Serx stumbled through the front door of the Lives family estate, still clutching Riyan's autograph like it was a sacred religious artifact. His clothes were torn, he had bruises forming on his face from the assassination attempt, and there was dried blood on his collar.
His mother looked up from her tea, took one glance at his disheveled state, and sighed deeply.
"Serx, dear, did you get attacked by assassins again?"
"YES!" He threw his arms up dramatically. "But that doesn't matter because I MET HIM! I actually MET him, Mother! The God himself descended and saved my unworthy life!"
His father lowered his newspaper with the expression of a man who'd heard this exact tone too many times. "Let me guess. Riyan Descartes?"
"YES!" Serx practically vibrated with excitement, shoving the autograph in his father's face. "Look! LOOK! He signed my notebook! His handwriting touched this paper! The same hand that ruthlessly stabbed that assassin in the throat touched this very—"
"Please don't finish that sentence," his mother interrupted, taking another sip of tea. "And you're bleeding on the carpet."
"I don't care about the carpet! Do you understand what happened today?!" Serx spun around, eyes wild with fanatic devotion. "He didn't hesitate! Not even for a SECOND! That assassin tried to kill him and he just—" He made a violent stabbing motion. "—right in the throat! Blood everywhere! It was BEAUTIFUL!"
His younger sister walked past, barely glancing up from her phone. "You're being weird again, big brother."
"I'M NOT BEING WEIRD, I'M BEING ENLIGHTENED!" Serx clutched the notebook to his chest. "He called me 'man'! Do you hear that? RIYAN DESCARTES called ME 'man'! We're basically best friends now!"
"He probably calls everyone that," his father muttered.
"TAKE THAT BACK!" Serx pointed accusingly. "Our bond is special! Unique! He saved my life! He flicked my forehead! TWICE! That's physical contact! Direct skin-to-skin divine interaction!"
His mother exchanged a long-suffering look with her husband. "Should we call the therapist again?"
"I don't need therapy, I need a SHRINE!" Serx was already heading toward his room. "I need to preserve this autograph properly! Temperature-controlled case! No, wait—vacuum-sealed chamber! Actually, I should build an entire room dedicated to—"
"Serx, you already have a room dedicated to him," his sister pointed out. "You converted the guest bedroom last month."
"That was BEFORE I met him in person! Before I witnessed his divine ruthlessness! Before he acknowledged my existence!" Serx's eyes gleamed with unhinged devotion. "I need to upgrade! Expand! I need—I need—"
He suddenly froze mid-rant, eyes going distant.
"What now?" his father asked warily.
"I just realized something." Serx's voice dropped to a whisper. "When he killed that assassin... his mask came off. I saw his FACE. His actual, real, unfiltered FACE."
"You've seen his face before," his mother said flatly. "He's a famous cooking influencer. His face is literally everywhere."
"BUT NOT IN PERSON!" Serx clutched his head like it might explode. "Not covered in the blood of his enemies! Not with those crimson eyes looking directly at me with the cold indifference of a GOD deciding whether I'm worthy of continued existence! Do you understand the SIGNIFICANCE?!"
"No," all three family members said in perfect unison.
"He could have let me die!" Serx continued, completely ignoring them. "But he CHOSE to save me! That means—that means—" His breathing accelerated. "I'm chosen! Selected! I'm one of his PEOPLE now!"
"You work for the Descartes family as a vassal," his father reminded him. "You were already 'his people' by employment contract."
"EMPLOYMENT CONTRACT DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING COMPARED TO THIS!" Serx was practically hyperventilating now. "He saved my life! That's a DEBT! A sacred BOND that transcends mere paperwork and salary negotiations!"
His sister looked up from her phone finally. "You know he probably just didn't want the political hassle of a vassal family's heir dying in public, right?"
Serx stared at her like she'd just committed the worst blasphemy imaginable.
"How DARE you suggest his motives were anything less than pure!" He pointed dramatically. "You don't understand! You weren't THERE! You didn't see the way he moved, the efficiency, the absolute CONFIDENCE! And then—and THEN—" His voice cracked with emotion. "He told me to be careful next time. He CARES about my wellbeing!"
"He probably says that to everyone," his mother offered gently.
"NO! Our connection is SPECIAL!" Serx pulled out his phone, scrolling frantically. "Look! I took pictures of the alley afterward! See this bloodstain? That's from the assassin he killed! I'm going to have it preserved! Maybe framed! Or—or I could collect a sample and—"
"Absolutely not," his father said firmly. "No collecting blood samples. We talked about this after the 'hair collection incident.'"
"That was DIFFERENT! I only took one strand from his hairbrush at the family gathering! And I was going to return it!" Serx protested. "Eventually! After I had it properly analyzed and preserved and maybe cloned—"
"SERX."
"Fine, fine! No blood collection!" He waved dismissively. "But I AM going to commission a painting of today's events! A full mural! Maybe a sculpture! I know this artist who works with resin and—"
"Where exactly were the Patrolling Hunters during this assassination attempt?" his mother interrupted, finally looking concerned. "They should have responded faster."
"Oh, they showed up right after Riyan left." Serx's expression darkened. "I told them everything was handled and they could leave. Didn't even mention him being there, just like he asked! See? I'm RELIABLE! He can COUNT on me! I'm the perfect subordinate!"
"You're the perfect something," his sister muttered.
"I heard that!" Serx spun toward her. "You're just jealous because YOU don't have a personal encounter story! YOU didn't get your forehead flicked by the God himself! YOU—"
"I'm going to my room now," she announced, standing up. "This is getting too weird even for our family."
"COME BACK! I haven't even told you about how he WALKED AWAY yet! The casual confidence! The complete lack of concern for the corpse he left behind! It was POETRY in motion! He's perfect! PERFECT!" Serx called after her retreating form.
His parents shared another look.
"Should we increase his medication?" his mother asked quietly.
"I don't think medication fixes this," his father replied.
"I CAN HEAR YOU!" Serx shouted. "And I don't need medication! I need DEDICATION! COMMITMENT! I need to be WORTHY of serving him properly when he inevitably takes over the world and reshapes society according to his divine vision!"
"He's a cooking influencer, dear," his mother tried again.
"HE'S A GOD IN MORTAL FORM!" Serx corrected passionately. "The cooking is just his COVER! Obviously! No normal person moves like that! No normal person kills with such casual efficiency! He's been TRAINED! PREPARED! For what, I don't know yet, but I WILL figure it out and I WILL be ready to serve when he needs me!"
He clutched the autograph tighter. "I'm going to my room now. I have important work to do. Shrine expansion. Photo organization. I need to update my research notes. Cross-reference today's encounter with previous behavioral patterns. Analyze his word choice when he spoke to me. Every syllable had MEANING!"
"Serx, you're bleeding," his mother pointed out again.
"BLEEDING CAN WAIT! This is MORE important!" He was already heading up the stairs. "Do NOT disturb me! I'll be in the Sacred Room! Actually, I need TWO Sacred Rooms now! One for before-meeting-him artifacts and one for after-meeting-him artifacts! They can't be mixed! That would be DISRESPECTFUL to the timeline!"
His bedroom door slammed shut with excessive force.
His parents sat in silence for a long moment.
"Remember when he was just normally obsessed with swords and training?" his father asked wistfully.
"Those were simpler times," his mother agreed.
From upstairs, they heard Serx's muffled shouting: "I'M GOING TO BE THE BEST SUBORDINATE EVER! JUST WAIT, RIYAN! I'LL PROVE MY WORTH! I'LL—"
The sound of something crashing, followed by: "I'M OKAY! THE SHRINE IS FINE! MOSTLY FINE! I CAN FIX IT!"
His sister's voice drifted down from her own room: "Our family is so weird."
Neither parent could argue with that assessment.
Later that night, Serx sat cross-legged in his "Sacred Room" (formerly the guest bedroom), surrounded by printed photos of Riyan from various cooking shows and advertisements. The autograph had been placed in a custom-made temperature-controlled display case that definitely cost more than reasonable.
"Soon," he whispered to the photos, eyes gleaming with fanatic devotion. "Soon I'll prove myself worthy. I'll show you I'm not just another face in the crowd. I'm SPECIAL. Chosen. Saved by your divine hands."
He pulled out a notebook—different from the autographed one, which would NEVER be used for something as mundane as regular writing—and began documenting every detail of the encounter.
"Subject arrived at 2:47 PM approximately. Wore suspicious disguise. Removed mask during combat. Expression: completely indifferent to taking a life. Conclusion: PERFECT."
His pen moved frantically across the page.
"Spoke to me directly. Called me 'man.' Possible interpretations: 1) Acknowledging my worth as an equal, 2) Testing my response to casual address, 3) Secret code word meaning I'm now part of inner circle, 4) All of the above."
He paused, tapping the pen against his lips.
"Flicked my forehead twice. Physical contact initiated by HIM. Sacred. Must never wash forehead again. Actually, that's probably unhygienic. But maybe just that specific spot? Need to research preservation techniques for blessed skin cells."
The notebook filled with increasingly unhinged observations and theories, each one more elaborate than the last.
Somewhere in the estate, his mother sighed deeply, already mentally composing an apology letter to the Descartes family for whatever her son was inevitably going to do next.
Because if there was one thing she knew for certain, it was that Serx's obsession had just reached an entirely new, possibly concerning level.
And Riyan Descartes had absolutely no idea what kind of fanatic devotion he'd accidentally inspired.
Poor bastard.