[ENTER : Unknowing Hunt Arc]
The Garden of Whispering Stones sang its gentle lullaby as dawn—or what passed for dawn on a planet with twin suns—painted the crystalline canopy in shades of amber and rose. The moss beds glowed softly, pulsing with the planet's heartbeat, a rhythm so peaceful it felt like a lie after everything that had happened.
Shinji Kazuhiko woke to phantom pain.
His left arm—the one that didn't exist—screamed at him. Not metaphorically. His nervous system, confused and desperate, was firing signals into the void where limb used to be, creating sensations of burning, crushing, tearing that had no physical source. His left leg, ending at the knee, sent similar ghost-messages: the foot that wasn't there was cramping, the ankle twisting, the toes curling.
He bit down on his remaining hand to keep from screaming, tasting blood as his teeth broke skin.
*This is worse than dying,* he thought, and he'd technically died hundreds of times. Death was simple—consciousness ended, regeneration began, pain was temporary. But this? This was his body mourning parts of itself that would never return, a grief written into his neural pathways that regeneration couldn't touch.
The phantom sensations peaked, then slowly—agonizingly slowly—faded to a dull, throbbing wrongness.
When he finally opened his eyes, he found he wasn't alone.
Miryoku sat on a nearby stone, her white hair catching the dawn light, creating a soft halo effect. She wasn't looking at him directly, giving him privacy, but her posture—tense, alert—suggested she'd been there for a while.
"How long?" Shinji's voice was rough, damaged from the bitten-back screams.
"About twenty minutes," she replied quietly, still not looking at him. "I heard you... struggling. I wasn't sure if I should wake you or let you—" She gestured helplessly. "I didn't know what to do."
Shinji pushed himself up with his remaining arm, the motion awkward and frustrating. His balance was completely off. His center of gravity had shifted with the loss of limbs, and his body didn't know how to compensate yet. He nearly tipped over before catching himself.
"You don't need to watch over me," he said, more harshly than intended. "I'm not going to—"
"I know," Miryoku interrupted gently. "But yesterday, you woke up and learned your sister is..." She paused, choosing words carefully. "You learned something that would break most people. And then you immediately agreed to fight an ancient evil for a god you just met. So forgive me for being concerned that you're not... processing things."
Shinji opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. What could he say? That he was processing? That would be a lie. The knowledge of Kiyomi's fate sat in his chest like a black hole, collapsing in on itself, threatening to swallow everything if he looked at it directly.
So he didn't look at it. He focused on what came next. Always forward. Never stop to feel.
"I'm fine," he lied.
Miryoku finally turned to look at him, and her violet eyes held something between pity and frustration. "You're really not. But I understand." She stood, brushing moss from her torn rose-gold jacket. "Hyachima wants to see all of us. Breakfast first, then... planning, I think."
As she walked away, Shinji tried to stand. His remaining leg trembled with the effort of supporting his entire weight. The missing leg tried to help—his brain sent signals to muscles that didn't exist, expecting push-back that never came.
He fell.
Hard. Face-first into the moss, which at least was soft.
He lay there, feeling the cool moisture against his cheek, and allowed himself exactly five seconds of pure, undiluted despair.
Then he pushed himself up again and tried once more.
"To hell with it all." he said.
The breakfast area was a natural amphitheater formed by singing stones arranged in concentric circles. In the center, Hyachima had manifested a simple table of solidified light and filled it with foods from across his multiverse: fruits that glowed faintly with internal luminescence, bread that smelled of honey and dreams, water that tasted like hope crystallized into liquid form.
The assembled group was a portrait of survivors.
Merus sat slumped at one end of the table, his cerulean skin pale, almost translucent. The deep gashes across his torso had closed but left angry scars that pulsed faintly with destabilized divine energy. He held a cup of the glowing water in both hands, staring into it as if it might contain answers. When he tried to manifest even a spark of creation energy to warm the cup, nothing happened. His hands trembled with the effort, then dropped to the table in defeat.
Kagaya filled three seats by himself, his massive frame hunched forward, quieter than Shinji had ever seen him. His tribal markings pulsed weakly, out of rhythm. The bandages wrapping his torso were stained with blood that hadn't quite stopped seeping. When he reached for bread, his hand shook—not from injury, but from something deeper. The memory of Saganbo's casual swat, the realization of his own insignificance against cosmic power.
Netsudo wasn't eating at all. The orange-haired boy sat with his knees pulled to his chest, rocking slightly, his eyes distant. Every few minutes he'd flinch as if hearing something no one else could, then mutter under his breath in words too quiet to make out. Trauma, fresh and raw, played across his features in waves.
Shirou sat apart from the others, methodical and controlled even in his battered state. His crimson eye was open and alert, tracking every movement in the garden with sniper's precision. His other eye remained swollen shut. He ate with mechanical efficiency, treating food as fuel rather than comfort. His broken rifle lay across his lap like a security blanket or a corpse he refused to bury.
And Shinji finally arrived, limping badly, using a stone pillar for support. The journey from his moss bed to the breakfast area—perhaps fifty meters—had taken him nearly ten minutes. By the time he collapsed into a seat, he was breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead.
Hyachima observed them all with ancient, weary eyes. The God of Absolute Beginning looked marginally better than the day before—his blood had stopped flowing, his damaged arm was no longer bent at that wrong angle—but the exhaustion remained, carved into his features like erosion on a mountain.
"Eat," he commanded gently. "Healing requires energy, and you've all spent yours."
For several minutes, the only sounds were the singing stones and the quiet consumption of food. No one spoke. What was there to say?
Finally, Hyachima broke the silence:
"I need to be honest with you about what comes next. Not just the mission I've asked you to undertake, but the reality of your current states." His gaze swept across them. "You are, each of you, damaged in ways that will take time to heal. Some wounds more than others."
He looked at Merus first. "Your divine core is fractured. Ninety percent of your combat capability is gone, and natural regeneration will take centuries—possibly millennia—to restore you to even half your former strength. You are, functionally, as weak as a particularly resilient mortal right now."
Merus didn't react. He'd known this already. But hearing it stated so baldly made something in his expression crack.
Hyachima turned to Shinji. "Your body has been reconstructed, but the limbs Saganbo erased cannot be restored without destroying me in the process—and even then, success isn't guaranteed. You will need prosthetics. My multiverse has the technology, but adapting to them, learning to channel your spiritual energy through artificial constructs rather than living tissue, will be a process measured in months, not days."
Shinji nodded once, sharply. He'd expected this.
"Your Trascender abilities remain intact," Hyachima continued. "Your core, your Acts, your Voidheart Surge—all functional. But your body's reduced surface area, your altered center of gravity, your compromised proprioception will affect combat effectiveness until you adapt. In your current state, you'd struggle."
He looked at Kagaya next. "Your physical injuries will heal. Your people are resilient. But you've been broken psychologically—faced with power so far beyond your comprehension that your warrior's confidence has shattered. You need to rebuild not just your body, but your spirit."
Kagaya's jaw clenched, but he didn't argue.
To Netsudo: "Your trauma is acute. You're experiencing dissociative episodes—I can see your other personas trying to surface and failing, leaving you trapped between identities. You need time, stability, and possibly therapeutic intervention beyond what I can provide."
Netsudo just rocked harder, not responding.
Finally, to Shirou: "You're the most stable of the group, physically and mentally. That's all I can say. Nishizumi Shirou."
Shirou's crimson eye studied Hyachima with unsettling intensity. "And you're telling us this because...?"
"Because I need you to understand the timeline," Hyachima replied. "The ancient evil I mentioned—the threat to my multiverse—is not an immediate crisis. It's awakening, yes, but 'awakening' on a cosmic scale means years, possibly decades before it fully manifests. You have time." He leaned forward. "Which means before I send you on any mission, before I ask you to face any threat, you need to heal. To train. To become functional again."
"How long?" Shinji asked, his voice flat.
"Months," Hyachima said. "At minimum. Possibly longer."
"I don't have months!" Shinji's remaining fist slammed the table, making the light-construct ripple. "Kiyomi is out there now. Saganbo is hunting her now. Every second I waste here is a second she's—"
"Is a second she continues existing exactly as she has been for the past sixteen years," Hyachima interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. "Shinji, I understand your desperation. But charging off to find her in your current state isn't rescue—it's suicide. You can't help her if you're dead. You can't challenge Saganbo if you can't even walk fifty meters without collapsing."
The truth of that hit Shinji like a physical blow. He slumped back, his remaining hand unclenching slowly.
"So what do we do?" Miryoku asked quietly, her harmonious light pulsing with concern for all of them.
Hyachima stood, his white robes flowing around him. "We begin with the fundamentals. Prosthetics for Shinji. Rest and therapy for Netsudo. Combat retraining for Kagaya. For all of you—acclimation to my multiverse's particular physics, which differ slightly from your home reality. And for Merus..." He paused, his expression becoming complex. "There are options. Difficult options. But we'll discuss those privately."
He gestured toward a path leading deeper into the garden. "There's a facility here—built by the native Aetherians for healing work. It has everything you need. Beds, training grounds, workshops for engineering." He looked directly at Shinji. "Give me three months. Let me help you become functional again. Then we'll discuss missions, rescues, and revenge."
"Three months," Shinji repeated hollowly.
"Three months where Kiyomi is safe precisely because she's too dangerous for Saganbo to approach carelessly," Hyachima countered. "He's searching, yes, but he's doing it carefully. He knows that confronting a raw, uncontrolled Trascender is suicidal even for a God of Destruction. He's gathering intel, preparing containment strategies. That caution buys you time."
Shinji wanted to argue. Wanted to scream that three months was eternity, that every moment his sister existed in that mindless state was torture.
But he looked around at his crew—at Merus barely able to hold a cup, at Kagaya's trembling hands, at Netsudo's thousand-yard stare, at the missing portions of his own body.
"Fine," he said finally. "Three months. But we train hard. No rest days. No—"
"You'll take rest days," Hyachima interrupted, "or your body will make you take them by breaking down entirely. Healing isn't just physical, Shinji. It's mental, emotional, spiritual. Push too hard and you'll shatter what's left."
He softened slightly. "I'm not your enemy. I want you to succeed—both in my mission and in yours. But success requires preparation. Accept that, and we begin."
The Aetherian healing facility was built into the side of a rose-quartz cliff, its architecture organic and flowing, as if the building had grown rather than been constructed. Inside, it was a maze of chambers, each designed for specific purposes: meditation halls with perfect acoustics, training rooms with reinforced floors, medical bays with equipment that hummed with soft, therapeutic energy.
Hyachima led Shinji to a workshop in the facility's heart. The space was vast, filled with tools both familiar and alien: holographic displays showing anatomical diagrams, fabricators that could assemble materials at the molecular level, measurement devices that scanned not just body but spirit.
Waiting for them was a figure Shinji hadn't expected to see.
She was tall—nearly as tall as Kagaya—with skin of deep bronze and four arms, each moving independently with fluid grace. Her eyes were multifaceted like an insect's, but they held a warmth and intelligence that was entirely humanoid. She wore practical work clothes covered in various stains and burns from her craft.
"Shinji Kazuhiko," Hyachima introduced, "meet Architect Vyss. She's the finest bio-mechanical engineer in this Universe. If anyone can build you functional prosthetics, it's her."
Vyss's four hands moved in a gesture that might have been a bow or a wave. When she spoke, her voice had a musical, layered quality, as if multiple vocal cords were harmonizing: "The honor is mine, Trascender. Though I'll admit, this is my first time working with someone whose flesh was unmade rather than merely damaged. Fascinating challenge."
Shinji wasn't sure how to respond to someone calling his mutilation "fascinating."
"I'm well versed with how Spiritual Energy and fundamentals work since I've been a frequent honorary visitor of The Fulcrum Anima Focal Point, FAFP in short." Vyss approached him, her multifaceted eyes scanning him with professional intensity. "May I?" She gestured to his stumps.
Shinji nodded, bracing himself.
Two of her hands carefully examined the smooth surface where his left arm ended below the shoulder. The touch was gentle but thorough, fingers probing the edges, testing how the skin had sealed.
"Remarkable," she murmured. "The closure is perfect. No scar tissue, no nerve damage at the boundary—it's as if your body simply... ended here and accepted it as normal. That's the Hyachima reconstruction, I presume?"
"Yes," Hyachima confirmed. "I rebuilt him from his core outward, but the limbs that were erased had become fixed in the state of 'never existed.' I couldn't reverse that without dying."
"Hmm." Vyss moved to examine the leg stump at the knee. "Same here. Pristine closure. Actually makes my job easier—clean integration points, no damaged tissue to work around." She stood back, her four arms crossing in complex patterns as she thought. "Questions: Are you planning to use these prosthetics for combat?"
"Yes," Shinji said immediately.
"Will you be channeling your spiritual energy—this 'Act 3' Hyachima mentioned—through them?"
"Yes."
"Do you want them to match your original limbs' appearance, or would you prefer functional optimization over aesthetics?"
Shinji hesitated. "I... I don't know."
Vyss's expression softened. "Let me rephrase: When you look down at these prosthetics, do you want to be reminded that you survived impossible odds and adapted? Or do you want them to be invisible, to pretend nothing changed?"
The question hit deeper than Shinji expected. He thought of the stumps, of the phantom pain, of how much he'd lost.
"I want to remember," he said quietly. "But I also need them to work. Function over form."
"Excellent answer." Vyss gestured to a holographic display, which shimmered to life showing a three-dimensional model of a human body—Shinji's body, rendered in perfect detail. "Then here's what I propose..."
She manipulated the display, and prosthetic designs began overlaying the stumps.
"For the arm: A modular design. The core attachment will integrate directly with your shoulder blade and remaining bone structure using bio-neural interfaces. Not just mechanical linkage—we'll connect it to your surviving nerves so your brain can control it naturally. You'll feel through it, not perfectly, but enough for tactile feedback."
The hologram showed internal structures: complex weaves of synthetic muscle fiber, power conduits for spiritual energy, reinforced skeletal framework.
"The outer casing will be a titanium-carbon weave infused with what we call 'essence-reactive plating'—it'll channel your Act 3 energy more efficiently than flesh could. When you're not actively using it, it'll look like polished metal. When you channel power through it, it'll glow with your energy signature."
She rotated the display. "The hand will have full articulation—better than biological, actually. Enhanced grip strength, built-in measurement tools, pressure sensors. And..." She tapped a control. A blade extended from the forearm. "Optional weaponry. Retractable, controlled by thought."
Shinji stared at the design. It didn't look human. It looked like what it was: a weapon. A tool. A replacement for something that could never be replaced.
"And the leg?" he asked.
"Similar principles." Vyss brought up the leg design. "Integration at the knee joint. Full range of motion, enhanced stability, shock absorption beyond biological limits. The foot will have micro-adjustments for uneven terrain—you'll never lose your balance again once you adapt to it."
She zoomed in on the ankle. "Here's something special: I can install pressure-release systems in the heel and ball of the foot. When you jump or kick, they'll amplify force using stored kinetic energy. You could potentially leap buildings or deliver kicks with the force of small explosives."
"How long to build them?" Shinji asked.
"Three days for fabrication," Vyss replied. "Then fitting, neural integration, calibration—another week. After that, you'll need at least a month of physical therapy to train your brain to use them properly. Learning to walk again, essentially."
"I can learn faster," Shinji insisted.
Vyss's multifaceted eyes studied him with something like sympathy. "You can try faster. Your body will tell you when you're pushing too hard. Listen to it, or you'll damage the neural interfaces and we'll have to start over."
Hyachima placed a hand on Shinji's shoulder—his real shoulder. "She's right. Rushing this will only delay you. Trust the process."
Shinji wanted to argue. Every fiber of his being screamed that time was slipping away, that Kiyomi needed him now.
But he looked at the holographic designs—at the advanced engineering, the potential they represented—and made the calculation.
Three days of fabrication plus a week of integration plus a month of therapy was approximately forty days. Add buffer time for complications, call it two months. Still within Hyachima's three-month timeline.
He could endure two months if it meant he'd be functional at the end.
"Do it," he said. "But I want to help with the fabrication. I'm an engineering student—I understand the principles. Teach me while you build."
Vyss's expression brightened, all four hands gesturing with excitement. "Oh, you'll be perfect to work with. Most clients just want the finished product—they don't care about the how. But you..." She grinned, showing teeth that were slightly too sharp. "Come, let's begin. I'll need detailed scans first, then we'll map your neural pathways, then..."
As she launched into technical explanations, Shinji felt something he hadn't felt since waking up; purpose.
While Shinji worked in the workshop, Kagaya sat alone in a training chamber, staring at his hands.
The room was designed for strength training—reinforced walls that could withstand planetary impacts, gravity manipulation systems, holographic sparring partners. Everything a warrior could want.
But Kagaya couldn't bring himself to start.
He kept seeing it: Saganbo's hand, barely moving, barely trying, and the sensation of being swatted aside like an insect. The God of Destruction hadn't even looked at him as a threat. Just... annoyance. Background noise.
Kagaya had spent his entire life believing strength mattered. That if you were strong enough, brave enough, loud enough, you could protect what you loved. He'd trained until his hands bled, pushed his body past every limit, mastered techniques that let him shatter mountains.
And against Saganbo, it had meant nothing.
"Big Guy looks troubled."
Kagaya jumped, his combat instincts flaring. He spun to find Netsudo—or someone wearing Netsudo's body—standing in the doorway. But the posture was different. Confident. The smile sharp.
"NETSUDO? A PERSONA!" Kagaya asked cautiously.
"Call me Ignis!" The fire persona grinned. "Well, one of many, but who's counting? Saw you moping. Figured someone should check if the mountain was crumbling."
"I'M NOT—" Kagaya stopped himself, lowering his voice with effort. "I'm not moping. I'm... THINKING."
"Thinking's dangerous for a guy like you," Ignis said, sauntering into the room. "You're the 'hit things really hard' type. Start thinking too much and you remember how many things you can't hit hard enough."
The accuracy of that stung.
Kagaya slumped against the wall, his massive frame sliding down until he was sitting. "HOW DO YOU DO IT?" he asked quietly. "HOW DO YOU KEEP FIGHTING WHEN YOU KNOW YOU'RE NOT STRONG ENOUGH? WHEN YOU'VE SEEN HOW MUCH STRONGER THE REAL MONSTERS ARE?"
Ignis sat down across from him, the manic energy fading into something more contemplative. "You wanna know the secret? The real, actual secret that tiny Netsudo doesn't want to admit?"
Kagaya nodded.
"We're always not strong enough." Ignis leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "There's always something bigger. Always something that makes us look like ants. Saganbo, Hyachima, that ancient evil thing they mentioned—hell, probably a thousand other cosmic horrors we haven't even heard of yet."
He looked back at Kagaya. "BUT here's the thing: Being strong enough was never the point. The point is being strong enough for right now. For the person next to you who needs help. For the problem in front of you that needs solving."
"BUT SAGANBO—"
"ISN'T YOUR PROBLEM RIGHT NOW," Ignis interrupted with as loud of a voice. "Shinji's problem, maybe. Hyachima's problem, definitely. But you? Your problem is healing. Getting strong enough to handle whatever comes next in this multiverse. And maybe—maybe—being strong enough to back up that one-armed, one-legged kid when he finally faces his monsters."
Kagaya absorbed that. "So you're saying... what? ACCEPT THAT I'M WEAK?"
"No, You Idiot." Ignis laughed. "I'm saying accept that 'strong' is relative. You're strong enough to shatter stars—that's way more than most beings can say. It's not enough for gods? SO WHAT? Gods are assholes anyway. Be strong enough for mortals. That's plenty."
He stood, offering a hand to pull Kagaya up. "COME ON. Let's smash some training dummies. Nothing makes you feel better than breaking things that are designed to be broken."
Kagaya took the hand, letting himself be pulled to his feet. "YOU'RE PRETTY WISE FOR A FIRE SPIRIT."
"FIRE TEACHES LESSONS," Ignis replied with a grin and a loud voice matching Kagaya's. "Lesson one: Sometimes you gotta burn away the old stuff to make room for new growth. Lesson two: Even a small flame can light up a whole cave. Lesson three: EXPLOSION GOOD, CAUTION BAD."
Despite everything, Kagaya found himself smiling. "THAT LAST ONE SOUNDS DANGEROUS."
"All the best things are! Now come on—Gravity Training, Maximum setting. Let's see if we can make ourselves strong enough to punch slightly bigger things!"
Miryoku found Netsudo—the real, scared Netsudo—four hours later in a corner of the meditation hall, curled up with his knees pulled to his chest, rocking slightly and muttering to himself.
"—not supposed to be here, not supposed to see that, too much, too big, can't fit it in my head, the fire's not enough, can't burn it away, can't—"
"Hey," Miryoku said softly, announcing her presence without startling him. "Can I sit with you?"
Netsudo's rocking stopped. His eyes—amber-orange, flickering with residual Ignis energy but distinctly fearful—found hers. For a moment he didn't respond. Then he nodded once, sharply.
Miryoku sat down beside him, not touching, giving him space. She didn't say anything at first, just let her harmonious light pulse gently, casting soft colors across the meditation hall's crystalline walls. The light painted patterns: amber warmth, rose comfort, gentle blue calm.
After several minutes of silence, Netsudo whispered: "I keep seeing his face. Every time I close my eyes. That purple-haired monster just... standing there. Not even trying. We were less than ants to him."
"I know," Miryoku said quietly.
"NO, YOU DON'T!" The words came out sharp, accusatory, louder than his usual stutter allowed. "You're strong. You have power. You can do things. I'm just... I'm just a coward who hides behind the other me's when things get scary. Ignis is brave. The second is fierce. The Third is... I don't even know what the Third is anymore. The Fourth barely ever appears. But me? Netsudo? I'm nothing."
Miryoku turned to look at him fully. "You think I'm strong? Netsudo, I got knocked out in seconds. My light couldn't even scratch Saganbo. I tried to protect everyone and all I did was get in the way."
"BUT YOU TRIED!" Netsudo's voice cracked. "I couldn't even do that. I just... froze. Stood there. Let braver people die for me."
"No one died," Miryoku corrected gently.
"THEY COULD HAVE!" Netsudo hugged his knees tighter. "Kagaya almost did. Shinji was literally reduced to an eye. Merus is crippled. All because we weren't strong enough. All because I wasn't—"
"Stop." Miryoku's tone was firm now, cutting through his spiral. "You're doing the thing where you make yourself the center of everything. Like your weakness caused all of this. It didn't. Saganbo caused this. A God of Destruction who's existed for trillions of years caused this. Not you."
She let her light brighten slightly, shifting toward warm oranges and golds that matched Netsudo's hair color. "You want to know what I think strength is? It's not power. Kagaya has more power than I do and he's falling apart right now. Shinji has MORE power than any of us and he's broken. Merus was a god and now he can barely light a candle."
"THEN WHAT IS IT?" Netsudo demanded, looking at her with desperate, pleading eyes.
"It's getting back up," Miryoku said simply. "It's being terrified and traumatized and hurt and still choosing to keep going. You're here, aren't you? You didn't run away. You didn't give up. You're sitting here, processing your trauma, which is hard and scary and brave."
Netsudo stared at her like she'd spoken nonsense. "That's not brave. That's just... existing."
"Existing when everything in you wants to stop is the bravest thing there is," Miryoku countered. She extended her hand, letting harmonic light dance across her palm. "Here's what we're going to do. Every day, for the next month, you're going to come find me. We're going to sit together, like this, and you're going to tell me one thing you're scared of. Just one. And I'm going to listen."
"That won't—"
"It won't fix you," Miryoku agreed. "But it'll help. Trust me. I've been scared too. I left Luminara thinking I was strong enough for the outside world, and the first real threat I faced nearly killed me. But I'm still here. So are you. Let's be here together, okay?"
Netsudo was quiet for a long moment. Then, barely audible: "I'm scared of fire."
The admission hung in the air, stunning in its simplicity.
"But..." Miryoku's confusion was evident. "Ignis is fire. You have fire powers. How can you be scared of—"
"Because it took my village," Netsudo whispered, and suddenly his whole body was trembling. "When I was seven, eight years ago. Raiders came. They didn't just rob us—they burned everything. My home. My family. I hid in a root cellar while I heard them screaming." His voice broke completely. "I was too scared to help. Too scared to even move. I just hid in the dark, surrounded by vegetables and cowardice, while everyone I loved turned to ash."
Tears streamed down his face. "That's when Ignis was born. After the raiders left, after I crawled out into the ruins, I was so full of rage and self-hate that something inside me... split. Ignis appeared—the brave one, the one who wouldn't hide. He promised he'd make sure I never had to be that scared again."
"And the Third?" Miryoku asked gently.
Netsudo's expression became distant, haunted. "The Third... the Third is what I became while I was hiding. When I descended so deep into fear that I left my body entirely. He's... cold. Empty. He doesn't feel fear because he doesn't feel anything. Sometimes, when things get really bad, he takes over and just... exists. Survives. Like a machine. I'd say he's apparently acting more like Ignis in fights to not show that."
He looked at Miryoku with eyes that had seen too much for someone so young. "So you see? I'm not brave. I'm broken. Split into thre- four pieces because one whole me couldn't handle being a coward."
Miryoku didn't flinch. Didn't look away. She just sat there, her light pulsing steadily, and when she spoke, her voice was absolute:
"You're not broken. You're adapted. Your mind found a way to survive something that should have destroyed you. Ignis isn't a weakness—he's your courage given form. The Third isn't emptiness—he's your survival instinct. And Netsudo—scared, stuttering, self-deprecating Netsudo—you're the one holding all three together. You're the foundation."
She placed her hand over his—gently, asking permission with the gesture. When he didn't pull away, she continued: "And the fact that you're terrified of fire but you wield it anyway? That you carry the thing that destroyed your world as your weapon? That's not cowardice. That's the bravest thing I've ever heard."
Netsudo sobbed—not quietly, but a full, body-wracking release of years of self-hatred and guilt. Miryoku pulled him into a hug, her harmonious light wrapping around them both like a warm blanket, and just held him while he cried for the seven-year-old who'd hidden in a cellar, for the family lost to flames, for the boy who'd broken himself into pieces just to survive.
When the tears finally subsided, Netsudo pulled back, wiping his face with his sleeve. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize for being emotional around your friend," Miryoku interrupted gently. "Now come on. I think the kitchen has some kind of sweet pastry thing. Let's go stress-eat while Kagaya and destroys expensive training equipment."
Despite himself, Netsudo almost smiled. "Ignis already took over once today. Trained with Kagaya. He's... he's resting now. Exhausted."
"Then it's just you and me," Miryoku said, standing and offering her hand. "Which is perfect. Because I think it's important you know: The scared you is just as valuable as the brave you or the empty you. All three of you matter. All three of you are needed."
Netsudo took her hand and let himself be pulled up. As they walked toward the kitchen, he spoke quietly:
"Thank you. For not... for not treating me like I'm broken."
"You're not broken," Miryoku repeated firmly. "You're surviving. And that's enough."
Behind them, in the corner where Netsudo had been sitting, a small ember of orange fire flickered on the floor—left by Ignis during the training, refusing to be extinguished despite having no fuel.
It burned steady. Brave. Defiant.
Just like the boy who carried it.
Meanwhile The conversation between Hyachima and Merus happened in a private chamber deep within the facility, warded against eavesdropping by walls of solidified Beginning energy. Inside, they sat across from each other at a simple table.
Merus looked smaller somehow. Diminished. The cerulean glow that should have radiated from him like a star was barely a flicker.
"Tell me the truth," he said without preamble. "All of it. Can I be healed?"
Hyachima didn't sugarcoat it. "Naturally? In about three thousand years, your divine core will repair itself enough for you to function at maybe forty percent of your original capacity. You'll never reach full power again—the fractures are too fundamental."
Merus absorbed this with visible pain. "And... unnaturally?"
"There are options," Hyachima said carefully. "None of them pleasant. Option one: I unmake you and rebuild you from inception. You'd be restored to full power, but you wouldn't be you anymore. Your memories, your experiences, your relationships—all erased. You'd be a new pseudo-god wearing Merus's name."
"NO," Merus said immediately. "Next option."
"Option two: We find Thekia."
Merus went very still. "The... the true Creation Goddess. Master."
"Yes," Hyachima confirmed. "She has the authority to repair divine architecture. If we could locate her—and that's a big if, she's been hiding for reasons I don't fully understand—she could theoretically heal you. But it would require convincing her to help, and Thekia is..." He struggled for words. "Complicated. Her motives aren't always clear. Even if she's a nice person."
"WHERE IS MASTER?"
"I don't know," Hyachima admitted. "She moves between multiverses, never staying in one place long. I've been trying to find her for other reasons, but she doesn't want to be found. If you want to pursue this option, it becomes a quest in itself—one that could take years."
Merus slumped. "What's option three?"
"You accept your weakness," Hyachima said bluntly. "You adapt. You focus on what you can do rather than what you can't. At ten percent power, you're still stronger than most mortals. You have experience, knowledge, tactical acumen. You become a teacher, a strategist, a support role rather than a frontline combatant."
"I'M A GOD OF CREATION," Merus protested, but his voice lacked conviction.
"You weren't even at your peak, you're a trainee Merus," Hyachima corrected, not unkindly. "Now you're something else. Something that needs to be redefined. That's not a demotion, Merus—it's a transformation."
Merus stared at his hands—still trembling, still unable to manifest even basic constructs. "I failed them. Shinji, the crew. I was supposed to protect them and I couldn't even—"
"You did protect them," Hyachima interrupted firmly. "You kept them alive long enough for me to intervene. You absorbed foreign divine essences knowing it would cripple you, because that was the only way to match the threats you faced. That's not failure—that's sacrifice."
"IT FEELS LIKE FAILURE."
"It would," Hyachima agreed. "But feelings and facts are different things. The fact is: everyone survived because of the choices you made. Honor that. Don't diminish it by calling it failure."
Merus was quiet for a long time. Then: "If... if we find Master. If we somehow convince her to help. What would she want in return? Even if I've spent years with her... She's still a mystery to me. I'm ashamed to even say that someone like Saganbo probably understands her more than I do."
Hyachima's expression became unreadable. "I don't know. Thekia doesn't deal in simple transactions. She might ask for something impossible. She might ask for nothing. She might refuse outright. But..." He leaned forward. "I'm looking for her anyway. For my own reasons. If you want to make finding her a priority, I can allocate resources to the search. But it's a long shot."
"BETTER THAN THREE THOUSAND YEARS," Merus muttered. Then, more firmly: "Yes. Let's try. While Shinji and the others train, I'll... I'll do what I can to help locate her. Maybe my trainee connection to her will give us some kind of lead."
"Maybe," Hyachima agreed. "In the meantime, there's still work you can do. Shinji and his crew will need guidance—tactical training, mission planning, understanding of cosmic politics. Your experience is valuable even if your power isn't."
Merus nodded slowly. "I can do that. I've been a mentor before, even if I was a terrible one."
"You weren't terrible," Hyachima corrected. "You were limited. There's a difference." He stood, his white robes flowing around him. "Give yourself time, Merus. Healing isn't just about power—it's about perspective. You'll find your place in this."
After Hyachima left, Merus sat alone in the warded chamber, staring at his hands. He tried one more time to manifest creation energy—just a spark, just something to prove he wasn't completely broken.
Nothing.
He let his hands drop to the table and allowed himself, for the first time since the battle, to cry. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just quiet, exhausted tears for everything he'd lost and everything he'd never be again.
The chamber's wards muffled even that small sound.
Shirou found Hyachima on a cliff overlooking the garden, watching the suns set in brilliant shades of amber and crimson.
"You wanted to see me?" Shirou asked, his crimson eye studying the god with habitual caution.
"Yes," Hyachima replied without turning. "I have a proposition for you. Separate from the others."
Shirou's hand instinctively moved toward where his rifle should be—he'd left the broken weapon in his quarters, but the motion was automatic. "What kind of proposition?"
"The kind where your particular skillset is uniquely valuable." Hyachima finally turned to face him. "Tell me, Shirou Nishizumi—what do you want?"
The question caught Shirou off-guard. "What do I want?"
"Yes. Shinji wants to save his sister. Merus wants to be whole again. Kagaya wants to prove his strength matters. Netsudo wants to stop being afraid. Miryoku wants to protect people." Hyachima's ancient eyes studied him. "But you? You're a mercenary. A professional. What drives you beyond payment?"
Shirou was silent for a long moment, his crimson eye reflecting the setting suns. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than usual:
"I want to matter."
Hyachima raised an eyebrow, inviting elaboration.
"I've spent my life as a tool," Shirou continued, the words coming slowly, as if he was discovering them himself. "A weapon pointed at targets by whoever paid me. I told myself it was freedom—no attachments, no loyalties, just contracts and compensation. But watching Shinji and the others..." He gestured vaguely back toward the facility. "They fight for things that matter. People they love. Principles they believe in. And I realized I've never had that. I've never been part of something meaningful. Even if that technically is." The last phrase coming out as a whisper to himself.
"And now you want to be?"
"I don't know," Shirou admitted. "Maybe. Or maybe I just want to find out if I'm capable of it. If there's more to me than credits and contracts. I want to find myself."
Hyachima nodded slowly. "Then here's my offer. I need someone to hunt."
Shirou's attention sharpened. "Hunt what?"
"Information," Hyachima replied. "About the ancient evil I mentioned. About the Concept Architects that are beginning to stir in the outer regions of my multiverse. About the patterns that suggest something fundamental is breaking down." He pulled out a small, crystalline device and tossed it to Shirou, who caught it reflexively.
"That's a tracker and communicator. It'll guide you to locations where I've detected anomalies—places where reality is fraying, where cosmic laws are being violated, where something old is waking up. Your job: investigate, document, and report back. Don't engage major threats directly. You're reconnaissance, not assault."
Shirou turned the crystal over in his hand. It pulsed with faint light. "Why me? Why not send Shinji or—"
"Because Shinji needs to heal and train. Because the others need time to process trauma. And because you—" Hyachima's expression became something between admiration and concern, "—you awakened something during your fight with Kokuto. That golden eye I see still concealed beneath your swollen eye isn't just enhanced perception. It's the beginning of what mortals call 'Innate Potential Manifestation.' If you pursue it, cultivate it, you could become something extraordinary. That's the Innate Self State for you."
"And if I don't?"
"Then it'll fade, and you'll remain an exceptional marksman but nothing more." Hyachima shrugged. "The choice is yours. But out there, alone, investigating cosmic mysteries and facing danger? That's where you'll find out who you really are. Whether you're capable of the meaning you're searching for."
Shirou looked at the crystal, then back at Hyachima. "Payment?"
"One thousand Space Dust per successful investigation. Bonuses for exceptional intel." Hyachima smiled faintly. "I'm not asking you to work for free. But I am offering you something money can't buy—purpose, if you're willing to find it."
Shirou was quiet for a long moment, his mind calculating odds, assessing risks, measuring the proposition against his usual contracts.
Then he thought of Kagaya's roar before charging Raimei. Of Miryoku's desperate light-bindings trying to save everyone. Of Merus sacrificing his divine core. Of Shinji accepting mutilation and still pushing forward.
People who fought for something beyond themselves.
"When do I leave?" he asked.
"Tomorrow," Hyachima replied. "I'll provide you with a ship—fast, stealthy, well-armed. And I'll upgrade your weapon." He gestured to Shirou's quarters where the broken rifle lay. "It deserves better than being shattered. I'll have Vyss reinforce it, integrate some of my multiverse's technology. Consider it an investment."
Shirou nodded once, sharply. "Understood. I'll need maps, data on the anomalies, and—"
"All provided," Hyachima assured him. "And Shirou? This isn't a suicide mission. If you encounter something beyond your capability, you run. Your value is in gathering information, not martyrdom. Understand?"
"I'm a sniper," Shirou replied with the ghost of a smile. "I know when to pull back."
As Shirou walked away, crystal clutched in his hand, Hyachima watched him go with an unreadable expression.
*Three now,* he thought. *The Trascender, the broken trainee, and the mercenary searching for meaning. Let's see which of them finds what they're looking for first.*
One and a Half Months Later:
The fabrication bay hummed with activity as Vyss made final adjustments to a starship that hung suspended in a web of gravitational fields. The vessel was sleek and elegant, its hull a mix of organic curves and crystalline surfaces that caught light in strange, beautiful ways.
Merus stood beside Hyachima, observing the reconstruction with mixed emotions.
"It's not exactly the same," Hyachima said apologetically. "I had to work from your descriptions and Miryoku's memories. Some systems are different—upgraded, actually. Better shielding, faster engines, more efficient life support. But the basic design, the feel of it... I tried to preserve what made it yours."
The Stardust Weaver. Or at least, a new iteration of it. The original had been destroyed or abandoned during their desperate escape from Saganbo's multiverse, lost in the chaos of portals and cosmic warfare.
"It's perfect," Merus said quietly, and meant it. The ship wasn't just transportation—it was memory. Home. A piece of the life he'd built before everything shattered.
"The navigation systems are adapted for my multiverse," Hyachima continued. "And I've installed a direct communication link to me. If you encounter trouble, you can call for backup—though response time depends on where you are and what I'm dealing with."
"Backup," Merus repeated with faint irony. "From the god who can barely create a spark anymore."
"From the crew," Hyachima corrected. "You're not alone in this, Merus. Shinji, Kagaya, Netsudo, Miryoku—they're ready. Maybe not at full strength, but functional. Healed enough to begin working."
Merus looked toward the training facilities where his crew had spent the last six weeks. Shinji learning to walk with prosthetics, falling dozens of times before managing a full corridor without stumbling. Kagaya slowly rebuilding his confidence through progressively harder training scenarios. Netsudo working with a therapist—one of Hyachima's people—to integrate his personas and process his trauma. Miryoku meditating for hours, refining her light-weaving into something more focused and deadly.
And Shirou, who'd left five weeks ago, was now somewhere in the outer reaches of Universe 7, investigating something called "The Grey Zones" and sending back cryptic reports about "color-drained reality" and "Concept Architects."
"What's our first mission?" Merus asked.
Hyachima pulled up a holographic star map. "Shirou's latest report flagged a planet in Universe 3, Galaxy 9. A world called Aethros IV. The entire population is experiencing what he described as 'emotional and chromatic death.' Colors are literally draining from reality, taking meaning and memory with them."
The hologram zoomed in on a grey sphere surrounded by stars that looked dimmed, as if their light was being filtered through ash.
"He couldn't determine the cause," Hyachima continued. "But he detected spatial anomalies consistent with external manipulation—someone or something is doing this to the planet. I'm sending you to investigate, and if possible, stop it."
"Why us?" Merus asked. "You're a god. You could handle this yourself."
"I'm stretched thin," Hyachima admitted. "The ancient evil I mentioned? Its awakening is accelerating. I'm detecting breaches across multiple universes—places where the boundaries between dimensions are weakening, where things that should stay asleep are stirring. I need eyes everywhere, and I need to conserve my strength for the larger threats."
He looked at Merus directly. "This is a field test. Can Shinji and his crew function as an effective unit despite their injuries? Can they handle real threats, not just training scenarios? This planet's situation is serious, but it's manageable—the perfect difficulty for a team still finding its footing."
"And if we fail?"
"Then a world loses its colors permanently and I learn what needs to be adjusted in your training." Hyachima's tone was matter-of-fact, almost cold. "But I don't think you'll fail. Shinji has something most beings lack—a refusal to accept defeat that borders on cosmic law violation. Combined with your experience, Kagaya's strength, Miryoku's adaptability, and Netsudo's... unique perspective... I think you have what it takes."
Merus studied the grey planet on the hologram. A world dying slowly, its people forgetting what joy looked like, what beauty meant.
"When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow," Hyachima replied. "The Weaver will be ready by dawn. I'll brief the full crew tonight. For now..." He gestured toward the ship. "Go aboard. Reacquaint yourself with her. She's been waiting for you."
Merus approached the ship slowly, almost reverently. He placed his hand on the hull—no longer able to sense it with divine energy, but feeling it with simple, mortal touch.
The metal was cool and smooth. Alive, in its way.
*We'll fly again,* he thought. *Maybe not as a god and his vessel. But as... something else. Something new.*
He climbed aboard, his footsteps echoing in the familiar corridors, and began checking systems with the methodical care of someone preparing for a long journey.
That evening, the crew gathered in a conference chamber within the facility. Hyachima had manifested a large holographic display showing Aethros IV in detail—or as much detail as was available through the grey interference.
Shinji sat at the table, his new prosthetics gleaming in the ambient light. The arm ended in a sophisticated hand with articulated fingers that moved with near-biological fluidity, though the metallic surface and glowing seams betrayed its artificial nature. The leg was similarly advanced, its design clearly optimized for combat rather than aesthetics.
He'd spent six weeks learning to use them. Six weeks of falling, of neural feedback errors, of phantom pain that made him scream in the middle of the night. But now, watching him move, you could almost forget the limbs weren't original.
Almost.
Kagaya sat beside him, his massive frame no longer hunched with defeat. The tribal markings on his skin pulsed with healthy rhythm, and his eyes held a spark that had been missing—not the overconfident boisterousness from before Saganbo, but something steadier. Earned confidence.
Netsudo was present but quiet, sitting between his normal self and Ignis—switching between them mid-conversation as the two personas learned to coexist rather than compete. It was unsettling to watch, but it was progress.
Miryoku's harmonious light filled the room with gentle warmth, her control noticeably more refined than before. She'd learned to weaponize her illumination—hard-light constructs that could cut or bind, harmonic frequencies that could shatter matter or soothe minds.
Merus stood at the head of the table, looking more like a commander than a broken god. His cerulean skin still lacked its former radiance, but his posture was straight, his eyes sharp.
"This is our first real operation," he began without preamble. "Aethros IV. A planet suffering from what Shirou described as 'chromatic and emotional death.' We're going to investigate, determine the cause, and if possible, stop it."
He pulled up footage from Shirou's reconnaissance—grey landscapes, emotionless people, children who couldn't remember what colors were.
"THE HELL KIND OF MONSTER DOES THAT?" Kagaya growled, his hands clenching into fists.
"Someone who sees emotions and sensory experience as inefficiencies," Hyachima answered. "The reports mention 'Concept Architects'—beings who believe they're improving reality by removing what they consider clutter. They're wrong, most likely, but they're powerful and they're organized."
"How powerful?" Shinji asked, his prosthetic hand resting on the table.
"Unknown," Hyachima admitted. "Shirou couldn't engage them directly—they detected his surveillance and forced him to retreat. But based on the scale of their work—draining color and emotion from an entire planet—we're looking at beings with reality-manipulation capabilities. Not god-tier, probably, but well above mortal-standard threats."
"Can we beat them?" Netsudo asked nervously.
"Can Shinji beat them?" Hyachima corrected. "Probably, yes. Between his Trascender abilities and his new enhancements—" he nodded at the prosthetics, "—he should be able to match or exceed their capabilities. But this isn't about solo combat. This is about teamwork."
He looked at each of them in turn. "Shinji is your powerhouse, but he's not invincible. Kagaya, you're frontline support—draw attention, create openings. Netsudo, you're area control and unpredictability—the enemy won't know which version of you they're facing. Miryoku, you're battlefield control and healing—keep everyone functional. Merus, you're tactical command—you have more combat experience than all of them combined."
"AND IF SOMETHING GOES WRONG?" Kagaya asked.
"Then you retreat, call for me, and I'll extract you," Hyachima said simply. "This is a test, not a suicide mission. Your objective is to help these people, but not at the cost of your lives. Understood?"
Murmurs of agreement around the table.
"Good." Hyachima dismissed the hologram. "You leave at dawn. The Stardust Weaver is equipped, fueled, and ready. Get some rest. Tomorrow, you begin earning your keep."
As the crew filed out, Shinji lingered behind. His prosthetic hand clenched and unclenched—a habit he'd developed, as if testing reality's solidity.
"You have a question," Hyachima observed.
"When I'm done with this mission," Shinji said quietly, "when I've proven I can function, proven I'm strong enough—will you help me find Kiyomi?"
Hyachima's expression was unreadable. "Yes. But Shinji, you need to understand—by the time you're ready to face Saganbo and retrieve your sister, she may have changed in ways that make recovery impossible. Are you prepared for that?"
"I have to be," Shinji replied. "Because the alternative is giving up on her. And I won't do that. Ever."
"Admirable," Hyachima said softly. "Possibly foolish. But admirable." He placed a hand on Shinji's shoulder—his real shoulder. "Survive tomorrow. Then we'll talk about the future."
Shinji nodded and left, his prosthetic leg clicking softly against the floor with each step.
Hyachima watched him go, then looked up at the star map still hovering faintly in the air, showing the grey sphere of Aethros IV.
*Let's see what you've become,* he thought. *Trascender, weapon, or something in between.*
Dawn came to the Garden of Whispering Stones with its usual symphony of harmonic light and singing minerals. The crew gathered at the landing platform where the Stardust Weaver rested, its hull gleaming with morning light.
Shinji stood before the ship, his new prosthetics catching the light in ways that were both beautiful and unsettling. Beside him, Kagaya stretched, his muscles rippling with renewed strength. Netsudo—currently Ignis, based on the confident posture—was already aboard, checking supplies. Miryoku stood with Merus, going over final equipment checks.
"THIS FEELS GOOD," Kagaya rumbled, a grin spreading across his face. "LIKE WE'RE FINALLY DOING SOMETHING AGAIN INSTEAD OF JUST... HEALING."
"Healing was doing something," Shinji corrected, but there was agreement in his tone. The six weeks of recovery had been necessary, but sitting still while Kiyomi was out there had felt like dying slowly.
Hyachima appeared, his white robes flowing despite the absence of wind. "Final words before departure: Trust your training. Trust each other. And remember—heroism is about choosing to help, not about refusing to retreat when you're outmatched."
He looked specifically at Shinji. "That last part is for you. I know your tendency is to push until something breaks. Don't. You're valuable alive, useless dead."
"Understood," Shinji said, though they both knew it was a lie. He'd push until something broke. That's what he did.
"ONE MORE THING," Kagaya interjected. "What about Shirou? Shouldn't he be with us?"
"Shirou's on a different mission," Hyachima replied. "One better suited to his skillset. You'll coordinate if your paths cross, but for now, he's tracking different leads in different locations."
With that, the crew boarded. The Stardust Weaver's engines hummed to life, a sound like reality deciding to sing. The ship lifted off smoothly, rising through the crystalline canopy of the garden, leaving Aetherium's peaceful beauty behind.
Inside the cockpit, Merus took the pilot's seat, his weakened hands steady on controls that responded more to thought than touch. The others strapped into their stations.
"DESTINATION: AETHROS IV," Merus announced. "ESTIMATED ARRIVAL: FOUR HOURS. Everyone rest while you can. When we arrive..." He pulled up the grey planet on the viewscreen. "When we arrive, we work."
The ship entered the quantum-slip corridor, reality blurring into streams of color and light around them.
Shinji watched space flow past, his prosthetic hand resting on the armrest, and thought of a little girl who couldn't remember what sunshine was.
*We're coming,* he thought. *Whatever took your colors, whatever stole your joy—we're coming to give it back.*
Four hours later, the Stardust Weaver dropped out of quantum-slip at the edge of the Aethros system.
The viewscreen showed it immediately: the wrongness.
Aethros IV hung in space like a corpse. Its atmosphere was visible, but muted—clouds in shades of grey, oceans that reflected nothing, landmasses devoid of the greens and browns that should mark life. Even the planet's light seemed dimmed, as if reality itself was fading.
"THAT'S NOT NATURAL," Kagaya breathed, all his boisterous energy drained by the sight.
"It's like... like someone drained all the life out," Netsudo—back to his normal, fearful self—whispered.
Miryoku's harmonious senses recoiled from the planet. "There's no... no resonance. No harmony. Just... silence. Empty, terrible silence."
Shinji stood, his prosthetic limbs clicking softly as he moved to the viewscreen. His blue eyes reflected the grey sphere, but something in them hardened. Not anger—something colder. More absolute.
"Take us down," he ordered quietly. "Find the largest population center. We're going to figure out who did this."
His prosthetic hand clenched, and for the first time since he'd gotten it, golden-green spiritual energy flickered across its surface—Act 3, responding to his will through artificial conduits.
"And then," Shinji continued, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd survived gods and refused to break, "we're going to remind them why color matters."
The Stardust Weaver descended toward the grey world, carrying five souls who'd been broken and rebuilt, who'd lost everything and chosen to fight anyway.
Below them, a planet of forgotten joy waited for salvation or mercy or vengeance.
Whatever came first.
"Bold words." Hyachima stated coldly.