Olga sat rigidly, arms folded, her expression caught somewhere between impatience and worry.
"So we can still track him," she said sharply, "but we can't make contact because of that Beast's intervention?"
Da Vinci shook her head, eyes narrowed at the wavering readouts only she truly understood.
"No. No matter what I try, the Beast knows exactly what I'm doing. I can't even hear anything from his side anymore. It's as if someone slammed a door in my face and locked it from the inside."
Azrael's voice slipped into the room like a draft through an unseen crack in the window.
"The Beast would seem to be formidable," he observed, "despite its childish attempt at taunting us."
Mash lowered her gaze, fingers tightening around her shield until her knuckles turned pale.
"Senpai..."
The small bedroom Newt and Jacob had been given was modest but warm, with two narrow beds and just enough space for their tired bodies to collapse into. Fujimaru, however, chose the floor without a second thought. He'd slept on stone, metal, burnt earth, and the backs of ruined carts; a wooden floor in New York almost felt like a luxury.
Queenie hovered nearby, curls bouncing as she leaned over him with an easy smile.
"You sure you don't want to lie up here with Newt?" she asked, patting the empty mattress. "It's much comfier than that floor, honey."
Fujimaru shook his head, returning her smile with a gentle one of his own.
"I'm used to the ground. I sleep better this way," he replied, settling in as though it were perfectly natural.
A moment later, Tina stepped into the room carrying three steaming cups. The rich scent of chocolate curled through the air.
"Hot cocoa," she announced briskly, setting the cups down on top of the cabinet. "Toilet's down the hall to the right if you need it. Don't wander."
She gave them one last, appraising look before turning on her heel and leaving.
Fujimaru pushed himself up on one elbow, took the cup closest to him, and lifted it to his nose. The smell tugged at memories of late nights in Chaldea, Mash nodding off over reports while Da Vinci argued with the coffee machine.
There was something else there, though.
He took a small sip, felt the texture coat his tongue, and glanced at Newt's cup.
No rice.
He looked back into his own and saw the grains swirling in the chocolate.
"Chocolate porridge..." he murmured under his breath.
Newt got out of bed with his usual, absent-minded determination and moved to his battered suitcase. Without ceremony, he flipped the latches and opened it wide. Then, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, he stepped inside and disappeared.
Jacob's jaw dropped.
"Now that," Jacob breathed, "is—wow."
Fujimaru watched with quiet curiosity. He'd seen stranger things than expanding luggage, but there was something oddly comforting about Newt's easy familiarity with his own magic.
Newt's head popped back up.
"Come on," he called.
Fujimaru took another sip of cocoa, set the cup aside on the nearest flat surface, and climbed down into the suitcase, carefully keeping hold of his own case as he went.
Jacob, muttering under his breath, placed his cup gently beside the lamp.
"Right, in we go..." he said, trying to maneuver himself through the opening. His larger frame put up more resistance than he liked to admit.
"Oh, for the love of—" he grunted, lifting the suitcase and attempting to force his way through. It didn't work.
Then, quite suddenly, the case decided it had had enough of his attempts. The magic caught hold of him like a hook.
Jacob yelped as he was sucked forward, vanishing inside just as the briefcase snapped shut behind him.
Jacob landed with a thud and looked around, eyes widening.
He was in what could only be described as a workshop—Newt's workshop. Tables cluttered with vials, tools, coil-bound notes, and strange organic materials surrounded them. The space hummed with a gentle, living magic.
"Can you sit down?" Newt asked, already focused on Jacob's arm.
"That's a good idea," Jacob said faintly, dropping onto the nearest stool.
"That's definitely the Murtlap," Newt continued, inspecting the bite with clinical but genuine concern. "You must be particularly susceptible. You're a No-Maj—muggle—, so our physiologies are slightly different."
Fujimaru stood a little off to the side, arms folded loosely, watching the treatment with a practiced eye. Nightingale's healing had already tackled the worst of the damage, but the Murtlap's effects clung stubbornly to Jacob.
"Ew," Jacob muttered as Newt brought out a poultice.
"Stay still," Newt instructed. His wand-work was deft but gentle. "That should stop the sweating. And one of those—" he tapped a small vial "—should sort the twitch."
Fujimaru's gaze softened.
'I think he knows what he's doing...' he thought.
Newt chopped up some meat with expert speed and dumped the pieces into a bucket, passing it to Jacob.
"Hold that, would you?" he said, distracted already.
Reaching into his pocket, Newt pulled out a small, wriggling cocoon and a tiny vial. He squeezed the cocoon gently, murmuring to it under his breath.
Jacob raised an eyebrow. Fujimaru stayed quiet, observing each precise movement. The blue fluid sliding into the vial made his bracelet give a faint, curious hum.
"Come on," Newt coaxed.
"What you got there?" Jacob finally asked.
"This," Newt said, holding up the cocoon, "the locals call Swooping Evil. Not the friendliest of names—he's quite an agile fellow, though."
He presented it to them in its cocoon form, the thing looking oddly unthreatening.
"I've been studying him," Newt continued, "and I'm fairly sure his venom could be useful, if properly diluted. Just to remove bad memories, you know?"
As he reached the door, Newt swung the cocoon behind him with an easy, practiced motion.
The creature unfurled in an instant—wings snapping open, body twisting through the air in a blur of color and motion. Then, just as quickly, it folded back in on itself and returned to the cocoon in Newt's hand.
Fujimaru's eyes lit up, awe flickering across his face. Jacob flinched.
Newt only looked quietly pleased.
"Probably shouldn't let him loose in here, though," he said lightly, tucking the creature close. "Come on."
He pushed the door open.
Jacob stepped out first—and stopped dead.
He was standing in what could only be described as a gigantic, impossible zoo. Light poured in from a ceiling that might not have been a ceiling at all. Habitats stretched in all directions: cliffs, forests, deserts, swamps—each perfectly self-contained, each home to something extraordinary.
Overhead, a giant bird wheeled through a manufactured sky, dark clouds blooming above it and spilling rain into its enclosure.
Fujimaru tilted his head back, watching one of the large moth-like creatures Newt had mentioned. His bracelet flashed, quietly identifying it: Billywig.
Newt, meanwhile, was coaxing another massive creature down from its perch. The air around its habitat grew heavy and wet as rain began to fall.
With no wand of his own, Fujimaru simply lifted his case above his head to shield himself. Newt, with a practiced flick, conjured an umbrella charm and stepped under it.
"Come on, down you come," Newt called.
The creature descended, wings beating the rain into mist.
It was a Thunderbird.
As it landed, the clouds above broke apart, the rain vanishing as though it had never existed. In its place, a blazing desert sky unfurled, golden light pouring over sand and rock.
Fujimaru stared, entranced. The Thunderbird's face resembled an eagle's, noble and sharp, its two pairs of wings gleaming in shades of burnished gold and deep brown.
Newt's shoulders relaxed, some tightness in his expression easing.
He was grateful, Fujimaru realized, not just for the bird's safety—but for the fact that it wasn't loose in New York.
"Frank," Newt murmured, stroking the Thunderbird's beak with quiet affection. "He was trafficked. I found him in Egypt—chained up. I couldn't leave him there. I had to bring him back."
He scratched Frank's neck, eyes soft.
"Gonna put you back where you belong, aren't I, Frank? To the wilds of Arizona."
Frank accepted a treat and beat his great wings, soaring back to his perch.
Newt raised his voice.
"Right! Next lot needs feeding!"
Fujimaru and Jacob followed as Newt moved deeper into the sanctuary, past huge dung beetles shaping their homes and a pair of Fwoopers engaged in a noisy, feather-fluffed courtship. Newt yelled out to the next creatures.
"Alright, here they come," Newt called.
"Here who comes?" Jacob asked nervously.
"Graphorns," Newt replied.
They thundered into view, galloping with heavy, powerful strides. Jacob flinched and stumbled back, but Newt caught his arm.
"Easy, easy. They're not going to hurt you."
Tentacles around the Graphorn's mouth flicked out, tasting the air—and then Newt's face, enthusiastically.
"See? Perfectly friendly," he said, laughing as the creature slobbered over him.
Fujimaru couldn't help but smile.
Newt guided them from habitat to habitat. A vast Runespoor slithered past, three heads swaying in eerie unison as it regarded them. Fujimaru's eyes widened; up close, it was enormous.
The serpent regarded them for a moment longer, then slid back into its dark cave as if dismissing them all as unimportant.
Nearby, Newt's Bowtruckle was engaged in a small, stubborn rebellion, refusing to return to its brethren. Newt looked exasperated.
"Honestly, Pickett, favoritism does you no good," he scolded.
There were gaps in the habitats, Fujimaru noticed—places where something should be. Still, what remained was breathtaking.
Newt spoke as they walked, explaining his work: rescuing endangered creatures, nurturing them, teaching others why they deserved protection rather than persecution. Fujimaru heard echoes of conversations they'd had before—about the book Newt was writing, the one that would one day sit in Hogwarts libraries.
At one point, an Occamy slid into Fujimaru's arms, curling around him. Its body coiled like a living ribbon of metal.
Fujimaru: 'They all look amazing...'
He flinched at the cool, solid feeling.
"They've got silver in their scales," Newt said, amused.
'They all look amazing...' Fujimaru thought, unable to keep the wonder from his face.
Diricawls flickered in and out of existence, Apparating the instant they sensed danger. Newt fed a Nundu with all the calm of a man offering a treat to a slightly oversized housecat, while Fujimaru and Jacob observed at what they hoped was a safe distance.
Mooncalves, shy and endearing, shuffled in groups. Four-legged with birdlike heads, they greedily pecked at the seeds Fujimaru and Jacob scattered. Jacob, or perhaps "Jason" as Fujimaru's tired brain almost called him, beamed like a child at a fair.
Glow-worms hung like stars. A swarm of Doxies buzzed past. A Grindylow lurked in a murky pool. Marmite jars floated around, though Fujimaru wasn't entirely sure how.
And then the air changed.
Fujimaru felt it first: a chill threading up his spine. It sank into his bones in a way he knew all too well.
Jacob shivered at the same moment, rubbing his arms.
The Mooncalves felt it too. They stopped feeding, heads turning in unison toward the same direction.
A doorway of frost awaited them. Snow drifted lazily just beyond the threshold.
Fujimaru stepped forward.
"Stay close," he said quietly.
Jacob followed him into the snowy domain.
At the center of the frozen habitat, contained by an invisible barrier, floated a dark, roiling cloud.
It churned like a storm, tendrils curling out and retracting, searching for a weakness.
Jacob edged closer, eyes wide.
"What the hell is that thing?" he whispered.
Fujimaru didn't answer immediately. His circuits hummed with recognition, not of the beast itself, but of its nature.
Volatile. Parasitic. Grieving.
He remembered the thing he had seen in the streets—a twisted mass of magic and pain. The resonance was unmistakable.
"Jacob, wait," Fujimaru snapped, reaching out.
"Step back," Newt's voice cut through sharply.
Jacob jolted, stumbling away. Newt's tone left no room for argument—concern not just for Jacob, but for Fujimaru as well.
Newt approached just close enough to see the creature clearly.
"It's an Obscurus," he said quietly. "I need to go. I have to find the others that escaped before they—and everyone else—get hurt."
They left the frozen enclosure, snow melting from their clothes as they crossed the threshold.
Newt continued, speaking mostly to Jacob but loud enough for Fujimaru to hear.
"The creatures that escaped are in an alien terrain, surrounded by the most dangerous creatures on the planet."
Jacob frowned.
"Which are...?"
"Humans," Newt replied simply.
Fujimaru said nothing. He didn't have to.
Newt paused by one of the habitats—an empty stretch of rocky terrain bordered by ghostly, flickering wards.
"So," he said, glancing at Jacob, "where would you say a medium-sized creature who likes broad open plains, trees, waterholes—places like that—where might she go in New York City?"
Jacob squinted, thinking.
"In New York City?" he repeated, incredulous. "Plains... Central Park, I guess."
"Central Park," Newt echoed, filing it away. "Where is that exactly?"
"It's not far from where we are," Fujimaru supplied, stepping closer. "I can lead you there."
Jacob hesitated, frowning.
"Okay, well, look," he said slowly. "I'd come and show you, but don't you think it's kind of a double cross? The girls take us in, they make us hot cocoa..."
Newt cut across him, matter-of-fact.
"Once they see you've stopped sweating, they'll Obliviate you in a heartbeat."
"What does 'Obliviate' mean?" Jacob asked.
"That would be when you wake up and—" Newt snapped his fingers "—all memory of magic is gone."
Jacob stared.
"I won't remember any of this?"
"Yes," Newt confirmed gently.
Jacob let out a long breath.
"Alright," he said at last. "Yeah. Okay. I'll help you."
"I'll make sure you don't get into a mess as you go," Fujimaru added quietly.
Newt nodded once.
"Come on then. We've got a city to search."
From the rooftop opposite Queenie and Tina's building, Fujimaru watched Newt and Jacob slip into the night.
He remained crouched low, coat pulled tight against the chill, eyes following their progress through the lens of his enchanted glasses. He hadn't used them in a while; the familiar zoom and faint gleam of runes across the frame felt almost nostalgic.
Behind him, the lights in the apartment flickered. Inside, Queenie spotted the folded letter on the table and floated it up with a flick of her wand, unfolding it delicately.
Her eyes widened at the extra note scrawled at the bottom.
"He wants my cocoa recipe," she breathed, amused and touched in equal measure.
Tina, pacing nearby, groaned.
"Oh, I swear..." she muttered, running a hand down her face.
"But we made them cocoa..." Queenie said, lip jutting out slightly.
On the rooftop, Fujimaru exhaled softly.
"I'll pay you back for that cocoa later," he murmured to no one in particular.
Newt stopped outside a jewelry store, the display windows glittering with gold and diamonds. Minutes later, the glass shattered with a muted charm-enhanced crack.
From his vantage point, Fujimaru adjusted his glasses, zooming in as Newt and Jacob stepped past the broken pane.
"Of course," Fujimaru sighed. "Niffler."
Inside, chaos bloomed.
He watched Newt and Jacob chase the small, furry, treasure-obsessed creature between displays, under counters, and across overturned shelves. Jewelry flew everywhere as the Niffler crammed as much as it could into its pouch, its little paws flashing like a thief in a vault.
At one point, Newt all but dove across the floor. The Niffler scampered up a glass case and tried to flee through the window—only to discover the glass had been transfigured into some sort of sticky jelly.
It got stuck, wriggling furiously.
"Predictable," Fujimaru said under his breath, though his lips twitched.
Newt seized the opportunity, grabbing the Niffler and prying it free as Jacob groaned and clutched his side.
Fujimaru's bracelet pulsed. A faint red shimmer appeared in his vision—the city's enforcement charms beginning to converge.
He flipped open a projected map and frowned.
"You've got cops coming at you," he muttered, activating the communication function. "But Central Park is lighting up with unusual activity, too. If you want to capture the second one, you'll need to go there now."
Moments later, through the glass, he saw Jacob go rigid.
"Uh, Newt," Jacob said quietly, "there's a lion." He pointed at the massive cat now padding calmly down the street beside a row of policemen.
Newt's eyes shone.
"New York," he said, slightly breathless. "Even more interesting than I expected."
And then, with a twist and pull of magic that still felt foreign in this world, they Disapparated.
Fujimaru clicked his tongue.
"Could've given me a heads-up," he muttered.
He flipped open his own case and rifled through the internal compartments, fingers brushing gold-edged cards.
"High speed, Central Park," he decided. One card shimmered in response. He plucked it out, slid it into a waiting slot, and the air around him hummed.
"Let's run."
Central Park, even in the chill, felt alive.
Newt and Jacob emerged with a pop near a stretch of open green, Jacob now dressed in what could only generously be described as protective gear. Fujimaru watched from a safe distance, perched atop a statue, his coat flapping in the wind.
There—an Erumpent grazing by the frozen pond, massive and horned, its skin gleaming faintly.
Newt moved carefully, slipping a vial of musk from his coat and dabbing it onto himself. He began making a series of low, peculiar calls, mimicking the sounds of a female Erumpent.
Jacob stared, utterly bewildered.
"You know, this is... this is weird, even for today," he muttered.
From his vantage point, Fujimaru watched the massive creature raise its head, nostrils flaring.
Everything seemed to be going well—until Jacob, in the wrong place at the wrong time, got smacked by something and stumbled, spilling the Erumpent musk all over himself.
The Erumpent paused.
Then it turned.
"Oh no," Fujimaru said.
The beast snorted and pawed at the ground, focusing entirely on Jacob.
Within seconds, Jacob became the red cloth to the Erumpent's furious bull, sprinting across the park in sheer panic as the creature barreled after him.
Fujimaru ran along the park's upper path, boots thudding against stone, tracking the chase.
On the nearby bridge, Tina appeared, breath misting in the air as she watched Newt and Jacob's frantic attempts to corral the Erumpent. She hadn't seen Fujimaru yet. He pressed back into the shadows, eyes narrowed.
Newt and Jacob eventually managed, through a combination of transfigured ice, desperate spellwork, and pure luck, to funnel the Erumpent back into the suitcase.
Tina descended the steps toward them, expression set.
Fujimaru watched her sit on Newt's case and snap it shut with a decisive click.
He felt his stomach drop.
"She's going to hand it to the authorities," he muttered, jaw tightening. "This girl..."
He pulled back from the railing, fingers already moving over the engraved surface of his own suitcase.
A Servant's power flowed through him, and the world blurred.
He reappeared on a nearby rooftop, wind cutting across his face.
Kneeling, he set his suitcase down and ran a hand along the inner rim until his fingers found the hidden button.
He pressed it.
Three sleek, metal pods unfolded from the case, hovering just above its surface. Magic and technology hummed in perfect, impossible harmony.
"Saint Graph Pods," he murmured. "Haven't seen you in a while."
He opened the suitcase again, cards shimmering inside like captured stars. "Robin Hood. Medea. Yan Qing," he decided, plucking three from the neatly arranged rows.
His hand hovered over another card—Hessian Lobo.
He hesitated, thumb brushing the edge.
"No," he said softly. "If I lean on the Extra Classes too much, I'll never learn to stand on my own. And if I don't go back to Chaldea... no. Not yet."
He slid the card back into its slot and closed the case.
One by one, he slotted the chosen cards into the Saint Graph Pods.
Light burst from each device as the pods spun, unfolding their magic. Figures emerged from the glow, resolving into solid, familiar forms.
Robin Hood pulled back his hood with a lazy grin.
"Yo, Master," he drawled. "Been a while."
Medea stood with her staff resting lightly in one hand, eyes cool and appraising.
"It seems our dear Master has called us for a reason," she said.
Yan Qing balanced on the ledge with casual ease, hair shifting in the breeze.
"Hello, Master," he greeted, voice smooth. "What kind of trouble have you found this time?"
Fujimaru exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders easing just from their presence.
"Just the usual Tuesday," he replied dryly. "Trouble wherever I go. But right now, I summoned you all because I have a plan.
"Medea, I need you to track this world's magical energy—find any large, unstable signatures. Robin Hood, you're with me; I'll need your eyes. Yan Qing, you're on jailbreak duty. If I get captured by the 'officials' here, you're the one who's getting me out."
Yan Qing chuckled softly.
"So, the reckless route again," he said. "Understood. It'll be done."
Medea tilted her head, gaze briefly distant as she reached out into the currents of magic.
"The wizards here are... agitated," she observed. "A man named Grindelwald seems to have shaken them."
"Very well. I'll do as you ask."
Robin Hood slung his bow over his shoulder.
"On it, Master," he said. "Oh, and Olga wanted me to remind you—you owe them a report of everything that's happened here. They can't track what you're doing. They can only see your location and movement."
Fujimaru groaned softly.
"Right. The paperwork. Got it."
They split up a moment later, each Servant slipping into the city like a whisper.
Fujimaru stayed with Robin Hood, heading toward MACUSA's looming headquarters.
"Master, I found her," Robin Hood's voice murmured in his ear after a while. "She's walking down the street with that brown suitcase you mentioned."
From a shadowed doorway, Fujimaru spotted Tina Goldstein striding toward MACUSA, case clutched tightly.
A chill swept over the city. The sky dimmed, shadows lengthening unnaturally.
Tina glanced up, uneasy. Fujimaru felt it too—a lurch in the magical field.
Medea's voice crackled through his bracelet, sharp and urgent.
"Master, I've located the source of the magical energy. It's moving fast, heading toward a gathering of their 'senators.'"
Fujimaru's hand tightened around his case.
'The Obscurus...'
"Check it out. Now," he ordered.
Medea vanished in a spray of violet light.
She arrived near the scene just as the dark force retreated, slipping away like smoke. Inside, she found a hall in chaos—shredded banners, overturned chairs, and the lifeless body of Henry Shaw, black veins spiderwebbing across his face.
The air still echoed with the Obscurus' screams.
Medea's eyebrow twitched.
"Magus-level...?" she murmured.
"Witches..." a voice spat behind her.
She turned, eyes flashing. The word struck her like a slap; her fingers tightened on her staff.
But her Master came first.
She stepped forward, delivered a sharp, stinging slap across the man's face, and vanished in a crack of displaced air, leaving his rage simmering in her wake.
Tina pushed through MACUSA's grand doors, New York's magical government buzzing with tension over the senator's death.
She marched straight into the meeting chamber, clutching the case.
Fujimaru slipped in after her, Robin Hood melting into the shadows up above.
The room was filled with high-ranking witches and wizards, all frozen mid-discussion as Tina barged in.
"What are you doing...?" Fujimaru whispered under his breath, disbelief threading his voice.
He shot Robin Hood a look—one that promised trouble.
Robin Hood leaned in, voice barely a sigh.
"Master, you're not thinking what I'm thinking..."
"I have to," Fujimaru muttered. "I can't help it. She doesn't think about the consequences... When I give you the signal, cause chaos. Enough distraction to get us a chance."
Tina reached the center of the hall and dropped the suitcase.
The latches snapped.
Newt tumbled out first, followed by Jacob.
To sell the illusion, Fujimaru let his own suitcase 'fall' open from inside Newt's, and stepped out after them, catching his case with a flick of magic a moment earlier.
"Tina?" Fujimaru demanded, voice sharp with feigned confusion. "What the hell's going on?"
The hall went dead silent.
One of the senior officials peered down at a file.
"Scamander," he said slowly. "Newt Scamander. Younger brother of Theseus Scamander."
Murmurs rose at once.
Tina made matters worse.
"This is Jacob Kowalski," she blurted. "He's a No-Maj; he's seen everything."
Several wands twitched toward Jacob at once.
"Obliviate him," someone hissed.
The President of MACUSA, standing at the head of the chamber, frowned.
"And what about this boy?" she asked, eyes falling on Fujimaru.
Her bracelet—MACUSA's magical detection charm—remained blank when it brushed over him.
Tina swallowed.
"This is Fujimaru Ritsuka," she said. "He's an accomplice of Mr. Scamander. And a... Maj, too."
Fujimaru stepped closer, voice dropping to an angry whisper.
"What are you doing, Tina?!"
"Doing what needs to be done," she hissed back, eyes bright with stubbornness and fear.
Silence settled again.
A senior wizard unfurled a photograph of the murdered senator.
"Who killed him?" he demanded.
Newt, drawn to the image, stepped forward.
"No creature did this," he said firmly. "Don't pretend you don't recognise it. Look at the marks."
Fujimaru's breath caught.
"Is it...?" he began.
"That was an Obscurus," Newt confirmed.
The President's face hardened.
"You go too far, Mr. Scamander," she said coldly. "There is no Obscurial in America. Impound those cases, Graves."
"Wait—" Newt protested.
"Arrest them," the President ordered.
Wands lifted in unison.
Gravity turned treacherous.
Fujimaru felt magic seize him, wrenching him upward. Shackles snapped around his wrists and ankles, glowing tight with Graves' control.
He fought instinctively, circuits flaring—but the binding was intricate, heavy with this world's law-bound magic.
He stared at Graves—at the man behind the name.
For a split second, the glamours slipped in his sight, and Fujimaru saw not Percival Graves, but something else. Something layered and deceitful.
Pretender-Class, his mind supplied. A false face over a darker truth.
"Don't hurt those creatures," Newt begged as they were hauled back. "Please, you don't understand. Nothing in there is dangerous. Nothing."
"We'll be the judges of that," the President replied, unimpressed. "Take them to the cells."
Newt thrashed, voice breaking as they dragged him away.
"Don't hurt my creatures! Nothing in there is dangerous! Please don't hurt them! They're not dangerous! Those creatures are not dangerous! They're not dangerous!"
Fujimaru twisted against his restraints, voice rising.
"Madam President, you're making a huge mistake! That's why he's going to rule the world!"
Her eyes flashed.
"Knock him out."
A red spell surged from Graves's wand, slamming into Fujimaru's chest and exploding behind his eyes.
The last thing he saw was Robin Hood, watching from the rafters, bow half-raised and jaw clenched.
Darkness took him.
He woke to Tina's voice.
"Newt, I'm sorry," she was saying, her tone frayed. "I was only trying to—"
Fujimaru's eyes snapped open.
The cell around him was dim and stone-cold. Chains pinned his wrists. Across from him, Newt sat slumped, and Jacob hovered uncertainly. Tina stood close by, guilt written across her face.
Power surged through Fujimaru before he could stop it.
Magic flared like black flame as he surged to his feet, chains screeching.
He crossed the cell in a single step and grabbed Tina by the front of her coat, hauling her up so her feet left the ground.
Avenger-class energy crackled around him, humming against the warded walls.
"Do you have any idea what you've done, woman?!" he roared. "You ignored the consequences of your actions the moment you picked that briefcase up!"
Tina's breath hitched. Terror flooded her eyes.
Jacob shrank back, clutching the bars, watching the wrath of the last Master of Chaldea—and the Servants who had bled with him—boil over.
Tina's voice broke.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."
"Sorry?" Fujimaru spat. "Sorry?! You apologise now?!"
"I truly am," she whispered, tears forming.
A memory flickered behind Fujimaru's eyes—the moment he turned down the offer to become an Avenger outright. The path he could have taken.
He forced a breath in. Then another.
Slowly, he set Tina down. Not gently—her back hit the bars with a metallic clang—but he let go.
He stepped away, chest heaving, and sank to the floor, back against the wall, hand pressed over his face.
Newt watched him, shoulders heavy, his own loss written plainly in the way he stared at the absent weight of his case.
Jacob swallowed hard.
"Can someone please tell me what this 'obscurial, obscureous' thing is, please?" he asked, voice thin.
Tina scrubbed at her eyes.
"There hasn't been one for centuries," she said.
Newt shook his head.
"I met one in Sudan three months ago," he replied quietly.
Fujimaru closed his eyes, feeling for the faint, angry presence housed in Newt's missing case.
"The one in that suitcase..." he murmured. "It's not really dead. I can feel its emotions. She was searching for someone."
Newt nodded faintly.
"There used to be more of them," he explained. "Back before wizards went underground, when we were still being hunted by Muggles. Young witches and wizards sometimes tried to suppress their magic to avoid persecution. Instead of learning to harness or control their powers, they developed what was called an Obscurus."
Tina's voice was soft, but steady.
"It's an uncontrollable dark force that bursts out, attacks... then vanishes," she said. "Obscurials can't survive long, can they?"
Newt shook his head.
"There's no documented case of an Obscurial surviving past the age of ten. The one I met in Africa was... eight, when she died."
Jacob stared at them, horrified.
"What are you telling me here?" he demanded. "That Senator Shaw was killed by a kid?"
"Yeah," Fujimaru said grimly. "And now, thanks to your organization, Ms. Tina Goldstein, they're going to hunt down and kill that kid immediately. Along with the Obscurus."
Tina flinched.
"What? What do you mean?"
Fujimaru's voice dropped.
"You didn't know? When the vessel of the Obscurus dies, the remaining emotions and thoughts don't just vanish. They're passed down, imprinted into the Obscurus itself.
"I can feel the emotions of the one you captured," he continued. "That child—behind the seething anger and neglect—is just a kid who wanted to be loved. Wanted a family. Someone to live with her, to love her, until the day she died."
He stared at the floor.
"But because of whoever did this to her, she died too early."
Tina's throat worked.
"Poor kid..." she whispered.
Fujimaru's gaze snapped up, eyes cold.
"'Poor kid'? Like you get to stand in her shoes," he said. "Your MACUSA is just like the Mage's Association in my world. Most of them don't care. They only want their end goal—the Root of all magic. No regard for innocents. No morals left, drowned by power, authority, and barbarity.
"The only thing that keeps me sane," he finished quietly, "is why I fight."
Tina stared at him, shaken.
He was so young. Too young to wear that sort of exhaustion.
The single tear she'd glimpsed on his face before made sense now. He was a boy who had watched too many worlds burn—and still got up to fight for a better one.
When the guards came for them, they went for Newt and Tina first.
They were marched toward the Death Cell—MACUSA's ultimate sentence. Fujimaru, held back for a separate interrogation, watched them disappear down the corridor.
A wand pressed against the hollow of his throat.
Graves stepped into view, eyes cold and curious.
"I've spent decades studying the magical signatures of every known Ministry on this planet," he said. "I know the rhythm of the French, the rigidity of the Germans, the secrecy of the Americans..."
He leaned in, the wand digging harder into Fujimaru's neck.
"But you?" Graves continued. "Your magic circuits don't pulse. They burn. And this 'luggage' of yours... it isn't holding beasts. It's holding souls. Pure, crystallised Heroic Spirits.
"Where did you steal them from, Ritsuka Fujimaru?"
Fujimaru's jaw tightened.
"I didn't steal them," he said. "We made a contract. A promise. Something a man like you wouldn't understand."
A thin smile curled Graves' lips.
"A contract with the dead?" he said. "That's Necromancy. Darker than anything even MACUSA will admit exists.
"I've tried to open it," he went on, almost conversational. "Me, and several of the finest spellcrafters this institution can offer. Our spells didn't budge that suitcase. Tell me how to unlock it, and perhaps I'll let you live long enough to see the new world I'm building."
Fujimaru's voice dropped to a lethal calm.
"The world you're building," he said, "is just another cage. Grindelwald."
The name hung in the air like a spell.
Graves went very still.
The mask didn't crack, but the temperature of the room seemed to plummet.
"That's a dangerous name to speak in this building," he said softly. "And to accuse a man who works for the law of bearing it... You must be very sure of yourself. It seems you know too much—and offer too little."
He turned away, cloak swishing.
"He's a waste of time," Graves announced to the shadows. "He won't talk, and I won't risk him being rescued by his 'spirits.' Take him to the Death Cell. Put him in the chair alongside the Goldstein girl and the Englishman. Erase them all.
"If the suitcase won't open," he added, "then it can sink into the void along with him."
Far above, in an office stacked with files, Queenie Goldstein dropped a tray of tea and crumpets.
Tina's fear crashed into her mind like a tidal wave. Fujimaru's thoughts—sharp, defiant, threaded with too many memories—brushed against her own.
She took a deep breath.
"Hang on," she whispered.
And with an easy, smiling sort of confidence that belied the pounding of her heart, she began to move.
The Death Cell was a chamber of pale stone and gentle menace.
Tina stood at the edge of the pool, tears clinging to her lashes.
"Don't do this, Bernadette," she begged. "Please."
The executioner—Bernadette—offered a sympathetic smile.
"It doesn't hurt," she said, almost kindly.
Fujimaru, held between two guards, watched as Bernadette raised her wand.
"Wait," he said sharply. "I'll go first."
Tina spun toward him, eyes widening.
"Fujimaru—"
He walked forward with the air of someone who had already accepted his death, shoulders squared.
Deep inside, something in him wanted to laugh. The training some of his more theatrical Servants had put him through was finally paying off.
Newt's gaze fell briefly to Fujimaru's hand.
His fingers were digging into his own arm, where his Command Spells lay hidden beneath the glove.
"Okay," Bernadette said, cheerful again. "Let's get the good stuff out of you."
The other executioners giggled, leaning forward as she pressed her wand to Fujimaru's temple.
Memories were pulled like silver threads and flung into the pool.
The potion shimmered—and beckoned.
Fujimaru let his expression go slack, eyes glazing over in a mock trance.
He sat down in the chair when prompted, still smiling that faint, empty smile.
The executioners cooed.
"Look at him," one whispered. "He's happy."
Tina's stomach churned.
Newt said nothing, watching every movement.
The potion began to react.
First, it rippled.
Then it churned.
The surface bulged, shapes forming—faces, places, skies not of this world.
Without warning, the magic exploded outward.
A wave of force blasted the executioners back against the walls. Two of them hit the floor and slid, moaning.
The potion behind Fujimaru surged up, towering over him like a liquid giant.
His smile vanished.
The boy from Chaldea was gone. In his place stood the cold, unyielding Master forged in the fires of incinerated history.
Images poured from the pool.
Incineration.
Bleached earth.
Ordeal Calls.
The Beast of Analysis.
World after world, burning.
Screams. Prayers. Final stands.
And through it all, one human walking forward.
Fujimaru's eyes flicked sideways as another stream of memory surfaced.
Tina, kneeling beside a boy in a dark street. Credence. Her hand on his shoulder, soft and protective.
Understanding clicked into place.
"You wanted to see what makes me happy?" Fujimaru said, voice echoing off the walls.
The potion froze mid-surge, as if listening.
"My happiness is that those worlds existed at all," he went on. "But for me to keep going... I had to watch them burn.
"Can you handle that?" he asked the potion, the room, the executioners. "Can your little pool hold the weight of three thousand years of human history screaming for help as they die?"
The executioners began to choke.
One clawed at her throat, eyes filling with images she couldn't process.
Another dropped to his knees, sobbing.
"So much blood..." the woman gasped. "Why are the stars falling...? He's a monster... My mind... it's... it's—"
"So many worlds," the male executioner whispered hoarsely. "All gone. And he just... keeps walking..."
The potion writhed once more, then bent.
It stilled, then condensed, drawing itself back under Fujimaru's command.
Calmer now, it rose beneath his feet, forming a narrow, gleaming bridge to the edge of the pool.
He pulled off his glove, revealing the Command Spells on his hand, and swept his arm in a practiced arc, shaping the magic.
Tina watched, breathless, as he walked over liquid memory that should have consumed him.
Newt, more attuned to subtle shifts in magic, saw the structure of the spell collapse and regrow around Fujimaru's will.
"I can't..." Tina whispered. "He's... How can he hold that much...?"
"It's not just grief, Tina," Newt said quietly. "He... he had to be the one to end them."
Fujimaru stepped over the gasping executioners, gaze distant.
"You were right," he told them. "It is a beautiful memory. Because even though those worlds are gone... I remember the faces of everyone who told me to 'live.'
"I will never forget," he said, eyes hard, "or sully my journey in those Lostbelts. That's my joy—and my promise to them."
Tina's hand shot out, catching his.
Her fingers trembled around his own.
"Fujimaru," she whispered. "You shouldn't have to carry that. No one should. How are you still standing?"
He squeezed her hand once and let go.
"Because if I stop," he said, "then they really disappear."
"Newt, get the Swooping Evil ready. We're not dying here today. We still need to get my suitcase."
Alarms began to blare.
Fujimaru turned and kicked the cell door.
Reinforced bones and reinforced magic met resistant metal. The door blew off its hinges, slamming into the corridor.
Two Aurors rounded the corner—wands up.
"Stupefy!"
Before their spells could land, a blur of blue and green streaked past Fujimaru's shoulder.
Newt cracked his case, and the Swooping Evil exploded outward, wings whipping the spells aside before slamming into the Aurors. They toppled, dazed.
Tina blinked.
"What is that?" she demanded, ducking another arc of wings.
"Swooping Evil," Newt replied, distracted but fond.
"I love it," she said weakly.
Newt snapped his arm, directing the creature.
"Leave their brains," he commanded. "You've had enough."
The three of them pelted down the corridor, Fujimaru at the front.
At a junction, they skidded to a halt.
Queenie and Jacob stood there, slightly out of breath, two suitcases clutched tightly—Newt's and Fujimaru's.
"Get in," Queenie urged, eyes wide.
"I'll take my suitcase with me," Fujimaru said, reaching for the familiar handle.
Footsteps thundered behind them.
Multiple Aurors burst into view, wands raised.
Spells formed on their lips.
And then—
Thwip.
An arrow slammed into one Auror's leg, the spell dying mid-word. Another Auror was hit in the shoulder, their wand spinning away.
Green light—neither Killing Curse nor any MACUSA standard—exploded among them, sending them sprawling.
Everyone froze.
Newt looked at Tina.
Tina looked at Queenie.
Jacob looked at everyone.
"That wasn't me," Newt said quickly.
Up near the ceiling, half-concealed by shadow, a hooded figure met Fujimaru's eyes.
Robin Hood gave him a single, casual nod.
Then his body dissolved into tiny motes of light, streaming back into a hovering Saint Graph Pod, which promptly shrank and zipped into Fujimaru's briefcase.
Fujimaru exhaled.
"Don't worry about it," he said. "Long story. In. Now."
Queenie flipped open the suitcase, and Newt ushered Jacob inside.
Fujimaru adjusted the settings on his bracelet, fingers dancing over the runes.
He followed the others down into the case, gravity twisting as the workshop rose to meet them once more.
He sat down heavily on the nearest bench, Newt's creatures stirring around them.
Newt, Tina, Jacob, and Queenie all turned to him at once, questions burning on their faces.
Fujimaru didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he closed his eyes and let his senses stretch through the Servants, through the city, through the thin, unstable barrier that was this world's After Time.
Above, in MACUSA, a clerk named Abernathy stood stiffly before Queenie's empty desk, jealousy and resentment already blooming under the subtle, insidious influence of a man calling himself Percival Graves.
But that was a problem for another chapter.
For now, they had escaped.
And Fujimaru still had a city, a suitcase, and an Obscurus to worry about.