Scene 1 — Ten, Between Suns
"Good. You've managed to balance out the Sun Fire and Moon Frost using death as the natural fulcrum. You're doing a good job, Ten."
Chang'e's bare feet hardly disturbed the silver sand as she circled me, eyes tracing the steam that bled from my skin — gold heat on one side, blue-white frost on the other, stitched together by a thin membrane of shadow.
I exhaled slowly, letting the breath drag the last shreds of wildness back into their cages.
Treat the body like a weapon, not a body.
That was the only way this made sense.
My Sun Fire no longer burst out in flares; it burned inside the bone, patient and heavy. The Moon Frost Chang'e had hammered into me lay coiled in the blood, waiting for the smallest command. And between them, braided through every nerve, was Death — not Hades' domain, not quite, but the sliver he'd allowed me to carry when I walked back from the end of all things.
If the plan holds, when I step back into the saint realm I'll be sitting comfortably with the mid-tier gods. Not bad for a man who technically doesn't exist.
"Still feels wrong," I muttered, flexing the fingers of my right hand as Frost and Fire rolled past each other in the joints, unwilling to mingle but no longer trying to kill me for forcing them close. "Like I stole someone else's body and I'm hollowing it out to fit my weight."
Chang'e stopped in front of me, the Death-maiden's eyes soft and merciless at once.
"That's because you are," she said. "You burned the last one down to the marrow to seal the Tear. This is a replacement. A better mold. You want it to hold Sun, Frost, and Death without collapsing? Then yes, Ten — you treat it like a weapon and temper it until it stops screaming."
Her hand tilted; black-lacquered nails brushed over my chest, where the three laws knotted together into a single, ugly brand.
"Besides," she added lightly, "you've always needed a third law to anchor you. That boy figured it out first."
I knew exactly which boy she meant.
The Golden Crow, that little bastard on Earth with life force like a stubborn star and what he insists on calling ki. Astral energy, to be precise, contorted into something half-physical, half-concept. Watching him brute-force synergy between flame, life, and that hybrid "ki" had given me the last insight I needed to make this cycle worth the price.
I rolled my shoulders, then finally stood.
Chang'e handed me a new set of robes — black and pale, trimmed with muted gold thread, cut so the weight sat cleanly along the scars. I still felt the flush in my face as she helped me shrug into them; even after all this time, having the Death Maiden dress me like a convalescent saint made me feel more exposed than walking through a war naked.
"Your rabbit has made it to Earth," she said, smoothing one stubborn fold on my sleeve. "So it'll probably take him a while to get bored. As long as that bird keeps him under control, it's not worth worrying about."
The thought of Wukong's hare running around Earth with Crow as the leash almost made me laugh. Almost.
"We'll head to meet with MutaRex for her decision," I said instead. "I told her I'd be back once I exited the Tower of Stars. We'll finish integrating the Sun Palace into its original slot in the lattice. Hopefully she agrees to join the Tower as Earth Mother."
Chang'e's expression shifted, a shadow of curiosity passing through her composure.
"And what about your brother?" she asked. "You've been circling that subject since you woke up. Pretending you don't care isn't the same as not caring."
Of course she'd noticed. Between the hare acting as her little eye on Earth and the way Death itself tugged when souls refused to lie down, she knew more than she let on.
"He died eons ago with the Seven Peaks," I said. "If He decided to give him more time, then it's not my place to interfere."
A tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it.
"He's still carrying those souls," she whispered. "He refuses to let go until he can complete their last wish."
I closed my eyes for a moment, seeing it as clearly as if I were there: my brother, bleeding out under a dead sky, still using the barest strands of fire to shield the remnants of his squad — stupid, loyal, already half-erased.
Chang'e's aura trembled, the goddess in her wanting to reach down and soothe the pain, to lay a blessing over him and ease the weight.
"Don't," I said quietly.
She blinked. "You'd deny him mercy?"
"This is his mercy," I replied. "He's been after that one goal for more cycles than this body has bones. If duty as the eldest shaped him before the Sea, then this is his duty now — as a leader and commander."
I met her gaze, letting the full ugliness of it sit between us.
"There aren't many gods who wouldn't eat those souls in that half-dead state," I said. "Devour them to stabilize their core for a second longer. He's doing the opposite — wasting his own flames to keep a handful of idiots from washing away."
Chang'e flinched at the word.
"A bunch of morons who couldn't define loyalty until they walked into their deaths," I went on. "He showed them the guidebook, and they followed him anyway. That's what he's asking humanity to do, you realize. To watch. To remember. Not to fix it for him."
The Sea shivered far below our platform, cycles collapsing and rebuilding in slow motion. Somewhere inside that mess, my brother still walked, charred and stubborn, refusing to let go.
I adjusted the collar of the new robes, feeling the weight settle just right over the brand on my chest.
"Let him carry them," I said. "If we pry that duty out of his hands before he's done, we're not saving him. We're breaking him."
Chang'e wiped the tear away and, after a long heartbeat, nodded.
"Then hurry," she said. "Finish your tempering. Speak to MutaRex. Move your Sun Palace back into place."
Her eyes flicked once toward the distant, unseen world where Crow and that damned hare were already making trouble.
"Because when your brother finally lays those souls down," she murmured, "this cycle won't have any excuses left."
Scene 2 — #DyingSun, #BrokenPardon
The Society press team only needed twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes after the congressional session adjourned, after Odin rejected the pretty little bargain those liaison types dangled in front of his hospital bed, after Crystal walked out of that room with murder restrained behind her eyes — the feeds lit up.
[OfficialSociety_US]:
Statement from Assistant Director Artemis and Guildmaster Crystal Helstrong regarding the failed "pardon deal" and the status of the Odin Diaries.
1. The Society did not request, draft, or approve the proposed pardon agreement.
2. Odin has refused all offers to edit, sanitize, or "curate" his own record.
3. The Diaries will not be altered. Not by us. Not by any government.
4. Access remains what it has always been: earned by understanding, not sold by favors.
A clipped video of Crystal at the podium went viral in minutes.
Her hair tied back, eyes hard enough to cut gods, she leaned into the mic.
"The Diaries were never locked behind keys. They were locked behind comprehension.
If you can't stand the madness it took to write them, you have no business trying to weaponize them."
"As their highest living custodian, I will not assist any institution — Society or state — in editing, scrubbing, or framing Odin's choices to make anyone feel better.
You want a bedtime story? Read someone else's war."
It should have been a niche storm.
Instead, the whole world's comments section swallowed it.
(LoverBoy57689304): Holy f—. So the report and that video of him in the hospital were true.
(Wolfperson): Of course it was real. You don't play with his name. Doesn't matter where we stand. This is The Odin.
(Artemis_Stan): He wrote them for Artemis and Tyr. But who exactly is Tyr? If Crow is Artemis' son and Tyr is Odin's brother… OMG MY QUEEN STRUCK GOLD.
(EinsteinTheory): If he went through madness to write them, then we've been reading them the wrong way. Real researchers are probably begging the Society to sell back the copies they dumped when they "gave up" on them. Dog's death for their dignity after flexing that they "understood" them.
(TheO.PisReal): Oceanus just dropped a statement too. 👀
Says Olympus' leadership "bears responsibility" for forcing Odin to seal the Tear.
Wukong's account quote-replied like: "If he calls, I'll come get him myself."
This is a live bomb with less eyes than swords now.
(SJwarrior): How can anyone be on his side? He's the same one that murdered a thousand Travelers!!
(Diehard): A) We still don't know what actually happened in the Sea.
B) Your account location tag says your country's in the middle of a civil war right now, so maybe butt out of our system and go fix your backyard.
C) Go produce an Odin or a Baldur if you want a seat at this table. Until then, chill.
(LyricalAssassin): If he did that for his brother the way they're saying, even we would respect it.
The streets still respect certain kinds of people. All these wannabe kids with more muscle than brain wouldn't last. Half of us wouldn't either tbh.
(Madness_Theory): He just confirmed what every serious researcher who gave up on the Diaries suspected.
He broke the ONE cardinal rule all Explorers uphold. And Baldur's wife was partner to this?
Who exactly is she supposed to be?
Why didn't Artemis say anything? Why didn't Baldur?
(TowerOfSalt): Crystal saying "understanding is the key" is low-key the scariest part.
You want edits? Go into the Sea. Hit the same walls. Go just as mad.
Try not to die. Then maybe you'll be qualified to hold a red pen.
(LocalReporter_Todd): (reposted clip)
"These diaries belong to history, not to propaganda." — Crystal Helstrong
I was in the briefing when Artemis took the blame for Tasey.
Now Crystal just set herself between the Diaries and everyone.
Whatever comes next, this is the line.
The hashtags trended for three days straight.
#DyingSun
#LetTheMadnessStand
#ReadOrShutUp
And under all of it, buried in quieter threads and private channels, one question started repeating:
If this is what he wrote sane…
what did he leave out?
Scene 3 — Amber's Knife
"Focus, Amber. Again."
The training hall was quiet enough that our footsteps had an echo.
I watched the girl stumble through the footwork for the third time, a fraction too slow on the pivot, a fraction too cautious on the weight shift. The old habit — stop, plant, then cast — kept trying to drag her back into safe patterns.
Caster brain. Neckline support. The kind of mage the old Academies loved: rooted, pretty, easy to position on a battlefield map.
"Cast an ice bolt," I said. "And keep moving."
She grimaced, but her feet obeyed. She slid through the next step, shoulders twisting as she tried to drag her mind along with her body.
Unlike Crow or even Thomas, who both treat astral energy like extra limbs, Amber's affinity still moves through channels alone. She's more akin to my other problem child, Alexis — the one who stole my embedding technique and turned it into her personal toy.
Same potential. Same bad habits. Same refusal to believe their instincts first.
Mana gathered at Amber's fingertips, frost forming in a tight spiral.
"Don't stop," I reminded her. "You're not a turret. You're a knife."
She flinched and nearly tripped, catching herself at the last second.
The bolt snapped into existence — clean, sharp, a compact shard of cold — and shot toward the practice dummy. It struck dead center, blooming into a crust of ice over the painted target.
Her footwork, however, fell apart immediately after.
She stopped dead, chest rising and falling, waiting for a verdict.
"Better," I said. "But if you freeze in place every time you finish a cast, you'll die to the second enemy, not the first."
"Fighters don't have to think about this much," she muttered. "They just swing."
"Fighters also die in droves when the Sea sends a swarm instead of a duel," I replied. "We're casters. We don't get to be pinned down."
I stepped in, nudging her heel with my foot, tipping her weight back onto the balls instead of the heel. Her shoulders relaxed just enough to pull the tension out of her spine.
"Again," I said. "Step, breath, shape, release. No full stops unless you're behind cover or someone you trust is holding the front."
Her eyes flicked up at that — just a heartbeat, just long enough for me to see who she was picturing at the front lines.
Crow.
Good. Fear tied to a face is still fear, but it's also motivation.
She moved.
This time I layered my own presence over hers — a thin veil of killing intent, just enough to mimic panic. Her mind reacted the way I expected: reaching for the chant, for the old scripts, even as her feet obeyed the new pattern.
"Let it go," I said. "You already proved to Crow you can instant-cast. Stop paying rent to the old teachers in your head."
She swallowed hard and forced the mana into the shape she remembered, not the words.
A second ice bolt formed and flew. Sloppier. Faster. Close enough.
"Good footwork," I said. "Now just—"
I caught myself, having nearly called out the next sequence too early. Amber wobbled, trying to respond to a command I hadn't finished giving.
"My bad," I said, grabbing her wrist before she fully lost balance. "Too soon. Let's go again. Slower."
Up close like this, it was easier to see the things reports never mention.
The faint calluses along her fingers — not from staff forms, but from scraping by in those government dungeons they called "training." The little scar at her jawline where a spell backlash had kissed her once. The way she kept trying to make herself smaller, even when I wasn't actively pressuring her.
Being kicked out of the Academy system had carved itself into her posture.
"Listen," I said quietly. "Oceanus fights as rear-line support. Artemis — my dear little sister — is a spear with a battery pack. Baldur breaks the front and holds the sky. We don't have their bodies."
I tapped her sternum lightly.
"But we can steal their principles," I went on. "For us, that means never letting the enemy decide where we stand. Assassin casters. Moving artillery. The thing that hits you from where you forgot to look."
Amber's throat worked.
"You really think I can…?" she started.
"Stop asking if you can and concentrate on how," I cut in. "Crow wouldn't keep you near him if you were dead weight. I won't waste my time turning ballast into a blade."
The corner of her mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a flinch.
"All right," she said. "Again."
She stepped into the pattern. This time, the mana moved just a fraction sooner than her fear.
The bolt snapped out and shattered the dummy's shoulder.
Ugly.
Effective.
I nodded once.
"There," I said. "Now we do that until your legs forget what it feels like to stop."
Outside the training room, the world argued about pardons, diaries, and whether the Dying Sun was a demon or a saint.
Inside, a single girl rewrote the way her body remembered magic.
One knife at a time.