Morning, folks. Before we get started with this one, I'd like to thank you for indulging me with this little side arc. "Carry the Blessed Home" was a bit of a test run for a full story idea that I had. I wanted to see if you guys would be interested in seeing a full campaign written out like this, but I also wanted to see if I could write something like this first.

So, let me know if you're interested in seeing this idea continue in a separate story, because I still have quite a few ideas on how to make this pod technology of Seto's into a much bigger thing than we have here.

It's only five chapters, so we didn't get much of a chance to see the game play out, but it's five of the longest chapters I've written for this particular story, so hopefully there was enough.

This final installment, subtitled "Pale Turns the Innocent," is the longest of all five. So, with that said, enjoy.


1.


Trevahn Fremont was a pragmatic man, the sort of man nobody liked for long because that very pragmatism—while a blessing in many respects—often led him to be the bearer of hard truths, the sorts of truths that most people couldn't swallow. Such truths could cut, and most people hated bleeding.

He could have done this himself. He could have handled the work with his own hands, and been done with the song and dance. But Trevahn was a godly man, a devoted man, and he knew well his place. So he set the path in front of others, like a shepherd, and waited for his flock to follow him.

Which, indirectly or directly, tended to explain his drinking habits.

There were five of them, which was fitting. Each of them didn't simply jump at his order, which was a good sign. After a moment of contemplation, Trevahn could see written in their faces that each of them had different reasons for hesitating. He hadn't necessarily expected this, but now that he saw it, he realized that this was a good sign as well. It was perfect. Five champions, with five callings.

It was almost providence.

"Kill a boy?" the orc asked in a low, threatening rumble. Trevahn's eyes locked onto the creature as it hefted its axe. "You would have us set our weapons against a child? For what crime? What possible sin could he have committed, tiny and hairless as he is, that you would have us execute him?"

Trevahn's lips curved. "Vilaya," he whispered, too low for the others to hear.

Little Prince Selbin's eyes were like twin, terrified moons set into his face, and he seemed drawn to the orc, who spoke words that sang in his ears. The child licked at his lips.

Trevahn said, "Magic is a rare form of . . . blessing. Not many understand its use, nor its risks. Our little princeling only sought to help his queen. Protect his people from the marauders south of the Wastes. But the spells he wrought in chalk and blood called the long sleep upon us all. In his blood runs the magic that calls the dead to us. Only by spilling that blood can the call be rescinded."

"Is it certain?" the little magician offered in a little pip of a voice as it danced this way and that on the balls of its feet. Selbin whimpered. "Is it sure?" Eyeing Trevahn suspiciously, she declared: "Other ways, other spells. This one knows many magicks, this one knows many ways. Spilling blood without reason! Killing blood without cause! Waste! Tragic waste to kill magicians! Stupid waste to kill smartlings!"

Trevahn ticked down his mental list. "Ulria," he said softly. She heard him.

Voices began to sound from the crypts behind them. Trevahn turned slowly, watching without feeling as the darkness remained woefully intact. Then he turned back to regard the others. The boy with the fetish for knives was watching the dark as well. The knight was silent.

The druidess was focused on the boy. Trevahn realized that it was her turn next.

She knelt down beside Selbin. "How long have you been trapped here, youngling?" she asked in a gentle voice. The boy turned to look at her, opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find his voice. This seemed to distress him more than the threat of the weapons and armor surrounding him on all fronts, because he clutched at his throat and looked about to cry.

The druidess put a hand on the child's shoulder. "Shhh . . . little one. There, now. No fear. Let go of the fear. It will strangle you." Selbin eyed her with sudden terror, and when she smiled and held out her arms, the boy threw himself at her and sobbed silently. His throat worked, and strangled little whimpers made its way out into the sterile air.

The druidess rocked the young prince like a mother would. "Shhh . . . there we go. That's a baby. That's my boy. Let it out. Let it all out . . ." She stroked Selbin's alabaster hair. "No one's going to hurt you." She eyed Trevahn savagely. "No one's going to kill you. You're safe now."

Trevahn turned away, ticking down the list again. "Allacinne."

The darkness began to speak again, and Trevahn put a hand on his weapon. "Well, now. Best we'd make a decision quickly, then. Do we do the work set out for us? Do we end this façade, and let the dead sleep? Or do we protect a symbol of lost innocence at the cost of a country?"

The knight's eyes narrowed.

Trevahn looked back at him. "They're coming."


2.


Connor turned to face the others, eyes looking feverish. He'd been contemplating the dark like he thought it might actually rise up in some physical form and swallow him. "Well?!" he demanded. "The flower child's made her choice! Do we back her play?"

"Careful, knife-master," Jonah intoned. "Your anachronism is showing."

Connor sneered. "Shut up."

Rebecca threw herself to her feet and grabbed Mokuba by his shoulder-plates. "You're our last line of defense! Protect him! We'll handle them."

Mokuba eyed his friend solemnly, then turned to regard the boy. Sighing, he tightened his grip on his weapon. "Go," he said.

Rebecca smiled, then nodded to the others. "Let's show this fallen lord why we've been called. I don't know about you, but I wasn't chosen for my baby-killing skills."

Connor smirked, and flipped two of his knives into his hands.

Jonah slung his axe from its place on his shoulder, and it crashed into the floor of the crypt. Megan zipped around the orc like an excitable lightning bolt. Trevahn sighed. "The will of the champions?" he asked, eyeing the ceiling as though whatever god he worshipped might give him an answer. "Well, then. I suppose it would be my duty to join them." He looked back at Mokuba. "After all, you would surely fight me back if I tried to circumvent the will of your compatriots."

Mokuba eyed the battered noble.

He didn't speak.


3.


Trevahn Fremont wasn't graceful. He wasn't mesmerizing. He didn't even seem particularly skilled with the iron blade he had gripped in his gloved fist. He brawled like a barfly with a chip on his shoulder, not so much slicing through the undead as he was hacking, beating, bludgeoning them into pulp.

More corpses lay at his feet than any of the others.

While Connor, Megan, Jonah, and Rebecca tried their best to keep pace with him, they all realized that this game wasn't about high-minded, epic fantasy; this was gritty, dirty, blood-spattered, and Trevahn wasn't some knight in shining armor here to show them how it was done.

He was the true face of a medieval army: brutal and unrepentant.

Rebecca shot a hand out in front of her, wrenched it into a claw, and watched with a grim kind of satisfaction as a thorn-ridden vine snapped out of the stones in the ceiling and wrapped around a zombie's neck. It rose up like a noose, and the thing's head popped off.

Megan shot lightning bolts from her thin fingers, while Jonah's axe whirled around him like a savage metal tornado. He, like Trevahn, was not pretty. He was not impressive. He was a wild animal, howling in abandon as the groans and grunts of the living dead bounced off the walls of an ancient catacomb.

Connor dipped and weaved through the melee, slicing off limbs and chopping at necks with his thin blades. More than one dagger hilt lay embedded in the skull of a corpse. Jonah was the first to really pay attention to the boy's character and its unreasonably dexterous movements.

Something dawned in his face, and he grinned. He looked at Megan and Rebecca in turn. "I think I've been thinking too small," he rumbled. "I've been using this thing—" he lifted his axe "—the same way I would. Hacking and slashing. But lookit him. Ducking and dancing around. This system doesn't give a shit what we can do. We're big damn heroes! We're in a game!"

Jonah reached out and clutched a zombie's head in one huge fist, and sent it crashing into the wall. It exploded in a sudden shower of gore and stone shards. Jonah laughed, and suddenly his orc's rampage rose to a whole new level. He broke into a run, leaped to the side, kicked off another wall, spun into a front flip and sent his axe in a downward chop that sliced a zombie clean in half.

Megan, taking her friend's cue, took on a level of speed such that none of the others could even see her; she became lightning, and crashes of thunder reverberated through the caves and nearly deafened them all.

Rebecca closed her eyes, and breathed slowly. Vines suddenly exploded beneath her feet, and lifted her up into the air. They wrapped around her limbs, keeping her suspended like they were comprising a living, writhing throne, and when the druidess's eyes opened again, they glowed like silver starlight.

The ceiling burst open, and moonlight shone through a hundred cracks and holes. The corpses caught in the light all burst into sudden, cleansing flame. Rebecca lay suspended in the air like she was preparing for a crucifixion.

Trevahn had long since stopped fighting, electing instead to stare at his new companions. Gone was the flippant arrogance. Gone was the misanthropic boredom. Something suspiciously close to a smile rose on his haggard face.

". . . Chosen champions, indeed."

Each of the four players heard Seto Kaiba's low chuckle.

Now you're getting it, he said.


4.


A creature borne of a sailor's night terrors tumbled and slithered. Its skin was blotted and blue, and it was oozing some kind of watery, puss-filled liquid with each lurching, squelching step. It opened its mouth and roared, revealing black gums and broken shards of teeth. Ropes of thick saliva swung out and dripped onto the floor.

Jonah stared. ". . . Fuck."

The thing was huge, towering over the orc. The top of its head actually scrapped against the ceiling of the tomb, even though it was hunched over. If it had had room to stand at its full height, the gargantuan zombie would have reached ten feet.

Trevahn reeled backward, blinked, and shook his head. "Saints preserve us," he whispered.

Connor smacked Jonah's midriff with the back of one hand. "How's this for an anachronism?" he asked. "Boss fight."

And he dove forward.

"Brat's got more balls than the lot of us," Trevahn hissed, and sheathed his machete with a decisive jerk of his fist. Reaching around, he pulled a crossbow from its place beneath his worn leather pack. The players all did a double-take; had their NPC companion been carrying such a weapon before?

Had he been carrying a pack?

Setting a thick metal-tipped bolt into position, Trevahn grinned a savage grin. "Father, Our Father," he murmured slowly, almost melodically, "teach us, Thou, to fly." As the huge zombie lumbered forward, intent upon the white-clad boy, he fired.

The projectile slammed into the giant's forehead. It let out a screech fit to give Heaven nightmares. Connor scrambled up the thing's side and drove his knife deep into the creature's neck. Another swing, and another blade embedded itself into murky, drowned flesh.

The blades ripped.

The giant screamed, threw up its head, and smashed into the ceiling.

Jonah reeled back and threw his axe, which found the giant's arm and sliced it clean off. Megan zapped the other arm with a screeching, searing bolt that nearly disintegrated the offending appendage. Crippled and bleeding, the creature no longer seemed insurmountable . . .

Though there was still a singular problem: it wasn't dying.

It was shouting and shrieking and wailing and bleeding . . . but it wasn't dying.

It was, however, wreaking havoc on the architecture.

When the ceiling began to crack, and shudder, Jonah looked up.

". . . Fuck."


5.


Stone and soil and the skeletons of the long-buried dead began to rain down on them, as the entire complex began to shatter. The humongous zombie was no longer a direct threat, electing as it was to thrash around and send its hideous bulk into the walls, pounding and hailing down ruin upon the heads of those who would dare desecrate the unholy court of the lichyard.

It happened so quickly that no one had time to react.

A slab of granite dropped, the boy in white barreled into the tiny maiden magician, and then . . . silence. Crushing, cruel silence. Silence so pervasive that even the howling of a monster could not break it. There was so much debris blocking the pathway that the huge beast had no hope of reaching them.

Trevahn was the first to notice that the number that comprised "them" had decreased by one.

He kneeled down, and took hold of Connor's gloved hand.

It was the only part of him extending out of the pile of stone.

Megan looked horrified as she hesitantly stepped forward.

Trevahn said, ". . . Aca."

"What?" It was Jonah. "What did you say?"

"Aca," Trevahn repeated, rising to his feet. He stared at the squalling thing on the other side of Connor's cairn. He sighed. "Saint Aca. Bearer of Sacrifice." He turned to face his two companions.

"Another story?" the magician asked; her lilting voice was gone. "Another myth?"

"No. No myth. This is history. Saint Aca is . . . a pillar of the world. When Father God brought this world of ours into itself, brought a part of Himself into existence so that we, His children, might live . . . He first ensured that we would be taught. He took of Himself, built of Himself, five daughters. Each daughter became the mortal holder of one of Father God's cardinal virtues. Saint Aca, Blind Aca, most believe is the eldest. She is the eternal ascetic, giving of herself that others might prosper." He gestured. "Your boy. Rash and sharp-tongued as he was, gave of himself. That you," he pointed at the magician, "might live."

Jonah—struggling to remind himself that this was a freaking game, and that Connor Brinkley was no more dead, or even injured, than Seto Kaiba was—said, "And the others? The other four? Who are they?"

Trevahn pointed to him. "Saint Vilaya. Warden of Justice. The Lady in the Fountain, she who seeks all that is right, and all that is deserved. She was the first soldier, first to take up a weapon to defend her sisters."

He pointed to Megan. "Saint Ulria, Keeper of Wisdom. She took up her pen and wrote the words and rules of Father God, that we should remember them, and always keep our minds sharp, keen, never wasted, and open to all."

He looked at Rebecca with a grin that seemed wholly inappropriate. "Saint Allacinne. Deliverer of Mercy. When all hope is lost, and all her sisters have, for whatever reason, given a person up for a lost cause . . . it was Lady Allacinne who welcomed them. Enveloped them, embraced them. Protected them. She is the youngest of the five. The sweetest, the kindest . . . and yet, given proper incentive, the fiercest."

Rebecca frowned, and crossed her arms. "Are you saying . . . that we . . . ?"

"With no prompting whatsoever, without any intervention, each of you have taken up a separate mantle." He gestured to Connor. "Sacrifice."

Jonah said: "Justice."

Megan murmured: "Wisdom."

Rebecca offered: "Mercy."

"Who's the fifth?" Jonah asked after a moment. "You've only named four of these saints. But you said your god made five daughters."

"Ah." Trevahn's grin took on a dangerous quality, and his eyes turned flinty. "Well, now. Don't go asking a priest in town about her. Eldest, first of Father God's illustrious progeny. Wisest, fairest, strongest, most dutiful of all. The Fallen Pillar, who dropped from God's house and threw herself upon the shattered gravestones of all who have died in His glory."

"Fallen?" Megan repeated. "A fall from grace?"

Trevahn bowed his head. "Aye. Molestrine. Dearest of all. Most hated of all. When a king grows too prosperous, too mighty, to be contained . . . it is she who feeds him poison. When an emperor descends into total debauchery, it is she who delivers a knife to his back. When there are too many mouths to feed, she descends with plague and famine. When an army is so dragged down and ruined that it holds no hope of ever rising to see another dawn, she sends ruination to its enemies. She is the balance. She is love, and hatred. She does what needs doing. She is what must."

For a long moment, there was absolute silence.

Then the floor started to shake, the stones began to glow, and a new sound shook the earth: sobbing.

A child . . . sobbing.

Trevahn turned back the way they'd come.

Where they'd left the prince, and the knight.


6.


Rebecca was the first to rush into the chamber, with Jonah and Megan not far behind. Trevahn was practically sauntering.

Mokuba's knight knelt in the center of the room, resting his forehead on both folded hands, which had hold of the pommel of his sword. The tip of that silver-edged weapon was buried in the heart of little Prince Selbin, whose young face was frozen in a grimace of absolute terror.

"What . . . what have you done?!" Rebecca screeched.

Mokuba stood slowly, smoothly, and removed his blade from its sacrilegious sheathe. He turned. "What I had to," he said slowly. "Do you hate me? Then hate me. It had to be done."

"I thought you followed the Platinum Dragon," Jonah rumbled. His eyes were locked on the body. "How is this justice? How is this protecting the innocent? How can you look your god in the eye, having done this?"

Mokuba's face was noncommittal. He said, "I can't." He sheathed his blade with a quick jerk, and reached up to remove his cloak from his shoulders. The thick cloth, bearing the emblem of Bahamut, fell across the prince's body like a burial shroud.

His violet eyes were hard.

"Today . . . I shed my old shield."

Trevahn came fully into the room, barely able to contain his excitement. He strode forward, and took the knight's gauntlet in both hands. Lifting it up, he kissed the back plate. "Lady Molestrine," he murmured, "Mother of Retribution. The rarest of servants. Wear your new mantle with pride, knight. Become her hatred. Become her blade."

Mokuba watched the battered lord with idle interest.

Trevahn grinned.

The world folded in on itself.


7.


As the pods whirred to sleep, the players woke. Mokuba was first to clamber out, followed by Jonah and Megan. Rebecca was last. She looked groggy. Looking around, they all saw Seto standing at his controls, with Connor beside him. He was talking to the blond boy, eyes flicking every few seconds to the readouts near his hands.

". . . hurt at all?" he was asking.

Connor shook his head. "No. It just got dark. Kinda heavy. Like, I felt stuff on top of me, the rocks, you know? But then I just woke up. I guess that means the game ended for me?"

Seto nodded. "We'll have to get you a new character for the rest of the testing period. That is, if you'd like to continue."

"Yeah!" Connor's eyes were sparkling. "That was fun!"

Seto smirked. "You certainly seemed to grasp things quickly." He sounded proud, almost paternal. "Even Mokuba forget sometimes that the laws of reality don't apply. The point of the game is to twist what's possible." He looked up, saw his brother, and smiled.

Mokuba smiled back, for a moment, then his face lapsed into a frown.

Seto quirked an eyebrow. "Mokuba? What is it?"

". . . I went along with it, you know, 'cuz I figured that's how it went. But . . . I . . . are you mad at me? Or . . . disappointed?" Seto blinked. "I mean . . . you changed my class. I saw it. Althor's a warrior now. As soon as I . . . well."

Seto looked to understand. He nodded, and approached the boy slowly. "You gave me plenty of material so that I could put Bahamut into this simulation, remember? Defender of the innocent. The Platinum Dragon. Lawful good. Smite evil in all its forms. So let me ask you, Mokuba: do you think Althor Pendraeg upheld the tenets of his god in this scenario?"

Mokuba looked ashamed. ". . . Not really. I guess. No."

Seto smirked. "Do you think he did what had to be done? Do you stand by his decision?"

". . . Yes."

"Then no. I'm not disappointed in you. At all." Seto pulled his brother to him in a one-armed hug. "Stand by what your character believes," he announced to the others. "Embrace the moment. If they surprise you, you're doing it correctly."

Megan was nodding. "That's it. Besides, it all worked out. That bit about the saints? God's daughters? I liked that."

"Not sure what I make of that Trevahn guy," Jonah said. "Seems like your mouthpiece, Mister Kaiba. If you don't mind my saying so."

Seto smirked. "It might seem that way at first," he said cryptically.

Rebecca, still silent, approached Mokuba. She eyed him critically for a moment, then punched his arm. Holding a waggling index finger in Mokuba's face, Rebecca said, "You kill another kid, and I'm going PvP on you. You hear me?"

She grinned.

Mokuba grinned back. "You're on, tree-hugger."


8.


Megan and Mokuba decided the rest of the day would be best spent recording a new game, with the others all joining in for the commentary as an anniversary event—she'd been building her channel for a year. Seto remained out with the pods, tweaking and prodding and reading and contemplating.

He had a separate laptop sitting on the edge of his control panel, and after a while, a window popped up on the screen. It showed what looked like the main room of a medieval tavern, with a roaring fire, long wooden bar, and a multitude of tables and chairs.

Standing behind the bar, mixing a drink, was Trevahn Fremont.

He was the only patron.

Glancing up at what would have been the camera, had the window been a video feed, the simulation of Trevahn smirked and offered a jaunty salute. "Aha," he said, the sound coming not from the laptop's speakers, but from the sound system built throughout the entire room. "There you are. Everyone done for the day, I take it?"

"Yes," Seto replied without looking.

"My little redheaded pet disappeared. Where'd he go?"

"I removed Brenyn from the scenario," Seto said. "He kept trying to leave the crypt, and getting lost at every turn. Then he would try to attack the walls. Something about his 'free and unpredictable' nature made him ignore his own programming."

"Sounds like a metaphor for humankind." Trevahn vaulted over the bar, sat on the edge, and sipped almost daintily at some smoky liquid in a large tankard. "Speaking of, I wouldn't have pegged Althor Pendraeg as a turncoat. He seemed very straight-laced at first."

Seto scoffed. "My brother is a great number of things. 'Straight-laced' is pushing it."

"You wouldn't figure a boy his age would understand that kind of sacrifice. But then, he is a Kaiba."

"He is," Seto murmured darkly.

". . . When did you figure it out?"

Seto finally looked over at the screen. Trevahn had an innocent expression on his face, but his eyes were hungry. Seto raised an eyebrow. He knew that there was no need to actually look at the figure. That wasn't how this simulation worked. But he still preferred a point of reference—a particularly human flaw—so he maintained eye contact with the picture onscreen.

"Not long after your stunt with Meyari," Seto eventually said.

"Mm. Figures. Too confident in your own mastery, hm? Couldn't have been something you did. I must have tampered with her."

"It was too specific," Seto said. "And really . . . who else would go to so much trouble, to say nothing of how obscure it was, just to embarrass him?"

Trevahn grinned toothily, holding up his hands. "Ah, well. Looks like you've caught me. So . . . what happens now?"

"I have three options, as I see it," Seto said. "I can wipe every trace of you from every system tied to Kaiba-Corp's servers. I can replace every system tied to Kaiba-Corp's servers. Or . . ."

"You can ignore me entirely."

"Mm."

"Any idea which one you're going to choose?"

Seto scowled. "Not yet."

"Well, thank you, in any case. For letting the simulation continue. For letting me—well. If you want to get rid of me now, go ahead. I won't fight you. Maybe it is time for me to die."

Seto looked disgusted. ". . . Spoken like a coward," he said scathingly. Trevahn flinched. "Are you the creature that nearly killed me?" The Kaiba patriarch crossed his arms and stared incredulously at his digital companion. "I refuse to believe that I was bested by a sniveling afterthought. I must have heard you incorrectly."

Trevahn's head tilted, like a curious dog's, and he eventually chuckled. "You've changed, Seto. A lot. The man I remember would have shed himself of me without blinking. Yet here you are, telling me to hold on."

The lord's smile turned cheeky.

"Has my big brother gone soft?"


9.


Long after Megan Howell and Jonah Townsend had surrendered to their hotel rooms, and Connor and Rebecca had gone back home, Seto entered his brother's room. Mokuba was already dressed in pajamas, preparing for bed. A towel was hanging around his neck. He looked over at Seto and smiled. "Hi, Niisama."

"Hey, kiddo." Seto looked physically ill, but he hid it well. Or, perhaps the black-haired boy was simply used to the expression, and opted not to attribute any particular importance to it. Sadly, this seemed likely. "I need to talk to you about something . . . delicate."

This caught Mokuba's attention. He frowned, and sat on his bed. "O . . . kay? Is this about the game?"

"No. Not directly."

". . . Is it about Megan? She's not weird or anything, Niisama. She's really nice, and—"

Seto held up a hand. "No. It's not about your friends, either. This is something else entirely. I have something that I think you need to see, but I haven't quite worked it out enough to . . . confront it yet." He sighed. "Damn it. This is ridiculous. Come with me, Mokuba. Better to just show you."

Mokuba didn't respond. He stood up and followed his brother out of the room, out of the house, back to the pods. One unit was primed and ready for a user. Seto gestured at it. Mokuba blinked, confused, and started to speak.

"Just . . . get in, little brother," Seto said. "Trust me."


10.


Mokuba found himself back in Queen Meyari's throne room, in his own body, and this time there were no guards, no zombies, no queen. Instead, seated sideways on the throne with one leg swung over an arm, was Lord Trevahn Fremont.

He tipped his hat in greeting.

Mokuba frowned. "Um . . . hello?" He looked around. "Is this a test?"

"No," Trevahn said, hopping down and walking forward. "No test, Mokuba. That's over for today. I'm guessing your brother couldn't find the words, so he sent you to me instead. Maybe he figures it'll be simpler this way? I don't know."

"What will be simpler?" Mokuba asked, irritation rising on his face. "I get you're cryptic sometimes, Niisama," he directed at the ceiling, "but this is weird! Are we playing some kind of riddle game? Am I s'posed to figure this out? I'm tired! I wanna sleep!"

Trevahn drew in a deep breath, shook out his arms, and closed his eyes. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, he began to shrink. His limbs became shorter, more slender. His face smoothed out. His hair lightened.

Before long, Prince Selbin was standing next to Mokuba, of a height with him and without the terrified confusion that had so marked him during the game. Mokuba watched, confused and nonplussed, as Selbin reached up and ran his hands through his hair. He did it again. Again. And another time.

With each pass, the boy's hair shortened, straightened, and changed color.

Mokuba's face slowly changed from annoyed to awestruck.

A thin boy with light blue eyes and bright sea-foam hair had replaced the prince.

He spoke, in a voice that nearly broke the young Kaiba's heart:

"It's been a while. Hasn't it?"


I think this might be one of the first glimpses into my fantasy world of Avorah that my audience has seen. I've published various things, I have a wiki and all that jazz, but still. This is something of a test run. What did you think? Interested in seeing more?

I've always aspired to write fantasy. And when I do have a fantasy novel ready to publish, hopefully sooner than later, it will be set in the world you just explored with Mokuba and Company.

I hope you enjoyed the arc. Next time, we return to single chapters and single ideas. See you then.