Two months flew by in Loran like a whirlwind of blood, coin, and chaos. Satoru and Marcille carved their names deep into the Adventurer's Guild.
They'd been grinding; stacking quests, raking in seros, and turning heads from the slums to the Guild Hall. Satoru, 'that white-haired bastard,' hit S-Class in a month flat.
A rank that made grizzled vets sweat and newbies whisper like he was some goddamn legend. The Guild was floored; mouths dropped, papers scattered, because this guy tore through the nastiest jobs like they were chores.
Monster hunts? He'd stroll back with a monster's head slung over his shoulder, sunglasses glinting, not a scratch on him.
Missing people? He'd warp in, snag the target, and dump them at the desk before the ink dried on the request.
"What's next?" he'd say, grinning, while the clerks scrambled to find something that'd actually challenge him.
S-Class wasn't just respect, it was fear, and he wore it like a crown.
Marcille wasn't slacking either. She'd climbed to C-rank as a mage, her offensive and defensive spells sharpening fast under the Guild Rep's tutors.
Attacks popped with precision now, shields held firm; she was still green, but leagues beyond the kid who'd torched Elna in a panic.
The real jaw-dropper, though? Was her healing game. Thanks to Millicent's connections, she'd been hitting the church's lessons hard, soaking up holy magic and healing magic like a sponge.
Her elven blood; pure, wild and untapped, mixed with that genius spark, and she outshone the priests, bearded old-timers who'd been at it for decades.
Wounds closed under her hands faster than they could chant, curses melted like butter in her glow. One priest, a crusty geezer with a staff twice her size, just stared, muttering, "She's a bloody miracle."
They offered her the position of a chief healer; permanent, cushy, a throne in the church, but she shot it down cold.
"Nah," she'd said, in a tone similar to Satoru. Her green eyes flashing, "I'm not here to just sit by and patch folks up. I want to fight."
Healing was her ace, sure. But she could stitch herself up mid-brawl, shrug off a gash and keep throwing spells. Win-win, right?
Satoru had caught her saying that once, mid-quest, blood dripping from a frost spider's claw she'd failed to dodge.
She'd slapped a hand on it, light flaring, and the cut was gone; then blasted the beast with a spear of ice. He'd laughed; loud and sharp.
"That's my kid! You'll be one hell of a mage. A self-repairing, glass cannon." Marcille puffed her cheeks at "kid," but the grin she hid said she didn't mind.
Their rep soared; Satoru, the S-Class tornado who'd warp in, wreck shit, and warp out; Marcille, the C-rank prodigy who'd heal a village then burn a monster to ash.
Coin piled up too; seros clinked in Marcille's subspace, funding new gear, better grub, and Satoru's endless sweet stash.
The Guild buzzed with their names, half in awe, half in dread. Satoru didn't give a damn about the hype. He was here for the cash and the thrill, teleporting through jobs like a bored god.
Marcille, though? She was building something; strength, purpose, a fire that'd carry her past the village's ghosts.
Two months in, and they were a duo nobody could ignore; 'Chaos and Heart,' a "loving" nickname/callsign attached to their duo, tearing up Astartes, one quest at a time.
At present; a not so busy day:
Satoru and Marcille were sprawled across their new couch like a couple of dead fish, the cozy house they'd snagged three weeks back feeling more like a prison today.
Two months of grinding quests had earned them this pad; stone walls, wood beams, a view of Loran's bustle from its elevated perch, but taking a day off was a mistake.
Satoru slumped on one end, sunglasses askew, legs flung over the armrest. "Hey, kid," he drawled, voice dripping with boredom, "go flip on the heating crystal. It's freezing in here."
Marcille, curled into a ball on the other side, didn't even lift her head from the cushion. "Can you do it, please?" she replied, pleading but just as lazy.
A beat passed, then, "Forget it," they said in unison, tones flat and matching, like they'd rehearsed it. "Ahh, peaceful day," Satoru mumbled.
"So peaceful," Marcille echoed. Bullshit! They were lying through their teeth, bored out of their skulls, and they both knew it.
Then the floor rumbled. A tremor, sharp and deep, rattled the house; hell, the whole damn city. Cups clinked on the table; a picture frame tipped over with a thud.
Satoru groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. "Probably just a cart hitting a pothole," he muttered, waving it off.
Marcille, though, dragged herself up with a grunt, shuffling to the door like it was a death march. She swung it open, and her eyes popped wide.
"FUCK!" she yelped, the word bursting out raw and loud. Bonk! Satoru's knuckles struck her head as he materialized beside her, smirking. "Who taught you that, huh?"
She shot him a confusing look, rubbing the spot. "You?"
He grimaced, a flash of his own chaotic youth flickering; pranks, fights, pissing off everyone.
"Yeah, okay, fair." 'Thank god Utahime is not here, I'd be a dead meat… Is she turning into me?' A crazy image of Marcille with a blindfold, wreaking havoc flashed in his mind, making him giggle.
Marcille tugged his sleeve, frantic, snapping him out of it. "Look!" He followed her gaze and-shit!
Monsters? Demons?
Their house sat high, giving them a front-row seat to hell breaking loose. Beyond Loran's walls, giant demons loomed; hulking bastards with jagged horns, stomping through the farmland.
A wyvern screeched overhead, wings cutting the sky, while smaller critters; clawed, fanged, nasty; they scrambled over the walls, tearing into the streets below.
Satoru's Eyes pinged their vibes; faint echoes of Adramalekh's hell, but weak, watered-down knockoffs. "Huh," he said, leaning on the doorframe. "Guess the Guild's drill wasn't just for show."
He'd caught the spiel back in week two; some crusty old tale about this world's dark side. Centuries ago, demons crashed the party from the Dark Continent, a mystery-shrouded shithole ruled by the so-called Demon King.
Every now and then, that asshole ripped open portals; spatial fissures, big and ugly; dumping his goons wherever he pleased.
Like now; a gaping rift pulsed in the farmland, vomiting monsters like a bad hangover. Then why not plop it smack in the city?
It couldn't.
Loran, like every major hub, had anti-demon barriers, glowing wards cooked up after years of this crap. Kept the portals at bay, but once the demons were out, it was game on.
Satoru scratched his neck, half-interested. "First attack since that hellhole, huh. Fun, I guess." Marcille's eyes narrowed, fists clenching. "How do we stop it?"
He smirked, nodding at the fissure. "Guild's got a playbook; holy mages gotta get close, chant some fancy spells, cancel the demonic magic that keeps that fissure open.'
He continued, "It takes time, though; it's thick with demonic mana. Warriors will hold the line, protect the mages, while these freaks try to eat everything moving.
It's normally expected to be tedious as hell."
She huffed, already itching to jump in. "So, we fight?"
He grinned, all teeth. "Oh, we fight." Satoru stretched, cracking his knuckles. "Beats sitting here freezing. Let's go smash some skulls."
Marcille darted back inside, grabbing her gear; some new steel-plated green tunic. Satoru stayed in his usual; dark jacket, sunglasses, ready to warp and wreck.
"Don't die, kid," he turned over his shoulder, stepping out. "You too, please take care!" she replied, a hit of worry in her voice.
She came back, catching up to him.
The wyvern screeched again, and they bolted toward the mess
Loran had snapped into gear like a well-oiled machine; emergency drills weren't optional in this world; they were survival 101.
Armored soldiers herded remaining people into safe zones, barking orders over the screams, while adventurers clashed with the smaller demons that'd breached the walls; clawed, snarling things tearing up the streets.
Satoru and Marcille sprinted toward the fray, boots pounding cobblestones. He shot her a quick nod and she veered off, staff flashing out of her subspace, eyes sharp.
She bolted for the first knot of chaos she saw, a family pinned by a hissing imp, and blasted it with a spear of fire, dragging the wounded away from there.
Satoru smirked, then leaped, landing softly atop the city gate, wind tugging at his jacket.
He scanned the mess; giant demons stomping the farmland, a wyvern circling around the city sky like a vulture, its screeches rattling the air.
He cracked his knuckles, Eyes locked on the beast, ready to swat it down, when a window banged open atop the Guild Hall.
Millicent stepped out, scarlet hair whipping, her golden-gray plating now capped with a golden-brown cape edged in blue, billowing like a damn superhero.
Before Satoru could blink, golden chains of light erupted from her hands, thick and glowing, snaking through the sky, wrapping around the wyvern's neck.
She grabbed the ends, leaped out, and yanked; the wyvern choked, massive wings flailing as she hauled it out of the city walls, with a grit that'd make a titan sweat.
It crashed into a hulking, malformed demon outside the walls, a tangle of scales and claws, and Millicent wasn't done.
Mid-flight, she thrust a hand forward; two massive swords of golden light spun into existence, drilling through the piled demons, pinning them to the dirt in a spray of blood.
Satoru wasn't napping either. He'd dropped from the gate, slamming into a four-legged freak; some insect-cat mashup with too many teeth.
He grabbed its head, warped it into the ground, and dragged it across the stone, guts trailing like a gory comet. Millicent landed nearby, cape fluttering, a blade of light in her grip.
She suddenly flicked it at him; fast, lethal, and he just sidestepped, casual as hell, letting it skewer a lanky demon lunging at his back.
Its scream cut off as it flopped dead. They locked eyes, nodded; no words, just sync; and tore into the next wave.
A giant lumbered up, swinging a jagged metal slab at Millicent. Satoru, mid-rip through another demon's torso, pointed a palm her way.
Blue flared, yanking her toward him like a magnet. She flew and flipped boots first, and he spun around with a clean roundhouse kick, that landed square on her soles, launching her like a cannon.
Her golden blade led the charge, punching through the giant's skull, brain matter splattering as she sailed through and landed in a crouch.
The other adventurers were still securing the city; battling stragglers, hauling civilians; but Satoru and Millicent had the outer edge on lock.
Demons dropped fast, torn apart or skewered, a symphony of gore and gold. By the time the last one twitched out, the farmland was a graveyard of carcasses, and the fissure pulsed ahead, a gaping maw of dark magic.
Holy mages hustled up, robes flapping. Millicent was among them, her aura blazing, unshaken. Marcille jogged in too, staff in hand, flanked by Vanessa, her dark-red hair tied back, armor dented from her own fights.
The church priests spotted Marcille, nodding in approval. Her credibility within the church was solid, but Millicent stepped in, her voice calm. "We've got enough mages for the fissure.
Help the wounded; it's where you're needed." It was not an order, just logic, and Marcille got it.
She spun off, light flaring from her hands, patching up a soldier with a shredded leg, then a kid with a gashed arm.
Quick detection, quick action; no big tragedy today, a win they'd take.
Satoru, though, wasn't done poking the bear. He sauntered up to the fissure; black and swirling, a tear in the world spitting faint demonic whispers.
Vanessa clocked him, eyes narrowing. "Satoru, get back!" she shouted, but it was too late. He reached out, curious as a cat, Six Eyes buzzing.
He thought, 'Is this the same as back then,' and touched it. One rule every grunt their worth knew was, that you don't fuck with the fissure.
It'd suck you in, spit you out who-knows-where, or just shred you. Satoru? Either forgot or didn't give a shit. The rift pulsed, grabbed him, and; Whoosh!
He was gone, yanked through like a ragdoll.
Vanessa cursed, "Dammit!"
Marcille froze mid-heal, head snapping up. "Satoru?!"
The mages flinched, hands raised, but the fissure didn't care; it hummed on as if it was mocking them.
He'd known the drill; week two, some grizzled Guild clerk had bored him with it. Satoru had shrugged it off then, but now? He'd poked it, and it bit back.
Millicent stared at the spot he'd vanished, golden eyes flat.
Lysa just pressed her temples, "Idiot," she muttered, then turned to the mages.
Millicent then spoke to the distracted mages, "Focus! We have to close it, before another wave." They nodded, chants rising, holy light clashing with the dark swirl.
Vanessa grabbed Marcille's shoulder, firm but not rough. "He'll be fine. You know him, he's a tough bastard. You have to help here."
Marcille bit her lip and nodded. She dove back into healing, hands glowing, but her eyes kept flicking to the fissure.
Satoru was gone; warped to gods-knew-where, and the fight wasn't over. The city held up, the demons were dead, but that rift loomed as a remainder to all.
Curiosity could kill or at least fuck you up, royally.
Satoru blinked, the blinding flash of the fissure fading, and found himself standing in… hell? Again? Nah, not quite; close, but off-brand.
The air didn't choke him like Adramalekh's pit; it was breathable, thin but clean. Dark Mana hummed around him, but it wasn't thick enough to drown in; just a faint buzz, like static on a bad radio.
He squinted at the ravaged landscape; cracked earth, twisted husks of trees, sky a bruised purple. "Okay, other side of the world, right?" he muttered, shrugging. Easy fix; warp back.
He focused, space bending under his will, and-… Gone. Only to pop right back, miles away but with same wrecked scenery.
"Well, shit," he said, hands in his pockets. Either something was jamming his teleportation, or this wasn't even the same world anymore.
The second option sounded nuts; fissures weren't supposed to yeet you across dimensions, were they? But the first wasn't clicking either.
He sighed, cracking his neck, and got to work. Time blurred; minutes, maybe some hours; and soon he was perched atop a mountain of dead demons, their corpses a grotesque pile of claws, horns, and oozing guts.
Not a speck of blood on him, not a bead of sweat; clean as he'd been that morning, lounging on the couch. These things were pushovers, barely a warm-up, and he'd mowed through them like weeds.
And suddenly, that same voice hit his ears; old, eerie, strangely soothing but cryptic as hell. The same one from the deer vision way back, too.
It started shaky, confused. "How did you get here?" It said and took a long pause, then a low hum, like it'd pieced it together. "The fissure… huh. Well, since you're here, might as well show you more."
The world cracked; static ripping through reality, just like before, and snapped into focus.
Bustling streets, tall spires, voices chattering in a tongue he didn't know. Not human; not even close. Too many limbs, eyes in weird spots, skin shimmering like oil.
A four-legged cat-insect thing scuttled past his leg, same hybrid vibe as the demon he'd pulped, but no dark magic, no malice; just alien, and chill, like everything belonged there.
Satoru tilted his head, Eyes scanning. "Okay, so this place got turned into that hellhole. Cool story, bro! But vague as fuck." He wasn't omnipotent, just the Honored One.
Give him a target, he'd smash it, but this riddle shit? Not his game. "Look," he said, voice flat, "I'll sit quiet and listen if you've got something real to spill. No more cryptic teasers!" He bared his fang like a pissed off cat.
The voice rasped back, faint now. "I... Can't. You- You'll have to find out yourself, my time with you is borrowed. This is the most… I can… Do-"
A jolt hit his brain, coordinates, sharp and clear, branded into his skull. "Delmar," he muttered, the continent he'd been living until now.
That wasn't just a number popped onto his brain, it was like a GPS signal, a beacon from another dimension.
He wasn't sure if his warp, worked in interdimensional distance, but something about that info slapped in his brain was telling him that it was possible, now.
The vision shattered, static fading away, and he was back on the demon pile, wasteland stretching around him.
One thing clicked clear. These monsters or demons, weren't invaders; they were locals here, twisted by something playing god, flipping worlds into hellscapes.
But why? Who? The voice was gone, leaving him with another vague plot point.
He kicked a demon skull off the pile, watching it bounce. "Alright, let's at least confirm this then." He launched skyward, wind screaming past.
Within an hour or so, he circled the damn planet; east, west, north, south, a blur of desolation. No cities, no Loran, no Delmar; just ruin.
He pushed higher, breaking atmosphere, stars prickling against a void. The world of Delmar wasn't below him; no blue marble, no familiar continent.
"Well, fuck me," he said, floating in the black. This wasn't his new world; not even the Dark Continent those Guild hacks yapped about.
The books said no one survived crossing there; guess he'd just rewritten that chapter. If he went there, checked back and didn't find the Dark Continent, then Delmar was in another uproar.
'Let me find out, the Dark Continent bullshit is just these occasional portals which connect to that world, with these destroyed worlds.' The thought wasn't that ridiculous now.
His whole existence was an example of ridiculousness.
He drifted, sunglasses glinting in starlight, piecing things together. The voice knew more, way more, but couldn't, or wouldn't talk.
Satoru smirked, cracking his knuckles. "Fine. I'll play along,"
CE surged around him like a tsunami, and after locking Delmar's coordinates, somewhere around Loran, he disappeared, leaving a small gaping black spot of his size which soon closed with a soundless implosion in the space.
An hour after Satoru got sucked into the fissure, Loran's Guild finally sealed it shut. The rift's dark swirl collapsed under a barrage of holy chants, the air settling, but Satoru didn't pop out.
Marcille stood frozen near the farmland's edge, hands clenched around her staff, green eyes darting over the spot he'd vanished.
She trusted him; his cocky grin, his knack for shredding anything in his path; but this? A fissure to the Dark Continent? That was a league beyond their usual bullshit.
Millicent and Vanessa flanked her, armor scuffed from the fight. "Believe in him," Millicent said, voice steady, though her golden eyes flickered with doubt.
Marcille bit her lip, swallowing the panic clawing up her throat. A tear welked, threatening to spill, but she blinked it back, resolve hardening.
'He will come back. He has to.' She turned, diving into the cleanup; hauling wounded, casting heals; anything to keep moving.
The day dragged on. Vanessa's team swept the city, tallying the damage. A chunk of the western wall had crumpled, a few houses smashed, but no civilian deaths.
Sensors had pinged the demonic spike fast, and their drill kicked in. Lives were saved, a close win. Millicent was holed up in the Guild Hall, cape discarded, poring over reports.
The anti-demon barrier had faltered; one section had gone weak, maybe tampered with. 'A Sabotage?' Too early to call, even impossible considering the appearance of a fissure is random.
But the thought gnawed at her. She fired off her findings to the Guild Master in Astartes City, voice clipped through the communicator, then sank into her chair, golden aura dimming, pressed by what happened in just about two hours.
Next morning broke, Loran stirring back to life; merchants hawking, hammers banging on repairs; but Marcille's worry sharpened. No Satoru.
She paced their house, then hit the streets, eyes scanning every corner like he'd warp in with a grin. The city buzzed on, but those who knew him.
Guild grunts, adventurers, even Kael the fox-eared clerk; carried a quiet flicker. 'Would he make it back?' Great adventurers had vanished crossing to the Dark Continent, legends swallowed whole.
But Satoru Gojo wasn't just great; he was a freak, a force, something else entirely. Doubt and belief wrestled in the back of everyone's mind, a low hum under the daily grind.
Weeks crawled by; two, three, then a month. No sign, no whisper. Marcille's hope held, brittle but there, while others let it fade.
Then shit got weird. One crisp morning, an envoy rolled into Loran. They were Elven ambassadors, all high cheekbones and haughty stares, cloaks shimmering like they owned the place.
They marched to the Guild Hall, demanding Marcille.
"She's one of ours," their leader sneered, a tall prick with silver hair and eyes like ice.
"We're taking her home, to Eldoria, where she belongs." The room went dead silent.
Bullshit; anyone with half a brain knew elves didn't give a damn about half-bloods, especially not one raised like a human.
This wasn't a homecoming.
A few Guild folks; Kael and other adventurers who'd bonded with Marcille over quests; bristled, ready to call it out.
"She's the guild's member now, you-" Kael snapped, tail flicking.
But Vanessa stepped in, hand raised, her voice low. "Shut it. This is international matter now. Us speaking will only escalate this."
They backed off, grudging, but Lysa's teeth ground audibly, her dark-blue hair trembling with her grip on her sword.
She'd failed Marcille once, back in that village mess; watching her get dragged off now burned her alive. The elves smirked, smug as hell, until Millicent entered the guild hall.
Her presence hit like a storm; golden aura blazing, scarlet hair sharp against her shoulder, cape snapping as she strode forward.
The air thickened, her power pressing on the Elves like a physical weight. She stopped dead center, golden eyes boring through them, voice cold as steel.
"Marcille, is a member of the Astartes Guild. Under my protection, under the honorable, Guild Master's. She's also a legally authorized healer of the Eastern Holy Church.
Lay a finger on her, and you're not just crossing Astartes. You're spitting on the Church." The lead Elf's smirk faltered, his pale face twitching.
"You dare threaten us?" he hissed, voice tight. Millicent didn't blink. "I don't threaten. I state facts. Touch her, and you'll answer to both; Guild and Church. Pick your poison."
The room held its breath. The Elves' arrogance cracked; Eldoria might flex, but Astartes and the Church combined? That was a battle they couldn't win.
The leader's jaw clenched, eyes darting, then he spat, "This isn't over," and turned on his heel. They stormed out, cloaks billowing, leaving a tense hush.
Lysa exhaled, fist unclenching, while Vanessa just snorted. "Pricks."
Millicent's gaze lingered on the door, a flicker of suspicion in her glow. Their tantrum wasn't just a show, she believed them that this wasn't over.
Another week ticked by, then two. Belief in Satoru's return dimmed to a ember; most wrote him off, another casualty of the Dark Continent.
Marcille clung to it, stone on her heart, burying herself in church's healing shifts to dodge the ache. Millicent held quiet faith, her stoic mask hiding it.
Lysa, surprisingly, did too, her knight's grit refusing to let go. Vanessa? She didn't waste brain space. 'He's back or he's not, whatever.'
Life churned on, repairs wrapping, the city healing its scars.
Second week of the next month, Marcille was in the church, hands glowing over a burned guard, her routine was a shield against her thoughts.
In Millicent's office, paperwork stacked high, the Guild Rep scribbled away, golden aura steady; until she perked up, senses flaring.
A presence blinked into existence, right in front of her desk. Satoru Gojo, white hair a mess, sunglasses skewed, staring with a dumbfounded twist to his face.
Millicent didn't flinch, pen pausing mid-stroke. "A way to show up," she said, dry as dust, "after a month and a half."
His face scrunched harder, a mix of shock and what-the-fuck. "Month and a half? I've been gone, like, a few hours!!!"
... To be continued!!!