Chapter Text
Author's Note: If I'm not mistaken, this is quite possibly the first ever Familiar of Zero x TWEWY crossover fic made, to my public knowledge at least. Which is honestly surprising given how the concept of Neku becoming Louise's familiar is an inherently interesting premise in my opinion. Isolated loner who's gradually beginning to see (or rather, reacknowledge) the value in humanity who finds himself suddenly paired up with one of the most explosive and mercurial tsunderes in anime? Tell me that's not a recipe for interesting character work in the making. I guess the unfortunate nature of TWEWY's rather obscure popularity probably has something to do with that because honestly, you can probably make a LOT of crossover work with Neku as the conduit.
Well, hopefully I do the concept justice.
Disclaimer: Familiar of Zero is owned by the late Noboru Yamaguchi and the World Ends with You is owned by Square Enix. I owe none of the works presented here.
XXXXX
Why?
That single word clawed at Neku Sakuraba's mind, a relentless echo that refused to fade. It gnawed at him, sharp and persistent, as he stood in the Room of Reckoning, the air thick with the weight of betrayal. The faint hum of Shibuya's distant chaos lingered in his ears, muffled by the oppressive silence of this final chamber. His headphones were perched on top of his ears, useless now—no noise to block out, no crowd to escape. Just him, the cold steel of the gun in his trembling hand, and the smug figure standing across from him.
Three weeks. Three grueling weeks in the Reapers' Game, a twisted dance of life and death that had stripped him bare. It started with him waking up in the Scramble Crossing, memory wiped clean, a Player Pin clutched in his fist like some cruel joke. Back then, he'd been a jagged edge—introverted, bitter, and spitting sarcasm at anyone who dared get close. Shibuya's overcrowded streets, its blaring noise, and its suffocating press of humanity had always repulsed him. He'd worn his headphones like armor, drowning out the chatter of people he didn't understand and didn't want to understand. Friends? A liability. Society? A leash he'd rather snap than wear.
Each week had taken something from him—his entry fees carved out of his soul. First, his memories, leaving him a hollow shell stumbling through Shibuya's Underground. Then Shiki Misaki, his partner from that chaotic first week, her bright eyes and stubborn warmth ripped away as the price for round two. And now, in this third week, every last player—every voice, every fleeting connection—stolen by the Reapers' cruel hands. All of it led to this moment, standing here with grit under his nails and a gun he didn't want to hold.
Just minutes ago, he'd thought it was over. He, Shiki, and Beat had faced down Megumi Kitaniji, the Composer's right hand, in a battle that shook the depths of the Shibuya River. They'd won—barely. Neku's psychs had flared wild and fierce, pinning Kitaniji's Noise form to the ground as Shiki and Beat delivered the final blows. He'd felt a flicker of something then—hope, relief, pure trust—but it shattered the second Joshua stepped into the room.
Yoshiya Kiryu. Joshua. His partner from the second week, the smug bastard who'd danced on Neku's nerves with his cryptic quips and holier-than-thou smirk. Neku had hated him at first—his arrogance, his detachment—but somewhere along way, betwwen exploring Shibuya, dodging Taboo Noise and trying to unravel Joshua's mind, he'd let his guard slip and formed a bond with him. Joshua had taken a hit for him, or so it seemed, vanishing in a blaze of light that left Neku screaming his name. Dead. Gone. Another loss to carve into his chest.
Except he wasn't dead. He stood here now, pristine in his grey shirt and ash-blond hair, twirling a gun like it was a toy. The truth hit Neku like a fist: Joshua had killed him. Shot him dead at the CAT mural in Udagawa, all to drag him into this game as some kind of proxy. And now, here they were, in a duel to decide Shibuya's fate.
"Neku, you might want to raise that gun," Joshua said, his voice smooth as silk, laced with that infuriating amusement. He tilted his head, violet eyes glinting under the dim light. "This is a duel, after all. Winner gets to be Shibuya's Composer. Don't tell me you've forgotten already?"
Neku's grip tightened, the metal biting into his palm. "You're a monster," he spat, his voice raw, scraping against the silence.
Joshua's lips curled into that damnable smile. "Neku? You'd better pick up that gun. I mean, this is going to be a duel. Rules are simple—I'll count down from ten, and on zero, we shoot. Easy, right?"
"Don't screw with me, Joshua!" Neku's shout echoed off the walls, his chest heaving. The gun felt heavier now, a lead weight dragging his arm down. He wanted to throw it, to lunge at Joshua and wipe that smirk off his face, but his feet stayed rooted.
"I assure you, I'm not." Joshua's tone was maddeningly calm, like he was explaining a math problem. "Life's little crossroads are often as simple as the pull of a trigger."
Neku's breath hitched. His mind raced—images of Shiki, Beat, Rhyme, Sota, Nao, Ken Doi, the Prince, the kids he played Tin Pin with—all of them flashing behind his eyes. He'd changed in these three weeks, hadn't he? The walls he'd built, the ones he'd hid behind with his headphones and his hatred, had cracked. He'd let people in, let them matter. And now Joshua was asking him to throw it all away, to shoot or be shot.
"Neku…" Joshua's laugh was soft, a chime in the stillness. "Your face is priceless. Don't you remember what Mr. Hanekoma told you? About trust, about the world?"
"I'm just…" Neku's voice faltered, his throat tight. He couldn't finish the thought. Anger and confusion coiled in his gut, a storm he couldn't unleash.
"Oh, before I forget!" Joshua's eyes gleamed as he raised a hand, casual as ever. "I've collected your entry fee. All set now. Let the game begin. Ten… nine…"
The countdown started, each number a hammer against Neku's skull. His hand shook, the gun wavering as he looked down to the ground, tears building up in his eyes before they fell to the ground.
Was...was this really all it was supposed to end? Everything he went through, every painstaking bond he made that tore at his walls further and further...was it all just part of Joshua's plans?
"Eight… seven…"
A feellng of white hot-rage embroiled within Neku, his left hand gripping the gun to the point that veins were seen on it.
That bastard...how dare he?! He...he thought he finally found someone he can relate to. Someone who got it. A friend he can open up to. Except it had all been a lie. Of course it was. Of fucking course it was. And like a complete idiot, he fell for it.
"Six… five…"
He raises his gun up, arms trembling in rage as he aims it at the bastard responsible for everything he had gone through. He's going to do it. He has to. Because if he doesn't, Shibuya is going to be destroyed. Everything he and the others fought for will be destroyed. Those same noisy streets he had initially despised that he had grown to love-all of it will be gone. He remembered Kitaniji talking to him with a smile, telling him that it's all up to him before disappearing and suddenly, he understands why the Conductor did all of the things he did, even if it was to preserve what would've been a hollow shell of the city he loved. So yeah, he'll do it. He's going to take the shot and save Shibuya.
So why the fuck couldn't he pull the trigger?
"Four… three…"
Suddenly the gun he had been holding up felt heavier than anything Neku had ever held in his life and he felt his arms dropping to his sides. This was stupid. What was he doing?! If he didn't take the shot, he was going to die! Shibuya as he knew it was going to die! All of it at the hands at someone who straight up admitted that he used and manipulated him the entire time! If anything, that should be fueling his rage more! So come on, pick the gun up already!
But try as he might, Neku found that he couldn't do it. He wouldn't do it. Because for some godforsaken reason, the thought of shooting Joshua felt like a punch to the gut that knocked all of the wind out of him. The same prissy, annoying partner who had led him around on a string, all to fulfill his own machinations.
Why? Because despite it all...
He still trusted him.
Joshua's finger rested lightly on his trigger, his expression unreadable.
"Two… one…"
Shibuya deserved to live, its messy, noisy heartbeat worth saving. Shiki, Beat, Rhyme, everyone, they all deserved to live.
But not like this.
Not when it required him to kill someone he still considered a friend.
"Zero," Joshua whispered.
BANG!
There was a sharp piercing pain in his stomach and Neku fell to the ground. As the world around him grew dark, he had only one thought.
"Is this what I get for putting my trust in someone else?"
Louise Françoise Le Blanc de La Vallière was not having a good day. The sun blazed over the Tristain Academy of Magic's courtyard, its warm embrace doing nothing to soothe the storm brewing in her chest. Her pink hair glinted in the light, but her usually pristine academy uniform—a crisp white blouse, black cloak, and pleated skirt—was slightly askew, the collar loosened in a rare lapse of decorum. Her polished leather shoes scuffed the dirt of the summoning circle, where she stood, wand in hand, facing the weight of every expectant stare from her peers. The air buzzed with their whispers, sharp and mocking, each one a needle to her already frayed pride.
She'd failed at magic before—too many times to count—but this was different. The Springtime Familiar Summoning Ritual was her chance to prove she wasn't a failure, to silence the snickers and her family's disappointed sighs. Her nature warred within her: the noble poise she clung to battled against the impatient, reckless urge to scream.
"Oh, hello there, Zero! I'm positively looking forward to the amazing familiar you're going to summon!" A voice she (unfortunately) knew all too well spoke up behind her. "Here's hoping it doesn't blow up in your face. Again."
Louise looked over and had to resist the urge to immediately spit out unpleasantries that would send both of her sisters keeling over in shock and force her mother to wash out her mouth with soap at the sight of the brown-skinned girl, who was nearly twice as tall as she was. One of her eyes was obscured by a front lock of her long, fiery red hair. Part of her uniform was unbuttoned, as if trying to purposely emphasize her shapely figure. Especially if it meant doing so at her expense. Nearly everything about her sent Louise's nerves on edge.
"Die in a fire, Zerbst." She finally said in a flat tone, immediately looking away from her rival, as Kirche von Zerbst only smiled in amusement at the girl's helpless anger while her familiar curled around her leg, waving its flaming tail without a care in the world.
"...You do realize that I'm a fire-?"
"I know what I said."
Of course Zerbst just HAD to summon a Fire Salamander on her first try. She couldn't just get any other plain old familiar, oh no, she just had to get one of the more impressive ones out there. And that wasn't even getting into Tabitha summoning a WIND DRAGON of all things, just to make her feel even more positively inadequate.
"I'll show them," she muttered under her breath, her voice a mix of defiance and desperation. Her small hands trembled as she gripped her wand, the wood smooth but heavy with the burden of her need for recognition. The incantation was on her lips, ready to be spoken when she was called, but doubt gnawed at her. What if she failed again? What if she summoned nothing—or worse, something pathetic?
Finally, it was her turn to be called and Louise made her way to the center of the courtyard.
Professor Colbert, standing nearby, adjusted his spectacles and gave her an encouraging nod, his robes billowing slightly in the breeze. "Whenever you're ready, Miss Vallière," he said, his tone kind but laced with the same pity she loathed. Louise's cheeks flushed, her temper flaring.
She didn't need pity.
She needed power.
She straightened, tossing her head back with a haughty air that masked her fear. "I am ready," she snapped, her voice louder than intended, drawing a few stifled laughs from the crowd. Ignoring them, she began the chant, her words sharp and deliberate, each syllable fueled by her desperation.
She couldn't fail.
She wouldn't fail.
Louise's voice rang out, sharp and unwavering, as she raised her wand high, its tip glinting in the harsh sunlight. "My familiar that exists somewhere in this vast universe!" she declared, her words echoing across the silent crowd.
Montmorency de Montmorency, clutching her frog familiar, tilted her head, her blonde curls bouncing. "What kind of spell is that?" she asked, her voice dripping with skepticism. The frog croaked in her arms, its slimy body glistening, a perfect match for her haughty demeanor.
"Whatever it is, it's original, that's for sure," Guiche de Grammont replied, his own curly blond locks falling artfully over his forehead. His large mole familiar nuzzled his calf, its earthy fur brushing against his polished shoes, and he flashed a charming grin, though his eyes flicked to Louise with a mix of amusement and pity. "Let's see if the Zero can pull this off."
Louise's jaw tightened at the nickname, her temper flaring, but she pressed on, her wand trembling slightly. "My divine, beautiful, wise, and powerful servant, by the power of the pentagon of five elements, heed my call!" Her voice grew louder, almost frantic, as she poured every ounce of her will into the spell. The air around the summoning circle began to hum, a faint vibration that sent a ripple of unease through the crowd. Her cloak billowed again and her leather shoes dug into the dirt as she braced herself, her small frame taut with effort.
Tabitha d'Orléans, standing apart from the others, peered over the edge of her small book, her blue hair framing her pale, impassive face. Her dragon familiar, Sylphid, lounged nearby, its scales shimmering in the sunlight. Tabitha's eyes, usually distant, sharpened with curiosity at Louise's improvised spell, her fingers pausing on the page. She said nothing, but the slight tilt of her head betrayed her interest.
"I wish and assert from the very bottom of my heart, appear!" Louise's final words erupted with a force that surprised even her, her voice cracking with raw emotion. The ground shook violently, and a blinding green portal tore open above the circle, its edges crackling with chaotic energy. Gasps rippled through the crowd as the air grew heavy with the scent of ozone and something fiercer—scorched earth, like a wildfire barely contained. Louise stumbled back, her wand still raised, her breath hitching. The portal pulsed wildly, as if struggling to contain whatever was on the other side.
Louise felt her heart swell. This was it! She was finally going to prove herself worthy of the Valliere name! All of the jeers, all of the mockery, all of it would be laid to rest! Her all-powerful familiar was finally here!
Then the explosion happened.
BOOM!
When a sudden, deafening blast, the magic circle erupted, sending a plume of thick, acrid smoke that billowed upward, swallowing Louise whole and sending a ripple of gasps—and a few choked coughs—through the crowd.
Professor Colbert raised a hand, his weathered face creasing with concern as he peered through his spectacles. "Miss Vallière! Are you alright?" he called, stepping forward, his tunic fluttering in the sudden gust.
The smoke began to clear, revealing Louise still standing in the center of the circle, her petite frame trembling but intact. Her cloak was slightly askew, the gold brooch glinting dully, and her white blouse bore a faint smudge of soot across the chest. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face, her pink hair now a wild tangle cascading past her knees. "I—I'm fine!" she snapped, her voice cracking with irritation as she tried to regain her composure. Her eyes darted around, searching for her familiar.
"Please, let it be something magnificent…"
And then she saw him.
The smoke dissipated fully, leaving the courtyard in a stunned hush as Louise stared at the figure sprawled before her. A boy with fiery orange hair that jutted out in wild, messy spikes beneath an odd indigo contraption perched on top of his head. He lay on the grass, one bleary blue eye cracking open, a sheen of moisture catching the light as he blinked up at the unfamiliar sky. His slender frame shifted slightly, and Louise caught the hard, pained edge in his gaze as it swept across the gawking students, the stone walls of Tristain Academy, and finally settled on her.
He was a strange sight, unlike any creature she'd ever glimpsed in the bestiaries or heard of in tales of summoning. His sleeveless shirt clung to his narrow chest, its absurdly large funnel collar flaring out like some jester's ruff, an indigo stripe slashed down the middle with gold trim that gleamed faintly in the dawn and he had a strange, white oval-shaped object around his neck. A yellow sweatband circled his left wrist, stark against his pale skin, and his white shorts sagged low, cinched by a loose belt that seemed more decorative than functional. His black shoes, laced with the same indigo and gold motif as his shirt, scuffed the dirt as he pushed himself up onto one elbow, his movements sluggish, almost reluctant.
Louise's breath caught in her throat. This wasn't a majestic dragon or a manticore. Hell, it wasn't even anything ordinary like say, a dog. This was… a person. A boy, only a few centimeters taller than she was, with a sharp-featured face and a posture that screamed exhaustion. Her classmates erupted into murmurs, a tide of snickers and gasps rippling through the circle. Kirche's laughter cut through the noise like a blade, rich and mocking.
"Well, well, Zero!" Kirche called, sauntering forward with Flame, her familiar, trailing behind her, its tail leaving faint scorch marks on the grass. "You've outdone yourself this time! What is that—a stray from some backwater village? Or did you summon a clown to entertain us?" She tossed her fiery red hair over her shoulder, her unbuttoned blouse shifting to reveal the curve of her collarbone, a deliberate flaunt that made Louise's fists clench.
"Louise the Zero strikes again!" Someone called out, and a ripple of laughter followed.
"Shut up!" Louise snapped, her voice shrill as she whirled to face the crowd. Her cheeks burned, the heat creeping up her neck as she felt the weight of every stare. She then turned to the boy and her heart sank, a cold weight settling in her stomach. She hoped for a dragon, a griffin, something magnificent. Hell, she would've been happy with a cat! And instead, she got him.
A commoner.
She clenched her fists, her wand trembling in her grip, the wood biting into her palm as her knuckles whitened before she turned to Professor Colbert. "Please, let me try the summoning one more time!" She pleaded with him, but to her utter dismay, he only shook his head.
"I'm afraid I can't allow that, Miss Valliere." He said. "Once you are promoted to a second year student, you must summon a familiar, which is what you just did. Your elemental specialty is decided by the familiar that you summon. It enables you to advance to the appropriate courses for that element. You cannot change the familiar once you have summoned it because the 'Springtime Familiar Summoning' is a sacred rite. Whether you like it or not, you have no choice but to take him in."
Louise's fists clenched, her nails biting into her palms. Well, fine. If that's how it was, she'd show them. She'd make this commoner into the greatest familiar this academy had ever seen!
But first, she needed him to actually stand up.
Turning to the boy with her hands on her hips, her pink eyes narrowed at him. "You there, get up! You're my familiar now so act like it!" She snapped at him. She then recalled the ceremony she would have to perform to officially make him hers and flushed. No use worrying about that now, she told herself.
The boy in the strange clothes remained crumpled on the grassy courtyard, his slender frame heaving with uneven, ragged breaths. His shoulders jerked up and down in a stuttering rhythm, as though his body couldn't decide whether to collapse entirely or fight to rise. Louise opened her mouth to snap at him again but the words died on her tongue as his voice broke through the air, raw and jagged with pain.
"Why?" he rasped, barely audible at first, the single word trembling like a leaf caught in a storm. His orange hair fell into his face as he tilted his head upward, one blue eye glinting wetly through the mess of strands. A tear traced a slow, glistening path down his cheek, cutting through the faint dust that clung to his pale skin. The courtyard fell silent, the jeers and snickers of Louise's classmates snuffed out as if a heavy curtain had dropped. Even Kirche's smug grin faltered, her eyes widening slightly as she stood with Flame coiled at her feet, its fiery tail flickering uncertainly.
Before Louise could demand what he meant—her lips parting, her brow furrowing in confusion—the boy's voice erupted again, shattering the stillness as he yelled out to the sky, arms spread out.
"WHAT THE HELL?!"
His cry tore into the heavens like a blade through cloth as tears streamed freely down his face, his sharp features twisting into a mask of anguish. His voice cracked on the final word, echoing off the stone walls of Tristain Academy, raw and unrestrained, a sound that carried not just anger but a deep, festering wound. The crowd flinched as one, some students stepping back instinctively, their smug amusement replaced by a stunned, uneasy quiet.
As abruptly as the outburst had begun, it ended. It appeared that it had taken all of the boy's remaining energy for he crumpled back to the earth with a soft thud, his orange hair splaying across the grass like spilled fire. His chest rose and fell faintly, the yellow sweatband on his wrist streaked with sweat and grime, his white shorts rumpled and stained from his collapse. He was out cold, his face slack, tears still clinging to his lashes, a fragile figure in the midst of the summoning circle's fading glow.
Professor Colbert stepped forward, his tall frame casting a shadow over the scene, his eyes softened with concern. He adjusted his glasses with a steady hand, peering down at the unconscious boy. "Good heavens," he murmured, his voice low but firm, carrying the weight of a teacher accustomed to handling the unexpected.
He knelt beside the boy, his knees pressing into the grass as he reached out with careful fingers to check for a pulse. The boy's skin was clammy, his breathing shallow but steady, and Colbert's brow creased as he took in the boy's ragged appearance. The turmoil etched into his voice had been unmistakable.
Louise stood frozen, her wand still clutched tightly in her small hand, her pink eyes wide as she stared at the boy. Her pink hair swayed gently in the wind, the long waves brushing against her thighs, but her usual fiery indignation was muted, replaced by a flicker of something softer—confusion, perhaps, or the faintest stirrings of pity. Around her, the courtyard remained hushed, the students' earlier mockery swallowed by the weight of what they'd just witnessed.
Colbert rose to his feet, brushing dirt from his tunic as he turned to Louise. "Miss Vallière," he said gently, his tone devoid of the judgment she so often braced herself for. "He appears to have endured something… significant. We must tend to him." With a quick mutter, he casted the levitation spell and Louise watched as the boy was gently lifted up in the air and was held there as if there were invisible strings around him. Professor Colbert then turned to the students with an air of authority. "Class is dismissed for today. You may all return to your quarters for the time being."
The students lingered for a moment, their whispers buzzing like flies as they stole glances at the boy and Louise. A few boys cast appreciative looks at Kirche before drifting away, while others shuffled off with their own familiars—owls perched on shoulders, a frog hopping at one girl's heels, a sleek cat weaving through the crowd. Louise looked at the dispersing crowd before turning to walk with Colbert with the boy in tow.
The infirmary wasn't far—just past the main hall, down a corridor lined with tapestries depicting ancient battles and magical feats. The air inside was cool and faintly herbal, the scent of lavender and antiseptic wafting from the open door. A stout woman with graying hair pinned into a tight bun bustled out to meet them, her white apron crisp over a simple brown dress. "What's this now?" she asked, her voice brisk as she took in the boy's limp form. "Another student hurt themselves already?"
"Not a student, Matron," Colbert replied, levitating the boy onto a cot near the window. The mattress creaked under his weight, and sunlight spilled across his face, highlighting the tear tracks still drying on his cheeks. "A familiar, it seems. Miss Vallière summoned him."
The matron raised an eyebrow, her hands on her hips as she studied the boy. "A human familiar? That's a new one." She leaned closer, her sharp eyes scanning his strange clothes—the funnel collar, the gold-trimmed stripes, the loose belt—and clucked her tongue. "Poor lad looks like he's been through a war. I'll fetch some water and a cloth. You two wait here."
As the matron bustled off, Louise crossed her arms, glaring down at the boy. "You'd better wake up soon," she muttered, her tone laced with irritation but undercut by a flicker of unease. "I didn't summon you just to lie there like a corpse." Her eyes lingered on his face—those sharp features softened in unconsciousness, the faint tremble of his lips—and for a moment, she wondered what had torn that scream from his throat. But only for a moment. She straightened up, brushing her cloak back with a huff. "You're going to be the best familiar this academy's ever seen, whether you like it or not."
The dining hall of Tristain Academy buzzed with the usual clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation as Louise pushed through the heavy wooden doors. She clutched a wooden tray in her small hands, her knuckles whitening around the edges as she braced herself for the onslaught she was sure awaited her—Kirche's barbed laughter, the snide whispers of her classmates, the inevitable jabs about her "pathetic" familiar. Her pink eyes flicked upward, scanning the long tables, ready to snap back at the first jeer.
But it didn't come.
The air felt… off. The students sat in their usual clusters—nobles in their crisp uniforms, chattering amongst themselves—but the energy was muted, strained. No one met her gaze directly. Instead, heads dipped low over plates of roasted pheasant and steamed greens, forks scraping ceramic with exaggerated focus. One boy muttered something to his friend, his voice a hushed rasp, and the friend nodded quickly, casting a sidelong glance at Louise before looking away. One girl froze mid-bite, her spoon hovering as Louise passed, then resumed eating with a nervous twitch.
Louise's brow furrowed, her lips parting slightly as she slowed her steps. This wasn't mockery. This was… unease. Her tray wobbled faintly in her grip, a bowl of broth and a hunk of bread sliding an inch before she steadied it. She caught snatches of their whispers now, carried on the warm, savory air of the hall.
"…screamed like he was dying…"
"…never heard anything like that…"
"…what is he?"
She straightened, her chin lifting as a flicker of pride battled the confusion in her chest. So that orange-haired wreck had shaken them, had he? Good. Let them stew in it. She marched toward the serving table, her shoes clicking sharply against the stone floor, and piled the tray with more food—a slab of buttered bread, a wedge of soft cheese, a steaming ladleful of broth thick with carrots and herbs. The cook, a stout man with a sweat-stained apron, barely glanced at her, his meaty hands trembling slightly as he stirred a pot. Even he seemed a bit rattled.
As she turned to leave, a shadow loomed across her path. Kirche leaned against the edge of a table, one long leg crossed over the other, her red hair spilling over her shoulder like a curtain of flame, her eyes gleaming with something sharper than usual—not just mockery, but a glint of curiosity.
"Well, Louise," Kirche said, her voice low and syrupy, "your little clown's got everyone jumping at shadows. Quite the trick for a Zero." She tilted her head, resting her chin on her hand, her painted nails tapping against her cheek. "What's his deal, anyway? Did you summon a banshee by mistake?"
Louise's grip on the tray tightened, the wood creaking under her fingers. "He's my familiar, Zerbst," she shot back, her tone biting as she stepped closer, her small frame dwarfed by Kirche's languid height. "And he's worth ten of that overgrown lizard you call a pet. So keep your nose out of it."
Kirche's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile, but she didn't press further. Instead, she straightened, brushing her hair back with a casual flick. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of stealing your spotlight, darling. It's too entertaining watching you flail." Kirche then sauntered off, her hips swaying with every step.
Louise stood there for a moment, her chest heaving with a sharp breath. The muttering around her hadn't stopped—soft, persistent, like the drone of insects. She glanced at the tray, the steam from the broth curling upward, and felt a strange twist in her gut. They weren't laughing. They were scared. Of him. Of that broken, screaming boy lying in the infirmary. And somehow, that made her shoulders square a little more as she turned on her heel and headed back.
The infirmary door creaked as she nudged it open with her hip, the tray balanced precariously in her hands. The matron was gone—probably off fetching bandages or gossiping with the staff—and the room lay quiet save for the faint rustle of the boy's breathing. He was still sprawled on the cot, his orange hair a wild halo against the pillow. The sunlight had shifted, casting long shadows across his face.
Before she could set the tray down, the matron bustled in from a side room, her stout figure filling the doorway. Her gray bun sat primly atop her head, though a few wisps had escaped during her rounds, curling against her ruddy cheeks. The white apron over her brown dress was smudged with faint stains—herbs or broth, perhaps—and her hands clasped together as she fixed Louise with a brisk, no-nonsense stare. "Oh good, Miss Vallière, you're back," she said, her voice carrying that rough-edged warmth of someone used to dealing with chaos. "I've had a look at him while you were gone."
Louise paused, the tray hovering over a rickety side table as she turned to face the matron. "And?" she demanded, her tone sharp with impatience, though a flicker of curiosity softened the edges. "Is he dying or just useless?"
The matron clucked her tongue, stepping closer to the cot with a rustle of fabric. "He's fine, far as I can tell. No cuts, no bruises, no fever—just skin and bones under those odd clothes of his. Must've passed out from exhaustion, or something like it." She tilted her head, peering down at the boy with a mix of pity and bemusement. "Though," she added, her voice dropping conspiratorially, "he's been muttering in his sleep. Most of it's gibberish—nonsense sounds, really—but he keeps going on about 'partners' and 'games.' Over and over, like a broken clock."
Louise's brow furrowed, her small hands finally setting the tray down with a faint clatter. "Partners? Games?" she echoed, her gaze snapping back to the boy, who shifted slightly on the cot. His lips parted, a faint mumble escaping—"Not again… partners…"—before his head lolled to the side, his orange hair spilling across his face like a curtain of fire.
"See? There he goes," the matron said, folding her arms over her chest. "Poor lad's got something rattling around in that head of his. Might be delirium, might be something else. Either way, he's not fit to do much yet." She glanced at Louise, her sharp eyes softening for a moment. "You'll have your work cut out for you, missy. Feed him that broth if you can get him to sit up. I'll be back with some blankets."
With that, the matron turned and shuffled out, her heavy footsteps fading down the corridor. Louise stood there, her arms crossing tightly as she glared down at the boy. The dining hall's unease still lingered in her mind—those hushed whispers, the way the students had avoided her eyes. Whatever he'd done out there, that scream had sunk its claws into them. And now this—mumbling about partners and games like some half-mad fool. She huffed, brushing a strand of pink hair from her face with an impatient flick.
Her gaze drifted from the boy's muttering lips to a small, glinting object pinned to his rumpled shirt. A black disc, no larger than a coin, with a stark white skull etched across its surface. It stood out, even amongst his strange attire. Her curiosity piqued, she leaned closer, the wooden tray of broth and bread forgotten on the side table. Her fingers, small and trembling slightly, reached out and plucked the pin from his chest. She turned it over in her palm, the cool metal catching the dim light of the infirmary.
Then her world shattered.
A torrent of voices—dozens, hundreds—slammed into her mind like a tidal wave, each one distinct yet overlapping in a deafening roar.
I failed the exam again…
Does she even notice me?
That stew was awful today…
Why's Zerbst always so smug?
The thoughts weren't hers—they were raw, unfiltered, pouring from every corner of the academy. She saw flashes of faces she knew: Kirche's sly grin, Colbert's furrowed brow, the cook's sweaty grimace, even students she'd never spoken to, their fears and petty grudges spilling into her skull. Her vision blurred, the infirmary's stone walls warping as if underwater, and her knees buckled.
Louise crumpled to the floor with a sharp gasp, the pin slipping from her fingers to clatter against the stone. The voices vanished as abruptly as they'd come, leaving her ears ringing in the sudden silence. Her chest heaved, her pink hair spilled across her face like a tangled veil. Her pink eyes were wide, darting frantically as she clutched her head, her wand rolling a few inches away.
"What the hell was that?!" She thought, her pulse hammering so loud she barely heard the creak of the infirmary door.
The matron bustled in, blankets in her arms, only for her stout frame to pause mid-step as she spotted Louise on the floor. "Miss Vallière!" she exclaimed, her gray bun bobbing as she set aside the blankets on the desk near her and hurried over. She knelt with a faint grunt, her calloused hands hovering over Louise's trembling shoulders. "Good heavens, girl, what's happened? Are you hurt?" Her sharp eyes flicked to the boy on the cot—still unconscious, his orange hair fanned out, his breathing steady—then back to Louise, concern etching deeper lines into her ruddy face.
Louise sucked in a shaky breath, her fingers scrabbling across the floor until they brushed the fallen pin. She flinched but didn't pick it up, her gaze locked on it like it might bite. "I—I don't know," she stammered, her voice thin and unsteady. "I touched that… thing, and it—it was like everyone's thoughts just… exploded in my head!" She shoved her hair back, her cheeks flushed with a mix of panic and indignation, as if the pin had personally insulted her noble blood.
The matron frowned, glancing at the skull-etched disc. "That little trinket?" she muttered, reaching for it but stopping short, her hand curling back warily. "Never seen a familiar come with something like that. Might be enchanted—or cursed, knowing your luck." She offered Louise a hand, her grip firm as she helped the girl to her feet. "Come on, up you get. No use panicking till we know what's what."
Louise's legs wobbled as she rose, the matron's firm grip steadying her like an anchor in a storm. Her eyes, wide with a cocktail of fear and fascination, locked onto the black pin lying innocently on the stone floor, its white skull graphic glinting faintly in the infirmary's dim light. The pin looked so small, so unassuming, yet it had just ripped her mind open, flooding it with the chaotic chatter of a hundred strangers. She swallowed hard, her throat dry as parchment.
What in the Founder's name was that thing?
The matron hovered nearby, her stout frame radiating practicality despite the wary glance she cast at the pin. "Best leave it alone for now, miss," she said, her voice gruff but tinged with caution. "No telling what else it might do." She nudged the pin with the toe of her worn leather shoe, scooting it a few inches away, as if it were a venomous bug.
Louise nodded absently, her gaze drifting to the boy on the cot. He hadn't stirred, his orange hair splayed across the pillow like a wildfire frozen in time. His sharp features were slack, softened by exhaustion, but those blue eyes—half-open now—held a glint of something raw, like a blade dulled but not broken. Everything about him screamed wrong—not just foreign, but impossible. Familiars could speak, sure, or fly, or breathe fire like Kirche's smug salamander. But this? A boy with a pin that cracked open minds?
She crossed her arms, her small hands gripping her elbows as if to hold herself together. "What are you?" she muttered, barely above a whisper, her voice laced with equal parts irritation and unease. She'd heard tales of familiars with odd gifts—owls that saw through walls, wolves that sang prophecies—but nothing like this. Nothing that could make her feel so exposed, so violated, as if every secret in the academy had been shoved into her skull at once.
The boy mumbled again, his lips twitching as his head shifted against the pillow. "…game's not over…" The words were faint, slurred, but they sent a shiver down Louise's spine. Partners. Games. Now this. It was like he was trapped in some fevered dream, dragging fragments of it into her world. She stepped closer, her leather shoes scuffing softly against the stone, and leaned over him, her shadow falling across his face. "Hey," she snapped, her voice sharper now, trying to mask the tremor in it. "Wake up already. I'm not hauling food here for you to sleep through it."
His eyelids fluttered, but he didn't fully rouse. The matron, still lingering, clicked her tongue. "Give him time, Miss Vallière. Whatever he's been through, it's left him wrung out like an old rag." She gestured to the tray on the side table, where the broth had stopped steaming, its surface now flecked with congealed fat. "Try getting some of that into him when he's up. I'll fetch a fresh pitcher—water might do him more good than broth right now." She shuffled toward the door, her heavy steps echoing faintly before fading into the corridor.
Louise huffed, brushing a strand of pink hair from her eyes with an impatient flick. Her gaze slid back to the pin, still lying where it had fallen, its skull leering up at her like it knew something she didn't. She wanted to grab it again, to demand answers, but her stomach twisted at the thought of that cacophony rushing back. Instead, she dragged a wooden stool closer to the cot and sat, her pleated skirt fanning out over her thighs. The infirmary was quiet now, save for the boy's uneven breaths and the distant chirp of birds outside. She leaned forward, resting her chin on one hand, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "You'd better be worth this," she muttered, her voice low but fierce. "I didn't summon you to make a fool of me."
Somewhere deep in her mind, a spark of something else flickered—not just pride or frustration, but a strange, reluctant curiosity. Whatever he was, whatever that pin had done, it was hers to unravel.
And she'd be damned if she let it break her first.
The infirmary's quiet was shattered as the boy's blue eyes snapped open, wide and wild with terror. He jolted upright on the cot, the thin mattress creaking under his sudden weight, his slender hands clawing at his chest as if trying to rip something free. His orange hair, already a chaotic mess, stuck to his sweat-slicked forehead.
"JOSHUA!" he screamed, the name tearing from his throat in a raw, desperate howl that echoed off the stone walls. His voice cracked, splintering into a heaving gasp as he doubled over, his fingers digging into the fabric over his heart.
Louise flinched, nearly toppling off the stool where she sat. "What the—calm down, you idiot!" she snapped, her voice shrill but unsteady, her small hands hovering uselessly in the air as she stared at him.
The boy didn't seem to hear her. His breaths came in sharp, ragged bursts, his sharp features contorted with panic. His eyes darted around the room—past Louise, past the chipped ceramic bowl on the side table, past the tray of congealed broth—searching for something, someone, that wasn't there. "Joshua…" he muttered again, quieter now, his voice breaking into a hoarse whisper as his hands fell limp into his lap.
Louise's lips parted, a retort ready to spill out, but she caught herself. Something about the way he said that name—Joshua—made her pause. It wasn't just fear; it was betrayal, raw and bleeding, like he'd been stabbed in the back and was still feeling the knife. She glanced at the black pin with the white skull, still lying on the floor where she'd dropped it, and a shiver crawled up her spine.
"What kind of familiar are you?" She thought, her fingers twitching as if itching to grab her wand—or maybe the pin again, despite herself.
The matron's heavy footsteps broke the tension, appearing in the doorway with a clay pitcher clutched in her hands. "Founder's mercy, what's all this shouting?" she demanded, face creasing with concern as she took in the boy's hunched form and Louise's startled stance. She set the pitcher down with a thud, her sharp eyes flicking between them. "Miss Vallière, is he alright? And you—still shaken from that tumble, I wager?"
Louise shook her head quickly, brushing her hair back with a trembling hand. "I'm fine," she said, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. "He just… woke up screaming about some 'Joshua.' Scared me half to death." She shot the boy a glare, but it lacked her usual venom, her curiosity gnawing at the edges of her anger.
The matron knelt beside the cot, her knees popping faintly as she leaned closer to the boy. "Easy now, lad," she murmured, her tone softening as she rested a calloused hand on his shoulder. He flinched at the touch, his blue eyes snapping to her face, but he didn't pull away. "You're safe here, whoever this Joshua is. No need to go hollering like that." She glanced at Louise, her expression a mix of reassurance and warning. "Might be he's still half-dreaming. Let's get some water in him—might clear his head."
The boy's ragged gasps slowed, his hands still clutching his stomach as his wild blue eyes darted around the infirmary. The stone walls, the chipped wooden beams overhead, the faint lavender scent clinging to the air—it all seemed to hit him at once, his sharp features twisting with confusion. "Where… where am I?" He rasped, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Am I… alive?"
Louise, still standing rigid by the stool, blinked at the question, her head tilted in disbelief. Alive? The word jolted her, absurd and unsettling all at once. Her eyes narrowed, her small hands balling into fists at her sides, the navy cloak slipping further down one shoulder. "What kind of stupid question is that?" she snapped, but her voice faltered, lacking its usual bite. The boy's panic felt too raw, too real, to dismiss as nonsense.
He didn't seem to hear her. His gaze dropped to his hands, trembling as they pressed against his middle, fingers digging into the fabric of his white shorts. "No… I'm positive he shot me," he muttered, his voice cracking like thin ice.
The matron stepped closer to the cot and leaned in, one calloused hand resting gently on the boy's shoulder. "Now, now, lad," she said, her tone soft but firm, like a mother soothing a fevered child. "You're here, and you're whole. No holes in you that I can see." Her apron rustled as she shifted, her ruddy face creasing with concern, though her sharp eyes flicked briefly to Louise, as if checking she herself was still holding together.'
The boy flinched at her touch but didn't pull away, his gaze snapping up to meet hers. "Where is this?" he asked again, his voice steadier now but laced with a desperate edge. "What is this place?"
The matron straightened, brushing a loose wisp of gray hair from her cheek. "You're at Tristain Academy, lad. A school for mages, in the kingdom of Tristain. Safe as houses, or near enough." She offered a small, reassuring smile, but it didn't reach her eyes, which lingered on his strange appearance and panic.
His brow furrowed, confusion deepening the lines on his sharp face. "Tristain… what the hell is that?" he said, his voice rising slightly. He shook his head, orange hair flopping across his eyes. "Where's Shibuya? This isn't—" He cut himself off, his hands clenching into fists as he scanned the room again, like he might find something hidden in the shadows.
"Shibuya?" The matron's eyebrow arched, her hand still resting lightly on his shoulder. "Sorry, lad, but I've never heard of a place called that. Not in Tristain, nor anywhere in Halkeginia." Her tone stayed gentle, but there was a puzzled edge to it, her free hand adjusting her apron as she studied him.
The boy's eyes widened, a flicker of panic reigniting. "This has to be part of it," he said, his words tumbling out faster now. "The Game. Are you—are you with the Reapers? Is this some new rule?" His voice shook, not with fear now but with a kind of desperate defiance, like he was bracing for a blow he couldn't see coming.
Louise's jaw dropped, her cloak slipping further as she leaned forward, incredulous. "Reapers?" she echoed, her voice sharp enough to cut through the room's tension. Reapers, as in plural? Her mind snagged on the word, conjuring images of grim, hooded figures from old stories—death's messengers, not exactly the sort of thing you tossed around casually. She glanced at the matron, expecting her to share her bafflement, but the older woman's face was calm, if a bit strained.
"Now, lad, no one here's involved with any 'Reapers' or 'Games,'" the matron said, her hand giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze before she stepped back, folding her arms over her ample chest. "You're at a school, not some battlefield. Whatever you're mixed up in, it's not here." Her tone was steady, meant to soothe, but her eyes darted to Louise again, a silent question hanging between them: What have you brought us?
Louise's gaze flicked to the boy, then to the black pin still lying on the floor, its white skull seeming to smirk in the dim light. Her stomach twisted—not fear, exactly, but something close. Shot him? Reapers? Shibuya? The words swirled in her head, each one stranger than the last.
The boy's frantic gaze darted across the infirmary, his blue eyes catching on the black pin lying on the stone floor, a beacon in his storm of confusion. He lunged forward, nearly toppling off the cot, his lean frame trembling as his fingers closed around the pin like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.
Louise bristled at his sudden movement, hair swaying as she took a step closer. "Hey! What's with that thing?" she demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut through the room's tension. She pointed at the pin, her small finger trembling slightly. "And what are you blabbering about—Reapers, games, Shibuya? Most importantly, why did that stupid pin let me read minds when I touched it?" Her cheeks flushed pink, a blend of indignation and raw curiosity.
The boy froze, his grip on the pin tightening as his head snapped up to meet her gaze. His blue eyes widened, shock rippling across his sharp features like a stone dropped in still water. "Read… minds?" he echoed, his voice hoarse, barely above a rasp. He glanced down at the pin, then back at her, his brow furrowing as if trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. "You—you scanned? How? You're not a Player…" His words trailed off, confusion deepening the lines around his mouth, and he slumped back against the cot, the mattress creaking under his weight.
The matron, hovering nearby with the clay pitcher still in her hands, raised an eyebrow as she looked between them. "Scanned? Players?" she muttered, setting the pitcher down with a soft clunk. "Lad, you're making less sense by the minute." She stepped closer, her calloused hands resting on her hips, but her sharp eyes softened as she took in his trembling form. "Whatever that trinket is, it's got Miss Vallière all shook up, so you'd best explain yourself."
Louise huffed, crossing her arms tightly, her pleated skirt fanning out as she shifted her weight. "Yeah, explain," she snapped, though her voice wavered, betraying the spark of fascination beneath her irritation."What kind of familiar comes with something like that? And who's this Joshua you keep yelling about?"
The boy's fingers curled tighter around the pin, his knuckles paling as he stared at it, his breathing uneven. "It's… the Player Pin," he said finally, his voice low, almost reluctant, like he was dragging the words up from somewhere deep and raw. "It lets you scan—read thoughts, see Noise. But only Players are supposed to use it. You shouldn't…" He shook his head, orange hair flopping across his eyes, and looked at her again, searching her face like she was the anomaly here. "Why'd it work for you?"
Louise's brow furrowed as she leaned closer to the boy, her eyes sharp with confusion. "See Noise?" she repeated, the words feeling alien on her tongue. She hadn't seen any sounds when that pin's chaos hit her—just a flood of thoughts, raw and unfiltered, like a market square stuffed into her skull. "What are you talking about?"
The boy, still clutching the black pin with its white skull, looked up from the cot, his orange hair a wild halo against the pillow. "Noise," he said, his voice low, halting, like he was dragging the words from a place he didn't want to revisit. "They're… entities. Invisible to most people. Like static in your head, but alive. Aggressive. The Player Pin lets you scan for them, fight them. It reads thoughts, too, but that's just part of it."
The matron, tilted her head, face creased with curiosity. "Entities, you say?" she asked, her tone gentle but probing, like she was humoring a fevered patient while fishing for sense. "And this pin of yours—it does all that? Fighting invisible beasties and poking into heads?"
He nodded, his fingers tightening around the pin, knuckles paling. "Yeah. It's for Players in the Game. You need it to survive." His gaze flicked to Louise, narrowing slightly. "But… how's someone like you using it? Normal people can't just—scan." His voice carried a hint of accusation, like she'd stolen something that wasn't hers.
Louise's cheeks flushed, her small frame bristling as she straightened up, her pleated skirt fanning out. "Normal?" she snapped, her voice cracking with indignation. "I'm a mage, you idiot! Louise Françoise Le Blanc de La Vallière, of noble blood! I'm not some commoner fumbling around with your weird trinket!" Her eyes blazed, but beneath the anger, a spark of unease flickered—because she had no idea why the pin had worked for her either.
The boy's eyes widened, his grip on the pin loosening slightly as he stared at her. "A… mage?" he echoed, his tone caught between skepticism and genuine surprise. His orange hair flopped across his brow, and he shifted on the cot, the mattress creaking under his lean weight. "Like, magic? For real?"
The matron chuckled, a warm, rasping sound, as she stepped closer, her heavy shoes scuffing the stone floor. "Oh, it's real enough, lad. Tristain Academy trains young nobles to wield magic—fire, water, earth, air, you name it. Miss Vallière here's one of 'em, though she's got her own… challenges." Her sharp eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief as she glanced at Louise, who shot her a glare but didn't interrupt. "You're her familiar now, summoned by her spell. That's why you're here, not in this… Shibuya place you keep mentioning."
The boy slumped back against the pillow, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of her words had pressed him down. His blue eyes clouded, darting between the pin in his hand and the two women watching him. "Magic… familiars…" he muttered, his voice barely audible, like he was trying to cram a new world into a brain already stretched thin. "This can't be real," he said, more to himself than them, his fingers tracing the skull on the pin like it might anchor him.
The matron's face softened, her stout frame leaning forward slightly. "You've had a rough go, haven't you?" she said, her tone kind but firm, like a hearth fire on a cold night. "Let's start simple. What's your name, lad?"
He hesitated, his sharp features tightening for a moment before he exhaled, a shaky breath that seemed to carry more than just air. "Neku," he said finally, his voice quiet but clear. "Neku Sakuraba."
The matron smiled, her ruddy cheeks creasing as she nodded. "Neku. Good to meet you, even if it's a strange day for it. I'm Clara, matron of this infirmary." She gestured to Louise, who was still glaring at him with her arms crossed, her pink hair a tangled mess. "And this here's Miss Louise Vallière, the one who summoned you. You're bound to her now, like it or not."
Neku's sharp blue eyes flickered with confusion, his grip on the Player Pin tightening as he sat upright on the cot. "Summoned?" he echoed, his voice hoarse but edged with suspicion, like he was testing the word for traps.
Louise straightened, eyes blazed with a mix of pride and exasperation, as she planted her small hands on her hips. "Yes, summoned," she said, her tone sharp enough to slice through the infirmary's lavenderscented air. "I'm a mage, and you're my familiar. I called you here with my magic to serve me. That's how it works at Tristain Academy." She paused, her lips pursing as she added, "We still have to finish the pact, though. It's not complete until we do."
Neku's eyes widened at the word pact, his breath hitching as he leaned forward, the mattress creaking under his slight weight. "Pact?" he said, his voice cracking with a mix of hope and dread. "You mean, like… a partner? Are you my partner now?" His fingers twitched around the Player Pin, and his headphones—scuffed indigo plastic—slipped further down his chest, dangling like a lifeline he couldn't quite reach.
Louise's face flushed crimson, her small frame bristling as she waved her hands frantically. "Partner? Partner? Absolutely not!" she snapped, her voice rising to a near-shriek. "I'm your master, you idiot! You're my familiar, not some—some equal!" Her pink hair whipped across her face, and she shoved it back with an impatient flick, her heart racing at the audacity of his assumption.
But before she could launch into another tirade, Neku's hand dove into the pocket of his white shorts, his fingers brushing past the loose belt to pull out another pin. This one was black like the first, but instead of a skull, it bore a stylized white glove, its fingers splayed as if reaching for something unseen. The pin gleamed faintly in the dim light filtering through the infirmary's narrow window, its surface smooth and cold, like polished obsidian. He held it up, his sharp features tightening with a mix of curiosity and determination. "If we're making a pact," he muttered, almost to himself, "then maybe…"
Without warning, he closed his eyes, his brow furrowing as he clutched the glove pin tightly. A faint hum seemed to ripple through the air—not a sound, exactly, but a pressure, like the moment before a storm breaks. Across the room, the wooden tray on the side table trembled, the chipped ceramic bowl of congealed broth rattling against the bread and cheese. Then, with a lurch, the tray lifted off the table, hovering a foot in the air, wobbling slightly as if held by an invisible hand. The broth sloshed, a few drops splattering onto the stone floor, and the bread rocked precariously, crumbs scattering like tiny pebbles.
Louise's jaw dropped, her eyes wide as she stumbled back, her shoes scuffing against the floor. "What—what in the Founder's name?!" she gasped, her voice trembling. Her small hands clutched at the air, instinctively reaching for her wand, but it was still lying near the stool where she'd dropped it earlier.
Clara froze midstep, her stout frame rigid as she stared at the floating tray, her head snapped toward Neku as her ruddy cheeks paled slightly. Her apron crinkled against her brown dress, and her calloused hands hovered uselessly, as if unsure whether to grab the tray or the boy. "Mercy me," she breathed, her voice low but shaking. "That's… levitation. Wandless, no less. Is he a mage?"
Louise's heart plummeted, her stomach twisting into a cold knot. A mage? The thought hit her like a slap, and her mind spiraled into panic. If he was a mage—a noble, maybe, from some far-off land like this "Shibuya" he kept rambling about—then she hadn't just summoned a familiar.
She'd kidnapped someone.
Her family's name flashed before her eyes: the Vallière legacy, centuries of honor, crumbling to dust because of her. She pictured her mother's icy glare, her father's disappointed look, her sisters' disdain, the whispers at court—Louise the Zero, shaming us all.
Worse, what if this sparked a war? Tristain against Shibuya, wherever that was, armies clashing over her stupid, failed spell. Her breath hitched, her pink hair sticking to her sweat-damp forehead as her hands flew to her face. "No, no, no!" she cried, her voice muffled. "I didn't mean to—I can't—I've ruined everything!"
Neku's eyes snapped open at her outburst, the tray dropping back to the table with a loud clatter, the bowl tipping over and spilling broth in a thick, greasy puddle. He blinked, his orange hair flopping across his brow as he leaned forward, his sharp features creasing with concern. "Hey, whoa, calm down," he said, his voice rough but urgent, cutting through her spiraling panic. He slid the glove pin back into his pocket, his white shorts rustling, and held up his free hand, the Player Pin still glinting in the other. "That wasn't magic. It was a psych. Psychokinesis." He paused, his lips twitching as he searched for words. "It's… like a power. From the Game. I can move stuff—signs, bikes, whatever—without touching it. The pin makes it work. Not spells or anything."
Louise lowered her hands, her eyes still wide but flickering with reluctant curiosity. "A… psych?" she repeated, the word clumsy in her mouth. Her gaze darted to the spilled broth, then back to Neku, her panic ebbing but not gone. "So you're not a mage? Not a noble?"
He shook his head, his orange hair swaying as he slumped back against the pillow, the cot creaking under his weight. "No Just… me. Neku Sakuraba, from...Shibuya..."
Neku's voice then faltered, his blue eyes widening as a sudden jolt of memory flashing across his sharp features. His mind flooded with fragments—Shiki. Beat. Rhyme. Joshua… Joshua's cold violet eyes, that damnable smirk, the gun in his hand. The Room of Reckoning, the countdown, the searing pain in his gut as the shot rang out...
In a surge of panic, he lunged forward, his hands shooting out to grab Louise's shoulders. His fingers dug into the cloak draped over her narrow frame, the fabric bunching under his grip. "Send me back!" he pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation, raw and unfiltered, like a scream held back too long. His sharp face was inches from hers, his breath hot and uneven. "I have to go back to Shibuya! There are people there—Shiki, Beat—they need me!" His eyes, wide and wild, bored into hers, searching for something—anything—that could pull him back to that noisy, chaotic city he'd fought so hard to save.
Louise froze, her eyes flaring with fear as his grip tightened. "I—I can't!" she stammered, her voice high and trembling, her small hands flailing uselessly against his wrists. Her heart raced, his desperation crashing into her like a wave, and she shrank back. "I don't even know how you got here! It's not—it's not that simple!"
Neku's hands shook, his grip loosening but not letting go, his sharp features twisting with anguish. "Why not?" he demanded, his voice rising, hoarse and jagged. "You summoned me, right? You brought me here—so send me back! I can't stay here, not when they're—" His words choked off, his throat tightening as visions of his friends flooded his vision. Shiki's dream, Beat's desperation to save Rhyme...
Clara, stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Neku's shoulder, her calloused fingers steady despite the chaos. "Easy, lad," she said, her voice low but unyielding, like a hearth fire holding back the cold. "Miss Vallière can't just snap her fingers and undo a summoning. It's a sacred ritual, bound by magic we don't fully ken. You're her familiar now—tied to her, to this world. There's no road back, not as we know it."
Neku's voice trembled, raw and fraying at the edges, as he stared at Clara, his sharp blue eyes searching her face for any crack in her resolve. "Y-you're joking," he stammered, his words stumbling over each other, desperate and brittle. "This has to be a joke, right?"
Clara's face softened, but her sharp gray eyes held no trace of jest—only a heavy, pitying weight that pinned Neku's hopes to the ground. Her gray bun tilted slightly as she shook her head,. "No joke, lad," she said, her voice low and steady. "I wish I could say otherwise, but magic's got its rules. You're here now." The words landed like a quiet blow, each one sinking deeper into the silence that followed.
Neku's eyes widened, a flash of horror rippling across his face as the truth clawed its way in. His hands dropped from Louise's shoulders, falling limp to his sides, fingers twitching uselessly against the cot's coarse sheets. "No…" he whispered, the word barely audible, a fragile thread snapping under too much strain. His sharp features crumpled, his lips parting as if to argue, but no sound came. His mind spiraled, dragging him back to Shibuya—to all of the inhabitants there. Every voice, every fleeting connection he'd fought for—gone? His chest tightened, a vise squeezing his ribs until he could barely breathe. Did he fail? The question burned, acrid and unrelenting. Was Shibuya… destroyed?
His vision blurred, hot tears welling up and spilling over before he could stop them. They traced jagged paths down his cheeks, catching on the sharp angle of his jaw, and he gripped the sheets, his knuckles paling as the fabric bunched under his fingers. "Damn it…" he choked out, his voice breaking, raw and ragged. "DAMN IT!" The shout tore from his throat, echoing off the infirmary's stone walls, a howl of grief and fury that shook his lean frame.
Louise flinched, her pink hair swaying as she took a halfstep back, her pink eyes wide with a mix of fear and guilt. Her small hands hovered, uncertain, as if she wanted to reach out but didn't know how.
Neku's first instinct was to lash out, to turn on Louise and hurl the blame at her—she trapped him here! She stole him from them! The words burned on his tongue, bitter and sharp, but they died before he could speak. His mind flashed back to the Room of Reckoning, Joshua's violet eyes glinting as he counted down, the cold weight of the gun in Neku's hand. He hadn't shot. Couldn't. Even after everything—Joshua's betrayal, the lies, the blood—Neku had seen him as a friend, a partner, and he'd hesitated. The pain in his gut, the darkness swallowing him as he fell… that was on him. Not Louise. Not this strange, pink-haired girl who looked as lost as he felt. His shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him, leaving only a hollow ache where anger had been.
He swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing tears across his cheek, and looked up at Clara, his voice thick with desperation. "There's gotta be something," he said, leaning forward, his features taut with urgency. "Some spell, some… ritual—anything! You said magic brought me here, so it can send me back, right?" His fingers tightened on the sheets, twisting them until the fabric groaned, and his blue eyes searched her face, pleading for a lifeline. "I don't care what it takes. I'll do anything—fight, pay, whatever. Just tell me there's a way." He pleaded, voice cracking.
Clara's lips pressed into a thin line as she folded her arms over her chest. "Neku," she said, her tone gentle but unyielding. "Summoning's a oneway path, far as we know. The bond between mage and familiar—it's not like a rope you can untie. It's woven into you now, into her." She nodded toward Louise, who stood frozen, her eyes eyes darting between them. "I've seen mages try all sorts—potions, chants, even blood rituals—but none's ever sent a familiar back. Not in my lifetime."
Neku shook his head, his orange hair flopping wildly, as if he could shake off her words. "No, you don't get it," he said, his voice rising, thick with tears he couldn't stop. "They're counting on me! Shiki—she's probably still fighting, thinking I'm coming back. Beat, he's reckless, he'll get himself erased without me. And Rhyme…" His voice broke, the name a wound he couldn't close. "She's just a kid. I can't leave them there, not after everything." He leaned forward, his hands releasing the sheets to clutch at the air, as if he could grab Shibuya itself and pull it back. "Please, Clara. You're a healer, right? You know magic. There's something—a book, a mage, anything. I'll beg if I have to."
Clara's sharp eyes softened further, a flicker of pain crossing her face, but she didn't waver. "I'm no mage, lad, just a matron with a knack for herbs and stitches," she said, her voice quieter now, heavy with regret. "The magic here's beyond me—beyond most. If anyone'd know, it'd be the professors, maybe old Colbert, but even then…" She trailed off, shaking her head, her gray bun bobbing slightly.
"I'm sorry, Neku. Truly."
Neku's breath hitched, a sob catching in his throat as he slumped back against the pillow, the cot creaking under his weight. His hands fell to his lap, fingers brushing the Player Pin still clutched in one palm, its white skull leering up at him like a cruel joke. His headphones dangled uselessly, the indigo plastic scuffed and dull, and his white shorts bunched up, grass stains smearing the fabric across his thighs. The tears came harder now, silent but relentless, carving tracks down his sharp cheeks as he stared at nothing, the weight of Shibuya's fate crushing him.
This was all of his fault.
All because he couldn't bring himself to shoot, even after everything.
Louise stood frozen, her eyes locked on Neku's crumpled form, the sight of his tears slicing through her like a misfired spell. A pang of guilt twisted in her gut—not the usual sting of failure, but something sharper, heavier, like she'd broken something she didn't mean to touch. Her small hand twitched, reaching out instinctively.
Clara's calloused hand caught her wrist, gentle but firm, stopping her mid-motion. She then shook her head. "Let's give him some space for now, Miss Vallière," she said, her voice low. "Whatever's happened to him, it's raw. He needs time to… process." Her brown dress rustled as she straightened and she gestured toward the heavy wooden door, its hinges glinting faintly in the candlelight.
Louise hesitated. She wanted to argue, to snap that she wasn't done here, that Neku was her familiar and she had a right to stay—but Clara's steady gaze silenced her. Swallowing hard, she nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line as she followed the matron's lead, each step feeling heavier than the last.
At the threshold, Louise paused, her small hand gripping the doorframe, splinters pricking her palm. She turned back, her eyes darting to Neku one last time. He hadn't moved, his head bowed, orange hair hiding his face as his shoulders trembled faintly, the Player Pin still clutched in one hand, its white skull leering in the shadows. Something in her chest tightened—a flicker of responsibility, maybe, or the stubborn spark that always drove her to prove herself.
"I didn't ask for this." She thought, but the words felt hollow, even to herself.
Clara's hand rested lightly on her shoulder, urging her forward, and Louise stepped into the corridor, the door groaning shut behind her. The stone walls swallowed Neku's silhouette, but his tears lingered in her mind, sharp and unyielding.
The heavy wooden door of the infirmary thudded shut behind them, its groan echoing faintly down the stone corridor. The air outside was cooler, tinged with the crisp scent of evening dew and the distant hum of Tristain Academy settling into dusk. Torches flickered along the walls, casting wavering shadows that danced across the uneven flagstones, their orange glow catching on the chipped mortar.
Clara exhaled a slow, weary sigh, frame shifting as she turned to face Louise. "Miss Vallière," she said, her voice low but firm, cutting through the corridor's quiet hum, "you'd best head to your room for the night. It's been a long day, and you're no good to anyone—him or yourself—worn to a thread."
Louise's head snapped up, her pink hair swaying as her eyes flared with defiance. "My room?" she echoed, her voice sharp, though it wavered at the edges. "I can't just leave him like that! He's my familiar, matron! I summoned him, so it's my responsibility to—" Her words tumbled out, a mix of pride and panic, her small hands balling into fists at her sides. The thought of abandoning Neku, of walking away from the mess she'd made, felt like admitting defeat—another failure to add to her endless list.
Clara raised a hand, her calloused fingers steady, silencing Louise mid-tirade. Her expression softened, but there was no room for argument in her gaze. "Now, now, Miss Vallière," she said, her tone gentle but unyielding, like a mother scolding a child. Louise knew that tone from experience. "That lad's in no state to talk to anyone right now, least of all you. You saw him—tears and all. Whatever he's carrying, it's a weight heavier than you or I can lift tonight." She folded her arms over her chest, her apron crinkling, and tilted her head toward the door. "He needs quiet, and you need rest. Pushing him now'll only make it worse."
Louise's lips parted, a protest forming, but the memory of Neku's broken shout and the way his shoulders shook stopped her cold. Her fists unclenched, fingers twitching uselessly, and she glanced back at the door, its iron hinges glinting like a silent rebuke. "But… what if he needs me?" she mumbled, her voice small, barely audible over the faint crackle of the torches.
Clara's sharp eyes softened further, catching the slump in Louise's posture, the way her face was drawn tight with worry. "I'll speak to Professor Colbert come morning," she said, her voice warmer now, a promise woven into the words. "He's got a head for magic's mysteries—summonings, bonds, all of it. If anyone can sort out what's happened with your familiar, it's him. But for now, you've done all you can." She stepped closer, her heavy shoes scuffing the stone, and placed a hand on Louise's shoulder, her touch solid and grounding. "You're not alone in this, lass. We'll help you figure it out—the lad, this Shibuya place, the whole tangled mess."
Louise swallowed hard, her throat tight as she met Clara's gaze. The matron's face was kind but resolute, her gray bun a steady anchor in the flickering light. Louise's fingers brushed her cloak, straightening it absently, and she nodded, reluctant but yielding. "Fine," she said, her voice quiet, almost petulant. "I'll go. But only because you're making me."
Clara chuckled, a low, rasping sound that broke the tension like a crack in ice. "That's the spirit," she said, giving Louise's shoulder a gentle pat before stepping back. "Get some sleep, Miss Vallière. Tomorrow's a new day, and we'll tackle this together." Her apron rustled as she turned, gesturing down the corridor toward the dormitories, her frame casting a long shadow across the stones.
Louise lingered a moment longer, her eyes drifting back to the infirmary door. She pictured Neku inside, alone on that creaky cot, his orange hair hiding his face, the Player Pin clutched like a lifeline. Her chest tightened, a flicker of resolve sparking beneath the guilt.
She wasn't giving up. Not yet.
With a final glance at Clara's retreating figure, she started down the corridor, her boots echoing softly, her pink hair swaying like a defiant banner in the torchlight.
The stone corridor of Tristain Academy stretched before Louise, its torchlit walls casting long, wavering shadows that flickered like restless spirits. The air carried the faint scent of damp moss and wax. Her eyes, usually sharp with defiance, were clouded, fixed on the floor as Neku's tear-streaked face haunted her thoughts. Guilt coiled in her chest, heavy and unfamiliar.
As she rounded a corner, the low hum of voices broke her reverie. Kirche leaned against a wall, her red hair spilling over her shoulders like molten copper, Beside her, Montmorency stood with her arms crossed, her blonde curls bouncing as she tilted her head, Tabitha, ever the shadow, lingered a step behind, her blue hair tucked neatly behind her ears, her navy cloak pooling around her slight frame as she turned a page in her book, her glasses glinting faintly. The trio's chatter faltered as Louise approached, their (well, more so Kirche and Montmorency. Tabitha's eyes were still focused on her book) eyes locking onto her with the predatory curiosity of cats spotting a limping bird.
"Well, well," Kirche purred, eyes glinting as she pushed off the pillar, her hips swaying with deliberate grace. "If it isn't Zero herself. We were just wondering when you'd slink back after that… interesting summoning." Her lips curved into a smirk, but it wavered as she took in Louise's expression—the pinched brow, the dullness in her eyes, the absence of her usual fire.
Montmorency stepped forward, her blonde curls bouncing as she tossed her head. "What's this? No biting retort?" she said, her voice dripping with mock surprise, though her blue eyes narrowed, studying Louise like a potion gone wrong. "Don't tell me your little stunt in the courtyard actually shook you. That boy, right? Screaming like a banshee before he fainted?" She glanced at Kirche, expecting a laugh, but Kirche's smirk had faded, her gaze lingering on Louise's slumped shoulders.
Tabitha's eyes flicked up from her book, her small hands pausing midpage. Her navy cloak shifted as she adjusted her glasses, the lenses catching a torch's glow. She said nothing, her pale face unreadable, but her blue gaze darted between Louise and the others, sharp and observant, like a hawk tracking movement from afar.
Louise barely registered them, her steps slowing as she neared her door. Her small hand brushed the brass handle, cool against her palm, but she didn't turn it. Her lips twitched, a spark of her usual temper flaring, but it guttered out, too weak to catch. She felt their stares, Kirche's teasing, Montmorency's barbs, Tabitha's silence, but they were distant, like rain on a window she couldn't be bothered to wipe clean.
"Just...leave me alone."
Kirche's eyes widened, as did Montmorency's. Meanwhile, Tabitha actually put her book down, eyebrow arching up. This was...unprecedented. Louise was usually one to explode at the littlest slight when it came to her magical failings. The fact that she just was taking all of their barbs...
Something was definitely wrong.
"Louise, are...you okay?" Montmorency asked, letting her haughty nature drop and replacing her usual smugness with genuine concern as she observed Louise's state more closely. Her usual fire was nowhere to be seen and her usual proud stature was replaced with a destitute slump. This was nothing like the Louise they had known, and frankly? It was starting to worry her a little.
Louise's hand tightened on the door handle, her knuckles paling. She wanted to whirl on them, to snap that it was none of their business, that she didn't mess up—but the words stuck in her throat, choked by the image of Neku's tears, his desperate grip on her shoulders. Her eyes stung, and she bit her lip, hard enough to taste iron. "It's… nothing," she muttered, her voice low, barely audible over the corridor's hum. "Just forget it." She pushed the door open, the hinges creaking, and stepped inside, letting it fall shut behind her with a dull thud.
Kirche blinked, eyes narrowing slightly as she exchanged a glance with Montmorency. "Well, that's... new," she said, her voice quieter now, almost thoughtful, as she leaned back on the wall again.
"No kidding." Montmorency muttered. "She didn't even try to bite our heads off. No shouting, no comeback...nothing."
"You think it's that boy?" Kirche asked, hand resting on her chin. He was cute, if a bit skinny, but the way he screamed...it unnerved her far more than she liked to admit.
He screamed as if his entire world had disappeared right in front of him.
Montmorency frowned, her blonde curls bouncing as she crossed her arms tighter. "No doubt about it. Did you see the way he screamed? That wasn't just confusion. What if he's someone important? Or dangerous?" Her blue eyes darted to the closed door, as if Louise might overhear, and her lavender scent lingered, sharp in the cool air.
Tabitha said nothing, her blue eyes narrowing as she reopened her book, though her gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer. Her navy cloak shifted, the fabric brushing her boots, and she turned a page, the soft rustle loud in the sudden quiet. "Summoning," she murmured, almost to herself. "Not simple." Her staff gleamed faintly, and she fell silent, her thoughts hidden behind her glasses.
The other two looked at her in surprise. Tabitha rarely, if ever, actually spoke up. "What do you mean by that, Tabitha?" Kirche asked, her brow furrowed in confused as she looked at her soft-spoken friend with a glint of curiosity in her eyes.
"His scream. Broken."
The corridor settled into stillness, the torchlight flickering as Kirche and Montmorency exchanged another look, their usual mockery forgotten. Louise's door remained shut, a barrier between them and the mystery of the boy whose screams still echoed in their minds, raw and haunting, like a wound that refused to close.
Just what the hell did Louise summon?