[Bonus Chapter]
Thank you for completing the p.s goal usually I upload 4 chap a week (mon to Thursday or Sunday to wed)
But as you completed the goals here is the bonus chap loki meeting his aunt the blackwood family the founder
[ Start of Chapter ]
The Hargreaves manor had never felt more
like a mausoleum.
Loki sat motionless in the center of the grand library, a room that usually felt like a sanctuary of logic and leather-bound order.
Tonight, it felt like a cage. The bronze medal from the Sports Festival sat on the mahogany side table, its polished surface reflecting the dying embers of the hearth. To the forty thousand screaming fans in the stadium, that disc of metal was a symbol of elite status—the third-best freshman in the most prestigious school in the country.
To Loki, it was a heavy, circular insult. It was a cold, physical reminder of the ceiling he had crashed into at terminal velocity.
He closed his eyes, and the ghost of Bakugo's heat still scorched his retinas. He could still feel the agonizing vibration in his bones as his "Lies" were torn apart by a boy who simply refused to believe in anything but his own roar. Loki's fingers, usually so steady and nimble, trembled as they gripped the silver head of his cane.
"A magician belongs in a circus."
The words echoed in the hollow vault of his mind. He had played the part. He had worn the mask. But when the curtain fell, he was just a boy in a singed suit, bleeding from the nose because he had tried to trick a volcano.
"Practically speaking," Loki whispered, his voice cracking in the empty room, "the performance was a pathetic failure."
"On the contrary, little star. The performance was exquisite. It was the stage that was too small for a Blackwood."
Loki bolted upright, the sheer suddenness of the voice making his heart lurch. He didn't reach for a card; he didn't have time. The voice hadn't come from the door, which remained locked and bolted. It had bled out of the shadows between the bookshelves—a voice like crushed velvet, cold moonlight, and old, buried secrets.
Two figures stepped into the amber glow of the firelight.
Loki's heart didn't just beat; it stuttered. He felt a primal, visceral jolt of recognition that bypassed his brain and struck his very soul.
The women standing before him were tall, draped in high-collared charcoal coats that seemed to drink the light of the room. But it was their faces—the sharp, predatory jawlines, the haunting hazel eyes, and the way their dark hair fell in identical, silken waves—that stopped his breath.
They looked like Her. They looked like the woman who used to sing to him in the dark before the world went grey.
"Aunt Scarlet? Aunt Cynthia?"
Loki's voice was a ragged ghost of itself. The "Director" persona—the polished, untouchable aristocrat—evaporated instantly, leaving behind a hollowed-out child.
Scarlet Blackwood, the elder, stepped forward. Her presence was a physical weight, a gravity so dense it made the air in the library feel like liquid. Cynthia followed, her gaze wandering over the room with a terrifying, lethargic elegance.
"You've grown, Loki," Scarlet said. Her voice was steady, but there was a jagged edge to it, like a blade hidden in a silk shroud. "You have your father's chin. But those eyes... those are Eleanor's. They still look for the trick in everything."
The mention of his mother's name was a physical blow to his chest. Loki stood, his legs shaking so violently he had to lean on his cane. The confusion and the bitter, icy resentment that had simmered in his gut for a decade finally boiled over.
"Why are you here?" he demanded, his voice rising into a jagged shout. "Why now? You haven't spoken a single word to me in ten years! You weren't there for my birthdays. You weren't there when I woke up screaming from the nightmares. You haven't looked at me since the day we put her in the frozen ground!"
He stepped toward them, the memory of the funeral flooding back with the force of a tidal wave—the smell of wet earth, the oppressive black lace veils, and the way he had screamed for them as they flickered away into the mist, leaving a six-year-old boy alone in a graveyard.
"I ran to you!" Loki's voice broke, tears of pure, unadulterated fury pricking his eyes. "I reached for your coat, Scarlet! I was six years old and I just wanted to hold someone who smelled like her! And you moved! You used your Step to vanish like I was a plague! You deleted me from your lives! Why did you leave me to rot in this silence?"
Cynthia flinched, a rare, microscopic crack appearing in her stoic mask. She looked at Scarlet, whose face remained a pale, frozen lake, unreadable and cold.
"We didn't delete you, Loki," Scarlet said softly, and for the first time, Loki heard the sound of a heart breaking behind the words. "We were forbidden from touching the script."
Scarlet reached out, but not to touch him—not yet. With a slow, deliberate motion, she pulled back the heavy silk sleeve of her left arm.
Loki gasped. Circling her wrist was a horrific, jagged scar—a raised, pulsing welt of blackened flesh that looked like it had been branded by a heated, celestial chain. It wasn't just a scar; it was a living curse.
"The day Eleanor realized the end was coming," Scarlet whispered, her eyes locking onto Loki's with a terrifying intensity, "she called us to her bedside. She knew what the Blackwood blood does to a person. She saw how we lie to the universe until we forget who we are. She saw the Abyss waiting for her sisters, and she didn't want you to be a shadow. She wanted you to be a boy. A human boy."
Cynthia stepped closer, her eyes shimmering with a haunting, repressed grief that seemed to vibrate in the air. "She made us take a Binding Oath, Loki. A blood-contract with the stars themselves. She said: 'Do not touch him. Do not teach him. Do not let him see the Fold. Let him believe he is just a boy until the day he proves he is a King. If you enter his life before he is ready, you will pull him into the Abyss before he can swim.'"
Loki stared at the blackened brand on Scarlet's wrist. His mind raced back through the years of solitude. He remembered the "drafts" in his nursery that felt like a caress.
He remembered feeling a cold, invisible hand on his forehead when he had fevers, only to wake up and find the room empty and the door locked.
"Every time you cried for us in the dark," Scarlet said, her voice trembling with a decade of suppressed agony, "this mark bled. Every time I stood in the shadows of the park and watched you walk to school alone, the Oath burned my skin to ash. We had to be the villains, Loki. We had to let you hate us, to let you believe we were cold and heartless, so that you could stay 'human' for just a little while longer."
The realization hit Loki like a physical strike to the heart. They hadn't abandoned him. They had suffered a decade of silent, burning torture just to grant their sister's dying wish.
"But the Sports Festival changed the script," Cynthia added, a dark, jagged pride flickering in her eyes. "The moment you chose to stand on that stage and 'Lie' to the world to win...
the moment you admitted you weren't strong enough and reached for the darkness to bridge the gap... the 'Normal Boy' Eleanor died to protect was gone. You chose the Path yourself. And the Oath... it finally broke."
Scarlet finally bridged the gap. She placed a cold, trembling hand on Loki's cheek. The touch was electric—a decade of suppressed love pouring through her fingertips.
"We never left you, little star," she whispered. "I was the shadow in the corner of your room. Cynthia was the wind under your door. We watched you bleed against that explosive boy, and it took everything we had not to level that stadium to save you."
Loki leaned into her hand, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down his face. The anger was still there, but it was being drowned by the sheer, overwhelming relief.
Loki leaned against the mahogany table, the weight of the revelation threatening to buckle his knees. "But you're here now. Why? I lost. I proved I'm not strong enough to stand with the others. I'm weak, Aunt Scarlet. My 'Grit' is a joke compared to theirs."
"Weak?" Cynthia let out a soft, melodic laugh that sent shivers down Loki's spine. She walked toward him, her gloved hand lifting his chin so he had to meet her gaze. "Loki, you were never weak. You just didn't know the script required to become strong."
Scarlet stepped into the light, her hazel eyes burning with an intensity that seemed to warp the shadows around her.
"You think you are just a Hargreaves," Scarlet said, her voice dropping to a low, reverent hum. "A boy of logic and parlor tricks. But the blood in your veins doesn't just belong to the theater. You are a Blackwood. And more than that... we have seen the flicker in your eyes during your matches. We know what lies dormant in the marrow of your bones."
She leaned in, her face inches from his. "You carry the power of the Founder, Loki. A legacy that predates quirks, a darkness that the world has tried to forget. You aren't just a magician; you are the heir to a power that can edit the very fabric of existence."
Loki's breath hitched. The Founder? The name felt like a bell tolling in a deep,
underwater cavern. He felt a sudden, sharp heat in his chest, a dormant energy that seemed to purr at the mention of the title.
"Eleanor wanted to hide you from this," Cynthia whispered, her hand moving to stroke his hair with a terrifying tenderness.
"She wanted to save you from the burden of the Founder's Eye. But the moment you chose to stand on that stage and 'Lie' to the world to win... the moment you admitted you weren't strong enough and reached for more... the 'Normal Boy' died. The Oath broke."
Scarlet pulled back, her eyes regaining their sharp, lethal clarity. The emotional reunion was over; the audit had begun.
"You lost to the boy of fire and ash," Scarlet said, her voice turning clinical. "Not because he was faster. Not because he was stronger. But because your 'Lies' lack Substance. You are playing with paper, Loki.
Loki straightened his waistcoat, the familiar chill of the Blackwood pride returning to his chest. "I am limited by the rules of the stage."
"Then we will change the stage," Cynthia said, a dark smirk playing on her lips. "The internship offers will be sent out tomorrow. Your classmates will go to flashy hero offices to save cats and sign autographs. But you... you are coming with us."
Scarlet looked him in the eye, her gaze a promise of a beautiful nightmare. "We are the Blackwood sisters. We don't save people, Loki. We edit reality until the problem no longer exists. You will intern under the Blackwood Estate. We are going to Hosu."
Loki felt a thrill of terror and excitement. Hosu—the place Iida had run to. The place where the darkness was thickest.
"In three days, the audit begins," Scarlet said, turning back toward the shadows. "Prepare yourself, Loki. By the time we are done with you, you won't need to trick the audience."
"You will be the audience's reality," Cynthia added, flickering into smoke.
Loki stood alone in the library, the bronze medal forgotten on the table. He looked at his hands, then at the fractured monocle. He wasn't sad anymore. He wasn't disappointed. He was a Director who had finally been given the budget for a masterpiece.
The "Normal Boy" was dead. Long live the King of Shadows.
[End of Chapter 27]
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[Bonus Chapter]
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