XII
Jacob vanished into the shadows, leaving only the dead hunter sprawled at my feet. His departure was seamless as if he had never been there at all. The cold wind gnawed at my face, but it couldn't match the guilt settling in my chest. What I'd done—the way I'd lied to Leora—was completely out of character for me.
She would never understand, and I hated myself for deceiving her.
But what choice did I have?
Leora was better equipped to protect Leon. She had the resources, the connections, and the strength to ensure his safety. If something happened to me—if I died fighting this war—I didn't want my son to witness it. No child should go through that trauma, especially not Leon.
I'd rather be a dead stranger to him than a dead father.
I knelt beside the hunter's lifeless body, flipping him over with one swift motion. His face was frozen in terror, his wide eyes staring at nothing. His limp form sagged as I grabbed his jaw and pulled his lower lip down.
There it was: serial numbers etched into the skin.
"It's definitely them," I muttered under my breath.
The Elsewhere Cult.
They had finally made their move, sending one of their personal hunters to track Leon down. This wasn't just a random group of zealots—these people were organized, relentless, and far more dangerous than most hunters in this world. Their influence stretched farther than most realized, their methods as brutal as they were effective. They wouldn't stop until they had Leon.
But I wasn't going to let that happen.
The Elsewhere Cult wasn't just another power-hungry organization. They were something worse, something darker. These lunatics worshipped the Forbidden Regions—the twisted places no sane person would dare enter. As if that wasn't bad enough, they offered human sacrifices to Outer Gods, entities that should never have existed in this world.
And their initiation ritual? That was the worst part.
To join, recruits had to survive a journey to one of the nightmare realities they accessed. These "isekai" realms weren't the fantasy adventures people dreamed of. They were twisted, cruel places where survival was nearly impossible. Those who returned were forever changed, broken and scarred. And those who didn't? Forgotten.
I couldn't believe I had written these monsters into existence. What kind of messed-up part of me thought this would make a compelling story?
And now they were after Leon.
The reason was simple: prophecy. The cult had a Reader-type among them, someone capable of eerily accurate predictions. That Reader had foretold that Leon, my son, would one day bring about their destruction. Every last one of them, wiped from existence because of him. So they hunted him, desperate to erase that future before it could come to pass.
I rifled through the dead hunter's pockets, searching for anything useful. Money, identification—anything that could give me an edge. I found a small, encrypted device, likely a communicator. I'd crack it open later. There was also a folded piece of paper with coordinates scrawled across it.
That was worrying.
I stuffed everything into my jacket and rose to my feet.
Using the combined speed and life attributes I'd borrowed from Leora and Leon, I dashed through the streets. The world blurred around me, my heart pounding in my chest. I had no time to waste. If the cult had tracked Leon this far, they'd send more hunters soon. Even with my aura concealed, they had ways to sniff us out.
Assassinating their prophet was my only real chance.
The cult itself was too vast and powerful to dismantle with the resources I had. But their prophet? Without them, the cult's ability to track people would be crippled. It would buy Leora and Leon the time they needed to disappear.
The borrowed aura began to fade just as I spotted the open doors of a train ahead. Perfect. I slowed down, careful not to draw attention, and slipped inside, blending into the crowd of early morning commuters. I took a seat near the back, keeping my head low.
A few hours later, I stepped off the train in another city entirely.
Finding a quiet spot near the station—a shaded bench tucked away under a few trees—I pulled out the piece of paper I'd looted from the hunter. My eyes scanned the hastily written coordinates. A location for their next meeting, set for three days from now.
Excellent.
If I played this right, I could make them think I'd be there. But that was only half the plan. I couldn't just let them regroup and continue hunting my family. I needed to hit them where it hurt.
First, I had to keep them distracted. Keep them chasing shadows.
I hopped onto another train heading in a different direction. As the city blurred past me once again, I began formulating my next steps. I needed to create enough chaos to keep the cult off balance, but not so much that they'd catch on to my real plan.
The safehouse was exactly as I wanted it—an isolated apartment on the city's edge, surrounded by abandoned warehouses and the faint hum of distant machinery. Its nondescript exterior belied the purpose it served: a fortress of solitude and preparation.
Dragging the giant hammer I'd picked up at the hardware store, I stepped inside. The place was sparse, the walls bare save for a few cracks and faded graffiti. A smiley face sprayed in yellow paint grinned from the corner of the room, a silent witness to what was about to unfold.
I gripped the hammer tightly, channeling my Fighter Aura into the swing. The impact cracked the concrete floor, sending shards and dust scattering. Beneath the rubble, the edges of a hidden chest gleamed faintly in the dim light.
I knelt, prying the chest open. Inside lay the tools I needed: a sturdy laptop, a cache of food rations, water bottles, and a small arsenal of supplies. It was a stash I'd prepared for moments like this, when plans had to be made and action was inevitable.
Setting the laptop on a makeshift table, I powered it up. The screen flickered to life, casting a cold glow over the room. It was time to get to work.
Hours slipped by as I scoured my network of contacts, cross-referencing names and reputations. The Hunters I owed—or who owed me—were scattered across the city, each with unique skills that could prove invaluable in the coming fight against the Elsewhere Cult.
The list came together slowly, but surely. A tracker with unparalleled instincts. A combat specialist known for taking down high-value targets. A tech expert who could crack the most secure systems. By the time I finished, I had a roster of individuals who could help me tip the scales.
The next phase was planning. I pulled up blueprints of the cult's suspected venue, overlaying escape routes and potential weak points. Every detail mattered: entry points, guard rotations, possible traps. I scribbled notes, adjusted angles, and simulated scenarios until the strategy began to take shape.
The chest's contents kept me going through the night—energy drinks, protein bars, and water bottles fueling my body as my mind raced. When I finally leaned back in my chair, the rough blueprint of my plan stared back at me. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.
I wasn't done yet. Training came next. My Fighter Aura burned within me, a steady pulse of power waiting to be refined. I focused on control, pushing the aura to its limits, shaping it into precise forms and patterns. Each session left me drenched in sweat, muscles aching from exertion.
When exhaustion finally overtook me, I allowed myself a short nap on the floor. The cold concrete was far from comfortable, but it didn't matter. I had no time for luxury—not with the stakes this high.
The cycle repeated itself: work on the plan, refine the aura, rest, and repeat. With each iteration, my strategy grew sharper, my aura control more refined. This was the calm before the storm, and I intended to use every second to ensure that when the storm broke, I would be ready.
Three days might not seem like much, but when every second was a battlefield, 72 hours stretched into an eternity. With power naps strategically placed every 20 hours, I pushed myself to the brink, then dragged myself back.
The grind continued. My aura was more than a mystical force—it was an organ, complex and layered, its intricacies unfolding with each deliberate effort. Conceptually, aura divided into three distinct parts:
Corona: The outermost layer of aura, the gateway to the Seven States. Fighter, Seeker, Dealer, Trickster, Caster, Maker, and Reader—these weren't mere processes but intrinsic states of being. When the Corona activated, it felt as though the world tilted slightly in your favor, bending to your will. My Corona was as refined as I could make it. Ectoplasm: The middle layer, the shell encasing the host's vessel. This was where Arcana Attributes—fire, water, speed, strength, and more—took form. Theoretically, their variations were infinite, shaped by individuality and imagination. Yet for me, my attributes remained dormant, locked away as if by an invisible chain. Soul: The innermost core, the heart of it all. The Soul didn't merely generate aura—it defined identity. It was the bedrock of existence, binding together one's history, emotions, and potential.
My Corona was sharp, and my Ectoplasm stubbornly silent. That left the Soul.
I sat cross-legged on the floor of the safehouse, the dim light of the room flickering faintly against the cracked walls. My breathing slowed, steady and deliberate, as I turned my focus inward. Meditation wasn't just a tool—it was a crucible, a way to forge the abstract into something tangible.
The key to unlocking aura's potential wasn't in brute force or technical skill. It was in understanding the Theme that shaped it, the concept that resonated at the core of the Soul. For me, that meant asking the hard questions.
Was this life worth it?
Could I give up this world if I had a way home?
Did I have the strength to endure pain for the sake of those I loved?
The answers weren't simple.
I wasn't from this world. That truth clung to me like a second skin, no matter how much I tried to adapt. Back home, I'd loved writing stories, weaving worlds and characters together like threads in a tapestry. I hated pain—who didn't?—but I knew I could endure it for the sake of those I cared for.
I missed home. I hated being alone.
That was why I'd fallen in love with writing webnovels in particular. Through them, I connected with others, shared pieces of myself with strangers who, for a moment, understood me. In a way, that explained the nature of my Soul Link, the bond that tied me to others.
As I meditated, I tried to weave these truths together, binding them into a single, cohesive whole. The Soul wasn't just where aura was born—it was the essence of who I was. To unlock its full potential, I needed to accept that essence, to let it define not just my abilities but my path forward.
The hours bled together as I delved deeper into my thoughts, shaping and refining my understanding of myself. The process was exhausting, both mentally and emotionally, but it was necessary.
By the time I opened my eyes, the dim light of the safehouse had softened, signaling the approach of dawn. My body ached, my mind felt like it had been wrung dry, but something inside me had shifted.
This wasn't just preparation. This was evolution.
And I wasn't done yet.
Little motes of blue light swirled around me, delicate as whispers. They formed thin threads that began to orbit, weaving intricate patterns in the air. The glow pulsed rhythmically, almost like a heartbeat, as if responding to my thoughts.
Then, with a sudden flicker, the threads dispersed, unraveling in an instant. From the ends of the scattered light emerged two ethereal butterflies, their wings shimmering with hues of azure and silver. They fluttered gently, leaving faint trails of light in their wake, as if tracing invisible paths in the room.
I stared, entranced, as they circled me, their movements seemingly chaotic yet oddly purposeful.
"So…" I muttered under my breath, my voice barely audible in the quiet room. "That's my theme? A Butterfly Effect?"
The words felt foreign on my tongue, yet they resonated deep within me.
The butterflies moved closer, one brushing past my cheek, its touch like a soft breeze. The other hovered near my hand, as though waiting for something. My instincts told me to reach out, and when I did, the butterfly perched lightly on my finger.
It wasn't just a theme. It was a metaphor—a symbol of my existence in this world. The small, seemingly insignificant actions I took could ripple outward, creating waves far beyond what I could imagine. It wasn't just power; it was responsibility.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. The realization hit me like a wave.
The Butterfly Effect wasn't just about change—it was about control. To wield it, I needed to master every detail, every choice, every nuance of my aura. One wrong move, one miscalculation, and the consequences could spiral out of control.
I focused on the butterflies again, their delicate forms pulsing with faint energy. They were fragments of my soul, manifestations of the innermost layer of my aura. My mind raced, piecing together what this meant for my abilities.
"Subtlety," I whispered. "Precision."
That's what this power demanded. It wasn't about brute force or overwhelming strength. It was about understanding the connections between things, the invisible threads that tied everything together.
The butterflies began to dissolve, their forms scattering into motes of light once more. As they faded, I felt a shift within me—a new sense of clarity, as if a door I hadn't even known existed had just opened.
I exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from my body. The discovery of my theme was a milestone, but it was only the beginning.
"Let's see how far these wings can carry me."
~012