One week later, the Great Tree's celebration halls had never seen such a mixture of joy and exhaustion. Elves who'd lived centuries partied like tomorrow might not come—because they'd learned it almost hadn't.
Ren sat in a corner, nursing something Elanil swore was medicinal but tasted like liquid regret. His body still ached from the neural interface, phantom pains of connecting to cosmic machinery. But he was alive, surrounded by friends, and only moderately overwhelmed by his new celebrity status as "the human who saved reality."
"Hiding already?" Mayfell appeared at his elbow, looking amused. Despite the celebration, she wore formal robes that made her seem even younger—like a child playing dress-up in royal clothing.
"Not hiding. Strategically recuperating."
"Is that what you call it?" She settled beside him, feet dangling off the bench. "I noticed Elanil isn't strategically recuperating with you."
"She's on duty. Someone has to watch the crowd for threats."
"Ah yes. Threats. At a celebration in the heart of our most protected city." Mayfell's ancient eyes sparkled with mischief. "Nothing to do with her being too nervous to talk to you after that rather dramatic kiss."
Ren's face burned. "That was—we were—the world was ending!"
"The world is always ending, just usually more slowly." She patted his arm with grandmotherly affection despite looking like she should be asking for juice boxes. "Take it from someone who's lived long enough to know—feelings don't wait for convenient timing."
Before he could respond, Varos approached with his usual military bearing slightly softened by whatever was in his cup. "Ren. The council wants a full report on what you experienced in the Neither realm."
"Can it wait until tomorrow? Or next week? Next century sounds good."
"The council doesn't—" Varos paused, then actually smiled. "Yes. It can wait. You've earned that much."
Small miracles. Maybe saving reality came with perks.
The celebration continued around them. Seylas and Lysara had started some kind of drinking contest with the younger guards. Keiran sat quietly with a group of scholars, discussing the implications of Protocol Eight. Even Tyrael was there, subdued but present, slowly earning back trust through actions rather than words.
"You changed things," Mayfell observed. "Not just the barriers. The people."
"I just yelled at them until they listened."
"Sometimes that's all leadership is." She stood, smoothing her robes. "Now, I believe I'll go embarrass Elanil into actually talking to you. Consider it royal intervention."
"Mayfell, no—"
But she was already gliding away with purposeful steps. Ren watched in horror as she cornered Elanil, whose professional composure cracked as the princess whispered something that made the warrior's face match her crimson eyes.
"Rating: 0/10 for wingman subtlety," he muttered.
Minutes later, Elanil approached with the expression of someone walking to their execution. She'd changed from armor to formal wear—a deep blue dress that made her look softer but no less dangerous.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," he replied.
Silence stretched between them, filled with everything they hadn't said.
"So," they both started, then stopped. Laughed nervously.
"You first," Ren offered.
"I wanted to apologize. For kissing you. It was—the timing was—"
"Perfect," he interrupted. "The timing was perfect. Because if you hadn't, I might not have fought so hard to come back."
Her eyes widened. "You mean...?"
"I saw perfect worlds in there. Realities where everything went right, where I had everything I thought I wanted." He took her hand, surprised when she didn't pull away. "But none of them had you. So they weren't perfect at all."
"Ren..."
"I know we're different species, different worlds, different everything. I know it's complicated and probably doomed and definitely going to cause political problems. But—"
She kissed him again. Gentler this time, without the desperation of ending worlds. When they parted, she was smiling.
"You talk too much."
"Coping mechanism. I have several."
"I've noticed." She sat beside him, close enough their shoulders touched. "This won't be easy. I'm difficult, you're impossible, and we'll probably argue constantly."
"Sounds perfect."
"You have a strange definition of perfect."
"I've been reevaluating it recently."
They sat together, watching the celebration continue. For a moment, just a moment, everything felt right. The barriers held, friends laughed, and maybe—just maybe—they'd earned this peace.
Then the doors burst open.
A messenger stumbled in, travel-worn and gasping. The celebration stuttered to a halt as she found Mayfell.
"Princess," she panted. "News from the demon borders. Strange incidents. Creatures that shouldn't exist. And..." She paused, catching her breath. "Reports of someone calling themselves the Herald of the Neither Lord. They say they're looking for the last pure human."
The hall fell silent. Ren felt Elanil's hand tighten on his.
"Well," he said into the quiet. "That didn't last long."
"Did you expect it to?" Mayfell asked, already shifting into planning mode.
"I had hopes. Brief, naive hopes." He stood, helping Elanil up. "So. Demon borders. Herald of cosmic horror. Another Tuesday in paradise."
"We'll need to investigate," Varos said, military mind already working. "Gather intelligence, plan countermeasures—"
"Tomorrow," Ren interrupted. "Tonight, we're celebrating not dying. Tomorrow, we can worry about dying again."
"That's... surprisingly wise," Tyrael admitted.
"I have moments. Brief, shocking moments."
The tension eased slightly. The messenger was led away to rest and provide full details. The celebration resumed, though subdued. But beneath the music and laughter, everyone knew—this was just an intermission.
As the messenger was led away, a figure approached from the crowd—Elder Resaine, one of the few council members who'd supported Ren from the beginning. But tonight, her expression held worry.
"Lord Kisaragi," she began, and Ren nearly choked on his drink.
"Lord? Since when am I—"
"Since you saved reality. The council voted while you recovered. You're now officially Lord Protector of the Dimensional Anchors, with all the rights and responsibilities that entails."
"I didn't agree to—"
"You agreed when you merged with the system." Her smile was sympathetic but firm. "You're politically significant now, whether you like it or not. Which means you need protection, education, and..." she glanced at Elanil, "official sanction for any romantic entanglements."
"Official sanction?" Elanil's voice could have frozen flame.
"Inter-species relationships at your level require documentation. For inheritance purposes, succession rights, magical compatibility assessments—"
"We've been together for less than a week!" Ren protested.
"And yet you've already shared consciousness through an ancient magical system. By our laws, that's more binding than most marriages." Resaine produced a scroll that looked offensively official. "Congratulations. You're bureaucratically entangled."
Ren stared at the scroll. "Rating: negative infinity out of ten for romantic spontaneity."
"Are you afraid?" Elanil asked quietly, after Resaine had left them to process the paperwork.
"Terrified," Ren admitted. "But also... ready? If that makes sense. We stopped one apocalypse. What's another between friends?"
"Friends," she repeated, amused. "Is that what we are?"
"Among other things."
"What other things?"
"Still figuring that out. But I'm hoping for a long list."
She smiled, leaning against him. "Then we'd better survive whatever comes next."
"Deal."
Later, as the celebration wound down and dawn approached, Ren found himself on a balcony overlooking the city. The sky bore scars from its breaking—lines of purple that would never fully fade. But it held. They'd made it hold.
Suddenly, Ren gasped, doubling over as pain lanced through his skull. Not physical pain—something deeper. Through the neural pathways carved by Protocol Eight, he felt it: one of the anchors, far to the south, trembling.
"Ren!" Elanil caught him as he swayed. "What's wrong?"
"The anchors," he managed through gritted teeth. "I can feel them. All of them. Like phantom limbs I never knew I had."
Images flooded his mind—a remote outpost where elven technicians worked to stabilize a minor node. He saw through their eyes for a moment, felt their dedication and fear. The connection snapped back like a rubber band, leaving him dizzy.
"Is this permanent?" Elanil asked, helping him steady himself.
"Looks like it." He touched his temple, where a faint purple vein pulsed beneath the skin. "Grandma's last gift. I'm networked into the entire system."
"That's... going to complicate things."
"My life is already complicated. What's one more impossible thing?"
So this is my life now, he thought. Cosmic responsibility, dimensional maintenance, and apparently a complicated relationship with a warrior elf. Grandma, I hope you're proud. Or at least amused.
Elanil rejoined him, bringing two cups of something that steamed in the cool air. "Thinking deep thoughts?"
"Trying to. Mostly wondering how I went from failing university to being responsible for reality's stability."
"Life has a strange sense of humor."
"Tell me about it." He accepted the cup, warmth spreading through tired muscles. "Thank you. For believing in me. For being there."
"Thank you for coming back."
They stood together, watching the city wake. Somewhere out there, new threats gathered. The demon borders stirred. The Neither Lord watched. And a herald sought the last pure human for purposes unknown.
But that was tomorrow's problem. Today, they had this moment. This peace, however temporary.
"You know," Ren said, "in all the stories, saving the world is supposed to be the end. Credits roll, everyone lives happily ever after."
"Stories lie," Elanil replied. "Real life keeps going. New problems, new threats, new reasons to fight."
"Cheerful."
"Realistic." She turned to face him. "But also new moments like this. New chances to get things right. New—"
"New excuses for Mayfell to meddle in our personal lives?"
"That too."
They laughed, the sound carrying over the waking city. Below, life continued. Merchants set up stalls, guards changed shifts, and children played in streets that had nearly ceased to exist. Normal, beautiful, fragile life.
"I should probably learn to actually fight," Ren mused. "Can't keep surviving on luck and stubbornness."
"I'll teach you. Properly this time. No more flailing around hoping for the best."
"But flailing is my signature move."
"Then we'll make it an effective flail." She paused. "The council will want to formalize your position. You can't just be 'that human who helped.' You'll need a title, responsibilities—"
"Can my title be 'Professional Disaster Prevention Specialist'?"
"Be serious."
"I am! It's accurate. Disasters happen, I try to prevent them. Usually by causing smaller disasters, but still."
She shook her head, but smiled. "You're impossible."
"You mentioned that. Still here though."
"Still here," she agreed.
The two sun rose fully, painting the city in gold and shadows. The purple scars in the sky caught the light strangely, creating new colors that didn't have names yet. Beautiful in its imperfection.
"Rating," Ren said quietly. "10/10 for saving reality, 0/10 for getting a break, infinity out of 10 for having her by my side for whatever comes next."
Elanil raised an eyebrow. "Did you just rate our relationship?"
"...No?"
"You did. You literally rated us."
"It's a coping mechanism! I rate everything! It helps process—"
She kissed him quiet. "Rate that," she said when they parted.
"I... uh... numbers don't go that high?"
"Better."
Footsteps interrupted whatever might have come next. Mayfell appeared, looking far too awake for someone who'd been celebrating all night.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," she said in a tone that suggested she knew exactly what she was interrupting and found it amusing.
"Your timing is impeccable as always," Elanil muttered.
"Royal privilege. But I do have news." Her expression grew serious. "The messenger brought more than warnings. The demon faction isn't just stirring—they're actively recruiting. Promising power to those who feel the barriers shouldn't have been saved."
"There are people who wanted reality to end?" Ren asked, incredulous.
"People who believe ending was transformation. Who think the Neither Lord offers evolution rather than extinction." She looked tired suddenly, all her centuries showing. "And they're not entirely wrong. The Neither Lord does offer change. Just not the kind that leaves anything recognizable behind."
"So we have a cult. Great. Cosmic horror cult. Because regular cults weren't bad enough."
"It's worse than that," Mayfell continued. "The Herald they spoke of? Scouts report they're gathering beastkin tribes, offering them power in exchange for service. The balance we've maintained for centuries is crumbling."
"How long do we have?" Elanil asked, already shifting into warrior mode.
"Weeks. Maybe less. The barriers hold, but pressure builds at the borders. And..." She hesitated. "There are reports of people changing. Accepting gifts from beyond the barriers. Becoming something between mortal and Neither."
"Hybrids," Ren said, remembering the corrupted humans in the facility. "Like Dr. Yamazaki but voluntary."
"And unstable. The transformations aren't holding properly without the infrastructure the ancients built. They're becoming weapons—powerful but burning out quickly."
"Suicide soldiers," Elanil concluded grimly. "Desperate enough to sacrifice their humanity for a chance at their enemies."
"Or desperate enough to believe the Herald's promises." Mayfell looked at Ren. "They'll come for you eventually. The last pure human is either a symbol to destroy or a resource to claim."
"I'm really getting tired of being cosmically significant."
"Too bad. The universe doesn't care about your preferences." But Mayfell smiled slightly. "Though you do handle it better than most would."
"Practice. Lots of practice being disappointed by circumstances beyond my control."
They stood in silence for a moment, processing the weight of new threats. The celebration below continued, unaware that its heroes were already planning for the next crisis.
"We'll need allies," Elanil said finally. "The guard alone won't be enough if the beastkin unite with the demon faction."
"I have thoughts on that," Mayfell admitted. "Unconventional thoughts. But desperate times..."
"How unconventional?" Ren asked warily.
"There are others who remember the old world. Beings who've survived since before the barriers, hiding in deep places. They're not friendly, but they're not aligned with the Neither Lord either."
"Enemy of my enemy?"
"More like 'ancient horror that dislikes other ancient horrors.'" She shrugged elegantly. "Options are limited."
"My life has become a series of increasingly terrible choices," Ren muttered. "Fine. Ancient horrors as allies. Why not? What else?"
"We need to understand what you experienced," Mayfell continued. "The Neither Lord spoke to you. That's... unprecedented. It's never shown interest in individuals before."
"Lucky me."
"Perhaps. Or perhaps it sees something in you that we don't yet understand." She studied him with those too-old eyes. "You rejected its perfect world. That may have consequences we can't predict."
"Everything I do has consequences we can't predict. It's basically my superpower."
"Then we'd best prepare for anything." Mayfell straightened, princess mask sliding back into place. "Rest today. Tomorrow, the real work begins. The barriers bought us time, not victory."
"There's something else," Mayfell said, her voice dropping. "Something I didn't want to discuss in front of the council. When you connected to Protocol Eight, you didn't just activate it. You... changed it."
"Changed how?"
"The anchors are evolving. Adapting. They're starting to develop their own consciousness, influenced by yours." She pulled out a crystal that showed energy readings. "Some of the technicians are reporting that the anchors are... helpful. Suggesting improvements. Warning of dangers before sensors detect them."
"I gave the dimensional anchors anxiety," Ren said flatly. "Of course I did."
"Not anxiety. Awareness. They're becoming more than machines—they're becoming partners in maintaining reality." She paused. "But consciousness means choice. And some of them are making choices we didn't expect."
"Such as?"
"One anchor in the eastern provinces has started rejecting certain technicians. Says they 'feel wrong.' Another is demanding specific offerings—music, stories, companionship. They're developing personalities."
"My personality, you mean."
"Fragments of it, yes. Your humor, your stubbornness, your..." she smiled slightly, "your tendency to rate everything."
"The dimensional anchors are rating their technicians?"
"Constantly. The reviews are quite detailed."
Elanil covered her face with her hands. "We're doomed."
She left them alone again, footsteps fading into the celebration's noise.
"So," Ren said after a moment. "Demon cults, beastkin armies, ancient horrors, and cosmic attention. Our first week together is going well."
"Together?" Elanil questioned, but her tone was teasing.
"Unless you're planning to run? Can't blame you. I come with a lot of baggage. Specifically, reality-ending baggage."
"I don't run." She took his hand, interlacing their fingers. "Besides, someone needs to keep you from making terrible jokes during apocalyptic situations."
"They're not terrible. They're a sophisticated coping mechanism."
"They're terrible."
"But you smile at them anyway."
"...Occasionally. When they're not completely awful."
They stood together as the city fully woke, preparing for what came next. The barriers held for now, but pressure built. The Neither Lord watched. Enemies gathered. And somewhere, a Herald prepared to bring change whether the world wanted it or not.
But also: friends celebrated survival. Love grew despite impossible odds. Hope persisted in the face of cosmic indifference.
"Hey," Ren said suddenly. "We never did get that calm moment to talk about feelings."
"We're talking now."
"While discussing apocalyptic threats. Not exactly romantic."
"Would you prefer rose petals and candlelight?"
"...Do those exist here?"
"Roses, yes. Candles, sort of. Romance?" She smiled. "We'll have to make our own version."
"Apocalypse-adjacent romance. I like it. Very us."
"'Us,'" she repeated. "I like the sound of that."
"Me too."
The sun climbed higher, burning away the dawn's softness. Soon, duty would call. Plans would need making. Allies would need finding. The world would need saving.
Again.
But for now, for this moment, they had each other. And maybe that was enough.
Later that night, after the celebration had ended and most had gone to bed, Ren found himself drawn to the Great Tree's heart. The ancient wood hummed with life, but now he could feel more—the dimensional anchor woven into its roots, one of the twelve primary nodes.
He pressed his hand against the bark and immediately felt it: a presence, vast and patient and tinged with... amusement?
Well, well, a voice that wasn't quite a voice whispered in his mind. The little human who thinks he saved us all.
"The anchor?" Ren said aloud, too surprised to be afraid.
Part of it. Part of you, too, now. We're all connected, little savior. Every anchor, every node, every fragmented piece of your consciousness scattered across dimensions. The presence laughed, and it sounded disturbingly like his own laugh. Did you think merging with an interdimensional network wouldn't have consequences?
"I was kind of focused on not letting reality collapse."
Fair. But now you're stuck with us. Thousands of fragments of yourself, each developing independently, each protecting a piece of reality. Some of us like our technicians. Some of us are... less charitable.
"Please tell me you're one of the nice ones."
I haven't eaten anyone yet.
"Yet?"
Joke. Probably. I inherited your sense of humor, remember?
"That's not reassuring."
The presence shifted, becoming more serious. The Herald comes, little savior. I can feel it through the network—a wrongness approaching. It speaks with the Void's voice but wears mortal flesh. It knows your name.
"Everything knows my name lately."
Not your name. Your true name. The one written in the space between heartbeats, carved into reality's source code by your grandmother's modification. The anchor's presence pressed closer, almost protective. Be careful. Some names, once spoken, cannot be taken back.
The connection faded, leaving Ren shaking. He turned to find Mayfell watching from the shadows, her expression unreadable.
"You heard?"
"I felt." She approached slowly. "The anchors shouldn't be that aware yet. That level of consciousness should take decades to develop."
"Everything about me is accelerated disappointment."
"Or accelerated evolution." She studied him with those ancient eyes. "You're becoming something new, Ren Kisaragi. Something unprecedented. Human enough to resist the Neither, modified enough to interface with cosmic machinery, connected enough to feel reality's pulse."
"I just wanted cup noodles," he said plaintively.
"And instead, you got godhood-adjacent responsibilities. Life is cruel that way." She smiled sadly. "Your grandmother would be proud. And terrified."
"Why terrified?"
"Because she created you to survive, not to become. But survival has its own evolution, and you're evolving faster than anyone predicted." She touched his forehead gently, where the purple veins pulsed. "The question is: into what?"
Before he could answer, the ground trembled. Not an earthquake—something else. Through his connection to the anchors, Ren felt it: a disturbance at the demon border. Something had crossed over. Something that made the anchors recoil.
"The Herald?" he gasped.
"A herald," Mayfell corrected. "The first of many. They're testing our defenses, seeing how the barriers respond." Her expression hardened. "It begins."
Rating, Ren thought, looking at their joined hands, at her profile in morning light, at the scarred but healing sky. 10/10 for finding something worth fighting for. 10/10 for not facing it alone. And infinity out of 10 for whatever comes next.
Because whatever came next—Herald or horror, cult or chaos—they'd face it together.
The world had been saved.
Now came the harder part: keeping it that way.
Miles away, at the demon border where reality grew thin, a figure stood watching the elven city through eyes that held too many pupils. The Herald smiled with a mouth that opened wrong, revealing truth between its teeth.
"Found you, little anomaly," it whispered in a voice like grinding glass. "The last pure human who thinks he's won."
Behind it, shapes moved in the darkness—not quite demon, not quite human, not quite anything that should exist. Each one bore the gifts of the Neither, transformations that ate at their essence even as they granted power.
The Herald pulled out a crystal that pulsed with sick light—a fragment of the Neither Lord's attention made manifest. Through it, words formed:
⌜THE GAME BEGINS. BRING ME THE TAMPERED ONE. SHOW HIM WHAT HIS CHOICE HAS COST.⌟
"As you command," the Herald replied, its form shifting, becoming more human like with each breath. By the time it turned to face its followers, it looked almost normal. Almost.
"Spread the word," it commanded. "The savior has been found. And every choice has consequences he hasn't begun to imagine."
The darkness swallowed them, but their purpose remained, spreading like poison through the borderlands. The last pure human had saved reality.
Now reality would return the favor—by testing him until he broke or became something greater.
The real game was just beginning.
END OF VOLUME ONE
[To be continued in Volume Two: The Herald's Shadow]