Alchemist Emily's Shabby Home

The bus carrying the survivors headed to Walter Reed Army Hospital, where several days of intense interrogations and psychological counseling followed. Throughout it all, Emily flawlessly played the role of the "innocent, timid girl obsessed with magic." Finally, she boarded a chartered flight sent by the British government and returned beneath the ashen skies of London.

Leaving Heathrow Airport and boarding a rickety old double-decker bus, she traveled to the familiar yet now utterly alien working-class neighborhood on London's outskirts. Her heart was heavy with mixed emotions the entire way. The scenery flashing by outside the window hadn't changed at all from just a few days ago when she'd left this road. But she had changed. She had witnessed a war of gods, spoken with a legendary wizard, and returned alive from the brink of death. Emily was no longer just a little girl dreaming of magic.

When the bus stopped at her familiar stop, Emily got off and walked the final stretch to her godforsaken "home." The rundown terraced house, peeling paint, overgrown weeds in the tiny garden. Standing before the front door, she fiddled with the key in her pocket.

Now... I get it.

She thought of her hero, Harry Potter. The feelings he must have had returning to the Dursleys' house after his magical summer vacation ended, facing contempt and abuse. Now she understood it not just with her head, but with her entire body.

The moment she opened the door and stepped inside, a stench assaulted her nose—not the warm smell of food, but the reek of stale booze, cigarette smoke, and despair.

"...Where the hell have you been, you goddamn bitch?! Crawl back in now!!!"

Her drunken father, sprawled on the sofa watching TV, bellowed and hurled a beer can at her. It grazed her head, smashed against the wall, and sprayed the last of its contents everywhere. The house was a warzone. Empty bottles and pizza boxes littered the floor; the sink overflowed with moldy dishes piled like a mountain.

Emily made no reply, showed no expression. She simply stared at her father with cold eyes, as if he were some insect she'd never seen before. Then, without a word, she climbed the creaking stairs to her room, step by step. Curses rained down behind her back.

It's okay. She whispered to herself as she closed the door to her cramped, shabby room. This... it'll all be over soon.

The next morning, London's gray skies matched Emily's mood perfectly. Dragged awake by her alarm, she hauled her aching body out of bed and prepared for her part-time job. Changing into her worn uniform, she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. The pathetic, exhausted version of herself staring back was worlds away from the dreams of glory and magic she'd had all night.

Will things... really change?

Last night's resolve was already fading in the face of morning's harsh reality.

The obnoxiously upbeat voice of the Magic Grimoire in her pocket only irritated her more.

Shut up, Germain. What do you know about my life, having to offer you silver coins every day?

With a sigh, she left the house.

Grueling part-time work at the pub. Lecherous customers harassing her, the manager's nagging. She endured eight hours like a machine. Her body utterly spent, she trudged home. Her steps felt like lead.

Then, in front of her house—that shabby terraced house—she spotted a strange man standing with a large silver suitcase beside him.

"!"

Emily froze for a moment, thinking he might be an MI6 agent. But his clothes were those of an ordinary deliveryman. Spotting her, the man bowed politely.

"Are you... Miss Emily, by any chance?"

"...Yes. And?"

"Someone asked me to deliver this to you."

He gestured to the strangely beautiful silver suitcase beside him.

"I don't know who sent it... They insisted on complete anonymity. And... they emphasized that only you must open it yourself."

With that, the man bowed politely again and vanished soundlessly into the darkness.

Emily stared blankly at the silver suitcase before her.

No way...

With trembling hands, she gripped the handle. It was far heavier than it looked. Grunting with effort, she dragged it into her room and locked the door. Heart pounding with curiosity and fear, she reached for the latches.

They clicked open effortlessly at her touch. When she lifted the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lid, a dazzling sight straight out of a fairy tale greeted her.

Half the suitcase brimmed with freshly minted silver coins piled like a mountain. Beside them, brick-sized pure silver ingots filled the space densely. And in the midst of this silver hoard sat other items.

A black VVIP card and bankbook from a Swiss bank engraved with "Emily." A letter written in Koharu's beautiful handwriting. And... a tiny glass vial. Inside it sparkled minuscule fragments, like the glass dust from a shattered knight's armor.

With Saint-Germain's cheers as background music, Emily picked up the letter with trembling hands.

As she finished reading, hot tears streamed from Emily's eyes. She thought of Harry Potter. How must he have felt receiving his first true "gift"—the top-tier broomstick? Probably just like her now.

The poverty crushing her, the father she despised, the hopeless future. He had ended it all perfectly with a single box.

In the middle of her shabby, filthy room, surrounded by silver, she wept and laughed in overwhelming joy for a long time. Her true magical life was just beginning.

While Emily's true magical life began in a tiny room under London's gray skies, in a twisted abyss where time and space held no meaning, another horrific and eternal ritual unfolded.

The Champion hung suspended in pitch-black void, bound by massive crystal chains. Around him, billions of gleaming eyes gazed down like stars in the night sky. They were the fragmented consciousness of his master, the Infinitely Many.

Billions of voices echoed in his mind simultaneously. They carried the cold fury of disappointed parents.

At those words, the crystal chains blazed red, searing his living armor like red-hot iron.

"Gaaahhhhh!!!"

A scream of agony far worse than at the ruined airport tore from his mouth. Metal fragments melted, fusing with his flesh in a horrific stench.

The billions of eyes gleamed with hatred. Countless dark tentacles erupted from the void, worming into his armor's gaps to shred his guts and soul.

His screams stretched on eternally.

How ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠much time passed? When his voice gave out and his body became ragged meat, the torment stopped as if by a lie.

The billions of voices now whispered with the infinite tenderness of a forgiving mother.

With those words, pure white light like tears flowed from the eyes, enveloping his torn flesh and melted armor. His wounds healed miraculously; his armor reformed stronger and more beautiful. Pain vanished, replaced by the warm, absolute peace of a mother's embrace.

The Champion shed tears of gratitude in that merciful light.

But the peace was fleeting.

The torment resumed. Hate and love. Destruction and creation. Pain and pleasure. In this endless cycle of madness, the Champion's mind eroded slowly but surely.

Now, only one thought remained in his head.

'Crow... wizard.'

The being who cast him into this hell. The one who first inflicted "defeat" upon him. And... perhaps the only one who could "save" him from this eternal torment.

His hatred twisted into warped longing, into obsession.

Gnashing his teeth amid the agony, he whispered.

[...This is... far from... over...]