angry from that morning. Aside from that, there was no other explanation for this psychopathic back-and-forth behavior!

Chapter Text

The third Tarot gathering started and ended without much happening, just a neat exchange of information between Ms. Justice and The Hanged Man. No extra Roselle’s Diary Pages showed up, and things wrapped up smoothly, leaving only Amon and Mr. Fool again in the palace above the gray fog.

“Blessed.”

“Yes, my dearest Mr. Fool?” Amon replied half-heartedly, already preparing to curl up for a nap on the new bed he had conjured in their room the other day.

“First of all,” Mr. Fool’s voice grumbled, “saying ‘dearest’ implies the existence of other ‘dears,’ and I don’t believe I’ve granted you that kind of freedom—” This god… “—and secondly, you have the rest of the day free, correct?”

Amon froze. He had a bad feeling about this.

“…Yes? I mean, it’s my single leave day. Monday.”

Mr. Fool gave a slow, deliberate nod. A few of his tentacles slithered forward: one plucked Amon up like a ragdoll and deposited him onto a chair in front of the study table he had crafted earlier; another set down an empty notebook before him; yet another placed Roselle’s Diary Pages neatly on top.

What…

“As my Blessed,” Mr. Fool began in that lecturing tone that immediately made Amon’s stomach sink, “it is crucial that you are familiar with the things I deem vital. That includes being able to read Roselle’s Diary Pages. I cannot have my Blessed be so incompetent as to fail even at that much, right?”

Amon’s eyes widened in horror.

But… but he already knew how to read Chinese!!

The problem was, after keeping up the pretense for so long, he couldn’t suddenly admit it now. He’d look super guilty!

“I—Is it really so important?” Amon asked weakly, fishing through his arsenal for a way out. Perhaps… perhaps it was time to unleash his secret seduction techniques! “I mean, you can always just translate for me, can’t you?” He tilted his face up sweetly, wide eyes shimmering with faux innocence as he batted his eyelashes. “My dependable and beloved Mr. Fool?”

For a moment, silence. Then Mr. Fool chuckled low, the sound deep and knowing. “Heh. Cute.”

Before Amon could sigh in relief, a tentacle hooked under his chin and turned his face firmly back toward the desk. “But that won’t work on me. Now—let’s start with the basics.

“…”

Amon had thought learning Chinese from scratch the first time around was already torturous enough. He hadn’t even known English properly when he fought with his father and bought a one-way ticket to Shanghai, China—armed with neither the language, nor the currency, nor a working SIM, not even the basics of transport. But back then he had been running on pure ego and rage, so somehow, with time, he had managed not only to survive but to thrive in the new country. The fact that China was leagues ahead in tech and convenience compared to most of the world had also made assimilation far easier.

But… now he had to learn Chinese again? While pretending he didn’t already know it?

Yes, Amon loved mind games and trickery, but this? This was another level entirely. He had to fake ignorance just right—not too convincing, not too sloppy—so that Mr. Fool wouldn’t suspect him.

Many times, he actually considered fessing up. Maybe he should just tell Mr. Fool he wasn’t really from this world but a transmigrator… Yet knowing his god, and remembering just how often Amon had spun ridiculous excuses to dodge study sessions, he wasn’t even sure The Fool would believe him. More likely, the god would smack him on the head with a tentacle.

Ugh.

As he remembered Roselle’s lines about luxurious lifestyles and indulgent fun, he couldn’t help but feel deeply wronged. Why was he the unluckiest transmigrator out there?

After four grueling hours, Mr. Fool finally released him for dinner. But there was no rest for Amon—the moment he was done eating, he had to head to Mr. Azik’s home for follow-up questions and to borrow extra reading material. More studying!

At least Mr. Azik was gentler than Mr. Fool. He even served Amon coffee! When Amon was finally packing up to leave, his eyes drifted to the newspaper in Azik’s hands.

Azik noticed and chuckled, a little embarrassed. “Don’t mind me. Sometimes I can’t get to the news in the morning because of classes and duties, so I end up catching up in the evening.”

But Amon wasn’t staring at the paper out of curiosity. His gaze was fixed on the man in the photograph.

Round, amiable face. Almost shy, but in the picture he wore a wide smile. The headline labeled him the hero of the Alfalfa Tragedy.

“I just feel like I’ve seen that man before,” Amon muttered.

“Well, he’s become something of a celebrity after saving all those lives from that ship,” Azik explained. “There’s even an opera song about him. You’ve probably seen his face on posters or another paper.”

“Hm. Makes sense. Well then, I’ll take my leave, professor!”

On the way back, Amon bought some skewers and, out of habit, sent half of them up across the gray fog for Mr. Fool.

The sun had only just begun to set. He still had some time left to wander… but where?

‘Do you want to check out that theater play the professor mentioned?’ Mr. Fool’s voice slipped into his thoughts.

‘Mr. Fool, do you like theater plays?’

‘I’ve never seen one, so I don’t know.’

Amon had no interest in theater—especially not in this era, with no projectors or giant screens. He was from a time when entertainment was both world-class and instantly accessible. But Mr. Fool seemed curious, and honestly, what else was Amon going to do? Go back to his “cell room” and sleep?

“Alright then. Let’s find out today.”

And so, he arrived at the Tingen Opera House—only to learn the last show of the day had just ended.

‘We came too late…’ Mr. Fool sighed, sounding genuinely disappointed.

So the god had been looking forward to it.

Hm.

“At least we can go and try to meet the guy?” Amon suggested.

‘How do you know if he’s even inside?’

Amon tilted his head toward the crowd of fangirls screaming “Tris!” at one of the side doors.

‘…’

When in doubt, follow the fangirls.

Sure enough, a young man walked out and immediately drew a storm of attention. Flowers, gifts, cries of “hero!” showered him. Amon, however, had no desire to squeeze through the mob—even if it meant pleasing Mr. Fool.

He was just about to leave when his eyes met Tris’s.

For a split second, the man froze. His eyes widened. His hand half-extended, as though reaching for Amon—then a fangirl cut between them, shattering the strange atmosphere in an instant.

Weird.

Even Mr. Fool picked up on it.

‘Do you know that person?’ the god hummed. ‘He seemed to recognize you.’

“Dunno. Couldn’t get a close look,” Amon shrugged. He turned away to flag down a carriage—only to have his shoulder suddenly grabbed.

“You came here to watch the performance too?” Leonard.

“I missed it,” Amon admitted without shame.

Leonard ruffled his already messy hair, earning a swift punch to the gut in retaliation.

“Why are you here anyway?” Amon glared accusingly. “Don’t you have work? Sneaking off for fun?”

“I’m here for work!” Leonard huffed.

“What kind of work could you possibly have at an opera house?” Their carriage arrived, and Amon followed him inside.

“It was that guy—Tris.”

“You a fan?”

“…No. Like I said, it was for work—”

“So is Daly a fan? Did she send you for an autograph?” Amon perked up, hopeful. If Daly could get obsessed with some opera singer, maybe Captain Dunn would finally be freed!

Leonard groaned. “What kind of—no. We have evidence suggesting Tris is a Beyonder. Possibly even behind the Alfalfa incident.”

Amon gave an amused hum. “But you didn’t arrest him today?”

“We’re still a legal body,” Leonard explained patiently. “We can’t just attack or arrest without proof, especially now that he has become so popular. If we even had the slightest evidence, we’d move in, but getting that means putting people on his tail. That risks alerting him.”

Another noncommittal hum from Amon, who promptly shut his eyes and leaned back, trying to sneak in a nap to dream up new renovations for the gray fog palace.

“You really do sleep too much…” Leonard said, sounding genuinely concerned.

“You’re just a Sleepless. You don’t remember how normal people function.”

“…No, you literally slept for eighteen of the past twenty-four hours—”

“Like I said. A Beyonder from the Sleepless pathway wouldn’t understand.”

“…”

After arriving at the Blackthorn Security Company, Leonard went to report to Captain Dunn about the day’s investigation, while Amon descended into the depths of the Cathedral, back to his room.

He spent the rest of the day and night above the gray fog — half the time sketching out plans for their future home with the tentacles and a drowsy Mr. Fool, and the other half amusing himself by playing with them. He had already taught the tentacles how to fetch and was now determined to train them to perform tricks.

Eventually, when Mr. Fool decided Amon had played enough, he seized him with his tentacles and strapped him into bed, forcing him to rest.

But Amon, unwilling to be ordered around, turned stubbornly to his side instead of closing his eyes. He faced Mr. Fool, who lay slouched against the armrest of a sofa, his tentacles coiling lazily as he prepared for sleep.

“Why don’t you ever sleep on a bed?” Amon asked curiously. “Isn’t it uncomfortable sitting upright?”

“I can’t really lie down properly with my tentacles,” Mr. Fool replied in a small, hoarse, sleep-heavy voice. “Sitting is more comfortable.”

Amon hummed noncommittally and shifted his gaze to the ceiling — which Mr. Fool had turned into a vast canvas of celestial bodies and stars, like a hyper-realistic version of the glow-in-the-dark stickers Amon once had in his childhood room in Chernobyl. He remembered sticking them up with his father’s help.

His eyes drifted back to the deity, who looked on the verge of falling asleep. But Amon, restless as ever, couldn’t resist disturbing him again.

“Hey, Mr. Fool… if someday I disappeared, what would happen to you?”

No response.

He pressed on quietly, almost to himself. “Like, if I went away, would you just stay sealed here forever again?”

Still no reply. Was Mr. Fool asleep?

Amon looked back up at the endless false sky, the one Mr. Fool had only recently added to their abode. Before this, he had even forgotten what the night sky looked like.

“If I were gone, you’d just be lonely again, right? No… you’d find another Blessed. By then, you might not even need me anymore, and—”

He cut himself off.

Why was he saying all this? These were thoughts he never let himself entertain — ugly truths he buried deep. Yet now, here in this strange isolation, with only Mr. Fool nearby — maybe asleep, maybe listening — the words came spilling out. The chance he might be heard should have silenced him. Instead, it only dragged the worst of his secrets into the open.

“Does it make me trash, knowing that if I got the chance, I’d leave you in a heartbeat?”

His voice shook, but he forced himself to continue.

“Well, I’ve always been trash. That’s what the kids at the only school I ever attended said about me. The ‘mistake’ my father kept trying to fix. Probably why he stopped loving me. I mean… when you realize the son you raised alone, gave everything for, wouldn’t even cry at your funeral… anyone would stop loving, right? I get it. I do.

“Maybe that’s why I ran away. Not because I couldn’t stand him anymore, but because I couldn’t stand hurting him just by existing. Having a son who hates you is easier than one who’s indifferent. Leaving was the right choice. I don’t regret it. I never regret anything I do.

“But if I had to name one regret…” His tone grew heavy. “It’d be never telling him I loved him. I never said those words, not even once. Probably because even back then, I didn’t know if they’d be true. And if I said them, only to realize they were a lie… then what would that make me? I’m already scum, but that would make me a monster with no humanity at all.”

Amon’s eyes returned to his god.

“Hey, Mr. Fool,” he whispered, almost afraid of being heard. Or perhaps afraid of not being heard.

“How come a god like you has more humanity than me — a human?”

There was no answer.

Just as he had hoped.

Lowering his gaze, Amon picked up a stray tentacle and pulled it against his chest. He turned away, clutching it tightly, and let its power of Cognition drag him down into sleep.

~

On Wednesday, Amon went to the Underground Market again. He only had a little of his day planned out: maybe finding something interesting Mr. Fool would like, picking up some ancient texts, distinguishing real Beyonder Characteristics from ordinary goods to note them down for his report, and of course—stealing. In no particular order.

Oh, and also, gathering some materials that could maybe be used to make charms through prayers in Mr. Fool’s name. Even if the God himself had said that might be tricky until Amon reached Sequence 8, Amon felt like he was close to digesting his Marauder potion already. He didn’t want to make a special trip later just for that one purpose, so he figured he should pick things up while he was here.

Amon spent most of that evening drifting through the shadows, stealing petty change and valuables from random people, enjoying himself. The market was so sprawling that even on his third visit he felt there was still more to explore.

But it was right after he stole a silver-plated pendant from a grouchy old shopkeeper selling essential oils that he heard someone call out behind him:

“Still stealing, huh? I guess some people never change.”

The voice was one Amon recognized but, at the same time, didn’t. He turned to see who had noticed a Marauder’s theft in action, when—

“Tris?” Amon’s eyes widened as he finally matched a face and voice to the naggingly familiar feeling in the back of his head. Amon knew this man… no, it wasn’t him who knew him. It was the body’s previous owner who had known Tris.

The former Amon had been an orphan, a street rat scraping by in the dirtiest parts of Tingen City with nothing but luck and his own cunning. Though he was mostly alone, he’d inevitably run into a few recurring faces over the years. One of the most frequent was the boy who now stood before him: Tris.

Back then, Tris had been another homeless tramp like him, though their approaches to survival differed. Where the old Amon preferred to stay hidden in the shadows, unseen, Tris had joined up with a gang of local thugs. Neither choice was necessarily better or worse—it was simply a matter of nature. And the fact that both were still alive was proof that their choices had worked.

Even if they’d both come close to dying a few times. Tris’s first brush had come when his own gang beat him half to death for failing to bring in his daily quota, dumping him in an alley to die. Coincidentally, that was the same alley the former Amon had been using as shelter that week. At six years old, Amon hadn’t had resources to spare, but he couldn’t bring himself to let someone die on his figurative doorstep. For a few days, he cared for Tris, sharing some of his stolen food even while starving himself. But as soon as Tris recovered, Amon ran off—afraid of connection.

They didn’t meet again until a couple of years later, when Amon was about eight and Tris around ten. Amon had spent all his money to enroll in a cheap school and was nearly starving when Tris found him. By then, Tris was even more cynical, but he still shared food with the boy who had once saved him for nothing in return.

For a while after that, they fell into a rhythm: helping each other out in unspoken ways whenever one was in need, but never talking about it, always parting quickly. To grow dependent or form attachments in their world was to invite death.

Until one day, Tris vanished. When violence broke out among gangs and months passed with no sign of him, the old Amon assumed Tris was dead. He marked a spot with a small stone, placed a roadside flower there, and made a tiny memorial.

Not because he mourned, but because someone should. If he himself died one day, he hoped someone would mourn him too.

Time went on. The old Amon grew up, became a Beyonder, stole the Antigonus Family Notebook, and ultimately died, replaced by the current Amon. Tris never reappeared.

Until now.

“Hey,” Tris said.

Amon studied him, comparing the scrawny, beaten boy from old memories to the sharp-featured young man before him now. From a distance, he’d only vaguely sensed recognition. Up close, with the voice and face together, there was no doubt.

What would the old Amon say in this moment? Someone who had grown detached, cynical, rejecting bonds yet secretly craving them, someone who had held a small funeral for the boy just to stave off the crushing truth of loneliness.

He would say—

“You’re alive.” Amon’s tone was flat, uninterested, but his eyes stayed fixed on Tris’s, giving him full attention.

“Same could be said to you.” Tris stepped past him to the stall, picking up a bottle.

“It wasn’t me who disappeared without a word.”

“All I did was get away from that hellhole,” Tris snapped as he pulled out his wallet to pay for buttercup essential oil.

Amon used his Marauder abilities to sense other items on him. Alongside valuables, he detected shadow poison flower petals, vinegar, and… a live spider.

On their own, nothing strange. Together? They were clearly auxiliary ingredients for a Beyonder potion.

Amon recalled what Frye had told him about the Tris case and the alfalfa incident, the likely pathway and secret organization involved.

“And into the Demoness Sect?” Amon asked lightly, smiling.

“...So you do know about that side of the world.” Tris pocketed the oil, turning back to him. “So you’re a Beyonder too? Is that why I saw you this morning in those nice clothes? I almost didn’t believe my eyes when the dirty rat I grew up with was suddenly dressed in style and wearing a fancy monocle. Which pathway? Sequence?”

“Sequence 9 Marauder.”

“Honestly? That suits you. Poetic, even. Me on the Assassin pathway, you on the Marauder pathway. Both hiding in shadows—but me, a blade, and you, a coward.”

Amon smirked. “Then, as an Assassin, you must have noticed the Mandated Punishers tailing you all this time?”

“And who just got confirmation of me being a Beyonder after watching me buy my second auxiliary item for a Sequence 7 promotion.” Tris mirrored his smirk. Then, almost in sync, the two began to count down:

“Three. Two. One—”

Tris yanked Amon down just as a bullet ripped through the air where his head had been. With a firm tug, he pulled him along, and the two bolted. In an instant, all hell broke loose—gunmen emerging from the shadows, bullets flying as the pair dodged and sprinted for their lives.

With a Sequence 8 Beyonder from the Assassin pathway who reveled in the shadows and a Sequence 9 Marauder—an escape artist and coward by nature—the two didn’t face much trouble slipping away into the maze of alleyways they knew like the back of their hand. Their pursuers weren’t so lucky. Still, they were being hunted by Beyonders, and that meant one thing: even a single mistake could kill them. Until they were truly out, vigilance and flight were their only options.

“Where are we running to?” Amon asked as he lobbed a small rock to the far end of a side passage, the noise drawing attention away from their actual path.

“One of my accomplices is nearby. She promised she’d help me escape if things went south.” Tris sounded impatient, eyes scanning for her even while sprinting. “But where is that woman—? She’s deliberately making me run in circles!”

‘Turn right.’

Mr. Fool’s voice whispered in Amon’s mind. Without hesitation, Amon seized Tris’s wrist and yanked him down the narrow lane. To his surprise, Tris didn’t fight it—just allowed himself to be guided, trusting Amon’s strange conviction.

Soon, the alleys grew thick with spiderwebs and the carcasses of pests.

Tris was about to round the corner when Amon abruptly halted him.

“What is it?” Tris snapped, glaring around, hand already twitching towards his weapon.

Amon’s gaze sharpened. “Did you really kill all those people on the ship?” His tone was casual, but there was weight behind it. Job or not, his father’s voice in his head made it impossible to ignore. Helping a mass murderer escape felt… questionable.

Tris rolled his eyes. “Don’t start preaching. I did what was required—orders and potion digestion both. Refuse, and I’d have been punished. And don’t act holier-than-thou. You’ve been a Beyonder long enough to know you can’t look me in the eye and swear you haven’t killed to save your own skin.”

“But… isn’t defending yourself from hostile Beyonders different from slaughtering innocents?”

Tris barked out a dry laugh. “Why frame it like a question—like you’re confused about the answer?”

Before Amon could retort, a new presence bled into the alley.

A woman. Long auburn hair. A figure that radiated power and allure in equal measure. Every step she took seemed deliberate, her beauty sharpened like a blade.

Madam Sharron.

Amon froze. His eyes went wide, his body tense.

‘A Demoness—’ Mr. Fool’s warning thundered in his mind. But even before the words finished, Amon felt the haze creep over him, sweet and suffocating, tugging at his senses.

“Tris.” Her voice was velvet and smoke, curling into his ears, wrapping around his thoughts. “Who is this boy?”

Amon’s knees almost buckled. His body wanted to lean closer, to drown in the crimson of her lips.

Tris shifted instantly, stepping in front of him, blocking her gaze. “An old acquaintance. No one important.” His tone was flat, but the edge beneath it was sharp.

Her smile widened. She brushed him aside with effortless confidence, reclaiming Amon’s attention like it was owed to her. That suffocating daze snapped back into place, stronger, heavier.

‘Blessed—don’t fall for her charms!’

Mr. Fool’s voice cracked like a whip, but the words skittered across the surface of Amon’s thoughts, drowned beneath the pounding of his pulse as Sharron’s manicured fingers tipped his chin up. Their faces were impossibly close, breaths mingling.

“What a pretty little thing,” she purred, thumb tracing the curve of his lip. “Isn’t he, Tris? He’d thrive in our sect.”

Her breath against his mouth made his head spin.

‘…Amon!’ For the first time, Mr. Fool used his name. His voice was furious, panicked. That tone—raw, human—cut through the haze just enough for Amon to recognize it, and perversely, he wanted to tease his god even more for it.

“That won’t work,” Tris interjected flatly. “He’s already from another pathway. And he’s a coward. Doesn’t kill innocents. Runs at the first sign of danger.”

“A pity,” Sharron sighed, tilting Amon’s chin higher, closing the last sliver of distance. “He’d make a wonderful Witch.”

‘Get—away—’ Mr. Fool’s voice was an iron growl now, the kind that promised destruction.

Tris frowned, catching on. “Witch? That’s my Sequence 7 potion’s name. What do you mean?”

Sharron ignored him. Her tongue darted across her lips, predatory and hungry. “Still… such a bratty little face. I’d love to tie him down to my bed and break him in piece by piece all night till he’s crying and—”

“Enough!” Tris snapped, stepping between them at last. “The officials are still on our heels. If you want a pretty boy to fuck, you can find one later. We’re leaving.”

Her tongue clicked in irritation, but she shoved Amon back with a dismissive flick. He stumbled, daze cracking.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Her heels clicked as she walked off, Tris trailing after. Before he disappeared, he threw a glance over his shoulder. “I’ll take my Sequence 7 potion tonight. After that… I’ll find you. There’s something I need to tell you.”

Then they were gone, their presences swallowed by the shadows.

Amon stood rooted, staring blankly at the ground, the echo of her touch burning against his chin.

‘Blessed—’

Amon’s lips curled. A giggle slipped out, then another. Until finally, he burst into full-blown laughter, clutching his stomach as he doubled over.

‘You—?!’ Mr. Fool’s shock rattled through his head.

“Hah! She was so sure I was seduced she didn’t even notice me robbing her blind!” Amon gasped between cackles, opening his palm to reveal a diamond necklace glittering with dozens of stones, two heavy gemstone rings, and a fat stack of banknotes.

‘You… you were fine the whole time?!’

Amon adjusted his monocle, smirk spreading ear to ear. “Well… mostly. She did rattle me when she got close. But honestly? The jewels on her were way more tempting than her charms.” He snorted, laughter bubbling out again.

‘…Have you gone insane?’ Mr. Fool sounded half-panicked, half-exasperated.

“No, no—listen.” Amon wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still shaking with laughter. “Performing the acting method in front of someone of her level—it worked. Perfectly.”

The rush of it flooded through him—pure joy, sharp and electric. Not just at the theft itself, but at who he had stolen from. A woman who believed herself untouchable, who thought she was the predator and he the prey. Yet while she was so certain of her dominance, she hadn’t even realized she was being plundered right under her nose.

That was what it meant to be a Marauder. Not merely skulking in shadows or pilfering in secret, but smiling in your face while stealing you blind, leaving you none the wiser until it was already too late.

Amon’s lips curved into a razor-edged smirk, the monocle glinting faintly in the dim light as if in celebration. His whole posture radiated satisfaction and triumph.

“I’ve fully digested my Marauder potion.”

Chapter Text

“You say you’ve fully digested the Marauder potion?” Captain Dunn repeated, his usually composed expression tinged with surprise.

They were in his office—Amon had rushed straight to the Blackthorn Security Company as soon as possible, eager to announce the news.

Behind Dunn, Old Neil, Kenley, Rozanne, and Leonard crowded around the doorway, equally curious about what had made the boy return so urgently. All of them wore the same stunned expression at his declaration—everyone except Leonard, who looked quietly pleased and a little proud.

“Are you sure?” Dunn asked carefully.

Amon nodded with absolute confidence. “Yes. You’re a Sequence 7, Captain. You’d know the feeling—that certainty when the potion is fully digested, wouldn’t you? That feeling is quite surreal and intoxicating isn’t it?” He could still feel his blood pumping in his veins.

“Yes,” Dunn admitted slowly. “But… how long has it been since you became a Beyonder?”

Amon frowned, searching his memory. “Like… a little over a month? A month and a half at most?” He shook his head, lips curving into a smile. “But I told you, didn’t I, Captain? I had a theory about digesting potions faster—and it was right! The key is to act in accordance with the very name of your potion. Mine was Marauder, so all I had to do was act like a thief—”

He froze, realizing too late what he had just confessed to.

Dunn’s eyes narrowed. “Amon, did you steal—”

Thankfully, before Dunn could continue, Madam Daly, who had been quietly observing until now, clapped her hands together.

“Congratulations on digesting your potion,” she said with a smile. “A month and a half is an extraordinary record. Even I took two years to advance to Sequence 7.”

The words carried a hidden meaning. Daly, hailed as a genius among the Nightwatchers and even transferred to Backlund after reaching Sequence 6, was openly admitting she had been eclipsed by Amon’s speed. It was a declaration that would no doubt draw the main Church’s attention in Backlund. Not that Amon cared.

Dunn hummed in thought. “Very well. I’ll write to Backlund about this. You’ll be approved to advance to Sequence 8 soon. The formulas you submitted when you were first captured have already been confirmed as genuine, so for providing knowledge of a previously unknown pathway, your promotion ingredients will be supplied free of charge. You’ll also be recognized as an experienced Beyonder, with a corresponding pay increase.”

Amon’s grin widened. “I was also the key individual in defeating that clown and retrieving the Antigonus Notebook. Shouldn’t I be receiving a bonus too?”

“Let’s save that swindling for after you’ve taken the Swindler potion,” Leonard interjected with amusement, resting a hand on Amon’s shoulder. “Congratulations on your digestion.”

“Thank you, Leonid.”

“Leonid?” Daly repeated, amused and a little confused.

“This brat just refuses to get my name right.” Leonard muttered, though his tone was rather less vindictive than usual, he had apparently gotten used to it all.

Amon just acted innocent and looked at the Captain, hoping for more praise.

Dunn noticed Amon’s expectant and shining eyes and couldn’t help but chuckle a little and give in to the child’s unspoken demands, “You did very good, something that people can’t even achieve in years you did in barely a month and a half, that is a commendable achievement.”

Amon started shining, pleased with himself. He couldn’t help the small, smug smirk tugging at his lips as he asked expectantly, “So can you say that I’m smarter and more of a genius than Madam Daly?”

“This brat…” Leonard sighed but couldn’t hide the faintly amused expression as he kept watching.

Dunn looked a little taken aback before turning toward Daly — who was already smiling that weird, knowing smile of hers. She met Amon’s glare head-on with the same calm, teasing look, and that only made Amon glare harder now that Dunn wasn’t watching.

“I… I think so?” Dunn tried, a bit unsure. “You did digest your potion faster than Daly, so that makes you better than her in that aspect.”

His words were hesitant and uncertain— but to Amon, they were perfect. They were more than enough! He grinned, quietly pumping his fist in victory at having beaten his love rival at something.

That small, satisfying feeling lasted all of five seconds before Dunn, the traitor, turned back to Daly. “Generally, in cases like these, someone higher up from Backlund usually comes in to verify the advancement before approval. But since you’re already here, Daly, there’s no need for that, right?”

Amon froze.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Daly had been planning to go back to Backlund after recovering from that Clown fight during the Antigonus Notebook retrieval, right? So now— now she was staying even longer? Until Amon’s advancement was approved?!

Had he just— helped his love rival stay longer?!

No! Absolutely not! That was not happening!

“But isn’t she just a Sequence 7? How can she have enough authority to verify something like that?” Amon blurted, arms crossed, glaring daggers at Daly.

Daly only smiled wider, tilting her head slightly. “Oh? I suppose you didn’t hear since you’ve been out all day. I’ve already advanced to Sequence 6.”

Amon: “...?”

Dunn nodded proudly. “Yes, she truly is a genius capable of such feats.”

Amon: “...??!?!?”

Leonard, completely oblivious to the murder in Amon’s eyes, clapped his hands cheerfully. “How about we celebrate both Amon and Madam Daly’s recent feats with a nice team dinner?”

Amon watched in silent horror as Old Neil immediately jumped on the idea, offering to host. Everyone started talking excitedly about the menu, drinks, and who’d bring what.

His. Moment. To. Shine.

Stolen.

By.

Daly.

Before anyone could drag him into the planning, Amon quietly slipped out, sneaking away toward his room. He shut the cell door behind him, locked it for extra “privacy,” then threw himself face-first onto his bed.

Grabbing his monocle, he borrowed the power of cognition and forced himself into sleep— the only escape from the unbearable humiliation of having his big moment hijacked by that woman.

He only wanted to sulk a little above the gray fog—maybe let the tentacles smother him in lazy affection and quiet praise, unlike his coworkers who had turned his special moment into a joint celebration.

But when Amon’s consciousness flickered awake in the boundless gray, he did not land on the home he had built within the castle.

Instead, he was standing in the solemn, cavernous hall where the Tarot Gatherings took place. The air was colder here, unnaturally still, and heavy with a pressure that clung to his skin. The fog churned and curled like a living thing, heavy with displeasure.

Mr. Fool was already there—seated upon his high-backed throne, chin resting on one gloved hand. At first glance his tentacles hung loosely behind him, but each sharp, sudden twitch betrayed agitation. Every snap of their ends made the mist itself ripple outward like disturbed water.

Amon froze mid-step.

“…Mr. Fool?” he tried, carefully. He couldn’t tell why the god was in such a mood.

The god did not answer.

Even the ever-eager-to-please tentacles remained still, coiled close to their master, refusing to grant Amon even the smallest brush of attention.

Amon started panicking.

Was he being ignored again?

He took a few measured steps forward, heart thudding. “Mr. Fool, is something the matter? Why are you acting like I’m not here?” His voice almost cracked but he steadied it. “Are you ignoring me again? You promised not to last time—”

“And did you not ,” the god’s cold and angry voice rolled out, “promise me that you are my Blessed?”

The words made Amon freeze.

Huh?

What kind of question was that?

“Yes, I did, but what—”

He didn’t finish. A shadow moved, and suddenly something cool and smooth slid across his mouth, silencing him. The tentacle’s pressure wasn’t harsh, but it carried the unmistakable weight of command.

Before Amon could react, Mr. Fool snapped his gloved fingers. The sound echoed through the gray fog, and a shimmer unfolded before them—like glass forming in midair. A translucent screen rippled into existence.

The tentacles tightened, lifting Amon from where he stood and setting him down beside the god on the misty floor. Another coiled lightly around his wrists and legs, holding him in place—not to hurt, but to stop him from wriggling free. His muffled protests barely reached the silence.

The screen flickered.

And then, it began to play.

Amon’s stomach dropped the moment he recognized what he was looking at.

…Oh, no.

It was a scene from earlier that day.

He had completely forgotten about this!

There he was—his own image—standing far too close to Madam Sharron. Her hand traced a path along his side, fingers gliding with disconcerting familiarity over his naval before resting at his waist. Another hand brushed along his face, thumb ghosting across his lip in a slow, deliberate motion that made even the recorded version of him look unsteady.

She leaned in, all poise and quiet power, her neckline daringly low, her chest pressed up against Amon’s and the distance between them dangerously small—too small. A breath closer and they would be lip to lip. Not to mention the eyes that woman wore to look at Amon like he was planning to eat him up again and again.

“…”

Amon didn’t need to see the rest. The air beside him had already grown noticeably colder, the gray fog thickening and swelling like the sea just before a violent storm. He could feel it prickling across his skin even in this spirit body.

He raised his hand and tapped at the slick tentacle coiled across his mouth, a silent request to be allowed to speak. Permission was given, though only after a stinging slap to his head that bruised his ego far more than his body.

He coughed once, twice, instinctively trying to even out his voice even though this was only his spirit body projected into the gray fog. The action was completely useless, but he did it anyway, an empty gesture to soothe his frayed senses.

“Um… I can explain?”

He couldn’t see Mr. Fool’s face, hidden as it was within the thick shroud of fog, but he could feel the weight of that sharp, invisible glare turning on him, daring him to continue.

Amon coughed again and plastered on an innocent smile. “Didn’t you see? I wasn’t actually enamoured by her! I just wanted to digest my potion— I played along with her for that!”

The tentacles around him instantly tightened; even the one on his neck constricted sharply, making him choke a little.

“If you had actually been enamoured by her,” Mr. Fool said, voice low and heavy with discontent and disgust, “I would have been less angry. The fact that you were completely in your mind means that you willingly ignored my direct orders to step away from that woman and allowed her to lay her hands all over you— you willingly allowed her to lay her hands on the Blessed of a God— a God’s property.”

Amon tapped his fingers twice on the tentacle at his throat, and it quickly loosened, even going so far as to gently soothe the bruised area as though apologizing for hurting him. He rolled his eyes and muttered in an indignant tone, “I still don’t see the problem. Nothing happened! And even if it had—even if I had actually slept with her—how would that matter to you?”

Honestly, Mr. Fool was acting as if Amon were his spouse, not his Blessed!

The tentacle immediately wrapped back around his throat, effectively shutting him up.

From somewhere within the gray veil, Amon heard Mr. Fool’s soft huff, then the deliberate tap of fingers on bronze before a sharper exhale. A snap of fingers followed, and the tentacles binding Amon slithered back into the God’s own body. The sudden absence left Amon unexpectedly hollow. He was glad to be free, yes, but the strange weight of those coils had become a kind of comfort over the past month— like a bizarre version of a weighted blanket.

“Fine then,” Mr. Fool murmured, “we’ll go by your standards—”

Amon smiled triumphantly. “—See? So you do admit it sounds ridiculous—”

“—Then considering that,” Mr. Fool cut smoothly across his words, “I must also be allowed another Blessed, am I correct?”

Amon’s smile froze, the color draining from his face. “What.”

Mr. Fool’s voice now carried a smirk that was nearly audible. “I mean, if you don’t consider another person playing with my property a ‘reasonable’ offense, then by your own standards I should also be allowed more Blesseds, shouldn’t I?”

A single tentacle rose and tapped against Mr. Fool’s chin as if mock‑thinking. “Hm… Ms. Justice would make a good candidate for a Blessed, no?”

“…Mr. Fool…” Amon’s voice dropped into a warning growl, but the God continued as if he hadn’t heard.

“She’s quite a charming young lady, your age but far more obedient and well‑mannered. She also has considerable money and political influence— far more useful to me than a thief whose only worth is a uniqueness which I need and will inevitably obtain—”

Amon’s heart dropped, “Mr. Fool…!”

“She is also far more respectful,” Mr. Fool hummed, smile growing clearer in his voice. Amon could see red just imagining him smiling like that while thinking of someone else, when he was right in front of him—! “She treats me with much greater reverence than a certain someone. I think we should add a room for her in my house, no? A highborn lady like her would certainly be better at decorating than a thief—”

Before the words had fully landed, Amon was already in his God’s lap, hands gripping the collar of his suit, his eyes fierce beneath his single crystal monocle as he glared up at the mist‑shrouded face. “Don’t you dare—”

“Now who’s being the unreasonable one?” Mr. Fool said with a soft hum, sounding downright pleased, as though his method of teaching had finally worked on his naughty, flighty crow. He was giving the trickster a taste of his own medicine.

Amon opened his mouth to snap back but realized, abruptly, he had nothing to say. He shut it with an audible click and fell into a sulky pout instead, trying his best to look wronged and unreasonable.

Mr. Fool exhaled at last, letting the smirk slip from his voice. His gloved hand rose to Amon’s neck, utterly unconcerned with the fact that his own collar was still clutched fiercely by his Blessed. His fingers traced the faint marks the tentacles had left behind, slow and deliberate.

It wasn’t even Amon’s real body here—just a spirit projection—but the sight stirred a small pang in Mr. Fool’s worm‑infested, non‑existent heart. He felt it anyway, a ghost of empathy.

As his fingers moved across the bruises, Amon’s breath hitched minutely and he leaned, not away but closer, his face turning just enough to hide from view. Mr. Fool had originally planned to heal the marks outright, but this reaction made him pause.

Instead of healing, his hand drifted up to Amon’s cheeks, puffed and pouting, his monocle catching faint glints of misty light. The boy looked at him with a wronged expression, eyes bright and shimmering as though close to tears.

“Are you angry?” Klein asked softly, rubbing at those puffy eyes he knew were trying so very hard to cry— not because of hurt, but to emotionally manipulate him.

“What does it look like?” Amon snapped back, voice sharp and brittle.

“What would you feel if instead of you in my lap like this, it was Ms. Justice, with me holding her face like—”

“—No!” Amon released Mr. Fool’s collar and instead covered his non-existent mouth with both hands, face hidden by the gray mist. “Don’t say it! Don’t make me imagine it!”

Mr. Fool gently pried his Blessed’s hands away, so as not to risk him destabilising his spirit body from unintentionally trying to discern the face of a God.

“You get angry at me for making you imagine a displeasing sight, yet today you were the one who showedto me,” Mr. Fool said, his voice horribly gentle yet resolute, the same tone Amon remembered his father using when he had already lost an argument and was just waiting for the final, crushing finishing blow. He hated it then, and he hated it now— he hated being out of control and helpless.

“I really didn’t mean anything by it— I just saw the opportunity and it would have been suspicious if a mere Sequence 9 like me could escape her charms as she was at least a Sequence 6, so I… so I…” Amon pursed his lips, smooth tongue failing him completely.

Mr. Fool hummed, caressing Amon’s cheek— his actions were similar to Madam Sharron’s yet different in their intent, whereas one was predatory and demeaning, Mr. Fool’s comforting and claiming, and it made Amon’s excuses die at his throat.

“As my Blessed, you know that you have promised your body and soul to me, right?” Mr. Fool said softly, carefully.

“Mhm…”

“Then, like all things sacrificed to me, your being too belongs solely to me. You know what that means too, right?”

“Hm…”

Another sigh. “It didn’t seem like that today.”

“That was—” A tentacle quickly shut Amon up.

“You do realize there are times you can just apologize when you are wrong, you know?”

Amon pursed his lips, then slowly relaxed. He leaned into Mr. Fool’s chest, burying his face in the soft fabric under that yellow-and-black cloak, and muttered a small, “I’m sorry.”

Even a God like Mr. Fool, capable of detecting his Blessed’s deception and half-lies, could only melt at the sight of this naughty, spoiled little child.

“Good.” Mr. Fool rubbed Amon’s soft curly hair, “And I apologise for saying those things about you, comparing you to Ms. Justice.”

Amon hummed as if to convey that he had understood, but inside, his heart was still stirring with a strange sort of anxiety he had only rarely felt before. It was like the times his father would praise another child in front of him—once, his father had casually mentioned how a coworker’s child had won some kind of award at school for being the ‘best-behaved’, and that had caused Amon to literally stay up all night for weeks, fearing his father would up and replace him with a better kid.

But that was stupid. He had been barely four or five back then. As he grew up, he realized there was no way his father could just leave him like that. There were legal issues with these things, and Amon was sure no one wanted to get on the bad side of CPS if they wanted to adopt a ‘better’ child.

There was also his father’s signature on Amon’s legal documents—that had been Amon’s only security. Singular, but the strongest, both in the eyes of the law and the rest of the world. And then there was the question of morals: a soft-hearted loser like his father would definitely not be able to sleep properly at night if he abandoned a child he’d taken responsibility for—even if that child was Amon.

But this time…

There was no security.

There were no moral or legal obligations.

The only thing Amon had connecting him to Mr. Fool—the only being capable of providing Amon the kind of nonstop attention that was necessary for him to function in this strange world—was a small, crystal monocle on his right eye.

That was all.

There was nothing else valuable in Amon that Mr. Fool couldn’t find anywhere else. Aside from this monocle, what did Amon even have? Cooking skills to ease Mr. Fool’s black-hole of a stomach? Someone like Ms. Justice could just hire cooks from all across the world to cook endlessly for Mr. Fool—better in both taste and quantity. What about showing Mr. Fool the outside world? Wasn’t The Hanged Man a pirate or something? He probably saw more exciting things in a single day than Amon did in a whole week of rotting in his room or wandering town as usual.

‘A thief whose only use is a uniqueness which I need and will inevitably get.’

That was what Mr. Fool had said in his anger. Even though he knew Mr. Fool didn’t actually mean it, he couldn’t deny there were some truths in that statement.

His only use to Mr. Fool was the monocle on his right eye.

That was all Amon was. He knew it, but being told it outright was something else. Like finally being faced with the truth he’d been running from for so long.

It was ironic, wasn’t it? He, who had been so ready and long planning to drop Mr. Fool the second he got the chance to return to his old world, was now panicking at the thought that he might be the one thrown away instead.

Noticing his Blessed’s somber mood, The Fool grew worried. “What is it?” He lifted Amon’s face, trying to unearth what was going on in the little one’s mind.

“Mm, nothing.” Amon shook his head and then smiled. “Just realized how nice of a God Mr. Fool is! Completely unlike the other evil gods out there!”

Amon got smacked playfully again.

“Not an evil god.” Mr. Fool huffed, a little pleased that the air around them had once again returned to its usual cheerful bubble. “Good that you realized it, though. You won’t find a God who treats you better than me anywhere else,” he added with some pride.

“Of course, of course~” Amon rubbed his face against Mr. Fool’s chest coquettishly. “Mr. Fool is the nicest divine being out there!”

And Amon knew better than anyone that ‘nice’ was one of the flimsiest emotions ever. A safety net that wasn’t even worth being called a safety net.

What if someday Mr. Fool got bored? Ran out of niceties and finally saw Amon for what he truly was?

To prepare for that day, Amon had to make sure he was as useful as possible so Mr. Fool wouldn’t want to throw him away.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing. Just that I need to raise my Sequence really fast to be really useful to Mr. Fool~”

Looking down at such a hard-working Blessed, Mr. Fool could only let out a fond huff as another tentacle came up to rub Amon’s head, rewarding him for his obedient and pious behavior.

“You still have to be punished, though.”

“…Huh?”

Mr. Fool smiled. “I mean, you did go against my repeated orders to step away from that woman…”

Amon had a really bad feeling about this.

~

When Leonard finally reached Amon’s room while searching for him, he found him standing in the corner of his cell-like room, facing the wall, lips in a pout, displeased expression on full display.

“…What are you doing?”

“The evil god I serve is currently punishing me for cheating on him.”

“Uhuh… So, um, Old Nei was asking if you preferred pork or chicken? For the party tomorrow.”

“Chicken. Also please stop talking to me before the evil god in my head increases my timeout corner punishment time for daring to talk to another human being.”

“…Right. I’ll leave you and your… evil god in peace then?”

“Good. Now, shoo, shoo.”

“Alright, alright. Oh, and also—” Leonard sounded a bit sheepish. “I’m sorry.”

Amon finally turned to look at Leonard, giving him a confused look. “About what?”

“I didn’t know you’d get hurt with the celebration turning into a joint one… I’ll make sure to suggest to the rest of the Nighthawks that we celebrate your early potion digestion separately as well later.”

Amon’s eyes widened. How did Leonard know—

Almost as if reading Amon’s mind, Leonard chuckled and answered, “Well, I saw you slipping away with a disappointed look on your face when I suggested the joint celebration… I’d be a fool not to notice.”

Amon opened his mouth, then closed it, and turned away.

What fool? No one else noticed. Ever. No one except his father—but again, he was Amon’s father. That kind of attentiveness was a given.

“What? Feeling shy?” Leonard teased.

“You’re stupid. Now go away or my evil god is going to make me sacrifice my blood to him.”

“Alright, alright. You can just tell me to my face that you don’t want me here—no need to make up elaborate tales…”

~

By the personal request of Dunn, who didn’t want to traumatize Amon with a formal investigation by a senior Red Glove for his suspicious speed of potion digestion—a procedure the Church would’ve insisted on—the one assigned to verify Amon’s identity, spirituality, and loyalty was Daly. Using her powers as a Spirit Medium, she communicated with Amon’s spirit directly. It was easy to lie through, apparently, since one of Mr. Fool’s masteries was over the spirit world, and with the gray fog concealing Amon’s spirit and truths from divination, he was marked clear and approved for advancement.

The items were easily found despite their expensive nature, and Amon took the potion under the eyes of Dunn, Daly, and Leonard. Almost immediately, he felt half of the potion digesting, and instead of surprise, everyone—even Mr. Fool—could only sigh in exasperation, as if they had expected it.

“Seems like you’re about to set a new record for digesting your Sequence 8 potion the fastest,” Leonard said with a chuckle.

“Actually,” Daly’s voice broke through the slightly humorous atmosphere, making everyone turn toward her at her rather somber tone, “there’s another thing I need to inform you, Amon.” She glanced at Dunn, who nodded and gestured for her to continue. Daly sighed. “Dunn and I got this new information just half an hour ago, which is why I’m only telling you now…”

“What is it?” Amon urged. He glanced at Leonard, expecting to see confusion mirrored on his face, but Leonard wore the same grim expression as Daly and Dunn. That was suspicious—hadn’t Daly just said only she and Dunn knew?

“You will not be able to advance to Sequence 7,” Daly finally announced.

Amon blinked, not understanding. “Is it because we don’t have the Sequence 7 potion? It’s fine, I can figure it out and find it myself.” Which would even be better, since as a reward he wouldn’t have to pay for the ingredients himself.

But Daly shook her head. “No, it’s not that you can’t—it’s that the Church won’t allow you.”

“What?”

It was Dunn who continued after Daly’s odd revelation. “We haven’t been given much information, but it’s been made clear that no matter what happens, Amon, you—and anyone else from this pathway in this Church—will not be allowed to advance to Sequence 7.”

“But why?” Amon still couldn’t understand. What was the point of this? Was it because Beyonders of Sequence 7 could endanger the sanctity of the Church? Was the pathway too villainous by name? But this was one of the Orthodox Churches, with literal demigods and angels as members—how could a Sequence 7 be of any threat to them? And if it came down to villainy, then weren’t the Corpse Collector and Sleepless Pathways equally ominous? Those were the Church’s main ones!

“We were only given one reason—it’s highly dangerous,” Dunn said, lips pursed.

“For others or for me?”

“For both.”

Amon was speechless. “That makes no sense!”

“Unfortunately, that’s the only reasoning we got,” Dunn sighed. “There’s even been a warning that attempting to advance to Sequence 7 on your own would make you an enemy not just of the Evernight Goddess’s Church, but of all the Orthodox Churches. Best case, you’ll be imprisoned for life. Worst case—you’ll be killed.”

Amon’s eyes widened, his crystal monocle nearly slipping from his face as if mirroring his shock. He turned to Madam Daly, who sighed.

“I’d only heard of this kind of restriction in other Churches with the Apprentice Pathway. Not even the Secret Suppliant Pathway, which is known to cause far more frequent losses of control, has received this kind of treatment. I didn’t know the Marauder Pathway could be the same…”

Dunn looked at Amon, then down, as if ashamed. “Unfortunately, even though you’re a genius in this regard, you’ll never be able to advance your sequence—and will forever remain a Sequence 8.”

Mr. Fool, for the first time since congratulating Amon for successfully advancing to Sequence 8 Swindler, said, ‘There… there must be a reason why—no, how could they just—’

His voice trembled slightly, and that was when Amon realized the difference between them. Unlike him, who could still live comfortably in Tingen with a hefty pay even if stuck at Sequence 8, Mr. Fool wasn’t so lucky. The god needed Amon to advance higher to fully recover his power and regain freedom. If Amon was stuck at Sequence 8 forever, that also meant Mr. Fool would remain imprisoned in solitude within Sefirah Castle, his only outside contact being Amon, Ms. Justice, and The Hanged Man.

‘Surely you can convince—’

Amon cut him off, his mental voice calm and steady. ‘We’ll have to betray and leave the Church then.’

‘What?’ Mr. Fool sounded dumbfounded. ‘That’s dangerous—didn’t you hear what your Captain said? You’ll be hunted down and likely put down like a diseased dog! Yes, you have my blessings, but even with your advancement, I can’t have recovered enough to face down multiple Churches!’

It was reasonable for Mr. Fool to think Amon was being reckless. He was, after all, too kind and naïve to even consider forcing his Blessed to take such a risk for him, even if his own freedom depended on it.

But Mr. Fool still didn’t know—Amon had no real connection to this life. The only reason he became a Beyonder and wanted to advance so quickly was to find a way back home as soon as possible. He didn’t know how time flowed between worlds; if it was the same, then the Amon from Earth would’ve already been missing for over a month. Amon didn’t want to make his loser of a nice father cry at his funeral and then get taken advantage of by some cunning woman who’d “comfort” him. Maybe they’d even have another child. Just the thought of that made Amon so angry he couldn’t breathe.

Death was better than that ending.

Besides, there was no guarantee that if Amon chose to remain with the Nighthawks forever, Mr. Fool wouldn’t eventually realize how stupid it was to give up his only chance at restoration for a human child he barely knew—and then either kill Amon outright or worse—abandon him.

Besides, wasn’t it the very plot of most games that the Churches were the main antagonistic forces? Amon wanted to experience how it actually felt to be on the run!

‘Your life should always hold more importance in your heart—don’t just give it up for a possibly evil god who can’t even properly support his Bles—’

‘But Mr. Fool,’ Amon interrupted, his tone resolute and confident, ‘wasn’t it you who just today said that my soul and body belonged to you? As your most prized possession—’ hopefully ‘—how can you let me just give up?’

‘That was—’ Mr. Fool sounded surprised, as if he genuinely hadn’t thought the words he’d spoken half in anger and half in concern for his Blessed’s safety would be thrown back at him and used as an argument to risk that safety even more!

‘Mr. Fool,’ Amon said again, this time his voice steady and serious—the only tone he knew that made overly nice, stupid people like his father and Mr. Fool actually listen. ‘Aren’t you the one who keeps saying that I belong to you? That I’m yours?’

‘I…’

‘Isn’t the only duty of a possession—of me, your Blessed who belongs to you—to be useful to its owner, you? You keep throwing around those words to win arguments against me, but when it comes to following their meaning, you hesitate. Do you want to be that kind of flippant and lying person?’

Over in the palace shrouded in gray fog, Mr. Fool sat on the large plush sofa his Blessed had crafted for him specifically to accommodate his tentacles properly. Holding the pillow his Blessed had made for his comfort, he heard those words clearly, echoing through the thick fog and filling the cozy room built just for the two of them.

One of the tentacles, sensing its owner’s shaky emotional state, rose and curled around Klein’s hand—a strange sort of self-hug.

“Why…” Klein muttered aloud, hugging the pillow tighter.

Why, just why was this foolish human so ready to throw his life away for someone—no, something—like him? What use was such devotion for a god who couldn’t even support his believer properly?

Yes, Klein wanted nothing more than to recover his powers and memories, to finally feel alive again and regain his freedom—but not at the expense of a human life. And not just any life, but one most loyal and precious to him.

He would be no better than an Evil God then.

Never had Klein expected this kind of sacrifice from his Blessed when he’d made the offer. He had known there would be danger, yes, but not of this level. Did Amon not realize how real the threat was? His own coworkers would become his enemies; after living among them for so long, they would easily track him from across the world through divination—even with the protection of the Sefirah. If he tried to advance right under their noses, he would almost certainly be discovered. If he ran away, it would be even more suspicious and dangerous.

The best-case scenario would be finding a strong secret organization to join that could protect him, or faking his death. Both equally unachievable. Both stupid.

And that wasn’t even counting what the other gods might think of an ancient god like him reviving. Would they label him an Evil God and call for the extermination of all his followers?

And yet his Blessed had the audacity to demand that he—Klein, The Fool—use him properly.

Use him…

Use his Blessed like some kind of object for his own gain and advantage?

Was that how other gods treated their Blesseds? Had he been the one doing it wrong this entire time?

Maybe Amon was right… maybe the unreasonable one here was him.

Klein pursed his lips, his tentacles tightening around him.

‘He’ had made up ‘His’ mind.

‘He’ finally replied to ‘His’ Blessed, ‘His’ voice steady and resolute. “Alright.”

If ‘His’ Blessed was so determined to serve ‘Him’ as a proper Blessed, then so be it.

‘He’ would allow ‘His’ Blessed to serve ‘Him’ as a Blessed should.

But in return, ‘He’ would support ‘His’ Blessed as a proper God should.

And if ‘He’ lacked the strength to do so, then ‘He’ would simply create more allies for ‘His’ Blessed.

With that, The Fool snapped his fingers. The comfortable home his Blessed had built for him vanished, replaced by the long bronze table. He sat once more on his high-backed chair, his tentacles curling around him.

He looked up at one of the countless crimson stars—the one shining brightest, the one that had been calling to him for days. Extending his hand toward the light, he summoned the poor boy who had been praying for a god—any god—to hear his cries.

It was time for the Tarot Club—his Blessed’s support in his stead—to finally expand.

Chapter Text

Amon didn’t know what to expect when Leonard pulled him out of duty during his working hours, saying he had permission from the Captain and wanted to take him somewhere. Whatever he was expecting—it definitely wasn’t this.

“Leonard, why are we at a hospital?” Amon couldn’t help but ask as they sat waiting for their turn with the physician.

“It’s for you, of course,” Leonard answered simply.

Amon rolled his eyes. “Yes, obviously. I’m asking why you brought me to the hospital.”

Leonard sighed. “Look, no matter how much you try to convince me that sleeping for over fifteen hours a day is normal and healthy, I don’t buy it. So I brought you to get checked—to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

“A lot, actually.” Amon smiled proudly.

Leonard just gave him a deadpan look, making Amon deflate and slump against the chair even more. Great. Leonard was in his serious mode, which meant Amon couldn’t even have some fun.

Pouting (but not really pouting), Amon decided to poke his nose into other people’s business by shamelessly looking around at everyone in the waiting room. Sometimes he wondered how people with shame even had fun in life…

Oh! That girl over there looked troubled!

So Amon switched over a few seats, under Leonard’s watchful eyes. Leonard didn’t say anything—just frowned—as Amon gave the girl a sweet, good-natured greeting. The kind that he knew girls loved.

His innate charm was amplified by his new Sequence 8 Swindler powers, which made him easier to trust, approach, and believe. It even granted him a silver tongue and some degree of mental influence. It was perfect for him—and no wonder the potion had already almost halfway digested, since these were things Amon was already doing plenty of even before taking it.

The girl’s name was Elizabeth, around Amon’s and Melissa’s age. Amon chatted with her for a while, asking her not-so-nosey but definitely nosey questions, like why she was here and if she had some terminal illness at such a young age.

Unfortunately, it turned out to be just nightmares and bad sleep.

Surprisingly though, Leonard—who’d been sitting a few seats away the whole time—actually came closer and showed interest in the girl’s story.

“Why did you choose to go to a Divination Club before coming to the doctor?” Leonard asked in that simple, pleasant tone that made people instinctively trust him and open up.

It worked splendidly. Elizabeth explained how her nightmares had only started after she and her family visited some abandoned haunted place in Lamud Town during vacation. She thought it was due to the spirits and ghosts there.

“Hm, it could also be a psychological shadow from getting scared, no?” Amon said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“I guess so…” she murmured.

“Evil people might take advantage of that and scam you for money with fake remedies,” Amon warned, reminded of his poor gullible father who had done everything to ‘fix’ him and only ended up wasting time and money. Of course, his old man had a lot of money to throw, but he didn’t have that much time, so the fact that his father was using his free time to show Amon to a bunch of doctors instead of using that time to spend time with him was even more grating to him.

Leonard nodded. “Yes, it’s much better to go to church and pray to the god you believe in. That will help ease the shadow.”

With the combined persuasion of a Swindler and a charming Midnight Poet, the girl’s spirits visibly lifted. She smiled, thanked them, and soon left when her name was called.

When she was gone, Amon turned to Leonard with a teasing grin. “Why so interested in her story? You know she’s a lot younger than you, right?”

“You and your messy thoughts…” Leonard sighed. “It’s because her story strongly suggests the existence of wraiths or spirits in that mansion she mentioned. As a Nighthawk, it’s my duty to help.”

“So it’s just you using your position as an excuse to talk to young, pretty girls?”

“You were the one who approached her first!”

Their names were soon called, and Amon was taken in for inspection. Leonard, of course, was being Leonard—hovering beside the doctor, genuinely worried and asking whether Amon had some chronic illness, whether he was dying, and how much time he had left.

The doctor just chuckled, soothing Leonard’s concerns. Outside of being malnourished, lacking sunlight, and having some growth pains, Amon was healthy. The doctor explained that his excessive sleeping might be due to fatigue and his body trying to make up for the energy it was burning while growing so quickly. Although it wasn’t entirely normal, it wasn’t concerning either.

“All you need,” the doctor said, “is a balanced diet, regular meals, and more sunlight.”

Amon didn’t bother mentioning that his diet was already well-maintained—after all, when you were feeding a God with the appetite of a black hole, you learned to cook regularly. If anything, Amon was pretty sure he fed Leonard more often than Leonard fed himself.

They were handed a few supplements and dismissed with a lighthearted reminder for Leonard not to worry so much about his ‘little brother’, to which both Amon and Leonard immediately protested in unison saying ‘I’m not brothers with that!’

Finally out of the hospital, Amon stretched and yawned. But before they could call for a carriage back to the Blackthorn Security Company, a sudden commotion caught their attention.

“No! I’m not aborting his child!”

“Megose, are you crazy? Why would you even want to carry the child of that lunatic?!”

Amon, curious as ever, leaned forward and peeked over Leonard’s shoulder, gave up due to his height, and sidestepped him to get a better view. “Are they fighting?” he asked, eyes lighting up.

Leonard sighed. “Did the father run away after getting the girl pregnant? And she’s quite young too… Amon, definitely don’t grow up to be that kind of man, alright?”

“It’s fine,” Amon said casually. “I’m not getting anyone pregnant anytime soon.” He had the world’s biggest cockblocker living inside of his head afterall. “…Let’s see what they’re talking about!” Amon said brightly, tugging Leonard forward, all thoughts of their carriage forgotten.

“Are you seriously that shamelessly nosy about other people’s business?!”

“Yes!” Amon grinned.

Turns out, the drama was even spicier than Amon could’ve hoped for. The trash father of the unborn child was actually Lavenus—that scammer who’d run off with ten thousand pounds in a fake investment scheme! Apparently, he didn’t just scam people’s money, but also a poor young lady’s heart.

Leonard gave Amon a judgmental look at his thinly veiled excitement but said nothing.

“So, you’re planning to abort the child?” Amon asked bluntly. Normally, that kind of question—especially from a stranger—would’ve been rude, but Amon had that natural sleazy charm that made people weirdly comfortable with him. Amplified by his Swindler Sequence, both women seemed perfectly fine with it.

In fact, the pregnant girl, Megose, even looked a little comforted by his presence. Which was… odd. Maybe because, deep down, she could sense he was a shameless thief just like her ex? Maybe she just had a bad type.

“I wish to keep him,” Megose said dreamily, stroking her small belly. “He’s such a nice child, after all. I mean, he even sings me lullabies when I’m feeling down. What a sensible child.”

Amon blinked.

‘Maybe the shock of all this made her crazy?’ Mr. Fool’s voice sounded in Amon’s mind, laced with concern. ‘Hm… maybe try seeing her using your Spirit Vision?’

Indeed, the sight of a pregnant, beautiful, and obviously distraught woman tugged even at a God’s heartstrings.

Amon raised his hand to tap his forehead twice—about to activate his Spirit Vision—when Leonard abruptly grabbed his wrist.

“We’re leaving,” Leonard said firmly. “The Captain’s going to be angry if we waste more time.”

Amon pouted. “I doubt the Captain even remembers we’re gone. You’re no fun.”

Still, he waved goodbye to Megose and her friend before Leonard practically shoved him into a carriage.

And just like that, Amon’s little reprieve from boring waged worker ended and he was back to filing and sorting through paperwork and doing even more lessons and training…

~

After some investigation, it was found that the house Elizabeth visited was indeed haunted by wraiths, and Captain Dunn, alongside Amon and Frye, was sent to Lamud Town to get rid of it with the help of sealed artifact 3-0782, the Mutated Sacred Sun Emblem.

It was an easy enough mission. With Mr. Fool notifying him beforehand, and with his own increased sensitivity to Beyonder-related abilities due to his recent advancement, Amon knew that Captain Dunn had pulled them all into a nightmare to lure the wraith into the vicinity of the Mutated Sacred Sun Emblem long enough to purify it. Amon just had to dodge and sneak through the shadows using his empowered Marauder abilities, and the wraith was gone easily enough.

Then came the task of clearing out the premises and making sure no wraiths were left behind. Each of the Nighthawks would take turns holding 3-0782 while the others rested. Amon volunteered to be the first and found a cozy little place within the ruined mansion to seat himself.

“Mr. Fool, why are you so interested in this sealed artifact?” Amon, as always, couldn’t stop himself from asking why Mr. Fool had told him to volunteer to hold the emblem first.

‘I sense something from it,’ Mr. Fool replied rather vaguely, making Amon a little upset. ‘Can you sacrifice it to me?’

Amon, ever the most loyal and best Blessed he identified as, did so, and the Mutated Sacred Sun Emblem was quickly sent over the gray fog. Because Amon wanted to know what Mr. Fool was going to do, he also made himself fall asleep using the power of cognition and went to Mr. Fool’s palace shrouded in gray fog.

Amon found himself not in their new home, as he usually did when he went up here, but back at the mysterious gathering place fit for giants. He saw Mr. Fool sitting on his high-backed chair, cheek resting on his fist as he looked at the sealed artifact in his other hand.

“Are you going to use divination on it?” Amon asked excitedly, hopping over to his God and standing beside him with interest. “If so, can I watch?”

He had only seen Mr. Fool do divination a few times and had been taught about its basics and intricacies during their lessons. Amon could perform divination to some extent using his connection to Mr. Fool, but he had never had the chance to do so fully before. Not only would it be suspicious if a low-sequence Beyonder from the Marauder Pathway with relatively low divinity could divine, but his divination was also weaker in the real world since most Beyonder-related phenomena were protected from being divined. Doing divination over at the Gray Fog was much wiser. Since he was already here, it made sense to have Mr. Fool perform it—he was far stronger, and his godly status meant he wouldn’t lose sanity or control when seeing something strange and god-like.

“You really want to watch?” Mr. Fool looked over at his Blessed. Although his face was concealed by the thick mist, Amon had spent enough time with his God to know that he was probably doing the equivalent of a human quirking an eyebrow and smiling slightly in intrigue and interest.

“Yes!”

“Mm, I’m going to do a Dream Divination on this sealed artifact. Only if you’re able to answer what I taught you will I show you,” Mr. Fool said with slight amusement.

Although Amon was the sort who kept falling asleep in class and was generally a distracted and poor student, he was someone who could retain information very well. With Mr. Fool’s tentacles always slapping him awake whenever he dozed off during lessons, Amon quickly answered Mr. Fool’s question properly.

“You repeat the question you want answered seven times, remember the details, and, using the power of cognition, fall asleep!” Amon recited obediently, as one of the tentacles came up to rub his curly black hair. “Then your Astral Projection will roam the Spirit World in the dream and allow the diviner to gain revelations!”

Mr. Fool nodded approvingly and used his tentacles to pick up the smaller boy, who was quickly growing taller and filling out his weak, thin frame, much to his pleasure, and plopped him into his lap. The tentacles went an extra mile, not ordered by the main body, to wrap their Blessed up tight and ensure maximum comfort for his nap—which made Klein feel a little helpless because even he himself didn’t receive this kind of treatment from them… I’m still sitting there with none of you cushioning me, you know?

“And also, please keep in mind to always stay by my side,” Mr. Fool said, wrapping one of his hands possessively around his Blessed’s waist and resting his chin on his Blessed’s fluffy head as he prepared for the Divination. Pulling another soul into his dream during the Dream Divination was tricky, but with Amon’s innate connection, he could easily bypass some laws and use loopholes to allow Amon to dive into the dream with him.

“What happens if I don’t stay by your side?”

“Worst case scenario, your soul will be unable to return to your body, and you will be forever lost in the flow of the Spirit World, displaced within the currents of time and knowledge.” Klein tried to scare his little Blessed, but the child only turned his head to look up at him. His fluffy hair brushed Klein’s chin, giving a slight tickle, and his wide trusting eyes.

“But Mr. Fool will save me, right?” Amon said in that sickly sweet voice of his. “Then I do not need to worry at all~!”

This brat…

Klein could only sigh as his tentacles dotingly rubbed their Blessed’s cute face.

“Just keep close to me, okay?” So that he could protect Amon if anything went wrong.

Amon nodded obediently, and Mr. Fool began to divine. He seamlessly pulled Amon into his dream as well and watched as some person, their figure shrouded in a hood, walked over to a sacrificial altar where a drop of golden liquid slowly seeped into the Sun Emblem.

“Is that golden liquid the source of the Emblem’s power?” Amon asked curiously, keeping close to Mr. Fool as ordered.

“Mm, I have a feeling that it might be the blood from a deity—maybe even a God,” Mr. Fool theorized.

Amon looked up at Mr. Fool with an excited expression. “You mean this drop of golden liquid might be the blood from The Eternal Blazing Sun God?!”

Amon quickly caught his mistake when Mr. Fool’s face turned to look down at him, his hidden gaze chilly and scowling.

“...Why do you look so excited while saying the name of another God? Why are you even saying the name of another God?”

“Um, I mean—I’m just excited because I’ve not seen another God besides you—”

“Why do you want to see other Gods?”

“...” Amon could never win against Mr. Fool’s jealous nature, could he?

“Besides, only I am forgiving and benevolent enough to allow you to look at parts of my real form while ensuring that your mental state is safe,” Mr. Fool huffed, definitely still pissed. “Look at other Gods like The Eternal Blazing Sun or The Evernight Goddess directly, and you will lose control before you could even blink. Maybe I should also do that, because you keep getting more and more impolite and getting a bit too used to my nice nature.”

Seeing his God rant angrily beside him, Amon could only give in and put on his wide dumb eyes, saying in his sickly sweet voice again,

“But doesn’t that mean that it’s because I trust Mr. Fool very much?” He looked up at the God with a small pouty mouth, hoping his seductions would work. Mr. Fool had slowly gotten resistant to his charms, but he had just advanced to a Swindler, and wasn’t applying his acting method against a being of higher Sequence a more efficient way to digest his potion?

“...I mean—” Mr. Fool seemed a little shaken up and moved. Good. That meant Amon was winning.

“I know Mr. Fool is very kind and gracious—unlike other phony Gods—that I can do this—” Amon hugged Mr. Fool’s side coquettishly, “—knowing that I won’t get smited, or well, trust Mr. Fool enough to know I won’t get smited…” Amon looked down sadly as his shoulders sagged. “I mean, of course I know you still can and you just said that you want to, so maybe I shouldn’t…”

With that small, barely audible (but definitely audible to Mr. Fool) sniffle, Amon let go of Mr. Fool and took a step back to create distance between them. “I’m sorry…”

Klein’s eyes widened as he watched his poor, scared Blessed—teased too much by his sudden mean streak—take a shaky step away from him. He felt his tentacles curl around his own body painfully, as if punishing himself for treating their Blessed like that, especially after what he had said that day comparing his priceless Blessed to Ms. Justice in a fit of rage. Maybe the mental wounds from that day hadn’t healed yet, and he had hurt his Blessed even more.

How could he demand special treatment from his Blessed when he couldn’t even act differently from other Gods? Wasn’t that having insane double standards? How dare he even think about treating his Blessed that way and taking away his freedom to devote himself to him in whatever way he felt comfortable and safe?

How could he let his ego and pride take over his reason and hurt his Blessed…

Before Klein could reach over and soothe his Blessed’s wounded heart, he felt his spirituality scream as his divination went out of control.

The Fool quickly snapped back to attention to figure out what had gone wrong and what was interfering with his divination when his eyes caught the golden drop of blood starting to sizzle and lash out like a miniature sun with its solar flares.

Did the deity whose blood this was notice his presence? But how could that be—he hadn’t even divined the drop of blood. How could They have noticed his prying?

No, first things first—

The Fool’s tentacles quickly reached out and caught their Blessed, bringing him to their main body’s side, curling and enveloping around their Blessed in a flash of rage and protectiveness. The sudden movement dislodged Amon’s crystal monocle over his right eye, which now hung down his neck by its chain.

“What—”

But Amon wasn’t even allowed to exclaim his surprise when his eyes were covered by the illusionary tentacles, cutting off his sight, reminiscent of when he had first met Mr. Fool.

Just as Klein covered Amon’s ears to block his sense of hearing, the miniature sun-like form of the golden blood burst out and shattered the dreamscape—the altar, the priest, the odd church praying to some Sun God were now gone, replaced by a fiery tornado of pure light. And in the epicenter of it all was a huge sun roaring and flaring angrily as if lashing out.

The Fool couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

This was The Eternal Blazing Sun!

So the drop of blood was from this Orthodox God? But still, that didn’t answer why this God had entered The Fool’s dreamscape of His own accord!

“Zhou Mingrui—”

The sun—no, The Eternal Blazing Sun God—called out.

Zhou Mingrui? What’s that? The words didn’t seem to belong to any language Klein had learned that was prevalent in the present time, nor did they match any ancient texts. No, in fact, they sounded a lot like the words from Emperor Roselle’s diary, which he was somehow able to translate.

But The Fool couldn’t waste time mulling over these details. First, he had to make sure his Blessed was completely covered in a tight protective cocoon of tentacles. This was still his dreamscape as well as the Spirit World—The Fool had far more authority over this space. All he had to do to keep his Blessed safe was prevent him from hearing or seeing The Eternal Blazing Sun’s true form, lest he lose control.

The Eternal Blazing Sun continued, “—So you’ve finally reawakened, like you warned us.”

Klein’s eyes widened.

The Eternal Blazing Sun knew him?!

Wait—those odd words he said earlier… they sounded like a name. Was that… was that his name before he lost his memories and trapped himself in the Sefirah?!

No, Klein! You can’t lower your guard now! The fact that The Eternal Blazing Sun barged into your dreamscape so forcefully like this means he doesn’t mean anything good, even if he is one of the Orthodox Gods of the current time!

Enemy or friend, Klein had to make sure not to show how weak he currently was. He couldn’t reveal that he had amnesia and didn’t remember anything!

Klein tried remembering the names on his list and what seemed to match the most with this God.

The Eternal Blazing Sun… The Eternal Blazing Sun… The Eternal Blazing Sun—

He got it! The name that sounded the most familiar to him relating to this God—

One of the first three names on his enemy list, marked as the most important—

“Aucuses.” The Fool’s deep and powerful voice boomed through the Spirit World—his own dreamscape—regaining some control and authority over it. “What are you doing here?”

He chose his words carefully, not using “Go away” as he had initially thought, since that would reveal the fact that he didn’t have that ability and would show weakness at this moment.

The voice of The Eternal Blazing Sun boomed with what felt like laughter, making Klein add another layer of tentacles to Amon’s cocoon, afraid his Blessed might accidentally hear and lose control.

“So you do remember.”

So Klein’s guess was correct. The Eternal Blazing Sun’s name was Aucuses—one of Klein’s—no, The Fool’s—enemies!

But wasn’t this an Orthodox God? One of the ones who helped and saved humanity and brought about a new era?

Did that mean Klein really was an Evil God in the past? Were his fears correct—

“So you really didn’t completely lose control and die after that suicidal stunt, and even managed to become The Lord of Mysteries with those fake uniquenesses made up by The Ancient Sun God! I would even be a little impressed if I didn’t know you were such a cockroach—just refusing to die and stay dead!”

The word cockroach, said with such ire and disgust, made Klein flinch—as if some deep-rooted fear had just been evoked in his heart. He wanted to run, to escape. He didn’t want to be here—nonononono—

Inside the wall of tentacles, Amon noticed that Mr. Fool’s tentacles were suddenly shivering and shaking—a response he had learned over time meant that they were scared. And not just a little scared—terrified.

Amon didn’t know what was happening outside, but he knew that Mr. Fool’s mental state was suffering right now. Much worse than when he had those nightmares he never remembered upon waking.

So like all the previous times, Amon raised his hands and placed them on the tentacles’ cool surface gently to soothe them.

“It’s fine, Mr. Fool. You have me. I am here.”

Klein heard his Blessed’s soft voice, pulling him back to the present. Yes, he had to protect Amon—he had to protect his Blessed. He could panic and feel scared later, but not now!

But as Klein looked up to face Aucuses’s formless form, he froze up again. His body kept screaming at him to run run runrunrun—!

“And the one beside you… is that your vessel?” Aucuses continued. Klein’s panic froze. Aucuses was referring to Amon—his Blessed. Suddenly, the chilling fear inside Klein was slowly replaced by fury.

“Is that how you managed to crawl back out from your grave in this era despite all our tries? You really are a coward—always hiding behind others, never stepping forward, never making eye contact. All you ever did was hide behind The Ancient Sun God’s radiance in the shadows. Now you’ve stooped to using a human?”

Barraged by the demeaning comments he didn’t even know the meaning of, Klein’s mental state shook. He felt small—so small and helpless. As if it wasn’t a face-off between two Gods, but between a child and a force of nature. Helpless, weak, pathetic.

His vision flashed, making Klein crumple under the sheer pain in his head as an image burned into his mind—him, weak and broken, kneeling on the ground helplessly, and in front of him three monsters who hunted him endlessly. One of them was Aucuses—the traitor, Klein’s mind supplied.

“You will be too much of a trouble if you’re allowed to reawaken. That means the vessel has to go—”

The sun flared, one of its fiery lashes extending and lashing out right at his Amon—

Klein saw red.

Before the purifying fire could reach his Blessed’s form, Klein got up, summoning a cane in his hand which he tapped on the ground with authority—and suddenly everything froze: the dreamscape, the Spirit World, the flaring Sun.

“And it seems your arrogance hasn’t changed since back then.” The Fool warned, his voice low and threatening. “You may keep parading around out there with the rest of the traitors, high on your stolen power—” Klein didn’t know how he was saying these words or what they meant; his mouth was moving on its own as if something else, himself, had taken over. “—But never forget: over here in the Spirit World,” The Fool raised his cane, “I am King.”

He slammed the cane down, and the dreamworld shattered, shoving out all its inhabitants. Klein wasn’t strong enough to just shove Aucuses out directly, but he could destroy the dream itself and force him out that way.

The thick gray fog surged, and Klein found himself back in his Sefirah. That didn’t calm him, though—the first thing he looked for—

His Blessed. Still safe and alright in his arms.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Klein leaned into his Blessed’s body, enveloping him as if trying to steal warmth from his projection.

Amon woke up at that moment and felt a weight on him. At first, he thought the limbs around him were Mr. Fool’s tentacles again, so he tried to struggle a bit before noticing that the limbs were actually Mr. Fool’s arms. Mr. Fool was hugging him from behind.

Amon froze and observed the body over him carefully. The arms around him were shaking, and the head buried in his shoulder and neck kept breathing in gasps of air. He knew Mr. Fool didn’t need to breathe—breathing was something he only did to stabilize his mental state and humanity.

So Amon didn’t shake off the God. Instead, he shuffled a little to make it more comfortable for Mr. Fool.

Finally, he opened his mouth and asked, “Mr. Fool, what happened back there?”

“The drop of blood was from Aucuses, The Eternal Blazing Sun God,” Mr. Fool replied slowly, his face still buried in Amon’s shoulder. “I didn’t divine it directly, but even then He was alerted to my presence and broke into the dream world to attack us. It seems like He—and probably the other Orthodox Gods—have some kind of special detection mechanism set around my existence, which notified Him of my prying.”

“I see.” Amon helplessly patted one of Mr. Fool’s arms. “So that guy is also someone you knew from the past?”

Mr. Fool nodded.

“An enemy. I also—” Klein hesitated, then continued, “I also saw a flash of vision, most probably one of my forgotten memories. I— I was on my knees, beaten and crumpled in front of three Gods. One of them was Aucuses.” The other two were probably the other names written at the top of his enemy list.

“He tried attacking me mentally using some trigger words he knew would disrupt my mental state and shake my humanity, but I managed to fend him off—and we’re here now.”

“I see.” Amon wasn’t acting like it, but his mind was racing.

If the thing that attacked them was indeed The Eternal Blazing Sun God, then he was definitely Mr. Fool’s enemy from the past. Mr. Fool also said there were two more—possibly more—enemies. Could they all be the current Orthodox Gods? No, that was too far-fetched. Some Gods, like the God of Steam and Machinery, only came to recently. He shouldn’t count all of them as guilty.

So then—the Gods who heralded themselves as the ones who saved humanity from the slavery of the Ancient Gods and brought about the Third Epoch? That would include not only The Eternal Blazing Sun God, but also The God of Storms, The God of Knowledge and Wisdom, and even… The Evernight Goddess.

Amon once again took note of Mr. Fool’s weak and shaken form over him and pursed his lips.

If he hadn’t already decided to betray the Churches and become a runaway, he certainly had now. Assuming rightfully so that all—or at least most—of the current Orthodox Gods were enemies of Mr. Fool and opposed his reawakening, staying as a Nighthawk under the Church of the Evernight was dangerous.

That meant he needed to find the potion formula and ingredients for his Sequence 7 as soon as possible… but how? His only connection outside the Nighthawks who could help him was Tris, and that man had disappeared, didn't come to Amon to tell him that important thing he was talking about and had likely lost control while trying to advance. That cut off that path entirely.

It seemed like the Tarot Club was his only light now.

Unfortunately, it only had two other members besides himself and Mr. Fool—

Almost as if reading Amon’s mind, Mr. Fool said, “There is a new member in the Tarot Club. He chose the card, The Sun. He will be joining us at the next gathering.”

Amon perked up in interest. “Is he already a Beyonder?” If so, his chances of advancing soon would increase—

“No.”

Amon deflated.

“But the information he will be able to give us—me—will be far more valuable than that of any high-sequence Beyonder,” Mr. Fool continued. Amon perked up again. “After all, he is a resident of the Silver City, in the Forsaken Land of the Gods.”

~

Klein had to eventually let his Blessed go, as it was time for him to switch places with his Captain to hold the emblem.

Still, he could not believe that the Sealed Artifact actually held the blood of The Eternal Blazing Sun God… and it was only a Level 3 Sealed Artifact? It seemed like only Klein and his Blessed were aware of this fact right now in the Church of The Evernight Goddess.

Divining about the Emblem wasn’t all that bad either—he managed to recover a few memories, even if it was merely a flash. Not to mention, he also got the potion formulas of the Sun Pathway up until Sequence 4 and even the method to make Flaring Sun Charms.

Klein immediately felt himself frown.

He couldn’t even play around with the thought of using the charm, let alone making it.

First of all, to do that, his Blessed would need to recite the honorific name of Aucuses—and after Him already coming in contact with his Blessed today, there was no guarantee that He wouldn’t recognize him at that instant. Reciting the honorific name of any God was already dangerous as it was, and a most definite no in this case.

And secondly… he just simply didn’t want to use Aucuses’s stolen powers— he didn’t even want to touch them with a ten-foot stick.

Besides… it had actually given him inspiration on how to make charms using his own powers. He had already made Amon prepare beforehand to test out how to make charms in The Fool’s name, and he was now most certain he could do it. With Amon’s advancement, his own connection to his Beyonder powers had increased, and he had a couple of abilities he could choose from to make the charms.

His authority over the Fool Pathway was the greatest, so right now he would limit himself to that to make the best possible charms. And with his powers in that domain…

His mind immediately supplied him with it: Air Bullets.

That was the most convenient and best offensive tool he had among his abilities, and the ones better than this were still a bit too advanced—he hadn’t regained enough of his power yet to master them, let alone make charms using them.

If Air Bullets were used as charms, although their offense wouldn’t be as strong as the Flaring Sun Charms—which could even take down a Sequence 4—they would still be capable of defeating a foe of similar strength, provided they were weakened enough and the charms were used in multitude with direct hits. But for his Blessed, who was still a Sequence 8 from a pathway not made for physical combat, it was good. And unlike the Flaring Sun Charms, which they could only make a few of, they could make his Air Bullet charms as many as they needed. Since Klein wasn’t picky—and the one making these charms was none other than his own Blessed—they wouldn’t need too many materials either.

His connection to Amon had also been enhanced somewhat, and he was sure Amon could use Sequence 9 Seer abilities almost adequately now. And if Amon were to advance further in the future, he could even receive a few abilities of a Sequence 9 Apprentice—which, although it wouldn’t make him any stronger, would be very helpful in allowing him the power to run away and escape. Something Amon would definitely need if they were to go along with their plan of betraying the Church.

Satisfied with his plans for the future, Klein leaned back on his chair and allowed himself to rest as he continued watching over his Blessed.

~

Klein watched from his Sefirah as his Blessed approached Azik Eggers about the portrait and the both of them returned to Lamud Town to investigate Mr. Azik’s forgotten past.

He only intended to watch detachedly, but as the professor talked about his hurdles with his forgotten memories, his small flashes of old life, and not knowing anything about his past self—feeling forever lost…

Klein couldn’t help but wrap one of Amon’s blankets over him using his tentacles.

The story… sounded too much like his own.

Professor Azik was most likely an Angel from the Death Pathway and would be a great ally to Amon in the future, but Klein wasn’t even able to feel glad about that as the encounter with Aucuses kept repeating in his head—the memories now refreshed and reawakened after Mr. Azik’s speech.

Aucuses, Leodero, and Herabergen.

Three traitors… Who did they betray? One of Klein’s old allies? Adam, perhaps? But since Adam’s name was written on his list, that meant that he wasn’t dead—and whoever these three betrayed was definitely dead, as Klein also had a vivid image of golden blood and the sheer feeling of loss and not being strong enough kept reverberating through his mind as he remembered those memories.

Before Klein could lose himself in overthinking his tiny amount of recovered memories, his Blessed arrived at his Sefirah—probably noticing that he hadn’t been replying for a while—and went up to him to give him a hug.

How truly weak and pathetic he was, just as Aucuses said… getting comforted by a weak human. How low he had fallen…

“Mr. Fool, don’t worry. Those three traitors you spoke of—I’ll take them down for you and avenge you!” his Blessed proclaimed with a sly smile.

The overconfident remark made Klein break into a smile as he gathered his Blessed into his arms and leaned into him.

“You’re just a Sequence 8 already making plans about killing not just one God but three? Be reasonable, you…” Klein teased.

Well, even if he was weak and pathetic right now… he had his Blessed. His daring and stupid Blessed who was ready to face down other Gods for his sake. Thinking like this, hadn’t he gained a treasure? Did that bastard Aucuses even have such a perfect Blessed as his own? Who was the helpless, poor God now, Aucuses!

“Mr. Fool, I feel like you’re thinking crazily again,” his blasphemous Blessed chirped.

“...Go to sleep.”