The dim glow of the bedside lamp casts a warm hue in our bedroom as Rachel and I prepare for another night in our seemingly ideal life, shadows dancing on the walls. I take a deep breath, conscious of the looming uncertainty that hovers on the horizon.
Rachel and I settle onto the bed, a shared space we've grown accustomed to, despite the constant awareness of a potential doomsday, The Outcall. It's not imminent, but it lingers in the back of our minds like a dormant storm waiting to unleash its fury. We don't rush; there's no need, and we can't hurry even if we want to.
As part of the nightly routine, I reach for the familiar leather cuffs hidden in the drawer. I glance at Rachel, a wry smile playing on my lips. "Could you, you know, cuff me?" I request, my tone laced with a mix of jest and genuine need.
She grins mischievously, teasing, "Feeling a bit naughty tonight, are we?" I chuckle, my smile wry. Her playful words disarm the annoyance I feel each time, a routine born out of necessity rather than desire.
With a gentle click, Rachel secures the cuffs around my wrists, her touch reassuring. "We'll get past this," she assures me, her eyes reflecting sincerity. I nod, appreciating her support, even if the process is far from enjoyable. Cuffing me every night is necessary if I don’t want my dangerous sleepwalking streak to get the better of me again.
As Rachel succumbs to the embrace of sleep, fatigue evident from a day's work, I lie awake, my mind refusing the solace of rest. The encroaching Magic Power, a force that has seeped into our world, remains an enigma, its implications unknown.
I ponder its effects on us, questioning whether it's a boon or bane. The power, though present, doesn't course through my veins with the strength I anticipated. I wonder if it's potent enough to revive my body quickly, providing the vitality needed.
My thoughts shift to Rachel, her situation possibly more precarious than mine. She needs a substantial amount of Magic Power to reconnect with her Contracted Spirits, silent companions since the ambush in Lancaster two years ago.
The night finally claims me around midnight, fatigue wresting control from my overactive mind. The world of dreams and shadows beckons, offering a temporary escape from the weight of uncertainties. As the roosters herald the dawn, a soft nudge rouses me from my slumber.
I blink away the remnants of sleep, finding Rachel by my side, diligently removing the cuffs from my wrists. I rub my sore wrists, grateful for the release. "Thanks, Rachel," I mumble, still groggy.
She smiles, her eyes determined. "I'm thinking of filing for leave, starting maybe tomorrow. We need to investigate my Lionheart Sword and understand the nature of the First Iteration," she declares, her voice carrying a sense of urgency.
Yeah, it is only natural for her to feel urgent since we are effectively under pressure from the clock.
Nodding, I consider the possibilities. "I should be able to create a Geiger Counter equivalent for magic power. The slight amount lingering in the atmosphere should make it feasible," I explain, my mind already formulating plans. The absence of magic power had rendered many of my blueprints impractical, but with its return, a new realm of possibilities opened.
My thoughts drift to the abandoned project of my Magic Generator. "I guess I'll have to put that on hold for now," I mutter, a tinge of disappointment in my voice.
Rachel hums approvingly, offering a supportive hand to help me up from the bed. My back protests, a reminder of the discomfort that comes with sleeping in restraints. As I rise, the room bathed in the soft glow of morning light, the day unfolds with the promise of investigations, discoveries, and the pursuit of answers in a world touched by the subtle currents of magic power.
Rachel leads the way downstairs, the wooden steps creaking beneath our weight. The scent of breakfast wafts through the air, and I realize that I must be more tired than I thought, having overslept. The dining table is adorned with a spread of macaroni, a dish I know Rachel has mastered over the years. Evandel is already seated, enthusiastically devouring her meal.
"Hey, sleepyhead," she calls out to me, her mouth partially full. "You're missing out on the goodness, Dad."
I chuckle, joining them at the table. "Guess I needed the extra sleep. You are super eloquent today, you brat."
Evandel looks at my plate and asks, "You're not going to eat your share, Dad?"
Rachel interjects, giving Evandel a stern look. "Give your dad a break, sweetie. He needs to eat."
I take a seat beside Rachel, and we both pick up our forks. The macaroni is a symphony of flavors, and I can't help but express my delight.
"These are amazing, Rachel. You've really outdone yourself."
She smiles, a hint of pride in her eyes. "Glad you like them. Eat up, there's plenty."
As I continue to savor the delicious meal, I notice Evandel's longing gaze fixed on my plate. Her eyes practically beg for a share, and after a sigh of resignation, I give in.
"Why am I such a pushover for those eyes?" I mumble to myself as I slide half of my portion onto Evandel's plate.
Her face lights up, and she cheers, "Yes! Thanks, Dad!"
Rachel chuckles, shaking her head. "There's more where that came from, you know."
I glance at Rachel, grateful for her understanding, and continue to enjoy the meal with my family.
As I scrub away at the plates, the suds swirling down the drain, Rachel’s voice reaches me from the living room.
"Hey, I'll be a bit late tonight. I'm stocking up on more groceries—y'know, just in case of the apocalypse," she jokes. However, I think personally that it might not be a joke considering how serious Rachel’s eyes are.
I chuckle. "Sure thing. I'll grab Evandel after her classes."
"Thanks, you're a lifesaver," Rachel says, her voice carrying a mix of relief and exhaustion.
Just as I finish promising to pick up Evandel, I hear her tiny footsteps padding towards me. She tugs at my shirt.
"Hey, I love you, Dad," she says with a bright smile, her eyes sparkling.
"I love you too, kiddo," I reply, tousling her hair gently.
Then comes the unexpected request. "Mommy, tell him you love him so he can say it to you, and then you say it back, and then he says it back to you," Evandel blurts out. I don’t really get her words, since they are coming so fast.
I smile, trying to hide my discomfort. "That's not how it works, sweetie."
Rachel sighs softly. "She's really into this lately. Sorry about that."
"It's alright," I assure her, though inwardly I'm cringing at the whole situation.
"I love you," Rachel says to me, and I play along, trying to keep a straight face. "I love you more," I say, deviating from the usual script.
A shy grin appears on Rachel's face, a slight blush creeping up her cheeks. I avert my eyes from the mirror; I don't want to see my own reaction.
With them gone, I resume washing the dishes, the clinks and splashes echoing in the empty kitchen. Despite the pretense, the routine, everything feels a bit too real.
I walk into my garage, determined to create something extraordinary. The air is filled with the scent of metal and grease as I rummage through my tools. I'm a transmigrator, an outsider in this world, and I find solace in the hum of machinery. The idea of my original timeline makes me chuckle—what a concept.
I begin assembling the components for my magic power detector. The blueprint in my mind takes shape, and after hours of meticulous tinkering, the final product resembles a clunky smartphone. It's a mini-computer with specs rivaling the smartwatch from my original timeline. I snicker again, realizing the irony of it all.
With a satisfied grin, I power up the device. The screen flickers to life, and the interface operates smoothly. I mutter a thanks to the high heavens, grateful for my creation. This success means I can delve into more magical technology, even if my inventions won't be as refined.
I continue my work in the garage/lab, surrounded by tools and half-finished projects. It's a makeshift haven where I feel like some grandpa scientist, lost in my own world. All I need now is a prepubescent boy with a voice cracking from time to time, and I could have my own quirky TV show. I can almost hear the imaginary audience cheering for the adventures of the eccentric transmigrator and his magical inventions.
I roll up my sleeves, ready to dive into fixing the car that's been collecting dust in the corner of the garage. The wrench is in hand, and I'm about to embark on this forgotten project when the distant wail of police sirens disrupts the quiet afternoon.
Curiosity piqued, I step out of the garage and peer down the street. Police cars line the pavement, flashing lights painting the scene with a sense of urgency. They seem to be converging in my residence. I hadn't expected this when I left the garage door open for some ventilation. Is that a crime? I close off my garage door, while I stand outside my house.
Before I can ponder further, the garage door shudders as a full squad forcefully enters, they pass by me like I don’t matter. A battering ram makes quick work of my perfectly ordinary door. In moments, personnel are swarming in, confiscating tools and materials.
I'm about to voice my protest when a tall Korean man strides purposefully toward me. He towers over me, introducing himself as Oh Junhyuk from the National Intelligence Service. My heart skips a beat. Have they finally caught wind of that job I pulled on that obnoxious bald guy four years ago? Or is this an entirely different matter?
Oh Junhyuk's voice is calm but authoritative. "You have to come peacefully with me for crimes against the state."
In a futile attempt to resist, I muster the courage to speak. "Can I at least leave a letter for my wife and daughter?" I ask, desperation in my voice. "And, um, could we stop by a convenience store before you send me off to whatever fate awaits?" I add.
Oh Junhyuk nods agreeably, but there's a catch. "You can write your letter, but I'll need to read it first. And we shouldn't linger in the convenience store for more than five minutes."
As I watch the government personnel systematically confiscating my belongings, a wave of uncertainty washes over me. This isn't just a random event; it signifies a profound shift in the world around me. The air feels charged with anticipation, and I can't shake the feeling that the coming days will bring unprecedented changes.
A brunette woman eyes me dangerously from a distance as my eyes land by her waist, familiar hilt dangling exposed to the air. She seems to be with the government. The presence of these officials at my doorstep is telling. It confirms my suspicions—it's them, the government, who has finally obtained the Lionheart Sword. I can't help but chuckle at the irony of it all.
Under the watchful eyes of the government agents, I sit down to write a letter to Rachel. The pen moves across the paper, capturing my thoughts as I compose a message for my wife. Despite the peculiar circumstances, a sense of amusement overtakes me. It's almost comical, writing a heartfelt letter under the supervision of those who've turned my world upside down.
I glance up at Oh Junhyuk, who stands nearby, ensuring I don't deviate from their rules. My chuckle escapes as I write, acknowledging the absurdity of the situation. The world is changing, and I'm caught in the midst of it, penning a letter to Rachel with a newfound clarity about the challenges that lie ahead.
Ah, fuck…
The dim glow of the bedside lamp casts a warm hue in our bedroom as Rachel and I prepare for another night in our seemingly ideal life, shadows dancing on the walls. I take a deep breath, conscious of the looming uncertainty that hovers on the horizon.
Rachel and I settle onto the bed, a shared space we've grown accustomed to, despite the constant awareness of a potential doomsday, The Outcall. It's not imminent, but it lingers in the back of our minds like a dormant storm waiting to unleash its fury. We don't rush; there's no need, and we can't hurry even if we want to.
As part of the nightly routine, I reach for the familiar leather cuffs hidden in the drawer. I glance at Rachel, a wry smile playing on my lips. "Could you, you know, cuff me?" I request, my tone laced with a mix of jest and genuine need.
She grins mischievously, teasing, "Feeling a bit naughty tonight, are we?" I chuckle, my smile wry. Her playful words disarm the annoyance I feel each time, a routine born out of necessity rather than desire.
With a gentle click, Rachel secures the cuffs around my wrists, her touch reassuring. "We'll get past this," she assures me, her eyes reflecting sincerity. I nod, appreciating her support, even if the process is far from enjoyable. Cuffing me every night is necessary if I don’t want my dangerous sleepwalking streak to get the better of me again.
As Rachel succumbs to the embrace of sleep, fatigue evident from a day's work, I lie awake, my mind refusing the solace of rest. The encroaching Magic Power, a force that has seeped into our world, remains an enigma, its implications unknown.
I ponder its effects on us, questioning whether it's a boon or bane. The power, though present, doesn't course through my veins with the strength I anticipated. I wonder if it's potent enough to revive my body quickly, providing the vitality needed.
My thoughts shift to Rachel, her situation possibly more precarious than mine. She needs a substantial amount of Magic Power to reconnect with her Contracted Spirits, silent companions since the ambush in Lancaster two years ago.
The night finally claims me around midnight, fatigue wresting control from my overactive mind. The world of dreams and shadows beckons, offering a temporary escape from the weight of uncertainties. As the roosters herald the dawn, a soft nudge rouses me from my slumber.
I blink away the remnants of sleep, finding Rachel by my side, diligently removing the cuffs from my wrists. I rub my sore wrists, grateful for the release. "Thanks, Rachel," I mumble, still groggy.
She smiles, her eyes determined. "I'm thinking of filing for leave, starting maybe tomorrow. We need to investigate my Lionheart Sword and understand the nature of the First Iteration," she declares, her voice carrying a sense of urgency.
Yeah, it is only natural for her to feel urgent since we are effectively under pressure from the clock.
Nodding, I consider the possibilities. "I should be able to create a Geiger Counter equivalent for magic power. The slight amount lingering in the atmosphere should make it feasible," I explain, my mind already formulating plans. The absence of magic power had rendered many of my blueprints impractical, but with its return, a new realm of possibilities opened.
My thoughts drift to the abandoned project of my Magic Generator. "I guess I'll have to put that on hold for now," I mutter, a tinge of disappointment in my voice.
Rachel hums approvingly, offering a supportive hand to help me up from the bed. My back protests, a reminder of the discomfort that comes with sleeping in restraints. As I rise, the room bathed in the soft glow of morning light, the day unfolds with the promise of investigations, discoveries, and the pursuit of answers in a world touched by the subtle currents of magic power.
Rachel leads the way downstairs, the wooden steps creaking beneath our weight. The scent of breakfast wafts through the air, and I realize that I must be more tired than I thought, having overslept. The dining table is adorned with a spread of macaroni, a dish I know Rachel has mastered over the years. Evandel is already seated, enthusiastically devouring her meal.
"Hey, sleepyhead," she calls out to me, her mouth partially full. "You're missing out on the goodness, Dad."
I chuckle, joining them at the table. "Guess I needed the extra sleep. You are super eloquent today, you brat."
Evandel looks at my plate and asks, "You're not going to eat your share, Dad?"
Rachel interjects, giving Evandel a stern look. "Give your dad a break, sweetie. He needs to eat."
I take a seat beside Rachel, and we both pick up our forks. The macaroni is a symphony of flavors, and I can't help but express my delight.
"These are amazing, Rachel. You've really outdone yourself."
She smiles, a hint of pride in her eyes. "Glad you like them. Eat up, there's plenty."
As I continue to savor the delicious meal, I notice Evandel's longing gaze fixed on my plate. Her eyes practically beg for a share, and after a sigh of resignation, I give in.
"Why am I such a pushover for those eyes?" I mumble to myself as I slide half of my portion onto Evandel's plate.
Her face lights up, and she cheers, "Yes! Thanks, Dad!"
Rachel chuckles, shaking her head. "There's more where that came from, you know."
I glance at Rachel, grateful for her understanding, and continue to enjoy the meal with my family.
As I scrub away at the plates, the suds swirling down the drain, Rachel’s voice reaches me from the living room.
"Hey, I'll be a bit late tonight. I'm stocking up on more groceries—y'know, just in case of the apocalypse," she jokes. However, I think personally that it might not be a joke considering how serious Rachel’s eyes are.
I chuckle. "Sure thing. I'll grab Evandel after her classes."
"Thanks, you're a lifesaver," Rachel says, her voice carrying a mix of relief and exhaustion.
Just as I finish promising to pick up Evandel, I hear her tiny footsteps padding towards me. She tugs at my shirt.
"Hey, I love you, Dad," she says with a bright smile, her eyes sparkling.
"I love you too, kiddo," I reply, tousling her hair gently.
Then comes the unexpected request. "Mommy, tell him you love him so he can say it to you, and then you say it back, and then he says it back to you," Evandel blurts out. I don’t really get her words, since they are coming so fast.
I smile, trying to hide my discomfort. "That's not how it works, sweetie."
Rachel sighs softly. "She's really into this lately. Sorry about that."
"It's alright," I assure her, though inwardly I'm cringing at the whole situation.
"I love you," Rachel says to me, and I play along, trying to keep a straight face. "I love you more," I say, deviating from the usual script.
A shy grin appears on Rachel's face, a slight blush creeping up her cheeks. I avert my eyes from the mirror; I don't want to see my own reaction.
With them gone, I resume washing the dishes, the clinks and splashes echoing in the empty kitchen. Despite the pretense, the routine, everything feels a bit too real.
I walk into my garage, determined to create something extraordinary. The air is filled with the scent of metal and grease as I rummage through my tools. I'm a transmigrator, an outsider in this world, and I find solace in the hum of machinery. The idea of my original timeline makes me chuckle—what a concept.
I begin assembling the components for my magic power detector. The blueprint in my mind takes shape, and after hours of meticulous tinkering, the final product resembles a clunky smartphone. It's a mini-computer with specs rivaling the smartwatch from my original timeline. I snicker again, realizing the irony of it all.
With a satisfied grin, I power up the device. The screen flickers to life, and the interface operates smoothly. I mutter a thanks to the high heavens, grateful for my creation. This success means I can delve into more magical technology, even if my inventions won't be as refined.
I continue my work in the garage/lab, surrounded by tools and half-finished projects. It's a makeshift haven where I feel like some grandpa scientist, lost in my own world. All I need now is a prepubescent boy with a voice cracking from time to time, and I could have my own quirky TV show. I can almost hear the imaginary audience cheering for the adventures of the eccentric transmigrator and his magical inventions.
I roll up my sleeves, ready to dive into fixing the car that's been collecting dust in the corner of the garage. The wrench is in hand, and I'm about to embark on this forgotten project when the distant wail of police sirens disrupts the quiet afternoon.
Curiosity piqued, I step out of the garage and peer down the street. Police cars line the pavement, flashing lights painting the scene with a sense of urgency. They seem to be converging in my residence. I hadn't expected this when I left the garage door open for some ventilation. Is that a crime? I close off my garage door, while I stand outside my house.
Before I can ponder further, the garage door shudders as a full squad forcefully enters, they pass by me like I don’t matter. A battering ram makes quick work of my perfectly ordinary door. In moments, personnel are swarming in, confiscating tools and materials.
I'm about to voice my protest when a tall Korean man strides purposefully toward me. He towers over me, introducing himself as Oh Junhyuk from the National Intelligence Service. My heart skips a beat. Have they finally caught wind of that job I pulled on that obnoxious bald guy four years ago? Or is this an entirely different matter?
Oh Junhyuk's voice is calm but authoritative. "You have to come peacefully with me for crimes against the state."
In a futile attempt to resist, I muster the courage to speak. "Can I at least leave a letter for my wife and daughter?" I ask, desperation in my voice. "And, um, could we stop by a convenience store before you send me off to whatever fate awaits?" I add.
Oh Junhyuk nods agreeably, but there's a catch. "You can write your letter, but I'll need to read it first. And we shouldn't linger in the convenience store for more than five minutes."
As I watch the government personnel systematically confiscating my belongings, a wave of uncertainty washes over me. This isn't just a random event; it signifies a profound shift in the world around me. The air feels charged with anticipation, and I can't shake the feeling that the coming days will bring unprecedented changes.
A brunette woman eyes me dangerously from a distance as my eyes land by her waist, familiar hilt dangling exposed to the air. She seems to be with the government. The presence of these officials at my doorstep is telling. It confirms my suspicions—it's them, the government, who has finally obtained the Lionheart Sword. I can't help but chuckle at the irony of it all.
Under the watchful eyes of the government agents, I sit down to write a letter to Rachel. The pen moves across the paper, capturing my thoughts as I compose a message for my wife. Despite the peculiar circumstances, a sense of amusement overtakes me. It's almost comical, writing a heartfelt letter under the supervision of those who've turned my world upside down.
I glance up at Oh Junhyuk, who stands nearby, ensuring I don't deviate from their rules. My chuckle escapes as I write, acknowledging the absurdity of the situation. The world is changing, and I'm caught in the midst of it, penning a letter to Rachel with a newfound clarity about the challenges that lie ahead.
Ah, fuck…
