The Requiem of Remnant

by The Black Mage of Phantasm

He was not aware of how he got to this new world. He could not see a way to return home. Some might say he had nothing...but they would be wrong. He had his wits, his skills, and most of all, his ambitions. And even in a new world, there was still an underworld of crime he could rise to the top of. A golden wind is about to sweep through Remnant.

9. Purpose

AN: Please read the Author's Note at the end. Explanations and other important information regarding my absence will be there.

Chapter 8: Purpose

This was a mistake.

"I didn't hear him make a sound."

He didn't know what he had been thinking.

"Where did he even come from?"

"You tell me. You were supposed to be on watch."

He had been so obsessed, eyes never wandering and always on one person, following them through every alley and every street, moving his little legs as fast as he could. All to ask a question.

A question that could only be answered by him.

"I swear, he wasn't there before. He just...appeared. Like a ghost."

"A ghost? Really?"

"Pretty damn short for a ghost, Lorenzo."

"Fuck you two; neither of you idiots noticed him until he was right in front of you."

But now...

"Yeah, but it wasn't our job to watch out for anyone who got too close, was it?

"Come on boys, cut old Loren' a brake. Not his fault his eyesight's turned to shit."

"Mickey, please—"

"What I tell you about calling me that?"

Now, surrounded by people in black suits, eyes facing the ground, the boy wished that he could just disappear. This had seemed so simple moments ago: follow the man, then, when the time was right, go up and ask him a question. His body apparently thought now was the moment as it all but moved on its own, inserting him in the middle of a group of adults chatting under an awning. He could just make out the man's umbrella as he approached, but as he got closer, one of the men had bumped into him, and when the man saw the boy, he screamed in shock.

Everyone had immediately turned in his direction, and the boy froze with indecision, having no idea how to proceed now with so many eyes on him. All he could do was stand still, eyes on the floor, and not say a word.

"So, instead of talking about Lorenzo's crippling blindness—"

"Fuck you!"

"—can we talk about...him." The boy didn't need to look up to know who they were referring too. "The kid definitely shouldn't be here, and he definitely shouldn't be with us. We gotta take him back."

The boy felt as if he had been struck, eyes widening.

"Yeah, you're right. Anyone know the fastest way to that school?"

Some of the men started to move closer to him.

No.

"What was the name of the school he goes to?"

"Something that ended with 'lini?'"

Not yet.

"Yeah, that sounds right."

"You know the way, Ernesto?"

"Kinda. Maybe. It'll come to me, don't worry."

He couldn't leave, not when he still had his question.

The men grew closer, the boy tried to move, tried to speak, to do something, but all he could do was stay still. Memories of similar situations arose; of him being surrounded by those much taller and stronger than he was and him being unable to do anything but stand still and take whatever punishment from his bullies or father had in store and the pain that would follow would last for days as he shook like a reed in a storm just like his body was doing right now—

"Wait."

With that one word, the boy froze. As did the men around him.

There was something about that voice that commanded attention. A kind of certainty in it that made everyone who heard believe the man was someone they had to listen to. What stood out most to the boy about the voice was just how natural the man sounded, like he wasn't even putting any effort into being someone that could demand such focus with just a single word.

Like it was just the type of person he always was.

Footsteps echoed on wet stones. The boy lifted his head, and the men in front of him instantly started to move out of the way as a single man with shoulder-length brown hair walked forward. A man whose umbrella covered the upper half of his face, the boy only able to make out his lantern jaw and lips that seemed to be permanently etched in a firm line; the boy couldn't help but think the man's face seemed to be made of nothing but steel because of how rigid it looked.

The man reached the boy. Even with the umbrella, he could feel the man's eyes on him, staring right through him as if he wasn't even there with ease.

The boy said nothing. He only stood in the rain, water dripping down his raincoat, echoing on shallow puddles of grime and filth.

"You have questions," the man stated.

The boy found himself unable to speak. He could only nod in response.

"Questions that are important to you."

The boy gave another shaky nod.

"Questions that, if you don't receive answers to, you will come back. Again and again, if needed. Correct?"

The boy hesitated.

At first, he hadn't thought about what to do next if he didn't get an answer to his question, but as the man's words echoed in his head, the image of himself moving on with his life and never knowing why appeared in front of him.

And imagining that felt...wrong to the boy. Why, he could not say. But regardless of the reason, he suddenly found himself nodding.

The man stared. Everything else around the boy seemed to dissolve from the rain, leaving only him and the man on a cold, empty street. A gaze, one the boy could not see but feel, looked into his very soul. As the drops of icy water crashed against the street, against his raincoat that made agonizingly loud splatters, the boy shoulders began to slump, his head looking at the ground again as he hated just how stupid he had been. Hated how fate was punishing him for being so pathetic by making him suffer through this man's unwavering stare that made him feel so small. All because he wanted—

"Fine. You shall get your answers."

...What?

Hesitantly, the boy lifted his head. The man had turned around, and was looking at the people gathered around them.

"All of you, leave, and go see Adriana. We have work to do; those filthy Rizzos are still trying to gain a foothold in my town. I already spoke with her yesterday, and she will instruct you on our plans to deal with these fools."

"But, boss," one of the men with a thick beard and brown eyes began. "We can't just leave you alone—"

"You can, and you will."

The finality in the man's voice left no room for arguments. Everyone around the boy and the man suddenly looked conflicted, wanting to speak up, but knowing how futile it would be. Yet still, they did not move, seemingly uncomfortable with leaving the man without any of his guards.

"I will be fine," the man said, slowly turning to face the boy. And for the first time, the boy saw his eyes as his umbrella shifted ever-so-slightly.

They were the coldest shade of blue he had ever seen.

"Follow me," the man ordered, walking past the boy.

Without even thinking, he followed.

---

The first thing the boy had noticed was the smell.

It was a pleasant aroma, made of fresh-cut flowers and the sweet, aged smell of wine. And when he had sat down in a small little booth near the back of the room where he could make out the only exit, keeping his raincoat on as the man placed his umbrella against the side of the booth, the smell grew stronger, mixing with odors wafting from the nearby kitchen. The welcoming atmosphere eased the knots of tension in the boy's stiff muscles, and it had made it easier to sit in the same booth as the man, at his order.

Now, staring at the man as he ate his food—Piadina Romagnola, extra mozzarella, along with red wine and a stuffed eggplant—the boy found himself at a loss. Other than asking the boy if he would like something to eat, which he didn't since he already had an apple, the man hadn't said anything to him as he ordered his own food. It was uncomfortable; the boy constantly glanced around the restaurant, trying to figure out if he had done something wrong, something that had made the man no longer interested in speaking with him. But all he saw were the weary looks of the waiters, hushed whispers leaving their mouths, constantly glancing at both himself and the man.

"They are not usually ones to gossip."

Those emotionless words immediately made the boy stiffen, head whirling back to face the man. He had stopped eating and some point, but he wasn't facing the boy. Instead, the man had turned towards the waiters that had been talking, and when they realized they had the man's attention, their faces lost a bit of color before they walked away to the kitchen in a slightly stiff manner.

"I have been coming here for years, you see," The man continued in his deep baritone, shifting his head as if he were looking around the restaurant. "I helped the owner when some brutes tried to extort him for money, and I made sure he would never be bothered by them or anyone else again. To repay me, he allows both myself and any of my associates to eat for free."

The man turned, and even with his hair obscuring his eyes, the boy could feel those ice-cold irises pierce him.

"It is always important to repay your debts."

The boy said nothing. There was silence, the man continuing to stare at the boy with his cold gaze. Then, his head fell back to his food, seemingly ignoring the boy once again.

There was something about that action that made the boy tense. Something that made an unfamiliar emotion clench his heart as he could all but see what would happen next: the man continuing to ignore him while the boy sat in silence, finishing his lunch, and then leaving, forgetting the boy was there. Acting like he was nothing. Just like everyone else.

The idea of the man doing that pained him in a way he could not describe. The emotion inside his heart rose, bubbling in the back of his throat, forcing his tongue to move now before it was too late, and the boy suddenly found himself speaking.

"Why?"

The man's hands, inches away from touching his fork and knife, stopped. The boy could hear his own heart beating loudly in his ears as the man stared. The silence between them suddenly felt heavy, weighing down on the boy's tiny shoulders like rocks. Ever-so-slightly, the man tilted his head.

"'Why?'" he repeated, voice almost curious, but not quite. "Are you asking me why I am eating so heavily even though it's only morning?" He gestured to the plate of food with one arm. "Are you asking me why I had you accompany me to this place?" Another gesture, this one grand and sweeping, encompassing the entire restaurant. "Or..."

The man leaned closer, staring down at the boy, and he felt his mouth go dry. For the man's eyes now held an intensity that somehow made the boy feel smaller than he ever had in his life.

"Are you asking," the man said, deliberately drawing out each word, eyes unblinking. "Why you're life seems so different now, then it did just a day ago."

"Yes."

It slipped out. The boy hadn't meant to answer so simply, like he was mocking the man, like his stepfather always accused him of before he beat him, but his nerves had made him say the first, and only, thing to pop into his mind: answers to why the man was doing everything he had done.

The silence returned, this time with such force it left the boy feeling breathless. The man's eyes were still staring into his own, the icy look they held never changing; the boy's blood suddenly felt just as cold, and even though his heart was in his throat, even though he trembled slightly as he awaited the man's response, he never looked away from his eyes, took in every detail of his frigid expression. The man's lips twitched, ever-so-slightly.

And he laughed.

It was just a quick, short breath that escaped his mouth, a rumble that came from the back of his throat that sounded like gravel being grated, but it was definitely a laugh.

"I suppose I should have expected such a response," the man said. For just a moment, the look in his eyes changed, a new emotion present in his blue irises, but it vanished so quickly that the boy thought he imagined it. The man's lips moved back into a firm line, and he continued.

"To start, I am eating like I haven't seen a meal for days because I have had a very, very, long night. The kind where I had to skip sleep in order to correct a serious grievance in my town. As for why I decided to come to this place with you in tow, I assumed it would be better to talk inside someplace warm rather than out under the rain and in the cold; perhaps offer you some food as well, but you apparently aren't hungry."

"I'm sorry."

"Do not apologize," The man said, tone allowing no arguments, a displeased frown on his face. "You have no reason to do so."

The boy bowed his head. "I—understood. Sir."

The man paused, but why, the boy wasn't sure. "But, as for why you're entire life has seemingly changed overnight...to put it simply, that is because of me, and my men."

The boy lifted his head, heartbeat quickening in anticipation.

"I will not go over exactly what was done, but my men and I located everyone who has ever wronged you, and we had a long, explicit discussion about how you were not to be treated as you have been for a moment longer. It took some time, but by the end of the night, everyone in this town who has so much as glared at you knows the consequences should they think of continuing their behavior."

The man paused again. "Are you surprised at what I did?"

He wasn't. Not about what had been done. The boy knew that threats—the exact nature still unknown to him, but he knew they had to be somewhat physical and severe—had to be involved in getting everyone from his step-father, his bullies, and even his own mother to start treating him like his existence wasn't a burden. Like he wasn't scum. But there were still so many things that he didn't understand.

Like why would anyone do something like that for someone like himself?

"What I have done hasn't surprised you, but there is something bothering you," the man said, as if stating a fact from a textbook, tilting his head. "Do you know what my...profession, is?"

"I..."

"Go on. Speak."

"Yes."

"Then what am I?"

"A gangster."

The man was silent.

"I don't know which family, but you're clearly the boss of one of the gangs here. No one else could organize what you did unless the members followed their orders without hesitation. And you're powerful; no one criminal could do what you did to everyone I know so quickly without a large power-base. To do it all in one night seems impossible, but I suppose that speaks of just how much of this town you own. 'Legally,'" it was impossible to say that word with any sincerity, "or otherwise."

The man still didn't respond, and the boy wondered if he said something wrong. But before the silence could become heavy, the man spoke.

"You're far more clever than any child your age." The boy stared at him, uncomprehending that this man, that anyone, complimented him. The man saw his expression, displeasure on his face for just a moment before he wiped it clean and continued. "I was already aware of this, but this is just another confirmation."

"I'm not—"

"Tell me," the man interrupted swiftly. "You ran through the rain to hunt me down. You wanted so badly to know the answer to your 'why' when I have seen first hand how smart you are. You have already figured out that I am a criminal, that I have threatened your enemies and made them piss their pants at the very idea of hurting you, that I am the boss and have the power to back these threats with ease. Something tells me you could have figured all of this out without having this conversation with me."

The boy looked down. "I couldn't have."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know."

"Know what?"

"Why, why would—" The boy wasn't sure when, but he was gripping the fabric of his pants in his tiny hands, hard enough that they were shaking. "Why are you helping me? Why would anyone..."

He didn't finish. In the sudden silence, he heard the man take in a long, deep, breath, and when he looked up, he thought he saw an angry twist to the man's mouth; but for some reason, the anger wasn't aimed at the boy. A second later, before the boy could fully process it, the look was gone, and the man laid his arms onto the table, hands clenched together.

"You have asked many questions," the man said, and there was something to his voice that the boy had never heard before. His words, despite how gruff and deep his voice was, sounded gentle and light. Soothing, almost. The look in the man's eyes had changed, and now he looked...strange. "But, may I ask my own?"

The boy could only nod in response.

"Do you remember me?"

Beneath his raincoat, the boy's eyebrows rose. "I...what?"

"To repeat myself when I know you clearly heard me would be an insult to both of our intelligence."

"I..." The boy stared, uncomprehending. "I've never met you before."

The man shook his head. "Do you truly not remember?"

"Remember what?"

"The sun shining down on old, brick roads," The man said, no longer staring at the boy, but instead at a memory that seemed burned inside his head. "The wind carrying the scent of blood. The shadows casting down on a prone, near-lifeless body."

That...that was starting to sound familiar. A memory was starting to play in front of the boy, foggy, but like a dirty mirror being cleaned, it became clearer. The world around the boy changed, and he was suddenly standing at the front of an alley. An alley, with a body.

"Vultures in human form shouting, looking for their would-be victim."

He remembered the shouting of angry men as they searched for something, some openly carrying guns. He remembered how those same shouts made the person he saw twitch, trying to get up, but ultimately failing and crashing back to the ground.

"There was nothing that man could do to escape, and just as those vultures grew closer, so too did certain death. But then, a boy, one the man had never seen before. directed those animals to continue their search elsewhere."

He hadn't even thought about for more than a moment; seeing someone as pitiful as he was lying on the ground, he felt bad for the man, and had decided to lie without hesitation. He thought he wouldn't ever see the man again, but, as his mind and memories became clearer, he realized he was wrong.

"It was thanks to that boy that the man was able to get away. That he was still alive. Once he was healed and the vultures were dealt with, he spent every waking hour trying to find the boy. Eventually, the man did, and made a promise to that boy."

It had been a few days ago, when he was walking back home from school, the clouds grey and raining just like today, that someone had been standing in his path, an umbrella in hand. The boy hadn't paid much attention to his features, tired from dealing with his bullies and preparing himself to deal with his step-father, but the words that man whispered, in a tone the boy still had trouble recognizing and were so low he almost didn't hear, rang in his head like a church bell.

"I'll never forget what you did for me."

It was only now that the boy saw the similarities, saw what he should have seen all along. The man dying on the ground and his pitiful look suddenly became the man standing in the rain with a gruff voice and unknown tone. And the man standing in the rain...

The boy's eyes went wide.

"Ever since, that man, I, have done everything in my power to help the boy, you," The man, the one he had saved, the one who had seemed so similar to him, seemed just as pitiful, who was a gangster, who was able to command people with just his words alone, said.

The boy sat in his chair, stunned. He couldn't process what he just learned; that the man who had such presence had, at one point, seemed to be just like him. It was just too much, and all he could do was stare.

"I have surprised you," the man stated. "Tell me, why have my words impacted you so?"

The boy struggled to form the words. His mind was still a chaotic mess, his voice seeming to fail him.

"You," he eventually said, trying to gather his hectic thoughts. "You were so..."

"Yes?"

"You looked so sad. Pathetic. Just like me. But now, you're so...so..."

He didn't have the words. Silence returned, but was quickly broken.

"That is right," the man said. "At the time moment, I was dying. There was nothing I could have done to prevent those men from killing me. I was at my most pathetic." There was not a trace of shame in the man's words, expression never even shifting. "I don't even look remotely similar to the man you saw bleeding to death, do I?"

The boy slowly shook his head.

"That is because, in life, there are times when the strongest of men can be brought low. Where the whole world does its best to crush you, to make you fall underneath its immense, unyielding weight. Some men do fall. And I do not blame them, for the world, for fate, is cruel. But others...others do not. Others can rise up again, even after being so beaten by the world. Something—" the man pointed a single finger at the boy "—I know you, a child unlike any I have ever seen, can do."

...What?

"What?" The boy could not believe his ears.

"You have suffered a great deal. You were never even given a chance to show off the potential inside you, because for so long, those who knew what you could become, who only sought to make you feel as insignificant as they were, beat your very spirit each day. But I have no doubts that in the future, with those fools who dared lay their hands against you now neutered, you will rise up and become something spectacular."

The boy stared, uncomprehending. "What?" he repeated. He was shaking now, feeling as if he was breathing through a straw. "I...I don't...you're wrong."

"I am not."

"You are."

"Why?"

"Because I am nothing!" the boy shouted without warning, and suddenly, he felt something within, something like an old, festering wound that never quite healed right, tear open. All at once, words made of pain and hurt bitter acceptance left his mouth in a rushed, heated cry. "I am someone that fate saw fit to make his only purpose suffering. Everyone knows this, it's why I'm not even viewed as human to them, just something to be stepped on. And they're right! I am a failure, worse than a piece of shit, someone who shouldn't even exist; who doesn't even deserve to live!"

A fist slammed into the dining table, hard to shake the dishes and glasses. There man's face suddenly twisted into a furious snarl, and the boy froze, body tensing, automatically preparing himself for the words, the fists that would never stop, all because he had to act out and—

"Never say that."

The boy's thoughts came to a crash. He looked up.

The man was giving the boy the most intense glare he had ever received; every other glare paled in comparison, for there was no matching the anger and rage he saw in the man's blue eyes. But what captivated the boy's mind, what made it so hard to believe, was that he knew, deep in his bones, the anger wasn't directed at him. No, it was anger born for the boy, like... like...

The man cared. Cared enough that his words about being nothing cause a visceral hatred within his body.

The boy stared, and the man continued.

"Never even think that. There is no such thing as one who is born only to suffer. The moment you believe that, when you accept the words of those who only wish to do you harm, is the moment that lie becomes your reality. You are not a mistake, you are someone that I know will achieve greatness no other man has ever even hoped to reach!"

An almost physical force seemed to strike the boy, like he just received a great shock that struck his very heart, and his body trembled. Was...was the man right? Had anyone else said it, the boy would have dismissed it immediately, but...the man, he sounded so sure, like it was just a fact that the boy be a fool to disagree with. Was he really not a waste? Was his existence not a mistake, and did he actually deserve to live? Deserve the man's care?

Was the boy someone that could be...great?

There was a war going on inside him. So many emotions clashing for dominance, some he couldn't even begin to describe, new thoughts rising in his head that tired to overpower the old, misery-ridden ones that had always clouded him, making it impossible to think straight for even a moment. But through it all, he felt something else. Something that he had been feeling throughout the day, when he saw how everyone now treated him. Something that rose the more the man had spoken. It was something he felt he should recognize, something that anyone would realize what it was, but for some reason eluded him when he so desperately wanted to know more than anything else.

"Fate has made you suffer at the hands of others. Of that, you cannot change. However, to say that you must always be a whipping boy? To always be at the bottom of another man's shoe? Is that what you want, Haruno?

The storm inside the boy came to an abrupt conclusion, his thought and emotions suddenly freezing at the man's final words.

Want.

It was strange. The boy couldn't remember the last time he wanted anything. He had given up on feelings of want, of wishing and hoping for anything different, so long ago, they were less than a memory. And yet...the man's words were stirring something in him. It was the same sensation he felt when his father apologized to him. When his bullies acted like he was their peer. When his mother acted like an actual parent. Now, remembering how everyone was forced to accept that he was there, that he wasn't something to be ignored or stepped on, he recognized the feeling.

It was the desire to no longer be treated like he was nothing. For the first time in so long, the boy, Haruno, wanted something; craved it.

"I can see it in your eyes," The man said, his gaze sharp, waiting for his answer. "Go on. You know the words."

"I..." He was trembling, the man's words echoing, the feeling of want consuming him from within. "I..."

"Say it."

"I want...to..."

"Scream it!" The man slammed his hand onto the table, standing up. "Shout it to the heavens themselves! Let your voice be heard, and never let those bastards silence you ever again!

"I want to be treated like a human being!" Haruno shouted. He couldn't remember the last time he had ever raised his voice as loudly as he did now, but in this moment, it felt like the only way he could respond; like nothing else would be nearly appropriate. Tears fell from his eyes, but he wiped them away, for this was not the time to cry, not now, not when he was in the midst of this almost rapturous feeling of want.

"Louder!"

"I never want to feel like a piece of shit again! I want to be someone, not nothing!" His confidence grew with every word, after being gone for so long, it felt almost surreal to hear it, like he was in an impossible dream. But deep in his heart, locked away after being crushed and spat on so many times, the boy knew it had always been there, the strength the man had saw in him, and now, thanks to the man's words, it filled his body. "I want to be a strong man! One who can end fights before they even begin! Who no one would ever dare dream of harming!"

The man smiled, showing his teeth, sliding back down in his seat with a look of pride on his face.

"I, I want—" Haruno stared at the man; the person who had done so much for him; who could only help him so because he was someone to be feared; he was someone that could demand everyone's attention with but a word; someone whose voice, whose very presence, radiated strength. "I want to be just like you!"

He said something wrong.

The man's smile had died, the pride vanishing in an instant. He stared at Haruno, his face like a rock, every ounce of emotion drained from it, barely even looking human. Haruno felt his confidence fade away, and he stared at the man, dread churning in his heart as the silence between them grew as if it was a physical beast.

"No, you do not," The man said stiffly, voice toneless. "Believe me, Haruno. You truly do not."

He didn't understand. "But...you're so...you've helped me so much, and you, you inspire fear and awe in everyone. You just, radiate strength; importance. Like it's as natural to you as breathing."

"Yes. But I am a criminal. And you..." The man trailed off, contemplating something, letting out a long breath. "You shouldn't aspire to be like a criminal, Haruno. If you do, your fate will become one rife with strife and tragedy."

The man did not elaborate any further. Slowly, he reached for the umbrella by the booth. "This will be the first, and last time we speak, Haruno," he said almost casually.

Haruno paled. "What?" His blood felt cold, breath leaving him faster, and he stared at the man, lost. "I don't understand. Did—what did I do wrong?"

"Nothing. You have done nothing wrong." Once the man had picked his umbrella, he reached for his hat at the corner of the table. "It is simply the nature of shadows to hide away from the light. And someone like me, who has walked in the dark for so long, has no place being in the way of such a bright light like yourself."

The man placed his hat on his head, and began to walk away from the table. "Goodbye, Haruno."

He turned, his back facing Haruno, and left the booth.

"Wait!" Haruno stood up from his seat, the man still walking away. "Why, why are you just leaving, I don't want you to leave!" he cried, but the man kept getting farther and farther away, step by step. "I—please, you saved me, you said you believed I could be someone strong, someone great, but I—" His voice cracked with misery, and he looked down, heart twisting painfully in his chest. He suddenly remembered his step-father and bullies beating him, his mother treating him like he was nothing, and how he never once tried to stop them. The despair, the feeling that he would always be worse than a failure, less than nothing, leaked from those memories and into his body, limbs weak and trembling without pause.

"I don't know how to," The boy finished. "Not without you."

The man stopped walking

"You're the one who saved me. How do I learn to be great when for so long, I have been weak?"

The man didn't turn around. The boy stated at his enormous back, and slowly, the man began to turn around.

"You saved yourself," the man said, and the boy blinked, confused. "If you had not saved me first, then I would not have been able to help you. It was because of your decision that day that your life has changed. I am but a byproduct of your choice. Of your strength."

"But...but I barely did anything."

"No. You did everything. On that day, when facing men who could kill you without a second thought, you told them to go look for their target in a random part of this city, and they did. Even with every filthy bastard you knew beating you daily, you were able to face hardened murderers without even blinking, and were so certain, so confident, that they believed your lies without a second thought. You saved me, and by extension, yourself, because of the strength you always had."

The boy looked down. "I...I want to believe. I want to be strong. But, how can I be sure that I won't..." Memories began to play again, of hopelessness, and the belief that his only purpose was to be beaten by others. He could already feel those old emotions rising, corrupting his feelings of want like a plague. "That I won't fall?"

"That is a fear many men have," The man began. His gaze lowered, and the boy once again found himself staring at intense blue eyes. But there was something else there; something...warm. "In your darkest moments, believe in my words if you can't believe in yourself: for you, Haruno Shiobana, have a soul that shines like Gold."

The boy looked down at himself. He thought about his father, his bullies, and his own mother treating him worse than the lowest of insects. He thought about how he always believed that he was nothing, that he was just someone who was made to suffer. His eyes closed, looking inside into the deepest parts of his mind, and made a simple promise not just to himself, not just to the man, but to his very soul.

Never again, the boy thought. From here on, I will be greater.

The boy...Haruno opened his eyes again, and he slowly nodded. "I...I will do my best. I will work every day until I am the man you say I can be," he said, putting as much confidence into his words as he could.

For some reason, it felt like the man wasn't looking directly at Haruno, but at something else. Then, the man nodded. "Good," he said, turning away again and heading towards the exit. Just as he was a few feet away from the door, hands raising towards the knob, he stopped. For a moment, it seemed like he was hesitating, but about what, the boy wasn't sure.

"Now that you know what is to want something," the man said, still facing the door. "Follow that feeling. Follow it, until you find a dream."

A dream...he never had one of those before. He wasn't even sure where to even begin looking for one.

But he would try.

For the man.

And for himself.

He would keep trying until he found one. Just like how he would keep trying until he became a strong man. A great man. Just like the man believed he would be one day.

Haruno wasn't sure when, but at some point, the man had left the resturant. And it was at that point he realized he never got the man's name.

Haruno ran to the door, quickly moving past the tables and other booths throughout the restaurant, and pushed it open, stepping onto the curb. Outside, it had stopped raining, the clouds beginning to part, sun shining through and casting its warm light onto his skin. And all the way at the other end of the street, where the cloud still gathered and shadows cast down onto the old roads, the man walked away, his form seemingly disappearing in the darkness.

And as he watched the man vanish into the city's shadows...Haruno Shiobana wondered why it felt so wrong, to bask in the sun's light?

---

With a strut to his steps that he made look casual, Giorno Giovanna walked towards the large black doors at the bottom of the steps he descended, the shadows from the winding staircase bathing his form, and he grinned. There was a single guard standing in front of it, clad in a black suit and red sunglasses, and when he saw Giorno approach, he stepped to the side, and held the door out.

"The boss will be with you in a moment, sir," the man said, giving Giorno a respectful nod.

"Grazi," Giorno replied instantly.

The man blinked. "What?"

For a moment, Giorno stared at the man, completely lost. But then he remembered where he was. "Ah, apologies," he said. "I meant to say, thank you."

The man looked at him oddly for a moment, but then he shrugged. "Whatever you say, sir."

Giorno nodded at the man as he entered the room. It was a medium-sized office, a bit sparse, but that was understandable considering this was a temporary office while the main one was undergoing renovations. There were shelves with assorted books and folders of all colors and shapes, a large brown chair and a wooden desk in the center, one more chair standing in front of it.

And on that chair, was a girl. Long black hair and bangs slightly obscuring her pale green eyes and cyan eyeshadow, a strapless dress a shade away from snow that matched her skin flawlessly, a skirt that gradually went from white to a soft green, thigh-high boots with led races that accentuated the shape of her legs. Objectively, she was beautiful. And she was staring right at Giorno, a grin on her face.

"Well hello, hello, hello," The girl, Melanie Malachite, all but purred. She got off the desk with a little hop, and stalked towards him. "Been a while since I last saw you, Gio."

Giorno smiled. "Melanie. What a surprise to see you," he lied. He knew she was waiting here since he took his first step down the stairs. There was no way he could miss the energy she radiated.

It was always fascinating to feel someone with their Aura unlocked. There was something different about them from Stand Users, something more...free about them. With a Stand User, he wouldn't be able to tell what they were until they called their Stands into existence, or had already done so. But for those with Aura, even when they weren't actively channeling it or using their Semblances, he could tell where they were within a twenty-foot radius around himself. Aura was just so radiant, it was all but impossible for him to miss with his senses.

"A good surprise?" Melanie asked, stepping closer.

"But of course," Giorno replied.

"Did you get me a gift?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Aw," she said, lips moving into an exaggerated pout. "Really? After you promised me something good?"

"I've unfortunately been rather busy." He also never made such a promise; not that Melanie would take that as anything but an excuse.

"Yeah, I know. You really wrecked Roman's shit."

"I wouldn't put it so crassly..."

"I would."

"You would."

Melanie was but a foot away from him now, grin sharpening. "You know," she said, suddenly wrapping her arms around his waist. "There is something you can do to make up for not getting me my gift."

Giorno's smile never left him, bringing his arms up wrapping them behind Melanie's neck. "And what's that?"

"Well..." She leaned forward, standing on the tips of her toes, pulling Giorno closer, and he made no move to fight her. "You can start..." He could feel her breath on his skin, her face inches away.

Then, the arms at his waist fell, Melanie suddenly stepped back, and a wallet—his wallet—was suddenly held between her gloved fingers and right in front of Giorno's face.

"By paying for lunch!" She shouted, lips no longer in that seductive yet predatory grin, but now in an immensely smug smirk. "You just got—"

Giorno suddenly held out a cyan clutch purse inches in front of her face. Melanie's clutch purse.

She stared at it, mouthing hanging open. "Robbed," she finished.

"As did you, Melanie."

"How?" Her eyes moved from her purse back to Giorno.

"I have nimble fingers."

"I put that thing between my—"

"Very nimble fingers," he interrupted.

Melanie pouted, and this time it was genuine. "You suck." With a huff, she tossed his wallet back to him, which he got with ease. Melanie held out her hand, waiting for him to give her back her purse. Giorno did so with a chuckle, after taking away several handfuls of Lien, of course, and Melaine caught it. "Seriously, how did you do that? I didn't even feel your hands move from my neck."

"Isn't it obvious?" Giorno's smile grew ever so slightly, displaying every single card of Lien in a row and, with a flick of his wrest and sleight of hand, seemed to make them all disappear. "I cheated."

When it became clear he wasn't going to elaborate, Melanie groaned. "Should've never made that bet," she muttered.

"I did warn you. I was the best pickpocket in my town."

"Yeah, well, I thought you were just bragging to impress the hot girl; just like every guy out there."

"Hot girl?"

She glared. "Yeah. Me."

"I think a more apt description for you would be 'beautiful,' Melanie." A smile that oozed with charm crossed his face. "Radiant, in fact. Like a diamond."

Melanie snorted derisively, looking away. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Flattery? I'm merely stating the obvious," Giorno said.

"You know," Melanie said, eyes half-closed, crossing her arms as she turned back to him. "For someone who says he doesn't have the time to have some fun, you sure don't seem to mind flirting with me."

Flirting implied that, on some level, Giorno found Melanie attractive.

He didn't.

She was beautiful. Truly, she was, but he just didn't find her alluring in the same way as other men or women would have. It was the same case for every man or woman Giorno had met; he could tell that they were physically pretty or handsome, but he never experienced either the intense, pulse-pounding desires of lust or the warm, fluttering sensation of love that so many people raved about. There was never a moment when every thought he had was consumed by images of another person. Just a dispassionate feeling of looking at something he could see why other people would find captivating, but he himself never did; like looking at a painting that was stunning in every sense of the word, whose colors were vivid and life-like and told a story that he knew would consume the thoughts of thousands for days on end, but not for the person who was currently looking at it, as they never much cared for art in the first place.

He wasn't certain if that would always be the case, but for now, he just had no interest in sex or romantic relationships. Of course, he wasn't going to tell Melanie that.

Smiling, Giorno stepped closer. "Are you telling me you don't like it when my eyes are on you and you alone?" Without warning, he wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled Melanie closer. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she didn't fight his hold in the slightest. "When I remind you and the rest of the world just how amazing and gorgeous you are?" He brought a gloved hand up to her face, slowly caressing her cheek, pushing stray locks of her hair behind her ears. Giorno leaned in closer, his gaze intense, grin turning sultry. "Do you not like it when I give you the attention you so rightfully deserve, my dear Melanie."

He whispered those words into her ear, and he felt her shiver, despite her best efforts to hide it. When he leaned back a bit, he saw Melanie glancing at the floor, a small blush on her face that was slowly growing the more his grip on her tightened.

"Perhaps one day, when everything's taken care of, we can...talk," Giorno said, the implication in his tone impossible to miss, and then he kissed Melanie on the cheek. Her blush grew again, and for a moment she was still. But then, she grinned, an almost wolfish hunger in her eyes.

"You are such a tease," she whispered, giggling slightly.

"I believe that's the first time I've been called that."

"Oh? What are you usually called?"

"Bastard, mostly."

Melanie all but cackled, and Giorno laughed a touch as well; he didn't even have to fake it. And it was at that moment the door behind him opened up. Giorno looked over his shoulder.

Hei "Junior" Xiong stood in the doorway, staring at Giorno, who still had Melaine held tightly, bodies rubbings against each other, faces so close.

Melanie moved her head so that Junior could see her large, cheeky grin. "This is exactly what it looks like."

Junior sighed. "Somehow, I doubt that."

"The hell's that supposed to mean?" Melanie said, glaring slightly.

"Not important. What is important is that you stop groping my damn client." He gestured with a thumb behind him. "And also, leave the room."

Melanie blinked. "Why? Not like I don't know everything that's going on."

"Because you're sister told me to tell you that she needs her espresso from the coffee place she likes, and that you still owe her for vomiting all over her dress a few days ago and spending the next couple hours clogging the toilets."

Melanie blushed, and then glared. "Did you have to say that last part?" she hissed.

"Miltia told me that if "Magic Hands" over there was here, then yes, I should definitely mention that last part."

Melanie cursed, letting go of Giorno. "Fine." She looked back at him, and without any hesitation, kissed him on the cheek. "Don't go forgetting about me, handsome."

"Oh, I won't," Giorno said, purposefully making his grin widen ever-so-slightly,

Melanie smiled, and with a skip to her step that she tried to hide but Giorno noticed, she walked past Junior and left the room. Giorno heard her heels clicking on the stairs for a few more seconds until the sound faded.

And when it did, Junior stomped towards the door and closed it what a slam. With a noticeable tension in his shoulders, he turned around, leveling Giorno with an impressive scowl.

Giorno's smile was still on his lips. "Now, to be fair," he said slowly. "She comes on to me."

"I'll bet," Junior said, a slight growl to his words. He walked towards his desk, not even looking at Giorno as he passed him. "Sit."

Giorno did so. Once Junior took his seat behind the desk, his eyes narrowed at Giorno. "First thing's first," he said, crossing his arms and waiting.

He expected this. "Check under your desk," Giorno said.

Confused at his words, but still willing to listen, Junior moved his chair back and looked underneath his desk. He frowned, reaching under the desk and pulling out a massive club. Junior's weapon of choice.

"I know for a fact that wasn't here ten minutes ago." Junior placed his club onto the desk, glancing up at Giorno. "And I'm sure you weren't carrying this on you when you came into the Club."

"You would be right," Giorno said, and then nothing else.

Junior groaned. "I still don't know why you wanted my Boomstick." It honestly took Giorno some effort not to snort; he just found that name so cute. "You suck at shooting. You can barely hit a target at the range."

"I admit, my gun skills need work, but that is exactly why I asked you to help me with them. Which again, I appreciate."

"Uh-huh. You still haven't answered my question."

"I was getting to that." Giorno leaned back in his chair, making sure his smile was just right. "And while I am not such a good shot, my new driver proved to be rather adept at bazookas."

"New driver?" Junior asked, eyes narrowing.

"Oh yes, I met her just before the White Fang rally you informed me of. I was quite lucky she had a history of handling Huntsmen grade weaponry, else I might have been in trouble that night."

"Lucky. I'm sure," Junior said, doubt rising with every word. He shook his head. "So was she the one that made Yellow-Brick Road a corpse party?"

"She played a hand, but she was only following my instructions."

"A lot of my boys died."

"If memory serves right, and I know it does, every one of your 'boys' that were there were either those who were 'secretly" stealing from you, were spying on you for Torchwick, or were just as vile and depraved as every terrorist I killed that you didn't want around any longer." And after what he learned about every "fully-fledged" member of the White Fang attending that rally, that was truly saying something.

"Yeah, they were. But some of the boys who are in the know are a bit hesitant on working with someone who would dye an entire street, and highway, red with blood." Junior crossed his arms. "I can't say I blame them."

Giorno frowned. "I didn't enjoy killing those people. I'm not some battle-hungry berserker. And I especially didn't enjoy dozens of civilians dying because of Torchwick's little lunatic."

"Really?"

"Junior, what's bothering you?" The tiniest of muscles on Junior's face twitched, the only sign of his distress. "We both know you don't think I'm some maniac a moment away from killing everyone, so why are you acting like I'm so kind of threat to you when all I want is to do business."

Junior glared at Giorno, leaning forward slightly. "It's because you're not crazy that I know you're a threat," he said, voice full of certainty, sharp and accusing. "When you healed everyone after that blonde bitch wrecked my club and said you wanted to talk business, I humored you. When you showed me your skills at avoiding Torchwick and the White Fang, and then what you did with their runaways, I listened to you."

Junior scowled, hands clenching into fists. "And when you told me what that crazy bitch Towchick's licking boots with had done to every place she's been, I decided to work with you over someone that's just going to add me to her body count if she gets whatever the hell she wants." He let out a long breath, forcibly calming himself down. "You've been more honest than Torchwick, and for that, for giving me and the girls the warning we needed to hear, I'm grateful." His eyes suddenly narrowed to a vicious glare. "But that sure as hell doesn't mean I trust you."

Ah. So that's what this was about. Trust.

"Come now Junior," Giorno said, leaning back in his chair, radiating calm. "Have I done anything since we started working together to elicit such feelings?"

"Let's start with Melanie."

"Junior, please." Giorno chuckled. "You're acting like we're making love every night on your desk, but I assure you I'm a gentleman. Also, don't you think you're being a bit overprotective? Melanie is no fool, she knows how to make her own—"

"You're not nearly half-as good an actor as you think you are."

Giorno's smile stayed on his face, never so much as twitchong. His posture was relaxed, not an ounce of stiffness present anywhere on his body. But his eyes, they were no longer as mirthful. They had dimmed slightly, becoming colder.

"Pardon?"

"I've been dealing with toughest and scariest sons of bitches in the world longer than you've been alive. I've seen every trick, made up a few of my own, so I know—" Junior leaned forward, barely restrained anger in his face, mouth twisted into a heavy scowl "—when someone's trying to play me. To play Melanie."

In hindsight, perhaps he should've seen this coming.

When he first started working with Junior, he had almost immediately noticed that Melaine, in her own words, 'liked to eye-fuck him.' And he had done nothing to discourage her from doing so; in fact, he made sure that he always wore his most charming of smile and coy gazes whenever he was around Melanie. Slowly, as they interacted more and more, as he made sure to be just the right levels of sweet without sounding like he was fawning over her, respectful to not just her looks but her skills and likes and everything else about her, he had become one of the few people Melanie both tolerated, and genuinely liked. Which quickly morphed into attraction.

Something Junior noticed. More so than Giorno had given him credit for.

At first, Junior didn't seem to mind Melanie's affection for him. At least, after realizing Giorno wasn't as old as he and Miltia and his own staff seemed to think; something about his face and his muscles making him apparently look older. Personally, he didn't see it. But regardless, Junor had seemed to be fine with Giorno and Melaine's flirting, of the quick kisses and promises of more to come. But apparently, the broker had been scrutinizing them—scrutinizing him—more than he had let on. So now, Junior suspected he was using someone he viewed as a daughter.

And, well...he wasn't wrong. Giorno could freely admit that yes, he was using Melanie. Not in the malicious ways Junior most likely thought, such as trying to use her as a hostage or pawn for some future scheme, or convince her to help him take down her own father and take his resources for themselves. Instead, the only thing Giorno intended to use Melanie for was just as a little reminder to Junior that, should he decide to try and cut relations with him, or even try to kill him, he would make Melanie a touch upset. Despite the network he had built for himself in the little time he had been in this world, it was small compared to someone like Junior's own.

Junior's help was valuable. So Giorno had to do everything he could to make sure Junior had little-to-no reasons to end their deal, and being Melanie's newest "boy-toy" would help in that goal. But that idea seemed to have backfired now.

This was all, of course, something Giorno was going to keep to himself.

"I think you're being overly paranoid, Junior," Giorno said, the lie traveling through the air like a small breeze in winter, all but unnoticeable in the cold. "My feelings for your Melanie are genuine."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not. Do you think I would be stupid enough to ruin our business relationship for some Malchevilan plot that will end with you and everyone you care for dead? I'm not Torchwick, nor his insane employer."

"I never said why I thought you were using Melanie."

Giorno rolled his eyes. "You didn't have to. It's all but written on your face." He sighed. "It's good to be cautious Junior, I'm sure you wouldn't even be alive if you hadn't developed a sense of general distrust. But you shouldn't let paranoia color your every interaction. And do you seriously believe Melanie wouldn't realize when someone is manipulating her for such a reason like power?"

Junior slammed his fists on the desk. "Don't fucking try that," he said, the threat in his voice giving his words a sharpened edge. "Making it all sound like I'm being reasonable but not at the same time, like Melanie wouldn't do stupid shit. Trying to make me doubt my own gut."

"And what, exactly," Giorno said, crossing his arms, eyes narrowing just a touch, lips in a firm line. "Is your gut telling you right now?"

"That there's something about you I shouldn't trust." Junior glared. "Something about you that always makes my skin crawl. Your eyes, they always look so fake when you interact with anyone; not just Melanie, but Milita too, and all of my boys." There was nothing but cold, hard finality in Junior's words. "Something that could put everyone here in danger."

"Junior. You're a criminal," Giorno said, doing his best not to sound mocking. "Everything you do puts a target on not just your back, but also your families' own."

"You know damn well that's not what I mean. I don't know what exactly is going on in that head of yours, but I don't think it's something that's gonna end with you killing Torchwick. Or his bitch of a boss."

Giorno sighed, putting the perfect amount of exasperation into it. "Firstly, I can assure you that there's nothing fake about my interactions with Melanie or you or any of your staff," he lied. "Secondly, regarding my so-called 'plans,' even if you're right, why exactly do you think those plans would be to your detriment? I've done nothing but aid you as you have aided me. I told you about Torchwick and his boss, so I would think that would be enough for you to extend a bit of trust."

"I worked with Roman ever since he started out as a rookie," Junior said. "I never liked him, but after working with him for years, I trusted him not to try and screw me over. When I heard he was starting to work with terrorists, I asked him what the hell he was thinking, instead of just telling him to fuck off and never do business with him again. And I believed him when he told me that it was just a 'convenient' alliance to make some serious cash, nothing more.

Junior scowled, teeth visibly clenched. "That little shit lied right to my face. He was working for someone who, if that shit you showed me about her past 'exploits' is accurate, could damn well kill me and everyone in the Club, and he didn't so much as give me a warning. Roman's left me high and dry, something I never thought he'd do." He glared. "So if someone I've trusted for years stabs me in the back, how am I supposed to trust you? You came out of nowhere; no one had even heard the name 'Giorno Giovanna' until a few months ago. I've found literally nothing about you or your past despite how hard I searched."

He crossed his arms. "After everything I've seen you do; how much you unsettle me; how little I know about you; how the hell am I supposed to trust you?"

Giorno did not respond, only staring at Junior with emotionless eyes. Junior placed his hands on the desk, near his weapon. The threat was obvious. Giorno leaned back in his chair, tilting his head ever so slightly.

"Have you ever wanted something, Hei Xiong?"

Junior's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I don't repeat myself, you know this," Giorno said. He gestured at Junior, cheek resting in his palm, eyes unblinking. "Humor me, please."

Junior paused, contemplating how to respond. "What man hasn't?" he asked cautiously.

"You be surprised. Also, stop avoiding the question."

Junior glared, tense. "I'm a criminal. My father was one, my mother, everyone in my family. Some I liked more than others, but most were bastards. Still, when they were killed by some stupid gangbangers, I made sure they paid." For a moment, his tone shifted to something like nostalgia, or maybe remorse, but it quickly turned back to guarded. "I left my home, started my own business in Vale. I had eyes and ears everywhere, took in some brats that had been abandoned by their bitch of a mother, and became the best damn information broker in Remnant."

He crossed his arms. "What I want is to be someone invaluable. I don't want me or anyone who is loyal to me to have to worry about getting shot down by some random punk. I want to live a life where people would rather work with me instead of against me." He sighed, deep and heavy. "I spent a lifetime fighting, and I'm sick of it. I don't want territory or infamy, just a place to call home, and enough cash to set me and my family for life."

"That," Giorno said, lifting his head from his palm. "Is something I can respect it. The want for stability; peace. It's something I think most men want in their lives, deep down. Though, not me."

Junior's eyes narrowed. "Is this the part where I ask what you want?"

"No, this the part where I talk and you listen," Giorno said, and Junior scowled. "For a long time, I have only ever wanted one thing. Something that drove my every course of action, filled my body with strength. A dream. Though..." He trailed off, thinking back to his home, to his—he pushed those thoughts down. "Recent events have forced me to focus on other things. However, while some things are different now, others aren't. Even though I've had to put my dream on hold, there are certain things about it that still guide me. Aspects I work towards each day."

"And that is?"

"Control." He smiled; it was sharp, and showed off his teeth. "You are content to be an integral part of the criminal underworld, Junior. I, on the other hand, seek to stand at its zenith. To be the boss."

"You know, I'm not even surprised," Junior said, shaking his head. "Facing off against Roman, coming up with these strategies to humiliate and weaken him, all while trying to take down his boss? It all reeks of ambition. But, this isn't exactly convincing me to trust you. Ambitious people are the ones that make the biggest messes, who don't care who gets caught up and killed in their schemes, damn the consequences everyone else will have to deal with."

"Junior, of all the people in this city, I can say for certain I care the most about the consequences of my plots, and I'm doing my best to limit them."

"Really?"

"Do you think someone obsessed with only power would help the discarded of the White Fang? Would care if an innocent civilian died because of their actions? Would work as hard as they could to keep this conflict in the shadows for as long as they can, for they know that if they act too recklessly, their mysterious opposition will realize how big a threat they truly are, and will turn this city into a bloodbath?" He shook his head. "To become the true ruler of the underworld, I have to make sure that there is a city for both the criminals and the civilians to live in. Otherwise, I'd just be ruling over ashes."

"Just because you have sense doesn't make you trustworthy," Junior said, but his voice was a touch less sharp than before, somewhat willing to hear him out; no longer believing he was the same type of monster as Torchwick's boss.

Giorno smiled. "No, it doesn't," he said. "But do you know what does?"

"What?"

"Making sure that my plans benefit everyone, not just myself." Giorno reached for his pocket, making sure the motion was obvious and slow enough Junior wouldn't take it as a threat, and took out a Scroll. "That my allies are rewarded, instead of stabbed in the back."

He placed the Scroll on Junior's desk. Junior glanced at it. "What's on it?"

"See for yourself. It's unlocked."

Junior stared, not moving so much as a muscle. Then, slowly, he reached for the Scroll, never taking his eyes of Giorno. He brought up to his face, and read the contents displayed on it.

His eyes widened.

Skin paled as he began to read through his files.

Mouth slowing dropping.

When he was done, he placed the Scroll back onto the table with a shaky hand. "Gods..."

"I know," Giorno said with a frown.

"Just...that bitch is fucking crazy."

"Quite so."

"And you know for sure that's what she plans on doing to Vale?"

"Almost certainly. While I don't know everything, what I do know paints a grim picture. There are other possibilities, which I mentioned in the Scroll, but regardless, I can confidently say that Vale will be brought to its knees should she succeed in all her plots.

"And your plans...was that...all of them?"

Giorno stared, expression emotionless. "Yes," he lied. He hadn't put everything in that Scroll, but what he had put there was enough for Junior to know several of his plans and countermeasures. Enough that, should Junior decided to betray him, he would seriously inconvenience him.

But Giorno could recover, should that happen. And pay Junior back tenfold.

"You could have just shown me her plans," Junior said, a tremble to his voice, but the color had returned to his skin. There was a deep frown on his face as he let out a long breath, forcing himself to stop shaking. "I wouldn't have been okay working with you, but I sure as fuck would help you if only to stop that insanity from happening to Vale. Hell, why didn't you just open with that?"

"Because you are right about one thing: I have given you little reason to trust me," Giorno said. "I have wanted to keep as many cards as close to my chest as possible, and that included information I wasn't sure how you would react to. But now I see that it has only led to unnecessary animosity between us."

Giorno stood up from his chair. "Now, you know everything I do. There are no more secrets between us, Hei 'Junior" Xiong. You are as informed about the threat Vale faces as I do. So, what will you do? Try and go off on your lonesome, knowing what I know, and try to take her down by yourself? Or..." Giorno extended his hand. "Continue working with me. You saw my plans, Junior. You know there will be great things in store for you should we succeed, and you'll be one step closer to being invaluable. To your dream."

Junior stared at his hand, silent. Then, slowly, his gaze moved up to Giorno, staring right into his eyes.

"What you're planning," Junior said, lips moving into a frown. "It's risky. Hell, it's crazy."

"I prefer to think of it as 'necessary.' Some of the elements there are risky, I admit, but against this woman, the risks are unavoidable."

"If this doesn't work—"

"It will."

"How can you be certain?"

"Junior, you said that you haven't found out any information about my past. Care to know why?"

Junior hesitated, but slowly, he asked, "Why?"

"Because I don't make enemies, Junior." Giorno leaned closer, eyes harder than steel, voice a touch above menacing. "Only corpses."

Junior was silent.

"Regardless of her plans, regardless of her strength, Torchwick's employer will die," Giorno said, nothing but conviction in his voice. The look on his face was one of determination, one forged from battles against unimaginable opponents where it seemed his only path was defeat, yet he still won. It was the expression of a man that would never surrender no matter what opposition he faced, and that same strength, same finality, filled his words. "And we will stand victorious, at the top of the world. That is a promise."

Junior didn't respond. He only stared. Silence reigned in the room, one of deep thought. Giorno never looked away from Junior, eyes unblinking and still full of certainty. Of strength.

"I don't trust you," Junior said, breaking the silence. Giorno gave no response, expression unyielding. "But I do trust that you won't screw me like Roman did."

Junior grabbed his hand and shook it, grip firm but purposefully not as hard as he could make it. "You got me in your corner, Giovanna. Let's fuck over Roman and his boss."

Giorno grinned, and there was no doubt that it was genuine. "They won't know what hit them," he said, letting go of Junior's hands. "Now, let's get down to business. There's a reason I asked to meet you, after all."

Junior nodded, taking a seat. "The Huntsmen Torchwick's called in."

"How much about them do you know?" Giorno asked, sitting back down as well.

"Depends. Most are nobodies. Some of them are good, but one of them, is supposed to be dead."

Giorno raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"That's the guy you gotta look out for." Junior frowned; hard. "I don't know how the hell Torchwick found him, or even got him to come to Vale, but he has, and now we have to deal with another nutcase."

"Who?"

"They call him the Devil of the Snow."

"Rather ominous."

"You don't know the half of it." Junior took out a small thumb drive. "This has as much information on him as I could find. You're gonna wanna read every bit of it, trust me."

"I will," Giorno said, placing the Scroll in his pocket. "For now, let's talk about whatever Torchwick's told you about his or his employer's plans. I've noticed that the White Fang seem to be acting more violent than usual."

"Roman hasn't really talked to me much except for getting him in contact with the other Huntsmen, but from what he's told me, and what he hasn't told me,..."

Junior went on, and Giorno listened. Every detail about his enemies, he memorized. Plans rose in his mind, some discarded, others kept in little corners of his mind to later improve.

Every moment, he worked to return home; to his friends. So whoever this "Cinder Fall" was, she best be prepared for a man who would not stop until she was slain by his hands.

For no one would stop him from achieving his goals.

---

In the City of Mistral, under a black sky, cold rain pelting the dirt roads, there was a wanderer.

He knew not how he got here, to this city of scum and douchebaggery. His memories were like silk, hard to see, but every now and then, he got a glimpse, could feel it in his finger, before it fell away to the abyss. It was maddening. But not quite as much as the sheer hollowness that took the place of his heart.

The wandered loathed the fact that he was a wanderer. For so long, he was like this: aimless, having no idea what to do, what the point of his life was. He could not even say he was living, for that implied desire, some kind of will that made one want to see the next day. The wanderer did not have that.

All he had was a void that grew more and more as the days progressed

He walked along the muddy roads, enduring the looks from pedestrians about his disheveled clothing, his sunken face and empty eyes. He didn't care. Why should he, when he didn't even care about himself? He couldn't even remember the last time he had eaten or drank. All he had done was follow his feet, seeming to move on their own, for he certainly had no destination in mind.

Heavy step after heavy step. Limbs feeling like cement, blood as cold as a dead man's. The wanderer walked and walked; perhaps he would walk until he legs could move no more. When his heart finally beat its last beat, blood turning even colder and vision blacker than the night, maybe then, and only then, would the void be filled by the final touch of oblivion.

Heavy step after heavy step. Step. Step. Ste—

There was a sudden sound to his right. He turned.

On top of one of the nearby buildings, there was a large tv-screen. On it, was a reporter, mouth moving, sounds leaving them, but the words didn't quite pierce the constant, cotton-like static that clogged his ears. Still, the wanderer stared at the screen as he continued to walk. There was nothing better to look at, after all.

The reporter went on, and suddenly, a new image appeared on the screen. It was of a highway, flames dancing on its roads, some kind of flying machine hovering in the air, a spotlight aimed at someone on the ground.

Someone the screen zoomed in on, revealing bright blonde hair.

The wanderer stopped walking.

Bright blonde hair, and though the image quality was bad, he could make out a suit. A blue suit.

His eyes, cold and monotone for so long, suddenly brightened.

The person, the man, had on gloves. Gloves with ladybugs on them. And while he couldn't see the man's eyes, he could feel them. Even from who knows how far away, even from just a picture, the wanderer knew, for certain, they were blue.

At some point, he had moved. He stood at the base of the building, and slowly, his mouth moved, a voice that hadn't been used for what felt like years suddenly speaking.

"He's alive..."

His limbs that had felt so heavy were suddenly so light, as if a great weight was lifted off him. His heart that had all but stopped pumping blood came to life, beating a triumphant rhythm that rose in volume every second he could hear ringing in his ears.

"He's alive."

Even as he stood in the cold rain in his ruined clothes, exhausted beyond measure, his mouth pulled into a smile that could not stop growing, a mighty laugh escaping him.

"HE'S ALIVE!"

The void within him was completely suddenly filled with warmth. And no longer was he a wanderer. For he had found purpose.

Getting back to Giorno.

To Be Continued~

AN2: Hello all. It's been a while since I last posted anything. Or logged onto my account. Or do anything revolving around my writing, really. I want to explain why I've been gone for so long, but to do so, I need to provide quite a bit of background info and context.

For those of you who have been following me for a while, you know my update schedule has always been a bit scattered. Most of the time, I used to update once a month, move onto the next story, update that, then rinse and repeat. I've said before this schedule was mostly due to college and my job taking up most of my free time, but I've never gone into the details. Basically, while I was going to college, my job was at a pseudo outdoor resort/retreat center, and yes that is honestly the best way to describe it, where I was hired as a receptionist. I answered calls, checked in every guest that came through the doors, talked on the phone and scheduled in more guests for upcoming trips they wanted to take to our lovely resort, had to talk to more people for possible hours on end as I explained to them that no, we couldn't fit them in for the weekend, we were booked, then deal with them yelling at me for God knows how long, had to make sure the guests I could see weren't acting out of control else I had to inform them they either had to calm down or leave, which always led to some wonderful conversations invoicing shouting and plenty of insults, all while sitting in the world's most uncomfortable chair and then driving an hour back to my place and then collapsing into my bed.

Despite the assholes I had to deal with while working there, it was a decent job. My boss was a good person, my hours were somewhat flexible, depending on the day and how busy things were, and I liked my coworkers. The pay wasn't exactly great, but for a college student that had learn to survive off nothing but cups of ramen noodles for a month, it was enough. I could smile and nod along as asshole #121 screamed and ranted at me for mispronouncing his last name, because hey, things could be worse.

It's not even funny how right I was.

But before I get into that, let's talk about college. The college I went to was fairly standard, with professors who cared and some who didn't, classmates I liked and some I could do without, and I went through all the ups and downs most people experience here, with maybe a few more downs than the average person. I talked about how my friends and people I respected have called my writing horrible, but for a bit more context, these friends were ones I recently made, and were all people who I shared writing classes with. And I was taking writing classes because, shocker, I want to be a writer. It's been a dream of mine for so long, and the moment I entered college, I decided to do everything I could to make the dream a reality. I was planning on double majoring in English and Creative Writing, so I had a lot of classes involved in the craft of writing; some of them were good, others, I wonder how the person who was teaching them hadn't been fired. But in a lot of my classes, we often had to share a lot of pieces with each other, and so I shared something with my friends that I had been working on for a long time, something I was immensely proud of, and got told, in no uncertain terms, was shit. Even one specific girl, someone I thought was a good buddy of mine, who I had a great deal of respect for, told me that she thought it was horrible; she didn't even offer much constructive criticism, none of them did in fact. What made it worse was how, the next day, my "friends" were telling me how I should maybe "consider another career," because writing "seemed a bit above my level." Seeing all their smug, patronizing faces, the way they arrogantly told me that I wasn't "as good" as them, I told them I would give their advice the respect it deserves.

As in, none.

So, what does this have to do with the update schedule for my stories? Well, between my job, college, my desire to prove those assholes wrong, to prove to myself I was a writer, I was pushing myself to the max. I was writing about a dozen different papers or short stories or poems for every one of my classes, writing and sending even more stories to literary magazines, taking any shift I possibly could at my job to get some cash, and tried my best to update my stories for you guys. As you can probably guess, doing so much often left me exhausted. There were days when I honestly didn't feel like getting out of bed, and I always had to force myself to because I had class or had to get to my job. And when you add in all the stress of dealing with rude jerks or snobby classmates and eleven page papers due within a few days, it started to have an effect on my health. So much so, that there were times when the thought of writing a single sentence made me honestly sweat and even a bit nauseous. So, sometimes, to make sure I didn't collapse from exhaustion, I had to take a few breaks from writing. But since I couldn't do that with my schoolwork, that meant I had to take breaks on my hobby writing. As in, any writing I genuinely did for fun.

Basically, the reason why my updates were always so slow or have long hiatuses was because I was so drained from both my job and writing college papers and short stories that I could just barely complete that I couldn't write anything else without risk of having a breakdown.

And you know what, I think I did a decent enough job in making sure I didn't go insane. Sure, sometimes I had to take extended breaks, sometimes I have to force myself to sound way more happier than I actually am, sometimes I had to push myself to do the things that once came so easily to me, and still have to do so, but I still wrote whenever I had any spare time and was in a better headspace.

But, as mentioned previously, things got worse.

Let's talk about family. Everyone's got one, and I'm no different. I got a Mom and Dad, and even a little brother who is just the most adorable little smartass you've ever seen. But what I want to talk about right now, is my dad.

He almost died from a seizure.

It happened in December, before Christmas. My dad's always had a weakened immune system, one that only got worse when both of his kidneys failed. He'd been taking different medications for a while, going to the hospital for dialysis to make sure he doesn't get sicker, but one day, when he woke up, he had a bad reaction to a new batch of medicine his doctor prescribed him to help with his blood pressure, threw up for eleven minutes straight while sweating and trembling like he just ran a marathon, and then had a seizure.

After the ambulance brought him to hospital, as I sat nearby him with my mom crying hysterically into my shoulder, my brother nowhere in sight because he had broken down at the sight of our dad convulsing and screaming and had to say at a friend's house because there was no way he could handle what he would see at the hospital, I looked at the bed where my dad "rested." There were tubes shoved up his mouth and nose, the damn heart monitor nearby beeped and beeped so much and so loudly I nearly had an aneurysm listening to it while my dad moaned and thrashed with his wrists bound to the bed to prevent him from removing the tubes in his sleep, and then I thought that this would be it. That this would be the last time I would ever see him "alive." Tied to machines and tubes and being denied a chance to say goodbye to any of us.

Thankfully, I was wrong. My dad got better, and the seizure didn't damage his brain in any way, which was a big worry for me and my family at the time, and so when he was healthy enough, he went back home with all of us in tow. But I had to take some time off from writing. I had already finished the fall semester for my college, my second to last semester, in fact, so I could focus entirely on my family and helping them. We talked with a few doctors, and after some discussion, decided to do home dialysis instead of going three times a week to the hospital. So, after taking some classes to be properly trained in home dialysis, we had everything set up. We were in the beginning of February, College was starting up again, and being assured by my mom and dad they had everything under control, and that they'd call me if they needed help, I went back to complete the last semester of my senior year. I got the same receptionist job as before, though this time, I was giving a lot of what I was getting paid to my parents. We had a lot of medical bills to pay, and they still had to take care of my brother as well as themselves, so they needed all the help they could get. It's not like I was using it for much since I didn't really do much at college beyond writing papers and stories for classes, certainly not hanging out with anyone there, and I had saved enough cash where, so long as I budgeted things correctly, I thought I would be able to handle anything life throws at me.

I was wrong.

So, so, very wrong.

When March came, everything went to hell. Because this was when the coronavirus became a full scale pandemic, and wrecked everyone's shit.

I was no exception.

Now, for a bit of context, by this point in my college career, after a lot networking, internships, writing non-stop through blood, sweat, and tears, getting rejection letter after rejection letter but not giving up and even having some of my own stories physically published, I had about three interviews set up from three separate publishing companies for three different entry-level jobs, one of which, I was all but guaranteed after I graduated, and I was well on my way to double majoring, something I worked my ass off for since first getting into college. Even if I didn't get hired for those companies, I had contacts within a few other businesses in the writing industry, so I should have been able to get a decent job after I graduate. But, because of the virus, all of my plans, years of hard work, have just crumbled to dust.

The offers from publishing companies were suddenly retracted, due to them having to focus more on staying in business than on hiring, and the other companies I had contact with were a similar story, with the only difference being that most of them went out of business and my contacts were suddenly out of the job and needed to focus on keeping their families fed then helping college students get into the industry. Even my boss at the receptionist job had to let me go due to the cuts and changes he had to make because the virus meant he couldn't afford to keep me on staff. And in the process of moving classes online, a lot of the professors at my school contracted the virus, with some of them dying, or learned their family caught the virus, and they left to be with their loved ones, possibly for the last time, meaning that they couldn't teach their students. And with so many professors now gone, the school didn't have nearly enough staff that could teach in place of all the professors that left, and so, they cancelled those classes. Which meant that it was no longer possible to get credits for that course. And for me, that meant that certain core requirements that I needed to complete one of my majors were abruptly cancelled, and with no chance of that class being offered any time soon, it meant that I wasn't going to be able to get a major I literally worked every day of my life to get.

I wasn't the only one impacted, and this news caused a lot of people to get upset. The administrators at my school responded with an email apologizing for the sudden cancelations of so many classes, offered a bunch of "alternative" or "new" classes online that the students could take in place of them so they'd have enough credits to graduate, and advised people that they will, most likely, hire enough staff to fill in for the next semester who could teach in place of their predecessors, and so if anyone wanted to, they could sign up for said classes now, with seniors getting priority over anyone else. But this did nothing for the hundreds of students, myself included, that were expected to graduate that spring with a major they worked years to get, but now suddenly weren't sure if they would even be out of school within the next year, because at that point, it looked like the virus was going to be around for a while, possibly getting worse before it got better, and God only knows how it might affect the next semester.

I and a lot of other students who faced similar problems, whose careers paths were shattered, whose majors we worked hard to earn were no longer a possibility, whose job offers were now firmly in the trash, had to come to a difficult decision: take these "alternate" classes and graduate now, throwing ourselves into a pandemic-ridden world the likes of which no one has ever seen, unsure if we'll get any type of job whatsoever due to all our options being gutted like a damn fish, risking our financial futures and possibly even our lives, or, take another semester, take the classes we need to earn the majors we want, if they are even available, all while putting ourselves into even more debt for possibly zero gain.

Most of us took the first option. For me, it ultimately came down to not having nearly enough money to risk another semester, especially when I still might not get the two majors I wanted and risk putting myself in further debt for no reason, and because of my family's health. Specifically, my dad's.

Ever since the pandemic started, the thing I was terrified of the most was the health of my dad, what with him being far more susceptible to viruses due to his weak immune system. I was in contact with him and my mom every day, making sure they took proper safety precautions, and that no one went out any more than they had too. My parents' home wasn't technically in a "red zone," if only just barely, but it was in a city that was cramped enough and had a large enough population that the virus could spread very easily. Thankfully, my brother didn't have to go to in-person school by that point, and could just take his classes online, so I didn't have to worry about him as much as my dad, but he was still shaken and scared by the whole thing. I was honestly tempted to just say "screw it" and leave college to make sure my parents and brother were going to be okay, but they, as in my parents, insisted I finish school, and that they could handle their own health. They also knew that all of my job opportunities or offers I had were no longer a possibility, that the chances of me getting a job in this environment when no one was sure what the hell was going to happen were basically zero, and that I was rapidly running out of cash because of just, everything, so they said I should stay with them until I could actually get a decent job.

So, when I finished my last year of college, no graduation ceremony, just an email saying "Congratulations!" in the weirdest font I've ever seen, I left college, and immediately moved back with my parents. I didn't have the majors I worked myself to the bone to earn, just a single Creative Writing one, and only barely that, I didn't have the jobs I was sure I would have, or even any job at all, and to top it all off, I hadn't been happy with a single thing I written since December, mostly because I hadn't written anything outside of shitty short stories for my classes or bland and boring essays I had to write every other week.

I honestly never felt more defeated in my entire life. I couldn't help support my family in any way. When the first lockdowns started, my mom could do her job online, as she's an accountant, and had just enough clot in the company she worked at that she wasn't in danger of losing it, and my dad had some cash saved up over the years, so we weren't in danger of losing the house or starving. But, as the months progressed, as my mom's company faced more and more issues because of the virus, her hours became incredibly hectic and infrequent, she was no longer getting paid nearly as much as she used to, and my dad's savings seem to be drying up faster and faster. The bills were piling up; still are, in fact, with little signs of getting better. I won't lie, I have honestly had nightmares where my family and I have lost everything, ones that seem closer and closer as things get worse.

I tried to find a job. I tried to get hired anywhere, sent out what feels like thousands of emails, but seemingly every place in applied to either couldn't afford to hire any new workers, that most of the stuff I was experienced in and had included in my résumé were things that they didn't really want or need in their employees and wouldn't be useful to their business, or just told me, in a subtle, arrogant way but lacking just enough "in-your-face-insults" they could plausibly deny what they meant and I was misconstruing their words, that they wouldn't hire someone with a Creative Writing major and not a "real one."

And every time I had to step onto streets crowded with people who didn't stay far enough apart because they don't care, where some people didn't even bother to cover their damn mouths when they coughed and sneeze, I was scared of the virus. Not just because I was worried about my health, but because I was terrified of the idea of getting the virus, and then giving it to my dad.

Since I've come back from college, I've been scared shitless of the idea that I might just accidentally kill my own dad.

Every time I, my brother, or my mom go out, we make sure to scrub down thoroughly, making sure we don't get near my dad without showering first after coming back in, making sure our clothes don't so much as touch my dad's own by having separate bins for both clean and dirty clothes, and all while we check him every day for any signs of the virus. But even with all the precautions, there are times when I think he might have caught it. Because of his weakened immune system, even with all the medication, my dad still gets sick. Sometimes it's just a cough. Sometimes it's a fever or a stomach bug. Sometimes it's just him feeling tired and having to stay in bed all day. And everytime he gets sick, my family has no idea if this is just a normal virus, or if it's COVID. And not knowing, is terrifying.

When he gets up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, coughing up a storm, sometimes even vomiting, trying not to wake anyone else up, I peek outside the door, watching him, and I think to myself, "is this it? Is this the last time I'll see my dad alive? And if it is, did I kill him?"

So, to put it simply, I haven't updated in so long because I've been emotionally and physically drained from constant college work and general feelings of exhaustion and failure, barely graduated with just a single major instead of the two I should have gotten, no job whatsoever because the virus pushed any options I had of getting hired right out the damn window and into a dumpster fire, and to top off all this awful crap, I now have to constantly worry if my own dad is gonna die because I didn't wash my hands thoroughly enough or if I happened to bump into someone with the virus and gave it to him or a million other reasons that have driven me fucking insane for the last nine months all while I do my best to try and find a job and help out my family but can't because everything is just fucked!

It's been hell, basically. For a while, I've questioned what the fuck I was thinking trying to be a writer when seemingly everyone, my peers, my professors, my friends, told me I wasn't good enough, and now don't have a job because I wasted four years of my life on the wrong degree. I started hating the fact that I wasted so much of my life on something that couldn't help me pay the bills or help my family, and I started to hate myself just as much. With every rejected job offer, with every fucking time I saw my dad coughing or watched as my mom looking haggard and exhausted as she paid another bill from a mountain of them, I started getting angrier and angrier, and I couldn't so much as look at myself without thinking "what a stupid fucking idiot." And when the anger reached its peak, when I just could barely stop myself from shouting at someone who so much as looked at me funny, when I I was forced to interact with assholes because some virus had screwed up my life enough I was forced to apply for their shitty cashier job that paid nothing, but was rejected anyway, I just...stopped. Getting angry, getting sad, getting emotional at all, because I was so tired of everything going wrong. I felt more like a living corpse than a person.

And for a while, that's all I was. Eventually I did find some part time gigs or one-off jobs that paid next to nothing, focused entirely on that job and when it was done I started immediately looking for the next, went to bed, then rinse, lather, repeat. My family noticed just how off my behavior had become, and so, had a talk with me. Multiple ones, in fact. A lot of times they involved, shouting, cursing, me being a stubborn idiot. But one day, when I was in my car, coming back from another failed grocery run because everything was either sold out or too expensive, parked outside my house, I stopped. With my car playing the news, just talking about the virus, as usual, I stared at the mirror. I saw the ugly face staring back at me, lined with stress marks and deep bags under its eyes, hair a mess and glasses cracked because the idiot wearing the face couldn't be bothered to fix either. I don't know how long I stared at it, but at some point, I leaned back in my chair, took of my mask, and just massaged my face with my hands, like that would somehow fix everything wrong with it. I asked myself, "is this how you want to spend the rest of your life." I said no, and I immediately followed up with, "then what are you going to do?"

I didn't have an answer. I just stayed in my car, staring at nothing. Eventually, I felt the need to do something, anything, so I started rummaging through my car, throwing away any garbage I could see into a big plastic bag I happened to have in my bag. I opened my glove compartment, threw away a lot of crap, but as I did so, something slid out of the compartment and onto the floor. I looked down, and I saw a small, black pocket notebook. I picked it up, and when I saw the cover, I instantly remembered where, and why, I got this.

In my second year of college, one of my writing professors had us buy a pocket notebook, and he asked us to keep it with us as much as we reasonably can. He said that whenever we had an idea for a story, no matter what it was, we should write it down in that book. When someone in the class pointed out we could do the same with our phones, he agreed, but he explained, "there's something different about writing something down on pen and paper than it is on your phones or computers. I won't lie and say it isn't convenient, it most certainly is, but on paper, you can make little edits to what you wrote that just aren't possible on a phone. You see what the past you liked about your ideas with the emphasis you put on certain words or the little notes you left just below them. Or even just how much you hated them, looking at the amount of times you crossed something out or scribbled over lines and lines of work to leave a little footnote that says, 'no. Bad idea.' You can see all the imperfections you had, and how they all added up to the story in your hands."

He didn't grade us on our ideas, just that we had a book or something similar, and he just asked us to write in it when we had the chance. I kept the book, decided I might as well use it so not to waste money, and wrote down in it, a lot, in fact, but I thought I lost it during my junior year. I opened the book up, and started to read.

It was full of ideas for fanfics.

Some of them were things I could tell I had been excited for, like an idea for a Lilo & Stitch/Pokemon Crossover, with a bunch of possible plot threads written in the tiny margins. Some were less good; I still have no idea what past me was thinking when they wrote "E.T Vs the Predator (and maybe Schwarzenegger)". One of them, a JoJo Phantom Blood and Hellsing Crossover, was something that rapidly spawned a hundred ideas in me, and thinking about all the ways that the crossover could go, all the battles that could take place, before I knew it, I felt excited at all the stories suddenly spawning in my head.

But the excitement, and the ideas, left just as quickly as they appeared. It was fun thinking about fanfics, but my life was just too hectic now to focus on things like that. I needed a job now more than ever. I loved writing, but no one was paying me to do so.

I swear, in that moment, the dome light of my car turned on, whether because it had been on the fritz all week, divine intervention, I don't know, but what I did know, was that I had an idea. Something that could help me revive dreams I thought were dead, and help out my family at the same time. "But," I asked myself, "should I take a risk and follow it?" I looked back at my little pocketbook, then at my house, imagining my sick father, my tired mother, or my scared brother and the bills we still had to pay, how I couldn't find any sort of decent paying job and how the virus seemed to get worse and worse with every day. I thought how miserable I was, how often my mother said that I was just so monotone and lifeless, how worried my father was about my own health rather than his own declining health, how even my own brother seemed to think there was something wrong with me as he tried to help, and how just by holding a book full of ideas I felt better than I had in months.

In a shitty car outside my house, I came to a decision, and let out my battle cry.

"Fuck it!"

Which brings me to now.

My last gambit. What may very well be the last things I'll ever have the chance to write if things don't look up. I am now using my writing and the following I have gathered to help me and my family in our hour of need.

So I ask you all, if you can, to please support me on p a tr eon.

Yes, I opened an account. Full of tiers, rewards, and everything else you'd expect, all under the name Black Mage of Phantasm.

Let me say right now, this is not a paywall of any sort: chapters will not be "exclusively" held only on p a tr eon. I will upload anything and everything I write the moment they're complete, as I have been doing since I started posting my stories online. There will be rewards should you become a member, like access to a private Discord, feedback for any of your works, one-on-one writing advice and more, but the main point of this p a tr eon is to let anyone who is willing to help support me financially, and also allow me to focus more on my writing as every bit helps me take care of my family.

I know some people have mixed feelings at best when it comes to this sort of thing, but right now, with the virus making getting a steady job all but impossible for me, I need as much cash as possible to deal with a mountain of college debt and medical bills. I won't pretend money doesn't play a role in my decisions, but with the financial troubles we're facing, I need to help my family in any way I can. After everything they've done for me, everything they've gone through, I'll use anything and everything at my disposal to help them out, and that includes my writing. But that doesn't mean I'm only doing this for money, because let me tell you, when I started writing again, when I put the words down onto the page for the first time in what feels like a lifetime ago, I felt happy. I can't remember a time I wrote so much in so little time, and I am more than willing to put this new energy to good use.

I know things are awful for just about everyone right now, but for anyone that has money to spare, all I ask is that you consider making a contribution to my account, and I'll try to make any rewards I offer worth whatever amount you pledge. Thank you all for taking the time to read this author's note. To my friends, I'm sorry I suddenly stopped talking to you or never responded to your messages; I just needed to get away.

If this was a bit rambly, apologies, but I wrote this all in one sitting. Regardless of if you pledge to my account or not, know that I love every single reader of my stories with all my heart. For now, I must say goodbye, as I look for another job, and try to squeeze out as many words as I can during every bit of my free time. Merry Christmas, and happy holidays everyone. I hope you're better off than I am.