Ding.
The bell above the café door chimed one last time that evening as Zero stepped back into LeBlanc, the air outside cool against his back.
He closed the door gently behind him, carrying the lightest bruise of exhaustion on his shoulders. Some neighbors had slammed doors. Some had muttered curses. One particularly athletic old man had thrown a cabbage with shocking precision. Thankfully, Zero had dodged it. Barely.
"All things considered," he muttered, "not a bad haul."
Despite everything, he'd managed to deliver every pack of cookies. Some people even said thanks—albeit quietly, like it might be a crime.
The streets outside had calmed. The sun was gone. Aetherion's version of night had settled fast, without the flickering nightlife or honking cars he remembered from his past life in LA. Here, most stores were shuttered by sunset. Lamps glowed with runes instead of bulbs. The streets looked like a frozen painting—quiet, poised, ancient.
Zero looked out through the café window, watching the last of the foot traffic drift away. "Night life's kind of extinct here, huh."
He shrugged, flipped the café sign to CLOSED, and locked the front door with a soft click. The runes on the glass dimmed to a low glow. Lights off. Back upstairs.
The loft welcomed him like a warm breath, still smelling faintly of coffee and baked sugar. He made another cup—because of course he did—and sat alone at the wide dining table. The steam curled upward from the mug, curling like a question in the dark.
Zero reached into his pocket. From it, he pulled out the card. Sōma Yukihira.
The art looked like a tarot card: ornate border, glowing inlaid lettering, and a stylized illustration of the smirking anime chef with messy red hair and apron.
Zero turned it slowly in his hands. "An anime chef," he muttered. "Guess it's time to experiment."
He placed the card face-up on the table, then pushed his chair back and sat on the floor, legs crossed. Eyes closed. Breath even.
He didn't know what he was doing. Not exactly. But through the day, he'd felt something—a tingling under the skin. He was faster. Stronger. His sight had sharper edges. The world felt more… elastic. And then there was the other thing. The deeper thing.
The strange prickle in his blood. Like a pressure behind his bones. A hum, faint and low, but always there. He focused. The sensation bloomed, warm and unsettling in his palm. Without fully thinking, he whispered. "...Fuck it."
He grabbed the kitchen knife from the side table. Pressed it gently to the palm of his hand. And cut. A shallow slice. Not deep—but enough. The pain was sharp and clean. Blood welled instantly and dripped to the wooden floor. As the first drop struck, something snapped in the air. A hiss of sound, like breath drawn through a flute.
A magic circle flared into existence beneath him, drawn in light and arcane symbols. It formed around the blood, which continued to fall—not downward, but upward and sideways and inward, flowing against gravity, spiraling in midair like water dancing. The blood pooled—suspended—and from it, a shape began to rise.
Zero clutched his hand, startled, but the pain was already gone. He looked down. The cut had healed. Perfectly. No mark. No scar. Not even a drop of blood left.
"Archdemon body," he whispered. "Awesome." The blood-formed shape continued to build. Flesh. Hair. Eyes. Muscle. Clothes absent, but detail perfect.
And when it was done, a second Zero stood barefoot in the loft's center, blinking like he'd just woken up from the same dream.
Then—"Hey!" the clone shouted, voice identical but a touch higher-pitched. "Give me some clothes, man!"
Zero blinked. "My hand was bleeding! You get your own damn clothes!"
"Oh—right. Okay, that's fair."
The clone turned and walked briskly into the bedroom. Zero remained seated, staring at the space the circle had been. The floor was clean now—no residue, no glow, just wood.
From the bedroom came rustling, the sound of hangers clacking. Then footsteps. The clone returned, dressed in matching casual clothes. He looked exactly like Zero. From the boots to the hair-tie. Except… the eyes.
The clone's eyes were just a touch more animated. Lighter. Like he was seeing the world for the first time and couldn't wait to ruin it gently.
The clone crossed his arms, mirroring the real Zero. "So," he said, cocking an eyebrow, "what now, boss?"
Zero crossed his arms, eyeing the clone. "So… you can talk."
The clone smirked. "Can I?"
Zero raised a brow. "Same sarcasm too. Great."
The clone threw his hands up. "I mean, I'm literally you."
Zero narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah? Then if you're really me, you should know what I'm about to say next."
The two of them locked eyes—Then, at the exact same moment, both raised their arms and shouted. "It's EXPERIMENT TIME!"
They broke into identical high-pitched giggles.
"Ehehehehehe!"
"Ehehehehehe!"
Zero leaned on the table, laughing. "Oh god. We're annoying."
The clone grinned. "Yeah, and now the universe gets double the dosage."
Zero stepped forward and squinted, reaching out to pinch the clone's arm. "Okay, serious question—how independent are you?"
"OW!" the clone shouted, flinching. "That hurt!"
Zero recoiled, blinking. "You feel pain?"
Without missing a beat, the clone reached forward and pinched Zero right back.
Zero yelped. "Ow!"
The clone nodded, satisfied. "That's how independent I am."
Zero rubbed his arm, expression flickering from amusement to intrigue. "That's… fascinating. It's like I can create life."
He paused, raised both arms dramatically, and began laughing in a rising crescendo. "Ehehehehe… EHEHEHEHE… AHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The clone raised a finger. "Okay, stop. You sound like a third-rate Saturday morning cartoon villain."
Zero coughed, cleared his throat, and stood up straighter. "Right. Sorry. Got carried away."
"Let's… stick to the testing."
They stood across from each other. Zero lifted his left hand. The clone lifted his right. Then they mirrored again. Then they swapped. Then they tried to dance at the same time. The clone fumbled the spin.
"Okay, so you're not automated," Zero muttered. "You're not a puppet. You've got your own motor control."
"Thank god," the clone said. "I'd hate to be bad at dancing just because you are."
Zero sat and read the front of a book he found. The clone cooked eggs in the kitchen while humming a different song entirely. Both stayed aware of what they were doing.
"So," the clone said, cracking an egg one-handed, "we can multitask without lag."
Zero nodded. "That's terrifying."
"Terrifyingly useful."
"Alright," Zero said. "Say something I wouldn't expect."
The clone looked thoughtful. "I kinda ship Sanji and Zoro."
Zero blinked. "...Okay, wow. That's weirdly specific."
"I am you," the clone said. "Just a little freer."
They tried dozens more: reflex checks, memory sync, taste difference, magic sensitivity. Each time, Zero learned something—and laughed more than he had in years.
But then—As the clone sat on the edge of the table, swinging his legs, he looked up and said: "Hey… What happens when I die?"
Zero froze. He set the cup of coffee down slowly. "...What?"
"I mean," the clone shrugged, "I can feel things. I can think. And I… I think I feel a kind of pull. Like I'm not… completely separate from you. Like I'm real, but I'm anchored."
Zero frowned.
"Don't get me wrong," the clone added. "I'm not scared. Just curious."
A pause.
"I think you could dismiss me."
Zero looked down at his hand. The one he'd cut earlier. The skin was flawless now. Not even a line. The blood had disappeared, but something had remained. A link. "I can feel it too," he said softly. "Like a thread between us."
The clone nodded. "Then… try it. See what happens. You can make me. Maybe you can unmake me."
Zero hesitated. Then, quietly: "I don't want to hurt you."
The clone smiled gently. "You won't. I am you. Just on loan."
Another pause. Then Zero closed his eyes. Focused. And willed it. The clone didn't scream. Didn't flinch. He shimmered. Softly. Like water losing its shape. And with a sigh of magic, the blood-born body unraveled into mist, and was gone.
Silence fell.
Zero sat still for a moment. Then looked at his hands. He was alone again. But something lingered—not sadness, not guilt. Just… the knowledge that he could create something that real. And let it go.
…
The warmth of morning sunlight filtered in through the loft's tall windows, slipping between curtains like golden fingers. The sound of clattering hooves, murmuring voices, and distant bells told Zero the city was awake long before he was.
He lay there for a moment, eyes still half-lidded, wrapped in the quiet comfort of crisp sheets and a mattress that didn't sag on one side. The pillow didn't smell like dust or borrowed regrets. The blanket held no burn holes or cigarette ash.
This was new.
A new day, in a new world, with no curses riding his shoulders.
Zero let out a slow, satisfied sigh before finally pushing himself upright. He rubbed at his eyes, blinked away sleep, and stretched until his spine popped.
The cool air against his skin nudged him toward the bath chamber—a tiled alcove with silver piping and a copper tub that gleamed like a polished coin. He filled it with steaming water, stepped in, and let out a quiet groan as warmth soaked into his bones.
After, as he toweled off, his eyes caught on the full-length mirror beside the wash basin.
He paused. There he was. Still him. Still Zero. Except…
The horns. Just above his brow, short but distinct. Dark, elegantly curved like blackened ivory. He reached up and touched one gently. It was cool and smooth, but warmed beneath his touch. They felt less alien now. Less strange.
He pulled on a clean, soft grey shirt and casual trousers—nothing fancy, just something comfortable. Rolled his sleeves to the elbow. Tied his hair loosely back. Looked in the mirror one last time and offered himself a small, lopsided smile.
"Handsome," he said. "Just with horns now."
He padded down the stairs barefoot.
The café below greeted him like a half-forgotten dream, cozy and waiting. Sunlight slanted in through the front window, casting gentle beams across the counters and wood floors. And there, by the sink.
"...Of course," he muttered.
The dishes. Yesterday's cookie-baking aftermath. Mixing bowls, spatulas, baking sheets, all piled like silent witnesses to his sugar diplomacy.
He rolled up his sleeves again. "Well," he said with a smile, "can't very well call myself a proper café owner if I let this pile win."
The water ran warm, the soap foamed easily. He hummed to himself as he worked, slipping into a rhythm both new and familiar. There were no accidents. No sudden slips. No knife nicks or shattered mugs. Nothing burst, tipped, or went mysteriously missing.
He even found himself singing.
"Every breath you take… every move you make…"
The dishwater sparkled under the morning sun, and for the first time in either of his lives, cleaning felt... nice.
When he finally dried his hands and looked around, everything sparkled. The café was spotless. His chest swelled with quiet pride. He looked down at his palm—the same one he had cut yesterday. No scar. Not even a trace. Archdemon body, he thought. Seriously underrated.
**A/N**
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**A/N**