KamiKowa: That Time I Got Transmigrated With A Broken Goddess

Xavier's muscles coiled like a spring under tension. The guards expected him to lunge at Haverford, to play the role of the desperate hero making one final, futile charge. Their positioning screamed it—bodies angled to intercept, weight shifted forward on the balls of their feet, ready to tackle him before he could reach their master.

Instead, Xavier dove sideways toward the stone plinth.

The journal. Torval's research. The only proof of what had been done to seven children, the only evidence that might convince someone—anyone—to help them. His fingers closed around the leather binding just as the nearest guard realized his mistake and pivoted, sword whistling through empty air where Xavier's head had been a heartbeat before.

The plinth's carved surface provided perfect purchase for his boots. Xavier planted his foot against the volcanic stone and launched himself upward, using his momentum to reach the stained glass window that dominated the chamber's far wall. The ancient glass depicted Hearthome's founding—robed figures raising their hands toward a mountain crowned with flame, their faces serene and hopeful. How tragically naive they looked now.

His shoulder struck the window dead center.

Glass exploded outward in a cascade of colored fragments, each shard catching the volcanic light like falling stars. The sound was tremendous—a crystalline scream that echoed through the chamber and beyond. Sharp edges sliced through his borrowed noble's clothing, drawing lines of fire across his arms and chest, but Xavier tucked the journal against his ribs and rolled through the opening.

He landed hard on a narrow stone ledge that jutted from the fortress wall, volcanic rock scraping against his palms as he caught himself. Below him, Hearthome spread out in terraced layers, the city's lights twinkling like earthbound constellations against the mountain's dark slopes. The drop was easily fifty feet to the next level—survivable, maybe, but not without broken bones.

Behind him, the guards shouted orders to each other, their voices sharp and professional. But something was wrong with their urgency. They sounded more like actors hitting their marks than soldiers responding to a genuine emergency.

"Through the window!"

"Block the east corridor!"

"Don't let him reach the lower levels!"

Xavier pressed himself against the fortress wall, breathing hard. The King's Gaze stirred in his mind, offering tactical analysis he didn't want to hear. They're herding you, the alien presence observed with clinical interest. Notice how they're cutting off every route except—

"Shut up," Xavier muttered through gritted teeth.

He edged along the ledge, looking for another way down. The volcanic stone was warm beneath his hands, heated by the mountain's internal fires, but the night air bit at his exposed skin through the tears in his clothing. Behind him, he could hear the guards moving through the chamber, their boots crunching on broken glass.

But they weren't pursuing him through the window. Why?

The answer came when he reached the ledge's end and found a maintenance ladder bolted to the wall—old iron rungs that descended toward the next terrace. Too convenient. Too obvious.

This wasn't an escape. It was a guided tour.

Haverford had known exactly what Xavier would do when cornered. The positioning of the guards, the convenient placement of the plinth, even the fragile window—all of it had been choreographed to funnel him down a specific path. The Duke wasn't trying to capture him. He was letting him run.

But why?

Xavier grabbed the ladder's top rung anyway. What choice did he have? Even if this was part of Haverford's plan, staying put meant certain death. At least this way, he had the journal. At least this way, he might warn the others.

The iron was slick with condensation from the volcanic vents, making each handhold treacherous. Xavier descended as quickly as he dared, the journal pressed awkwardly against his chest. Above him, he could hear voices at the window, but no one followed. The guards were content to watch him climb down into whatever trap awaited below.

The next terrace was narrower than the one above, barely wide enough for the service walkway that ran along the fortress wall. Xavier dropped the last few feet and immediately sprinted toward what looked like an access tunnel. Behind him, torchlight flickered at the window, but the guards made no move to pursue.

They're tracking you, the King's Gaze informed him. The journal has been marked. Every step you take is being monitored.

"Of course it is," Xavier breathed, but he kept running. Even if Haverford was tracking him, the journal still contained evidence. Still held the truth about what had been done to Calypso and the others.

The service tunnel was cramped and poorly lit, forcing Xavier to duck as he ran. His footsteps echoed off the stone walls, creating a rhythm that sounded almost like a heartbeat. The passage sloped downward, following the mountain's natural contours, and Xavier could feel the temperature rising with each step, the volcanic heat seeping through the ancient stone beneath his feet. Sweat beaded on his forehead as the air grew thicker, carrying the unmistakable scent of sulfur and molten rock.

The journal pressed uncomfortably against his chest as he navigated the narrow space, its edges digging into his skin with every labored breath. The weight of its secrets seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment, as if the very knowledge it contained was trying to drag him down into the mountain's fiery depths.

He reached a junction where three tunnels met, each one leading deeper into the mountain's bowels. Here, finally, he encountered resistance—two guards standing at attention, their faces hidden beneath the visors of their helmets. But even their positioning felt wrong, too formal, like sentries at a ceremony rather than soldiers trying to stop an intruder. Their stances were too perfect, too rehearsed, as if they were actors in a play rather than men hunting a fugitive. It was another piece of the elaborate trap Xavier had willingly walked into.

"Halt!" one of them called, raising his sword. "You're under arrest by order of Duke Haverford!"

Xavier feinted left, then dove right, rolling past the second guard's clumsy grab. The man's movements were sluggish, hesitant, as if he was more concerned with avoiding injury than preventing escape. Xavier gained his feet and kept running, choosing the rightmost tunnel at random.

More corridors. More turns. Each passage led him deeper into the mountain's heart, where the air grew thick with sulfur and steam. The walls here were older, carved from living rock rather than fitted stone, and Xavier could hear water dripping somewhere in the darkness ahead.

He was completely lost.