The Want To Go Home

by thesincorner2

In a world where the sludge villain escapes All Might, Izuku Midoriya, dejected from the lack of support from his hero, is caught up in the villains suffocating embrace once more. Quirkless and dying, until a Great One saves him. Bound to eldritch forces, he must face both nightmares and the real world, where death and madness await. Disclaimer: violence, gore, and mature themes.

18. Chapter 18

CH 18, Finality of A Nightmare.

For reader notice. I have 3 ongoing fics. Void Hero, TWTGH (the want to go home), and Geneticist. I go between updating each one and attempt to update each once to twice a month when possible.

I would also like to invite you all to my Discord server for my fics— /tsCyUV2m6k . I do polls, post announcements for the chapters, and have links to all the important things on that server. It recently got a facelift as well, with the new surge in activity. Being on the server means you get to vote for the different fics and maybe even change a fate or two.

IN ADDITION, here is my link tree link, it has most if not all the links connected to me. /LittleLamb31532

Anyway, back to the fic.

()~~~~~()

Just one more.

Just one more.

He hadn't realized the mantra building behind his eyes. How could he? Every moment in the nightmare served to bruise and batter his mind like a ship on the roaring seas. A battered and old thing that ship was now, barely keeping float on the choppy waves. That's what the monsters that resided in this place were, nothing more. Cruel and relentless, their snarls and wails crashing over him like the endless, bottomless sea.

But what was the sea he tread?

His thumb played with the fine fabrics of the hilt of the blade, the roughness was barely registered by his brain. He could barely register the smells either. They all blurred together, no longer able to shock him—the salty seas, the boiling man-fish flesh, the rotting, bitter decay that felt almost embedded in his skin. He didn't find the need to either, he had smelt every smell there was to smell.

His nose itched.

He brought the glimmering blade to the soft of his thigh and let the edge slide neatly through the fabric, exposing the delicate, meticulously crafted chain mail. His pride really. But everything here seemed to treat it like fabric.

With ease he disconnected the chain from its ties, allowing it to drop to the ground into the grasping hands of the messengers. The chain clinked and clattered, an unfamiliar sound in this place of muted horrors. It was like shedding a skin he didn't need, leaving him feeling light but more vulnerable, his heartbeat thrumming in his ears.

He followed it up with the rest of the makeshift armor. He had no need for it here. Or anywhere. He needed to simply be faster than all those he fought. Why prep to get hit when you could instead not get hit?

Pragmatism be damned. The nightmare twisted logic and reason as it twisted flesh and bone. Nothing here made sense. Monsters? Creatures of flesh and blood that desired to slaughter all? For no real reason beyond basic monstrous instinct?

He had so many books on them, so many that were crafted and written within the dreams walls, he had read them cover to cover. Autopsies, detailed and disgusting as human organs and flesh mutated and altered to different shapes and forms.

They were waves of an ocean now. He knew not why he was really brought here. Only that he despised everything here, with a hate that felt as deep as the ocean and just as cold.

Well.

That was a lie.

He knew it but the hate had built too far. He had no sadness left; that was burned out like a lamp kept on for too long.

The mantra played on repeat, like a heartbeat that pulsed alongside his own, rhythmic and insistent, refusing to be silenced. Even if he had wanted to. Just one more. And with each repetition, the meaning twisted, morphing from a promise of survival into a grim obsession.

He couldn't tell if it was exhaustion or instinct that drove him now. The nightmare… hell this whole situation had long bled into his bones, carved its darkness into him, molding him into something that thrived on the fight. He wasn't sure what he would find at the end of it all—maybe just the emptiness left after every last thread of purpose was cut.

He felt like that one wooden doll from bedtime stories, the one that wanted to be human. But here, he wondered if he even remembered what 'human' was. At least that doll had been human on the inside, praying to be human on the outside. He was anathema to the doll.

The Messengers scurried around him, whisking away his armor pieces as they fell with an almost reverent care. Their small fingers touched each piece of armor with a reverence that felt almost wrong, their little eyes glancing at him as though he were something sacred. Something important. In the flickering, dim light, their faces looked like echoes of the horrors he had slaughtered, though they were too docile, too small, too pure in comparison to the monsters he had faced to inspire fear. He watched them, his gaze hollow, and felt the disconnect set deeper. Here, stripped of armor, he felt exposed yet somehow truer to himself, free from the weight of protection he'd learned he couldn't trust.

His thumb brushed the hilt again, its roughness a grounding sensation each ridge, every imperfection on the hilt grounded him. A reminder that the blade was real, that he could still feel, even if his heart had become so scarred to the hell he was in that it barely registered.

In a world that felt like it was pulling him under, the weapons he held remained his anchor, one last thread tethering him to some sense of self. Each slice, each cut into the nightmares around him chipped away at his own humanity, sure, but perhaps that was the price.

He looked down at the glinting blade, light refracting off its edge, slicing into the shadows. One more. And with that, he pushed forward, the brine of the sea and stench of decay guiding him back into the heart of the nightmare, a place where survival wasn't guaranteed—yet he would fight all the same.

In the end, he'd become like the monsters he loathed, driven by an instinct he could neither name nor deny. Unlike the beasts that lapped at his hull, a different kind of ocean waited for him, unyielding and vast, a relentless force. A red sea was where he was headed, but until he got there, the sea of monsters would either consume him whole or be split apart by his resolve.

His nose itched.

He looked down at the little ones, little ones not deserving of the violence they witnessed as his messengers, his little helpers. Izuku knew what it was like to a point, not to their extreme but still, he knew. The violence was what they saw, yet also they received the kindness of the doll.

The doll.

Such a kind being, with the face of a woman who if Izuku had let up even a bit would have caused his death a million times over. It was such an odd situation. He almost wished he could see their initial reaction to seeing each other. But he needed to end this nightmare today… How long had he actually stayed conscious for? Usually he slept for a little, even if he really didn't need it anymore. It made him feel normal again. Those brief moments of sleep were his rebellion, a small resistance against the world he was in. To rest, to close his eyes and let the void swallow him whole—even if only for a moment. It was bliss. That short death, that dreamless black that didn't hurt him when he entered its embrace. It kept him sane.

Izuku's eyes scanned the cave he had made his way into, he didn't really care about who or what he fought as he entered. His hands were slick. Both his and the fishmen's blood, the mixture of hot red blood and gray ichor mixed on his hands as he stepped through the ankle deep pool of parasites. His skin prickled at a scent. A scent-smell that stung his nose and burned his eyes. An arcane scent threading through the stench of blood and rot, and filtered past his dull senses. Something ancient yet fresh blew down the caves on the light wind. It drifted toward him, chilling the heated air, as if whispering secrets just beyond his reach.

Izuku couldn't bring himself to move much further. His legs ached, not real pain, phantom, the cracked bones and split ligaments of the last hundreds of battles reared their head. His muscles felt like old ropes fraying with each movement, stretched beyond repair. Each step pulled at scars long-healed yet somehow fresh, a twisted reminder of the battles he could never outrun. It seemed to only get more painful as he got closer to the end of the Nightmare.

His nose itched-

A loud crack would have been heard, should anyone have been alive to hear it. Izuku gripped the soft cartilage that was his nose and squeezed till the itch left him alone. The thick red liquid seeped through his hand, dripping between his fingers and making the slithering parasites under his boots scream and chip in pain. The taste of the blood at the back of his throat helped center him. The taste of copper lingered, thick and metallic, grounding him even as his vision blurred. The blood was warm, a bitter comfort. A familiar comfort.

Just. One. Fucking. More. The words pulsed through him like the beat of his heart, each syllable a hammer pounding against the wall of his sanity. Was it fixing it? Or breaking it further? He had no clue anymore.

He had to get there. He had to win, had to beat the thing-cousin-hellspawn that was the originator of the nightmare.

His hand fell limp to his side as the tissue in his nose began to stitch itself back into shape. Why was he here? Why did he keep going, when death would embrace him so easily, so many times over? He could let go—let the nightmare pull him under, let himself dissolve into nothing. Flora could craft another. Better. Stronger. Hell, could throw himself off the edge of the dream and fall forever, die and do it again. Over and over again until Flora was forced to choose someone else. Get a different surrogate son. They all would be better choices.

He was sure of it.

He picked his feet up and began to walk once more. Following the stinging arcane air. The smell twisted sharper, every whiff a tendril pulling him forward, binding him to the path even as the weight of his limbs begged him to stop. There was something final in its scent—a promise, or perhaps a threat.

He was hoping for it to be a threat. He could feel his facial muscles pull into a grimace, a failed smile. He walked and walked and walked and walked—walked until his mind resurfaced from the haze he had been falling into. He stood in the middle of a cave. The mouth yawned wide in front of him, presenting the outside like a safe haven. His eyes scanned the area around him and he couldn't help but shudder. So many mutated humans prostrated themselves in the mouth of the cave, their bodies thin, malnourished. No legs, where they met at the knee they continued into a thick tail like structure, like the parasites. Their eyes, hollow and lifeless, seemed to watch him even as they knelt in twisted reverence. Each wasted face mirrored his own hollowing spirit, a reminder of what he could become if he stayed here too long.

He poured alcohol on them and lit a match. The hot air of the sea behind him chilled in the face of the bonfire he made. The flames devoured them with a ruthless, hungry roar, consuming the last remnants of their humanity along with their twisted forms. Transmuting it into nothing but the stench of burning flesh, lingering, acrid and thick.

Izuku looked at his hands, the red stains made him feel… odd. He flexed his hands a few times trying to work some form of feeling into the numb digits, maybe he needed to grip his weapons softer. The red stains spread across his skin like cracks in stone, marks of every battle fought and memory burned into his flesh. They felt alien, his hands, like someone else's.

He closed his eyes, exhaling into the heavy, salty air that wrapped around him like a blanket. He hated it. Hated it so much. He let out a heavy breath into the cold air. When he opened his eyes, the fog of the sea was gone, replaced by the gentle flutter of snow against his cheeks.

His mind was foggy again, the world felt fragile, like glass threatening to shatter under his feet. How long had it been since he walked these streets? Since he had felt the simple bite of winter on his skin, free of blood and ash? Those thoughts disappear quicker than he could catch them. Slipping from his hands like the delicate flutter of the snow. He had to close his eyes. His head hurt so much. He rubbed at his strained eyes with cold hands, like icicles his fingers pressed cold into the thin skin of his eyelids.

As he opened his eyes, shivering cold and alone. The streets were empty, the early morning quiet wrapping around him like a shroud. Even the faintest sounds seemed to echo too loud, disturbing the heavy silence. He looked at his hands, his fingers having begun to turn blue in the chilled night air. He vaguely remembered this, this street, one of the many streets in the more commercial sections of his city.

He had left home to meet with Miss. Kayama. She had said she had some news for him over text and asked to meet him at a small cat cafe that was still open during the freezing winter flurries. It was earlier than even when his mother woke up, so sneaking out had been easy… Not that she had cared about it anyway. The house felt as empty as usual when he had gotten in his winter coat and left.

His mind swam, foggy. He shivered, not just from the cold but from the hollow sense that something was off. Each step felt weighted, like walking through a memory that refused to settle, blurry around the edges. Izuku knew this had to be another memory… Was he causing these? Or the nightmare?

Nightmare? He hadn't had any of those in awhile. A few weeks of blissful sleep, a few weeks of feeling safe and warm.

No… Yes? He wasn't sure anymore, if anything he had never been so unsure of anything in his life.

HE Remembered today, like it had happened already, and yet, he couldn't recall even the smallest detail of any of it. His head hurt. A strange ache pulsed behind his ribs, something sharp and persistent. Why did the streets seem darker than he remembered, as if the memory itself was decaying under the weight of his confusion?

Izuku blinked and shook his head, he tightened the hold he held on his shirt and began to move forward again, everything was becoming clearer now. As each step made a dent in the packed snow, he could smell the salt in the air, in the air he wasn't in anymore, yet would always bleed into his senses once he finished all of this. The hunter stilled his heart and allowed the memory to play out, letting the naive Izuku make yet another mistake. He could feel all of this like he was there, like he was really home in that blasted city with all those heroes, heroes who didn't do their jobs. They called themselves heroes, yet this city felt emptier every day. Shadows seemed to stretch where light should've been; all he could see were the places they'd failed to protect.

Izuku kept walking, sure enough he would make it to the spot, the cafe couldn't be much farther, his maps might have quit working due to the clouds but he vaguely remembered the path. He kept his feet going as they grew cold, the snow caked on his tennis shoes slowly melting, chilling his feet until they were numb. The crunch of snow underfoot mingled with the dull, biting cold that crept up through his thin shoes, numbing his toes beyond even feeling the cold water. The ice seemed to seep into his skin, anchoring him to the spot even as he forced himself to keep moving. His breath came out in puffs of clouds, small and dissipating into nothing as another took its place.

The path blurred in his mind, but his feet moved on instinct, drawn to a place he hadn't visited in ages. The closer he got, the stronger the sense of something unfinished pulsed in his chest, as if he were following not a memory but a whisper. Each step felt like a repetition, a cycle he couldn't break. How many times had he trudged through this snow, felt the ice sting his skin, let his breath dissolve into the morning chill? It was as if time itself were bending, looping back on him.

His steps grew quicker as he spotted the familiar cafe sign, its luminescence shining through the darkness as the day grew older, the rising sun lost behind the snow clouds. His fingers, cold, numbing in the flurries of snow reached out, grabbing at the door before him as he put his weight behind it, pushing the door open and nearly falling into the heated air. The moment he stepped inside, the warmth struck him like a wave, the sudden shift from biting cold to cozy heat leaving him dizzy. His fingers tingled painfully as the warmth began to return sensation, and he clutched them together to stop the tremors. The heavy scent of coffee and pastries hung in the air, contrasting sharply with the stinging cold still clinging to his damp shoes. His body continued to shiver as he looked around, his eyes looking for the familiar woman. A strange smell lingered in the heated air, something metallic and faintly sour that didn't belong in the warmth of the cafe. He couldn't place it, but it tugged at a distant corner of his mind—familiar, yet elusive.

Izuku, the hunter, not the dumb child knew how the day would end, he would leave this place after a few hours, returning home. Returning to a locked door, stuck in the cold until his mother finally took notice of his presence and opened the door, allowing him to enter and warm up, before heading to work.

He KNEW how this day had ended, he knew all of this. So why was he reliving this one? Why now? Why this memory? It wasn't like the others—the ones that pushed him, that forged his will in the crucible of blood and darkness. This day had been insignificant, hadn't it? A fleeting moment of hope—hope that had burned out long before he knew how to stoke those flames. He had trusted her words, yet all they had done was add another layer of hurt. What was the nightmare trying to show him? What was he supposed to learn here? All the other memories he had resurfacing since he had been taken to this other world, those ones had strengthened his resolve. They had meaning. This one held none. It was just a day where he was finally believing in himself, where Midnight had told him she would fight for his admission. Would fight to see him in her classes in time.

The Hunter's Mark on his arm seared with a blistering heat, a sensation like molten iron pressing against raw flesh. His breath hitched, and he gritted his teeth as if the mark was peeling away his very skin, exposing nerves that screamed in agony. He wanted to claw at it, to make the pain stop, but he knew that wouldn't help. The blood red marking gifted to him from his mother flared, he could feel bile rise in his throat and the smell of searing flesh. He felt the world tilt as the cafe's cozy interior faded, replaced by the cold embrace of darkness. It was like sinking into an abyss of black ink—thick, suffocating, weightless. The air felt heavy, pressing against his skin from all sides, the oppressive silence broken only by the faint, unsteady rhythm of his breath. It was as if the darkness had substance, curling around him like living tendrils, tightening with each passing second.

His head. His mind was clear, clearer than any time he had been in the nightmare, the hunters' mark flaring and burning the caked grime off of his body. The darkness around him was all encompassing, like he had been dropped into an ink pot, sinking deeper and deeper into the endless black. The only color was the mark, the mark that pulsed, the crimson light twisting into the moon's silver hue. Their boundaries continued to blur and merge. It was as if they were no longer two distinct entities but facets of the same truth, a luminous wound that bled both moonlight and blood. For a moment, he saw something—felt something—beyond the dark. A pull, a promise...

"*I̶͈̓z̴̜̭̓̔̒ͅu̶̢̟̱͋̓͒k̶̡̹̾͘ͅú̶̩̖—̶̮̰̃s̷̯̜̾o̴̟̩͘͜v̸̛̯͚̍e̷̜̜͒̇̚r̸̛̫̙͐e̵̡̠̎̽͝i̷̙͙̓͂̚g̴̖̟̅n̸̜͖̽̊̂ ̸͙̫̀̉̒c̵̱̟̹̽h̵̰͗̓̓i̶̩̩͎͗̽̀l̵̮̋̈́ḑ̵̀̏̕.̷̝̀.̶̡͘.̶̘̲̉̐̚ ̵̻̝̄̂ȏ̸̹͗f̵̱̜̳̍̉ ̵̼̣͉́m̴̨͖̅y̶͉̱̅̈́͝ͅ ̸̲̈̂͘b̶͔̝̩̉l̶̡̮̯̈̍̅o̴̳̯̾͝ọ̸̝̫́̀̕d̴̻̉̓ ̴̙̗͒s̸̪̋i̶̧̖̓̚͝s̵̱̿̿̓t̶͖̒e̸̮͚̩͑̋͝r̸̨̋́͝.̷̞͓̪̾̒.̴̢͌.̷̧̳̎͗ ̷̨̲̓̓͊d̷͓̃͒͗o̵̺͙̓͑ ̸̡̪͋̋̃n̷̼̫̿ͅó̷̦͇̠̓t̵̮̝͒̊ ̵̧̼̐͋͆͜ŗ̶̨̈͑e̴̢̘̓s̶͇̿ì̴̺ś̴͈t̴̙̹͘͘͝.̵̛̞͗̈́ͅ ̷͙̣̄͌I̴̧͙̤̽̂̿ ̸̨͚̤̔̑̊o̷̥͖̦͊͑̔ṇ̷̙̋͌͜͠l̵̡̲̐ý̸͇̫.̴͚̂̾.̵̺̲̪̐͂.̸̟̑̽̓ ̵̢̨̈̚w̷̟̞̙̽͂ị̴͓͗͑ṣ̸̿h̸͔̤̬͆ ̶̥͈̬͂̔t̷͘͜o̵̫̖̾ ̴͕͉̥̿̍͒s̴̯͍͗e̴̲̎e̵̺̲̋͊͝.̸͚̣̦̐.̸͎̞̎̐ͅ.̵̢̼̗̈ ̵̭̒̋̊w̴̺̼̥̐̈̎h̴̼̻̾̊a̵̛̲t̷̡̬͌ ̷͎̮͠ļ̸̝̼̇i̴͇͘e̷̗̖̽̓͐s̷̼̆́ ̷̳̰͌b̵́̉͜ẽ̵͖̉ṅ̷̻̃ệ̸̔á̵̫̑t̷̼̥̖̄ȟ̸̜̲̃͠—̸̱͒w̷͈̹̮͊̒h̵̪͌̈́ö̷̰̠́ ̷̜̰̘̓͝y̴̺͓̑̾o̷̼͉͚͊͑̀ủ̴̘̺̲ ̸̰̈́͝ẗ̶͒͝ͅr̷̛̰͊̚u̷̙̜̦̿̀̕l̸̞̉ÿ̵̧̞ ̷̨̛̲͈̐̄a̵̫͊r̸̲̯͍͠é̵̟̞̾͐.̶̻̳̃̏͘*"

("*Izuku—sovereign child... of my blood sister... do not resist. I only... wish to see... what lies beneath—who you truly are.*") [translation for readers who cannot read glitch text]

The voice—layered, fractured, like a thousand whispers merging into one—pierced the darkness, its cadence twisted and wrong. Each word seemed to echo twice, once in his ears and again in the hollow space inside his mind. It felt close, impossibly close, as if the speaker was leaning over his shoulder, though he knew he was alone in the abyss.

"*Sinner. Beloved child of my sister. Blood of the lost. You are perfect... perfect for what you are.*" The voice drilled through his skull, vibrating against the bone until his vision blurred, and the taste of iron filled his mouth. The very utterance of its speech pierced his skull, he could feel the blood leak down the sides of his head, could feel the thick liquid pool and float in the dark around him. He could hear its voice clearer now, could understand it. "*The speech- thoughts- love of the dead bringith pain. Child of my beloved sister- Child wishing to kill mine own child. I offer something greater- better- worthy, than what my sister offers.*"

Izuku tried to speak, but the inky blackness filled his mouth, salty, thick like the mucus of a slug, it squirmed in and down his throat- The slime villain rose to the front of his mind and he felt like the helpless boy he once was. "No NO NO NO NO-" he wanted to cry out, call for help, plead for anyone, anything to save him.

The thick, slug-like substance seemed to cling to his insides, its icy coldness burning hotter than fire as he struggled. Each swallow sent it writhing deeper, curling around his ribs and squeezing until his lungs ached. Izuku thrashed. His fingers raked through the goo, just like then, just like the first time and the second time this had happened- tears stung his eyes and burned tracks of grief down his cheeks. His blood was on fire as his heart beat faster.

The sludge was everywhere—his mouth, his nose. He tried to gasp, but there was no air, only thick and suffocating gunk. He needed out, needed to get free of the writhing sludge. Ignis- fire, he needed to burn it out of his body. He commanded his fingers to tear open, blood sizzling the sludge as he clawed and fought. His heartbeat pounded, each thud like a war drum in his skull. He commanded his blood vessels to pump the hot lifeblood into the gunk around him. He chanted, shouted the words of fire-heat-inferno over and over with a mouth that couldn't utter words. He felt his throat tear and pool more blood as it began to heat and catch fire, searing whatever wished to choke him. His heartbeat quicked even further as he thrashed and fought the gunk out of his throat and spat it out into the darkness.

"*speak not child, I know you now- know you intimately- know you deeply. Deeper than Flora, Kos knows you now~*" The voice came out smug, knowing Izuku could feel the blackness caress his whole body and it made him shiver. He hated this. He wanted to scream, to deny it, to tell Kos that it was wrong, that it didn't know him. But did he even know himself anymore? The darkness pressed closer, whispering like the wind through dead trees. No, he wouldn't give in. Not to this. Not now.

"*I offer you another chance—another life*" Kos's voice cracked and echoed, shifting from a deafening roar to a whisper that seemed to come from inside Izuku's skull. "*The life you begged for in the dark, the one you were always denied.*" It spoke with a sickly sweetness, almost gentle, but each word hit him like a hammer to the chest, forcing the breath from his lungs.

Izuku tried to move, to struggle, but he couldn't even feel his limbs anymore. The darkness was solid now, wrapping around his body like the cold fingers of a corpse. His own heartbeat pulsed against it, loud and frantic, but even that was fading. "*Here, I can grant you true sight. Not the lies you cling to, but the way the world truly is.*"

The inky black pressed tighter. He felt it seeping into his mouth, filling his nose, choking him, until his every ragged breath was swallowed by the darkness. "*I will give you what you deserve—what was stolen from you.*" Izuku's vision swam with colors that shouldn't exist, and for a moment, he saw his mother's face—warm, smiling, not the tired, haunted look she always wore.

"*I can make it real*" Kos purred, the words washing over him like waves of ice. "*Your mother will love you—truly, deeply. She will be everything you ever wanted, everything you deserved. And All Might…*" The name twisted in the air, vibrating with a dark amusement. "*He will look at you as a hero, not a disappointment. He will bow to you, grant you strength beyond your dreams. He will believe in you... not as you are, but as I can make you.*"

The darkness pulsed, and suddenly, Izuku was drowning. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see. His thoughts were nothing but a frantic blur of panic and suffocating cold. "*Not simply a chance*" Kos hissed, its voice tightening around his skull like a vice. "*Not a dream... but a certainty. I would guarantee it.*"

A freezing hand gripped his throat, and he felt the weight of a thousand eyes bearing down on him, unseen but unyielding. He was nothing here. "*You will never be alone again, child*" Kos's voice cooed, a jagged smile curling in the darkness. "*You will never be worthless. You will be adored. You will be powerful. You will be loved, as you were always meant to be.*"

Izuku's heart pounded faster, but the darkness tightened, and he was left gasping, drowning, sinking into the cold, inescapable grip of Kos's promise. The world he knew felt like a distant memory—a fading dream that was slipping from his grasp.

"*What choice do you have?*" The voice was everywhere, in his ears, behind his eyes, in his bones. "*I know your pain. I know your hunger. I can end it.*"

He tried to scream, but the darkness devoured the sound, swallowing it whole. His breath hitched as the crushing pressure around him tightened, a vice that wouldn't relent, wouldn't let go. His thoughts were a maelstrom—whirling faster and faster—blurring and blending into the voice of the Great One that echoed endlessly in his mind. The Great One of the Deep. The Unbound Arcane. He could only think, but the thoughts weren't his own anymore, polluted by the relentless whispers. Tears streamed down his cheeks like fire, each one carving lines of pain into his skin.

He wanted it. He wanted it so badly. To be needed, to be loved, to be cherished. All he'd ever wanted, more than anything, was right there, within reach.

The faint glow of the Hunter's Mark caught his eye, a flicker in the abyss. His lips moved soundlessly, shaping the word "yes." He was pleading—begging—but the darkness held him captive, the word never leaving his throat. Soft, cold fingers brushed his burning cheeks, wiping away his tears with a tenderness that felt like mockery.

"*What is your answer, oh sweet child?*" Kos's voice was like a caress, curling through his mind like a gentle breeze, yet weighted with the pressure of a thousand unseen eyes.

Izuku forced a breath, his tongue twisting in his mouth like a foreign object. "Price," he rasped, the word a strangled gasp. His tongue felt sewn in place, heavy and useless, his mouth thick with bile. "What's the... what's the fucking price?" The darkness pulsed in response, a living thing quivering with anticipation. It recoiled from his defiance, curling around him tighter, suffocating.

His chest heaved, heart slamming against his ribs. He could feel the black, slimy nothingness thrumming, an impatient heartbeat that wasn't his own, waiting for him to crack. "You offer me everything—" his voice was hoarse, a snarl ripping from his throat. "Love, attention, care... like I'm some broken thing you can fix with lies and promises. Like I'm something to be controlled."

Anger blazed through him, a wildfire burning away the choking despair. He couldn't stop it—he didn't want to stop it. His shoulders shook, his voice rising as he spat out his fury. "I DON'T WANT IT ANYMORE!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face in uncontrollable torrents. His vision blurred, but he could see the darkness quivering, like the thing inside it had flinched. "I don't fucking care about any of it—not anymore! Why should I?"

His voice cracked, raw and broken, but he couldn't stop. The words poured out like blood from a wound, unstoppable, cutting. "My mother's never looked at me like a son. She never saw me—just my father's shadow. I was just a reminder of everything she lost. Every single glance was pity, not love. You think you can change that with your empty promises? You think I'd believe it?" He was shaking, tears mingling with the blood seeping from his ears, but the fire in his chest burned hotter. "And All Might?" He laughed, a hollow, broken sound. "He'll never see me as anything but a burden. His light has always been for others—never for me."

Izuku's nails dug into his palms, his voice thick with venom and pain. "You think I'm so desperate that I'd fall for this?" he choked, the darkness pressing against his tongue like a gag. "I know who I am. I'm a failure—nothing but a broken, bloody mess. A weapon that's too blunt to be of use, too stained to ever be clean. I know what I am, and all I have is the blood I've spilled!"

The darkness pulsed, recoiling slightly, but he pushed on, screaming at the abyss, screaming at Kos, at himself, at the whole damned world. "I'm not a hero. I'm not even a person. I'm just a killer, someone who's better at ending lives than saving them. And you think you can make me believe in dreams?" His voice broke, fading into a hoarse whisper. "I don't want to dream anymore. I just want to end this nightmare."

His words hung in the silence, the oppressive blackness throbbing around him like a living thing, feeding off his rage, his despair, his twisted hope. He waited, heart hammering, his chest aching from the raw, desperate confession that had spilled out like a torrent. He was exposed, laid bare, and all that remained was the endless dark and the oppressive presence that loomed over him.

And yet, under the gaze of a god, with all his fury and defiance spent, he was left with nothing but tears. His body shook, wracked with uncontrollable sobs, each breath a ragged gasp that cut his throat raw. He was a hollow, broken shell, his voice cracking as he choked out his final words. "Even if you could give me all of that... if you could take away the pain, erase the memories, make me into someone I never got to be—" He paused, his breath hitching as his eyes blurred with fresh tears, hot and bitter. "Even if you could rewrite my entire life, I would still know... I'd still feel it, crawling under my skin, burning in my bones, screaming in my soul that it was all a lie."

Fingers threaded through his matted hair, slow and deliberate, tugging just enough to sting as they caught on the tangled knots. Her touch was tender, almost loving, yet it carried a weight that made his skin crawl. Warmth seeped into his freezing, exhausted body, like slipping into a bath too hot to bear, the chill melting away as if drained from his very bones. "*I know*" the voice breathed, soft and serene, unfazed by his desperate outburst. "*I know you. I know every inch of your pain.*" The voice was no longer an echo inside his skull—it was right there, a presence hovering before him, so close he could feel the phantom warmth of breath against his cheek.

"*Every broken dream. Every twisted longing. Every secret you've buried away.*" Her words dripped with a slow, almost affectionate cadence, as if savoring the taste of each confession he had never spoken aloud. "*I retract my earlier offer... You are not worthy of such a beautiful lie.*" Her tone was almost chiding, like a mother speaking to a child who had disappointed her. "*No*" she purred, "*I have something far more real in mind for you.*"

Kos's breath slid along his ear, cold and intimate, leaving a shiver in its wake. "*Kill my child. Take his life. Devour his placenta, and I will make you mine—eternally.*" Her words curled like smoke, both seductive and suffocating. "*You have been tainted by my sister's dreams, but you belong with me. I see it in you, child. I see what you truly are.*" Her fingers tightened slightly in his hair, possessive now, a subtle claim on him that he could not shake off.

"*My sister calls you 'Hunter,' but I see something deeper, something more honest.*" She lingered on the words, each one drawing him closer to her orbit. "*You are meant to be so much more than her little tool. There's a truth inside you that even you do not see... but I do. I always have.*"

The possessiveness in her voice was like a grip tightening around his heart, as if she could feel every beat, every pulse of his blood. "*You cannot hide from me. You cannot escape what you are, what you have always been... Mine.*"

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

The word echoed in his mind, rippling like the ringing of a bell, over and over until it blurred into a single, pulsating chant. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong—this warmth that shouldn't be there, this voice that shouldn't hold him so tightly. Yet every word she spoke, every tender brush of her fingers in his hair sent a shudder down his spine, a mix of discomfort, fear, and something else. Something he barely understood. His cheeks burned, a heat spreading across his face that he couldn't control. No one had ever spoken to him like this. No one had ever held him like this. He had no prior understanding of any of this.

Mine.

Izuku's breath hitched, confusion twisting in his chest like a knot he couldn't untangle. Was this what it felt like to be wanted? Really wanted? Not as a burden, not as an afterthought, but as something... precious? Her words made his skin crawl, yet a small, treacherous part of him basked in the attention—this unfamiliar feeling of being seen, of being desired, of being needed. He felt his pulse quicken, thudding loudly in his ears, drowning out every rational thought.

But the word—mine—clung to him like a brand, making his insides twist in a way that was both thrilling and sickening. He tried to push the sensation away, to clear his mind, but it was like trying to scrub out a stain that only deepened the harder he rubbed. He didn't understand it, didn't understand why his body reacted this way when everything about her presence screamed danger. He wanted to recoil, to shove her away, but instead, he found himself frozen, unable to move as the warmth seeped into his very bones.

He had only known vague crushes before—fleeting and innocent. Admiration from afar. But this... this was different. It was intense, invasive, and it scared him. Kos's attention was like a heavy weight draped over his shoulders, pressing down until he could barely breathe. He felt exposed, stripped bare before her gaze, as if she could see right through him—down to his deepest fears, his darkest desires, and the parts of himself he didn't even know existed.

And yet... he couldn't stop himself from leaning in, just a fraction, caught between the revulsion and the desperate, unspoken need to feel wanted by someone—anyone. Even if that someone was her.

His tongue felt heavy, useless—his mouth filled with a parched, suffocating dryness, each attempt to speak dying on his lips. The words wouldn't come. They were tangled in his throat, knotted together with the fear, the confusion, the twisted sense of yearning he couldn't fully understand. His heart was a hammering drum in his chest, each beat erratic and loud, threatening to drown him in its thunderous cadence. Every thought, every instinct to run or fight or scream felt dull and distant, lost in the overwhelming fog of her presence.

She had him—Kos had him—in the palm of her hand, holding him in a way that felt both gentle and crushing, loving and suffocating. He wanted to look away, to close his mind to the sensation, but he couldn't. He couldn't. It was all-consuming, the sheer weight of her obsession pressing down on him until he felt like he might break apart under it. There was no escape from her gaze, even when he couldn't see it. He was drowning in her love—love that wasn't gentle or safe but fierce and possessive, clawing its way into his very being.

He shut his eyes tight, a desperate attempt to shut her out, to block the image of her shadowed form from his mind, to rid himself of that burning sense of being wanted so completely. But he could still feel her. Even when the darkness receded, when the warmth was pulled away like a blanket ripped off his shoulders, the cold that replaced it was sharper, more biting, and he found himself aching for that stolen warmth. His fingers twitched, betraying him, reaching out toward the fading shadows like they had a will of their own, craving that comfort even when he knew he shouldn't.

Stop, he told himself, his thoughts desperate and scattered. Stop reaching. Stop wanting. But the emptiness she left behind gnawed at him, and he felt his resolve wavering. It wasn't just the promise of power or the lies of a better life—it was the way she made him feel seen, cherished, adored in a way he had never been before. It was wrong, so wrong, and yet he couldn't deny the hollow ache that settled in his chest when she pulled away.

His breath hitched, cold and shallow, his eyes opening reluctantly as he fought to ground himself in the stale, icy air around him. He needed to remember why he was here. He needed to remember the truth, to cling to it even as the sweet, poisonous promise of her voice lingered in his ears. But his resolve felt brittle, cracked along the edges, like a fragile piece of glass that could shatter at any moment.

His gaze darted to the surrounding darkness, searching for something—anything—to anchor himself, but there was nothing. Just the empty, gaping void where her presence had been. A void that left him cold and alone, a reminder of everything he had lost, everything he had never had. And in that moment, he hated himself for it—for the way his heart ached in the absence of her attention, for the way he felt a sick, desperate need to earn it back.

Why can't I let go? The thought clawed at his mind as he inhaled shakily, forcing himself to stand firm, even as his knees threatened to give out beneath him. He had to make a choice. The right choice. But what if the right choice was just another lie? What if everything he had ever believed was wrong, and she—she—was the only one who had seen him for what he truly was?

With trembling hands, Izuku took another breath, steadying himself. He couldn't let her pull him in, no matter how tempting her offer was. But when he looked up, his gaze locked onto the lingering darkness, he realized that his heart—traitorous, yearning, confused—was already leaning towards her, teetering on the edge of that dangerous, impossible promise.

And he couldn't bring himself to step away.

His breaths were shaky, uneven, each one forcing more of the cold from his lungs, replacing it with the stifling humidity of the real world—the one he should belong to. He focused on that reality, grounding himself in the sensations that he could feel with absolute certainty: the salt of the ocean air, the earthy rot of seaweed mingling with the unnatural sting of arcane energy, the slick wetness of blood against his tongue, thick and metallic. It anchored him, forcing him back into his body, back into the moment. Yet, the warmth—the comfort of Kos's presence—lingered like a ghost, making his heart twist with a longing that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He bit down harder on his lip, feeling the sharp sting as the skin split further, the blood welling up and spilling over. It was pain, it was real, and it was his. His to control, his to use, his to remind him of who he was. He needed that. He couldn't afford to forget, to let himself be swept away by her intoxicating promises and the way she made him feel wanted in a way that left his core hollow and aching.

But that cold in his bones remained, a chill that refused to leave him, like the lingering memory of her fingers in his hair, the way they had combed through the knots with an almost tender patience. It made him feel exposed, like she had seen something inside him that he didn't even know existed, something raw and desperate and terribly, terribly lonely. He couldn't help the shudder that coursed through him at the thought, and he hated how a part of him—some small, traitorous corner of his mind—missed that touch.

No. Focus. His teeth sank into his lip, harder now, the sharp pain shooting through his face grounding him as he stared out at the burning cave and the endless expanse of the sea. He couldn't afford to be swayed, not now, not when he had fought so hard to claw his way back to this reality. This place of salt and blood and fire, where he belonged. He had to remind himself of that, even as the cold in his chest gnawed at him with a persistent ache that made him feel more alone than ever.

He breathed out slowly, the exhale long and unsteady, and forced himself to open his eyes. The world around him snapped into focus—the crashing of the waves, the flickering flames, the oppressive heat that filled the air and pressed down on his skin. It was real. It was solid. But he couldn't ignore the hollow feeling that pulsed beneath it all, a void left in the wake of her attention—a void that he didn't know how to fill.

Izuku clenched his fists until his nails bit into his palms, the pain sharp and grounding. This is where I am, he reminded himself, his jaw tightening. This is where I have to be. Not in the darkness, not under the gaze of that great, unfathomable being who claimed to love him. Who saw him as hers.

Yet, even as he told himself that, a part of him—the part that felt the lingering frost in his veins, the emptiness that Kos had left behind—whispered that he was lying. That he would always be hers, no matter how fiercely he fought against it. That she had marked him, and he could never fully escape that claim.

The thought made his heart twist painfully, a confusing mix of fear and longing curling tight in his chest, and he shoved it down with all the force he could muster, burying it beneath the taste of blood and the scent of salt and the crackling sound of the flames. He couldn't afford to think like that. He couldn't afford to want her, to crave her approval, her adoration, her terrible, possessive love.

He took another breath, steadier this time, forcing himself to focus on the here and now, on the reality he was determined to protect. Even if it left him cold. Even if it left him feeling more alone than he ever had before.

Because he had to believe it was worth it.

He had to.

He had one more kill here, the orphan. Just one more, then one more after that, then one more after that. Again and again and again until he managed to break from this cursed existence and was sent back to his. His original world, he couldn't forget. He had promises to keep, apologies to make, and people to prove wrong. He spat a mouthful of blood into the sand and focused on the familiar sensation of the sword's hilt against his palm. It was a constant in the shifting reality he found himself trapped in—a tangible anchor amidst the swirling madness. The arcane energy that pulsed through the blade hummed, responding to his tension, the power within it coiling and uncoiling like a living thing. He stabbed the sword into the sand and began to stretch, while taking inventory of his gear. He doubted much of it would work on a great one's child. Izuku chewed on his lip before speaking softly, "Messengers, come here please."

His body ached as he twisted and stretched, joints popping in protest from the endless strain. The beach was eerily quiet, only the dull roar of the sea filling the silence, punctuated by the occasional crackling of distant flames. It was the same as it always had been—another battlefield, another moment of preparation before he threw himself into the maw of the nightmare once more. But this time, he felt heavier, weighed down not just by fatigue but by the remnants of Kos's lingering warmth that hadn't quite left him. The cold knot in his chest refused to thaw, even with the oppressive heat of the burning cave at his back.

He glanced up at the bloated corpse of Kos's original body, the strange elegance it held in death feeling almost mocking. He had to move forward, and had to face what lay ahead. He couldn't afford to linger on what he couldn't change. Just one more he told himself quietly, his mind wondering once more.

The Messengers tugged at the edges of his coat, their eyeless faces turned up to him, eagerly awaiting his instructions. "Thank you," he murmured, more to himself than to them as he unloaded the tools that had no place in the coming fight. The trinkets and vials felt almost laughable now—useless against the child of a Great One, yet each one a reminder of his journey, of what he had gathered and learned along the way.

His fingers hesitated on the final item, his gauntlet. It had been a project born from desperation, a last-ditch attempt to harness the arcane in a way he could control. He remembered the endless hours spent refining its inner workings, the frustration of its weight pulling him down, of feeling it drain him faster than any incantation or spell he knew. But now, it was different. He slid the gauntlet over his hand, feeling the intricate mechanisms hum to life, responding to his touch in a way that almost felt eager. The arcane tools embedded within it thrummed, their presence filling him with a sense of power that sent a shiver up his spine.

The Tiny Tonitrus buzzed with barely contained lightning, a low hum that vibrated against his skin. The Executioner's Gloves, cold and heavy, pulsed with echoes of forgotten sorceries, their whispers almost drowned out by the more aggressive tones of A Call Beyond—an ever-present melody of distant stars, pulling him to wield its cosmic fury. And the Beast Claw, restless and wild, sang a primal tune that matched the rhythm of his own racing heart.

For the first time in what felt like ages, he smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a feral grin. It was a savage thing, edged with the same madness that had carried him this far. He had thought the arcane tools to be merely objects—dead, unfeeling things. But now, with the gauntlet on his hand, he could hear them. They sang to him, each in its own voice, craving release, eager to be wielded in the coming storm.

Izuku flexed his fingers, feeling the power surge and recede with every movement, and something within him stirred—a mix of anticipation and dread, a hunger that mirrored the pull he had felt when Kos's presence had touched his mind. He hated how it excited him, how the darkness called to him like a familiar friend. But he couldn't deny the thrill that bubbled up inside him, a feverish need to prove himself, to fulfill the promises he had made and carve his own fate with his own hands.

The coldness in his chest remained, but now it was overshadowed by the heat of his determination, by the reckless, desperate desire to push forward despite the odds. He would face what lay ahead, even if the path was bloody, even if it meant staining his soul further. He had come too far to turn back now. He had promises to keep, apologies to make, and a world that needed him to return, no matter the cost.

With one last glance at the dead Great One in the distance, he tore his eyes away and fixed them on the path ahead. The beach stretched out before him like a jagged scar that never truly healed, only the lapping oceans promising any form of life.

"Alright," he muttered to the Messengers, his voice steady, carrying the weight of what he was about to do. "Take these and go. I have a job to finish."

The Messengers nodded, their tiny hands clutching the items he had discarded, and vanished into the sand, leaving him alone with the howling wind and the remnants of fire that crackled behind him. He could feel the weight of his gauntlet, heavy with promise, and he tightened his grip on the sword still embedded in the sand.

The next step felt like crossing a threshold, and he took it without hesitation, feeling the familiar rush of bloodlust surge through him. He would face the Orphan. He would break this cycle, even if it meant giving in to the darkness he feared. Because in the end, he was a Hunter, and this was what he did best.

He pulled the sword free, the arcane energies swirling around it like a tempest, and strode forward, the chill in his bones a constant reminder of the price he had to pay.

But the song in his heart—the song of the arcane, the thrill of the hunt—drowned out the lingering echoes of doubt. For now, that was enough.

The air grew heavier as he advanced, the weight of the Great Ones' gaze pressing down on him, a suffocating presence that made each breath feel like swallowing glass. The wind carried the salty tang of the sea mixed with the sour rot of decay, sharp and bitter in his nostrils. His fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword in anticipation of a fight. In his offhand he didn't hold his gun. Instead he held his whip, its darkened burn marks a testament to his failed experiments—a reminder of the limits of his own knowledge. But there was no room for hesitation. The dying echoes of Kos's tragic story were nearing their end, and he would be the one to write the final verse.

The pale, bloated corpse of Kos loomed ahead of him, the waves crashing against its motionless body in a steady, somber rhythm. Its skin, once rippling with oceanic beauty, now shimmered like wet scales in the fractured light, marred by the inexorable passage of time. Yet the rot had not yet claimed it fully. Instead, it lay swollen and gravid, as if holding a secret not meant for mortal eyes. A throbbing presence pulsed from its abdomen—a dreadful, rhythmic beat that seemed to sync with his own heart, and he couldn't tear his gaze away from that grotesque bulge.

He stopped twenty-seven yards from the bloated corpse, his body tensed, every muscle ready to react. The air itself seemed to recoil, and the pungent stench of decay intensified, so thick it clung to his tongue. A wet, squelching sound filled the silence as the distended belly began to swell, bloating even more grotesquely, straining against the skin that stretched far beyond its natural limits.

Then, with a sickening, violent pop, the abdomen split open, disgorging its vile contents. A torrent of viscera and blood gushed forth, splattering the wet sand with thick, glistening ropes of gore. The noise was a nauseating blend of tearing flesh and wet, slapping meat—a sound that clawed its way into Izuku's mind, rooting itself in the primal parts of his brain.

From the ruptured belly, something shifted—a shape that writhed and squirmed amid the slurry of entrails and amniotic fluid, covered in a membrane that shimmered like oil on water. It twisted, clawing its way free of the steaming pile with a desperate fury, its skeletal limbs jerking and twitching as if fighting against some unseen force. The translucent membrane tore away, revealing slick, gray flesh beneath, mottled and glistening like the scales of some nightmarish sea creature.

A long, hideous wail split the air—a keening cry of despair and rage, echoing across the desolate beach like a funeral dirge. The thing was born of pain, writhing in agony, its spine curving with an unnatural elasticity as it forced itself upright, limbs tangled and wrong, fingers too long, twisted like gnarled roots. Its face—if it could be called that—was a horrid mockery of humanity, with bulbous, unseeing eyes that bulged from a malformed skull, and a gaping mouth stretched too wide, baring crooked, bone-white teeth. A twisted parody of a child, but wrong in every conceivable way.

The creature's bony fingers, sharp and jagged like the talons of a deep-sea predator, flexed and clenched as it tore away the last strands of membranous tissue clinging to its form. The blood that coated its body was thick and black, shining in the fractured light like ink spilled across wet marble. As it staggered forward, its hunched back twitching with each movement, its body gave off a shuddering, guttural breath—a labored, rasping gasp that rattled through the stifling air.

The Orphan of Kos raised its head, its mouth hanging open in a silent scream, revealing a maw that seemed to have no end, lined with teeth that curved inward like the jaws of a deep-sea nightmare. Its eyes, glassy and unseeing, glowed with a sickly luminescence, reflecting the distorted reality around it. It stumbled, half-formed and half-dead, and let out another ear-splitting shriek—a howl of grief, anger, and madness that seemed to resonate from the deepest depths of the ocean itself.

Izuku felt his stomach churn, a wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him, but he forced himself to stand his ground. His knuckles turned white around the hilt of his whip as he watched the Orphan drag itself free from the ruin of its parent's body, the sound of slick, tearing flesh sending shivers down his spine.

The wind shifted, carrying the metallic stench of blood mixed with the salt of the sea, and Izuku swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. The Orphan was here, born of anguish and hate, a living embodiment of the nightmare that had consumed this cursed place.

And he was the one destined to end it.

Izuku's grip tightened, his eyes narrowing as he felt the weight of the moment settle over him. The Orphan's gaze, empty and hollow, fixed on him as it began to drag its malformed body forward, each step leaving a trail of dark, glistening fluids in the sand.

The hunt had begun in earnest.

Izuku barely had time to react. One second, he was there; the next, the place he'd stood was obliterated by the Orphan's crude, brutal weapon—a placenta wrapped around a splintered rib bone, swung with terrifying force. Sand exploded upward in a storm of grit, and fluid splashed across the ground, soaking into the beach like a taint.

He blinked, his body instinctively moving, and the world became a blur of violent motion. The Orphan's enraged scream tore through the air, a relentless, deafening wail that seemed to pierce his skull and set his mind ablaze with pain. The force of its anguish hit him like a physical blow, driving him to grit his teeth even as he ducked low, slipping into the creature's guard.

With a swift, practiced thrust, his sword found purchase in the Orphan's side, slicing through the slick, resistant flesh. A fountain of thick, dark fluid erupted, splattering across his face, burning his eyes with its acrid sting. He staggered, his vision blurring for a crucial heartbeat as he recoiled, the foul liquid running down his cheeks.

That moment of hesitation was all it took.

The Orphan's makeshift club struck like a sledgehammer, crashing into his ribs with bone-shattering force. The impact ripped the air from his lungs, and his world tilted violently as he was hurled backward, his feet leaving the ground. He hit the cold, unforgiving waves hard, the shock of the freezing water knocking him back to his senses.

Saltwater filled his mouth, and he coughed, choking as he struggled to regain his footing, his body still reeling from the blow. His lungs stung as he attempted to catch his breath. The roar of the ocean swallowed the world, the weight of the water pressing down on him as he forced himself upright, the sand shifting treacherously beneath his boots.

No time to breathe. His lungs screamed for air.

The Orphan was already on him, closing the distance in a wild, stumbling sprint, each step shaking the sand like a drumbeat of inevitability. Its screams, raw and primal, merged with the crash of the waves as it swung its crude weapon again, tearing through the air with a force that made the very air scream.

Izuku's vision cleared just in time. He dove to the side, feeling the wet air whip against his face as the attack narrowly missed, the force of the swing sending a spray of seawater high into the air. He rolled, using the momentum to rise to his feet, his instincts guiding him even as his mind raced to keep up. His cheek was bleeding, even the narrow miss cut into his flesh. Noted, Izuku's mind acted faster than his body, quickening- speed- momentum. His thoughts were cut short before his tongue could lift and his lips part.

The Orphan closed the distance. It was on him again, a blur of desperate fury, swinging wildly, each blow faster and more erratic than the last. Izuku's blade flickered like a silver thread in the dim light, each clash of steel against bone reverberating up his arm in sharp, numbing jolts. The arcane energy that coated the blade struck moments after each reactive strike.

His movements were sharp, precise—cutting, parrying, dodging with the fluid grace of a seasoned Hunter—but the Orphan fought with a primal savagery that seemed beyond any technique, its body twisting and contorting in impossible ways to strike from angles that shouldn't have been possible. Each time Izuku thought he had a rhythm, it would shift, a creature of chaos refusing to be pinned down.

He felt the cold bite of fatigue settling into his muscles, but he couldn't let up. Not now. He drove forward, pressing his advantage with a flurry of rapid strikes, his sword singing as it cut through the air, each swing aimed to maim, to wound, to kill. He called the lightning's song that sang a striking soprano in his ears as cold bolts of blue lightning sizzled the air, striking down onto the Orphan in time with Izuku's meticulous strikes. The energy cascaded into and through the Orphan, glassing the sand under the monster's feat and charring flesh.

Izuku felt himself gain a moment of footing before he was back on the receiving end, dodging and reacting rather than striking. The Orphan seemed to grow stronger with every wound he inflicted, its rage only intensifying as if feeding off its own pain. It let out a guttural, inhuman roar, its spindly limbs jerking and spasming as it lunged, teeth bared in a snarl of pure hate.

Izuku threw himself backward, feeling the hot rush of air as the weapon whistled past his nose, too close. He landed hard, the sand giving way beneath him, but he pushed off it with a burst of desperate speed, twisting his body to dodge another bone-shattering blow aimed at his skull. Blood oozed from multiple cuts caused by the weapon, even though it had yet to fully hit him.

His breath was ragged, each gasp a struggle as he fought to stay ahead of the relentless onslaught. The Orphan's shrieks drilled into his mind, and he could feel the raw fury and pain radiating from it like a heatwave, a living storm of anguish and fury.

Another swing—Izuku met it with his blade, the impact ringing in his ears as the force sent him skidding backward, his feet digging trenches into the wet sand. The creature's bony face twisted in a grotesque parody of fury, and it lunged again, faster than before.

The world narrowed. He could feel the Orphan's fury, could hear the ragged breath escaping his own lips. Another heartbeat. Another clash of bone against steel. This time, Izuku didn't retreat.

With a roar of his own, he surged forward, ducking beneath the wild swing and slashing upward with all his strength. The blade bit deep, carving a brutal line up the Orphan's torso. A spray of dark, ichorous blood sprayed into the night, staining the beach.

Izuku's world froze as he felt the Orphan's cold, bony hand close around his neck, moving faster than his reflexes could track. For a moment, there was no sound—no crash of waves, no breath of wind—only the sickening crunch as his spine buckled under the Orphan's grip. A wave of numbness washed over him, his limbs going limp. He couldn't feel his legs. He couldn't even tell if he still had legs. There was only his face, a stark contrast to the biting cold of the rain, and the foul, rotten breath that washed over him in hot bursts.

The Orphan's hollow eyes met his, wide and filled with a twisted curiosity, like a child who had caught an insect between their fingers. Izuku's vision blurred, darkness creeping in from the edges, as the creature's hold tightened, a vicious squeeze that snuffed out every sensation except the tingling burn of his disconnected nerves.

For a split second, Izuku's mind flared with pain as the nerves fought to reconnect, sending jagged bolts of agony up his neck and through his skull. He tried to cry out, but all that emerged was a strangled whisper, barely a breath. "I-Ignis."

The world erupted in fire.

Every drop of blood—his blood, the Orphan's blood—ignited in a violent burst of flame. The beach was bathed in a searing light as the flames devoured them both, dancing in the cold rain. A roar like a thousand infernos consumed the night, and for a moment, the world stood still, two gods' children wreathed in crimson flames.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Izuku jolted awake, his body coiled tight and trembling beside the familiar glow of the Lamp. Pain seared through his nerves like wildfire, his brain struggling to adjust to the sudden flood of sensation. He could still taste the Orphan's breath—a putrid, lingering taint that churned his stomach and set his teeth on edge. For a disoriented second, he expected to feel the crushing grip around his neck again, to choke on his last breath, but the only pressure was the cold air in his lungs.

A Messenger's pale, withered hand offered him a small bottle, and without hesitation, he grabbed it, dumping the icy water over his face. The shock was like a lightning strike, snapping him back to full awareness, dragging him out of the fog of death's embrace. His muscles tensed, instinct driving him to fight, to move—to survive. He threw the empty bottle hard, watching it shatter in the distance as his breathing steadied. There was no ache, no lingering pain. He felt... whole. Reborn, as he always did after dying, every fiber of his being renewed and sharpened.

Focus. He needed to focus.

"Let's take inventory," he muttered, shaking the water from his hair, the chill already forgotten. His eyes followed the Messengers as they scrambled over the fragments of glass like restless ants.

Focus.

His mind shifted gears, cold and calculating, sifting through his arsenal. The sword—reliable, devastating at close range—had proven its worth, but the scythe was the real powerhouse in medium combat, just outdoing the sword's strength with its reach. Yet, in the heat of their frantic battle, he needed something more. His whip could be perfect for maintaining distance, but he'd have to create space—just enough room to breathe.

Izuku's fingers flexed, anticipation crackling in his veins. This time, he wouldn't hesitate. He couldn't. He needed to be faster, stronger, more relentless. He could feel the weight of his death pressing down, a cold reminder that even a remade man wasn't immune to the terror of a god-born foe.

"I know what you are," Izuku whispered, his voice barely cutting through the hiss of the Lantern's flame. His gaze drifted to the beach, where the echoes of their battle still hung heavy in the salt-laden air. He had to strike first—fast and unforgiving. There would be no second chances. Lightning had stung it, left it vulnerable, and the blood fire… that had hurt. Far more than the raw arcane force of his blade. His eyes fell to the weapon at his side. He needed to improvise.

The Lamp's glow flickered. Izuku stood, his determination hardening into a cold, unyielding resolve. This time, he would be ready. There was no room for hesitation, no time for fear. Only the hunt.

He broke into a run, boots slapping against the slick, rain-soaked stones of the village ruins, each step echoing through the skeletal remains of shattered homes. The smells were sharper now, almost familiar—the damp rot of ancient wood, the tang of wet earth, the underlying stench of decay that clung to every shadow. And beneath it all, he caught it—the unmistakable, acrid reek of arcane power. He pivoted on his heel, tracking the smell, a cold smile tugging at his lips.

A single death was nothing. It was just another step forward. A part of the process.

Izuku's pace quickened, every movement a calculated step, each shadow slipping away behind him as he navigated the labyrinth of ruins without a sound. He didn't need to fight the lesser creatures here—he'd wasted enough time already. The stench of that cursed beach grew stronger, like a dark promise whispering through the storm. When he saw the pale shimmer of the sand and the dark maw of the cave entrance, he slowed, his senses heightened, his blood thrumming with the anticipation of the hunt.

His foot hit the first grains of wet sand. He stopped, assessing his surroundings with a hunter's eye. He had to be quick, methodical.

Time to prepare.

Izuku pulled the whip from his belt, feeling the weight of it in his hand. With quick, efficient movements, he tore strips of fabric from his bundle, wrapping them tightly around six bottles of alcohol he'd brought along. The glass clinked together as he secured them, the bundle heavy and awkward in his off hand. He tested the weight with a cautious swing—solid enough. It would do. It had to. "This better work." he muttered, eyeing the liquid fuel in the glass, altered with his blood and a special treat from the messengers. If it didn't work, then he would need to alter the formula… again.

With a swift strike, he brushed Fire Paper against the whip, watching as it ignited in a flash of flame, dancing and crackling along the length of the leather. The heat kissed his face, warming his rain-chilled skin. The whip's orange glow lit the cave's entrance, casting jagged shadows that wavered and flickered like wraiths.

"Come on, then," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the beach beyond, where the Orphan's cries still echoed like a mourning bell. "Let's end this."

He stepped forward, his movements fluid and precise, the flame-wrapped whip trailing behind him like a comet's tail. The air was thick with the promise of battle, a storm gathering on the horizon, and Izuku felt the adrenaline coil tight in his chest.

This time, he would be faster. Stronger. Relentless.

The hunt was on once more.

Izuku's feet churned up sand as he surged forward, leaving a cloud of grit hanging in the air behind him. He forced his body to its absolute limit, every muscle burning as he closed the gap between himself and the still-unraveling Orphan, whose mother's entrails cascaded down its back like a grotesque, blood-soaked cloak. His eyes were fixed, unwavering, on the creature's heaving chest—his target.

With a powerful swing, he hurled the bundle of fuel, watching as it sailed through the storm-laden air. It struck the Orphan dead-center, landing with a wet, sickening crunch, the bottles shattering upon impact. He didn't pause. In one swift motion, his wrist flicked, and the razor-sharp edges of the whip slashed deep into the Orphan's exposed flesh. Flames leapt hungrily from the whip, clinging to the liquid fuel now smeared across the creature's torso.

Izuku felt his heart drop… was that it?

A heartbeat later, the world erupted in a blinding flash.

The explosion was like a roar from the depths of a furnace, a concussive blast that sent searing heat washing over the beach. Izuku was thrown back, the force of the detonation lifting him off his feet and flinging him through the air. Sand flew up in all directions, and a thick plume of steam and smoke billowed upwards, swirling chaotically under the stormy sky.

He hit the ground hard, sliding several feet before coming to a halt, his breath knocked from his lungs. The heat was intense, almost unbearable, the air filled with the acrid stench of burning flesh and the sizzling hiss of evaporating blood. For a moment, his ears rang with the deafening silence that followed the explosion—the only sound was the crackling of flames, devouring the Orphan like a pyre.

With a swift, determined movement, Izuku pushed himself to his feet, feeling the sand shift beneath his boots. His limbs were shaky, his vision blurred by the aftershock of the explosion, but he bared his teeth in a fierce grin. The relentless roar of the sea faded to the background, drowned out by the relentless hammering of his heart. Above the crackle of flames, the haunting wail of the Orphan split the smoke-filled air—a scream that mingled pain and fury in equal measure.

He raised his gauntlet, the familiar hum of arcane energy singing to his fingertips. The metal thrummed with power as he called upon the wrath of the Tiny Tonitrus, and the storm above seemed to answer his call. Blue light flared from his gauntlet, illuminating the blackened beach and turning the thick smoke into a shifting wall of shadows. For a moment, everything stood still—the flames, the crashing waves, the crumbling ruins, all bathed in that ghostly electric glow.

With a deafening crack, lightning split the sky. The bolt struck true, a blinding spear of raw energy slamming down onto the Orphan's burning form. The creature convulsed, its skeletal silhouette outlined in vivid, searing blue as the power coursed through its broken flesh. The air was charged with ozone, a sharp, metallic tang that mixed with the stench of charred meat and smoldering blood.

The Orphan's scream rose to a fever pitch, a piercing wail that echoed across the beach and into the depths of Izuku's soul. His grip tightened on the gauntlet, feeling the raw power surging beneath his palm, and he poured more energy into the strike, willing the heavens to answer his rage. The thunder rolled overhead like the roar of some primal beast, and the lightning's fury cascaded down in jagged branches, turning the dark world into a shattered kaleidoscope of blinding light and shadow.

Rain hissed as it met the flames, steam spiraling up from the charred sands in thick, twisting tendrils. The storm, drawn by the violence below, unleashed its fury with renewed force, rain pelting down like arrows from the heavens, sizzling against the still-burning beach and washing the blood from Izuku's face.

He knew the Orphan wasn't dead. Not yet. But he also knew this was his chance—perhaps his only chance—to finish it once and for all. His eyes narrowed, and he began to move forward, determination in every step, lightning dancing at his fingertips, the next strike already crackling in his mind.

The air between them shattered as a clawed hand lunged for his throat. Instinct drove Izuku, his body dissolving into the thick, red-tinged smoke of his Quickening just as the Orphan's claws grazed the space where his neck had been. He reformed a dozen feet away, his boots striking the charred, glassed sands with a sharp crack. There was no time to breathe—the Orphan, wreathed in flames and fury, was already upon him, a blazing comet of rage trailing black smoke like a locomotive.

Izuku snapped his whip with brutal precision. The bladed tip found its mark, biting deep into the Orphan's leg and dragging another howl from its charred throat. The flames on the whip flared as they caught on the beast's flesh, adding to the inferno that already burned across its body. A strike came—Izuku ducked low, feeling the heat of the Orphan's arm swing past him, a scorching wind that smelled of burnt flesh and blood.

Before the creature could recover, Izuku thrust his off-hand forward, palm slamming against its chest. The arcane energy coiled within his hand, the trembling power of his Beast Claw, surged with a wild hunger, pouring into the Orphan's chest like a wave of force. The air around them warped, a sickening pressure that burst outward with a deafening crack, sending the Orphan flying back into the smoke.

Izuku only had a heartbeat to move before the creature was up again, a hunched shadow amidst the drifting ash, its eyes burning with rage. It charged, the ground shuddering with each step, and in that split second, Izuku saw his chance. His fist clenched, the flickering red energy of the Executed Souls gathering just beneath the fabric of his gloves, the wails of the damned whispering in his ears.

He stepped into the charge, teeth gritted, and punched forward with all his strength. The Orphan's claws swiped at his face, its razor-sharp nails slicing open his cheek in a spray of blood. But Izuku didn't flinch—the power of the executed was already in motion.

With a thunderous roar, the screaming skulls of the damned erupted from his fist. They swarmed the Orphan, gnashing teeth and tearing claws sinking into its exposed gut, their wails merging with the beast's agonized scream. They clung to the creature like ravenous phantoms, ripping and gnawing, each skull fighting to devour the burning flesh.

Blood and smoke mingled in the air, a red mist that turned the battlefield into a hellish fog. Izuku's eyes never wavered, his breath ragged, as the Orphan staggered, the skulls biting deeper and deeper into its corrupted form.

Izuku's breath hitched as the Orphan's body twisted, the sinew and muscle beneath its burned flesh rippling with unnatural vigor. His grin widened in spite of himself, excitement and dread mingling in his chest like a hot coal. He took a shaky breath, his lungs aching, "Is that all you got?" he taunted, even as his own muscles felt like they might seize up at any moment.

But the Orphan's gaze had shifted, dark and fathomless. It stared at the dripping, fleshy mass in its hand, the chunk of visceral tissue pulsing with an obscene life of its own. Time slowed for Izuku as he watched the creature raise the mass to its maw, jagged teeth sinking into the fleshiest part with a sickening crunch.

A shudder ran down the length of its body, the scorched and shredded flesh knitting itself together with horrifying speed. The beast's frame stretched and elongated, its bones cracking audibly beneath the new surge of power. Gossamer-thin wings, glistening with wet translucence, sprouted from its back, twitching as if testing the thick, storm-filled air.

Izuku's eyes widened as the creature let out a keening wail—no longer just a mindless shriek, but a sound that carried something deeper, a raw, human sorrow twisted into fury. He felt the hairs on his arms rise as the atmosphere shifted, an electric tension snapping through the smoke. The creature's gaze bore into him, a look of almost sentient malice flickering in the depths of its dark eyes.

"Fuck," he breathed, heart pounding as he felt the air split.

Before he could react, the storm answered the Orphan's call. Bolts of deep, purplish-blue lightning rained down from the heavens, jagged spears of energy lancing toward the beach. Instead of vanishing into the sand, the arcs of electricity crackled and danced across the surface like serpents, leaving trails of glowing, molten glass in their wake.

Izuku's body moved on instinct, legs pumping as he leapt clear of a bolt that split the ground where he'd stood a moment before. He landed and rolled, feeling the charge prickle against his skin, only to be forced into another desperate jump as more lightning crashed down, relentless and unyielding. Each flash illuminated the Orphan's shifting form—its flayed skin peeling away to reveal a new, glistening layer beneath, the old flesh pooling in a grotesque heap around its feet.

The electric onslaught pushed Izuku to his limit, every muscle and tendon screaming in protest. A bolt grazed his arm, sending a shock through his entire body, making him stumble as the searing heat radiated up his side. He hissed through clenched teeth and righted himself just in time to see the Orphan's newest transformation—its wings catching a stray gust of wind, flickering like thin, membranous veils behind it.

Izuku's breath came in ragged gasps. He couldn't let up. If he slowed for even a second, he knew the creature would rip him apart before he could react. The sands shifted beneath him, each step churning up the scorched and glassy grains as he kept moving, always a step ahead of the lightning. He reached for the nearest bottle of his handmade fuel tied at his belt, yanking it free with his off hand.

"Alright, then," he muttered, wiping a streak of blood from his cheek with the back of his wrist, "Let's see how you handle a real storm." He sneered out, his body ached but he ignored its plea.

The Orphan's eyes narrowed, sensing the challenge in his voice. It lunged, wings flaring wide, a blur of shadow and rage against the stormy sky, but Izuku was ready. He squeezed the glass bottle and shattered it in his hand, the glass piercing his flesh, blood and fuel pooled into the palm of his hand. Izuku stilled his heart as the distance between them closed. He ducked under the flurry of blows, no breaths left his lungs as he held the words in his mouth, prepared to pour everything into this.

He felt the opening before he saw it, a flare of pain in his hunter's mark as the beast went to scream. He slammed his fuel soaked palm into the stomach of the Orphan, "Ignis-Fire-Heat-Conflagration," A burst of blood flooded but he kept chanting in that forbidden tongue, "Fulmen-Flash-Disaster." His mouth ruptured in agony as the layers of flesh burst as if pressure had built up in his jaw and cheeks.

The last word tore from Izuku's lips, each syllable a razor blade dragged through his throat. Blood mixed with fuel in the wound on his palm, and for a split second, time seemed to hold its breath.

Then the world shattered.

A blinding column of fire and lightning erupted from his hand, a raw explosion of arcane fury that roared through the storm-choked air. The impact sent shockwaves rippling across the beach, lifting sand and charred debris into a swirling cyclone. Heat blasted outward, an inferno that seared Izuku's skin, singeing his hair and tearing at his clothes. The air was filled with the deafening crackle of unleashed power, drowning out even the howl of the storm.

The Orphan's scream was swallowed by the explosion, its form engulfed in a seething blaze of white-hot flame and crackling, jagged bolts of electric energy. The force of the blast drove the creature back, its membrane-like wings catching the flames and disintegrating into a storm of ash and embers. For a moment, the night turned to day, the beach illuminated with the blinding flash of raw, unbridled destruction.

Izuku's knees buckled as the recoil hit him like a sledgehammer. His body felt like it was being torn apart from the inside, every nerve ablaze with searing pain. His mouth was full of blood, the taste metallic and hot, and he could feel the ragged edges of torn flesh where his cheeks had split. But he held firm, his bloodied hand still pressed against the Orphan's burning flesh, feeding the inferno that consumed them both.

His vision blurred as the heat grew unbearable, but he didn't let go. He poured everything he had into the incantation, forcing more power through his shattered voice, even as his lungs burned and his skin blistered from the heat. The Orphan thrashed and writhed, the flayed and molten flesh crackling and splitting as it tried to claw away from him, but Izuku's grip was iron, his determination unyielding.

With a final, desperate roar, he pushed all the remaining energy through his body, feeling the very bones in his arm begin to fracture under the strain. The column of fire surged brighter, hotter—until, with a shuddering crack, the world seemed to fold in on itself.

The explosion detonated with a thunderous boom, a shockwave of heat and force that sent Izuku flying backward. He felt himself tumbling through the air, the ground dropping away as his body was tossed like a ragdoll by the force of his own attack. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and he skidded across the glassy, molten sand, his vision going black at the edges.

He coughed, his chest spasming as he forced air back into his scorched lungs. Through the stinging haze of smoke and steam, he could barely make out the shape of the Orphan—its body a writhing, half-charred silhouette against the blazing inferno, its form still shifting, still changing. The creature staggered, smoke pouring from its mouth as it struggled to keep its balance, the raw energy tearing it apart from within.

Izuku forced himself up on one knee, his head spinning, blood dripping from his split lips. His entire body felt like it was on fire, and he could barely move his left arm, the bones shattered from the force of the spell. But he couldn't stop now—not when the Orphan was still standing, its eyes burning with the same dark fury as before.

The storm above them churned, the lightning growing fiercer, the wind whipping around them in a frenzied dance. Blood and sweat mingled on Izuku's face as he dragged himself to his feet, every muscle screaming in agony. He raised his trembling right hand, the gauntlet's song barely a whisper now, the flames of the whip flickering weakly.

"Not… yet," he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken. His vision was a blur of red and shadows, but he saw the Orphan's outline clearly enough—the massive, distorted form staggering forward, its remaining eye locking onto him with a fury that seemed to pierce his very soul.

Izuku's eyes narrowed, the blood dripping down his face mingling with the rain. He took a step forward, his legs shaking but holding firm. If he was going to end this, he had to do it now—while the Orphan was weakened, while his own heart still beat.

"One more," he thought, his mind ablaze with pain and purpose. The remnants of the fire oil burned in his palm, mixing with the blood and arcane residue, sparking faintly in the storm's light. His eyes fixed on the Orphan as it came at him, one slow, lumbering step at a time.

Izuku felt almost bad. He pulled three vials from his coat and injected them into his leg. Feeling quickly returned to everything. His vision cleared in moments as the blood spread through his body. Muscles ached as they healed, bones stitched together and hardened, his mouth repaired as if nothing had ever happened, only a thin set of scars marking their existence. He could even feel the tooth reforming and shifting back into place. He smiled at the Orphan, its inky eyes glaring at him, "You got a second phase." His smile turned feral, "And so do I."

His heartbeat drummed in his ears, matching the rhythmic crash of the waves and the rumble of thunder overhead. He could feel the regenerative blood coursing through his veins like fire, burning away his pain, and he stood taller, straighter. The Orphan paused, almost sensing the change, its dark eyes narrowing as if to say, What are you?

Izuku rolled his shoulders, his bones creaking as if in response to the lightning that danced across the stormy sky. The scars on his face itched as he spoke, his voice low, barely more than a whisper that cut through the rain and chaos. "You feel that?" he said, his words punctuated by the roll of thunder, "The storms coming down hard, I used to fear thunder." The Orphan's body tensed, wings spreading wide, the tattered membranes catching the howling wind. Its new, elongated form seemed to stretch into the darkness, limbs quivering with barely contained rage. It moved like a shadow, darting forward with a speed that defied its size, and the ground trembled beneath its charge.

With a fluid motion, Izuku brought his whip up in a twisting motion. The searing chain cracked through the air, sparking and shimmering in the dim light as it coiled around the Orphan's wrist, digging into the molten flesh like a serpent's fangs. Izuku threw himself to the side of the orphan's charge and yanked hard, feeling the resistance as the Orphan slid to a stop and snarled. Its muscles spasmed while fighting against the pull. He could see the hatred blazing in those oil-slick eyes, but he didn't flinch.

"Ignis," he hissed through bloodied teeth, and the whip ignited, flames racing down the chain and searing the Orphan's flesh. It screamed—a sound more animal than human, a guttural roar that reverberated across the battlefield. But Izuku was already moving, muscles surging with fresh strength as he closed the gap between them, the heat of the flames licking at his face.

The Orphan's free hand swung down like a guillotine, claws slicing through the rain-soaked air, but Izuku sidestepped, letting the momentum carry him past the strike. He felt the rush of air, the prickling sensation of the near miss, and he used it—channeling the speed of his dodge into a brutal, upward strike with his free hand. His fist connected with the Orphan's jaw, shattering the blackened teeth with a crack that rang out like a gunshot.

The impact was like hitting solid stone, sending shockwaves up his arm, but he didn't care. The Orphan's head snapped back, and Izuku followed through, twisting his body to bring his gauntlet-covered fist slamming down on the creature's shoulder. He heard the bones break, felt the give of cartilage, the Orphan staggered, falling to one knee in the glassed sand.

This was it. The moment he had been fighting for. The rain pounded down, the storm intensifying, each droplet feeling like a needle on his skin. He could see the fury in the Orphan's eyes, the raw, desperate will to keep fighting, to keep living—and in that split second, he understood. They were the same—two beings struggling against impossible odds, clawing for survival, defying the very nature of the world that sought to consume them.

He hesitated for only a split second, but that's all it took. The orphan swung a sloppy punch but still powerful into Izuku's leg, the femur snapping on contact. Izuku's teeth gritted and he forgot any pity. He couldn't let himself pity it. Not now. Not when the hunt was so close to its end.

He raised his palm, blood still dripping from the cuts left by the shattered glass, the remnants of fire oil burning hotter than ever. The arcane symbols in his mind flared, searing his thoughts, but he didn't hesitate. He had only one shot, and he poured everything—every drop of his strength, his will, his fury—into the final incantation.

"Fulmen Invictus!"

The words tore themselves from his throat like a primal scream, and the world answered.

The sky split open as a bolt of lightning descended—a jagged lance of purplish-blue light that speared down from the heavens, drawn by the power of his words. It struck his outstretched hand, and the world exploded into blinding, searing light. Izuku felt the raw energy surge through him, felt his heart skip and his muscles convulse as the power coursed through every fiber of his being.

And then he thrust his burning, crackling palm into the Orphan's chest, his roar mingling with the deafening thunderclap as he unleashed the storm within him. The force of the impact drove the creature back, its eyes wide with shock and agony, and the lightning spread from Izuku's hand into the Orphan's body like a living thing—racing through flesh and bone, igniting every nerve with blazing fury.

For a heartbeat, they stood locked together—hunter and prey, bound by the unstoppable force of the storm.

Then the Orphan's body convulsed, the raw energy overwhelming it, flesh and sinew unraveling under the sheer intensity. A shockwave erupted outward, sending waves of glassed sand and steam into the air as the Orphan's form began to flay from the inside, the lightning acting as cutting blades that seemed to swim under its skin, points of flesh burst as the heat turned blood to steam. There was no time to scream for the Orphan, its body convulsing and charing. In moments the lighting burned out, scattering across the sands and dispersing from its summoner.

Izuku stumbled back, his knees buckling as the last of his strength bled away. The storm above them began to grow more restless, the furious winds picking up into a maelstrom, the thunder booming in the distance. He fell to one knee, gasping for breath, his body shaking with exhaustion, the rain washing away the blood and grime that covered him. He saw the orphan's chest shake, deep breaths barely audible over the continuous rain.

Izuku went to grab his whip and found it had been fung across the sands. With a shuddering breath he stood, body aching in an impossible agony. He injected two, three, seven vials of blood to no real effect, the arcane pains beyond the capabilities of the blood. He grabbed the whip, his favored weapon beyond anything simple as efficiency and limped to the still prone form of the newborn eldritch god. Its eyes stared glassy at the raining sky, bloody tears streaming from its dark sockets

Izuku's breaths came shallow and ragged, each step dragging him closer to the broken, twitching form of the Orphan. His muscles felt off, the arcane energy that had surged through him leaving behind a hollowness that gnawed at his core. A new agony he had yet to become familiar with. His eyes were locked on the Orphan, and despite the creature's battered state, he almost felt that lingering fear he had when it had first crawled out of its mother. The problem was it wasn't scary anymore. The first battle was the test of Izuku's fear, the time he let himself feel that horrid emotion. The thing in front of him wasn't deserving of his fear, not anymore, he almost wanted to spare the foul thing.

But he couldn't. The hunt was nearly over, and he had to finish what he'd started.

His fingers, still slick with blood, both real and imagined, fumbled to collect the whip around his wrist. The weapon, now scarred and blackened from the intensity of the battle, felt heavier in his grip, its razor edges gleaming faintly under the storm's fitful flashes of light. He could barely keep his eyes open, each blink threatening to drag him down into unconsciousness, but he forced himself to stay awake. The Orphan's ragged breathing echoed in his ears—labored, desperate, a sound that resonated with the raw ache inside his own chest.

"I used to fear thunder," Izuku muttered, his voice raw and barely audible. He staggered closer, the Orphan's eyes tracking his movements with that same glassy stare, unseeing yet aware. "Terrified of every flash and boom of a storm. Hell… I used to fear a lot of things," he went on, his tone almost conversational, as if he were telling a secret to an old friend. A half-step more, and he was right above the Orphan, towering over its prone form, his shadow stretching long across the wet sands.

His fingers worked the whip's handle, looping the razor chain around the Orphan's neck in multiple loops, a fluid motion, not tight enough to cause the sharp edges to bite, but enough to leave them pressed into the flesh. The creature didn't move, didn't struggle, its battered chest rising and falling with slow, shallow breaths. He tightened the chain, feeling the familiar pull of resistance, the deadly tension humming between them. The Orphan's eyes fluttered, something almost like recognition flickering in their depths.

Izuku's expression hardened, his voice dropping to a cold, almost gentle whisper as he leaned in. "But then I learned something..." His gaze never wavered, even as the storm raged above them, the wind tugging at his blood-soaked coat, the rain pelting his face. He tightened his grip, feeling the whip's blades press deeper, the skin beneath beginning to split. "Fear doesn't come from the storm. It doesn't come from the dark. It isn't the beasts that lurk in nightmares, or the villains who thrive on terror."

His fingers flexed, drawing the chain taut, feeling the whip bite deeper with each word. "Fear isn't about what's out there," he hissed, leaning closer. "It's what's inside you—the weakness you can't stand to face, the lies you tell yourself to keep the shadows away. Fear is the truth you bury deep down, the truth that eats at you when you're alone."

He paused, his gaze turning almost reflective, a faint smile twisting his lips despite the carnage around them. "I've been killed by things I feared," he admitted, voice low and steady. "Again and again. But every time, once I stopped running... Once I faced them... I always won." His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in them as he leaned closer, the storm's fury reflected in his gaze.

The Orphan's eyes twitched, but it didn't look away, and neither did Izuku. His grip tightened further, his voice a low, almost taunting murmur, full of raw, unyielding conviction. "The only real fear is knowing you're not strong enough. Knowing the worst thing you can face... is yourself."

For a single heartbeat, the world seemed to still. The Orphan's body shuddered, its hands twitching weakly at its sides, but it made no move to resist. The rain fell in heavy sheets, the storm roaring in the distance, and Izuku's gaze softened—just for a moment. He almost believed that he saw something like understanding in those black eyes.

Then he pulled.

The whip bit deep, slicing through flesh and sinew with the finality of the sun setting. Blood sprayed, mingling with the rain, and the Orphan's body jerked violently, its form spasming under the brutal force of the cut. The dull thud of its severed head hitting the sand echoed in Izuku's ears, a sound that seemed to resonate far beyond the battlefield. He watched, detached, as the Orphan's body convulsed one last time before going still, its eyes dimming as life drained away.

Izuku stood there, his arms hanging limply at his sides, the blood-slick chain dangling from his fingers. The wind howled around him, and he felt his knees begin to give, the strength finally leaving his legs. He collapsed to the ground, kneeling over the Orphan's lifeless body, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest, each beat slower and heavier than the last. The rain had soaked him through, his body numb and shaking, but he didn't care.

It was over.

The storm rumbled overhead, as if unwilling to accept the finality of the hunt, the clouds swirling and darkening even further while the Orphan's blood soaked into the glassed sand. Izuku's vision blurred, the edges of the world wavering and fading, like the last echoes of a dream. He was so tired—more tired than he had ever been in his life. The weight of the hunt settled over him like a suffocating shroud, yet there was a strange, fragile peace nestled in the hollow of his chest. He had won, and whatever the cost had been—it was enough.

His hand, trembling and numb, reached out to close the Orphan's lifeless eyes. Gently, he wiped away the final streaks of bloody tears with the back of his knuckles, as if to offer a small, unspoken comfort. A faint, weary smile tugged at his lips, the sheer weight of exhaustion pulling him down like a tide.

"Guess... I was scarier, huh?" he whispered, his voice barely louder than the whispering rain. "I—I did it. Two tries... that's good, right?" He lifted his gaze to the storm-torn sky, searching the roiling darkness as if it might offer him some kind of sign. "Did I do good? Was it... worth it?"

There was no answer. Only the distant roar of thunder, the crack of lightning splitting the sea. He sat there, feeling the weight of the moment settle into his bones as his mind struggled through the haze of exhaustion. He knew, deep down, there would be no answer. Flora hadn't spoken to him since he claimed the Moonlight Blade, and perhaps he was too far from her reach now—adrift in a realm that even she couldn't touch. He didn't know. All he knew was the silence.

His eyes refocused, sweeping across the battlefield. The beach was scarred and broken; craters marred the sands, deep gashes cut through it like old wounds, and much of it had been transformed into jagged shards of glass. A bitter chuckle escaped him. Before he became a hunter, he never would have imagined himself wielding such destructive power, much less surviving a confrontation with a creature like the Orphan.

But the smile faded, leaving a hollow ache behind. The victory felt empty. There was no great prize awaiting him, no souls to be saved, no redemption to be won—only a small fraction of his long, grueling task was completed. The Orphan's head was his to claim... yet it felt meaningless.

Then his gaze fell on the Orphan's weapon, half-buried in the glassy sand. The placenta—Kos's request. His breath caught, and a chill washed over him, freezing him in place. Flora's words echoed in his mind, the request he had tried so hard to push aside. Eat a piece of it, she had said. Take a part of the Orphan's placenta...

He hesitated, his entire body freezing as the weight of the choice settled over him like a shroud. Was he truly prepared to go that far? To cross a line that even now, teetered dangerously close to madness?

His mind reeled, turning over the possibilities, searching for a way out that didn't feel like surrender. He could walk away, leave this place behind him, and return to the lamp the Messengers had prepared just for him—a promise of escape. He could step into the light, turn his back on the nightmare forever, and never look back. He could silence the nagging voice inside him that begged for something more, something beyond survival.

But even as he thought it, his gaze remained fixed on the placenta, drawn to it like a moth to flame. The urge was small, just a flicker, but it was enough to make him hesitate. A part of him, buried deep beneath layers of resolve and determination, wanted it—craved the acceptance the ancient being had offered. The dark promise of belonging, of having someone to rely on, even if that someone was a twisted, alien presence that lurked in the far reaches of his nightmares.

If he walked away, he'd be free. Free from the pull of that ancient, toxic desire. Free from her influence and the whispers that lingered in his mind like a shadow, always just out of reach. He could go back to being the hunter, the solitary warrior who fought alone. But if he stayed—if he allowed himself to give in, to partake of the Orphan's remains—he knew he would be crossing a line he could never uncross.

Yet, the yearning tugged at him, relentless and unyielding. It was the promise of companionship in a world that had offered him nothing but violence and solitude. The weight of his loneliness pressed down on him, crushing his resolve, and he couldn't help but wonder... what would it be like to have someone, even if that someone was her?

The desire gnawed at him, dug its claws into his heart, and he hated himself for wanting it. But he couldn't tear his eyes away. He couldn't stop himself from imagining what it would be like to be needed, to be seen, even if it meant embracing something twisted and wrong.

His fingers twitched, hovering inches from the grotesque weapon that lay half-buried in the sand. He knew—deep down, he knew—that if he took this step, if he let her in, there would be no going back. And yet, the promise of that poisonous connection, the idea of having someone who would never abandon him... it was almost too much to resist.

It would cost him everything. Maybe even his sanity. But at that moment, he wasn't sure if it mattered anymore.

Izuku's fingers dug into the cold, slick flesh of the Orphan's weapon. It was no longer pulsing with power, the Orphan's fury now a fading echo in the wind. He grasped a chunk of the strange meat, and as he pulled it free, it glistened wetly in his palm—like the shimmering surface of ancient coldblood, yet heavier, denser. He had become numb to the grotesque over time, biting into lukewarm organs and blood-rich flesh that once made his stomach turn. But this was different. This... felt different.

The chunk of meat was warm, unnervingly so, and as he brought it closer to his lips, his hands began to tremble. His mouth tasted sour with anticipation, the bile already rising in his throat. He hesitated, a voice screaming at him to stop, to throw it away, to walk back to the lamp and leave this cursed beach behind. But the need—the gnawing, aching need—overpowered everything else. His teeth sank into the spongy, rancid flesh, and the vile fluid burst onto his tongue, bitter and thick. He gagged, his body shuddering violently, but he didn't stop. He chewed, forcing himself to swallow, even as his stomach twisted in revulsion.

He couldn't stop now. The dam had broken, and every truth he had buried deep inside himself came rushing out, spilling over the jagged edges of his fragile mind. He needed this. He was desperate for something—someone—to fill the void that had hollowed him out from the inside, leaving nothing but a cold, empty shell behind.

Not like the Doll, who offered care to every Hunter who passed through the Dream, her kindness unchanging and impersonal. Not like Gehrman, who treated him with the detached affection of a weary mentor, never truly seeing him. Not like Flora, whose distant, maternal love was as untouchable as the moon. Not like the villagers of the Dream, who clung to him as a savior, as someone to idolize and rely upon, without ever understanding the weight of his loneliness. Not like Eileen, who guided him with the detached resolve of a seasoned killer, never allowing herself to get too close.

No, this was different. He needed more. He needed something fierce and raw, something that would consume him whole and leave nothing untouched. He wanted the thing that had always eluded him—something deeper, something real. A love that burned like wildfire, that wouldn't fade away when the dawn broke. He needed to be needed, not just as a Hunter or a hero or a savior, but as Izuku. As himself.

And he'd felt it, that flicker of warmth, the possibility of something more, when he'd been with Mina. The girl with the bright smile and the infectious laugh who had made his heart stutter in his chest. The one he thought he could have something real with—a life, a future, a love that wasn't tangled up in blood and shadow. But he didn't know how much time had passed since he'd been trapped in this nightmare. She could have moved on, forgotten him, found someone else who wasn't tainted by the dark. She could be living her life while he was still trapped in his endless, bloody hunt.

But now... now, he had a chance. A twisted, broken chance to fill that void, to have something, someone, who was his alone. It didn't matter if it was overbearing or incomprehensible, if it made him more monster than man. It was something, and that was more than he had right now. It was a chance to have the connection he craved, no matter how distorted or grotesque. It was the only chance he had left.

Izuku chewed and swallowed again, his body convulsing with disgust and a strange, feverish exhilaration. He could feel the ancient power settle in his veins like a promise, burning and twisting, and he couldn't tell if he was crying or laughing. All he knew was that he couldn't stop—because now that the dam had broken, now that the truth had clawed its way to the surface, there was no going back.

He was already too far gone.

As he sat beneath the raging storm, the rain drenching his bloodied form, Izuku felt the weight of his choice settle like lead in his chest. Small hands tugged at his coat, the Messengers crowding around him, their thin, pale fingers clutching with an odd sense of urgency. Their eyeless faces held a strange, almost pitying sorrow, as if they understood the depths of what he had just done—even if he didn't.

The cold rain still stung as it lashed against his skin, but he barely noticed. His own tears mingled with the downpour, streaming hot and fast down his face as he sat there, shivering and hollow. The emptiness was suffocating, crushing him from all sides. He was desperate for the feeling he had chased—the connection, the warmth, the answer to that unspoken need—and yet... nothing. There was no change. No sudden spark of power, no whisper from the beyond, no comfort to ease the ache in his heart.

It was all a lie. It had to be.

Izuku staggered to his feet, his body heavy and unsteady. He moved toward the lamp, each step a struggle against the screaming exhaustion that clawed at him, threatening to drag him back down. The Messengers scattered as he stumbled forward, their silent pleas falling on deaf ears. He couldn't look at them—couldn't stand to see their pity. He reached out for the lamp, its light flickering dimly in the storm's chaos, but the moment his fingers brushed the ethereal flame, it flared to life, brilliant and blinding.

He froze, hand hovering over the light, his breath catching in his throat. The weight in his chest twisted and writhed, a scream caught somewhere deep inside. Anger, frustration, despair—all of it boiling over in a fierce, sudden rage. He wrenched his hand back and spun around, grabbing one of the worn glass fuel bottles hanging from his belt. He flung it toward the lifeless form of Kos, the bottle spinning through the rain before it shattered against the dead flesh. The liquid pooled around the corpse, soaking the sand, and without hesitation, he raised his hand, channeling the last bit of strength he had left.

"Ignis," he spat, the word leaving his lips like a curse.

The fire roared to life, flames bursting from the corpse and devouring it whole. He watched, his eyes burning with unshed tears as the twisted body of Kos was consumed, the flames licking higher and higher until they were all he could see. It was a cleansing, a purging—a final, futile attempt to erase what had happened, to wipe away the stain of his choice.

But it was too late. The choice had been made, the line crossed, and he could never go back.

Izuku's legs buckled as the last of his strength left him. He fell forward, collapsing into the warm glow of the lamp, and as the light swallowed him, the storm, the beach, the flames—they all faded to nothing. The dream's embrace was cold and unyielding as it took him, pulling him away from the smoldering remains of the beach, from the rain that had become his tears, and from the corpse that now burned like a pyre beneath the howling sky.

He was whisked away, into the darkness of the Dream, and all that remained was the lingering scent of salt and ash... and the bitter taste of what he had believed to be a chance.

Izuku's return to consciousness was sluggish, like rising to the surface of a deep, dark lake. His body felt heavy, and the blankets encasing him were far too soft and warm to be real. He stirred, feeling the weight of the fabric settle against his skin, and slowly, the familiar sounds of the Hunter's Dream began to filter through his dulled senses.

The first thing he noticed was the laughter of children—soft, bright, and carefree, drifting in from the flower fields. His heart ached at the sound; he had almost forgotten what innocence sounded like. Then came the voices—low and heated—from somewhere nearby. He recognized Gehrman's gruff tone, sharp and reprimanding, but it was the second voice that made him hesitate. Was that... Maria? He strained to hear, but the words were blurred, swallowed by the gentle rustle of wind and the ever-present hum of the Dream.

For a moment, Izuku let himself just be—cradled in the warmth of his bed, half-listening to the world outside, and feeling, for once, almost at peace. However, something wasn't as it usually was. He could feel the faint weight of a presence next to him, the subtle warmth of a body close to his own. His heart skipped a beat, and he opened his left eye, a crack at first.

Crimson.

Ebrietas. Her blood-red curls were the first thing he saw, draping over the bed in a wild, untamed mass of fiery locks. She was sitting at his side, her back leaning into a small pile of pillows as she worked. The crimson tangle framed her delicate face, falling in loose waves around the coral-like horns that protruded from her skull at odd angles. He could see her hands—small and nimble—deftly stitching a tear in one of his garbs. It had to be the one he wore into the Nightmare. It looked like it had been through hell.

His breath caught in his throat as his eyes flickered down—he could just barely make out the edges of her silhouette, her slender form beneath the sheets.

Wait...

His heart skipped a beat, the fog in his mind clearing slightly. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing—or rather, not seeing. There was no sign of the flowing starry dress she always wore, no elaborate fabric or shimmering threads. Instead, her bare skin seemed to glow faintly in the dim light of the room, pale and delicate in a way that was both strange and alluring. She was in underclothes, from what he could tell—the thick wrapping around her chest barely visible through his cracked vision.

His face flushed, realizing he was very naked under the sheets as well. It was becoming a disturbingly familiar pattern—the Dream's lesser Great One, Ebrietas, seemed to have a habit of stripping him of his gear whenever he returned unconscious. He made a mental note—yet again—to have a word about that when he got the chance.

Ebrietas's presence was both comforting and disconcerting. She had become something of a constant since she had joined their group in the dream. Her aloof nature made it hard to pin down what she thought, but since he had taken up the arcane arts, she had slowly opened up to him. She was a comfort, to say the least, the half-mentor and half-maid as Gehrman so eloquently—and teasingly—put it. She was gentle in her teaching, the opposite of Eileen's strict guidance.

He watched her work for a moment longer, trying to ignore the lingering chill in his body that eased up as she shifted, moving a fraction of an inch away. A small shiver rocked his body, and he became keenly aware of how awful he felt, but that feeling subsided a bit as her head turned to him and she scooted back into contact with him, his chilled skin meeting hers.

He didn't think he had ever seen her so focused on anything; her eyes, the blackened pits with small star-like speckles, shined with a worry that he hadn't seen before. She was… gentle, one of her small hands finding its way to his mop of curled hair, brushing it out of his face. The curtain of green locks with red and white streaks was tucked behind his ear, and then she returned to her task of stitching another hole. It was surreal. She was usually a whirlwind of frenetic energy and strange humor, but right now, she was still and quiet, her entire attention devoted to repairing his ruined clothes and caring for him.

He let his cracked eye drift shut again, the warmth and comfort lulling him back to the edge of sleep. Maybe just a little longer... just a few more minutes in this strange haven, where the nightmare seemed so far away and the pain was dulled by the Dream's embrace.

The soft argument in the workshop's main room had quieted, and the silence, though young, was broken by a soft knock on the door. Izuku remained in his half-asleep state, listening intently.

"Do come in, let the state of the green one not inhibit your access to this room," came the strange tone of Ebrietas. It was flat, almost whispered, and coated in an emotion similar to worry.

The door opened with a soft squeak of the hinges—a sound Flora had intentionally placed in the dream, to give it a sense of reality. The soft shuffling of fabric and the click of wood as someone entered the room followed, but Izuku couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He found himself curling up as a cool draft blew in, his face brushing into the side of his mentor as a shiver broke across his skin.

"How is the good hunter? It's been a few days since his return, and Flora grows worried," came the soft voice of the Doll. He could almost see her gentle, serene expression.

"The green one..." Ebrietas paused, then let out a sigh, "Izuku." The use of his name surprised him. "He has definitely come down with something. My best guess is the Orphan transferred some kind of pathogen to him." There was a pause; the feeling of fingers brushing through his hair was almost soothing.

"Thankfully, his patron mother is the progenitor of such things. He shall be fine, I suppose. A few more days of rest and enough heat will keep him level." Ebrietas's tone softened, her worry barely hidden beneath her detached words. "Shame, the poor child reeks of Kos. That woman never did anything in half measures. I hope she doesn't wound his soul."

There was a bitter edge to her voice when she mentioned Kos, and it caught Izuku's attention even in his foggy state.

"Indeed, Flora speaks of how Kos likely came to the good hunter when he was at his weakest, deep in the Nightmare's depths, yet..." The Doll's voice trailed off, sadness lacing her words. "Yet she knows not why her eldritch kin would take such a vested interest in him… Anyway—" the Doll's tone brightened a fraction, "I appreciate your willingness to grant him your body heat, Ebrietas."

"There's no need to thank me," Ebrietas replied with a soft chuckle. "The small one has become one of my closest mortals," she said with a hint of pride. "Perhaps he will wake up and stare at this form I crafted. I attempted to make it appealing for young men."

Izuku's face heated at that last comment, his mind drifting off into unconsciousness once again. Her words, strangely teasing and unfamiliar, swirled in his thoughts, the warmth of her body close to his becoming a strange source of comfort. For now, he was safe, cradled in the warmth of his bed, the heat of Ebrietas soaking into him as his mind turned off once more.

The second time Izuku's consciousness returned, he wasn't in his bed.

His eyes opened to a dim, hazy world, and he shivered as his body ached for warmth. A thick blanket was wrapped tightly around him, cocooning him against the cool breeze that drifted through the air. He could hear the soft creaking of wood, a slow and steady rhythm that seemed to lull him further into a daze. The familiar, heady scent of the Dream flowers hung heavily in the air, mingling with the distant rustling of leaves.

His eyes fluttered shut for a moment before he forced them open again, fighting the sluggishness that seemed to weigh him down. Nausea coiled in his stomach, and a faint sense of disorientation gnawed at him as he realized he wasn't lying down. He was sitting up, bundled tightly in blankets.

Slowly, his vision cleared, and he recognized the place—the familiar terrace of the Dream, where the flowers swayed gently under the shifting sky. He had sat here before with Gehrman, the two of them sharing silent moments while the old man napped. Now, he found himself in Gehrman's old wheelchair, its worn leather creaking beneath him.

And beside him, patiently whittling a small block of wood, was the old man himself.

Gehrman's low humming filled the silence, the soft tune steady and soothing. His eyes were downcast, focused on the piece of wood he was carefully shaping with a knife. A faint, contented smile tugged at his lips as he worked, the rhythmic motion of the blade a comforting familiarity.

Izuku swallowed, wincing as the motion sent a raw ache through his throat. He didn't try to speak, didn't want to disturb the peaceful moment, so he simply stared out at the Dream's strange, ethereal horizon.

"You scared us something fierce," Gehrman said suddenly, his voice gruff but gentle. Izuku turned his gaze back to the old man, who had stopped his whittling to meet his eyes. There was a sadness there, a depth of worry that Izuku hadn't expected.

"I'm glad you're able to open your eyes," Gehrman continued, his lips curving into a crooked, relieved smile. "I thought I might have to go and hunt those final beasts for you." The elder's laugh was soft and brittle, his eyes glimmering with unshed tears. "You got this old coot so worried he even started sharpening his tools again. Couldn't let you stay here forever, boy."

Gehrman's smile widened, and he reached over, patting Izuku's blanketed shoulder with a gentle, fatherly hand. Izuku's throat tightened, emotion welling up inside him. There were no words he could say—not yet—but he didn't need them. The Dream had a way of speaking in silences, in the spaces between moments, and this was one of those times.

Silent tears drifted down his cheeks as Izuku allowed himself to sink into the quiet, to simply be, next to the man who had guided him through so much. The hunt still needed to continue, at least for a moment longer, but for now, he was home.

()~~~~~()

Hey! This is the Author, I wanted to thank everyone for reading this fic and enjoying it. This chapter's length was 20421 words long and a long write. It was voted to come out first out of my 3 fics in the discord by the lovely people who interact there, so I once again invite you all to imbibe in the old blood of that server.

If you're reading the Authors notes then you're a very observant person, I recently reactivated my , and from here on out on all my fics I will be thanking the backers here.

So, a massive thank you to the people who won a free month as a giveaway on the server: Rom Hack, Safety_Goose, Carfmodyios, Thediem, husky best dog, Bobomc0 3

And a big thank you to Goku32494 who was the first patron even before I finished SETTING THEM UP.