Chapter 76 – The Ones Who Endured
Beneath the limestone roots of Mount Saint-Gabriel, hidden deeper than catacombs and older than any monastery, a chamber of impossible silence stirred.
Seven chairs stood in a ring.
Each one filled.
And in the center — not seated, but standing — was Merlin, the man history mistook for myth. He had not aged since the fall of Camelot. He had walked with druids, watched kingdoms become nations, and outlived every throne.
But tonight, even he was not certain.
The others arrived one by one, not through magic, but by old paths carved before modern memory. None of them could tear open reality. None of them could outrun time. But all had, through cunning, ritual, or curse, become what history could not bury.
They were the Ones Who Endured.
Nicolas Flamel
French scribe, bookseller, and alchemist. 1330–?
He looked unchanged from the portraits — wiry frame, long coat, wise eyes. Flamel had vanished from history shortly after his wife, Perenelle, "died." In truth, he had succeeded in creating the Philosopher's Stone — not gold, but a crimson catalyst that restored the body and stabilized the soul.
He had hidden it.
Destroyed it.
But its effect on him remained.
"I've walked centuries in silence," he said softly. "But nothing walks like this thing. It moved, and the world forgot it had ever been still."
Leonardo da Vinci
Italian polymath. 1452–?
Wearing a jacket stitched from dozens of historical periods and boots that left no dust, Leonardo lounged in his seat like an amused deity. His immortality came not from science, but from a bargain — made in a fevered moment of desperation with a vampire lord beneath Florence.
He had given up something.
He wouldn't say what.
In return, time no longer applied to him.
"I traded mortality for mastery," he once confessed. "But even I have limits. This… ghost? I can't measure it. And I've measured light."
Sun Tzu
Chinese military strategist. Approx. 544–496 BCE.
His presence was precise. Every movement, every blink, purposeful. His death had been faked by his disciples during the Warring States period. Over centuries, he transferred his identity into new forms — not physically, but intellectually. He existed now as a living idea, hosted in an ageless form maintained by Qi discipline and forgotten dynastic rituals.
He was logic made flesh.
"If I cannot predict a movement," he said without blinking, "then it exists outside strategy."
Queen Elizabeth I
Queen of England. 1533–?
The Virgin Queen had never died.
Her tomb was empty.
In truth, she had struck a pact with a forgotten order of blood-priestesses from the isles — a bargain sealed in moonlight, granting her unnaturally preserved life in exchange for something no one dared name.
To the world, she was long dead.
To herself, she was still Queen.
"You fear what passes unseen," she said with a smile. "I ruled from shadows long before fear had a name."
Grigori Rasputin
Russian mystic and advisor. 1869–?
He looked like a man who had died a hundred times and kept coming back for the joke. Poisoned. Shot. Drowned. Discarded. But the body never held him. He was tied to the world through a ritual gone wrong, one he never remembered casting. Some say it was divine punishment. Others think it was worse — a gift.
He called it freedom.
"I feel it," he whispered, eyes half-lidded. "A ripple with no water. A whisper in a soundless house."
Michelangelo
Renaissance sculptor, painter, and architect. 1475–?
His body looked carved — not aged. His immortality came not from magic, but from his own hand. After sculpting the Pietà and finishing the Sistine Chapel, he had begun work on a secret project: the Statue of the Soul. A piece so pure, so resonant with divine symmetry, it trapped a part of heaven inside.
When it was finished, it did not grant him life.
It remade him.
"I've seen divine light in form. But this thing…" he said, voice low. "It has no form. No outline. No echo."
Dante Alighieri
Poet of the Divine Comedy. 1265–?
Draped in red and black, Dante looked unchanged since his exile from Florence. His soul had touched Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven. But few knew the truth: when he returned from his journey — when he wrote The Divine Comedy — he had not come back entirely… human.
He had seen too much.
And what he had seen never let go.
"This was not a devil," he said. "It was not a saint. It was not divine. It was a silence that moved."
Merlin spoke last.
"None of us can do what it did," he said, voice calm but grave. "It crossed the Earth. It stepped between coordinates faster than thought. No spell. No signature. No essence left behind."
"The gods felt it."
"And they still don't know what passed them."
Three nodded in silence.
Flamel, whose wisdom could not explain it.
Michelangelo, who could not shape it.
Dante, who could not name it.
The others — Da Vinci, Sun Tzu, Elizabeth, Rasputin — remained seated, skeptical or amused.
Merlin didn't try to convince them further.
He simply looked toward the arched ceiling of the chamber, where fate maps and cosmic threads pulsed.
"Something walks the Earth."
"Something that reality itself dares not interrupt."
"And we… we have no word for it."
The circle chamber breathed softly — a sound not made by lungs or stone, but by time itself. Lamps of eternal oil cast warm light across aged faces and ageless ones. No voices rose. No power flared.
They were too old for theatrics.
Only the anomaly gave them pause.
Merlin stood at the center, robe unshifting despite the air's movement.
He gestured, and a silent projection of Earth rose — layered in leyline flows, stellar magnetics, and mana drift.
There was no anomaly on the display.
That was the point.
Flamel spoke first, his voice like turning pages.
"Do you know what frightened me?" he asked, hands folded.
"Not that we didn't detect it. But that the world didn't remember it happened."
He turned toward Michelangelo.
"You see the world in form. What would you call this?"
Michelangelo did not blink.
"Absence with intent."
He tilted his head, sculptor's eyes narrowing.
"When I carve marble, I remove what isn't needed. This… presence? It is as though something removed itself from existence… before the world could respond."
Dante, ever quiet, traced a symbol into the table's surface with a single fingertip.
"It did not disturb the metaphysical plane," he said, "because it never touched it. Like a wind that chooses not to stir the leaves."
He looked to Merlin.
"You think it was a person."
Merlin nodded.
"I hope it was a person."
Queen Elizabeth I reclined with royal ease, fingers tapping the armrest.
"All this over nothing? My spies have delivered greater silence than this thing."
Flamel cut in, gently but firm:
"Your spies cannot move faster than divine awareness."
"This wasn't stealth. It was perfect efficiency. No excess motion. No trace of causality."
Sun Tzu watched the projection with narrowed eyes.
"I know war," he said.
"In war, all movements create pressure. Even shadows cause tension in enemy minds. This one?"
He looked to Merlin.
"I sensed no pressure. Therefore, it was not a movement."
"Therefore, either it was beyond strategy... or it was not movement at all."
Leonardo finally stopped painting in the air and tapped his temple.
"Or… you're all overthinking. Perhaps it was a rare fluctuation. A convergence of electromagnetic layers and arcane null zones."
"A statistical ghost."
Michelangelo snorted softly.
"You don't believe that."
Leonardo gave a small grin.
"No. But I don't fear it either."
Rasputin laughed once.
A short, gurgling sound that made no one smile.
"It saw me," he said.
"I was looking at the sky when it passed. It didn't hide. It simply did not care to be noticed."
"You all keep thinking in terms of 'why didn't we see it.'"
"Ask instead — what kind of being doesn't need to be seen at all?"
A silence fell.
Merlin finally broke it.
"Gods didn't see it.
Angels didn't warn of it.
Demons didn't flinch.
And even the Earth's breath did not pause."
"So tell me: if something walks through a world that remembers everything…"
"But forgets this…"
"What does that make the walker?"
None answered.
Because they couldn't.
Not yet.
Chapter 77 – Reincarnated Headaches
Beneath the stone bones of Mount Saint-Gabriel, the chamber of immortals gathered once more — not to discuss anomalies in the fabric of reality, not to ward off apocalypse...
…but to deal with reincarnated legendary problem children who had apparently forgotten what "subtlety" meant.
At the center stood Merlin, arms folded, jaw tight, patience at critical levels.
He waved a hand. A shimmering screen appeared above the table — flickering through grainy footage of a teenage boy flipping over a public bus to rescue a cat. The boy flexed. The bus didn't land well.
Cue explosion.
"This is the third time this week," Merlin muttered.
Case File 1: Hercules
Reincarnation:Massimo Callari, 17, track star, honor student, disaster magnet.Superpower: Strength beyond reason. Weakness? Clothing.Catchphrase: "I ACCEPT YOUR CHALLENGE!"
Flamel sighed. "He challenged a tollbooth for 'disrespecting his stride.'"
Dante rubbed his temples. "The tollbooth exploded."
Michelangelo arched an eyebrow. "He apologized to the tollbooth's spirit afterward. That part was new."
Sun Tzu leaned back, expression unreadable. "So. What do we do?"
Merlin exhaled.
"We contact his father."
A hush fell.
Then—
Queen Elizabeth I blinked.
"You mean Zeus?"
Merlin nodded.
"Yes. That Zeus."
Cut To: Olympus – The Smoking Lounge
A thundercloud peeled open like a curtain. Inside sat Zeus, shirtless, glowing faintly gold, sipping from a wine glass the size of a birdbath.
"You mortals finally broke the silence pact, hmm?"
Merlin appeared in a mirror behind him.
"Your son is destroying modern infrastructure with good intentions and bad hair. We need you to talk to him."
Zeus smiled.
"He's grown strong."
"He flipped a city tram because it refused to challenge him to a duel," Merlin deadpanned.
Zeus took a long sip, then sighed.
"Fine. I'll bring the lightning-voice. But I'm not taking his phone away. That boy's got followers."
Back in the chamber, Merlin turned to the next headache.
The screen switched to footage of an airport hangar mid-collapse, with a shirtless fighter screaming ancient war cries.
Case File 2: Lu Bu
Reincarnation:Wu Jinlong, 19, MMA god, public enemy to staircases and rival martial artists.Superpower: Thinks with fists. Speaks in declarations.Current Problem: Challenged a magical envoy's vehicle to honorable combat. Punched it out of the sky.
Sun Tzu had gone utterly still.
"He is back. Again."
Flamel whispered, "He suplexed a mountain lion for 'looking at him wrong.'"
Leonardo laughed quietly. "He writes haikus on the battlefield. Poorly."
Merlin tapped his staff once.
"So we found a solution. One soul he always listens to."
The screen lit again.
A woman in a flowing dress appeared, standing in a busy café.
She was holding a plastic cup of iced coffee… and scolding a military officer into tears.
Solution: Lady Diao Chan
Reincarnation:Zhao Meilin, 22, fashion student and amateur singer.Superpower: Voice of command.Effect on Lu Bu: Turns into a soggy apologetic puppy the second she says his name with that tone.
Sun Tzu almost smiled.
Almost.
"Deploy her."
Then came the third problem.
A monk's robe drifted on camera.
An empty one.
The footage cut to a boy floating above a mountain, juggling peaches, transforming into a dragon, then a banana, then a comet. A comet that circled the Earth and waved.
Case File 3: Sun Wukong
Reincarnation: Unknown. Age: Unknown. Location: Everywhere.Superpower: Yes.Last Seen: Racing a missile. The missile lost.
Dante groaned.
"I hate this one."
Michelangelo looked mildly impressed. "He tried to steal the Moon. And succeeded. We had to ask him politely to return it."
Queen Elizabeth I sniffed. "Just seal him again."
Merlin shook his head.
"We did. He said the mountain was too drafty."
But this time, Merlin was ready.
"We found the only person he listens to."
He gestured.
The image changed.
A quiet young man in simple robes stood in a monastery, pouring tea.
His presence was serene.
His aura glowed with something old.
Something patient.
Solution: Tang Sanzang (Tripitaka)
Reincarnation:Li Wen, 24, Buddhist graduate student.Superpower: Calm. Radiates dad energy.Effect on Wukong: Obeys like a guilty child. Brings gifts. Stops juggling volcanos.
Flamel whispered, impressed:
"He scolded Wukong once and made him weep."
Leonardo added, "Then gave him a banana. Problem solved."
The immortals sat in weary silence, the room full of flickering screens, divine interventions, and ancient soul-tracking scrolls.
"We used to fight gods," Merlin said at last. "Now we beg them to babysit their reincarnated kids."
Rasputin grinned.
"I prefer this chaos."
Sun Tzu, voice dry as the desert:
"We are one Genghis Khan away from a global incident."
Leonardo stretched.
"When's Napoleon due, again?"
The rooftop of a destroyed gym in Naples crackled with residual electricity.
Hercules, still shirtless, arms folded, stared at the crater he had made while trying to "spar" with a runaway bus.
Thunder boomed above.
Lightning slammed into the pavement beside him.
And from it stepped Zeus.
Golden. Glowing. Irritated.
"Son."
Hercules straightened like a soldier caught doodling during war.
"Father! You saw that? I flipped it in just one try—"
"You flipped a city's power grid and turned three pigeons into vapor."
Zeus's tone was calm. That made it worse.
"You're not in the Age of Heroes anymore. You can't break buildings and call it 'training.'"
"But they were villains! They robbed a bakery!"
"With baguettes."
"...Sturdy baguettes."
Zeus pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Promise me you'll behave. Especially around the others. Especially around the monk."
"You mean the quiet guy with the tea? He smells like peace."
"Exactly. Don't break his peace."
Hercules lowered his head.
"Alright. I'll behave."
"Good."
A pause.
"...Can I still punch meteors?"
"Only if they're headed directly for the Vatican."
"Deal."
A cherry tree rustled at the edge of a quiet monastery in rural Sichuan.
Sun Wukong hung upside-down from a branch, eating a peach, tail swaying, mid-laughter.
"I turned into a cloud and raced a lightning bolt! I won by a nosehair! Ha!"
Beneath him, Li Wen — calm, barefoot, robed in linen — poured tea into two cups.
"You terrified four satellites."
Wukong dropped, landing lightly with a grin.
"They'll live!"
"The missiles you startled won't."
Wukong rubbed the back of his head, tail curling awkwardly.
"...They fired those? Over a monkey?"
Li Wen handed him tea.
"Sun Wukong."
Wukong sat cross-legged instantly. Back straight. Hands folded. Like a child facing a parent's full disappointment.
"Yes, Master Tang?"
"You are powerful."
"The most!"
"And reckless."
"...Less most."
Li Wen's eyes were kind but unrelenting.
"Your power is not for racing clouds. Not anymore."
Wukong deflated slightly.
"What if the clouds start it?"
"Then you forgive them."
"...But lightning started it!"
A moment of silence.
Li Wen sipped his tea.
Wukong lowered his head.
"I'll behave."
Li Wen offered a second peach.
Wukong perked up immediately.
"Can I prank Hercules once?"
"Only with consent."
"Deal!"
A warehouse in Macau had seen better days.
Mostly because Lu Bu had used it to fight ten armored mercenaries, four magical constructs, and a summoned dragon illusion — all before breakfast.
Now?
He was kneeling.
Before a very unimpressed woman in a designer coat and crossed arms.
Zhao Meilin, reincarnation of Diao Chan, stared down at him with the energy of a wife who had told him not to start another interdimensional duel before dinner.
"Did I or did I not say — no fighting before sunrise?"
"I thought it was technically dawn."
"You leveled a subway station."
"I checked! It was mostly empty!"
"And the dragon?"
"It provoked me with its eyes!"
"Its eyes were pixels! It was an illusion!"
Lu Bu wilted further.
"You always take their side…"
"Because you're the only one suplexing airplanes in traffic!"
"It cut me off!"
She pointed a perfectly manicured finger.
"Apologize."
"...To the airplane?"
"Now."
Lu Bu bowed his head.
"I'm sorry."
She narrowed her eyes.
"To me."
He winced.
"...I'm very sorry."
A pause.
She sighed.
"Come on. Dinner's waiting."
"You made baozi?"
"Yes. But you only get two."
"You're the best."
"I know."
Back in Mount Saint-Gabriel, Merlin checked the divine monitor.
All three: contained. Scolded. Pacified.
For now.
"That's one day without disaster," he murmured.
Sun Tzu, beside him, still looked haunted.
"One day is more than I expected."
Rasputin snickered.
"Until Napoleon wakes up."
Merlin groaned.
No screens flickered with exploding buses.
No distant howls echoed from teleportation mishaps.
No legendary warriors were currently being scolded by their ancient lovers or monks.
The Seven Immortals sat — each in their place, sipping tea, wine, or something stronger — in collective silence.
Then, almost in harmony—
"Haaaaaaah..."
A long, exhausted sigh.
Even beings who had lived centuries needed to breathe sometimes.
Merlin broke the silence.
"Well. No one lost a continent. That's a win."
Sun Tzu added flatly,
"No one sacked a continent. Small distinction."
Queen Elizabeth I sipped her tea.
"I still think we should've let Lu Bu duel a volcano. If only to wear him out."
Flamel was already flipping through paperwork — ethereal documents glowing with layered magic.
"We've dispatched twenty-eight memory erasure units globally," he said.
"Civilians at the Naples train station, the Macau warehouse district, and the floating monastery in Tibet — all taken care of."
A pause.
"We couldn't recover footage from Wukong's missile race, but we tampered with the satellites. The official story now says it was a weather balloon."
Michelangelo raised an eyebrow.
"That old chestnut again?"
"Weather balloons never go out of style," Flamel replied dryly.
Dante sighed, eyes closed.
"What about the opera house in Vienna?"
"Cracked clean in half," said Flamel.
"Can we repair it?"
"No. We're blaming sinkholes."
"Elegant."
Then came the real kicker.
Leonardo, lounging as always, spoke with a nostalgic smile.
"You know, I'm thinking of relocating to Japan."
Everyone turned.
"Excuse me?" said Elizabeth.
"Japan," he repeated, stretching. "The reincarnated heroes there? Delightful."
"Polite, quiet, apologetic. When they accidentally destroy a wall — they patch it."
"When they cause a scene — they erase the memories themselves and pay reparations."
Dante blinked.
"Are you serious?"
Flamel nodded.
"It's true. One of the reincarnated swordsmen even bowed to our cleanup crew. He repaired a dojo wall before we arrived. Used authentic period materials."
Sun Tzu's voice was dry as bone.
"The last Japanese reincarnate sent us a formal letter of apology. Written with a calligraphy brush. On rice paper."
Rasputin raised a brow.
"Meanwhile, Lu Bu tried to challenge a highway for 'disrespect.'"
Michelangelo snorted.
"And Hercules tipped over a bus stop because he 'sensed villainy.' It was a vending machine."
Queen Elizabeth I rolled her eyes.
"I swear. If another one of these demigods tries to 'save the city' by destroying it…"
Leonardo grinned.
"Then perhaps we do retire to Japan. Their gods are quiet. Their heroes are humble. Their magical girls clean up after themselves."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"I vote Japan." – Flamel
"Seconded." – Michelangelo
"Approved." – Sun Tzu
"I'm packing." – Rasputin
"I already own a shrine there." – Dante
"Does it have hot springs?" – Leonardo
Merlin stood, grumbling as he collected the final reports.
"Fine. We'll send another embassy to Japan."
A pause.
"But if any of you reincarnate Nobunaga again, I'm not helping."
And so, with the chaos contained (for now), the immortals returned to their quiet watching — knowing full well it was only a matter of time…
Before another legendary soul woke up somewhere…
With too much power.
And too little sense.
The temple courtyard was still.
Paper lanterns drifted lazily in the evening breeze. Somewhere down the path, the soft chime of a bell rang from a distant shrine. Crickets began to sing.
The immortals sat beneath the veranda, sipping the last of their tea.
No one spoke for a while.
They didn't need to.
It was the kind of silence that came only after being reminded that the world could, sometimes, be gentle.
Flamel exhaled first, resting his cup down with delicate care.
"It's so... peaceful here."
Michelangelo leaned back against the pillar behind him.
"No buildings to reconstruct. No dragons to chase. No tactical lectures. No flexing."
Sun Tzu, who had not unclenched his jaw for an entire week back home, finally allowed himself a full breath.
"No Lu Bu."
Rasputin chuckled softly.
"No body slams. No weather balloons. No 'accidental' lightning strikes."
Dante looked out over the lantern-lit garden, eyes distant.
"They bow before they act."
"They apologize before we arrive."
"They understand consequences."
Then, from the back, Queen Elizabeth I muttered into her cup.
"I hate that we have to leave tomorrow."
Leonardo da Vinci rolled his eyes upward.
"Can't we pretend we got lost in a bamboo forest for a century or two?"
Merlin — usually the first to remind them of duty — didn't reply.
He just closed his eyes, folded his arms, and sighed.
Deeply.
Tiredly.
"One more night," he murmured.
"Let us have this one more night."
The wind stirred.
The lanterns drifted a little higher.
And for one final evening, the Seven Immortals simply sat…
...pretending the world didn't need them in the morning.
Chapter 79 – Return and Routine
The teleportation array shimmered one last time in the moss-covered clearing outside Kyoto.
Seven immortals stood in a loose circle — eyes tired, posture quiet, lingering as long as dignity allowed. The wind carried the scent of cedar and old stone. A temple bell rang faintly in the distance, as if mourning their departure.
Merlin sighed. "Well. That was the last peaceful breath we'll get this year."
Sun Tzu nodded with grim clarity. "The silence was an illusion."
Rasputin rolled his neck until something cracked. "And illusions don't pay for subway repairs."
One by one, they disappeared into fading light — pulled back to their posts across the world. Reports would await. Cleanup units still needed dispatching. And somewhere, without fail, another reincarnated legend was probably waking up angry at modern architecture.
The moment passed.
Peace was over.
The alarm didn't get a chance to ring.
Alex Elwood was already awake.
He stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, hair slightly damp from his shower. The rice cooker steamed quietly in the corner. A pan of eggs and scallion clicked softly on the stove. His hands moved with familiar calm — muscle memory, not thought.
By the time Alice stumbled out of her room yawning in a hoodie, breakfast was already on the table. She mumbled something that sounded like "thank you" between bites.
It was Monday.
School loomed.
Life went on.
At the train station, the early crowd shifted around him like a current that refused to touch. The moment he stepped into view, people noticed.
They always did now.
The haircut was mostly to blame — sharp lines, quiet strength, nothing to hide behind. His face had become too defined, his presence too still. It made people uncomfortable in ways they couldn't explain.
One girl near the platform whispered, "I swear I've seen him before…"
Another took a photo and pretended it was an accident.
He didn't react.
He just pulled his hood up.
Problem reduced.
The school didn't care about hoodies, thankfully. There was no dress code strict enough to reach him, no hall monitor eager enough to question the quiet boy who never caused trouble but made everyone feel like they might be in it.
He walked the halls unnoticed by name, but not unseen.
Girls whispered. Boys glanced. A few teachers paused longer than they meant to.
He took his seat at his desk without saying a word, opened his notebook, and began writing equations that hadn't been taught yet.
Outside the window, the trees swayed.
The sky was pale and ordinary.
Just another morning.
And for now, no one knew what walked among them.
But silence has gravity.
And Alex Elwood — hoodie on, eyes low, presence hushed — carried it like a second skin.
The school courtyard was unusually quiet between periods — just a few students meandering under the cherry trees, chatting near vending machines, or hurrying back from the school store with melonpan in hand.
Airi Tachibana stood near the edge of the walkway, her eyes trained — intensely trained — on a very particular figure sitting at the bench just beneath the shade.
Alex Elwood.
Black hoodie. Satchel resting beside him. Head lowered slightly as he flipped a page in a small, unremarkable notebook. No motion. No noise. Just calm, calculated stillness. Almost like the breeze moved around him without permission.
She knew she shouldn't stare.
But she was staring.
Her heart thudded like it had forgotten she wasn't in a drama.
"Why is he so calm all the time…?"
"Why does even the way he turns a page look like a martial art?"
"Why is the hoodie making him look more mysterious instead of less?"
She wasn't even close enough to hear him breathe, and yet her face was definitely starting to feel warm.
I'm just going to talk to him, she thought. Just say something normal. Like: 'Nice weather.' Or 'Do you like books?' Or… anything that doesn't sound like I've been low-key watching him since last semester."
She took one step forward.
Then another.
Alex looked up, just for a second — his gaze shifting lazily from the notebook to the courtyard.
And she stopped.
Frozen mid-step.
Their eyes didn't even meet.
But she still turned around immediately and briskly walked away like she'd forgotten something in another dimension.
Around the corner…
She leaned against the wall and buried her face in her hands.
"I am the shame of my entire bloodline."
Her heart would not calm down.
This was ridiculous. She was a top student. She had single-handedly neutralized a class-C rogue mage last week. She knew barrier spells, advanced talismans, and could quote ancient spellwork texts from memory.
But one hoodie-wearing boy with a quiet presence and soft jawline had turned her into an embarrassing puddle of blush and fear.
She peeked back around the corner.
Still there.
Still reading.
Still unfairly attractive in a "doesn't even know it" kind of way.
She pulled out her phone.
Just for research purposes.
Not creepy at all.
Totally normal.
She focused the lens carefully, heart pounding, zooming in just enough to frame the shot without being obvious—
Snap.
The shutter sound was muted.
But it still felt like a gunshot to her soul.
She slapped a hand over her screen, face burning.
Then looked down at the photo.
Alex.
Still wearing the black hoodie.
A bit of wind had lifted the edge of his hood just enough to show his cheek and jawline — the faintest hint of softness at the edge of his otherwise sharp profile.
It was… perfect.
She quickly created a secret folder and titled it "Ref Only" — short for "reference."
Definitely not for personal use.
Just… admiration.
Okay maybe personal use.
Later that afternoon, she walked home alone under the pale blue sky, phone tucked safely in her pocket.
She hadn't spoken to him.
She hadn't even gotten close.
But she smiled quietly to herself anyway.
Because maybe that was enough for now.
And maybe tomorrow…
She'd try again.
Maybe.
Airi Tachibana walked alone along the sidewalk, her earlier flustered retreat now reduced to gentle footsteps and quiet mental self-scolding.
"You had one job. Just one. Say something normal."
"Instead, you turned into a stammering coward and sprinted away like a cartoon character."
She sighed.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe…
Then she paused.
Her breath caught.
Far down the street, silhouetted by the gold-orange rays of the descending sun, he was walking.
Alex.
Casual pace.
Hands in his pockets.
That same black hoodie pulled low over his face.
She ducked slightly behind a parked car, her heart doing jumping jacks in her chest.
"No way. Again? Why is fate doing this to me today?!"
But just as she peeked out—
A sudden gust of wind blew through the street.
It wasn't strong.
But it was just strong enough to lift the edge of Alex's hood.
In that moment, the fabric fluttered back.
His full face was revealed — golden under the light, sharp jawline perfectly angled, lips in a soft neutral curve, eyes distant and calm.
There was a faint breeze brushing against his bangs, pushing them just enough to give him a slightly tousled, effortless look.
It was unfair.
Unreal.
Unholy.
Airi's entire body froze.
Her soul left her body.
Her mind stopped working.
Her face turned bright red, color flooding across her cheeks like an overheated CPU.
"That face—"
"That face isn't just handsome, it's—"
"It's the cover of a fantasy novel!"
"It's the image on a limited-edition perfume ad in Paris!"
"It's my ideal man!"
And then, very faintly—
Drip.
A small nosebleed traced down her upper lip.
"Wha—?!"
She turned, frantically wiping her face with the edge of her sleeve, trying not to collapse.
But even in that dazed panic…
She reached for her phone.
"I must capture this moment."
She fumbled to open the camera.
He was still walking, head turned slightly toward the light, hoodie resting loosely around his neck.
The world slowed.
Snap.
The photo was perfect.
Too perfect.
She was stunned. Delirious.
"I need to print this on a keychain."
And then—
As if the wind had done its job, Alex calmly pulled his hood back up, restoring the barrier between his face and the world.
Unbothered.
Unaware.
He turned and stepped inside the old bookstore on the corner — the doorbell chiming faintly behind him.
Airi stared at the doorway.
Still red.
Still stunned.
Still lightly bleeding.
She looked at her phone.
At the picture she had just taken.
At the caption she hadn't meant to type:
"My future wallpaper."
"I am not okay," she whispered.
And then she clutched her phone to her chest and walked away — very slowly — trying not to spontaneously combust.
Chapter 80 – Today's the Day
The sky was clear.
Not a cloud in sight.
The breeze was mild. Not too hot. Not too cold. The kind of weather that poets romanticized and old people trusted with laundry.
In short, it was perfect.
And Airi Tachibana was losing her mind.
She stood by the shoe lockers, holding her phone in one hand, gripping the strap of her schoolbag in the other like it was a lifeline.
"Today's the day," she told herself. "No more hiding. No more running away. You're going to talk to him. Just… casually."
She had rehearsed three options:
"Good morning.""Are you reading something interesting lately?"And her emergency line: "Nice weather today, isn't it?"
She had even practiced them out loud in the mirror.
Twice.
The second time her voice cracked, but she decided it added charm.
As the morning bell rang, students flowed into the hall like waves. She waited patiently—strategically—until she saw the familiar black hoodie moving through the crowd with unshakable calm.
Alex Elwood.
Quiet.
Hooded.
Unbothered by reality.
He walked with that same rhythm: composed, unreadable, and mysteriously attractive in a way that made her soul short-circuit if she looked too long.
Airi took a deep breath.
"Alright. Now. Walk forward. Say something."
Her feet obeyed.
Her brain panicked.
She approached him — a few meters away, then one. He was just walking to class, probably thinking about math or philosophy or how to defeat an ancient monster using a stick and a microwave.
She opened her mouth.
"Good mo—"
He turned his head slightly.
The sunlight hit just right.
His hood had slipped just an inch back.
She saw his face.
His full face.
The soft curve beneath his eye. The angle of his jaw. The faint glow of calm intelligence behind his gaze. A perfect blend of sharp and gentle. It wasn't even fair.
Her brain shut down.
Her legs did not.
She immediately turned around and walked the other direction as fast as she could without sprinting.
A few students blinked at her awkward u-turn.
One classmate tilted her head. "Airi-san?"
"Nice weather!" Airi said too loudly, saluting the hallway plant as if it were a person.
Then she disappeared around the corner.
In the safety of the stairwell, she collapsed against the wall, clutching her chest.
"I… I couldn't do it."
"He looked at me like I was part of the scenery!"
"Which is fair. I am. I'm just the highly-polished, academically accomplished, magic-capable scenery who may or may not have a secret album of hoodie photos."
She buried her face in her hands.
"Why am I like this?"
She pulled out her phone.
Looked at the photo from yesterday — Alex with his hood down, wind blowing just enough to frame him in sunlight.
She stared at it.
Then whispered:
"I'm going to marry him."
And then:
"…Eventually."
Back in the classroom, Alex sat at his desk as usual.
Notebook open. Pencil in hand.
Someone passed behind him, murmuring about a new cosmetic skin in Mythcore.
He didn't react.
Outside the window, the trees rustled softly.
He tilted his head slightly, as if something had shifted nearby.
But nothing did.
At least, not that he could see.
Airi Tachibana did not return to class right away.
She remained in the stairwell for a full five minutes, staring blankly at the opposite wall like it had betrayed her.
Her heart was still doing gymnastics.
Her brain had filed for temporary leave.
And in her hands, the phone with Alex's photo still glowed softly, like a beacon of temptation.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself.
"I've fought actual magical threats. I've broken cursed seals. I've stood my ground against rogue sorcerers and been praised by Sister Mariam herself…"
She lowered her head dramatically.
"And yet I'm being emotionally obliterated by a boy who hasn't spoken a full sentence to me since the semester started."
She clutched the phone to her chest and paced.
"What is this feeling?"
She didn't need to ask.
She knew.
It was love.
Not the shy, fluttery kind you got from a classmate who handed you a pen once.
Not the strategic, pedigree-based marriage match her family elders always hinted at during formal dinners.
No, this was real.
Fierce. Chaotic. Inconvenient. Terrifying. Beautiful.
And absolutely unwanted by her sense of composure.
"It's his quietness," she whispered, halfway in a daze. "The way he never looks confused, or loud, or fake. The way he listens to everything and says nothing. The way the air shifts when he walks past."
"He's like a painting… but moving. Like a sword… but kind. Like tea… but dangerous."
"He's… he's my type."
"No. He's every type."
She turned and paced again, nearly walking into a mop bucket.
"Get it together, Airi. You are the heir of the Tachibana family. You command respect. You are the top of your class. You have literally faced demons."
"You cannot be undone by one hoodie-wearing demigod of casual beauty."
She stopped again.
Paused.
Then squeaked softly to herself.
"He pulled his hood down."
Her knees wobbled.
Her face turned red again.
"I can't live like this."
Back in the classroom, Alex sat calmly at his desk.
Reading.
Silent.
Still.
He never noticed the storm he'd left in the stairwell.