Author's Note: Warning — the grammar in this chapter is... hideous, I think? Maybe? Well, my brother said that I got way too fixated on writing my stories in past tenses. Not sure what's wrong with that, honestly... so... yeah. I could either keep trying to follow his suggestion, butchering my grammar and so on and so on, or... I could just go and stick with what I'm comfortable with. Not sure, honestly. We'll see... you have been warned, however. Read at your own risk, haha~

Disclaimer: Honkai Impact 3rd belongs to miHoYo; Honkai: Star Rail belongs to miHoYo; Worm belongs to Wildbow.

Proofreading and Editing by –

--

Origin of The End

Volume I - Chapter I

--

"-persuasion and a few lucky breaks. Oh, not that it was all me, of course; my brother had to step in every now and then. Still... it was surprising that we managed to pull it off."

"And you keep selling yourself short... really, that simply would not do, Dear. You know, I do mean it when I-"

A slight drizzle patters against the windowpane, its rhythm a gentle, and lulling cadence. She sits with her companions, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames coming from a nearby fireplace... and yet, even now, her eyes remain distant, as if she is seeing far beyond the immediate surroundings.

The place itself is a haven of tranquility, with soft music playing in the background — its melodies blending seamlessly with the subdued chatter of the patrons. An interplay of natural wood and verdant foliage fills the space with a sense of serene elegance, a perfect blend of nature and comfort; they create with them a cozy, intimate atmosphere, the ambience a warm embrace against the chill outside.

"I suppose I could call it a bountiful find, even if it is one that is nonetheless filled with potentially misleading details." The Halovian remarks, his tone casual as he leans against the back of his chair. "Given our ignorance, there is no doubt that we will need a significant amount of time to confirm and acclimate ourselves with all the information. Still, at the very least, we now have a starting point; it appears we are currently in a place called Vancouver."

"That... does not really explain anything." She raises her gaze upward, posture relaxed and unperturbed.

"Not for the lack of trying, I assure you." Shrugging his shoulders, he proceeds to set down the laminated sheet of options in his hand. "Vancouver, a major city in Canada, known for its natural beauty and multicultural population-"

"And maple syrup~! You can't forget the maple syrup, Brother~!"

"Yes... that." A slight chuckle makes its way out of his lips. "One of the best places to live, apparently, what with its scenic views and mild, if somewhat unpredictable weather... well, that is what the information seems to suggest..." He further adds, voice trailing off before his gaze drifts to the other woman sitting by her side. "I suppose there has been no progress regarding our circumstances?"

"Oh, I will not say that there is no progress, no... in fact, I have identified a few promising leads." She closes her booklet as the words of the Soothsayer continue to flow, the Memokeeper mimicking her movement a few seconds later. "How much they are truly worth, however, remains to be seen..."

"Is that so?" With an arch of his eyebrow, the former leader of the Oak Family then glances at his sister before turning to one of the staff, hand raised in an attempt to catch their attention — unneeded though it may be. "Excuse me..."

"A-ah? I-I mean, one moment!" Comes the voice of a girl barely out of her teens, who jolts before moving to their table, her steps hurried and awkward. "S-sorry!" She fumbles with her writing implement, nearly dropping it in her haste. "May I take your order, please!?"

"You may... although, I believe it would do you good to take a deep breath and relax." He answers with a nod and a smile, demeanor calm and reassuring. "Regardless, if you would be so kind; I will have a latte and an avocado toast."

"Oh..." The girl stares blankly at the Halovian, breath hitching as she momentarily loses herself in the radiance of his expression — her gaze shifting to the wings, then to the ring floating on top of his head before she shakes herself out of her reverie. "I-I mean, of course, Sir! One latte and one avocado toast!"

Acheron watches the entire exchange with detached curiosity...

The girl's reaction is not uncommon; the Halovian, with their ethereal presence and enchanting halos, had often leaves others spellbound. Awestruck and mesmerized, many would find themselves captivated by their charm. Those qualities, coupled with Sunday's dignified presence and gentlemanly act? Yes... she supposes she could understand why the girl was so flustered.

Not that Acheron herself — or the others, for that matter — are exempt from such reactions, though hers is admittedly a bit more... subdued. Of course, that is not to say she is unaware of the effect her own presence has on people. With their distinct features and unique appearances, their group is bound to attract attention. Even their clothing alone would have marked them as something of an oddity. Little surprise then, that the other patrons frequently cast curious glances at them, with some discreetly snapping pictures on their phones.

"I would like an iced mocha and waffles with extra maple syrup, please..." The Songstress chimes in, her voice gentle and polite, yet carrying with it a hint of eagerness.

"Certainly, Miss! One iced mocha and waffles with extra maple syrup!" Turning slightly to the side, the waitress responds, her smile widening into a more genuine one as she notes the younger of the two siblings' order.

"Matcha latte. Iced." Acheron states plainly, piercing violets locking onto a pair of blue. "And a croissant."

"O-oh, of course! One iced matcha latte and a croissant!" Scribbling quickly, the girl glances nervously back at her. "A-anything else?"

"A lon-"

"Aaah!!!" The waitress gasps, nearly dropping her notepad; she proceeds to blink rapidly, face flushing in confusion. "S-sorry, I... I thought..." Eyes darting around in embarrassment, she coughs into her hand, cheeks reddening even further. "... I thought there were only three of you."

"Oh no, I assure you, there are four of us... always have been." A smile tugs at the corners of the Memokeeper's lips; mysterious and alluring, it draws upon the strings of those who behold it, weaving a spell of intrigue and fascination. "That aside, I believe I will also have for myself a croissant... that, and the drink called london fog."

"R-right, one london fog and a croissant," her voice quivers slightly, but she manages a more composed expression. "Is there... anything else?"

"No, that will be all; thank you," Sunday replies, and with that, she nods, confirming the order before returning to the counter. They all watch the girl leave before the Halovian snaps his fingers — a thin, almost imperceptible barrier shimmering around their table.

"Space manipulation?" Acheron asks, curiosity piqued by the subtle display of power.

"Sound nullification, specifically. Just a little trick I learned a while back. We can hear everything that goes in the world outside," leaning forward, his fingers tap against the table. "The same, however, does not apply to them. Quite useful for private conversations." He gestures lightly. "That was inappropriate, by the way... still, back to our discussion..."

"Harmless fun," Black Swan responds with a delicate shrug. "As for the leads... well... rather than planets with actual civilizations, you could say that I have found several... I suppose you could call them dimensions, if you will... of which, many appear to possess a world quite similar to this one." A faint glow emanates from the Memokeeper's fingers as she summons forth from the void a single card. The world — one of the twenty two Major Arcana. "It is not as if they are exact replicas, no... but they are close enough that they could all be considered copies of the same world. Whether they are truly identical or merely reflections, I do not know, but the implications are vast... although, it could be that this is all nothing more than a misunderstanding; after all, some of my powers have not been working exactly as intended. Who knows? Maybe the planet we are currently stranded on is simply located too far beyond any of the known space."

"That, or we could be on an entirely different branch." Her interruption garners the attention of all three.

"Branch? What do you mean by that, Miss Acheron?" the Diva inquires, her tone curious.

"... I... am not sure; the words just came to me, and... hmm, I suppose there are no better ways to explain it other than that we might be on a different timeline... or at least, that is what I feel, but... no, timeline is not the right word. A different... leaf?" She frowns, the words eluding her grasp. "Apologies, I am afraid I have yet to fully comprehend the concept myself."

"There is no need to apologize. In the first place, none of us have any idea what we are dealing with," the former leader of the Oak Family states. "Still... dimensions or whatnot... I know that there are theories about such things, but I never thought they were anything more than just that — theories."

"Really? I'd heard from the Trailblazers that their mentor comes from another dimension... or was it universe? Something about different worlds and multiple versions of reality?" Eyes alight with the slightest hint of nostalgia, the younger Halovian recalls. "I think they called him Mr. Welt."

"Welt? Ah, you mean the one with the glasses..."

Welt Yang, the black hole wielder — a hero most genuine; that he continues to use his gift to better the galaxy is a boon to all.

Still... it is strange... despite the severity of their current predicament, the siblings appear unperturbed. One would think that they would be more concerned with their situation... though, judging by the affectionate tone and easy laughter shared between the two? They seem to be completely at ease... happy, even — free and forthcoming with their emotions. Not that it is any of her business; nevertheless, it does come as a surprise, especially in regards to the former leader of the Oak Family. Never once had she pegged him as talkative, what with his typically composed and restrained demeanor.

Was it the burden of leadership? Of his responsibilities to both The Family and his sister? Or had he always been like this? Did she simply forget?

Guess she would never know...

All the same, seeing them like this? She supposes there is something rewarding in witnessing such moments...

'... what a strange feeling.' The thought passes through her mind; it teases and lingers, a gentle ripple in otherwise still water before her attention returns to the gray-haired man.

"Getting back on track, I would like to say that we are dealing with an Emanator, but I think we can all agree that an Aeon would be the most likely suspect. Not that the thought brings any comfort... although, to be fair, I doubt anyone would have been foolish enough to play a trick on not just one but two Emanators, each working under a different Aeon. Bad enough that they choose to provoke those of Remembrance, but to also antagonize IX? That is... reckless, even for the strongest of Aeons."

"You assume that IX would care about what happens to its Emanator."

"... point." He leans into the seat, arms crossed as he turns his gaze back to the Soothsayer. "While we are on that matter, you are an Emanator, are you not?"

... and she just presents to him that mysterious smile of hers.

"... I see," the older Halovian, in turn, proceeds to leave the matter behind. "Frankly, I would much rather we go to the local authorities for help." A sigh escapes from his lips as he looks to the streets, the road bustling with activity even under the drizzle's veil. Orbs of amber reflect the dim light, his features contemplative as the droplets continue to paint the scenery in a melancholic hue. "... well... at least we now know that that man was not lying when he said that this planet has no means of space travel, for all the good that it did."

"You shouldn't be so pessimistic, Brother," Robin chides gently, hand reaching for the content inside the bag placed at her side. The birds, Acheron realizes. "Besides, there's still much we have yet to share regarding what we have learned."

And so they do...

Parahumans, Capes, Endbringers, PRT, Protectorate, Wards — all terms that paint a picture of a world wrought in conflict. How each group interacts with the others, the way they form alliances and rivalries, all the complexities of this strange, new society; everything is laid bare, the web of politics and power dynamics that govern this world becoming increasingly apparent. Her thoughts drift, mind digesting the implications of these revelations, a number of which cause her to raise an eyebrow.

There is something... familiar, about the way this world functions — hidden machinations she had often seen in her travels — networks of alliances that dictated the flow of events. It reminds her of the interplay between the various factions and entities she had encountered in her countless journeys. What is it again? Control, influence, and survival? Something along those lines.

Of course, she is under no illusion that she will even remember half of all this come the next morning. Regardless, knowledge is power, and it is a currency she cannot afford to squander.

'... not that it will change much, in the end.'

Among the few things that drew her attention are capes — individuals gifted with extraordinary abilities, their powers manifesting in unique, yet somewhat predictable ways. These heroes and villains, with their capricious natures and varied motivations, exhibit a striking resemblance to that of Pathstriders, if only in terms of how diverse their capabilities are. Needless to say, unlike the Pathstriders who follow the philosophical tenets of their chosen paths, capes often showcase a more chaotic blend of abilities, all wrapped in colorful, and more often than not, somewhat skintight outfits. It is a peculiar fashion choice that she finds both fascinating and amusing, which — her mind supplied — might also be the actual reason as to why her own group keeps attracting people's attention wherever they go.

And then, there are the Endbringers...

Relentless and utterly destructive, these monstrous beings seem to exist solely to wreak havoc — walking catastrophes that defy all conventional means of warfare and survival. Each attack had left cities in ruins, populations decimated, and the survivors haunted by the sheer horror they had witnessed. Mankind's best efforts to destroy them had been met with failure time and again, solidifying the Endbringers' status as unstoppable forces of nature. Even the capes, with their remarkable powers, can only hope to contain the damage and save as many lives as possible during these relentless onslaughts.

"-means we need to establish our own base of operations, somewhere we can safely analyze our situation and plan our next steps. Well... any kind of shelter would do, really. Our resources are limited, and our knowledge of this world is even more so."

"By resources, you mean money, I assume?"

"Indeed, I do," the man confirms. "That is to say, we need to be mindful of our expenditures and prioritize finding a stable source of income. Of course, as I have stated before, I myself am not averse to cooperating with the authorities should it prove necessary in securing our position. Still, it would not be my first option. In fact, now that I think about it, I would rather we avoid entangling ourselves with any of the local factions; doing so could easily result in us losing our autonomy — dragged into conflicts not of our own."

"I doubt we would have much leeway in that regard." She interjects, her voice steady as she begins to observe their surroundings once more. "And 'be mindful of our expenditures', was it? Somehow, that sounds rather contradictory given our current venue." Her eyes go back to the Halovian. "We can afford this place, can't we?"

"We would not be here otherwise," comes the amused response, a hint of laughter in his tone. "Honestly, we are fortunate, all things considered; as it turns out, the strales you gave us are worth quite a lot... at least, based on the information we have, it is a lot. Nowhere close to what we would need for long term sustainability, mind you, but it should be enough to last us for a few days."

... that half of their group need not feed nor drink to survive goes unsaid.

"Should I try and perform on the streets?" The younger of the two siblings asks, words tinged with hints of playfulness. "I mean, we speak their language, so I'm sure I will have no problem gathering a decent crowd. Once the rain is over, that is."

"It is not going to get us much, but it would be a good way to further gauge the local culture and sentiment." Acheron adds on the side.

"While that is all well and good, Sister, I would much rather you don't."

"Why?"

"Why? That is... have you seen the way they-" His attempt to restrain himself is... admirable, but Acheron can still see the tenseness in his jaw and the way he grumbles under his breath. "Nevermind; so long as someone is there to accompany you, then I suppose it should be safe enough."

"Thank you, Brother~!" The smile that blooms on the young lady's face is radiant, like the first light of dawn breaking through the night.

"And how about fortune telling?" It was an offer made as a pretext, and they all knew that. Granted, it would have been useful given their situation, what with her talent in reading memories and all that.

Still...

"... I think none of us would have been able to stop you if you truly intended to do so... regardless, I believe I have found an alternate solution to our problem." Sunday's hand pulls at a piece of paper tucked in his pocket, revealing a page crowded with faces and descriptions — figures of tens of millions attached to each name.

"Bounties?"

"Something like that... not the cleanest of options, I admit, but it does merit certain consideration." He meets her gaze with a steady look. "I take it you are interested?"

Being a villain is simple. Embracing the chaos, diving headfirst into it, not caring for the black and white nonsense that the so-called figures of authority spew. These self-proclaimed protectors... they strut around, playing judge, jury, and executioner, all the while wallowing in their own filth. Hypocrites in uniforms, pretending that they are better than the scum they persecute. Sure, they spoke of protection, but all they protected were their own interests, their own fragile world of lies and delusions.

... it was disgusting, plain and simple.

And the heroes? Well, they are no better. They yammered about justice and order, parading their damn virtues as if they were saints. But look past that veneer and you'll find that they are just another shade of gray, hiding behind their masks of morality, forcing their ideals onto everyone other than themselves. And when you refuse to play by their rules?

Then they'll show their true colors — no qualms about hurting you if you step just a little out of the line. Still, that'll be when the real fun begins. The pain? It'd be a gift. Each blow, each cut, every bit of agony will be a lesson. After all, it did make him stronger... tougher. And it was those very same wounds that hammered into him a single truth.

That pain? That... that exquisite agony? It is not meant to be avoided, no... it is meant to be sought after. To feel is to live, and to hurt is to grow. Even those without his own set of power will stand to benefit from embracing those sweet torments. But the fools... they don't get it. They cower from pain, not realizing that it is the key to power. Crawler, however, was different. Unlike what some were led to believe, he threw himself into danger not because he had a death wish, but because he wanted more — more strength, more power, more of the rush that came from surviving what should have killed him, coming out stronger than ever before. That's the thrill, the real high. Heroes could keep their preachy crap; he'll take the blood and pain any day.

Of course, not every moment in his life was so full of excitement. Sometimes, even he had to endure the boring stretches, those lulls in action where there wasn't any blood to spill or bones to break. In fact, it was for that very reason that he had joined the Nine in the first place — for the constant thrill of danger and the promise of injuries. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for the people of Portland, however, that thrill was in a short supply... at least for today.

Unlike their usual method, Jack had decided that it'd be better to leave the city with a little parting gift. Which means that Crawler will be holed up in this damn warehouse for at least another day or two, waiting for the final performance or some shit. Stop screwing around, he said. Heh. Real kick in the teeth, that.

'At least the meat's good.' Picking up what looks like a severed leg, he then brings it to his maw. Mismatched fangs sink into the soft tissue, blood running down his chin as he chews and chews.

Still, while he does appreciate the texture of the flesh, there is now a bitter flavor in his mouth... has been for a while, actually, and it isn't just the blood. It's the lack of challenge; the absence of that glorious, searing pain. He tosses the half melted bone to the side, claws scraping against the floor. The others in the Nine... they all have something to enjoy during the quieter times, but for him? It is a torture of a different kind. Being stuck without the promise of pain, of growth... it gnaws at him more than any wound ever could.

His body had grown too accustomed, too impervious to all those wonderful agonies. A thousand different ways to die, and he had survived them all... thrived on them. Skin, muscles, bones, everything had toughened, evolved to shrug off what once could've killed him. The cuts, the burns, the bullets — they are all just nuisances now. Fire? It burns cold. Blades? Can't even scratch the surface. Acid? He spits stronger stuff himself. Nothing seems to hurt like it used to, and that... that's the real bitch...

... well... it's not like it would last forever. Eyes of solid black blink in the dim light, hundreds of orbs scanning the warehouse for something, anything to break the monotony. Right... maybe he'd go and see what Bonesaw's doing, maybe even stay and listen to the way those pigs squea-

*Crack*

And that was when he heard it, a sound so small it almost slipped past his senses...

He pauses in his stride, claws digging into the concrete as he pivots to the left and toward the source of the noise. The room seems to darken, and the shadows lengthen as he assumes a more predatory stance — muscles tensing, six legs crouching low, gaze fixing on the disturbance barely a few meters away. It shifts and shimmers, the air warping like waves of heat as space itself seems to ripple.

The hand comes first, delicate fingers emerging from the tear in reality — milky white followed by the sound of heels. Then the rest of the body steps through.

'... a Japanese?'

Don't remember seeing someone like her before, but... damn, even Crawler has to admit; good looking is good looking. Long hair, dark as a starless night, and a body that is tall and lithe with curves in all the right places? Now that's a sight... not that the woman would stay that way after he's done with her.

Shame, really... if only his transformation had allowed him to remain human... or at least, somewhat human. Still, what is he to do when presented with such a tempting morsel? That's right; he decides to play...

Crawler bares his fangs, a low growl rumbling from deep within his chest — claws flexing in anticipation as monstrous limbs come crashing down a pile of bones.

*CRUNCH*

He can already picture it in his mind, the way she might scream, how her eyes would widen in terror, tears streaming down her face just before he tears it off... except, that moment never comes. The woman continues to look left and right, her expression calm yet tinged with a hint of confusion. Seconds pass like hours, purple orbs scanning at the surroundings before eventually, they settle onto him — her gaze meeting his with a mixture of curiosity and... is that pity?

"... excuse me," the Asian asks in a low, and smoky voice. "Are you... hmm... no, nevermind; can you point me to the one they call Jack Slash?"

.

.

.

"... huh?"