Scene 1 — The Royale and the Real
"So—Crow—have you thought about joining the Battle Royale?"
She blocked my path like she owned the corridor—blue hair, glittering earrings, and an outfit that looked like it lost a fight with a mana storm. Two others flanked her, grinning in that painfully naïve way only first-years could manage.
"If I was joining the Royale," I said, "you and your little fan club wouldn't even make the list."
"Crow, you're being rude," she snapped. "We're classmates. We should want to grow together. With you, we'd have a real chance!"
I looked over my shoulder. "You mean I'd carry you while you pretend to fight." My tone stayed flat. "No thanks. I already have a team."
Their mana flickered—small, brittle sparks of pride trying to rise against a mountain. I let mine bleed just enough to make the air heavier, the ground hum beneath our feet.
"The Royale's just a parade," I said. "A stage for politicians to show off their new weapons. The real heavy hitters don't care. Artemis doesn't waste her time entertaining crowds."
Her eyes widened. "That's wrong! Unity is what makes us strong! That's how Travelers survive!"
Conviction trembled behind her words. Not courage—ignorance dressed as hope.
I exhaled softly. "…You'll learn. Everyone does. Usually through loss."
As I walked toward the training hall, her voice kept chasing me—still preaching teamwork, still dreaming out loud.
But her words drowned under the sound of mana colliding in the distance.
Real unity was never built in classrooms.
It was built on who came back breathing.
Scene 1.5 — The Weight of the Spear
"Hello, Mr. Simon."
The training field smelled of sweat, hot rubber, and ozone. I carried the golden spear balanced against my shoulder like it belonged there.
"Crow—finally decided to use that thing," Simon said, eyes lighting with quiet pride. "You can only run from yourself for so long."
He studied the spear like a relic in a museum. "You know this weapon's seen more Astral blood than any other of its kind?"
"If I kept throwing tantrums about family history," I muttered, "I'd just get my team killed. Too late to wish I'd had it when the Death Knight boxed us in."
Simon nodded. "Rick said that spear burned half a city once. I'm surprised it's still whole."
"I keep it clean," I said, hand tracing the black edge. "Hate my uncle all I want, but he loved this weapon. Used to make bedtime stories about it when I was a kid."
Simon smiled faintly. "Sinners can still love right."
He turned toward the gate. "Grab a hoodie. We're visiting someone who might finally tell you what that spear really is."
The weapon thrummed against my palm—alive, dangerous. Once sold on the black market. Bought back with blood. Its return had cost my uncle everything: a city in flames, a name branded criminal, a family cracked down the middle.
I slung the spear across my back and followed Simon out, the weapon's hum a quiet promise of debts not yet paid.
Scene 2 — Brothers and Graves
"So—Johnathon—when are you going to stop circling the point?"
Rick's voice cut through the quiet like glass under pressure. The V.I.P. lounge was too neat for a conversation about ghosts. He sat across from me, reading a leather-bound book, hair gold and disheveled like a fallen saint. Huginn, the Hidden Explorer—the name that turned information into currency.
"Come on, little brother," he said, flipping a page. "My time is money. Ask."
I drew a breath. "Did you know Tyr is back?"
The smirk died for half a heartbeat—confusion, recognition, then that infuriating grin again.
"No," he said softly. "But thank you for the free intel. You can still be profitable after all."
Teresa shifted beside me, too formal. "Mr. Huginn, the Guild will compensate—any price—for your silence."
Rick's gaze turned cold. "You brought a negotiator?" He looked at me. "You think I'd sell my own blood for a handful of coins?"
Her tone had cut him. I could feel the temperature drop.
"Let's clarify something," he said, setting the book down.
"Just because I sell truths doesn't mean I've forgotten loyalty."
Then quieter: "And yes… I knew."
"You mean Tyr?" Teresa asked.
Rick's smirk returned, almost cruel. "If that's what my brother believes, then I'm not digging up graves. I have business to run not ghost to chase."
He finished his tea in silence. "As for that stupid brother of his," he added, voice thin and venom-sweet, "I hope he's rotting peacefully."
Prophets treat the Astral like scripture. Rick spoke of it like weather.
"That's impossible," Teresa breathed. "You'd need a god's domain to even glimpse that."
Rick smiled.
"Who says I don't have one?" He stood, adjusting his cuffs.
"Enjoy the meal. It's already paid for."
When he left, the room exhaled. Silence, heavy as confession, settled between us.
If Huginn truly had a patron, then the world just changed—and none of us were ready for the price.
Scene 3 — The Fire That Waits
"Did you know Johnathon was connected to all these criminals?!"
Teresa's voice cracked across the guild office. Baldur rubbed his temples. "We knew," he said. "And?"
"And? They're mass murderers! How can you defend him?"
"In a perfect world," Baldur said, "we'd all be heroes. But Travelers aren't built for perfect worlds. You're judging monsters from the safety of paperwork."
She faltered, but he didn't stop.
"You've never seen the Astral Sea. You've never watched time collapse or heard gods bleed. Two million teenagers dove right in. Five returned. One stayed behind to close the Tear. Out of the ones I know personally. Tell me, Teresa—could you? Stay behind and seal something that has your greatest wish there."
Her silence was answer enough.
"If it was death we wanted, we found it," Baldur murmured. "And you don't question the ones who stayed."
A knock. Crystal stepped in, her calm gaze saying enough.
Baldur brushed past Teresa toward the hall. "You'll learn more surviving than judging."
---
The door closed behind him, leaving Teresa trembling.
"I just don't get it," she whispered. "Yesterday, Travelers were heroes. Now every story is built on blood."
Crystal didn't turn from the window. "Odin was a murderer."
Teresa froze.
"Massacres. Genocide. Entire cities erased," Crystal went on. "The governments didn't lie. They just left out the part where he burned worlds so this one could exist."
"Then why defend him?"
"I'm not," Crystal said. "I'm remembering him."
Sunlight hit the guild's crest on the wall—a sun with a skull at its core, a crow above, a dragon and tiger locked below.
"The Astral doesn't reward hesitation," she said. "Odin didn't destroy because he wanted to. He did it because the Sea never lets you choose who lives—only how many do."
"That doesn't make it right."
"No," she agreed, "just survivable."
She lifted a hand. A small flame bloomed at her fingertips—steady, patient, eternal. "This isn't divinity," she said. "It's what's left. The kind of fire that waits forever, even after you pretend to move on."
The spark folded inward and vanished.
"I'm not him," she whispered. "Never could be. I just learned how to live with what he left behind."
Teresa swallowed. "You were married to him?"
"In every way that mattered," Crystal said. "The Sea doesn't care about vows. Only bonds that can burn through the dark."
"Then he really was the monster they say?"
"He was both," Crystal answered softly. "The man who saved everyone—and the demon no one could forgive."
She walked to the door, pausing once. "They'll say the world owes Odin everything," she said. "And they're right."
Her smile held the ache of a promise no one else could carry.
"But tell me, Teresa—how many were expected to wait for him?"