Chapter 41: Her worries

Howard watched as the world turned pale.

The edges of the present peeled away, curling like burnt paper, revealing the memory buried beneath.

He stood still as the past opened before him—not like a vision, but a re-enactment the world itself remembered.

He saw himself.

His past self stepped through the remains of the now-demolished building, his presence stirring dust and lingering traces of Arts.

The scene shimmered faintly, blurred around the edges like a half-forgotten dream.

Then it shifted, skipping forward—days, maybe weeks.

The ruins were colder now, abandoned.

And then, they arrived.

Two cloaked figures slipped between broken beams and shattered walls, their silhouettes cutting sharp lines against the grey light.

They moved without hesitation, as though they had already walked this path in thought before their feet touched the ground.

Their faces were hidden by heavy hoods, identities cloaked in secrecy.

Howard couldn't make out their features, nor the emblems on their garments—if there were any.

One of them dropped to a knee, pressing a palm to the scorched earth.

The air turned heavy, as if the ruins exhaled one last time.

Then the figure spoke.

The language was ancient, rough, and sharp at the edges—a Sarkaz dialect layered in ritual.

To most, it would've sounded like broken murmurs. But Howard understood.

There was no language he couldn't understand.

His talent stirred as the words reshaped themselves in his mind.

"The ground here still remembers. There was a gate opened—brief, but deep. Not natural. Forced."

The other figure, standing beside the kneeling one, shifted slightly. Her voice was quiet but cutting.

"Sarkaz?"

"Borrowed", the man replied, his fingers now sketching faint sigils in the dirt.

"Worn by someone who doesn't belong to our kind… but carried out our rites. Like a mask. He became a lich."

Howard's breath caught.

"Do you see who?"

The kneeling figure hesitated.

His gloved hand hovered over the markings he'd drawn, tracing the memory held within the soil.

"Not fully. The echo is weak. But I see a man—black hair. Red eyes. A long overcoat ." He paused, then added,

"There's a familiarity in the spellwork. Like a seasoned Lich."

The woman straightened. Her tone was clear.

"We report to the boss. He will decide what to do with the rest of the information you know."

The image rippled, then began to dissolve.

The cloaked figures blurred, the ruins returned to silence, and the weight of the past slipped away like dust in the wind.

Howard blinked as colour rushed back into the world.

Cold wind brushed his skin, tugging at the hem of his jacket.

He stood alone in the empty lot, now little more than flattened rubble and scorched stone.

The faint scent of Arts still lingered—but only to someone who knew what to look for.

His black hair shifted with the breeze, concealing the small, dark feathers hidden beneath it.

A trait of the crow-blooded Liberi.

Howard lowered his gaze, crimson eyes burning with quiet realisation.

It hadn't been a traitor in Lin Yuhsia's network.

The timing had always been off. The bounty hunters' response had come too quickly.

And the supposed mole had been silenced too early to have leaked the information.

No—he had compromised himself.

When he had become a Lich, even for a moment, he had become Sarkaz.

Sarkaz Arts didn't fade quietly. Their magic lingered.

In the game the Sarkaz arts and Soul would clung to this world as it was blood to a blade.

And those who could read such remnants—those mystics, like the ones just now—could see.

He exhaled slowly, the weight of the revelation settling in his chest.

He had left a footprint in the arts, and now they knew someone had walked where they shouldn't.

"I was careless," he muttered.

And in Terra, careless men didn't last long.

Ding!

A message from his phone came through just as the last fragments of the past faded from his sight.

Howard blinked, adjusting to the present once more, the residual sting of the memory clinging to his breath.

His hand reached into his jacket, pulling out his device.

A single notification lit up the screen—brief, clean, unmistakably hers.

Ch'en: Let's talk. Same spot as before.

He stared at the message for a moment, then slid the device back into his pocket. The cold wind brushed against him, but he didn't shiver.

He was already moving.

Time had passed. The city shifted into evening, smoggy orange light bleeding into the horizon.

***

Ch'en sat inside the small fast-food joint, tucked in a corner booth, her sword leaned carefully against the wall beside her. Her drink sat untouched.

The food tray in front of her had two portions—one for herself and one left untouched, waiting.

She leaned back, arms loosely folded.

How do I even start? She thought.

'What am I supposed to ask first?'

It had been gnawing at her since the bridge.

That moment—brief, terrifying, impossible.

She hadn't confronted him right away, hadn't reported it.

Instead, she ran tests. Looked for answers.

And now she was here, waiting to hear it from him directly.

The bell above the door gave a soft ting.

She looked up.

Howard stepped inside with a calm expression, his black hair slightly windswept, the edges of his jacket catching the light.

Red eyes scanned the space briefly before locking onto her.

He gave a smile—not a forced one, just that familiar, easy sort of smile—and made his way over, sliding into the seat across from her in a single fluid motion.

His eyes drifted to the tray. "You ordered for me?"

Ch'en gave a short nod. "Didn't know if you'd eaten."

"Not really," he said, picking up a fry.

"This helps."

He bit into it, letting the silence sit.

But even as he ate, Howard could feel it—the weight in the air, the tension coiled just beneath her composed exterior.

She hadn't touched her food.

Her tail shifted ever so slightly beneath the table. Her left eye, just barely, was creasing.

She was nervous.

As an experienced psychologist, he could tell.

As he lived with her for long enough, he was able to pick up her body language.

He knew when Ch'en was preparing for something difficult.

He slowly set the fry back down. His fingers lingered on the edge of the tray.

"You want to talk about what happened," he said, quiet but certain.

Ch'en didn't deny it. Her gaze was steady, but there was something behind it. Not suspicion.

Not judgement.

Something close to worry.

At last, she asked it.

"What happened to you… back at the bridge?"

Howard looked at her, the question hanging in the space between them like a blade held just short of the skin.

The moment he'd become an eagle in front of her—shifting shape through a spell no ordinary caster should've been able to use, let alone a Liberi like him.

He knew she'd spoken to Aak afterward.

Knew she'd taken that hair sample from his old jacket, probably without him even noticing.

He didn't need evidence.

It was just obvious.

Howard leaned back a little in his seat, the cheap plastic chair creaking beneath his weight.

His eyes drifted toward the ceiling as if gathering thoughts.

In truth, he was crafting a lie.

He had to.

If he told her the truth—that this world was a game, and he was someone from beyond it—she'd think he had lost his mind.

That he belonged in a ward, not a fast food booth.

And Ch'en wasn't someone who tolerated nonsense.

So he gave her something believable.

"I wasn't always like this," he began, his voice steady, casual.

"When I was still an orphan, I noticed something was… different."

Ch'en watched him carefully, her sharp eyes searching his for deception, for hesitation.

"I had this memory," he continued, popping another fry into his mouth, chewing as if the weight of the conversation wasn't heavy.

"Not photographic, not quite. Just… endless. I could pick up clues, read between the lines, and solve problems faster than the others. It made things easier. Made me… weird."

He gave a faint shrug.

"But it didn't stop there."

He leaned in, just a bit, eyes lowering slightly as if confiding something buried deep.

"During my teen years, I discovered something else. Something a lot stranger."

"One day, I was joking around with this ad of a model—thinking about how ridiculous it would be to look like that. Next thing I know, I looked into the mirror and saw her face staring back."

Ch'en raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"I nearly called the police," he said with a soft chuckle.

"But then I realised what would happen. People like that get taken away. Examined. Dissected."

She gave a small nod of understanding. Not approval. Not disbelief. Just… listening.

"So I kept it to myself. Practised in secret. Learnt to control it."

Howard shifted in his seat, then suddenly sat upright.

"And then I got good at it."

Without warning, his body shimmered.

And then he was gone.

At least, Howard was.

In his place sat a perfect reflection of Ch'en.

Same eyes. Same face. Same stern expression she gives on.

Ch'en's chair screeched backward slightly as she pulled away, her instincts kicking in.

Her eyes narrowed, hand twitching toward the hilt of her sword—before she stopped herself.

The imposter across from her grinned.

"Well?" Howard's voice came out of her face. "Handsome, aren't I?"

Ch'en blinked, genuinely rattled for a second.

Then he shimmered again, and the illusion fell. Howard, as he was, sat there with a small, amused smile tugging at his lips.

"I can only copy appearances," he said.

"No blood, no powers, no actual functions. I can't become a weapon or a rock or anything like that. Just mimicry."

Ch'en exhaled quietly, shoulders relaxing.

It fit.

The puzzle pieces aligned. That explained why his DNA hadn't appeared at the Cocon incident.

A subtle relief settled over her expression.

Howard leaned back again, watching her carefully.

"You good now?"

Ch'en didn't speak for a few seconds. Then she nodded slowly.

"I see," she said simply, her voice a little softer now, her usual sharpness softened by the quiet of the moment.

In her mind, the pieces finally clicked into place.

'So that's what he is… a shapeshifter.'

'Not a monster. Not something dangerous. Just someone trying to live. Trying to be normal. Just like the rest of us.'

She looked at Howard; the weight of her earlier fears lightened.

She could see now that he was not some hidden threat, not something terrifying lurking in the shadows.

Ch'en's lips pressed together briefly, then softened.

'I'm glad…'

"I'm sorry for doubting you," she said after a moment, her voice tinged with genuine apology.

Howard grinned and patted her head, roughening her hair in a small, comforting gesture.

"It's alright. Besides, you've already done more than enough. A roof. A job. And," he added with a teasing wink.

"A chance to see your beautiful face every morning."

Ch'en blushed, turning her gaze to her food to hide it.

"Shut up and eat," she muttered, her tone playful yet still tinged with embarrassment.

Howard laughed and grabbed another fry.

The air had shifted.

The tension was gone.

It was just the two of them—sitting together like any normal evening.

Even if one of them were entirely normal.