Chapter Text
The cavernous lab, buried deep beneath the shattered remnants of the Island of Woe, was Idia's home now.
Three years. Three endless, soul-crushing years since the gates of Underworld had yawned wide open, spewing forth an apocalypse that Idia had unwittingly authored. The once-sterile halls of STYX were now a graveyard of rusting machinery and scattered debris, haunted by the echoes of screams that had long since faded into silence. Power was still on, Idia did everything he could to preserve it, but the overtaxed generators let out haunting whines from time to time, like a reminder that even this fragile sanctuary could fail at any moment.
Idia hunched over his workbench, fingers trembling as they soldered a delicate circuit into the hulking frame of his invention. The time machine, his "Chronos Reset," as he'd bitterly named it, loomed before him like a grotesque idol: a hulking amalgamation of forbidden tech, its frame welded from salvaged STYX alloy and inscribed with glowing runes that pulsed with energy. At its core, a swirling vortex of contained temporal magic churned erratically, held in check by a web of quantum stabilizers. Equations scrolled across the screens in an endless cascade, complex algorithms blending relativity theorems with arcane spells, variables twisting like thorns in his mind.If he could just stabilize the temporal rift... bend the fabric of reality back to that fateful moment in Tartarus... maybe he could undo it all.
But nothing aligned. Neither today, nor yesterday, nor for the past three years.
A soft, wet gurgle echoed from the shadows, pulling Idia from his trance. Ink, his sole companion in this hellish exile, padded into view on silent paws. The little phantom was an anomaly, a glitch in the blot-born horde that had ravaged everything. He looked almost like a cat, if cats were forged from nightmares: sleek obsidian fur that rippled like liquid ink, three luminous emerald eyes that blinked out of sync, and two sinuous tails that swayed lazily, occasionally intertwining like curious serpents. Sometimes, especially when he was stressed, blot leaked from his eyes and mouth in slow, viscous droplets, pooling on the floor where it hissed and evaporated into faint wisps of smoke.
Ink wasn't violent like the others. Idia had found him curled up in the ruins after the phantoms had swarmed out to conquer the world, perhaps a fragment of blot that had absorbed some stray kindness from the original Ortho's soul. Or maybe just a coincidence. Either way, Ink had stuck around, a silent witness to Idia's descent into madness.
"Ink... what is it?" Idia whispered. He didn't look up at first, his gaze fixed on the screen where a simulation ran its course, temporal coordinates flickering, then collapsing into error codes. Invalid rift stability. Paradox loop detected. The words mocked him, like another addition to his endless failures. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms until. "Don't distract me now. This coil's gotta hold or the whole thing implodes. Boom. Game over, no continues."
Ink hopped onto the edge of the workbench with grace, his tails curling around a loose bolt as if inspecting Idia's work. One of his eyes fixed on the machine's core, while the others darted to Idia's face. He let out another mewl, this one softer, almost concerned, and a fresh droplet of blot dribbled down his chin, splattering onto a circuit board with a sizzle.
Idia finally glanced at him, a ghost of a smile flickering briefly across his lips. "Heh... you're the only one left who doesn't hate me, huh? Or maybe you do, and you're just too glitchy to show it." He reached out slowly, his hand hovering for a moment before gently scratching behind Ink's ears. The phantom leaned into the touch, purring with a low, gurgling rumble that vibrated through the workbench. It was a small comfort, this ritual, the warmth of Ink's fur against his skin. But even that couldn't stave off the tide.
The hopelessness crept in again, slow and insidious, wrapping around his thoughts like the blot that had once consumed him. Out there, the world was gone. Phantoms roamed unchecked, devouring cities, twisting landscapes into inky wastelands. He'd seen the feeds before the networks went dark: screams, people dying, families torn apart as shadows engulfed them.
The phantoms were led by... by what used to be Ortho. His little brother whom he'd tried to save, only to watch as the phantom fusion devoured whatever humanity remained. At first, Idia had clung to the delusion: This is for Ortho. A new world, free from the curse, where we can be heroes like in Star Rogue. But then he saw the citizens in the residential district, their faces frozen in terror as shadows engulfed them. The staff of Styx, loyal to the end, torn apart in the chaos.
And Ortho... no, not Ortho anymore. That thing had grown insatiable, its voice echoing with a hunger that twisted Idia's gut. Power-hungry and violent, a monster that spoke in his brother's voice, spreading ruin across continents while Idia wandered the empty island, stepping over corpses that stared accusingly at him.
Because of me, he thought. I let it happen. I let them out. I... I killed everyone. Tears welled up, but he blinked them away furiously, refusing to let them fall. Not now. He couldn't allow himself to spiral into another panic attack. It wouldn't accomplish anything it'd only scare Ink.
"Focus, Idia," he told himself. "You've got the tech. You've got the brains. Time travel's not some OP cheat code, it's science. Whatever. Just... fix the variables."
His hands shook as he picked up a wrench, tightening a bolt with unnecessary force. The hopelessness lingered, a black fog at the edges of his vision, but he shoved it down, buried it under layers of code and calculations. Giving up meant accepting the endgame, and he wasn't ready for that bad end route.
He turned back to the display, forcing his fingers to type in a new variable set. "Come on... just one breakthrough. That's all I need. Stabilize the chronal flux, punch through the veil... go back to that moment. Stop the thaw. Save everyone." His voice cracked on the last word, but he pushed on, recalculating the equations for what felt like the thousandth time. The simulation ran again: lines of code weaving through simulated timelines, probabilities branching. For a heartbeat, it held, rift opening, coordinates locking, then it shattered.
Error: Temporal entropy overflow. Reset impossible.
Idia slammed his palm against the workbench, the impact jolting Ink into a startled leap. "Damn it! Why won't it work?!" He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The depression clawed at him, a black abyss whispering that it was hopeless, that he was deluding himself with this pipe dream.
Calculations after calculations, prototypes after prototypes, all failures. The math didn't add up; the magic rebelled. But it was his anchor, his obsession, the only thing keeping him from curling up in the ruins and letting the darkness take him for good. Without it, what was left? Just guilt, endless and suffocating.
Ink moved closer cautiously, nuzzling against Idia's arm with a insistent nudge. The phantom's blot-drool smeared across his sleeve. Idia lowered his hands, drawing in a shuddering breath. "Sorry, Ink... didn't mean to scare you." He scooped Ink into his lap, holding the little creature close like a lifeline. "We'll try again tomorrow. Or... tonight. Yeah. Can't stop now."
---
The next day Idia woke on the narrow cot shoved into a corner of the lab, his body stiff from another night spent half-curled over blueprints. His mouth tasted like stale copper and regret. He didn’t bother checking the time; clocks had stopped meaning anything long ago.
He dragged himself upright, joints popping in protest. The first thing he did was shuffle to the coffee machine. He dumped yesterday’s grounds into the filter, added fresh water from the purifier tank, and waited while the machine gurgled like it was dying.
While the coffee dripped, he opened a dented tin of nutrient paste (gray, flavorless sludge that claimed to contain “complete daily macros”) and squeezed a generous dollop into a chipped ceramic bowl. Ink stirred at the smell, three mismatched eyes blinking open one after another. The little phantom stretched, tails curling lazily, then padded over and began lapping at the paste with careful, dainty movements.
“There you go, little guy,” Idia murmured, voice rough from disuse. He was thankful Ink wasn't particularly picky. “Eat up.”
He swallowed the rest of the paste himself in three mechanical gulps, washing it down with coffee. Then he headed for the small decontamination shower stall bolted to the far wall. The water came out lukewarm and faintly metallic, but it was better than nothing. He stood under the spray for exactly three minutes, scrubbing mechanically, letting the water sluice away the ever-present stink of blot residue. When he stepped out he pulled on the Styx uniform. The fabric hung looser on him now. He’d lost weight he hadn’t had to spare.
By the time he returned to the lab proper, the coffee had done its job, just enough to blunt the edges of exhaustion without giving him real energy. He sank back onto the stool in front of Chronos Reset and woke the main terminal with a sluggish wave of his hand.
The same error messages stared back at him, mocking in their clinical red font.
Temporal entropy overflow.
Paradox coefficient exceeds safe threshold.
Rift collapse probability: 98.7%.
Idia exhaled through his nose. “Okay. Fine. We try the secondary stabilization matrix again. Adjust the dampener by… 0.004%. Recalibrate the anchor point.” His fingers flew across the holographic keyboard, muttering half-sentences under his breath. “maybe… maybe the interference pattern cancels just enough…no, still spiking at t-minus seven seconds… stupid, stupid, why won’t you just work...”
He was deep in the numbers when the alarm shrieked. A single, piercing klaxon, short, sharp, repeating. Surface breach alert.
Idia froze. His heart slammed against his ribs hard enough to hurt.
The Island of Woe had been forced to the surface almost a year ago. The submersible systems had begun failing one by one: pumps seizing, pressure seals cracking, air recyclers coughing black smoke. He hadn’t dared risk going under again. Drowning in the dark while the last of the oxygen hissed away had seemed like a particularly pathetic way to die.
But surfacing meant exposure. Anyone who still remembered the island’s coordinates, and who still had the means to reach it, could come.
Phantoms wouldn't return to their prison though, they had no reason to. The world was their playground now.
Unless…
Idia’s stomach lurched. Unless it was *him*. The thing that used to be Ortho. The fused monstrosity, his little brother's voice distorted into something layered and wrong, always whispering the same invitation: Come with me, nii-chan. We can finally explore the world together. We can be free.
He glanced at Ink. The phantom cat was still curled on the edge of the workbench, three eyes closed, two tails wrapped loosely around his small body. Breathing slow, peaceful.
If the thing that used to be Ortho were close, if that towering, blot-drenched horror were approaching, the little phantom would have felt it. Would have bristled, eyes wide and glowing, blot leaking, tail lashing. Ink was sensitive to concentrated blot the way a normal cat was sensitive to sudden noise.
Right now, Ink was asleep.
Idia swallowed. “Probably nothing,” he told himself. “Probably just… a malfunction. A bird hitting a sensor. Or wind. Or… something.”
He stood anyway.
The corridors were so dark he could barely walk through them. Emergency lighting had mostly failed; only sporadic strips of cold blue glowed along the baseboards, turning the halls into long black tunnels punctuated by dying rectangles of light. Debris littered the floor, overturned carts, shattered monitors, papers curled yellow with age and damp. The walls bore long scorched streaks where phantoms had torn through in the first hours of the breakout. Some of the scorch marks still looked wet.
Idia walked slowly, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. He reached inward for his magic, testing the well. It answered sluggishly, a thin trickle of power, a shadow of what it used to be. The Shroud family curse had always burned through blot faster than normal mages accumulated it; now, with most of the island’s phantom population gone and the ambient blot levels drastically lower, the curse was burning through his magic, and his reserves were dangerously shallow. Ink’s presence was the only thing keeping him from complete burnout.
He turned the final corner and stood before the central elevator shaft, the one that connected the deep labs to the surface dock. Just then, a soft chime echoed down the shaft, then the car arrived with a tired mechanical groan.
The doors slid open and out stepped Riddle Rosehearts.
He was taller now. Not dramatically so; the three years had simply matured him, pared away the last traces of boyhood softness, his frame lean and hard. The coat he wore was practical: dark, heavy fabric reinforced at the joints and chest with subtle matte-black plating, high collar turned up against the chill, sleeves ending just above gloved wrists.He was dressed for utility, maybe battle. A long, straight sword hung at his hip in a plain black scabbard, the hilt wrapped in worn leather, the pommel scarred from use. His gloved hand rested lightly on it. His posture was ramrod straight.
He'd changed, but his eyes were the same. Big, gray and cold as steel. They locked onto Idia without hesitation or surprise.
For a long moment neither of them spoke.
Riddle took one measured step forward. His eyes swept over Idia once, slowly, taking in the disheveled hair, the too-large STYX uniform hanging off bony shoulders, the hollow cheeks.
“I thought you might be dead,” Riddle said. His voice was calm, almost conversational. Then it sharpened. “But no. You really are hiding here after bringing the world to ruin. Have you no shame?”
The words felt like a slap. Idia's hair flames sputtered, , he took one involuntary step back.
“D-did you come to kill me?” The question came out small and cracked.
Riddle’s eyes narrowed to slits of winter gray.
“Kill you?” He let the word hang for a beat, letting it curdle in the air between them. “You don’t deserve such kindness.”
Another step forward. The elevator doors hissed shut behind him with a tired clang.
“No,” Riddle continued. “I came here to ensure you take responsibility for your actions. You are the only person left alive from the Shroud bloodline. You have more knowledge of phantoms than anyone still breathing, and you have the technical skills we desperately need. We need you to take things under control. You will come with me.”
Idia stared at him. The words refused to parse at first. They floated there, alien and impossible, while the equations in his head, the temporal flux ratios, the anchor-point recalibrations, kept spinning on autopilot. The fragile thread of hope he’d been clinging to with bleeding fingers.
“I…” Idia’s mouth moved before his brain caught up. “I don’t have time for this.” The words came out thin, unsteady, almost pleading. “I’m working on something and I’m close-”
“You don’t have time for what?” Riddle snapped, composure cracking for the first time. His gloved hand tightened on the sword hilt. “Helping us fight the chaos *you* unleashed? Do you know what the world looks like outside of your pathetic little hideout?”
Idia flinched as if struck.
“People die every day,” Riddle went on, voice rising with cold, controlled fury. “These monsters won’t stop spreading. Entire cities are gone, swallowed by blot. Do you want to know how many have died since that night three years ago?”
Idia’s heart hammered so hard it hurt, a painful thud-thud-thud against his ribs. The guilt rose like bile, sour and choking, flooding his throat. He could feel the weight of every name, every face he’d never known but had still condemned. Villages. Cities. Families. Children. All because he’d cracked open the gates of Underworld and let the nightmare out.
“No, no, no!” The denial burst from him, desperate, almost a sob. He shook his head violently, hair whipping across his face. “I will fix it all. I just have to finish the time machine-”
Riddle stared at him, then gave a disbelieving scoff.
“Time machine?” he repeated, the words dripping with contempt. He tilted his head slightly, gray eyes narrowing as though trying to decide whether Idia was lying or simply broken beyond repair. “You are delusional.”
Idia opened his mouth, words already forming, frantic and defensive. “I’m so close, I just need-”
Riddle didn’t let him finish.
“And even if it’s real,” he cut in, voice low and cold enough to frost the air between them, “then what?You go back in time. You ‘fix’ your mistake. But what happens to the rest of us?” Riddle’s gaze never wavered. “To everyone who survived the first wave? To the people who clawed their way through three years of this nightmare while you hid down here? Do we simply disappear?” His lip curled in distaste. “Or do we remain here, in this ruin, in this world you helped create, while you get to walk away clean?”
Idia froze. The question struck deeper than any accusation of shame or cowardice had. Because Riddle wasn’t wrong.
Idia’s own calculations, run through hundreds of simulations, had already answered that question months ago. He hadn’t wanted to think about it too closely, but the possibility had been there all along. It was most likely that the timeline would branch, but the original continuity would be preserved. There'd be no overwrite.
That meant could go back. He could stand in Tartarus again, watch Ortho’s hand reach for the thaw controls, and stop him. He could seal the gates before the phantoms ever tasted open air.
But this timeline, this blot-stained hell, would continue.
The people still alive out there (the survivors huddled in fortified pockets, the scavengers, the fighters, the children who’d never known a world without shadows) would keep living in it. They wouldn’t vanish, they wouldn’t be spared. They would be left behind in the branch he abandoned.
His breath hitched, shallow, too fast. The corridor seemed to tilt. His hair flickered, throwing erratic shadows across Riddle’s impassive face. He trembled so badly he nearly dropped down onto the floor. His chest felt tight, like something iron was closing around his ribs.
“I can’t-” The words came out fractured. “I can’t just- accept this. It’s temporary. It has to be temporary. So many people died- because of me- so I have to undo it- I have to-”
His voice cracked. Panic clawed up his throat, suffocating. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to block out the corridor, Riddle, the weight of everything.
Then he heard a soft thump and a low, wet hiss.
Ink had appeared. The little phantom dropped from a shadowed ledge overhead and landed between them, three emerald eyes wide and glowing, two tails lashing in sharp, agitated arcs. Blot dripped from his mouth and eyes, pooling beneath him in dark, shimmering puddles. His small body was arched, fur bristling, fangs bared in a soundless snarl directed squarely at Riddle.
“A phantom,” Riddle said flatly. His sword came free in one smooth, practiced motion, steel rasping against leather with a clean, lethal whisper. The blade caught the weak cyan light.
“No!”
Idia threw himself forward without thought, placing himself between the sword and Ink. It was clumsy and desperate, he nearly stumbled into the point of the blade.
“He’s not hostile!” Idia’s voice cracked again, higher now, pleading. “Don’t- don’t hurt him. Please.”
Ink pressed tight against the backs of Idia’s legs, trembling but still growling low in his throat. Blot-slick fur brushed Idia’s calves; a fresh droplet splattered against the tile with a soft hiss.
Riddle held the sword steady for another long, agonizing second.
Then, slowly, he lowered the blade.He slid back into the scabbard, but his hand remained on the hilt, ready.
“How fitting,” Riddle said quietly. His gaze flicked from Idia’s hunched, protective stance down to the small, blot-dripping creature half-hidden behind him. “That your only friend… is a monster.”
It was cold and emotionless, as though Riddle were stating an obvious and mildly distasteful fact.
Idia ignored the sharp, twisting ache behind his ribs, ignored the way Riddle’s winter-gray stare bored into him like it could peel skin from bone. He couldn’t look up, couldn’t meet those eyes again.
Instead he bent slowlty and reached down with both arms. Ink was still trembling, small body rigid, three eyes locked on Riddle, blot leaking in steady dark tears from the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth. The little phantom hissed again, softer this time, more uncertain.
“Hey,” Idia whispered, voice cracking. “Shh, it’s okay. We're okay.”
He slid one hand under Ink’s belly, the other curling protectively around the phantom’s narrow shoulders. Ink’s fur felt cool and sleek against his palms. The blot drool immediately soaked into the sleeves of his robes, leaving dark, glistening patches, but Idia didn’t flinch. He lifted the small creature carefully, cradling him against his chest.
Ink resisted for half a heartbeat, tails lashing once, twice, then went still. The low growl faded into a faint, gurgling rumble. One of his tails curled loosely around Idia’s wrist; another draped over his forearm. The three mismatched emerald eyes blinked slowly, one after another, as though reassessing the threat. Blot dripped onto Idia’s collarbone, warm and sticky, but he only tightened his hold.
Then he finally looked at Riddle. Riddle's expression was unreadable, jaw set, posture rigid, but his eyes tracked the protective gestures with something that might have been clinical interest or revulsion.
“You seem to have more compassion for this *thing*,” he said at last, each word pronounced with icy clarity, “than for all the people you killed.”
The accusation was flat, delivered like a verdict already written and sealed.
Idia’s throat closed. His eyes burned, hot, stinging. He blinked a few times, refusing to let the tears fall. Ink shifted in his arms, pressing closer, small head tucking under Idia’s chin as though trying to shield him from the words. Idia inhaled shakily, chest hitching as he braced himself.
“I’ll go with you,” he said, quiet but steady.
Riddle’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind the steel in his gaze, surprise, perhaps, or calculation as he reassessed his plan.
Idia lifted his head just enough to meet Riddle’s eyes again. His own were wet, his vision blurry, but he didn’t look away this time.
“But my work,” he continued, voice trembling at the edges, “and Ink… I take them with me. And you make sure nobody hurts him. ”
He tightened his arms around the phantom just enough to feel the faint, irregular thrum beneath Ink’s ribs, whatever passed for a heartbeat in a creature made of blot and glitch. Ink chirped again, softer this time, almost questioning.
Riddle studied him for a moment, then he exhaled, short, impatient.
“Fine,” he said. The word carried no warmth.
He turned half toward the waiting elevator, gloved hand still resting lightly on the sword hilt.
“Gather what you need,” Riddle added without looking back. “We leave in thirty minutes. Anything you can’t carry stays behind.”
Idia blinked at Riddle’s back.
“No,” he said quietly.
Riddle paused then urned just enough for Idia to see the sharp line of his profile.
“I have to dismantle the machine,” Idia said. His voice gained a fraction of strength, not defiance, exactly, but something closer to exhausted necessity. “The core’s still unstable. If I just yank the power it’ll cascade and take half the lab with it. I need to pull the temporal coils, drain the reservoir, pack the components into shielded crates so they don’t interfere with each other in transit. The data drives alone… there are six of them, and they’re fragile. I can’t just throw them in a bag.”
He shifted Ink’s weight in his arms, the small phantom now calm enough to rest his head against Idia’s collarbone.
“Three hours,” Idia finished. “At least.”
Riddle turned fully now, gray eyes narrowing.
“Three hours.”
Idia nodded once, mechanical.
“And we’ll need transport,” he added. “One of the STYX air vehicles. The old dropships are still in the surface hangar. The phantoms never bothered with them; they don’t fly. They’re big enough for the crates, the equipment, and… us.”
Riddle regarded him for another long moment, expression unreadable. Then he gave a single, curt nod.
“Three hours,” he repeated. “Not a minute more.”
He turned back toward the elevator without another word, boots clicking once against the tile as he stepped inside.
Idia stood there for a moment longer.
Three hours.
Three hours to dismantle three years of desperate, bleeding hope.
He pressed his cheek against the top of Ink’s head and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he turned toward the lab corridor.