Chapter Text
Amon was sprawled across his bed, idly rolling coins between his fingers, when the clock struck three on Monday afternoon. In the next instant, the coins slipped from his hands as his surroundings melted away—he was seated once more on a bronze chair above the endless gray fog.
To his left sat Miss Justice and The Hanged Man, already facing one another. To his right was the figure who had ignored him for the past two days: Mr. Fool. He lounged in his high-backed bronze chair at the center of it all, posture perfectly composed, his tone and bearing calm, confident, almost indifferent—as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t silenced Amon mid-conversation and cast him out without warning, refusing to answer him since.
Miss Justice rose gracefully and dipped a brief bow. “Good afternoon, Mr. Fool~!” She turned with equal cheer toward the others. “Good evening, The Hanged Man, Mr. Lovers~!”
The Hanged Man mirrored her courtesy, first saluting Mr. Fool with solemn reverence before nodding to the rest. As soon as he sat down again, both he and Justice seemed to turn expectantly toward Amon—waiting for him to offer his greeting to their mysterious host.
Hah. As if.
Amon’s lips curved into a smile, hidden entirely by the fog but satisfying in its defiance. He greeted Justice and The Hanged Man politely, and didn’t spare Mr. Fool so much as a glance.
Any other god would have struck him down on the spot for such insolence. But other gods didn’t pull their Blessed close each night with curling tentacles, playing with their hair until they drifted off to sleep. Other gods didn’t suddenly cut off all contact either. In Amon’s mind, it was clear—Mr. Fool had crossed the line first, not him.
Mr. Fool gave no sign of being affected by the slight. Yet Alger and Audrey both felt the tension that thickened the air of the Sefirah Castle. Audrey, especially, could sense it. Now advanced to Sequence 9 Audience, her sharpened perception picked up on more than just the strained air between Mr. Lovers and Mr. Fool—she could tell that Mr. Fool’s serene composure was a little too carefully maintained. Her heart skipped, and she quickly reined herself in. Careful, Audrey. One must never try to peer too deeply into a god.
“First things first—congratulations, Miss Justice, on starting along your Beyonder path.” Mr. Fool’s cool, steady voice cut across the table, smooth and measured as ever.
“Thank you, Mr. Fool!” Audrey beamed, practically glowing like she’d just been knighted. To her, the fact that he’d seen through her at a glance was proof—absolute proof—of his unfathomable wisdom.
Amon squinted so hard he was half-convinced his eyes might get stuck that way. Oh, wow. This thing had stonewalled him for two whole days, hadn’t even looked at him when he arrived—and now here it was, lavishing attention on some… some random girl? Was this what it felt like to get cucked?
Unacceptable.
“Lady Justice,” Amon cut in, putting on his most gallant, knightly tone, “are you feeling well? The first few days after advancement are always the hardest—most dangerous, even. The risk of losing control is highest.”
He even leaned back a little in his chair, sighing like a tragic war hero. “When I advanced to the Marauder Sequence, I was plagued with headaches, my spirituality flaring out of control. A nightmare, truly—but I endured.”
Both Alger and Audrey turned to him, blinking. Wait. Did he just say when he advanced?
Audrey perked up like a puppy smelling a treat. “Mr. Lovers—you also only just became a Beyonder?” she asked, voice tinged with excitement. She wasn’t the only newbie! Maybe she wasn’t as out of her depth as she feared!
“Yes,” Amon replied without hesitation, his voice dripping with casual honesty. “Only a few weeks ago.”
He didn’t care what impression they got. Better they think him weak than waste his time expecting miracles. And besides—it was perfect ammunition. Heheh. Just imagine it: an ancient deity’s prized, handpicked Blessed… a Sequence 9 rookie Marauder. How utterly humiliating for Mr. Fool.
…Or at least, it should have been.
Instead of looking down on him, both Audrey and Alger seemed… impressed. Awe-struck, even. If strength wasn’t the reason Mr. Fool valued him, then clearly—clearly!—Mr. Lovers must have some mysterious, profound connection to the god.
Amon blinked, dumbfounded. He’d crafted that little reveal to stab at Mr. Fool, to shake his image—yet here these two were, practically elevating him to “Beloved of the Gods” status.
All his carefully honed manipulations—designed to topple the proudest defenses—shattered instantly against the brick wall of sheer gullibility.
…Unbelievable.
Grumbling in his mind, Amon pouted and let his thoughts wander while Miss Justice asked her first of three questions. Mr. Fool, in that infuriatingly calm tone of his, launched into an explanation about the so-called ‘acting method.’
Amon’s scowl deepened. Oh, fantastic. Of course. He explicitly remembered Mr. Fool saying something about explaining this very thing to him last time—only to then cut him off, toss him out of the gray fog, and proceed to ghost him for two whole days.
Okay, Amon. Breathe. This is, what, the tenth time in the last hour you’ve replayed that scene in your head? Kicking the mental version of Mr. Fool around like a football? Snap out of it. He doesn’t deserve to live rent-free in your head like this!
He forced himself to tune out again, catching only fragments. Something about Miss Justice admitting—accidentally—that she’d fed her pet a Beyonder potion. That at least got a snort out of him. Honestly, who does that? But even the image of a magical pet wobbling around half-drunk on potion fumes wasn’t enough to lighten his mood.
Especially not when Mr. Fool immediately moved on to rambling about—what was that? Civil Service Examinations? Oh, great. Yes, because what Amon really wanted was a lecture about paperwork and exams from an eldritch god.
Then came the diary request. Then the unveiling of his “honorific name.”
Amon nearly slammed his forehead on the table.
First, Mr. Fool finds a replacement to fetch the secret diary pages—yes, technically Amon knew he couldn’t get them all, but he was the one who found the first few! Where was his reward for that? Where was his payment?
And now this. Sharing his sacred, honorific name. Just handing it out like candy.
Amon’s fists clenched in his lap.
WHY DOESN’T HE JUST MAKE THESE TWO HIS BLESSED INSTEAD OF ME?!
As Amon seethed quietly in his chair, the meeting wound to its end. Miss Justice and The Hanged Man rose with their polite farewells, their spiritual bodies dissolving one by one into the gray fog.
Amon felt it too—the subtle pull as the Castle began to release him. He should have let it take him, should have slipped back into his body like the others.
But he didn’t.
Out of a sudden, reckless surge—part idiocy, part sheer, stubborn will—Amon’s fingers tightened around the monocle on his right eye. With his other hand he traced the movement Mr. Fool himself had taught him, activating his Spirit Vision.
Amon’s fingers curled over the rim of his monocle, tightening as his other hand traced the gesture Mr. Fool had once shown him. Spirituality surged, thin and sharp, and his vision bled into something more.
The gray fog trembled.
This time, he didn’t let it push his gaze away. He looked.
The veil parted, and what had always been hidden now unraveled before his gaze.
Mr. Fool was no man.
He was a heaving abyss of worms, of tentacles twisted from living script, etched with symbols that pulsed and reassembled faster than thought. Together they made the mocking outline of a god seated upon his throne—
Until his gaze locked onto its E̶̛̠̼͚̠͎̟̠̦̞͆̓̓͐̔͛Ȳ̷̺͕͍͔̦̅̚E̵̼̮̅͊͊̓̍́̊̑̔̕͘͠S̸̮̩̻̋̈̍̂̊̐̿̓̔͗͘̚̕͝
They bore into him, unraveling skin, mind, soul—
̷̛̹̱̝̙͖̲̹̼͕̳̪̟̳̰̣́͂̓͆̈́́͘
Then, nothing.
The sensation of self vanished. Sight, hearing, breath, heartbeat—all gone. Amon collapsed into a vast silence, the corruption already digging into him simply gone, stolen away by a power vaster than he could comprehend.
When awareness returned, he wasn’t in the bronze chair anymore. He was lying flat on the familiar bed, chest heaving as though he had nearly drowned. The cool fabric beneath him grounded him to life. Above him, shadows loomed—the immense, towering outline of Mr. Fool, tentacles curled taut around him, drawn close not in playfulness but as if they were desperately making sure he was still there.
The god’s voice, when it came, was flat—cold—but the tension in his form betrayed him. “…Why would you do that?”
Amon blinked once, then twice, dazed. Then his lips curved into a grin, bright and cheeky. “Well, I made you stop ignoring me, didn’t I? So… I won.”
The tentacles surrounding him tensed further, clinging almost possessively before withdrawing as if Mr. Fool realized what they were doing. His tone stayed even, but the weight beneath it pressed heavy against the air:
“What if you died?”
“Eh.” Amon shrugged, still smiling, utterly casual despite how pale he looked. “I knew I wouldn’t.”
“How,” the god asked, each syllable like a blade kept deliberately steady, “could you possibly know that?”
Amon propped himself up on an elbow, grin sharpening. “Because I knew you’d save me. And look—you did.”
The fog around Mr. Fool thickened, as if to smother the slight tremor running through his form. Tentacles shifted against the floor, restless, betraying a strain his voice refused to show.
“…You gamble with your own existence as if it were nothing.”
Amon only stretched back onto the bed with a lazy laugh, eyes glinting with mischief. “Because I knew I’d win.”
Mr. Fool said nothing. He loomed above, silent and inscrutable, every movement restrained to the point of trembling. Yet the truth hung heavy in the air—
He had saved Amon. Instinctively, desperately, without hesitation. Even knowing it would sap what little strength he’d clawed back, he’d done it anyway.
“And,” Amon drawled, fingers curling to catch hold of a trembling tentacle that had crept closer, “I hate being ignored.” His smile widened, sly and cruelly bright, even as his tone took on the weight of a command.
The Fool froze.
“I don’t care if you’re a god. You’re my god.” Amon’s voice was no longer lilting or mischievous—it was sharp, trembling with something deeper, something raw. His hand shot out, catching one of the retreating tentacles, and he yanked it toward him with a force born of pure refusal. The gray fog rippled as Mr. Fool stumbled closer, drawn into his Blessed’s orbit whether he willed it or not.
“You don’t get to ignore me,” His voice rang with a childish stubbornness, but underneath it throbbed a gravity that even the gray fog couldn’t smother. He pulled harder, dragging The Fool down until the god loomed directly over him, close enough that the air trembled between them.
And then, as if sealing an oath, he whispered, his eyes blazing with a fierce intensity—
“Not now. Not ever.”
Amon only allowed the words to linger for a few brief seconds before he let go of his grip completely. Instantly, the oppressive tension evaporated, and Amon’s expression transformed. He sat back slightly, tilting his head with an innocent, almost disarming smile.
“So,” he said, cheerfully as if nothing had just happened, “can you teach me about the Acting Method again? I wasn’t paying attention during the gathering.”
The words hung in the air like a bucket of cold water, and Mr. Fool froze. His form above the bed stiffened, the gray fog around him quivering faintly. For the briefest moment, something resembling—almost—human emotion flickered through the god’s stoic presence. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to betray that he’d felt it.
Amon, oblivious—or perhaps deliberately so—continued to grin, eyes sparkling with calculated mischief. Mr. Fool, unable to respond immediately, exhaled a faint sigh and, with measured precision, conjured up one of their favorite chairs. The chair hovered into place with an otherworldly grace, as if the very air itself respected its owner’s will.
“Sit,” Mr. Fool instructed, voice clipped, steady.
Amon, however, had other plans. Instead of settling into the chair, he clambered beside the god on the edge of the bed, pressing close—too close—his body leaning against Mr. Fool’s with a firm, possessive weight.
Amon tilted his head ever so slightly, his wide, luminous eyes brimming with mock innocence, the subtle lift of his chin silently daring Mr. Fool to challenge his actions.
Mr. Fool’s gaze flicked downward, momentarily at a loss. He opened his mouth, but no words came. His tentacles, sensing their Blessed’s return to familiar territory, erupted into activity—curling around Amon’s shoulders, braiding loosely around his arms, and patting at his hair like overzealous caretakers. They fussed, adjusted, and spoiled him, trying to make him comfortable in every way they could.
“No—stop that,” Mr. Fool muttered, voice low, sharp, yet failing entirely. His form trembled slightly as he tried to glare at the extensions of his own will, but the tentacles ignored his commands entirely. They swirled around Amon, nestling him into a cocoon of warmth and ridiculous over-attention, pressing him into Mr. Fool with enthusiastic loyalty.
Mr. Fool exhaled again, slower this time, the faintest flicker of resignation—or maybe admiration—showing in the stiff lines of his posture. His face remained unreadable behind the gray fog, but the subtle tension in his shoulders betrayed a single, undeniable truth: he couldn’t help but go along with it.
And so their lesson continued. Mr. Fool never explained why he had suddenly ignored Amon, and Amon, for his part, never asked.
Before they knew it, evening had deepened. The only reason Mr. Fool paused his mystical teachings—which Amon would need to understand in order to access more of his powers—was the growing weakness in his blessed’s body, something his tentacles had already diagnosed.
Alarm surged through him and through the writhing tentacles. He suddenly remembered that humans were very fragile creatures, especially the ones from lower sequences. Was his Blessed dying?
“I’m hungry,” Amon finally said, rubbing his stomach with an exaggerated pout. “You… I know you’re a god with no concept of time or food, but I’m human. I haven’t eaten all day.” His tone was accusing, but it was a playful accusation. The truth was, he had ignored his own hunger, caught up in the desire to gain Mr. Fool’s attention after days of being overlooked—but he also secretly enjoyed watching the tentacles squirm in panic and guilt.
“I’m sorry. I’ll let you down to the Sefirah Castle now,” Mr. Fool replied, flustered.
And just like that, Amon awoke in his bed at the Nighthawks base. Though he’d gone to sleep at three for the gathering, nearly five hours had passed; his stomach growled like an angry beast. Cooking seemed out of the question, so he grabbed some money and stepped out, greeting Rozanne and Kenely as he passed them exiting the Blackthorn Security Company.
Despite the area being poor and lacking options, Amon decided to head back to West Borough, trusting his memory to locate a decent place that sold roasted meat and desserts—something for both himself and Mr. Fool’s sweet tooth. He placed an order for two steaks, some sweet bread, and Mr. Fool’s favorite iced tea, intending to take it to-go.
As he stepped outside, he spotted Melissa again, this time accompanied by an older man who looked like her—most likely her surviving brother. He nearly waved, bored, but caught sight of their entrance into the Nighthawks church. They were still in black, still grieving; Amon wisely stayed put. People in mourning were no fun to talk to.
He idly surveyed the area, resisting the urge to “borrow” anything as per Captain Dunn’s instructions, until his food was ready. As he awaited a carriage back to the Blackthorn Security Company, he noticed Melissa and her brother exiting the church. A man in Evernight Church robes approached them, offering something they hesitated to accept but ultimately received with a bow.
Amon didn’t dwell on it—he found a carriage and stepped inside—but Mr. Fool’s offhand comment echoed in his mind:
‘That man wasn’t an Evernight follower.’
Amon’s interest piqued. Smirking, he thought back to Mr. Fool’s lessons and replied directly in his mind as taught. ‘So you can tell which people follow which gods?’
Mr. Fool’s deep, deliberate voice came slowly, casual yet heavy with intent. ‘…Kind of. The Nighthawks—the people who wear a crescent moon—they carry a distinct aura, a subtle weight. That man… he was drenched in another god’s scent. I haven’t observed many other orthodox gods’ followers, so I can’t say for certain whose.’
Scent? Was this some sort of omegaverse?
Amon bit back a wider smile and asked, intrigued, ‘So whose scent am I drenched in?’
‘Mine, of course,’ Mr. Fool replied, tone high and haughty, as if offended. ‘You are my Blessed.’
Amon hummed, mischief dancing in his mind. ‘So that means Mr. Fool has claimed me as his own?’
‘You… your mind is filled with nonsense. Focus on your studies. Tomorrow, you’ll visit that professor for history lessons.’
‘Alright, alright…’ Amon hummed, already looking forward to their shared meal above the gray fog. Throwing tantrums always worked great!
As Amon returned to the Blackthorn Security Company, he spotted Captain Dunn and hurried over with an eager greeting.
“Amon, glad to see you’re feeling better,” Dunn said warmly, smiling in relief. He seemed convinced that Amon’s day off had cured his recent bout of melancholy. “Did you enjoy yourself? I heard you mostly stayed in your room… Reading is a good habit, of course, but you also need exercise and sunlight if you want to grow properly.”
Amon basked in the attention—until it began veering too much into lecture territory. Cutting in before Dunn could continue, he quickly redirected the conversation.
“Captain! You know about that underground Beyonder market, right?” he asked, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “If you already know about them, why do you let them exist? Doesn’t that just mean more people might secretly become Beyonders?”
Of course, he already knew the answer. The question was only a stepping stone for his plan.
“These things will exist whether we fight them or not,” Dunn replied evenly. “Better that they operate in places we can monitor, in case trouble arises.”
“But isn’t it still dangerous?” Amon pressed, adding a childlike frown for effect. “There’s always something happening down there, yet no one pays attention unless disaster strikes. If we increased our presence, we could prevent problems before they happened—or at least gather clues in advance. We could save lives that way!”
Dunn paused to consider it. “Hm… It sounds reasonable, but…” He exhaled softly. “It isn’t practical. If the people there realize the Nighthawks are sniffing around, they’ll scatter. That would only make things worse.”
Amon’s lips curled into a smile. “So what you’re saying is… you’d need someone who fits in among the crooks, someone not recognized as a Nighthawk. Someone who already knows the underground scene.” He leaned forward, wiggling his eyebrows. “Doesn’t that sound an awful lot like a certain new recruit you just hired? How about it, Captain?”
Dunn’s answer was immediate. “No.”
Amon’s eyes widened. “What? Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous,” Dunn said firmly. “You’d be surrounded by unofficial Beyonders in a place too far for quick backup. Nighthawks work as a team, Amon. Sending you alone would break that rule, and sending two of you would draw attention.”
Amon pouted. This was important—he needed access to the underground to properly practice the acting method Mr. Fool had taught him. His potion pathway required acts that bordered on criminal, and if he didn’t find a workaround, Dunn’s suspicions would shut him down before he even got started.
“But Captain,” Amon countered, voice ringing with practiced passion, “Beyonder work has always been dangerous! I’d still be on standby for emergencies—it wouldn’t be any different than me waiting here at the Company. If anything, being stationed down there would shorten our response time and expand our reach. Isn’t our first duty as Nighthawks to protect the Goddess’s people and our city from extraordinary harm?”
‘Don’t speak another God’s name when you’re already my Blessed.’
He hadn’t even said her name!
Mr. Fool… I appreciate the jealous routine, really, but maybe now isn’t the time.
“Hm…” Captain Dunn tapped his pipe against his palm, thoughtful. Finally, he sighed. “Follow me.”
“…!” Did his plan actually work?
Amon practically skipped after Dunn as they ventured deeper into the Nighthawks base, into halls Amon had never seen before. Eventually, Dunn stopped before a heavy door and pushed it open.
A dim room stretched before them, lit only by rows of candles. The faint glow revealed stone slabs, each carved with a name.
“Is this… a cemetery?” Amon asked, startled.
“It’s a memorial,” Dunn replied quietly. His gaze softened as it swept across the rows of slabs. “Every Nighthawk who fell in the line of duty rests here. Which is most of them.”
“Oh…” Amon murmured, unsure why Dunn had brought him here.
“Do you know why most Beyonders die?”
“Fighting other Beyonders?” Amon guessed.
Dunn shook his head. “Because they lost control.”
“I see…” Amon had always known losing control was a risk. He hadn’t realized how common it actually was.
“Becoming a Nighthawk means living with that risk,” Dunn said. He reached into his coat and handed Amon a candle. Amon accepted, keeping his face carefully neutral while Dunn lit it for him. “Every name here belonged to someone who kept Tingen safe for years, along with the Beyonders from other Orthodox Churches. They are Tingen’s pioneers.”
Dunn motioned for him to place the candle. Amon stood before a stone and set it down among the hundreds already burning.
“That one belonged to a sharp young woman,” Dunn said softly. “She stayed at Sequence 9 for years, digesting her potion slowly. When she finally advanced…” He closed his eyes, pained. “She lost control and became a monster. We had to put her down. Leonard was a fresh recruit back then. Frye was present there too.”
“I’m sorry that happened,” Amon finally said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. Grief was strange to him—something he neither understood nor knew how to soothe. His father had tried countless times to instill sympathy in him, only to give up when Amon showed none, as though it were a defect expected of a child his age. Perhaps that was when his father’s affection began to fade, crumbling into dust that Amon tried—and failed—to grasp.
Now, in this bizarre world of gods, monsters, and powers beyond comprehension, he felt even more distant. All he could do was bide his time until he found a way back home. No matter how much of an asshole his father had been, he was still his father. And without Amon there, what if some manipulative woman drained him dry of everything he owned? His father was gullible like that—always trusting too much—so much so that even at five years old, Amon had felt it was his job to shield him from being cheated.
But going home meant leaving this world behind. Leonard, Rozanne, Kenely, Frye, Seeka, Captain Dunn… even Mr. Fool. He really was an unfeeling scum like everyone said, wasn’t he? He had cursed at Mr. Fool today for disappearing for two days, when he himself intended to abandon the god the moment he got the chance. His outburst had been nothing more than a crack in his composure—maybe homesickness, maybe fatigue.
Dunn, watching the conflict etched on Amon’s face, rested a hand on his head and patted gently.
“I just want you to understand the dangers of this world and this job,” Dunn said quietly. “I don’t want to see another name carved into the memorial hall—especially not one so young, so full of life.”
Amon didn’t even bother to get flustered this time. His thoughts were too tangled, circling endlessly around home. His real home.
“Why do you care?” he asked at last.
Dunn raised a brow. “Hm?”
“You only met me a few days ago. So why do you care?” There were plenty of orphans in worse conditions than he had been in. Compared to them, Amon had been lucky. In his experience, every act of love or kindness was selfish at its core—done in hope of return, or simply to feel better about oneself.
He frowned, bracing himself for a saccharine speech, some long-winded mess of sentimentality. Instead, Dunn’s reply disarmed him.
“Do people really need a reason to care about others?”
“That’s… not an answer.”
“It’s answer enough for me.”
Amon quickly changed the subject, feeling oddly lightheaded. “Why did she lose control?” He meant the woman whose name was etched into the stone where he had just placed his candle.
“Turns out she never digested her potion. Even after six years…” Dunn’s tone was heavy.
Digesting… That was exactly what Mr. Fool had lectured him about earlier that day.
“How long does it usually take?” Amon asked carefully.
Dunn sighed. “No one knows. That’s why no one is allowed to advance unless they’re certain. It usually takes years. Sometimes even ten aren’t enough for a Sequence 9.”
Ten years…
Amon’s stomach twisted. If he had to climb through the Sequences just to help Mr. Fool recover his powers and find a way home, then at this pace he’d die of old age before getting anywhere.
Sensing his Blessed’s frustration, Mr. Fool’s voice pressed directly into his mind:
‘Like I taught you—the acting method accelerates digestion. If you follow your Sequence’s principles, you can finish in just a few months, not years.’
“Of course, there are exceptions,” Dunn went on, unaware of Amon’s pensive stare. “Daly Simone—the Spirit Medium who interrogated you—took only two years to reach Sequence 7. Due to her high potential she was transferred to Backlund Church. Of course, geniuses like her aren’t common, so don’t take her case as a standard.”
Madam Daly… Yes, now that he thought back, she really did act like her potion’s name. maybe even that entire goth getup with blue eyeshadow and lipstick wasn’t her emo phase but her trying to follow the acting method.
But that also meant that she knew about the acting method. So then why hadn’t she shared it with her colleagues? Why let them stumble into death without that knowledge?
Amon quickly shoved those thoughts away and focused on what was in front of him. Right now, he had to win Dunn over.
“That’s exactly it, Captain!” Amon leaned forward eagerly. “If I go undercover in the illegal Beyonder markets, I believe help me digest my potion faster. I’ll gain practical knowledge, sharpen my abilities, and get in tune with them properly. Almost every young high-Sequence Beyonder I’ve seen embodies their pathway in some way—that’s got to be the key to digestion!”
Dunn studied his bright, animated face. A faint smile tugged at his lips, though his eyes still held doubt. “If you’re that certain… then fine. You’ll serve as our hidden informant in the underground Beyonder world.”
Amon lit up, cheering out loud.
“I’ll prepare the paperwork tomorrow,” Dunn continued. “But stay hidden. Avoid unnecessary danger. And I expect detailed written reports each week.”
“Of course! Anything you want, sir Captain!”
Before Dunn could react, Amon threw himself at him, wrapping him in a sudden hug.
Inside Amon’s head, a certain god nearly choked.