Archive of Our Own

To be a powerful figure is to understand that there are times when change demands cruelty. Like the metamorphosis from a blind, crawling worm to a beautiful butterfly, transformation is pain wrapped in purpose. 

And to become untouchable, truly invincible, one must surrender humanity and accept the role written by necessity, the monster.

A monster doesn’t know how to love.

They only take and take, twisting affection into a mask worn to manipulate, to gain the upper hand, to win more and lose less. Every touch, every action is strictly calculated. A warm hug, some soft words, or a dazzling smile are enough for people to lower their guard. They rob what they need, leaving behind the husk of hearts once beating, once hoping, and tossing them onto the cold, indifferent ground the moment their value expires. 

A greedy, all-consumed being.

It’s as simple and easy as that.

A monster cannot love.

It is not the puppet that must be pitied, but the puppeteer, the one who moves each thread with detached calculation, whose heart is a void where sentiment once lived. For them, every relationship is a system of strings, a means to maneuver and control. No master of the stage allows those strings to twist and knot, because they know one simple truth. 

Strings can strangle.

And when they do, it is always the puppeteer, the one who thought they held everything, that hangs first.

–__–

“The trial was a failure,” Thomas said, voice low and clipped. 

“Saparata ran as soon as he exited the courthouse. Despite being chased by over ten enforcers, he made it to his boat and escaped. Likely hiding somewhere in the southern island.”

Silence filled the room.

Fluixon’s expression darkened. His fingers paused mid-flip through a stack of reports, and slowly, his jaw tensed.

Those Commonwealth leaders... He thought their guards should have been competent enough to prevent one, single death-row convict from escaping. And yet the one they needed to kill the most had slipped away like fog. Now, with Saparata still alive and on the run, that’s going to be a hell of an annoyance to be dealt with.

The back of his teeth ached from how tightly he clenched them.

“... Right,” he muttered finally. 

“Send out hit squads. Luminara’s elite.”

He lightly tapped the corner of a file folder.

“Other leaders have likely already done the same since the news broke. We need him dead, no matter what it costs.”

Thomas nodded briskly, already pulling up his contact list. With eyes flickering over names, he quickly crossed out people who would be chosen for the job.

Loyal and efficient. That’s how he likes his right-hand man to be, the kind of guy who does what needs to be done and doesn’t ask unnecessary questions.

“Got it. Luminara’s elite team will be deployed before sunrise. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Fluixon said without hesitation. “Begin preparation for the next wave. 3BelowZero.” 

“Inform Gotoga and NewKids about this. Everyone is on edge after the mass leader purge, so tell them to be extra careful.”

“And, most importantly,” he added, “reinforce the narrative. Make sure the public rage against Saparata doesn’t cool down.”

Fluixon didn’t need to elaborate. The conspirators understood the game well by now. A frightened crowd was predictable, but a furious one? Usable. The stronger those sentiments grew, the easier their plans would unfold.

“Other than that, you can go and rest.”

“... Understood,” Thomas replied as he bowed lightly. 

“Rest well, Fluixon.”

The door clicked shut. For a moment, there was only the creaking of old floorboards and the murmur of the waves above.

Fluixon sat still, fingers steepled under his chin.

His mask never slipped in front of others, but now that the room was empty, his scowl slowly returned. That twisted mess of incompetence, how hard was it to keep one convicted traitor under control? He cursed under his breath, flipping open another document with more force than necessary. 

Agricultural economic report... still stable. 

Rogue criminal on a killing spree... already apprehended, scheduled for interrogation. 

Public approval... dipping in Luminara’s outskirts. Address it later.

Fluixon sighed as he gazed out of the bunker’s only window. Outside was nothing but the dark and murky water, illuminated only by the yellow, glowing lantern from his office. The smell of oak and ink permeated the walls, the air dusty and old, yet he didn’t mind it. Fluixon barely registered the words now, his thoughts kept drifting, again and again, back to him.

Where was Saparata now?

The jungle stretched for miles in the south, thick with vines and shadows. Only mangroves and thick swamps thrive there. 

Fluixon would know. He and Saparata once visited it together. That overgrown tangle of trees and plants, where the only terrain was the hard-to-traverse mud, no one really wanted to travel there, a place that felt like one could disappear forever without anyone ever finding them. It was a wise choice to hide there, but not for long.

No matter where, no matter how, someone will be bound to discover him.

An inevitable fate.

He could almost laugh.

Oh... Betrayed by your best friend, being hunted down as a terrorist across islands, seeing your wanted poster plastered on every single street was probably not the best feeling in the world, was it? Not ideal, indeed.

But it was a necessary sacrifice. 

Saparata was a perfect pawn in this game of chess, a scapegoat.

For the greater good, for the unity and peace of Island Two.

For the dreams of millions to come true, a star must first be shot down.

Despite somewhere, deep down inside his heart, there’s still something squirming, burning hot—

That’s when it happened.

It began subtly, just a simple cough, nothing out of the ordinary. 

He raised a gloved hand to his mouth, barely thinking, expecting dust or fatigue to be the cause.

But what emerged wasn’t just small drops of saliva.

It was soft.

He froze.

A single purple petal fluttered into his palm.

For a long, excruciating second, Fluixon simply stared at it, unmoving. It lay there in the center of his palm, mockingly tender, still warm from his breath. No sound whatsoever, not even a sigh, came out of his mouth. His eyes stayed wide open, didn’t blink, nothing, as if for a moment, he was carved from stone.

Because the worst part was that he knew what this meant.

Snowy white hair flashed through his mind, expression far too familiar, too kind. That disgusting, blinding smile.

There’s no shot that this would happen right now, there’s NO WAY—

His jaw clenched. His fingers curled in. 

And then, without a word, he crushed it, ground it into pulp in his palm until it painted a brilliant violet into the lines of his gloves. 

“Annoying,” he muttered, his voice razor-thin. 

He reached for the next report without a second thought. This is just another problem to be dealt with, a big, and so fucking irritating problem at that. A grumble tumbled out of his throat.

This is fine.

He refused to let this minor inconvenience disrupt the plan; there was no room for error here. 

Fluixon has no time for this.

There was still a war to be planned.

Deep within his chest, something in his lungs tightened, like the roots of a plant wrapping around its host.

–__–

Note: Researching the floral disease.

Ground rules:

• Must show no sign of illness, avoid, and make believable excuses
• Get rid of all evidence, don’t leave behind a single trace
• Find a cure as fast as you can, anything 
• Don’t think of Saparata, it seems to thrive on it

This illness, which I once read about in an old book, is an unusual and exceptional disease. It is linked to a deep emotional connection, often referred to simply as love. The condition arises from a lack of affection from the person one desires. 

What a foolish way to get sick, indeed.

Its name wasn’t recorded, but the symptoms are easily recognizable (according to the book).

The patient’s lungs will begin to grow flowers inside them, with the type of flowers varying from person to person (be cautious of the potential for poisonous varieties). The patient’s blood and flesh will serve as nutrients for the plants, further promoting their growth. Consequently, the patient will start to choke as their vital organs become increasingly suffocated by the flowers.

Basic symptoms that were previously recorded:

• Hard to breathe
• Shallow breathing 
• Faster heartbeat
• Coughing/vomiting out petals and sometimes blood
• Throat burning
• Will added more later

The speed of blooming still depends on person to person. Some may live with the illness for over a year, while others may succumb to it within just a few days. 

This variation is likely linked to the patient’s mental strength, as well as how often they think about or have direct contact with their object of affection.

This disease is fatal.

Need to eliminate it as quickly as possible. 

Avoid any actions that could seriously harm the nervous system, vocal cords, or appearance, as these are important.

Again, do not show signs of illness in front of others.

It wouldn’t end well.

End of note.

–__–

“Hey, Flux,” Hvydrotation called out, casually leaning over his armchair. 

“You’ve been coughing a lot lately. Got a flu or something?”

Fluixon’s eye twitched.

Ah. That.

... He really didn’t want to be reminded.

But instead of voicing that thought, he flashed an easy smile, breezy and rehearsed.

“Seasonal thing. Gotta tough it out until the weather changes.”

SnowBird snorted with a smirk, tugging at the corner of his mouth. Mischief, as always, was his second nature.

“Heh, I thought idiots didn’t get sick— OW!”

Fluixon jabbed him hard in the side, just enough to make him yelp.

He leaned in with a mock glare. 

“Shut the fuck up. I’m still your boss, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Mister Big Very Important Boss. Sir.” SnowBird scowled and gave an exaggerated salute.

“Y’ need sum cough drops,” came NewKids’ muffled voice from across the room, his cheeks bulging with something that looked like candy.

“Theze are lemon-flavoured. Mmph. It’z gud.”

Fluixon shook his head with a slight grimace. He ignored the way his throat itched, burning quietly like there was an unburnt cigarette butt inside.

“Yeah... No thanks.”

“Ur loss then,” NewKids chirped, already reaching for more. He looks like a gremlin.

“ Mor’ for meeee— ”

From somewhere in the hallway, Thomas’s voice rang out.

“HEY! AREN’T THOSE MY COUGH DROPS?!”

“Fuck. Gotta go, BYE, LOZERS!”

He vanished in a blur, candy still crammed in his mouth. Thomas chased after him like a furious tiger; the whole thing just felt like it was coming straight out of a cartoon.

Laughter echoed through the room at the goofy scenario, light and carefree.

The coughing was brushed off just as casually as it arose, a mere passerby joke, nothing important.

No other questions were asked.

That’s why no one noticed what Fluixon left behind when the laughter finally died down. 

They didn’t see the faint smear of red on the inside of his glove, nor did they notice the wilted purple petals he had slipped into his coat pocket before anyone could catch him. 

And they certainly didn’t realize there was a blood-flecked handkerchief quietly burning in the fireplace, with petals blackening in the flames, releasing a sweet, haunting scent of scorched flowers that curled through the smoke like a deadly serpent.

–__–

Fluixon washes the floral scent from his teeth with mint, scrubbing the inside of his mouth raw until the sickly sweet taste is gone. He applied the thickest concealer to hide away the dark circles that were blooming like bruises under his eyes. Straightening his jacket, he smiles into the mirror, looking perfectly normal as usual. 

Everything was going well.

By noon, he is in a meeting with NewKids and Gotoga, discussing the upcoming assassination of 3BelowZero. No one questions why Fluixon winced every time he inhaled a little too hard or why he excused himself out of the room for once in a while. He maintains the room’s attention with the same icy control as always. Only once does a cough threaten to escape, but he swallows it down. 

Fluixon is not weak.

Everything was going well.

The plan was still going steady. The population was still feverish, and paranoia stayed ingrained in their mind from the sudden death of their leaders. Streets buzzed with speculation, whispers curled in alleyways. The public’s thirst for justice remained sharp, all fingers still pointing toward Saparata. 

That was all he needed.

Seraphim was killed right after the purge at Saparata’s meeting house, but that’s no big problem. Fluixon had already inserted NewKids into the vacant seat like a puzzle piece, and the machine kept running. 

Everything was going well, even though Saparata hadn’t been caught yet.

Except—

“Hey, you wanted to buy some ‘maple syrup’, right?”

Fluixon’s line of thought was interrupted by the merchant’s voice, gravelly and playful, slicing through the haze of his mind. The man in a yellow full-body suit leaned out from the shadows of a rusting, unmarked van, holding up two sloshing glass bottles filled with a sickeningly golden liquid.

Right. 

He was standing before a shady van with a shadier business in the Cass Coalition, not in his office. The hood of his dark cloak hung low, covering most of his face.

“...Yeah. How many?” he replied, controlling the tone of his voice to sound unrecognizable from his usual one. Though the hoarseness of it wasn’t a pretense.

“One diamond for two full bottles. This thing’s a scarcity, y’know?” the merchant said with a shrug, a small “tch” from his mouth, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

Fluixon reached into his pocket and pulled out the gem, setting it onto the makeshift counter with deliberate silence. No bargain, nothing. The merchant raised a brow at that but didn’t comment. Instead, he slid the bottles into a small, padded pouch with the soft clink of glass meeting glass.

“Y’know dude,” the merchant drawled as he handed over the pouch, “I usually don’t tell this to my customers, but... for the love of God, use this shit in moderation. It’s quite the addictiv,e stuff, yeah?” 

Fluixon lowered his eyes, letting the shadows of the hood swallow half of his face. 

“... Okay.” 

Anything. Anything to eliminate this eyesore, throat-sore, god-forsaken disease.

The merchant’s laugh echoes in the walls of the RV, raw and amused. 

“Glad to do business with you. See you—”

But the merchant couldn’t even finish his words. 

A violent cough tore out of Fluixon’s throat, sudden and sharp like the stab of a sword. 

His body seized, his spine curled forward against his will. His teeth clenched so violently that a sharp pain shot through his jaw, and for a terrifying moment, he thought one might crack. 

“Piece of fucking—”

Fluixon didn’t look up, just immediately bowed his head in what seemed like farewell, grabbed the pouch with trembling fingers, and bolted, his cloak flaring behind him like tattered wings.

The merchant’s curious gaze lingered on his back, amused and thoughtful, but Fluixon didn’t see it.

He ran. 

Past the birch forest, where sunlight filtered in strips through the canopy. The scent of flowers curled around him like a noose, thick and oppressive. The buzzing of bees droned in his ears, and with every step, the clench in his chest worsened, like something inside him was blooming against his will. 

“Faster,” his mind whispered.

He pushed through a town. The cobbled streets blurred beneath his feet. People bustled past him, market goers, people laughing, a baker shouting about fresh bread. Not one of them turned to look at the pale man sprinting like he was being hunted by death itself, nor did they notice the red beginning to trickle down from the corners of his lips, staining his chin. 

“Faster. Even faster,” it screamed.

His breath was ragged now, chest heaving, throat raw. He felt it again, that itch. The wrongness seeped inside his lungs. His steps finally faltered when he stumbled into a forgotten patch of forest at the outskirts, somewhere abandoned, somewhere unseen. There, in the middle of a grove overgrown with moss and fern, a small puddle mirrored the sky. 

“Faster, faster, fasterfasterfast—”

He dropped to his knees before it, his hands clutching the damp soil as he gagged once, then twice. A wave of coughs surged through him, each one more violent than the last, searing his throat. His lungs felt as if they were clawing against his ribcage, desperate to expel something foul. He doubled over, his nails digging into the earth, choking.

Petals spilled from his mouth like paper falling in the wind. Pale violet, with faint blushes of blue at their edges.

Blood and petals splattered the puddle in front of him like a floral massacre. Soft, delicate purple now streaked with red. Fluixon’s blood webbed between them like threads, glimmering under the weak sunlight of the dense forest. He stared at the puddle, staring at his own panting and shaking reflection, the sound of his ragged breath loud in the stillness.

The water was now dyed a deep crimson and violet; the sharp scent of iron mingled with a potent floral aroma, wrapping around him, intoxicating yet suffocating, as if he were trapped inside a cage made of flowers.

And in that moment, just beneath the surface, a face emerged, blurred at first, then horrifyingly familiar. 

That wretched, stubborn figure. 

It overlapped with his own reflection, caught in the trembling ripple of water. 

White hair like fallen snow. 

A smile that burned too bright, even brighter than the sun, and twice as cruel.

Fluixon’s fist slammed into the ground with a dull, painful thud, again and again, until his knuckles throbbed, and the image blurred behind the sting of tears he refused to shed.

“Die, just die already. DIE—”

Everything is fine.

He reached out, fingers quivering, and plucked a single petal from the ground. 

With a low growl lodged deep in his chest, he crushed it. It folded easily under the pressure, warm, wet, and useless.

“Fucking parasite...” he grumbled, stood up, and ground the remaining petals beneath his heel, smearing them into the dirt. Fluixon leaves the forest without looking back. 

That night, he drank deep from the bottle of golden liquor, swallowing until the burn in his throat was gone, and the screaming in his head went silent. 

Only then did his mind finally allow him to rest. 

–__–

Two figures in a flower field.

Sunlight filled every corner, bathing the world in soft gold, warm and fuzzy like a gentle hug.

The sky was a soft baby blue, with white clouds lying lazily in the sky like fluffy, flying sheep.

The wind was gentle and full of laughter. Grass swayed as if it were dancing, and between the emerald blades unfolded an endless stretch of purple.

Lilacs.

An ocean of them stretched to the horizon, a violet field with flecks of indigo that made everything feel smaller in comparison. Their scent, sweet and slightly dusty, drifted with every breeze, tender and persistent, like a soft memory that refused to fade.

Two figures in a flower field, laughing and joking.

One bore hair as dark as the midnight sky, each strand catching the sunlight like threads woven with stardust, glimmering faintly, as if constellations had scattered themselves across him. The other stood in contrast: hair as pale as first snow, soft and luminous, like the drifting clouds that lazed across the gentle blue sky.

Their voices, albeit lost in the wind, sound unmistakably joyous. Excited.

“So Fluixon , is this your favorite flower?”

The white-haired asks curiously, fiddling with a flower petal. His voice almost sounds like a wind chime.

“... Yeah. Though it wasn’t originally grown on Island Two, so it was a rare sight for an entire sea of purple to grow like this.”

Raven hair, or Fluixon , replies, his expression reserved and cautious. But the other seems to immediately recognize his discomfort. He reached out and plucked a branch of violet. Inching closer, and...

“Here.”

Gently place it on Fluixon’s hair.

“You look nicer when you smile, you know that, Flux ?”

White-haired flashed a big grin, far brighter than the sun itself. 

Reverent.

Mesmerizing. 

It stole a breath away from Fluixon .

“You know,” he said softly, eyes on the sea of purple around them, “when the border drops… I’ll find more of them for you. Seriously.”

Fluixon’s eyes widened, shocked and unprepared. A blush bloomed across his cheeks, delicate and vivid, mirroring the lilacs swaying gently at their feet. He tried to put up a teasing smile, but his loud heartbeat proved otherwise.

“Wait, you didn’t... need to do that, you know? That’s way too corny—”

A quiet laugh.

“Hehe... I know but...”

He reached out, fingers seeking, and gently took Fluixon’s hand in his own. Warmer fingers blend with colder ones, fit together perfectly like two pieces of a puzzle, the question and the answer, melting. Blending into a tender, flushed pink.

“I just... wanted to see you smile a lot more. Like this.”

The white-haired one leaned in, gently pressing Fluixon down into the lilac bed, his body casting a gentle shadow, a shelter. He hovered above him, not with weight, but with a calming presence, one that reminded him of how the sky looked after rain. It was a silence that could be comforting when shared with someone who understood. Their breaths slowed, and their heartbeats thudded in sync, like a lullaby only they could hear. 

It felt safe, so achingly safe.

“ Fluixon .”

His voice came out like a sigh, fragile and gentle. The white-haired man gazed down with golden eyes, filled to the brim with something too vast to name. 

Adoration and affection. Yearning, or perhaps regret. 

The entire sea of lilacs seemed to vibrate with every movement, their colors more vibrant, alive.

He leaned in closer and said it again, like the name was a mantra, a prayer, the embodiment of dream itself.

“Hold me.”

Fluixon complied. His hands reached upward, trembling just slightly, moving so slowly, deliberately. Like he was savoring this very moment. A fresh air of spring’s wind.

“ Fluixon .”

“Fluixon!”

Fluixon’s body jolted at the sound.

He awoke, gasping desperately for air like a drowning man.

Sweat clung to his temples, his breathing shallow and uneven. His vision spun and blurred, shapes and colors merging into a chaotic jumble. Fluixon winced at the pounding in his head, his thoughts in disarray. 

His mind mumbles in the haze.

“Ugh... what...?”

The voice called out again.

“Fluixon. Wake up, man.”

He turned slightly.

Thomas stood near the door, arms crossed and brow furrowed. The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the dying glow of lanterns that had burned throughout the night. Fluixon sat slouched at his desk, hunched over like a wilted plant.

The moment he realized someone else was in the room, clarity flooded back into his mind in alarm, bringing along the memories of last night.

Fuck... He had drunk too much and passed out. Not good. 

At all.

Fluixon wanted to groan until he noticed something in his mouth.

The familiar taste of metal, combined with something cloying, sugary, and sickeningly floral.

Soft.

His stomach churned the moment he realized what that was, his nails digging in so hard that they might bleed just to prevent himself from vomiting. The liquid uncomfortably clung to his palate, scraping his throat like a beast wanting to escape.

Fluixon glanced up at Thomas, seeing the concern in his eyes, clearer than day. 

So he forced himself to swallow it all down, even as it clawed at his throat like sharp needles. He ignored the sensation.

Once lucidity finally, fully returned to his senses, Fluixon realized that his face was half-buried in parchment, ink faintly smeared across his cheek. It wasn’t a proper place to rest.

His coat was still draped on the back of the chair, untouched.

“You didn’t sleep,” Thomas said finally, stepping closer. 

“Here.”

He placed a cup of water on the table, his hand pushing it toward Fluixon. 

“Drink.”

“... Thanks.”

With slightly trembling fingers, he picked up the cup. The warm liquid washed away his discomfort, soothing his burning throat, even if just a little.

It felt... somewhat better.

Fluixon steadied his grip and suppressed a sigh of relief. That doesn’t pass the observational eye of Thomas. He silently watched as the glass was emptied, then glanced at Fluixon. Stared directly at him.

“You were muttering something repeatedly, you know?”

Fluixon answers automatically.

“It was nothing. I’m fine.”

He rolled his neck with a groan, joints cracking as he forced himself upright. A sharp flash of pain lanced through his head. His stomach churned, both from the liquid from the night before and the petals. He reached lazily for the empty bottle beside him, amber-stained glass, sticky at the rim.

Maple syrup.

At least, that’s what the merchant called it.

“Just fell asleep working. Not exactly a crime, is it?” he muttered hoarsely, rubbing his temple. 

“... You were saying a name,” Thomas said slowly, eyes narrowing. “Over and over.” 

His gaze flicked toward the empty bottle on the table. It sat innocently on the table, nearly empty save for the trace of something sticky and golden at the bottom. But Fluixon knew the questions weren’t over.

“Annoying,” a voice echoes loudly, the sound reverberating inside his skull, raw and insistent like nails raking on a chalkboard.

“... Is everything truly fine?”

Thomas asked, quieter this time. As if he were trying to probe a beast. 

“Annoying.”

He seems not to be letting it drop soon.

Fluixon’s hand twitched, the faintest clench curling his fingers into his palm.

“So. Fucking. Annoying—”

Calm down. 

Aggressiveness is only going to make things worse.

He exhaled softly, making it seem like he was just breathing normally. 

Breathe in and out.

He forced himself to loosen his grip.

Act normal.

His effort wasn’t for nothing.

No one could know, not a single soul.

Not even Thomas.

The silence in the air was thick for a moment before he looked up with that gentle smile, casual, yet entirely artificial. A smile built from hundreds of previous performances.

“Probably just cursing one of the Common Wealth idiots,” Fluixon said with a dry chuckle, as though it were nothing. “I talk in my sleep.” 

He picked up the empty bottle between two fingers, inspecting it lazily before setting it down again. 

“That’s just cough syrup, by the way. Don’t overthink it.”

Or, in other words:

“Drop the subject. Now.”

Thomas hesitated, eyes still locked onto the bottle, reading into everything that Fluixon tried to veil with polished indifference. When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer. 

“... You sure you’re okay?” 

Fluixon didn’t miss a beat. He flashed a grin, brighter this time, unshakable and full of confidence.

“I’m always okay.”

And technically, that wasn’t a lie. 

Everything was still under his tight control, and that’s Fluixon’s definition of “okay”. Whatever that dream was, it was just a side effect. 

The “maple syrup” had done its job: numbed the nerves, dulled the pain, and soothed the burns, hallucinations and nightmares were a small price to pay for peace. At least he could finally sleep again with its help. 

He would probably head back to that vendor’s RV before the week ended. Maybe even sooner. 

Anything to keep this disease at bay.

“Now,” Fluixon said, smirking faintly, “how about we pretend I’m not half-dead and get to work?”

Thomas sighed, but there was a hint of humor behind it.

“You’re the worst, you know that?”

“I’m not the worst, Thomas,” Fluixon replied breezily as he stepped past him. “I’m just charmingly flawed.”

That earned him a small chuckle from Thomas. The tension dissolves. He didn’t ask any more questions, just like that.

“Fuck off, dude,” he grinned. “Just choose a better place to sleep next time.”

“Heh, yeah, yeah...” Fluixon muttered, an ironic smile tugging at his lips.

Good.

Loyal, efficient, and doesn’t pry.

Exactly what he wanted in a perfect right-hand man.

–__–

Working in a shop that sells... um, how should he say it? 

"Pharmaceutical", yes, let’s just call it pharmaceuticals for legal reasons. 

Working at a shop that sells “pharmaceuticals”, Banana often has to meet strange customers.

Some are politicians, who come here just to drink and complain about um... politics (of course). Some are real addicts, broke, and have to borrow a lot of money to buy some cheap white powder to smoke. (They later found out that one of the guys who was buying so much was reselling all of those goods at exorbitant prices, son of a bitch.)

And sometimes...

“Esteemed customer! It’s you again!”

His cheerful, Customer Service™ voice rang out before the figure had even stepped completely under the tarp of the Canadian Cartel. Banana grinned from behind the rusty counter, leaning his elbows on a precarious stack of boxes labeled "Definitely Legal Tea". His wrinkled yellow hazmat suit clung to his limbs ("For aesthetics", he insisted. Technically, it still counted as a uniform.)

The man who had just arrived, hooded, dressed in black like an undercover agent, did not return the smile. Hm… Seems like the depressed and creepy type. He’s a regular here, though, and if Banana voice that thought out, and the guy didn’t buy here anymore…Micro wouldn’t let that slide.

(Aka Micro would murder him on the spot)

"... Yeah," came the low reply.

Banana beamed brighter. 

"This time for... um... what? Syrup? Nerve stuff? Wait, don’t tell me, is it the ‘maple syrup’?”

“The root tea,” the customer replied, his voice hoarse and broken.

Banana snapped his fingers. 

“Oh, of course. The classic. Just a second—HEY, NEPTUNE! SHADY CLOAK GUY IS BACK!”

From deep in the bunker came a muffled, annoyed grunt. 

“Wait for your damn turn, Banana.”

Micro’s voice chimed in next, calmer, quieter. 

“Also, stop calling people that. You’re gonna get us stabbed.” 

Banana gave a dismissive snort. 

“Pfft. He’s chill. Maybe he likes it.”

He leaned closer to Shady Cloak Guy, stage-whispering.  

“You like it, don’t you?”

Shady Cloak Guy didn’t answer. Shadows clung to his face under the hood, as if they had been deliberately drawn there. Banana couldn’t see very well, but what he did see… a man with piercing purple eyes and a face that would look perfect on a noble painting.

Elegant. That was the word.

Too elegant for this shabby market, really.

Banana had always found it strange that someone with such a majestic, almost aristocratic face would keep trudging toward this suspicious RV. This is the kind of guy who looks like he should be sipping tea in a palace instead of haggling for root tea beside a fungi-infested tarp.

Micro poked his head out of a side door, wiping grease from his hands with a rag that probably used to be white. 

“... You alright?” he asked, tone level. 

“You look, uh... kinda pale today.” 

No answer. 

Shady Cloaked Guy didn’t even turn his head. 

Only a muffled “... I’m fine,” came out of his mouth.

Something felt off. Banana could sense it now, the longer the guy lingered. Beneath the scent of smoke and herbs, there was something metallic, like dried blood in fabric.

Neptune emerged next, unwrapping a dark bottle carefully and placing it down on the counter.

“Stronger batch,” he muttered. “You said the last one didn’t work?” 

The hooded figure gave the faintest nod. 

Neptune frowned. 

“You keep changing your order. One week it’s a downer, then a stimulant, now this? You mixing them?” 

The man’s voice came low, brittle, like the sound of a broken pipe. Banana wasn’t sure if he was just faking it, or if his original voice was always that hoarse.

“Does it matter?” 

It did, probably. The guy could overdose on all those "medications," which will cause big trouble for the Canadian Cartel.

But Neptune just exchanged a knowing glance with Micro, then sighed. 

“Long as you pay. No judgment. Just don’t die on our porch. We’re not liable.” 

“Technically,” Banana added, “we are! That’s why we don’t give receipts.” 

He leaned in, as if to ease the quiet tension. 

“You’re not local, right? Where are you from?” 

“... South part.” 

“South?” Banana gasped dramatically. 

“Don’t tell me even Luminara ain’t got decent drug—I mean, ehem, ‘alternative medicine’. What do they even have over there? Shiny rocks?” 

That earned a quiet snort from Micro, while Neptune just shook his head with a long-suffering sigh like a disappointed mother. 

“Banana. Go sort the pill jars.” 

“What! I’m making conversation!” 

The cloaked man slid a pouch of diamonds across the counter with a loud clink. Banana can’t help but whistle. Damn, this guy is rich, huh?

He grabbed the bottle without another word and turned to leave. 

“See you next week?” Neptune called after him, half-teasing. 

The man paused, his steps coming to a halt. 

“Maybe sooner.” 

And then he was gone, vanishing into the alleyway as if he had never been there at all. 

The faint scent of alcohol, singed herbs, and something syrupy-sweet lingered behind like a ghost.

–__–

Note: Researching the floral disease. (update)

Ground rules:

• Must show no sign of illness, avoid, and make believable excuses
• Get rid of all evidence, don’t leave behind a single trace
• Find a cure as fast as you can, anything 
• Don’t think of Saparata, it seems to thrive on it
• Get something stronger next time, the drugs start to wear out the more you use
• More concealer
• Don’t think, don’t dream, don’t. Just try to stunt its growth as long as possible
• C̶o̶n̶s̶i̶d̶e̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ g̶e̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ a̶ s̶u̶r̶g̶e̶r̶y̶ 

Seems like the book wasn’t providing enough information.

The coughing gets a lot harsher, and there’s too much blood. I̶ d̶i̶d̶n̶’t̶ e̶x̶p̶e̶c̶t̶ it̶ t̶o̶  The intensity of chest pain and the number of petals increase. However, the “not thinking” strategy and the drugs appear to be the best solution at present. The overconsumption of drugs is alarming, but better than no sleep at all. It kept most of the sleeping time dreamless.

Although there are still rumors and discussions, all of them have been cleared.

No one could know, and it’s better to keep it that way. Despite harsh circumstances, everything is still under control.

T̶h̶a̶t̶ g̶u̶y̶ k̶e̶e̶p̶ f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ s̶h̶o̶w̶ u̶p̶, i̶t̶’s̶ n̶o̶t̶ e̶v̶e̶n̶ f̶u̶n̶n̶y̶. T̶h̶e̶r̶e̶’s̶ n̶o̶i̶s̶e̶s̶ i̶n̶ m̶y̶ h̶e̶a̶d̶ l̶o̶u̶d̶e̶r̶ t̶h̶a̶n̶ e̶v̶e̶r̶. F̶u̶̶c̶̶k̶̶i̶̶n̶̶g̶̶ k̶̶i̶̶l̶̶l̶̶ y̶̶o̶̶u̶̶r̶̶s̶̶e̶̶l̶̶f̶̶ a̶̶l̶̶r̶̶e̶̶a̶̶d̶̶y̶̶.

There’s a spike in emotional instability, possibly either a side-effect of the drugs or a symptom of the disease. Don’t make irrational decisions.

W̶h̶y̶ d̶i̶d̶ y̶o̶u̶ f̶e̶e̶l̶ l̶i̶k̶e̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶. W̶h̶y̶ d̶i̶d̶ y̶o̶u̶ d̶r̶e̶a̶m̶ l̶i̶k̶e̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶. W̶h̶a̶t̶ t̶h̶e̶ f̶u̶c̶k̶ i̶s̶ w̶r̶o̶n̶g̶ w̶i̶t̶h̶ y̶o̶u̶?̶ F̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ h̶y̶p̶o̶c̶r̶i̶t̶e̶. M̶a̶y̶b̶e̶ y̶o̶u̶ s̶h̶o̶u̶l̶d̶ j̶u̶s̶t̶ f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ k̶i̶l̶l̶ y̶o̶u̶r̶s

You will regret it.

End of note.

–__–

𝕯𝖆𝖞𝖇𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐 𝕸𝖊𝖉𝖎𝖆 – 𝕯𝖆𝖎𝖑𝖞 𝕰𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

PRESIDENT OF LUMINARA, 3BELOWZERO ASSASSINATED - Island Two in turmoil

In a devastating blow to the peaceful nation of Luminara, President 3BelowZero was assassinated early this morning.

The assailant, identified only as NewKids, escaped the scene moments before security forces could apprehend him. A national manhunt is now underway, with wanted posters circulating across all major regions of Island Two. 

While no official motive or affiliation has been confirmed, the event has sent a chilling wave of fear across the archipelago. Citizens and leaders alike are grappling with heightened paranoia, many questioning the security of their own borders. Rumors and theories abound, but for now, one fact remains: the island has lost one of its most prominent and peace-driven figures.

[Read more]

News of the assassination of Luminara’s president spread faster than the wind. Gray newspapers fluttered through the streets, passed from trembling hands to stunned ones, their headlines stark and unforgiving. 

A grainy black-and-white sketch of a young man, whose identity remained unclear, was stamped onto every front page. 

“NewKids,” the article stated, “Motive unknown. Affiliation unknown.” Daybreak Media maintained a neutral tone, but an undercurrent of dread seeped through each printed line like ink bleeding through paper. 

From the farm of the Cass Coalition to the proud towers of Tricolor, to the chaos of the Common Wealth, and even to the carefree shores of neutral Barbieland, shock rippled through Island Two like a thunderclap. People stopped in their tracks. Leaders fell into uneasy silence. 

In Luminara, confusion quickly turned to grief. 

Their beloved president, 3BelowZero, the dreamer of peace, the man who dared to envision a bridge uniting Island One and Island Two, was gone. 

Assassinated in cold blood.

The streets filled with mourning cries, with whispers of vengeance, silent questions that had no answers. 

Why would he do that?

Why did another senseless murder happen in broad daylight, yet no one can stop it?

And if even a president wasn’t safe, who was? 

Paranoia thickened in the air like fog, twisting through villages and capitals alike. Neighbors eyed each other with suspicion, and guards gripped their weapons more tightly. Trust, a rare thing after the purge of leaders, was now even more fragile.

Amid these new waves of anger and fear, the name “NewKids” became a looming shadow, originless, vanishing into the swirling dread that now blanketed Island Two.

And amid all this chaos stood one man, a familiar face: Fluixon.

Experienced and ambitious, the former vice president had once been demoted due to ideological disagreements with 3BelowZero. 

With the seat of power now cold and empty, he remained one of the few recognizable figures to the people. A man of grace, he was a charming speaker and a trustworthy individual, untouched by the storm of suspicion that surrounded others. Whispers about his declining health occasionally surfaced in back alleys and hushed taverns, but most dismissed them as slander, petty sabotage from opposing factions trying to discredit him. 

And why wouldn’t they? He still stood tall, spoke clearly, and and no one could ever truly prove what lay beneath the surface.

The public murmured; their eyes turned toward him with anticipation. They remember the calm cadence of his voice, the steady weight of his words, and the confidence with which he spoke of Luminara’s future. Some dared to believe that destiny had handed him another chance. Others, more cynical, questioned whether the nation had simply run out of better options.

But no one, not even his quietest critics, could deny one truth: in the shadow of 3BelowZero’s death, Fluixon’s presence was absolute. Like a sprout growing from a felled tree, his influence rose to fill the vacuum. And though Luminara was still bound by the rituals of the democratic process, the ballots seemed almost redundant.

It was not a question of if.

Victory, now, was only a matter of when.

–__–

Two figures are sitting on a grassy hill.

The summery sky stretched wide and endless, a canvas of azure and celeste brushed with the tender, warm touch of gold. Dandelions floated gently, chasing one after another in the golden sunlight, each seed like a delicate little fairy, dancing playfully in the soft, humid breeze of summer.

Two figures sitting on a grassy hill, white hair and raven flowing in the wind.

One was working, his mind deep in thought, oblivious to anything else outside his own little world. One looked beyond bored, rolling around in the grass, then pulling a blade of green up to toy with as a temporary entertainment.

A long, suffering sigh escaped his mouth.

Saparata stared at the figure who mumbled to himself nonstop about numbers and statistics beside him with an unimpressed gaze. 

BLA BLA BLA, politics, agriculture, or something, what a nerd. Very ambitious, very hard-working, still a nerd nonetheless.

Then, all of a sudden, a devilish idea popped up in his mind like a shiny lightbulb.

With a grin on his face, he probed the other with a light poke.

“Hey, dear.”

The words came soft and sing-song like a playful hum as he poked the other in the side with the tip of his finger. 

No response. 

The working one, or Fluixon, sat with arms folded and eyes set forward, perfectly still like a statue sculpted from ice and stubbornness.

“Baby,” he tried again, this time accompanied by a firm pinch to his cheek—just enough to get under his skin. Still, the other didn’t flinch. 

Impressive, really.

Very well, he has to turn up his game a notch then.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, breath ghosting against the shell of his ear, voice dipped low into that teasing, dangerous register. 

That one hit the mark.

Fluixon visibly twitched, shoulders stiffening. He immediately glared at him, groaning exasperatedly like an exhausted parent.

“... Please, for the love of God, stop calling me with those shitty pet names.”

Saparata grinned smugly, clearly proud of himself for breaking the other’s concentration. He teased childishly, his finger still poking Fluixon’s skin.

“Heh. Or what?”

Those words ticked something off inside Fluixon.

In a flash, he was no longer the disgruntled victim of relentless teasing. He straightened his back with dramatic poise, casting a slow, theatrical look in Saparata’s direction. Something sparkled dangerously in his eye as he reached forward and tilted Saparata’s chin upward with practiced flair.

“My beloved,” he purred, dipping his voice into a syrupy baritone. That sure caught Saparata off guard.

“Wh—”

“Beautiful sunshine."

Fluixon leaned in closer, not breaking eye contact, face painted in that over-the-top romanticism usually reserved for cheesy stage plays and trashy romance novels. 

“My darling,” he cooed, and smiled sweetly, brushing a thumb across Saparata’s jawline like he meant it.

There was a very long pause as Saparata’s jaw dropped to the floor, evidently not knowing how to react.

“... Okay. Got your point,” Saparata muttered, blinking rapidly like he’d just been hit by a wave of secondhand embarrassment. 

“I won’t joke like that anymore.”

A brief beat of silence settled between them, awkward, but not unpleasant. 

Then Saparata tilted his head like a sad puppy, blinking at Fluixon. 

“... Do those nicknames sound that annoying?”

Fluixon didn’t answer at first. He looked off to the side, mouth twitching in thought, refusing to meet his gaze.

“... Not really...” he muttered finally, quiet enough that it might’ve been mistaken for the wind. 

Saparata visibly perked up. 

“Hey. You’re blushing!”

Fluixon jerked back and squawked defensively.

“ No , the fuck I’m not.”

“Ohhh,” Saparata grinned, delighted at this revelation, “so you do like them after all, huh, darling ?”

That only made Fluixon frown even harder, his eyebrows twitching in half annoyance, half... something else.

“AGAIN, I DON’T—ANYONE WOULD BE EMBARRASSED BEING CALLED DARLING!”

The voice cracked slightly at the end, and Saparata couldn’t help but burst into laughter. 

“Oh? Where’s our good old composed vice president, hm??”

Fluixon let out a strangled sound and immediately curled into himself, dragging his knees up to his chest and burying his face there. His ears betrayed him, though, bright red and glowing like lanterns in the dim light.

“Just... shut the fuck up...”

That quiet mumble somehow made Saparata’s own grin falter. Not because it was mean, but because, suddenly, even he felt a little flustered. The teasing had looped in on itself.

Saparata awkwardly patted Fluixon’s back.

“Okay, sorry. I might’ve teased you too much.”

Fluixon let out a long, exhausted sigh, muffled behind his arms. 

“... No... It’s not a big deal—”

“Sweetheart.”

“MOTHERFU—”

Saparata only cackled maniacally like a cartoon villain. Fluixon bolted upright with a noise of sheer betrayal, throwing his hands in the air. 

Their laughter filled the air, warm and carefree like the sun above.

But the warmth lasted only until the dream dissolved, the hill, the sunlight, and the soft laughter splintered like glass beneath waking breath. 

The illusion collapsed into shadow, leaving behind nothing but a heaving, broken mess: purple petals crushed, bloodied against pale sheets, and a distraught, trembling man.

Yet... that wasn’t the only thing that stirred such disarray.

In the far corner of the room stood a fragment of the dream, someone with hair white as untouched snow, and eyes like molten gold, soft and luminous like sunlight, watching.

He was smiling.

–__–

“Dude, we gotta like... celebrate or something. Since the assassination was a success,” came the ever-eager voice of SnowBird, cutting through the silent atmosphere of the bunker like a firecracker tossed into a serious meeting. Thomas slowly processed the words, then stared at him as if he had grown a second head.

“... A beloved political figure just got murdered in cold blood,” he exhales flatly, his gaze narrowing in disbelief, “And you proposed we organize a party .”

He wonders if this is just another dumb joke by SnowBird or whether his tired ears were just playing tricks on him. But no, SnowBird was very much serious, smiling like an idiot, as if they hadn’t orchestrated the death of a sitting head of state together days before.

Gotoga, perched lazily near the edge of the worktable, furrowed his brows in rare agreement.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m with him,” he muttered, jerking a thumb toward Thomas. “Dude, what are you thinking? Even a half-functioning PR team would tear us apart if word of this ever got out. Feels like a bad look overall.”

SnowBird rolled his eyes and threw up his hands, always the unapologetic fool with just enough charisma to make you forget how dangerous he truly was.

“Fuckin hell... I’m not telling you guys to go dancing in the public square with confetti and a piñata shaped like the ex-president’s head or something,”  he said with exaggerated exasperation. 

“Just a small drinking session between us! Call that ‘alcoholics’s therapy time’ or something, no one would even bat an eye. Telling them ‘that’s the way we are coping’ or some shit.”

Despite SnowBird’s reasoning, Thomas can’t help but feel the glimmer of anxiety crushing like sharp glass inside his chest. It was that creeping dread again, the thing that slithered around like a snake every time he glanced too long at Fluixon these days and found something missing behind those polished smiles. 

His gaze flickered toward Fluixon, who had been uncharacteristically quiet through the exchange, sipping a cup of hot tea while flipping through documents. He half-expected the guy to shut the idea down the moment it was brought up, since, in his words, it was going to be “a distraction from the plan.”

Yet not a single word was uttered. 

“But...” Thomas frowned, still wary.

“No, no... he’s got a point,” Hvydrotation cut in, a smirk playing across his face as he casually crossed his legs on the worktable. 

“When’s the last time we actually hung out? We’ve been killing people and hiding bodies for weeks, it’s so tiring. A little booze wouldn’t hurt, right, Flux?”

Now that was supposed to be the moment the party ended before it was started. 

They are talking about the guy who rambled to himself about efficiency and analytics, the guy who can holed himself up in his office for days on end just to bury himself in work nonstop until someone even bothered to pull him outside. 

And decided to ask him to join a drinking party. 

Fluixon, of all people, was never the type to waste time and only socialize when needed.

But then, to Thomas’s surprise, Fluixon glanced up from the stack of papers he was half-reading and answered with ease.

“Well, some strong alcohol could be nice,” he smiles, a gentle, perfectly measured expression flashed on his face. 

“Have to get loose once in a while, yeah?”

So flawless, it was kind of eerie, in Thomas’s humble opinion.

SnowBird’s face visibly lights up at that, as if he just won a bet. He flashed a proud, haughty grin at Thomas.

“See that, Thomas? Even Mister Boss agrees with me!”

It was... off how fast Fluixon answered that question. He usually isn’t this laid-back with his decision, so this all felt like he had already... expected it? Already calculated what would happen and prepared a suitable answer beforehand? 

Thomas tried to brush all those thoughts off since they made him sound like a madman, yet before he could even delve further into his suspicions, Fluixon waved his hand and chuckled like an indulgent teacher tolerating his overly excited student.

“Yeah, yeah... also stop calling me ‘boss’, that’s corny.”

Gotoga laughed and raised his eyebrow, fingers picking up a note on the table. 

“Oh yeah? How about a ‘sir’ then? You want us to like... salute whenever you walk into the room? Narcissistic much?”

“Heh,” SnowBird snickered, “this is the type of guy who would get a hard-on for a nickna—OW!”

A clean jab landed square in SnowBird’s side courtesy of Fluixon, and SnowBird doubled over in exaggerated pain, groaning dramatically. 

Thomas snorted before he could stop himself. 

“Deserved.”

Huh. That felt weirdly relieving to see, somehow.

Maybe he was just overthinking—

Then, right on cue, a small, soft-spoken voice piped up from behind him.

“Deserved.”

Thomas jumped so hard he nearly fell out of his chair, and it scraped against the wooden floor with a loud screech. He whipped around to find NewKids standing right behind his back, practically breathing on his neck.

Well... He’s a good assassin for a reason...

“Where the fuck did you come from???”

NewKids tilted his head innocently as if he hadn’t scared Thomas to a near heart attack seconds before.

“Uh... From behind your back? I was here the whole time.”

SnowBird, now recovered from the hard jab, grinned like the mischief that he is.

“Coming from behind Thomas’s back? Isn’t that kind of gay—OW, FUCK !”

This time, Thomas and NewKids delivered a perfectly timed double jab, a strike to the ribs, and the other just below the shoulder. 

SnowBird yelped, dramatically flailing as if he had been mortally wounded. This only earned him an amused, almost smug chuckle from Fluixon, who leaned back in his seat.

"Again, deserved," Fluixon murmured, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“HEY!” SnowBird barked, still clutching his stomach as though it might fall on the floor if he moved too quickly. 

“Okay, okay! I surrender, damn. You’re all animals.”

Laughter erupted around the room, light and loud.

“Anyway,” SnowBird continued through his grumbling, already bouncing back, “back to the drinking party. It’s happening. We earned it.”

As the conversation resumed around him, the overlapping voices of his companions blurred into a comfortable, chaotic background hum. Thomas found himself retreating once again into the quiet recesses of his mind.

Everything seemed normal on the surface. Fluixon was here, present, smiling, even joking along with the rest of them. There was laughter, teasing, and an undeniable rhythm to the group that hadn’t faltered, even in the shadow of their actions. Yet, Thomas couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all a facade, a carefully crafted performance meticulously designed to conceal problems far deeper than what the surface revealed.

Something was wrong.

He didn’t know exactly when it had started, but it had been building over time.

Perhaps it was in the way Fluixon moved as if he were holding himself together with sheer force of will. Or maybe it was in the way his eyes, once sharp and calculating, sometimes appeared glazed over, zoning out, focusing on corners of the room where no one stood, as if he were seeing something, or... someone that wasn’t there.

The coughing had grown more frequent, too, always passed off with a casual shrug or a wry joke. “Seasonal thing,” he had said, with an ease that made even Thomas second-guess himself. The others had bought it, of course. 

It was Fluixon, the man who always had a plan, the man who never slipped. 

There’s never a problem when it comes to him.

But Thomas had known him long enough to notice the subtle signs, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was watching, the discoloration beneath the carefully applied concealer, and, most notably, the increasing hoarseness in his voice. 

No, something wasn’t right.

That’s how hours later, Thomas found himself seated beside Fluixon on a worn leather couch in a dimly lit corner of their hideout. The sharp scent of alcohol lingered in the air, glasses clinked, and voices grew rowdier in the background as their so-called "therapy session" began.

Even with Fluixon conveniently sitting next to him, Thomas found himself at a loss for words. His fingers drummed lightly against the delicate stem of the champagne-filled glass, as if the slow swirl of golden bubbles could somehow quiet the rising concern coiling in his chest. The questions were all there, crowding his throat, all just on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out at any moment. 

But Thomas knew from experience that timing was everything. If he pushed too soon, if he asked too directly, the other man would retreat into layers of misdirection thicker than fog, just as he had that one night, when Fluixon had fallen asleep at his desk, slumped over paper and ink with a bottle at his side and something like violet paper curling beside his hand.

Thomas couldn’t shake off Fluixon’s gaze in that moment. It was sharp and almost inhumane, a look that seemed to lower the temperature in the room and freeze him in place. That single glance that had said, without needing to be spoken: “Do not dig deeper than you are allowed to.”

So he waited patiently for a chance to strike, like a birdwatcher. 

A single wrong move and that bird could vanish with no chance of return.

Thomas observed, letting his eyes wander around the room as a distraction. The atmosphere was almost celebratory in a quiet, closed-circle kind of way. 

Gotoga and Hvydrotation exchanged a quick fist-bump, laughing over some private joke. SnowBird, in his usual role as uninvited hype man, had cornered NewKids, who looked oddly shy for once, and poured him a generous cup of alcohol while rubbing his back like a proud older brother about to send the kid off to war. 

"Drink up," SnowBird had said, voice louder than necessary. "That’s a job well done, rookie." 

NewKids muttered something in return, cheeks faintly pink. Thomas caught a glimpse of SnowBird’s hand lingering a bit too long on his back, going lower, and he blinked, unsure if he was witnessing encouragement or flirtation. 

Or both. 

Yeah... probably both.

It was all... normal.

Until he averted his gaze back to Fluixon.

His glass was empty, but the man didn’t even bother to refill it. He was staring off again, his gaze unfocused, fixed on an empty corner of the room as if he were tracking the silhouette of something beyond human perception. His eye twitched, and the corner of his mouth shifted slightly. His limbs seem restless, unnerving even. 

There was something unsettling about the expression on his face, a hint of rare instability. Thomas had seen Fluixon angry before—furious, even. 

But this wasn’t exactly rage. There was tension, true, but the emotion in his eyes was something different altogether. 

No, it felt more like... fear?

That’s got to be an error on Thomas’s part. 

Fluixon didn’t fear anything. He hadn’t seen that emotion in the other’s gaze for so long that he wasn’t sure if true "fear" even existed in his heart. 

And yet... here it was. A flicker of emotion appeared, too quick to be certain, but unmistakably human. Thomas blinked, and just like that, it vanished, like a phantom that had never been there in the first place.

He frowned.

It was only just his imagination.

Right?

His thoughts were cut off by Hvydrotation’s familiar, slightly slurred voice calling out from across the room.

“Hey, Thomas, we’re getting some more booze from the liquor room, you need anything?”

Thomas blinked and looked up, seeing him wrap an arm around Gotoga’s shoulder in an awfully clingy way. He immediately straightened at the sound, glancing at the half-finished champagne in his hand.

“Uh... Maybe something stronger would be nice?”

Hvydrotation grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Cool, be right back.”

Gotoga laughed, already flushed from whatever combination of drinks he’d had, and mumbled something inaudible. The way the two of them leaned into each other, staggering, grinning, entirely too comfortable...

Yep. They wouldn’t be returning anytime soon, he’s willing to bet on that. 

And now that Thomas looked around again...

“Where’s NewKids? And SnowBird?” he asked, more to himself than anyone. 

“Eh... talking about booze or something,” Gotoga called back over his shoulder, “Or making out. Possibly.” 

Thomas made a face at that. 

“... Okay. Good luck on your journey. Come back in one piece.”

So off they went, laughing and stumbling toward the liquor room. It left only two of them behind, in the flickering light of the bunker, just Thomas and Fluixon.

It was finally the perfect time.

The moment had waited too long in Thomas’s chest, festering, growing thorns the longer he let it sit. And now, even with his heart climbing higher into his throat and dread spiraling, twisting his stomach, he turned toward the man beside him, clutching his glass not as a drink but as a grounding weight in his palm, an anchor for his rapidly shifting thoughts.

Calm down, he told himself, start simple. 

“You’re drinking more than usual,” Thomas said, keeping his tone light, almost teasing. 

“What? Trying to stay drunk so you don’t have to babysit the rest of us?”

Fluixon looked like he’d just been pulled from somewhere far away, as if Thomas’s voice had yanked him out of a fog. His gaze refocused slowly, like a camera trying to re-capture reality, and eventually he offered a faint smile.

“Just want to get loose once in a while, yeah?” he answered, chuckling under his breath, but the sound bore no real humor inside it, a hollow, mechanical thing that only served as a performance.

Thomas hesitated, then leaned in slightly, setting his glass down with a muted clink against the table between them.

“... Hey, Flux.”

“Mhm?”

“You know that... you still have me, right?”

There was a pause, a stillness in the air, as if time itself had been frozen.

Fluixon blinked once, very slowly, as if his brain had taken a full second to register the weight behind the words. His posture didn’t change, but Thomas could tell something in him had stiffened.

“... What do you mean by that?”

Thomas didn’t back down.

“You haven’t been looking too well lately.”

“I thought I already told you about the seasonal thing—”

“You did,” Thomas cut in, not harshly, but firmly. “But come on. How long do you think we’ve known each other?”

That brought another pause, longer than the last. Fluixon didn’t reply, but he didn’t deflect either. 

“Longer than you might think,” Thomas added softly. “So if there’s something wrong... anything at all... just know that I’m here. You can talk to me.”

Because this wasn’t just about schemes and conspiracies, it wasn’t just about strategy or survival or carefully stacked victories. They weren’t just coworkers; before all this, they were friends. Friends who could be as stupid, as stubborn as they want, yet at the end of the day, they can just laugh it off, as friends do, and that has to count for something.

He searched the other’s eyes, hoping he wasn’t imagining the way they wavered slightly. There was something there, shimmering in the dark like a sliver of stardust caught between his lashes, a break in the mask, a fragile tremor beneath the surface.

And then, a miracle happened.

Fluixon hesitated. 

His lips parted as if he were weighing each word in the back of his throat before letting it linger in the air between them. His eyes softened, and his expression flickered with something that could have been sorrow, guilt, or a thousand emotions all folded into one delicate breath.

“... Thomas, I—”

The door slammed open.

Hvydrotation’s voice bellowed into the room before Thomas could even process what happened.

“We’re back! Gotoga got the booze!”

And just like that, the moment died.

Thomas instinctively turned, cursing the timing in his head. He only looked away for a second, but by the time he spun back, it was already too late. Fluixon had vanished from the chair.

He was across the room now, back with the others, shoulder-to-shoulder with SnowBird and NewKids, bantering as if nothing had happened, tossing a sarcastic jab at Gotoga about how long they’d taken and joking about the suspiciously long trip to the liquor room. Something about “getting each other off—or getting each other something, sorry, misspoke,” and the room roared with laughter.

When he finally made his way back toward Thomas, his voice was light again. His expression was polished and effortlessly unbothered.

“It was nothing. Sorry if I made you worry, Thomas. I know you were just looking out for me.”

Thomas stared at him for a long moment. The mask was firmly back in place, its crack sealed. The stardust in his gaze had crumbled back into obsidian silence.

Whatever that moment had been, whatever truth had almost been shared, it was gone now.

So Thomas said nothing.

“... Just... please take care of yourself,” he murmured, more to the Fluixon he’d almost reached than the one standing before him now.

Fluixon smiled, gentle and composed.

“I know.”

He raised his cup.

“For a brighter future of Island Two.”

“... Cheers.”

They toasted. The clink of glasses sounded like a period, a full stop to a story, never to be brought up again.

It sounded like a goodbye.

And that was that.

–__–

Voices talking, voices murmuring.

Two of them are louder than the others.

One spoke with a voice like calm water, gentle and soft.

“Hey.”

Silence.

“I love you.”

A laugh, quiet yet bitter, rang through the air, the sound like broken glass under feet.

“... That’s a lie,” came the icy reply, laced with venom. “There’s a reason why I got this disease.”

Still, the first voice didn’t flinch. The warmth in his words remains, an unwavering candlelight even with the coldness of the other’s words.

“The point of a lie is to appease.”

A teasing laughter, ringing like chimes.

“Aren’t you too familiar with it? Lying?”

This time, there’s no reply from the second voice. The silence between them stretches almost endlessly, until...

A small smile, patient but sad. The voice came again, free of malice, only the truth.

“There’s a reason why I didn’t love you back.”

–__–

“Visitors, welcome to Island One!”

“Fresh bread here! Buy fresh bread made from the beautiful grains of the Valley of Wheat!”

The border had finally fallen. 

Now, people from Island One and Island Two could move freely between the two lands. 

The stark contrast in culture and landscape became a source of endless wonder. 

Islanders from the barren, unforgiving lands of Island One stood in awe, eyes wide as they took in trees, forests, and flowers stretching beyond the horizon. Some kneeling to touch the cool, gentle seawater, tears gathering as if meeting an old friend they thought they’d never see. 

Meanwhile, the people of Island Two were just as stunned. Mouths agape, they beheld towering stone fortresses and intricate castles rising out of desolation. And at the heart of it all: the volcano, spewing light and shadow into the sky, dangerous, but breathtaking in its raw magnificence. 

The first time Fluixon stepped onto this new land, he too found himself stunned into silence. 

What is the island that is not given by nature has been compensated by the creativity and the will of people.

The Blue Cross headquarters stood in the middle of a vast golden field, where wheat swayed beneath the warm sun, the pride of the local agriculture. A cobblestone path carved its way through the waving grain, leading visitors toward the central meeting room. Fluixon walked in silence, eyes briefly flitting across the farmers still tending their crops, the residents going about their day, and the curious newcomers from Island Two who moved with the wide-eyed wonder of children. 

But he hadn’t come here to admire scenery.

The Blue Cross organization had issued a formal invitation to an international summit, calling for dialogue on world affairs. Fluixon, who found the entire notion of multilateral diplomacy nauseating, accepted the invitation regardless. Declining would only draw unnecessary attention.

He boarded the ferry to Island One, accompanied by his ever-watchful guards and his co-conspirators, Gotoga and Hvyrotation.

Both wore polite, practiced smiles as instructed, but he knew they were just as tired of this as he was. Still, as representatives of Luminara, they couldn’t afford to let their nation suffer the embarrassment of appearing petty over something as trivial as bureaucratic tedium.

“Minor annoyance, hmm?”  

Speaking of problems... 

“Lying even to yourself. What a master of the craft, huh?” 

There are voices in his head now, loud and active like crows circling rot. 

He had naively believed the illness was the worst of it, that the blood and petals were the peaks of this nightmare. 

But somehow, for some fucking reason, it always managed to get worse. 

The petals were almost unrecognizable now. 

Where once they were a soft, violet bloom, they now bled crimson, sticky and heavy in his palm. His stomach churned violently at the sight. It was becoming harder to hide these episodes, especially with people surrounding him at all times, guards, delegates, Gotoga, and Hvyrotation.

Always present, always watching. 

Eyes sharper than knives turned into mouths, hungry, gaping things that fed on his misery like plants on fertilizer, spewing lies with every breath. Sentences that never failed to rip petals from his throat, always with cruel delight.

The voices grew louder during those quiet, desperate moments when he locked himself in a bathroom, trembling over the sink. There, beneath the harsh lights, he would meet the gaze of a man he no longer recognized. 

Concealer faded away, leaving behind dry patches that clung to the pores.

Eyes bruised with exhaustion. 

Blood smeared across the white collar like wilting rosebuds.

“Pathetic,” they mocked, voices snarling, laughing like wild beasts behind his skull.

“Pathetic,” he echoed back plainly, watching the petals swirl in the basin, bright red against porcelain, before vanishing down the drain as quickly as they came.

Cold sweat clung to him more often than not now, and fear had become a regular visitor. 

The dream hadn’t returned in full lately, but that didn’t matter. 

He still caught glimpses of it, manifesting into reality. 

In glass reflections, on the water’s surface, in darkened corners, a pale-haired figure lingered behind his back, watching him with striking golden eyes. 

Smiling. 

He always looked away.

–__–

The meeting was, for lack of a better word, uninspiring, and unbearably so.

The grand room was filled with more than twenty representatives from across the two islands, sitting in circles beneath draped banners. With smiles as polished as their uniforms, they discussed world peace, the possibility of a global union, and new trading routes. 

However, the most heated topic was the assassination of Linguini and the involvement of Covenant and Infernus. 

People argued for hours, and discussions escalated to the point where guards had to intervene and apprehend an extreme delegate who was shouting curses and demanding “justice.”

Not that the topic was that important to the conspirators.

Fluixon only gave some basic, perfectly democratic-style suggestions, like “Let’s give Infernus a chance at a fair trial” , then basically everyone was on board with it.

Too predictable.

A decision was made, and a trial will be organized right on the next day.

So mind-numbingly boring, Fluixon couldn’t care less.

But then, another problem was brought to the table.

“Covenant was propagating anti-Island Two propaganda, which is ridiculous.”

He froze.

... Wait, what?

But before his mind could even catch up to the words, the representative of Westhelm sighs tiredly and nods in agreement.

“Yeah... we didn’t agree with that. Island One never intended to cause drama with Island Two.”

He leaned on the table and pulled out some documents as proof, but all the words began to jumble into a mess in Fluixon’s vision. Static started gathering in the corners of his eyes as he scanned the papers from top to bottom.

“It was really just the Covenant.”

A simple sentence, said with such nonchalance like a well-known fact, felt like lead inside his stomach. 

No.

No, it... it’s...

“But...” he found himself saying slowly, trying so hard to control his expression.

“There’s news of the Covenant’s possible invasion of Island Two. They were going to invade us.”

Right?

“Honestly?” Westhelm’s representative frowned, waving his hand dismissively, “Probably not. I think they were just trying to scare you guys.”

The silence that followed felt unreal. Fluixon couldn’t even hear the next person speaking, or perhaps they weren’t speaking at all.

His entire body felt like a sinking ship, slowly descending into the cold, freezing water below. Sparks flew inside his eyes, so bright that they rendered all his other senses hazy and useless.

Flowers twist around his lungs, roots dug deep into each alveoli, sucking the oxygen out of them. Crazed laughter banging inside the wall of his skull, snickers and sneers filled nook and cranny in his mind louder than war drums.

Fluixon desperately tried to explain, to reason with his stubborn mind.

But they were going to invade us.

“But you were wrong. They said it. No intention to invade Island Two. Or perhaps you were deaf, after all?”

“A poor, crazed little fool? Oh, how sad...”

He tried to...

But I saw the propaganda, everything! They were jealous of Island Two’s riches!

“Heh, you only saw what you wanted to see, blinded by your own prejudice. Narcissistic much?”

“You can’t even see beyond your ambition and pride... How pathetic...”

He tried...

But... But I have to act, or no one else will. I have to protect the island, I HAVE TO PROTECT ITS PEOPLE, I—

“But there’s no war to defend against, Fluixon. 

“He was right...”

He...

The voices chuckled darkly, amused and entertained.

“Oh... Flux, sweetheart, my darling.”

“You were wrong.”

A crack echoed. The sound of something breaking ignited inside his mind, harmonizing with the thousands of mockeries and faux pity surrounding him.

“Every murder and every death and every assassination and a single betrayal, all for nothing.”

“What did you think? That they’d applaud you? That the world would nod and say, ‘Yes, Fluixon, you were right to drown the world in blood?’”

“All those nights alone in front of the mirror, choking on petals and blood, and for what? A lie?”

“What would Saparata think of you now?”

Huh.

What would he think of Fluixon now?

The presence of the shadow behind him was so stifling that it felt like drowning without water. Amber coloured eyes drilling holes into his back, an unspoken answer that needed no words, its edge pressed deep into his neck like a knife.

The plant within him did as it pleased, petals curling, gurgling inside his throat, threatening to pour out. But before an audible choke could even come out of his mouth, Fluixon bit down on his tongue, hard.

The taste of blood flooded his mouth, sharp and metallic. Pain bloomed violently, enough to silence the plant, for now.

Fluixon’s thoughts spiraled out of control in silence until the end of the meeting.

–__–

Two figures are standing on a beach.

The sun dipped low, painting the sky in hues of gold, rose, and soft lavender. Waves kissed the shore in a slow rhythm, each retreat leaving trails of foam that glowed in the fading light. The sand was warm beneath bare feet, cooling as the shadow of twilight crept closer.

Two figures standing on a beach, eyes locked like two lovers—

“You can cut the fucking bullshit now.”

The dreamlike facade cracked, falling apart like a fragile sandcastle, swept away by the sea.

But there are still two people standing on a beach, spaced apart just far enough to hear, close enough to recognize.

One always stood there, always present, despite not being a ghost. And one, having narrowly escaped the hands of Tricolour’s guards, now faced the last person he wanted to see.

“Lying is a bad habit, Fluixon. It’s supposed to be the opposite way,” a voice snickered. He ignores it, even if it wasn’t wrong.

No warmth lingered in either gaze, only thinly veiled loathing and tired tolerance.

Because sadly, this wasn’t a dream.

“What? You didn’t like my narration?”

A familiar voice squawked in protest, pouting childishly. Fluixon stared at the thing pretending to be him. Still white hair like snow, eyes sparkle like amber in the dying sunlight. Yet his gut screamed at him, “This isn’t a real human being.”

A hallucination.

Its tone, so nonchalantly teasing and casual, infuriates him. Yet... It has been so long since he heard his voice.

God, how he missed it.

Fluixon had missed it so—

“But it wasn’t the real thing.” 

Alas, it never was.

“Don’t you dare dodge my question,” he muttered, clenching his jaw. “Why are you here?”

A small grin flashed on the thing, or Saparata’s face, beaming, like nothing was wrong.

“I’m always here. You just didn’t acknowledge my existence.”

A bitter laugh broke from Fluixon’s lips, dry and broken. His grin mirrored the figure’s, twisted with venom.

“What? So you come here to, heh, to mock me?” he sneered, “To say that I was wrong? That this is what I fucking deserve? You want to get revenge for what I have done to you?”

Saparata didn’t waver. He shook his head, his tone leveled and calm.

“I would never do that, and you know it well, Flux.”

Because, of course, he would never do that. His foolish, way too trusting self would never. His kindness and his tolerance would never allow him to. The only person who, after everything, might have loved hi—

Fluixon shut that thought down before it could go anywhere.

Even his delirious mind knew that wasn’t going to happen. 

“... Don’t call me that.”

Saparata laughed, his tone light and teasing.

“Say the one who wanted to be called ‘darling’ in his dream.”

“...”

He scowled and looked away.

“... I don’t need anyone’s comfort.”

“I don’t intend to. Are we even that close to doing so?”

“... No.”

The figure clicked his tongue, seemingly quite surprised by his sudden honesty.

“Oh, you’re actually being mildly truthful for once. That’s cool.”

“Did the drugs mess with your brain enough for you to confront me directly?” he hummed, “Well... It doesn’t really count as direct since I’m not real... But...”

“You…”

Fluixon cut Saparata’s wandering thought off with a weak mumble, a contrast to the confidence that he wore so effortlessly in the eyes of others.

“... Just... Why?”

The figure tilted his head.

“What do you mean by ‘why’? I could have asked the same. Or rather... he could have asked the same.”

Fluixon bit on his parched lips, grazing his teeth over the cracked texture, and asked, each word a struggle to breathe.

“Why don’t you just… distorted into a jumbled mess already?”

Saparata didn’t answer. The silence only serves as an igniter to his already flammable emotions. He inhaled slowly, grimaced as the plant strangled his bronchi, but didn’t stop.

“Why. Don’t you just fucking… Do what a nightmare is supposed to do? Why don’t you just… JUST…”

His words broke into a shout.

“KILL ME ALREADY?!”

The scream immediately throws him into a coughing fit, his body seized brutally, dragging along an excruciating pain. His knees buckled, slamming into the sand. The grains scraped raw beneath him, clinging to his skin.

Fluixon barely had time to look at Saparata before another round of hacking overtook him. Blood splattered on the ground, alongside the soft, familiar texture inside his mouth.

Only, it wasn’t just petals. 

It was a fully grown flower. 

Fluixon shivered, staring at the vibrant bloom with wide eyes.

But the plant had no intention to stop.

More blood and even more petals came out, and for a while, there were only choking noises and coughing from his throat.

Saparata looked away, giving him space. Always so unbearably polite, it’s sickening. He waited until the wheezing and ragged breath quieted down; only then did his voice return.

“I’m just a fragment of your mind, nothing but a reflection. Your thoughts about him, his voice, his face, your memories, all stitched together into this silhouette. Me.”

“... Then tell me,” he croaked out, his throat all ruined, “Why, then?”

He knew he would regret asking it. And he saw that Saparata knew it too.

The melancholy in his eyes is enough evidence.

Yet Fluixon did it anyway.

And he answered.

The moment the figure opened his mouth, he could feel the dread creeping up on him now, crawling under his skin.

“Because deep in your heart, you could never have imagined it. Him killing people. Killing you.” 

Fluixon’s vision swam with dizzy light, the world tilting like a dream unraveling, colors blooming and spinning in his eyes.

“Because he was the kindest person you know.”

He wanted to cover his ear, but his arms felt like noodles. Useless.

“Because you love him.”

The words pierced through his ears, ringing louder than bells, heavier than a guilty verdict. His stomach felt as if a thousand butterflies were trapped inside, attracted by the flowers in his lungs. Fluixon might just die here in a colorful explosion, and somehow, that wouldn’t surprise him.

Yet he didn’t.

“... I don’t need to know that twice.”

“Mhm.”

Saparata nodded.

“You love him enough to make you sick. That’s an achievement. A very sad one, though.”

“...”

Fluixon watched the tides rise and fall, staring at his own fractured reflection. The water was cold, but that wasn’t what made him shake.

“... I’m only saying this because you’re a fucking hallucination.”

He exhaled and bit his lips, eyes dwelling on Saparata’s. His trembling hand reached out, his fingers shaking, in a wavering moment of weakness. 

A whisper so pathetic and desperate.

“... You can stay only this one time.”

Pleading.

“Please.”

But the figure only shook his head with a soft, sad smile.

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

Fluixon pulled his hand back like it’d been scorched. His eyes wavered, wide and uncertain, akin to a child’s just realizing they’d been left behind in the dark. It was filled to the brim with dread and longing. And beneath them, there was loneliness.

“You can’t expect a fantasy to care back.”

He dug his nails into his sleeve, fingers trembling, too weak to stand.

"... I know.”

"Because the one in real life, the one despite being alive, still being mourned by you, he won’t either.”

“...”

A small stream of blood is trickling down his mouth, the sticky substance drying in the sunset, but he found himself couldn’t care less. The silence between them stretches almost endlessly.

“... I know.”

Saparata’s smile only grew brighter, so bright it stung his eyes, like staring straight into the sun, a falling star. As if he were the embodiment of dream itself.

“Stay safe, Fluixon,” he gently whispered.

“May Ish be on your side.”

Like that, the figure disappears, leaving behind only the rhythmic breathing of the shore and a sweet, floral scent. The water had washed away all of the crimson color, the petals, and the single purple flower from the sand, leaving behind his trembling, bloodied hands in the freezing water. Fluixon’s lips still moved, shaping words that never found a voice.

“I’d rather have you,” but that part stayed buried in silence.

–__–

The sharp metallic clank of the lever echoed louder than any battle cry. In a split second, the tunnel floor vanished. 

The screams came next, the shrill, horrible sound reverberated inside the narrow mine. Six soldiers, mid-step, fell through the earth. Their bodies hit the spikes below with a wet crunch, splattering stone with blood and bone. 

A mix of Cass Coalition banners and Aperion gear disappeared in the abyss. The air shuddered with the sound as chaos erupted behind him. 

“TRAP! IT’S A TRAP!” 

“WHERE IS FLUIXON?!” 

The momentary confusion was all Fluixon needed. He bolted, his boots slamming against the stone as his breath caught sharply in his throat. His legs screamed at him, while his mind roared even louder. 

Fluixon clenched his teeth.

He ran away because it’s the best thing he can do.

“You ran away because you were a fucking coward.”

“Hehe… Why don’t you stop running and let them kill you? Wouldn’t that be justice?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he gritted under his breath, shaking his head as if it could dispel the noise away.

It doesn’t work.

When does it ever work, anyway?

The tunnel curved, and light pierced through the cracks of old mine supports ahead. Thomas was there, arms tense, eyes flicking behind Fluixon. 

“They’re still disoriented,” he said, voice low. “I blocked the entrance. At least buy us a few seconds.”

A few seconds were enough.

“Thanks,” Fluixon rasped as he navigated his way through the mining equipment. 

Thomas narrowed his eyes. 

“Who are you talking to back there?” 

Fluixon didn’t answer immediately. He could still hear the crowd approaching, pickaxes in hand and vengeance on their minds.

"...No one," he finally said. "Just myself."

“Liar.”

“You are better off dead, and you know it. We all knew it.”

… Yeah.

It was just him and himself alone.

They dug and dug until at last the dirt gave way to open air. The orange sky spilled in through the breach. Without a word, they bolted, sprinting toward the shore.

Fluixon and Thomas sailed away from Luminara, their figures shrinking against the coastline. The sun was sinking, a burning sphere slipping into the sea’s embrace. Fluixon watched it descend in silence, the fiery light dancing on the waves as they journeyed toward Island One.

–__–

To Fluixon of Luminara,

From the Ashen Bastion of Infernus

By the will of King Harvest and Queen Cynikka

Dreaded Volcano, Island One

Sealed the Tenth Day of the Ember Month

ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ

To the Honoured Fluixon,

We, King Harvest and Queen Cynikka, sovereigns of the Kingdom of Infernus, write to you beneath the watchful gaze of Dante and the ever-burning skies of our homeland.

News of your exile and the circumstances that preceded it have reached our court through embers carried on the wind, and though we are no strangers to treachery and deception, the truths unearthed resonate with us. There is no need for false kindness in these times; what we offer is not sanctuary out of pity, but strategy.

The kingdom of Infernus extends to you and your loyal men protection within the walls of the Ashen Bastion. In exchange, you will lend us your expertise. We request that you oversee the construction and fortification of defensive mechanisms and traps both within and around the Bastion. The war that churns beneath the surface of our world cannot be ignored, and if Dante is to stand unshaken, we will require minds as sharp as yours to prepare her for the siege to come.

You will also share with the Crown what remains of your resources and wealth retrieved from Island Two. Let it not be forgotten that your enemies may one day be ours, and allies are forged best not through sentiment, but through shared flame and blood.

We await your reply with interest. Should you accept, our gates will open.

May the fire guide you.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

On behalf of Infernus

𝒬𝓊𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝒞𝓎𝓃𝒾𝓀𝓀𝒶

–__–

𝕯𝖆𝖞𝖇𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖐 𝕸𝖊𝖉𝖎𝖆 – 𝕯𝖆𝖎𝖑𝖞 𝕰𝖉𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓

WAR IS HERE - Everything you NEED to know

War has been declared.

Armies from various nations gather at Westhelm to prepare a siege on the Ashen Bastion, the Capital of Infernus. 

Westhelm and their allied nations declare Infernus guilty of harboring a fugitive (Fluxion) and forcing the death of the Lingulini Mafia. At the same time, Infernus claims Westhelm traitors and enemies of peace. Infernus prepares itself for the oncoming legions, gathering their supporters and mounting a defense. 

Why is this war coming to pass? What were the inciting incidents, and who is with whom? We intend to inform you to the best of our ability.

[Read more]

–__–

Note: R̶e̶s̶e̶a̶r̶c̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶l̶o̶r̶a̶l̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶e̶a̶s̶e̶.̶ ̶(̶u̶p̶d̶a̶t̶e̶)̶ 26435

Ground rules:

• M̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶s̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶s̶i̶g̶n̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶i̶l̶l̶n̶e̶s̶s̶,̶ ̶a̶v̶o̶i̶d̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶m̶a̶k̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶l̶i̶e̶v̶a̶b̶l̶e̶ ̶e̶x̶c̶u̶s̶e̶s̶
• ̶G̶e̶t̶ ̶r̶i̶d̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶a̶l̶l̶ ̶e̶v̶i̶d̶e̶n̶c̶e̶,̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶l̶e̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶b̶e̶h̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶ ̶s̶i̶n̶g̶l̶e̶ ̶t̶r̶a̶c̶e̶
• ̶F̶i̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶ ̶c̶u̶r̶e̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶f̶a̶s̶t̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶y̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶
• ̶D̶o̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶█̶█̶█̶█̶,̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶m̶s̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶r̶i̶v̶e̶ ̶o̶n̶ ̶i̶t̶
• ̶G̶e̶t̶ ̶s̶o̶m̶e̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶s̶t̶r̶o̶n̶g̶e̶r̶ ̶n̶e̶x̶t̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶,̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶r̶u̶g̶s̶ ̶s̶t̶a̶r̶t̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶w̶e̶a̶r̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶m̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶u̶s̶e̶
• ̶M̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶c̶e̶a̶l̶e̶r̶
• ̶D̶o̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶n̶k̶,̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶’̶t̶ ̶d̶r̶e̶a̶m̶,̶ ̶d̶o̶n̶’̶t̶.̶ ̶J̶u̶s̶t̶ ̶t̶r̶y̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶s̶t̶u̶n̶t̶ ̶i̶t̶s̶ ̶g̶r̶o̶w̶t̶h̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶l̶o̶n̶g̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶p̶o̶s̶s̶i̶b̶l̶e̶
• C̶o̶n̶s̶i̶d̶e̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ g̶e̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ a̶ s̶u̶r̶g̶e̶r̶y̶ 
• Brace yourself 

Have you ever thought about how you want your life to end?

I, for once, never thought it would end this way.

To make one person the center of your world is bound to end in disaster. There are too many factors outside your control. Well, including this disease.

What a foolish way to perish, indeed.

Seems like I was wrong, after all. 

Alas, regret is useless now. We have gone too far to draw back.

I never knew the name of the flower I was coughing up. Never bothered to, to be exact.

They call this shade of bloom “hyacinth”. Its name is derived from a tragedy, where the mighty god of healing could not save the one he loved.

Funny, how a prideful mortal like me tried to do the thing even a God couldn’t.

So… Since the type of flower varies from person to person, what does it say about me, then?

There’s this excerpt from a botanical encyclopedia:

“Its regal shade and delicate blossoms are symbols of profound and heartfelt love. Tracing back to the older era, the purple hyacinth was often given as a plea for forgiveness. As such, these blooms serve as poignant tokens of remorse, sorrow, and an earnest yearning for reconciliation. “

…

What a stupid, stupid thing to do, wishing upon a star that had already fallen and hoping it would grant what you desire. You shot it. What more do you want?

“A plea for forgiveness,” “an earnest yearning for reconciliation”?

“Profound, heartfelt love”?

… 

I… Just, riddle me this. 

If what I call “love” is nothing more than a parasite lodged deep in my chest and twisting my lungs, born from the foolishness of a former self, then tell me, is this agony still something heartfelt?

If my bloodied hands have long since destroyed any chance of healing, crushed the cure before it ever had a name, is my love a true thing? Or am I just grieving something that I never had the chance to own l̶i̶k̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶g̶r̶e̶e̶d̶y̶ ̶s̶o̶n̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶a̶ ̶b̶i̶t̶c̶h̶ ̶I̶ ̶a̶m̶?

Heh… Look at me, being all poetic, even if he was the one who hummed shitty made-up songs and poems. 

How shallow and pretentious.

There’s one thing that will remain true, though.

A monster doesn’t deserve to love and to be loved.

Guess I didn’t hold the strings back hard enough, huh?

End of note.

[There were blood and saltwater stains on the paper, smearing away the ink. Was it droplets from the sea, or was it tears? Who knows.]

–__–

Howls echoed from the dark castle perched high above

The fury of a collapsing kingdom had not yet quieted. Sounds of clashing blades, blood splattering, and garbled screams of dying men sang like a deafening requiem, loudly enough to burst eardrums, overwhelming all other sounds.

At the base of the volcano, where only the blazing lava flowed, the earth was strewn with scorched corpses. Their burned husk lay twisted and still, a marvelous, macabre artwork of war.

But from the depths of flame, a lone figure emerged from the mouth of hell.

Someone with hair as dark as the midnight sky, each strand catching the sunset’s glow like threads woven with stardust, glimmering faintly.

His eyes, though dulled by exhaustion, still gleamed a sharp purple, like shattered amethyst catching the moonlight. A gaze that’s colder than frost and deeper than the ocean.

His face was smeared with soot and grime. The side of his hand was bloodied, not with anyone else’s but with his own. The crispness of his old uniform had been reduced to tattered cloth; the scarf around his neck, once white, was stained crimson and violet.

One might wonder why someone with such a majestic, almost aristocratic face, instead of sipping tea in a palace, would throw himself into the dirtiest, most brutal pit of war like this.

Fighting like there’s no tomorrow. 

Letting his body be bruised and battered with every strike like a punishment, atonement for unspoken sins.

He staggered, clutching a hastily bandaged arm, dragging his useless feet on the ground after the great fall that should have ended him.

And yet, he ran, sprinting inside an already dug-out tunnel, toward the uncertain safety of deeper ground.

 “Hey,” he calls out to someone. His breath hitched, but his feet did not stop. “I know you’re still there.”

“I’m always here.”

But there’s no one there. 

“I figured.”

For a moment, there’s only the rumbling of pursuit from above and the humming of the underground. The man seems to be listening to something beyond human perception, a voice ringing like a chime only inside his ears. 

“If you really want to stop, you can, you know?”

The thin air whispers into his ear, almost playfully.

“Dive into the boiling sea.”

“Take a slash to the throat.”

“Or… if you’d prefer something prettier, wait. The flowers will bloom again soon.”

He laughs bitterly, a sound that cracked at the edge, hoarse and broken—the voice of someone who had long accepted his fate. 

"... I’m not killing myself."

"Because if you went to hell, you won’t have the chance to meet him anymore."

His expression hardened at the voice’s speech, lips thinning, brows furrowing. But just as quickly, he let the weight roll off his shoulders. The frown melted like frost against lava.

“... Yeah.”

A conversation between two people, yet there’s only one who’s present.

How abstract and confusing.

But who was there to witness it? Conversations like these weren’t meant to be heard by others. And even if they were, who would understand?

A ping from his intercom interrupted their conversation.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance, but when his eyes read the name on the screen, his body froze.

From Saparata.

“Meet me at the colosseum.”

The air whispers again, this time, it sounds like an amused laugh. 

“How convenient.”

He chuckles dryly, a hollow sound that doesn’t serve any real purpose.

“... Yeah. Guess it was always meant to end like this.”

“You know you don’t deserve to die under his hand.”

The man shrugged, as if he already knew the fact long ago.

“Maybe not. But I’m a selfish man. I will at least die the way I choose.”

“Hah. Self-aware much? Not like I could stop you even if I wanted to.”

And for the first time, it felt like the chime-like whisper carried a trace of warmth.

“Hope you will get what you want then! Well…before the illness gets you first.”

A laugh, loud and genuine, bubbles out of the man’s throat.

“Pft, yeah. Betting everything on my luck this time.”

The laugh fades as quickly as it appeared, his expression returning to neutral. However, if someone squinted hard enough, they might catch a glimpse of the small sadness hidden beneath his mask of neutrality.

The man’s steps come to a halt as he turns his face to the voice.

“Guess this will be the last time we met.”

He waves his hand.

“...Goodbye.”

“Farewell, Fluixon.”

With that, the man ran and didn’t look back.

–__–

Two familiar figures stood inside the heart of a colosseum.

The sun hung high, casting long shadows over the arena’s scorched sand. Dust caught the light like falling ash. The crowd surrounding them screamed from every direction, an avalanche of rage, grief, and justice long overdue. A thunderous chorus of voices demanded blood. 

Shining armor, sharp weapons, and a sturdy shield, both warriors wore the weight of the world on their shoulders, but only one carried it with grace. They stared into each other’s eyes, cold violet crashing violently against molten gold.

Fluixon barely flinched at the roaring accusations from the stands. The words blurred together— traitor, monster, murderer . He had heard it all before, to the point where it was no longer surprising. The noise melted from his consciousness like old wallpaper; all that remained was the figure before him.

With hair white as untouched snow, and eyes soft and luminous like the first sunrise after a war, he was gentle, even now, even here .

The hero, the protagonist of this story.

Saparata.

How pretty. 

Enough to make his chest explode open with hyacinth right away.

Just by looking, Fluixon could see the genuine surprise hidden within those eyes.

“Wow. You actually showed up.”

Fluixon smirked like he always did, arrogant and almost flirtatious, ignoring the way the plant made his ribs tense just by saying it. It was great to be a good actor.

“Can’t say no to a friend, can I?” 

Above, the crowd roared again, furious at his gall, how dare he speak like this was some friendly reunion. He could hear the hate in every voice above, calling for his head, for his skin, for his blood. But none of it mattered.

Only he mattered.

Saparata’s teeth clenched. His grip tightened on his sword.

“Flux,” he said, voice shaking. “Look at all these people dying right now because of you.”

Fluixon tilted his head, unreadable. 

That was true. They had died because of him. Every step he took was paved with the shattered bones of lives lost, but that wasn’t a new thought. It had already been carved into him long ago.

So he leaned into it.

“You know, Saps?”

He called out Saparata’s nickname, sweet and casual, the word rolling off his tongue with the striking familiarity of someone who had done this a million times before. 

Ah, how he had missed this.

How he had missed Saparata.

“None of this would have happened if you had died like you were supposed to.”

Another lie, slipping in as easily as honey.

The people roared louder and louder, their furious faces screaming for justice and vengeance. In their eyes, there existed only the natural liar, the cunning mastermind, and the flawless manipulator. 

Good, they are meant to feel that way. Even as the roots dug tighter into his lungs, blooming flowers filled his insides at the sound of their shouts and at Saparata’s gaze. 

Fluixon smiles.

“... I’m sorry for everything you’ve had to go through.”

Only these words are true, spoken not with pity but with rare sincerity. He doesn’t care if Saparata detects the thread of guilt amid his false bravado. It would be better for him to notice, in any case. In the back of his mind, Fluixon hoped that Saparata, the one who once understood him better than anyone else, would realize the truth.

Well then, that’s enough talk.

Fluixon pulled out a golden apple and took a bite, feeling a surge of strength through his body. Saparata gripped his axe tightly, eyes narrowed in a tense glare.

They circled each other slowly, both in defensive stances, probing for an opening. Shields raised high, taunting one another, waiting to see who would strike first.

And then, they clashed.

Saparata swung his axe down, fast and forceful. The wind screamed behind it. Fluixon dodged with ease, his feet gliding effortlessly across the ground. Sand kicked up in his wake as he twirled to the side, dodging a second blow by inches.

The crowd above roared, but the noise became background static, washed out by the blood pounding in their ears.

Dodge, then parry. Move to the left and strike.

But it missed, and Fluixon clicked his tongue in annoyance.

Saparata responded with a sweep to his ankle, and Fluixon swiftly side-stepped it.

They moved in rhythm, like a waltz, with no music but the crowd’s roars and the distant rumble of war and no ballroom floor, only the dry, hardened earth of the colosseum.

Fluixon’s grip on his sword was firm. His movements were fluid, calculated. Each dodge was graceful, each parry exact to the millimeter. He didn’t sweat, didn’t falter, his agility smooth as silk sliding through fingers. 

Saparata was the opposite; his attacks came like a storm, relentless and powerful. But his blocks were sharp and timely. Just when the enemy thought he’d strike left, he’d pivot right, face unreadable and calm in a way no one expected. He switched weapons with practiced ease, his footing unshakable against the ground.

Knowing he wasn’t the stronger fighter, Fluixon focused on evasion, waiting patiently for Saparata to tire, to slip.

Fluixon ducked under the swing of Saparata’s axe, the blade humming past his head close enough to shear a strand of his hair. He twisted on his heel and brought his sword down in a sharp arc toward Saparata’s flank, but the axe was already back up, parrying the blow with a thundering clang that sent vibrations through both their arms.

Sparks flared where diamond kissed diamond, the same ore that they mined together when they first met.

He spun out again, repositioned. Blood trickled from a fresh gash on his left arm, a shallow cut, but it burned like fire. He couldn’t remember when Saparata had landed it. There were too many moments, too many near-deaths wrapped in seconds.

They reset for half a heartbeat, just long enough for Saparata to draw his bow.

Fluixon’s eyes widened.

He darted left as the first arrow was loosed, a blur of steel slicing the air where his neck had been. He hit the dirt, rolled, and came up to his feet just as another arrow slammed into his shoulder plate, nearly knocking him off balance.

The third arrow he caught mid-run with his shield; the impact jarred his arm, the wood creaking beneath the blow.

He sprinted toward Saparata before the fourth shot could leave the bowstring.

Saparata stepped back fluidly, storing the bow behind him and yanking the axe free from his back again. They met once more, blade to blade.

Fluixon struck first this time with a fast, upward slash. It was blocked. He reversed the motion into a spin, cutting low toward Saparata’s knees. The axe intercepted again, this time catching the sword and locking it in place.

For a second, their faces were inches apart, both breathing heavily, muscles shaking.

His lungs throbbed as the branches slowly emerged, flowers blooming at a faster rate than ever. In his mind, words started to ring out, deafening.

“Dear Saparata,”

Still, Fluixon jerked away, breaking the lock, only to stagger back when the haft of the axe caught him square in the gut. His armor absorbed the worst of it, but the force still left him gasping.

“There are truths I wanted to reveal, so many stories I wanted to tell you.”

Saparata advanced mercilessly. Fluixon parried and backpedaled, barely keeping up. He could feel bruises blooming beneath his armor, a cut above his brow leaking into his eye. Every movement now came slower and heavier.

“But today, I’ll just talk about the things I’d want to do, if there was such a thing as a second chance for someone like me.”

He feinted a leftward swing and threw his shield instead. Saparata knocked it aside—but that was all Fluixon needed. He dashed into the opening and drove his sword forward.

“If there’s another chance, I want to hand my heart to you on a silver platter.”

It scraped between the diamond plating of Saparata’s upper arm, finally finding purchase.

“Letting you dissect it, touching it. To feel its rhythmic thumping, singing. ”

Blood spattered the arena floor.

“Only for you.”

Saparata grimaced but didn’t stop. His axe came down again, catching Fluixon across the chest with a glancing blow that sent him sprawling backward, metal groaning under the pressure.

“Maybe in another timeline, you would have been my first choice.”

The front of Fluixon’s chestplate cracked, fractured, jagged lines spiderwebbing outward like broken glass.

He coughed, rolled onto his knees, gasping. His sword was somewhere to his right.

“If we ever have the chance to meet again in another life, I just want to do a few things. Just foolish wishes under a fallen star."

Saparata didn’t let up. He reached for his bow again, not giving Fluixon the time to recover. The arrow whistled as it flew. Fluixon grabbed a broken shield shard and raised it just in time to deflect the shot.

“Us, waking up together in the flooding warm light.” 

His hand was bleeding now, too, splinters embedded deep in his palm.

“You, gently caressing the back of my neck, then pull our bodies closer in a soft embrace.”

Still, he rose.

He charged again, ignoring the pain, blood dripping from multiple wounds—some small, some far worse. His hand found his sword again, and he swung wildly, desperately. Saparata blocked them all, until one slice cut across his thigh.

They were both bleeding now.

“Tracing the lines of our scars.”

Yet none of them stop, even for a fraction of a second.

Weapons swapped hands again, Saparata switching to his bow, forcing Fluixon to weave through arrow after arrow; Fluixon lunging in with his sword only to be forced back by another crushing swing of the axe.

“Me, repeating your name so much that it’s unrecognizable.”

The arena floor was painted with sand and blood.

“Laughing, joking again like we once did.”

Every move hurts. Every block sent shocks through his bones. 

The clang of metal echoed loudly, drowning out the cries of the crowd. Blade and axe collided, sending sparks hissing into the dusk-filled air, and for a fleeting moment, both fighters locked eyes through the steam of breath and sweat. Fluixon’s stance wavered, just barely, but enough to signal his struggle.

“I wish for flowers that one day will no longer bloom in my lungs,”

The signs were clear now. 

He was tiring.

“Flowers that one day will be placed on your hair, the scent permeates every strand, white like snow mixed with the violet of lilac, my favorite.” 

His lapis-trimmed armor, dark and heavy, had begun to crack at the joints. Blue light glinted through the chipped edges where Saparata’s diamond weaponry had pierced the surface. One arm hung looser than the other; the shoulder behind it was likely bruised or dislocated, and each exhale left a trail of bloodied saliva at the corner of his mouth.

“While your arms cradling a bouquet of yellow dandelions and pink cherry blossoms, as lively and bright as you.”

Saparata, despite his bruises and the splinters of his shield embedded in his arm, stood tall. His diamond armor, smeared with ash and blood, still glinted with a noble gleam beneath the fading sun, almost regal in its silhouette. Cuts marred his cheek and brow, evidence that Fluixon had landed a few blows, but none deep enough to slow him down. He drew back his axe once more, spinning it deftly before lunging forward again in a whirlwind of motion.

“Promise me about eternity under the church’s bell.”

Fluixon barely blocked the strike. The sheer force of the impact sent vibrations screaming through his bones, and his wrist nearly gave out under the weight. He stumbled backward, his boots skidding across the dirt ground, almost falling, only saving himself by jamming his sword into the ground like a crutch. His chest heaved. Blood trickled down his ribs beneath the cracked armor, and somewhere deep inside, something tore.

“Please, kiss me until the flowers in my lungs burn into dust and the butterflies in my stomach flutter instead of bursting out.”

But he didn’t speak. In quiet, bitter clarity, he knew this was the end.

“Please, hold me.”

Saparata moved in for the final blow, his eyes focused and his stance unwavering. The axe gleamed overhead, angled to strike clean through.

“Angel.”

But before the final blow could even touched his skin—

It bloomed.

From the pit of Fluixon’s throat, something ruptured. A strangled, wet gasp tore through his mouth, and in its wake spilled a grotesque garden, violent and beautiful all at once.

Thick ropes of blood splashed the dirt, but woven in them were full blossoms, hyacinths in full bloom, deep violet and stained scarlet. They burst from his lips in a slow cascade, choking him mid-breath, coiling from his mouth in long, curling branches that shimmered with sickly dew. Petals fell like broken promises, some caught in his lashes, others sticking to his blood-soaked chin. 

His sword was dropped on the ground, and his knees gave out. They fell onto the cold, hard ground with a loud thud, scraping against it. 

Fluixon kneeled on the ground, eyes staring at the overflowing violet and crimson.

The hyacinths kept pouring, bloated, sweet-smelling, as if mocking the battlefield with their sudden, lush emergence.

Around them, the crowd screamed.

The noise of the colosseum was chaos, voices rose like a tidal wave, but to Fluixon, it had all turned to static, muffled, and distant like listening to the world through layers of water.

He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, or his arms. Fluixon weakly glanced up.

His vision danced, trembling like a flame about to go out. All colors dimmed, except for golden amber, brighter than the sun above.

The last thing he saw, glimmering and horrified, was Saparata’s face.

His old friend stood frozen, axe lowered, expression twisted in disbelief. That warm gold in his eyes shattered, replaced by something gutted and wide-eyed. 

Not hatred, just pure fear, and… emotions which Fluixon is too tired to even analyse at this point. He wanted to laugh, but found himself physically unable to.

Heh, understandable reaction.

Anyone would be horrified if flowers suddenly exploded from a person’s body, even if that person almost ruined your life.

His lips curved into a bloody mockery of a smile. 

Guess evil like him doesn’t deserve to die at the hands of Saparata.

... Well, it’s karma.

Fluixon deserves it.

He barely mouthed the word “Sorry,” before his body collapsed forward, arms limp, flowers spilling out like an offering. 

The hyacinths clung everywhere on his body, still blooming long after his body lay dormant.

The colosseum shook with voices, but Fluixon heard none of them.

On top of the pile of bloodied violet and purple, there rested a small fleck of pink cherry blossom, pure and beautiful, like the person he fell in love with.

–__–

Once upon a time, in a world torn apart by war and whispers, there lived a villain whose heart beat only for ruin. Cloaked in darkness and deceit, he twisted the world to his will, laying traps with a smile and burning bridges just to watch them fall. He spoke in poisoned promises and walked on the bones of those he’d betrayed. 

To him, love was weakness, and peace was something to shatter.

But as every tale demands, where there is darkness, there must also be light.

And so came the hero, so brave and noble, yet worn by sorrow. Cast aside, misunderstood, he carried no crown, only conviction. He fought not for glory, but for justice. 

Where the villain sowed chaos, he built unity. 

Where lies festered, he wielded truth like a blade.

Their final battle shook the heavens. Steel clashed under the crimson sky, and the world watched, holding its breath.

At last, as fate decreed, the villain fell.

With blood staining the earth and wickedness spilling from his lips in grotesque beauty, his evil ended, just as the stories always promised it would. 

The tale concluded with a happy ending, where the hero won and the villain fell.

Peace returned, and the people were free again.

The once scorned figure became a legend, the savior of a fractured world, and the scheming monster behind it all lay drenched in his dirty blood, still and defeated, like he was always meant to.

What a happy ending.

But far away, where no one could see—

—in the chest of the one who had stood victorious—

a small seed began to take root.

And quietly, painfully,

it bloomed.