The snow shimmered faintly in the sky above Evercrest, but inside the loft of Café LeBlanc, the air was thick with the scent of roasted coffee and the weight of a decision.
The new clone, currently nameless and wearing Erwin's spare sweatpants, had been staring at the open binder of Gacha cards for thirty minutes. His eyes darted between Jar Jar Binks, Indiana Jones, Sokka, Ezio Auditore, Tai Lung, Shiro Fujimoto, and Saul Goodman.
Erwin and Gellert sat on the sofa, calmly sipping coffee and tea respectively, watching the show. Zero, however, was losing his patience. He tapped his foot against the floorboards—tap, tap, tap.
Sōma, who had been aggressively cleaning the kitchen counter as a way to vent his energy, finally snapped. He slammed his hand onto the dinner table.
"Just choose, goddamn it!" Sōma shouted. "I need to sleep for tomorrow!"
The clone held up a hand. "Calm down! I need to be strategic with my choice. This defines my entire existence!"
"Easy," Gellert drawled, blowing on his tea. "What do you want? Just grab it. Desire is the truest compass."
"It's your life," Erwin added, flipping a page of his book. "So I won't involve myself in your decision. Though speed is often a virtue."
The clone groaned, rubbing his face. "We got villains all over this roster."
Zero stopped tapping. "What do you mean?"
"Gellert is obvious," the clone pointed at the mage. "Both descriptions of the cards he absorbed are villains. Both Gellert Grindelwald and Kaecilius are antagonists. We don't even need to talk about Sebas."
"Erwin has protagonist cards," Zero countered. "Erwin, Conan, Noctis, Tobio and Background Character."
"The way he is right now," the clone argued, eyeing the Detective-Commander, "he's more like a Lawful Neutral anti-hero. He scares me sometimes."
"Legolas?" Zero suggested.
"He has the Kaito Kid card," the clone sighed. "He is a phantom thief. A showman criminal."
"Hey! How about me! I'm a good guy!" Sōma protested from the kitchen.
"Yeah, you're not counted," the clone dismissed him with a wave. "You're the mascot. I'm talking about someone who can heal. Someone who represents pure good."
Erwin lowered his book. "What do you want? To be a saint?"
"Is that not a good idea?" the clone asked, looking hopeful. "We need balance."
Erwin thought for a moment, his blue eyes calculating. But it was Gellert who answered.
"The only choice is the Shiro Fujimoto card then," Gellert said, placing his cup down. "He is a Paladin. An Exorcist. A man of God."
"We can make use of you to experiment that way," Erwin nodded, seeing the logic.
The clone, Zero, and Sōma all froze. "What experiment?"
Erwin looked at Gellert. They shared a look of perfect, terrifying understanding, as if they had talked about this several times.
"Magic," Erwin explained simply. "The Argent Theocracy never sees magic as a good thing. They call it the 'Wild Spark' and purge it. Yet, they survive without the help of traditional Abjuration mages. They have their own magic called Radiant or Holy Energy."
"I want to see what the difference is," Gellert continued. "Between the Theocracy's power and regular healers. If you take the Shiro card, you become the perfect control group. A Paladin who is actually a Demon."
"If you're willing," Erwin smiled, a predatory glint in his eyes, "you will be his guinea pig."
The new clone's face went sour. "Guinea pig? That doesn't sound like a very promising life."
Gellert's smile softened into something charming. "Well, it's not like that. We all benefit if I can understand the logic of the universe. Knowledge is power, brother."
The clone looked at the Shiro card, then back at the smiling mage. "Yeaahh... I don't know about–"
SWISH.
Zero didn't wait. He flicked his wrist, and threads of Abyssal Weave shot out, snatching the Shiro Fujimoto card from the binder and snapping the book shut.
"Hey!" the clone shouted.
"No more waiting!" Zero declared, floating the card over to the clone. "It's late already. You're going to infiltrate the Theocracy when Gellert is done with you. Now let's all sleep and welcome the next day with good vibes!"
"Hey, wait–" the clone tried to grab the card out of the air.
But the others were already moving. Sōma turned off the kitchen lights. Erwin stood up and stretched. Gellert vanished the tea cups.
"Good night," they chorused, leaving the new clone standing there with the glowing card of the Paladin hovering in front of his face.
"Fine," the clone muttered, grabbing the card. "I guess I'm gonna be a guinea pig for a while now."
…
Meanwhile, deep in the frozen expanse of The Great Stillness, the Hierophant, Theron Varrus, arrived at the base of the First Anchorite's spire. The wind here didn't howl; it whispered, carrying the weight of a thousand years of silence.
The heavy iron door of the tower creaked open. Standing in the threshold was Helena Bright, her face obscured by a featureless, pristine porcelain mask.
"I came as soon as I heard," Theron said, his voice cutting through the cold.
"Thank you, Hierophant," Helena replied, her voice muffled slightly behind the mask. "I am sorry for I cannot give a warmer welcome in these urgent times."
Theron started to walk past her. "No worries."
As he stepped across the threshold, his aura flared. It wasn't a conscious activation, but a reaction to the holy site. Golden radiance erupted from his skin. The snow clinging to his hair and his heavy robes didn't just melt; it evaporated instantly into white steam, purified by the sheer heat of his presence.
"Bring me to the Mirror of Fate," he commanded.
"Brace oneself," Helena warned softly. "The sight will be quite horrifying."
Several young children—Silentees, their tongues ritualistically bound—shuffled behind her like shadows, heads bowed low. Helena held up a hand.
"Stay here," she ordered.
The Silentees stopped instantly, bowing to the floor.
Helena led Theron up the spiral stairs to the highest chamber. She placed her hand on the heavy oak door, paused for a heartbeat, and pushed it open.
As the door swung wide, Theron saw it.
In the center of the room, the legendary artifact—a mirror forged by the hand of the 10th Hierophant, a companion of the original Hero who brought peace to the world—lay in ruin. It hadn't just cracked; it had exploded outward, thousands of glittering shards suspended in the air by the residual magic of the room.
Theron's radiance flared up violently. His eyes turned into orbs of blinding white light. A hot, dry wind blasted outward from his body—a Holy Fire that didn't just burn, but aggressively blessed everything it touched.
CRACKLE.
The wooden doorframe beside him turned black instantly, charring into charcoal. But then, from the blackened wood, life surged. A twisted, glowing fiery flower burst from the dead timber, blooming in seconds with petals of solid flame. This was Theron's specific blessing: the Fire of Life. It was a power so potent it forced existence onto things, burning away the old to birth the new.
"Control oneself," Helena said calmly, unbothered by the heat.
The Hierophant took a deep breath, reining in his aura. The blinding light in his eyes faded back to stern grey. He looked at the charred doorframe and the miraculous flower growing from it.
He plucked the fiery bloom, the petals warm but harmless to his touch, and handed it to Helena.
"My apologies," Theron said stiffly.
Helena took the flower, nodding once. "I will leave you alone with the shards."
She turned and closed the scorched door, leaving the most powerful man in the Theocracy alone with the broken prophecy.
Theron walked toward the scattering of glass. He knelt down, the movement heavy with disbelief. He picked up a jagged piece of the mirror.
'How?' he thought, turning the shard over in his gauntleted hand. 'Even my blade, blessed by the Silent Light itself, could not so much as graze the surface of the Mirror of Fate. And now... it is broken.'
He focused his radiance into the shard, using the Holy Light as a lens.
Inside the glass, he saw the metaphysical representation of the world. He saw bunches of strings—grey, tangled threads of common fate twisting in the wind of time. But then, cutting through the grey, he saw red.
Red Strings. The sign of a Hero.
Theron frowned. 'How is there a bunch of them?'
The prophecies spoke of one Hero. One sword. One destiny. But in the shard, he saw at least five distinct red threads, weaving and knotting together in a chaotic tapestry.
He decided to follow one string. He poured more radiance into his eyes, tracing the red line back to its source.
The vision clarified. He saw a man.
A man with mismatched eyes; one blue, one dark. He held no holy symbol, spoke no prayer. Yet, he controlled the path of magic with a casual arrogance Theron had never witnessed. He wielded spells that twisted space, folded reality, and mirrored the world. It was a Wild Spark, but refined into something terrifyingly disciplined.
CRACK.
The shard in Theron's hand spiderwebbed further, unable to contain the weight of the vision.
Theron let go, the vision vanishing. He stood up, looking around the room at the thousands of floating pieces.
"A heretic who bends reality..." Theron whispered.
He looked at the other shards. Each one held a different piece of the puzzle. A different red string.
"The only way to see the whole picture," Theron muttered, rolling up his sleeves, "is to see it one small amount at a time."
He reached for the next shard.
…
Far at the desolate border between the Bannon Territory and the Argent Theocracy, the air was thick with unnatural silence.
Silas Ducas sat atop his massive, armored warhorse, staring at the looming stone stronghold that guarded the pass. The gate was closed, the battlements empty. No flags waved. No torches burned.
"Sir," Varras whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind. "The steps lead toward the Bannon border stronghold. But... there are no guards."
Silas didn't blink. "Don't unsheathe unless I say so."
He spurred his horse forward. The Hollow squad followed, their heavy grey armor clanking softly.
As they approached the massive iron-reinforced gate, the silence became oppressive. It wasn't just quiet; it was dead. The snow around the gate was undisturbed, save for a few strange dragging marks.
Silas stopped twenty yards from the entrance. He nodded to Felicia.
Felicia rode forward, her voice amplified by a minor cantrip. "BY THE NAME OF THE SILENT LIGHT! WE ARE PALADINS OF THE LUMINOUS ORDER! WE ARE HERE TO HUNT A DANGEROUS INDIVIDUAL!"
Her voice echoed off the stone walls.
They waited. And waited.
There was no response. No movement on the wall. No challenge from a sentry.
Felicia looked back at Silas, unease etched on her face.
"We go in," Silas said flatly. "Unless we want to be the catalyst of a war, announce ourselves once more. Make it clear we are not invaders."
Felicia took a deep breath. "PEOPLE OF THE UNITED REALMS! WE ARE HERE TO HUNT A DANGEROUS INDIVIDUAL! IT IS DANGEROUS FOR BOTH YOU AND US! WE CAN BE OF GREAT HELP!"
Silence stretched again, heavy and mocking.
"Back in formation," Silas commanded.
Felicia retreated to the line. Silas looked at Varras and nodded.
Varras closed his eyes and whispered, "By the silence of all Light."
His eyes snapped open, blazing with blinding white luminescence. His vision pierced through the wood and iron of the gate, zooming into the courtyard beyond. He scanned the battlements, the barracks, the stables.
"Quiet," Varras reported, his voice trembling slightly. "Too quiet. There are no guards. No patrol. No heat signatures."
He pushed his vision further, scanning the shadows of the inner keep.
Then he saw it.
A grotesque scene painted in grey and red. A figure was crouching over the body of a patrol guard. It wasn't human. It had a mouth that stretched from ear to ear, unhinged and raw. It was eating the guard whole—armor, weapons, and all—with a sickening crunch.
Suddenly, the figure stopped chewing. Its right mouth shifted, splitting away from the main jaw to form a separate, chattering maw.
"Hunger..." the mouth whispered.
The figure turned its head. It looked directly at Varras—through the wall, through the magic, straight into his soul.
SNAP.
Varras jerked his whole body back as if struck. The holy light in his eyes shattered, cutting off the connection instantly. He gasped, clutching his head.
"It's them," Varras choked out, blood trickling from his nose. "I don't know what that is... but it saw me. I was forcibly cut off. I'm sorry, Captain."
Silas looked at his Second-in-Command, then at the gate. His expression didn't change.
"Don't worry about it," Silas said.
He dismounted and walked to the massive iron gate. He placed his bare, scarred hand against the cold metal.
WHOOSH.
White fire erupted from his palm. It froze. The temperature plummeted further to absolute zero in a split second. The iron groaned, then screamed as the molecular bonds shattered under the intense cold.
Silas flicked the gate with his finger.
CRASH.
The massive doors shattered like glass, collapsing into a pile of frozen shards.
"Ready your weapons!" Silas roared, drawing his greatsword.
The Hollow Paladins unsheathed their blades, the sound of steel ringing in the cold air.
Silas rode forward into the breach. "Varras, tell me where it is."
Varras, still shaking, rode beside him. "In the courtyard, Captain. Crouched by the barracks. It... it has three mouths."
Silas's eyes narrowed. "Good. Let's see if it can end my suffering."
**A/N**
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**A/N**