Luke emerged from the pocket dimension, his face a mask of grim satisfaction—until the mask shattered.
A second later, his shoulders began to tremble, and a wild, unrestrained burst of laughter tore from his throat.
"Well, well, well!" John's voice boomed, rich with amusement, resonating through their shared consciousness. "Luke, Timothy! I still can't believe that innocent little Transmigrator actually bought it. Died thinking he'd become some evil tyrant—his mind just completely shut down and accepted every bit of our little performance!" He grinned, a surge of proud satisfaction. "So, gentlemen, how was my acting?"
Timothy scoffed, though a hint of undeniable approval laced his mental tone. "Shut up. Your acting was flawless, I'll admit that. If I hadn't helped write the damn thing, even I might've believed it."
"And it was my magic holding the illusion together, remember that," Luke interjected, his voice dry.
"Oh yes, of course, Great Sir Luke," Timothy replied with a mock bow, the sarcasm thick. "Truly, where would we be without your divine contributions?"
John snorted. "Still... the fact he fell for a story we threw together centuries ago, using scraps from some forgotten merchant family's drama—it's astonishing how stupid he was."
But Luke's laughter had already faded, leaving a chilling quiet. His face tightened. Shadows crept back into his eyes.
"Did either of you… notice anything off when we absorbed him?"
John raised an eyebrow, his jovial mood dimming. "Off how?"
Luke's voice dropped, edged with a disquieting concern. "His soul. His mana. His core, astral spirit, life force, lifespan—everything. It was weak. Way too weak."
"Ah," John muttered, realization dawning. "So that's why you dropped that line at the end: 'All these years of growth. All this meticulous planning, and this is all I get? I should've preserved the soul. Its destruction significantly diminishes the value.' I thought you were just improvising for drama."
"Don't bring it up again," Luke muttered, a rare flicker of embarrassment. "But yeah—that's exactly what I meant. For someone prophesied to kill us in twenty years, he was pathetic. Worse—after absorbing him, I felt nothing. No unnatural strength. No hidden potential. No… plot armor."
Timothy went utterly still.
Then, slowly, a single, grim nod. "You're right. Now that I think about it, this whole operation was too clean. Too easy. Nothing like the fights we had with the three Main Characters across the centuries."
The air turned quiet, heavy with an unfamiliar weight. For the first time in a long time, there was no celebration.
"According to the Books of MCs, that child was designated as this generation's Main Character," Timothy said, his brows furrowed in deep thought. "But what if not all MCs are born with plot armor? What if some... gain it along the way?"
John's eyes widened, the pieces clicking into place. "The book did say our confrontation with Miss Mariannette Roseblade was supposed to end instantly," he said, his voice hushed. "Then we were to move on to Miss Annabeth McKellen—Luke was meant to 'kill' her in a single strike the moment she and the Transmigrator reached the riverbank. The current would've carried them away. That was the original plot."
Timothy nodded, a cold certainty in his voice. "But Luke toyed with Mariannette. That delay gave Annabeth just enough time to cross to the other side. If we had followed the script exactly, the Transmigrator would've gained his plot armor down that very stream—and claimed the MC title for himself."
A quiet, grim satisfaction settled over them. They had inadvertently averted their own doom.
"But we've still eliminated the only real threat we've faced in centuries," John said, voice low with grim certainty. "With no Main Character in this generation, nothing stands in the way of our goal. Our true purpose."
"Luke. John." Timothy's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and steady. "Take over. We've left James alone for far too long."
John scoffed. "That guy? He's a walking contradiction. A wolf dressed up in sheep's morals. I'll never understand why you admire him so much, Luke."
"Because he's a real man," Luke replied, his tone tight, a rare defense in their shared mind. "His beliefs, values, morals—yeah, they're the opposite of ours. But his destination? Same as ours."
John rolled his eyes, a flicker of exasperation. "Please. If we strolled into Sith right now, I guarantee we'd find him praying to tombstones he carved himself—after wiping out everyone in that city without flinching."
"Enough," Timothy snapped, raising a mental hand. "Save the debate for later. We've overstayed our window. James isn't someone you can fool for long."
He shifted, their shared form subtly preparing to move. "Let's go. Chop, chop."
"Fine, fine," John grumbled. Then, with a sheepish grin: "I heard you... but we kind of need your help here. We've forgotten the body size proportions again."
Luke looked away, a clear wave of embarrassment washing through their shared senses.
Timothy had to summon every ounce of restraint not to mentally throttle the two other consciousnesses within their composite body. For centuries, the entity of Luke Timothy John had maintained the same physical disguise—and yet, whenever they reverted to their original form, Luke and John always forgot the specifications. The ones they had written down themselves, mind you.
With a resigned sigh, Timothy recited the data—flawless and from memory:
Height: 6'2" (188 cm) Weight: 210–220 lbs (95–100 kg) — lean, muscular frame Body Fat: 6–8% — visibly shredded, striated muscle
Key Measurements: Neck: 18.0–18.5 in (45.7–47.0 cm)
Shoulders (circumference): 52.0–54.0 in (132.1–137.2 cm)
Chest (expanded/relaxed): 48.0–50.0 in (121.9–127.0 cm)
Waist (navel level, relaxed): 30.0–31.0 in (76.2–78.7 cm)
Biceps (flexed, cold): 18.0–18.5 in (45.7–47.0 cm)
Forearms (flexed): 14.5–15.0 in (36.8–38.1 cm)
Hips (widest point): 39.0–41.0 in (99.1–104.1 cm)
Thighs (mid-thigh): 26.0–27.0 in (66.0–68.6 cm)
Calves (flexed): 18.0–18.5 in (45.7–47.0 cm)
Wrist: 7.0–7.5 in (17.8–19.1 cm) Ankle: 9.0–9.5 in (22.9–24.1 cm)
Final Touch: Piercing red eyes. Long silvery white hair. An otherworldly appearance, unforgettable by design.
Luke and John burst into laughter, a wave of amusement rippling through their combined mind.
Timothy had quoted every measurement to the decimal point. No exaggeration, no trimming. He had remembered every single line they had fed him centuries ago. And he hated that they made him say it every single time.
Their laughter faded.
Then came the profound shift.
Their shared body expanded—hair lengthened into a cascade of molten silver, pupils melted into sharp, predatory red slits. The composite entity called Luke Timothy John vanished, replaced by a towering, divine figure built to terrify, inspire, and manipulate in equal measure.
With a single, ground-shaking leap, they launched into the sky—landing with silent precision at the desecrated entrance gate of Sith.
The village lay in smoking ruins, a testament to their previous night's work.
And at its center, surrounded by rows of freshly carved tombstones, knelt James. His head bowed, hands resting in his lap. Silent. Still. Mourning.
John scoffed, a mental sneer. "There he is. Just like I said—a complete hypocrite. He killed them all, and now he's out here burying them? Praying for their souls like he wasn't the one who ended them? What's he even hoping for—absolution? I hate people like him."
Luke didn't respond. His focus was solely on James.
James, however, lifted his head, sensing their presence.
His voice was hoarse, barely holding together, ragged with an ancient grief. "You've arrived, my friend. I hope your mission was executed flawlessly."
Luke stepped forward—now fully in control of their shared form—and knelt beside him.
He didn't speak.
He simply wrapped his arms around James, gently lifting him, supporting him, like a parent comforting a child.
That was all it took.
James's fragile composure shattered.
He wept—loud, primal, unfiltered, like a newborn who had never learned restraint. His body trembled with each ragged sob, grief pouring from him like a flood centuries in the making.
Between choked cries, one sentence spilled over and over, a desperate litany:
"I hope they understand... I had no choice... their sacrifice was needed... for the growth of the world..."
Luke said nothing.
He held James, allowing the torrent of his sorrow to wash over him.
When the sobs finally slowed and the trembling faded, Luke whispered—his voice steady, utterly unshaken:
"Yes. I've completed it. Now let's leave this place... this graveyard of sorrow and forgotten memory."