NOVEL NEXT Chapter 115: Observe and Report
The sound echoed through the observatory like an eager doorbell. On the far wall, a new, very large screen the Observer conjured up from nothing hummed to life. The white text written over pale pink banners; the system's neat rows scrolling up the newly made television.
Right Direction sat forward in her smaller recliner, fists clenched on the armrests, white knuckled and restless. The chair adjusted three clicks lower while her eyes tracked every line as the feed updated.
DING
[
[Delusional World] Iteration 6 - Anchor-Will Divergence.
Rollback: Original timeline (Greed's Deep Pocket)
Operation: Select one choice to alter…
Awaiting selection…
]
She swallowed hard. "Was it really…" she began, her voice tight. "Was it really okay to give her that skill? It seems a little… dangerous?"
"'Give?'" the Observer repeated, amused. He lifted one hand and the image on the screen sharpened; another long column of notifications obediently slid into a sidebar. "It's fine. She already had it on her tree. We just kicked it and that's what happened to fall loose." He stretched his legs, moving one lazy notch farther. "Not our problem that it was so far up."
Right's face went incredulous. "From… far up?" She turned to argue properly, only to catch the soft shuffling of fabric beside her, like an old snake shamelessly shedding its skin. Her Authority reflexively mapped the room… she regretted it instantly and threw her hands up to block line of sight. She shouted, "Master! What are you doing!?"
A modesty screen she hadn't noticed before, slate black, gilded edges, and the words 'MODESTY (Mk. II)' etched on the top rail stood between them. On the other side of it, the Observer paused mid-change and peered over the screen with all six of his empty eye sockets.
"What?" he asked, offended innocence coating his tone. "I have to change into my labor sweats. Overtime's coming."
He ducked back down, the shuffling resumed with the audible confidence of a man who had never once considered shame a useful law in Neel.
Right's ears heated. "M-My Authority is seeing through space!" she protested, staring hard at the tv screen as if eyeing the system logs would erase the other image from existence.
"Then turn it off," the Observer snorted loudly, as if projecting through a storm. "Or look away. This is all your fault by the way, remember that."
"How is-" she began, but then thought of the key, the temple, the lecture, the way she had peeked where she shouldn't. Guilt made its return perfectly and sat promptly in her throat.
Behind the screen, a string was drawn tight, something elastic thwacked softly, and a sleeve rustled in adjustment. The Observer continued, entirely unbothered. "Keep watch down there. It isn't over. Regardless of the outcome now, we'll have to be ready to move."
Right turned her back to the screen, nodded quickly, and molded herself to the recliner like a student bracing for a wordy test. "Okay. I won't miss a single instant."
"Good girl," he said, his tone half-praise, half-reprimand. "And lower your gaze. Your sight keeps perforating the modesty filter."
She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, then narrowed them at the big screen only. The system pinged with fresh lines.
DING
[
Provisional Acceptance: Anchor half-star fuel confirmed.
Restriction: Single choice modification only.
Candidate set updating…
]
The Observer's robe whispered; the leather of his Lazy Boy creaked as he settled deeper. Right pretended not to hear either. Her embarrassment was smothering her. She sat there, determined to give the screen her full attention.
"Iteration six," she murmured, trying to steady her breath. "Single choice. A blink, a refusal, an acceptance… maybe my prompt." She bit her lip. "Please just don't pick mine."
"Stop narrating," the Observer said mildly. "That's Upward's job. Just listen."
Right listened. The TV didn't have speakers, yet the dings carried out the screen like heartbeats. Somewhere far below, within a world that had learned to pretend, Hannya's pentagram drew another breath.
Right's hands tightened. "Father-" she caught herself and corrected, "Master, if this diverges wrong…"
"It will diverge," he replied, a rustle of cotton punctuating the certainty. "Right or wrong is a bookkeeping problem. Focus."
She obeyed. Right angled forward until the recliner whined and locked her in place.
"Overtime," the Observer announced from behind the modesty screen, as if he were declaring the dawn of war. "Begins now."
Right didn't look. She couldn't have even if she tried. All her gaze could hold was the abyss magnified on the television, a mist, a girl, a corpse that refused to ash, a bloom of pink light and the thin, stubborn line of a decision about to be different.
"I'm watching," she whispered, more of a vow than a report. "I won't blink."
~~~
[Path: I.97.F.543.U(?) - Current Timeline, Spiral Deviation 6]
"Since there's no Vainglory," she said to no one, or to a version of him that wasn't standing here, "there's no point."
Her eyes were hollow and far away, pupils turning the jagged spirals.
"Don't worry, my love," she whispered, to her idea, not to him. "I'll protect your memory… and then I'll follow."
The air rumbled and vibrated. The spiral began twisting horrifically, red threads filling the area and spreading rapidly.
Vainglory did three things very quickly and very quietly.
First, he checked the white chains, tension, angle, flex; cataloguing exactly how much give his chest had, how much the thorns in his shoulder and ribs would allow him to lean or twist without punishing him into stillness. Not much. But not zero.
Second, He measured Hannya's stance, breath, and the way the spiral behind her was coiling at breakneck speeds. He then saw a pink light in the hidden world, a polaroid flash, for half a breath that seemed to save this moment for eternity within the twisted ethereal veil.
The flash made his eyes tick backwards for a beat.
Then resume.
DING
[
Your [ All Seeing Eyes ] are adjusting...
]
Third, he brought Parallel Opinion back to heel. The ability had been beating on the door of his mind, yapping while he tried to reason with the devil woman. He let it in for one line of help.
'Burn it!' PO said at once, voice stripped of jokes. 'All of it. The essence of glory you kept for evolution, dump it now. Curses are gone; you can brute force out. You'll take damage, but if she tips into full Void Song without your heart to block it, you, and everything else goes with her. Move. Now!'
Parallel Opinion's calculus was ugly… reckless, and foolish.
'Pause [Parallel Opinion].' he said inwardly, not requesting this time. PO was useless now, the jokes seemed to replace its efficiency in judgement at this point.
For some reason, he felt his reliance on this tool would need to be… reevaluated.
Then, he spoke in the same tone he'd used to halt those who wanted to bleed him for nothing. "We continue, a truth for a truth." he said, with a calm none could feign.
The blade paused a finger's width from the draw. Hannya's eyes widened slightly in shock and anger at the callous response. The audacity of this pretender playing the role of her beloved, even when the case was closed!
Her mind considered all that…yet…the spirals in her eyes slowed a fraction.
"You've heard my truths and I've heard yours," he said. "More than I planned, but it's still three to two, if we're keeping accounts." He let the smallest sliver of dry humor into the words; he understood who he was talking to... Someone…unreasonable.
One didn't need to always flee or fight to deter the unreasonable. Adjustment was always an option as well.
At least for now.
He continued. "Now accept this truth: I did take an angel's gift and it sits on my neck because I allow it to," His eyes followed hers with a quiet tick. "but you seem to be writing a fantasy of your own making within that mind of yours. It is a symbol, nothing more, it is not me."
The thread pulsed once, the grey rope reddening enough to be noticeable in his unique spectrum. It didn't tighten, but it stopped losing ground.
Hannya's lips parted. She did not take her hand from the sword, but she also did not move it.
"And now your truth," he said, eyes still steady on hers. "You said fate showed you the world's path. And you said that path was meant to be walked by you and Vainglory." He tipped his chin the slightest degree. "When you say that name… which Vainglory do you mean?"
Her throat worked. The petals in her eyes resumed their clockwise turn, fighting the jagged spirals at the core. The answer hid behind her teeth. It wasn't for him, not yet. She held it and carried on.
"And what right do you have to that truth?" she said at last, calm and cold. "A starless and heartless being fishing for knowledge beyond your authority. Ask something else."
He did not look down at the six hollow stars. He didn't feed any insult or shame she might be staking her footing on. He watched the spiral instead and talked to the part of her that still wanted logic. Wanted hope.
"You reasoned a long time to get here," he said. "You made plans. You staged resources. You spent a year sending me offerings when Order ate your words. You are not reckless. You are not late. You are exactly on time for this step, and that step requires me breathing. We both know that."
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
That landed, he watched as her grip loosened. The spirals slowed another fraction. The red thread crept inward a steady amount and held.
"That pendant," she said, her jaw tightening. "It's hers."
'It's clear, she knows something important...' He noted it down, keeping his mind closed and focused. He continued.
"It is not hers," he said, and his voice sharpened in a way he rarely allowed. "It is mine. I keep it because I choose to keep it. Not because it has any claim to me."
"You're wearing her name," Hannya hissed, a crack in the calm. "You answered to it-" The spiral bucked. "You don't even know when you started to answer to the name Samael."
He didn't flinch from the strike. "Correct," he said smoothly. "So we find out. Together."
The word together wasn't soft. It was a plan. It was also, he admitted to himself, a request.
Her stance wavered. Not much, but enough. She was listening.
"Let me ask something simple," he said, capitalizing. "If you behead me here and now while I am chained and spiked, do you get Vainglory back? The one you mean?"
The spirals trembled. She opened her mouth, then shut it.
"No," he supplied when she didn't give it to herself. "You get a corpse and a problem. A very messy problem. One that undoes everything you've done until today."
A silence of realization followed.
Her face was very pale behind the veil. Two bright spots of color rode high on her cheekbones. The braid of panic, rage, hope, despair fought for dominance. The petals in her eyes rotated, then lost their pattern, then fought to find it again.
She looked at the pendant. She looked at his eyes, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he was still in there. She looked, once, at the empty stars over his heart and did not speak.
"Truth for truth," he said again, pressing while he could. "You can keep your big answers. Give me a small one. What did you expect to see today that is not here?"
Hannya's lips moved. The first answer that came to mind was not one she could say aloud without breaking herself open. She reached for a half-truth that would keep her standing.
"Not an angel's leash." she said, flat.
'Angel's leash…' Noted. The question was now in what sense.
"A leash that has never tightened around my neck," he answered just as flat. "If it ever does, you will be the first to know." A cut of challenge into his tone. "You seem well-positioned to take the head that deserves it."
Her mouth twitched. The spirals lurched, then stuttered.
The red thread pulled tighter.
The katana clicked in its sheath, indecisive.
She shook her head once, as if trying to dislodge the tangled thoughts that had caught. "I can't-" She swallowed and whispered, mostly to herself. "I can't lose you again before I get you."
'Again huh?'
"You haven't had me yet," he said, and almost smiled. "So you can't lose me."
That wasn't a line he usually allowed himself to deliver. But it worked anyway. The pick-up-artist edge to it met her catalog cleanly and registered as 'competent banter' instead of contempt. The petals steadied. The spirals shrank a size.
"Ask your next question," he invited, voice returning to even. "Take the time you need."
Hannya's focus narrowed with relief she didn't show. Questions were structure. And in this unexpected event, structure was air.
"How long," she said, back on the original vector as if she hadn't almost swerved into a crashout at all, "have you worn the pendant?"
'Hm, time matters? Possibly.' He filed it away anyway.
"Shortly before I was caged," he said. That much he recalled. "A little over six hundred years. Near that."
The thread warmed along its length, a steadying, subtle tightening began to flow.
"My turn," he added. "Why does my name matter this much to you?"
She stared at him for a long time. He watched the calculation, the self-protection, the possessiveness, and something like grief cross her face wrestle with the thoughts.
"Because the man I promised my life to," she said softly, "died without one." She gripped the blade a bit tighter. "I thought that if I could pull him out fast enough, if I could get to him sooner, he would wear a name I gave him, not the one she handed you like a brand."
'Ironic…but no fate mutation, yet she has visions of paths. Or experience with them. A temporal ability? Time travel? Unlikely, but not out of the realm of possibility… considering…' He let the thought drop, he could feel the door of his mind being stared at. His parallel seemed tired of spending time outside.
The abyss stayed tranquil, but the honesty stirred the air between them.
"And his name?" Vainglory asked. He didn't push. He just made room for an answer to exist.
Her eyes glowed, then dimmed. "You'll earn it, if you're still there, it should be easy..." she whispered. "Or you won't. If you don't, I'll remember him properly."
A tense silence settled again.
A long moment later, Hannya exhaled and let the sword rest on her hip. She didn't put it away. She did, however, step a half-step backward and out of the clean line that would have lopped off his head.
"Partner terms," she said steadily. "We revisit this after you can move." She flicked a sharp glance at the white chains and thorns across his head and body. "We were in the middle of a plan."
"Agreed." he said, feeling more at ease and guarded in equal measure.
She looked down at the pendant and then back up with eyes that weren't spiraling but still a tad too bright. "And I won't forgive her, never consider that." she added under her breath. "Even if you borrowed the name."
"I didn't borrow it," he corrected. "I took it."
For the first time since the pendant had shown, Hannya's mouth tilted in something close to a sneer.
She then made a sound from her nose Vainglory only ever heard from wild beasts.
'Disdain.' Noted.
She stepped to his side, chin lifting, and the petals in her eyes found their rhythm again. The jagged spirals gone and the one behind her dimmed down into the background.
She tapped two knuckles lightly against the air over a thorn root. "From the top. On my count. Shallow breath, hold then release. We find what the thorns punish and what they ignore. We do this together."
He nodded once. The ringed eyes rotated cleanly. The red thread lay between them, not tight, not slack, but present.
"Proceed." he said.
She took her stance, gaze fixed, aura smooth, the serrated blade angled down and away, a promise rather than a threat, for now. And though her pulse was still too fast and the name still felt like a sharp object lodged in her chest, she obeyed the count she set.
"One," Hannya murmured.
"Two."
"Three."
They moved as partners in the dark, measuring pain into data and data into a plan, while the gold pendant rested against his skin like a silent witness, and the spiral behind her waited for its next chance to rewrite reality.
~~~
DING
[
Outcome: SUCCESS.
Cause: Anchor influenced Axis's psychological state → de-escalation and cooperative tasking established.
Condition met: 1/1 - Path-to-love probability > 0. (Acceptable to record under resource-exhaustion policy.)
Notes: Axis suspects Anchor's identity. Anchor wary of Axis stability.
Logging event to current branch…
Pushing build…
Build error: Anchor causal path undefined.
Refactoring…
Reference located.
Refactoring…
[Red Thread Heart] → bound to Anchor.
Anchor's fate now tethered to Host (Axis).
Pushing build…
Request blocked.
[Delusional World] waves permissions.
Success: Event appended to Akashic Record (current branch).
Path diff discarded → replaced with "acceptable" deviation.
Path unbroken. Resuming current branch…
]
DING
[
World Laws: SUSPENDED.
The Seven Platforms turn their gaze toward [Six-Star Heart Devil]. Violation recorded.
A Trial has begun.
Vote in progress…
Result: 3 for erasure, 3 for existence, 1 abstention.
Tie → Default: Exile.
Trial log: The Reality-Twisting Devil will be sent to Exiled Space.
]
DING
[
Trial log: OBJECTION!
A [High God in Sweats] interjects on behalf of [Six-Star Heart Devil].
Merits submitted in vouch.
Platforms deliberate…
Merit accepted.
Revote…
Result: 3 for erasure, 4 for existence.
Sentencing canceled (no supermajority for erasure).
Rehabilitation initiated.
An [Auditor] points toward [Six-Star Heart Devil].
[Delusional World] forbidden by [Heptagrammaton Rule Seal].
A [High God in a Trench Coat] eagerly requests compensation for the delay.
Compensation granted.
The [High God in a Trench Coat] grins toward [High God in Sweats]; both look away, marginally happier.
[High God in Sweats] employs language banned from logging in an emotional episode.
Six Platforms resume duties.
One Platform continues monitoring [Six-Star Heart Devil] gleefully.
World Laws: RESUMING…
]
~~~
The Observer collapsed into his throne like a felled titan, hoodie darkened at the collar and under the arms, his chest rising heavily as if he'd just dragged a mountain uphill with his teeth. He tugged the hood forward until it shaded the top half of his empty eye sockets. He produced a cold bottle from behind his chair as if the Lazy Boy had always come with a secret mini-fridge.
He cracked the cap with his remaining strength.
"Heugh!"Crack.
Gulp. Gulp. Gulp.
A satisfied sigh then left him with the self-importance of a man who had fulfilled a long day's quota by standing for that devastating half a minute. He flexed his fingers, trying to bring back 'blood flow'; he even rotated a wrist as though tendons had been tested by heroic labor.
In the smaller recliner, Right Direction hadn't moved since the vote began and ended. She watched him with a pair of hollow red eyes that conveyed the precise amount of disappointment a daughter reserves for a parent who calls thirty seconds of standing 'overtime'.
The Observer glanced over, mid-chug, saw the look, snorted, and subsequently choked on his electrolytes.
He coughed, thumped his chest with a fist, and glared. "Don't give me that look!"
Right didn't even bother to blink. Her chair descended one polite notch to also improve blood flow. "What look, Master?"
"The 'my expectations took a nose dive' look," he snapped, lifting his chin, dignity rebooting while he looked down at her with his nose. "I'm out of practice at standing, all right? And for your information, I just saved the planes with that noble display. A little reverence would be sensible."
Right kept the same face, which somehow found a way to be more neutral. After a long second, she tilted her head a fraction of a fraction.
He snorted again. "Your standards are too high. You and Left," he waved a hand, "that chronic voyeur of the mortal world, two sides of the same coin if you ask me. Addicted to drama."
Right shivered as if someone had poured cold water on her homunculus spine. "I am not like Left," she said, a bit too quickly. Then, because she was a professional, she arranged her mouth into a crumpled smile and offered a stiff thumbs-up. "Very impressive, Master."
He squinted at the gesture.
But soon, her smile softened. Gratitude crept in where sarcasm had dug in. "Truly. Thank you… for… that." She nodded toward the glass dome without looking away. "It would have been much worse without you."
The Observer's hood dipped once, appeased by her sincerity. He settled deeper into the chair, tugged at the hoodie hem, and let the bottle rest on his stomach. "Good. Now, how are our two little disasters doing?"
Right turned to the dome and let her vision fall down through atmosphere and law and into Greed's deep pocket. Within, two figures worked in the glow of a pentagram that had decided not to be a pentagram anymore. She watched for a moment, then answered.
"They aren't killing each other," she reported. "But they aren't on very good terms either."
The Observer angled in his seat and peered down. Something flashed inside his empty sockets, a ripple of laws and authority. His tone warmed in interest. "Oh? Now that's interesting." A smile tugged under his hood. "An untethered anchor holding a spiraling soul in place."
He withdrew a new crazy straw from his sleeve, slid it into the Big Gulp sitting within arm's reach, and took two deep pulls.
Gulp. Gulp.
"Delicious." he finally declared, to no one in particular.
Right glanced over. "Is that truly… okay?" Her brows knitted; the smaller recliner adjusted to support her thought. "It takes both of them out of the flow of causality. No rails, no default branches. Wouldn't that make them worse than a branched soul?"
The Observer lifted one shoulder half heartedly under the hoodie. "Dunno," he said cheerfully. "Never seen it." A grin sat in the hood's shadow. "But the taste of this era just got more flavorful."
He tapped the big gulp in the cup holder, remembering something else, and clicked his tongue. "I'd thank Meddler if she hadn't blatantly robbed my merits during the trial."
Right's head whipped around so fast the chair's auto-safety pinged. "Y-you saw her? Was that her plan? To steal your merits?"
His mood soured for exactly three seconds. Then he sighed, drank, and let the cheer return. "No. That was a sub-step of a sub-step. Petty theft is how she keeps herself entertained between real moves." He twirled the straw. "Best to ignore her. We'll play by principle while she plays whatever it is she thinks is divine hopscotch." He tipped his hood at Right. "We win by doing what we do best, not by chasing sewer rats through alleys."
He let the words hang. "And what do we do best, Right?"
"Observe and gossip." she answered confidently.
His hood turned, offended. "Observe and report."
She winced, then smiled sheepishly as she used Left's definition. "Yes, Master. Observe and report."
"Better." he said. The chair rewarded the compliance by reclining half a notch on its own.
They sat with the dome for a while, not speaking. Watching the two in the abyss below.
Right spoke first, her tone wary. "The other Platforms will watch now. An Auditor has already pointed." She swallowed; the bottle in her hand suddenly lighter.
"Let them watch," the Observer said, and his voice carried an easy arrogance that had been earned over much longer Tuesdays. "They'll do their jobs and we'll do ours."
He lifted his Big Gulp to the window, a lazy salute to the abyss. "As for our pair… the Anchor is unnamed properly, suspicious, wounded, tethered to a Host who wants to rewrite the story with a flower and a knife." He smacked his lips. "If they don't kill each other or themselves in the next hour, we'll consider it a healthy start."
"Is that your professional metric?" Right asked dryly.
"It's Tuesday," he answered. "Theres always a curve on Tuesday." He shrugged.
He let his head fall back against the deep leather. "Also, since you seem determined to hold me to spectacle quotas, please record the following in our logbook: I stood. I spoke. I sweated. And I was Heroic." He wagged a finger without looking at her. "And I wont get baited into matching Meddler's fireworks. Principle, Right. Remember, we make the one move we must. Then we sit. We watch."
Right thought about the key, the temple, the box, the way his hand had come down like a gavel in the high realm trial-space, and the way the vote had tilted so smoothly. Her shoulders dropped a fraction, she couldn't see herself doing something like that seemingly without a shred of doubt, one move to change everything completely. "Understood." She looked back down. "Observe and report."
The Big Gulp made a hollow sound as the last of it climbed the straw. He sucked anyway, it would refill with time, then set the cup aside with a contented grunt and folded his hands over the front of his hoodie, the stitched word 'LABOR' faintly visible across the chest like a brand of humility he wore for laughs.
"Put the screen back up," he said casually. "Logs help me sleep."
A television the size of a chapel door blinked into existence on the far wall once again. The feed resumed, neat as ever.
DING
Right continued to read every line and felt her pulse settle into the quantifier's quite rhythm. "Master?"
"Hm?"
"If this goes well," she said, "will you ever stand again?"
"Don't be absurd," he replied naturally. "I'll stride."
A small laugh escaped her at that. She tucked her feet under herself and watched the pink bloom pulse again in the abyss fading out of existence, holding in place a girl who had refused to stop and a man who had dared not to blink.
"Observe and report." she repeated, quieter now, like a prayer.
"Atta girl." the Observer said, and let the chair recline one more notch as the cosmos went back to pretending it was normal.