A ding suddenly sounded in his ear, making Daemon look up from the burger he was eating.
It had been a week since he had woken up and found himself on Earth Bet under Annette's care. He then took the opportunity to refamiliarize himself with how the modern world worked, shaking off any of the metaphorical rust that had formed after the fourteen years he had spent in Westeros. Needless to say, he was loving it here and had no intentions of going back to Planetos any time soon.
A mosquito suddenly landed on his arm, and he absentmindedly smacked it away.
He'd also rolled the other two curses needed to buy the Full Restore Potion and regenerate his arm.
The results had him feeling… conflicted to say the least.
[Curse:Hand of the Wandering Fate]
[Choice has been taken from you, your transformations are no longer yours to decide, only gently guided by intent. You may peer into the memories of the forms you wear, but the deeper you delve, the more their thoughts, instincts, and mannerisms bleed into your own.]
And…
[Curse:Tides of Uncertain Return]
[After each transformation, fate binds you with a cooldown of unknowable length, shifting with the eddies of destiny. Yet chance is not cruel, every form you are given will always be useful to the situation you face, even if the reason is only clear in hindsight.]
So, yeah.
He was grateful that he had his right arm back, especially because he was not ambidextrous and did not know how to do most things with his left, but the newfound restrictions on his previously awesome and overpowered powers had him feeling complex emotions that he couldn't even begin to decipher.
He went down to take a bite and bit on thin air.
Snapping out of his thoughts, he looked down to see that he had finished the burger.
Letting out a sigh, he got up and gathered the wrapper, throwing it as he left the restaurant, which was just a random mom-and-pop restaurant and pointedly not Fugly Bob's. From what Annette had told him, teenage capes in Brockton Bay liked to act like Fugly Bob's was the only place to come eat.
The PRT had come to realize this a long time ago and had always had someone undercover there. Even if they couldn't unmask a cape because of the unwritten laws, apparently, it was okay to figure out the identities as long as it wasn't used against the cape in an obvious manner.
Guess they don't call them the unwritten rules for nothing, he snorted.
Continuing down and away from the Broadwalk, the biggest tourist attraction in the entire city - well, other than the decommissioned rig where the PRT was based, flicked his wrist and let the chat window bloom into view beside his vision.
The conversation had stalled on a single name.
[Skeletor: …I require advice.]
Daemon slowed his pace.
[Skeletor: Hypothetically]
He started, and Daemon felt a pit of dread pool in his stomach.
[Skeletor: What does one do if giving their power to a chosen successor will kill them?]
The typing indicators froze. Then -
[Fallen Angel: …Define "kill."]
[Skeletor: Total rejection. His body cannot endure it. There is no scenario where he can survive.]
Daemon's jaw tightened; he could almost sense the grief Toshinori must be feeling.
[Skeletor: He has already been chosen. Trained. Prepared.]
[Skeletor: And he wants it.]
Daemon stopped walking altogether. He stared at the street ahead of him, at the cars passing, people laughing, life moving on and about their day – and here he was, helping decide someone else's fate, in an entirely different world.
Someone – Izuku Midoriya – he knew would be that world's greatest hero in the future, but would also suffer more than most.
A boy of fourteen, and he was being debated about by six strangers, - well, five – like he was a piece on a chess board.
How very Westerosi of them.
So be it, Daemon's eyes hardened as he decided to give his two cents to the conversation.
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: Then you haven't chosen yet.]
The chat stilled.
[Skeletor: …Explain.]
Daemon exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder.
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: Choosing someone for power that will kill them isn't choosing an heir. That's choosing a corpse.]
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: If they die taking it, then the power failed them. And you failed them by handing it over anyway.]
One for All was a cruel mistress.
It gave great power to the ordinary, but the cost it demanded was much steeper.
A few seconds passed.
[Star of Ruin: Daemon's right.]
[Star of Ruin: Wanting power doesn't give anyone the right to die for it, especially when they don't understand the cost.]
And Annette knew more than most, from what he'd dug up on the older woman.
[Skeletor: He believes it is his responsibility. That with this power, he can save more lives.]
Daemon blinked, astounded at the sheer self-sacrifice in the sentence.
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: I believed my sword was everything I was.]
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: Losing it nearly broke me. But dying for it would've been worse.]
Daemon closed his eyes as he posted that.
There it was.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
[Skeletor: …You lost something important.]
The hero was trying to sympathize, but Daemon couldn't help but feel that it rang hollow.
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: I lost my arm.]
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: I'm still here.]
The chat went quiet again, but not for long.
Daemon resumed walking, slower now.
[Elijah Mikaelson (Admin): You are assuming the burden must be transferred immediately.]
[Elijah Mikaelson (Admin): It does not.]
Daemon slowed his steps, the bustle of Brockton Bay flowing around him as he passed a corner where the smell of saltwater and oil mixed in the air. He adjusted the strap of the hoodie Annette had insisted he wear - it'd help himblend in, she'd said - and tilted his head slightly.
[Skeletor: Time is not on my side.]
He could hear it in Toshinori's words now, not panic, not fear. Pressure. The kind that crept up on you quietly, pretending to be a responsibility.
[Elijah Mikaelson (Admin): Then buy more of it.]
[Elijah Mikaelson (Admin): Delay the transfer. Seek methods of alteration. Anchors. Adaptation.]
[Elijah Mikaelson (Admin): Or accept that your successor is not yet ready, no matter how worthy he may be.]
Daemon stepped off the curb, crossing the street as a bus roared past him. Anchors, Elijah had said. The word stuck. He wondered, not for the first time, how many centuries the man had spent learning how to keep impossible things from falling apart.
[Graceful Yandere: Worthiness does not include martyrdom.]
Daemon nodded faintly, more to himself than anyone else. His fingers brushed against the sleeve where his arm had once ended, it was perfectly alright now, still real, but the memory lingered.
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: If he dies inheriting it, he saves no one.]
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: If he lives without it, he can still choose who he wants to be.]
The words felt heavier than he'd expected when he sent them.
He stopped walking altogether, standing beneath a flickering streetlight even though it was still daylight.
Choice mattered. Gods, he knew that better than most.
The chat went quiet.
Too quiet.
[Skeletor: …He reminds me of myself.]
[Star of Ruin: Then protect him from becoming you.]
Daemon swallowed.
That one hit hard.
Not because it was cruel, but because it was true.
He resumed walking, slower now, the city blurring slightly as his thoughts turned inward.
How many people had he been told he was meant to become? How many paths had been decided for him before he ever took a step?
[Skeletor: He will be devastated.]
[Elijah Mikaelson (Admin): Pain fades.]
[Elijah Mikaelson (Admin): Death does not.]
Daemon walked a few more blocks before the tension in his shoulders finally eased. The city noise, honking cars, distant sirens, the murmur of people living ordinary lives – all things he'd once considered ordinary in an older life, were the things currently helping ground him. He flicked the chat back open just as the conversation began to move again.
[Skeletor: I… appreciate the honesty.]
[Skeletor: Even if it is difficult to hear.]
[Elijah Mikaelson (Admin): Difficult truths are still preferable to comforting lies.]
Daemon huffed quietly. That sounded exactly like Elijah. It had been a week since he'd met the Original Vampire, and he'd gotten a measure of the man. Calm, immovable, and utterly convinced that reality was better faced head-on, no matter how sharp its edges were.
[Graceful Yandere: You are doing the right thing by asking, Toshinori. That alone already makes you better than most mentors.]
Daemon's lips twitched.
He could think of more than a few knights and commanders who would've laughed at the idea of asking whether they were right.
Daemon smirked faintly at that.
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: Yeah. Plenty of teachers would've shrugged and called it destiny.]
He stepped around a puddle, watching his reflection ripple and distort as he passed. Destiny had always been a convenient excuse for people who didn't want to take responsibility.
His father and Aegon came to mind as the sort.
[Skeletor: …I will speak to him.]
[Skeletor: I will delay the transfer and search for another way.]
[Star of Ruin: Good.]
The single word hit harder than any speech.
Daemon felt something in his chest loosen at that, subtle, quiet, but real. Like a knot he hadn't realized he was carrying, finally easing.
A few seconds passed, and the conversation slowly died out.
Daemon slipped into a nearby 7-Eleven and started perusing the aisles. Grabbing a bag of nachos and a jar of Salsa, he made his way over to the counter.
"Hey, Jamie," He greeted, dropping the two things onto the counter.
"Daemon," the girl manning the counter said, flashing him a smile. She quickly scanned the two things and put them in a plastic bag. "No Annette, this time?"
In the past week, Annette had somehow arranged a legal identity for him through some broker, a man called the Number Man. To the law agencies, he was Daemon Targaryen – a survivor of the recent Slaughterhouse Nine attack who had lost several memories because of the trauma. And being a professor, Annette had taken him under her wing, tutoring him till he could join the rest of his age group in school.
"Nope," Daemon started, bagging the Nachos and Salsa in his shoulder bag, "She had something to do at Arcadia University today."
"Cool, you need anything else?"
"Nope."
"See you next time then!" She said with a cheery smile as Daemon left the store.
Walking down the path leading to his home, Daemon opened the chat group just as the conversation was picking up again.
[Skeletor: On a completely unrelated note.]
[Skeletor: Is it normal for interdimensional communication systems to contain a Gacha Coin?]
Daemon barked out a short laugh before he could stop himself, earning a strange look from a passerby.
Every member of this group was given a single Gacha coin when they'd first logged in, and it was this very coin that granted Daemon his Metamorphosis ability. And it didn't seem like he'd ever get the chance to roll another one, seeing as even if someone rolled all the curses, they would still be a 100 gold short to buy the coin from the shop.
And there didn't look like any way to earn more Gold.
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: This is the only Group Chat I have been in, but everything points to the answer being Yes.]
[Graceful Yandere: I was wondering when someone would mention that.]
[Fallen Angel: Don't.]
[Fallen Angel: Do NOT encourage him.]
Daemon grinned, stuffing his free hand into his pocket as he walked.
Seems like someone didn't have a good experience with the Gacha.
[Skeletor: Encourage me to do what?]
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: Gamble with fate.]
There was a very long pause.
[Skeletor: …]
Daemon could feel the internal struggle through the screen.
[Elijah Mikaelson (Admin): For the record, I strongly advise moderation.]
[Star of Ruin: He says that like he didn't personally unlock the shop.]
[Elijah Mikaelson (Admin): Administrative responsibility does not imply personal recklessness.]
[Graceful Yandere: That is exactly what it implies.]
Daemon snorted, weaving past a couple loudly arguing about parking spaces. The lady shot him a fierce glare, but he just ignored it and continued on.
[Skeletor: Hypothetically.]
[Fallen Angel: He's already doing it.]
Daemon winced in sympathy, remembering how it felt to get the power and the first time he'd transformed.
[Skeletor: Hypothetically, if one were to use the Gacha Coin, what sort of outcomes could one expect?]
Daemon didn't even hesitate.
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: Pain.]
[Fallen Angel: Trauma.]
[Graceful Yandere: Character development.]
[Elijah Mikaelson (Admin): Unpredictability.]
Said the four people in the chat group who had rolled their Gacha coins for powers.
A beat passed.
Then -
[Skeletor: …I see.]
Daemon smiled ruefully.
That tone, acceptance laced with dread, was universal apparently.
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: Look, if it helps,]
He slowed to a stop near the edge of the sidewalk, staring out into nothing in particular. His fingers hovered over the screen for half a second before he finished typing.
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: I rolled three curse tokens to get my arm back.]
The chat went dead silent.
Daemon exhaled slowly.
[Skeletor: …Was it worth it?]
Daemon looked down at his right hand.
Flexed his fingers.
Watched them move smoothly, effortlessly.
No phantom pain.
No absence.
It was whole.
Real.
His.
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: Ask me again in a year.]
[Graceful Yandere: That is not comforting.]
[Bastard of Ice and Fire: It's honest.]
As he kept walking, his attention trained on the holographic screen of the group chat only he could see, when he walked straight into someone.
The impact was small, but sudden.
"Ow!"
Daemon jolted back instinctively. Looking down, he saw a girl sprawled on the pavement, sitting hard where she'd fallen. She looked young, maybe ten or eleven. Straight brown hair spilled past her shoulders, slightly tangled, and her dark eyes were wide with shock as she rubbed at her lower back.
"That hurt," she muttered, wincing.
"I'm so sorry, are you okay?" Daemon asked immediately, crouching down.
She looked up at him.
The moment her eyes met his face, everything changed.
Her expression snapped from irritation to something raw and frantic. Her pupils dilated, breath hitching sharply.
"It's you," she whispered. Then her voice got louder, and she shouted with panic and urgency in her voice, looking utterly frantic, "It's you! You have to help me!"
"Hey, hey, hey, slow down," Daemon said, planting his feet and gently but firmly stopping her. "Easy. You're at, like, a nine right now. I need you closer to a two."
She froze, staring up at him, chest heaving.
Daemon lowered himself to one knee so he was closer to her eye level. His voice softened without losing authority.
"Okay. Breathe. In. Out. Good. Now, what's going on? Who's after you?"
Her hands trembled as she clenched them into her sleeves.
"I, I don't know exactly," she rushed out. "But they have guns and cars and tinkertech. They can find me. Everywhere I hide, it doesn't matter!" Her words began to tumble over each other. "And if the snake man gets me it's dark and pain and candy and—"
Her breathing turned sharp and even, like she was having a panic attack.
She was hyperventilating.
Daemon didn't hesitate.
He pulled her into a careful hug, one arm around her shoulders, the other resting reassuringly between her shoulder blades. He kept his grip loose, protective but not restraining, and gently patted her back in a slow, steady rhythm.
"Hey," he murmured. "You're okay. You're safe right now. I've got you."
It took a minute. Then another.
Gradually, her breathing evened out.
When she finally pulled back, her eyes were still glassy, but clearer.
"Better?" Daemon asked.
She nodded, sniffing. "A little."
"Good," he said. "Now, lets try again. Start from the top."
She opened her mouth to speak when Daemon heard it.
The sounds of muffled shouts and tires screeching.
A black sedan skidded sideways into the street barely thirty feet away, blocking off the road. Its doors flew open in unison, and men started pouring out. They wore black, military-style gear, too coordinated to be random thugs. Rifles came up instantly, muzzles tracking.
Daemon's eyes narrowed.
Mercenaries, he realized.
"Contact!" someone shouted.
Before Daemon could even fully register the ambush, red dots began to bloom across his chest.
One. Two. Three. the number just kept increasing
Snipers.
"Hand over the girl!" the lead mercenary barked, levelling his weapon directly at Daemon's forehead. "Do it now, and you might walk away alive."
Daemon didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he glanced down at the girl clinging to his side.
The girl was staring at him with tears threatening to spill over, fear and hope tangled painfully together.
Something inside him hardened.
He straightened slowly, positioning himself just slightly in front of her.
"I'm not giving her to you," he said calmly, before letting out an exhale.
He hadn't used this ability since the day he got it. He remembered the pain. Remembered the tearing, the rewriting.
Still, there was no hesitation.
Daemon reached inside himself, braced himself for the pain, and pulled.
Metamorphosis answered.
Light exploded around him, a silvery-white glow that swallowed his silhouette.
One of the mercenaries stiffened. "Cape!"
"Fire!" another screamed.
Gunfire erupted.
A storm of bullets tore through the air -
- and slammed into a wall of ice that burst upward from the ground in an instant, jagged and unyielding. Rounds shattered, ricocheted, or embedded uselessly in frozen crystal.
When the glow faded, the boy was gone.
In his place stood a woman.
Her hair was a pale silver-gray, parted neatly and braided into two thick plaits that fell over her shoulders, each secured with small blue ribbons. A white frilled maid's headdress adorned the top of her head, fitting perfectly like it belonged there.
She was impossibly beautiful, her face smooth and so refined it was simply unnatural. Her lips were red, and sat beneath long lashes that framed cool, metallic silver eyes. She wore a classic black-and-white French maid uniform, bespoke and tailored perfectly to her form. The bodice was tight, the white fabric strained slightly at the chest, edged with delicate frills, while a black ribbon was tied neatly at her collar. White cuffs circled her wrists, immaculate.
A pair of dark tights covered her thighs, ending in a pair of polished heels.
Even standing still, she radiated control.
Power.
Daemon's mind supplied the name without effort, like it always been there.
Grayfia Lucifuge.
Behind her, the mercenaries hesitated.
And that hesitation was going to cost them.
Grayfia did not raise her voice.
She didn't need to.
The temperature dropped so abruptly that breath turned to mist mid-inhale. Frost raced across the pavement in branching veins, climbing lamp posts, swallowing parked cars in crackling white.
The mercenaries barely had time to register what was happening before their fingers stiffened around their triggers.
She raised a gloved hand, and the air answered.
A wave of absolute cold exploded outwards. Ice bloomed from nothing, spreading faster and faster to the furthest reaches of vision. Rifles froze solid, mechanisms locked in place with sharp metallic shrieks. Boots skidded as the ground glazed over, several men crashing hard before they could even try to retreat.
"Sn-!"
The shout died as ice climbed the speaker's throat, sealing his mouth mid-word.
Sniper fire never came.
Entire blocks froze within moments. The snipers hiding on the rooftops shivered. One of them peeked through his scope to look at Grayfia, utterly in awe at her perfection.
Grayfia's cold silver eyes, which had been suddenly mercilessly staring at the mercenaries freezing to death in front of her, snapped up to meet the snipers.
The sniper's scope suddenly fogged over, before shattering from the intense cold as the temperature quickly dropped below survivable limits. He didn't get a chance to do anything, before he was also flash frozen into a delicate ice sculpture. It wasn't only him; other hidden snipers were also flash-frozen by the wave of Absolute cold directed by her.
Grayfia stepped forward once.
The block died.
Buildings were covered in layers and layers of frost and ice from the foundation to the rooftop, the windows having fogged up and shattered long ago. Cars were locked in place, half-buried in ice like relics. Streetlights dimmed, then shattered, their glass tinkling softly as it froze mid-fall.
The mercenaries never screamed.
They stood exactly where they were, preserved in ice - expressions of shock, fear, and defiance forever unfinished.
Silence fell.
Grayfia exhaled slowly. The cold of her power stabilized, held in perfect balance. Not spreading any longer, but also not melting. A single thought hardened the ice into an unbreakable support, stopping the buildings from collapsing under the weight of the ice.
Only then did she turn.
Dinah stood behind her, frozen in place for an entirely different reason, eyes wide and unblinking as she took in the devastation.
Grayfia knelt smoothly, bringing herself down to the girl's level. The killing cold did not touch Dinah; a thin veil of warmth surrounded her, unnoticed until now.
"It's over," Grayfia said gently. The Daemon inside her noticed that even the tone of her voice sounded different; effortlessly seductive with a hint of casual power would be the word for it. He supposed.
The girl swallowed. "…The numbers just changed."
Grayfia didn't say anything. She just rose back up and extended a hand. "Come. This is not a place for you."
Dinah hesitated only for a second before taking it.
With her free hand, Grayfia traced a sigil in the air.
Crimson light flared as a magic circle bloomed beneath their feet. Glyphs rotated in layered rings with the symbol of Gremory displayed prominently in the center.
The world folded, and they suddenly disappeared – leaving the streets empty of life.