Jake sat on the edge of a comfortable mattress while Marquis remained close at his side, close enough that Jake could feel his presence even through the haze of pain. He was grateful for that. The agony was not something that could be endured alone.
For two straight days, the pain had not relented. It was not sharp or fleeting, but insidious, burrowing into him and tearing at something deeper than flesh. It felt as if his very identity was being pulled apart thread by thread, unraveling him from the inside out. His chest burned, his thoughts fractured, and even breathing sometimes felt like an act of defiance rather than instinct.
Eating hurt. Sleeping hurt. Existing hurt.
Magic, which normally flowed through him with unnatural ease, had become erratic and unstable. The barrier flickered when he tried to summon it. The Aetherium bolts fizzled out or misfired entirely. Whatever was happening inside him was disrupting everything, and for the first time since arriving in this world, Jake quietly wondered if this sickness might actually kill him.
The four kids had noticed, of course. They were not stupid. When they asked what was wrong, Jake lied through clenched teeth, muttering something about mana backfire and magical overload. They looked frightened, but when he snapped at them to drop it, they did. He hated himself a little for that, but he could not let them worry.
At least they were not like his sister.
The thought crept in uninvited, as it often did during the long hours of pain. Lily. That damn brat. Where was she now? Did she miss him? Did anyone from his old world miss him?
Jake had learned enough to know that the children had heard about his disappearance. Beatrice, especially. She had told him about a missing persons case, something called Missing 411. The last CCTV footage anyone had of him was painfully mundane: Jake stepping off the city bus he used to take everywhere. After that, nothing.
His father was dead too. No suspect. No answers.
And Lily had vanished shortly after.
The thought made his stomach twist worse than the pain already had. He could only hope she had not shared his fate, or worse.
Another wave of agony slammed into him, ripping a grunt from his throat before he could suppress it. His fingers dug into the mattress, knuckles white.
This was hell.
No, worse than hell. At least in hell, you might eventually go numb. Here, every second was vivid. Every heartbeat carried pain with it, a cruel reminder that he was still alive.
The rest of the week blurred together into a miserable routine. Jake stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, regretting nearly every choice he had made since stepping onto that bus. He ate little more than a single piece of fruit each day and forced down a bottle of water. Anything more came right back up. Sleep was scarce. Two days awake, then three hours of shallow rest, then the cycle began again.
By the time the week ended, Jake was exhausted in a way that went far beyond physical fatigue.
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
Jake woke expecting pain, bracing himself for it, but it never came. Instead, there was nothing. No burning. No tearing. Just warmth. Light spilled through the window and rested on his skin, gentle and forgiving.
He lay there for a long moment, afraid to move, afraid that the pain would return if he acknowledged its absence. When it did not, he stretched slowly. Even the hydraulics in his prosthetic arm gave a quiet, content creak, as if relieved.
Jake laughed softly to himself.
He headed downstairs and glanced out the window. The kids were outside, laughing and shouting. It looked like a game, though in practice it was more accurate to say Aya and Beatrice were beating up on Evan, who stubbornly refused to fight back. Oliver hovered nearby, trying and failing to mediate.
When the cabin door creaked open, all four froze.
Then they rushed him.
Aya and Beatrice slammed into him with tight hugs. Evan approached more cautiously, arms stiff, as if afraid he might hurt Jake by accident. Oliver simply smiled, relief written clearly on his face.
"We thought you were gonna die!" Beatrice yelled, voice cracking.
"What?" Jake blinked. "Who told you that?"
"Uncle Marquis did!" Aya added quickly. "He said you were mumbling about dying in your sleep!"
Jake inhaled slowly.
That fucking—
He exhaled, forcing himself to calm down.
"Well, I'm not dead now, am I?" he said, managing a weak grin.
"No," Oliver replied, tone uncertain, as if testing the answer.
"Oliver, that was rhetorical," Jake sighed. "Ah, forget it. How about I tell you about—"
"Jake. I'm glad to see you recovered."
Marquis appeared as if summoned by the words, Ace standing beside him. Both were fully armored, weapons secured and ready.
"Perfect timing, actually," Marquis continued cheerfully. "New mercenary job. Pays a pretty penny." He rubbed his fingers together, and Jake could practically see the grin beneath the obsidian visor.
Jake nodded and took a step back toward the cabin. "I'll bring each of you a present, alright?"
"It better be chocolate," Aya and Beatrice said in unison.
"Actually… I want a book," Oliver added quietly.
Jake smirked and waved them off as he headed inside. Maybe one day, he would show them everything he knew. Maybe one day, they would be ready. The world did not seem inclined to get any kinder.
He armed himself methodically. Armor secured. Spear checked. Prosthetic tested and recalibrated. Everything felt right again.
When he stepped back outside, Marquis already had his helmet on. The three of them always concealed their faces on jobs. Jake used a simple armet helmet beneath his hooded cloak. Ace, lacking a face entirely, did not need one. Marquis wore his signature captain's helm.
Jake took his place beside them.
"Lead the way."