They emerged back into the Citadel.
Where the silence was immediate.
The wall—still gone.
The gaping hole they'd left from their divine fistfight loomed in jagged stone and shattered prestige, letting in the wind like a constant reminder.
James saw it.
Felt it.
And his fist twitched.
He looked over at Evodil, who was casually brushing snow off his coat like he hadn't just detonated a crater and sent them both into low-orbit.
James's knuckles clenched.
Evodil raised a brow. "Go on. Say it."
James stared at him.
Then exhaled through his nose, low and bitter. "...I'd hit you again, but I'm the reason we've got a damn skylight."
"Character growth," Evodil said smugly.
Before James could retort, Noah's voice cut in.
"What is that?"
They all turned.
Noah was staring at the boy, still curled up like a broken animal, now lying at the base of one of the Citadel's intact columns.
Evodil raised a hand. "Souvenir."
Noah didn't laugh. "Why is he here?"
"We found him," James said simply.
"I found him," Evodil corrected.
"And you wanted to kill him," James snapped.
"Well now I'm curious," Evodil shot back.
Noah stepped forward, boots echoing softly through the chamber. "You brought a random, clearly traumatized, probably dying human into our Citadel."
James shrugged. "We've done worse."
Evodil added, "I've been worse."
Noah ignored him. "He shouldn't be here."
"So what do you suggest?" James folded his arms. "Throw him back into the snow?"
"Yes."
Evodil raised a hand, nodding in agreement.
James looked between them like they'd just suggested burning down the moon.
"He's not trash."
"He's a mystery burrito," Evodil countered. "Wrapped in trauma, sprinkled with frostbite."
Noah glared at both of them. "We don't know who he is. What if he's bait? Or cursed? Or infected with some Realm-tier parasite?"
James didn't flinch. "Then we deal with it. But we're not abandoning him."
Evodil glanced at the kid, then at the giant hole in the wall, then back at the kid.
"…If he explodes, I'm blaming both of you."
Evodil yawned.
Loudly.
Dramatically.
Like the conversation had aged him ten thousand years in two minutes.
"Alright," he said, already turning on his heel, stretching his arms overhead. "This has been fun. Truly. Loved the chaos, the threats, the possible cursed orphan situation."
He waved lazily over his shoulder.
"Good luck with your new emotional support burden, brother dearest. I'll send a fruit basket if he explodes."
Noah pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're leaving?"
"You think I'm staying in this emotionally compromised daycare?" Evodil scoffed. "Back to the manor. My couch misses me."
And with a flick of shadow, he vanished.
Noah stood there a moment longer, eyes drifting back to the kid—still silent, still curled.
He sighed.
Didn't say anything else.
Just turned and walked through the crystal portal before it even finished closing, coat trailing behind him like punctuation to a sentence no one wanted to hear.
And just like that—
James was alone.
The Citadel—cracked.
The wall—missing.
The room—silent.
And the boy?
Still staring up at him like a rabbit locked in a room with wolves.
James rubbed the back of his neck, looked down at the kid… and realized, with a slow, dawning horror—
He had no idea what to do next.
James stood still.
The silence between him and the boy was thick. Uneasy. His divine aura dimmed down to nothing, but the child still flinched the moment he stepped closer.
No aggression. No words. Just fear, baked deep into the kid's bones.
James crouched slowly, easing himself down like he was approaching a wild animal.
He lifted a hand—hesitated—then tapped his own chest.
"James."
He said it clearly. Calmly.
"James."
The boy didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe any louder than he had to.
James nodded to himself once. Then gestured, hand open, toward the boy.
"And you?"
No response.
Just more silence.
James exhaled and sat back slightly, rubbing his temples with a quiet groan.
"Don't be mute," he muttered under his breath. "Please don't be mute."
The boy watched him with wide, sunken eyes—still alert, but not a word in him.
James closed his own eyes. Thought for a moment.
What did kids like?
What made them open up?
Gifts? Toys? Warmth?
...No.
Something worse. Something base. Something unholy.
"Grease," James whispered like the answer had been handed down from a devil.
"Fast food."
His hand dropped to his side, and he stared at the floor for a second in disbelief at what he was about to do.
And then—he sighed.
Evodil, for reasons beyond divine comprehension, had built a damn pizzeria not too far from the Citadel.
He stood up and looked at the boy again.
"Alright, fine. You don't talk, you don't move... but if you're not dead in the next five minutes, we're getting pizza."
Still nothing.
James turned away.
Paused.
"…You better like cheese."
Ten minutes passed.
And James, true to his reluctant word, walked the boy out of the Citadel.
The wind was sharp this high up. The sky wide and unfiltered. Floating islands stretched across the Menystrian skyline like scattered thoughts—some glowing, some cracked, others tethered together by narrow, humming bridges of stone and light.
James led carefully.
The boy followed quietly.
More like a shadow than a person.
Twice, the child stumbled. James caught him both times without a word. Just a firm grip under the arm and a quiet pull forward. No lectures. No scolding. Just moving.
Eventually, the citadel's towering silhouette faded behind them.
And before them—
Molten Slices.
The sign flickered with divine-grade neon—oversaturated reds and golds—and beneath it stood a building that looked hilariously ancient.
Wooden panels, carved stone entryway, and glass windows so fogged they may as well have been cursed relics.
It was retro. Like someone said, "Let's recreate the year 1307," and then made it greasy.
James pushed open the heavy wooden door with a grunt, guiding the boy inside.
Warmth hit immediately—heatstone floors, fire-forged ovens, and a few scattered booths lined with stained crimson cushions that might've been red... once.
It smelled like sin and tomato sauce.
Perfect.
They approached the shade behind the counter—a wispy humanoid thing, half-solid, flickering like it was held together by spite and kitchen grease.
James pointed at the nearest glowing menu slab.
"Pepperoni. One slice. Extra cheese."
The shade blinked with its non-eyes.
"And a cola."
The creature buzzed slightly, nodding.
Then James added, "Also—wine."
The shade paused.
James narrowed his eyes. "Red. Aged. Actual wine. Not shadow syrup. Not mimic juice. Wine."
The shade flickered, making a low, annoyed hum.
James leaned forward. "If you say 'grape substitute' I swear I will glass you with holy law."
The boy behind him just stood there.
Still silent.
Still watching.
But for the first time—
His head tilted.
Just slightly.
Toward the smell.
They found a booth near the window—cracked, fogged glass offering a view of the glowing sky lanes between islands.
James sat down with a quiet grunt, still glaring at the lack of wine like it personally betrayed him.
He slid the cola across the table.
The boy climbed up across from him, small fingers curling around the bottle awkwardly. He stared at it like it was an alien artifact.
Didn't open it.
Didn't drink.
Just fiddled with the cap—nervous, mechanical, detached.
James leaned back, arms crossed.
He followed the boy's gaze.
Far off in the corner, past the flickering booths and grease-stained walls, was a play zone—clearly an afterthought during Evodil's construction spree. A padded pit of outdated toys, climbing net, plastic golems with blinking eyes and chipped paint.
But it was… something.
Something soft. Non-threatening.
The boy kept glancing at it.
Then down. Then back.
James exhaled.
Slow. Long. Reluctant.
He nodded once toward the play zone. "Go."
The boy blinked.
James gestured again. "Go on. You're not chained to the table."
Still no movement.
James leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"You've been cold, almost dead, dragged through a portal, dropped into a crater, and now you're in a pizza place run by a flickering ghost."
He paused.
"That thing—" he pointed at a deflated bouncy blob in the corner, "—is probably the safest thing you've seen all day."
Another pause.
"Go play."
This time, the boy hesitated.
Then—slowly, carefully—he slid out of the booth and padded across the floor toward the play zone.
Didn't look back.
Just walked.
James leaned back again, watching him.
No wine.
No peace.
No clue what he was doing.
But for once…
He didn't stop it.
Thirty minutes.
Somehow, they waited.
James stared down the shade once or twice. The shade stared back with the eternal apathy of a creature made entirely out of smoke and fryer grease.
The boy, meanwhile, remained in the play zone—poking at a rubber cube like it owed him answers.
And then—
Finally—
The pizza arrived.
A single plate.
Steam rising.
Grease pooling in obscene amounts.
Pepperoni curled like battle scars. Cheese sliding off one side like it had given up.
James stared at it.
Offended.
"This is a crime against food," he muttered.
But before he could even blink, the boy had slipped back into the booth, eyes wide as the plate landed.
He didn't hesitate.
No ceremony. No second thoughts.
He grabbed a slice and bit—burning his mouth immediately, but not caring.
James watched him.
No more flinching.
No more darting eyes.
Just chewing.
Fast.
Efficient.
Like someone trained to eat before it was taken.
A few minutes passed in quiet. The boy was halfway through his second slice.
James took a breath.
"...You got a name?"
The boy looked up.
His chewing slowed.
Then stopped.
He swallowed hard. Then opened his mouth for the first time since the crater.
"...Seventeen."
James blinked. "That's a number."
The boy didn't react. Just looked down again.
"From the camp," he added, quieter. "It's what they called me."
James exhaled through his nose.
He leaned back.
Stared at the boy—Seventeen—and felt something sink in.
This wasn't just some stray.
This was something made. Numbered. Discarded.
And now…
He was James's problem.
James stared across the table.
The boy—Seventeen—devoured the rest of the slice like he expected it to vanish. Grease smeared across his cheeks. Hands shaking slightly, but not from fear anymore.
Just hunger.
Residual instinct.
James leaned on his elbow, watching him in silence.
This was stupid.
This was unnecessary.
This was one child. One scarred piece of humanity in a sea of infinite lifetimes. A number, not even a name. Just a flicker of life in the endless stretch of his immortal existence.
But—
If he couldn't handle this—
A child. A single, broken soul—
Then what good was all that power?
What was the point?
He inhaled slowly.
Then spoke.
"Not anymore."
The boy looked up, confused.
James sat straighter. His tone sharpened. Not harsh—just… final.
"You're not Seventeen."
The boy blinked.
James continued. "That's not your name. That's a label."
He waited a beat.
Then gave it to him.
"Jasper."
The word hit the air with weight. Divine. Real.
"The disciple of the sun," James added, more to himself than the child. "My son, now."
Jasper froze.
Eyes wide.
Mouth slightly open.
Like he didn't know how to process the word.
James didn't smile. Didn't soften.
But his voice was quiet. Firm.
"You're not a number anymore. You're mine."
And just like that—
The law of the sun changed.
Forever.
Jasper stared across the table, hands still hovering near the last crust of his pizza.
He hesitated. Then asked, quiet but direct—
"Who... are you?"
James blinked.
The kid's eyes flicked toward the far window—back toward where the Citadel loomed in the distance, ghostly behind mist and floating stone.
"And the other two... the ones in the big white building. Who were they?"
James leaned back in the booth, exhaling slowly.
"Gods," he said simply. "All of us."
Jasper's eyes widened, but James kept going.
"I'm James," he continued, gesturing to himself. "God of War. Of Law. Of Heat. I know every battle ever fought, every strategy ever used. I am war—refined, disciplined, written into the bones of the world."
He tapped the table once, and the drink in Jasper's bottle warmed slightly—perfect temperature.
"I can bend the law. Not just the rules you know—the laws of existence. You name it, I can enforce or erase it. Gravity, silence, mortality. It's all... negotiable."
Jasper didn't move.
James went on, pointing vaguely back toward the Citadel.
"The tired-looking one, with the glasses? That's Noah. God of Minerals, Knowledge, and the Moon. He can make any material he's seen before—stone, metal, even some divine-grade substances. Limited daily use, though. Keeps him from turning the planet into a sculpture garden."
"And the other one?" Jasper asked.
James sighed.
"Evodil."
The name left his mouth like a bad taste.
"God of Chaos. Of Hate. And Shadows. He's... a problem. Thinks like a child, fights like a monster, and talks like a drunk poet. Nearly omnipresent—if there's a shadow, he can be there. And he can summon beings made from shadow too. But only if he knows their makeup. Like... every atom."
James scowled slightly.
"He can destroy anything. Instantly. No questions asked. But the more he destroys, the weaker he gets. And naturally, that never stops him."
He rubbed his temple.
"Evodil exists to break things. I exist to keep the pieces from becoming a weapon."
Jasper looked down, processing everything. Then back up.
"And me?"
James looked at him.
Not with pity.
Not with fear.
Just certainty.
"You?" he said. "You're Jasper."
"My son."
He stood.
"We'll figure out the rest from there."