Chapter 282
The predawn skies were leaden and weighty, pressing down on Orario as if the very heavens sought to crush the life from it.
For a brief, fleeting span, perhaps an hour, perhaps less, the stars had pierced the bruised canvas above, glimmering like desperate tears in the vast, indifferent dark.
Then, as if a great, unseen hand had swept them away, dark clouds gathered, dense and impenetrable, swallowing the last vestiges of celestial hope.
Some whispered in the shadows that the stars would not return until the war was over, that even the heavens held its breath, awaiting the dawn of either salvation or ultimate ruin.
The city itself was a grave.
Darkness clung to every street and alley, a palpable shroud woven from fear and the lingering scent of ash.
Every thoroughfare, once bustling arteries of commerce and life, was now a jagged wound, scarred by the relentless brutality of war.
Dust, fine as burial powder, coated everything, mingling with the heavier rubble that choked the avenues.
Buildings, once proud monuments to mortal endeavour, stood hollowed-out and eyeless, their skeletal frames reaching accusingly into the gloom.
More than half the city lay in ruins, a panorama of shattered dreams and broken stone, resembling nothing so much as the rotting carcasses of so many felled giants, their silent decay proof to a war that desired to devour everything in its path.
It felt like a nightmare, a suffocating dream from which no one could awaken, no matter how desperately they thrashed against its invisible bonds.
Yet, the most unbearable thing, paradoxically, was the silence.
Orario, a metropolis renowned for its vibrant cacophony, a sprawling crucible of adventurers, merchants, and families, should have been overflowing with sound.
The cheerful shouts of shopkeepers hawking their wares, the hurried footsteps of busy townsfolk, the irrepressible laughter of little children playing in sun-dappled squares – these were the city's lifeblood, its very heartbeat.
Now, there was none of that.
Only a chilly, lifeless wind, carrying not the smells of baking bread or exotic spices, but the metallic tang of dust and the faint, acrid scent of burnt wood and despair, whispered mournfully through empty streets, a chilling elegy to a departed world.
But one bastion of life, however grimly determined, remained.
Within the Guild Headquarters, a stark contrast to the deathly stillness outside, the war room thrummed with a desperate energy.
The air was thick with the scent of lamp oil, stale parchment, and the underlying perspiration of urgency.
People moved with a grim purpose, their faces etched with fatigue but their eyes reflecting an unyielding resolve, coming and going constantly, their hushed reports and clipped commands forming a low, incessant hum.
Finn, stood over a massive table, his lean frame radiating an aura of calm amidst the palpable tension.
The table itself was a mosaic of meticulously detailed maps, sprawling charts of Orario’s ruined districts, overlaid with strategic markers and lines of proposed defence.
His gaze, traced the intricate web of streets and fortifications when the voice of his goddess, caused him to finally look up.
“Got a report here from Noir’s team, Finn,” Loki said, her vermilion hair seeming to defy the somber lighting of the room.
She held a crumpled piece of parchment, her brow furrowed in a rare expression of seriousness. “They’ve finished evacuating the residents. Not a single soul left anywhere in the city proper. They’re all holed up safe in one of our five designated strongholds: here, the arena, the Casino, the Ganesha home, and our very own Twilight Manor.”
Her voice, usually boisterous, held a note of weary satisfaction.
The herculean task, often overlooked in the grander schemes of war, had been completed.
“Thank you, Loki,” Finn replied, his voice a low, steady current in the agitated room.
His eyes briefly met hers, a silent acknowledgment of the immense effort involved.
“What about the adventurers?”
“They’ve already taken up defensive positions,” Loki confirmed, scratching thoughtfully at her vibrant hair, a habit that often accompanied her deeper contemplations.
She sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of the past weeks.
“I still can’t believe we’re really doing this. When you first told me what you were planning when the siege started, I wasn’t sure what to think…”
Her words trailed off, a lingering echo of the initial incredulity and doubt that had permeated the Guild when Finn first unveiled his plan.
Indeed, once the tumultuous night of the first day of the war had passed, a night of savage skirmishes and devastating losses, and the evilus forces had retreated, consolidating their hold around the city’s walls, Finn had issued his orders.
He had commanded the immediate fortification of five of Orario’s most prominent and strategically defensible locations.
These would serve as secure havens, impregnable bastions where non-combatants could find refuge from the storm that was surely coming.
Construction had been ongoing, a frenetic, desperate race against time, a background hum of hammers and shouts even as the war raged around them.
While the followers of justice debated the moral ambiguities of their fight, searching for meaning in the senseless destruction, and the followers of beauty plunged into the fray, driven by an insatiable pursuit of strength and glory, Finn, had anticipated with chilling clarity what their side would need—not for victory, but merely for a chance at survival in the decisive battle that loomed.
“We no longer have any choice,” Finn stated, his gaze returning to the maps, his finger tracing a defensive perimeter.
The conviction in his voice brooked no argument.
“Not if we want to protect the people as well as Babel.”
Babel, the towering edifice at the city’s heart, a gateway to the Dungeon below, was more than just a structure; it was the city’s soul, its reason for being.
Its loss would signify the complete annihilation of Orario’s spirit.
Around the time Finn made this decision, Draco, had recommended using Folkvangr, the sprawling home of the Freya Familia, as one of the strongholds.
Its sheer size made it seem ideal, capable of housing a vast number of civilians.
But Finn had decided against it, his mind already one steps ahead.
Though it was indeed large enough, that very size made it harder to defend effectively.
More importantly, he couldn't afford to concentrate their precious, dwindling forces in a single, vulnerable location if their intricate, multi-faceted plan was going to work.
There was one other crucial piece, an element of deception and misdirection, that Finn needed. He asked Loki to confirm its progress.
“What about the barrier in Central Park?”
“We’re settin’ it up just like you asked,” she replied, a faint note of skepticism still lingering in her voice, though her movements were all business.
“Riveria’s over there leading the other mages as we speak… But even she agrees it’s a rush job. It’s a miracle they’ve progressed this far, but thanks to that Vasiliki kid’s magic, it might hold for a short while when the enemy comes knocking.”
Her words implied a desperate hope, a fragile shield against an overwhelming tide.
“That’s fine,” Finn answered, completely unperturbed by the inherent risks.
His expression remained placid, his focus absolute as he returned his gaze to the battle maps strewn across the desk, his finger now tapping a specific point on the Central Park layout.
“It doesn’t need to hold for long, just enough to block their line of sight.”
……………………………………………………………………………….
Beneath the same ash-coloured clouds that smothered the city, within the dilapidated city walls now occupied by the evilus forces, Valletta paused.
Her slender fingers, usually nimble, stilled as she meticulously arranged miniature chess pieces on a makeshift board fashioned from a splintered tabletop.
Her current opponent, a grim-faced Olivas, had just delivered a bewildering piece of news.
“The hell did you just say? A barrier?” Valletta shot him a sharp, bewildered look, her eyes, usually alight with mischievous cunning, wide with surprise.
“Yes. It’s just appeared,” Olivas replied, his tone flat, devoid of the theatricality Valletta often indulged in.
He was Finn’s shadow, Valletta’s eyes and ears among the enemy, tasked with keeping a close watch on Orario’s protectors, and to inform her immediately if it looked like they were up to something.
This, undoubtedly, qualified.
Valletta’s face stiffened, the lines of her jaw tensing.
The suddenness of the report, the unexpectedness of Finn’s move, jolted her.
She sprang out of her chair like a startled, predatory cat, her movements fluid and immediate, and without another word, she scrambled up the rugged, crumbling stone staircase to the top of the walls.
The wind, colder and sharper than the air below, immediately whipped at her hair, tearing at her clothes.
“Well, shit…” she muttered, the obscenity a low growl of grudging admiration, when she finally saw it.
The sight unfurled before her, stark and undeniable against the desolate urban landscape.
“The barrier is made of ice,” Olivas noted, catching up to her, his voice a dispassionate observer’s.
“It encircles all of Central Park.”
From this vantage point, she could fully grasp the scale of Finn’s latest gambit.
Multiple layers of thick, translucent ice, shimmering faintly even in the dim pre-dawn light, now encased Central Park from all angles, like a jagged, crystalline shell.
The sharp, overlapping sections of ice, stretching from the park’s perimeter to the very foot of Babel, looked eerily organic, like the improbable, defiant bloom of a colossal cactus flower, intricate and deadly.
“Not a magical barrier, but a physical one. Our enemy seeks to furnish its keep with walls, it seems,” Olivas observed, his assessment technically correct, but far too simplistic for Valletta. He wasn’t wrong, but there had to be more to it than that.
Valletta knew Finn’s mind, his tortuous, brilliant strategic thinking, better than anyone.
This wasn't just about defence.
“Hah,” she spat, the sound dry and venomous, a twisted laugh escaping her lips.
Her eyes narrowed, piercing the gloom, attempting to discern the intricate workings of her arch-nemesis’s mind.
“First they hide away all the civvies, now Finn’s up to something tricky! Heh-heh-heh, fine by me! Where’s the fun in winning without a fight?!”
Her voice rose, laced with a manic thrill, a palpable excitement that was both terrifying and infectious.
The chess game, she knew, had just entered a more complex, exhilarating phase.
She stood there, gazing at the icy spectacle, a predator studying its prey, but with a strange, almost fond respect.
Her head tilted, as if listening to the silent machinations of Finn’s brain.
“You’re on, Finn! Let’s make this whole city our board! Move your pieces, make your gambits, cause I’m going to turn you into mincemeat, you hear me? Ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Her laughter, raw and unhinged, echoed across the desolate city, a chilling declaration of war. She twirled the finely carved chess queen, a symbol of absolute power, between her fingers, her eyes gleaming with a chilling intensity.
Watching her, the evilus sentries stationed nearby exchanged nervous glances, a cold sweat beading on their brows, while Olivas merely gave a derisive grunt, accustomed to her theatrical displays.
Then, a low rumble began, a sound so deep it resonated not through the air, but through the very earth itself, like the distant, guttural growling of thunder trapped beneath the firmament. Everyone felt it, a primal vibration that shuddered through their bellies and their hearts.
As the ground beneath her feet trembled, Valletta’s face twisted into a wide, predatory smile, her eyes alight with a savage joy.
“Listen to that,” she said, her voice a hushed, almost reverent whisper, thick with anticipation. “The beasts of hell are coming for you!”
………………………………………………………………………………….
The tremors ran through the entire city, a relentless, growing pulse that heralded the dawn of destruction.
Their source was not above ground, but deep beneath Babel’s foundations, lying in the abyssal depths of the Dungeon itself, a colossal being stirring from a slumber far too long.
High above, atop the highest floor of the towering Babel, exposed to the raw, biting wind that scoured the city, Freya listened.
Her silvery eyes glittered with an otherworldly light as she absorbed the Dungeon’s, primal howl, a sound that bypassed the ears and resonated directly with the soul.
It was a chorus of ancient power, a symphony of monstrous awakening.
“Lady Freya. You must seek refuge.”
The heavy footfalls behind her, slow and deliberate, heralded the arrival of Ottar, her most powerful warrior, her loyal Sword of Beauty.
He was armed to the teeth, a walking arsenal of bronze and steel, every inch of his frame radiating readiness for battle.
His presence was a stark contrast to her own ethereal stillness.
“Why is that?” Freya asked, her voice soft, almost a murmur, yet imbued with an unshakeable authority.
She did not shift her gaze from the panoramic view of the doomed city, her attention fixed on the unfolding drama below.
“The other gods have already gathered at the Guild,” Ottar said, his voice strained with a tension he rarely displayed, betraying his deep concern for her.
“The final battle is almost upon us. Our enemy seeks the destruction of Babel. It is not safe for you here.”
His words were a command veiled as a plea, an expression of his duty to protect her, even from her own divine whims.
“Ottar. Do you know what this is I’m wearing?” Freya finally turned, her gaze, intense and magnetic, settling upon him.
“…I do not, my lady.” Ottar’s eyes, held a flicker of surprise.
Freya was not clothed in her usual raiment—the striking, form-fitting black dress that enhanced her enigmatic beauty and commanded attention.
This was the complete opposite—a pure, snow-white robe, its fabric flowing like liquid moonlight, along with a translucent stole that draped around her arms like a divine raiment, shimmering with an ethereal luminescence.
It was a vision of purity, almost sacrificial grace.
Even Ottar, her most devoted follower, had never seen her in this particular attire.
“These are the same clothes I was wearing when Hera defeated me in battle.”
Ottar’s eyes widened in shock, a rare display of emotion from the typically stoic warrior.
“Why…would you wear this now?” The question was hesitant, laced with a deep-seated apprehension.
“For absolution,” replied Freya, speaking her heart, revealing a vulnerability that few, if any, ever witnessed.
Her voice, though still soft, carried a solemn weight.
“The time to sever my past with Zeus and Hera is near, washing away the taint of defeat.”
It was a ritual, a purification, a declaration that this battle was not merely for Orario, but for her own soul, her own divine identity.
She turned around at last, her white robe billowing gently in the wind, a stark contrast to the grim, ruined city below.
“I expect you to indulge me,” she said, her silvery eyes locking with his, a demand that superseded all strategy, all logic.
“Both my divine proclamations…and my personal whims.”
Ottar stood silent, absorbing her words, her intent.
As he stared into the fathomless depths of his goddess’s silvery eyes, he slowly understood what it was she wanted to say, what she was truly asking of him.
It was more than victory; it was a redefinition.
Freya, meanwhile, looked her loyal follower up and down, a faint, knowing smile gracing her lips.
“It has been a while since I last saw you dressed for war,” she remarked, a hint of admiration in her tone.
His battle attire was truly magnificent, both savage and refined in craftsmanship.
A gleaming bronze pauldron, intricately etched, covered one of his massive shoulders, providing both protection and a symbol of his might.
His crimson cape, a rich, deep red, billowed dramatically behind him, defying the wind, while his waist-cloth, woven from enchanted salamander fabric, offered both resilience and a striking visual flourish.
He carried a number of daggers at his belt, each a precision instrument of death, along with the two colossal, crossed great-swords on his back, their hilts rising above his shoulders like the wings of a fearsome beast.
It was an ensemble that perfectly balanced beauty and practicality.
Each stood at opposite extremes, a seemingly contradictory blend, yet in some way, they were perfect reflections of one another, embodying the essence of their Familia.
Their change of costume, hers to white, his to full battle regalia, reflected their true, deepest desire, a synchronized declaration of intent.
“What does your outfit mean to you?” Freya asked, her gaze steady.
“It is a promise to carry out my intent.” Ottar’s voice was deep, absolute.
“And that intent is…?”
This time, Ottar’s reply was immediate, unhesitating, a statement of pure, distilled will.
“To conquer.”
“Do you intend to lose, Ottar?”
“I do not.” The words were a vow, an unbreakable oath.
“Then it matters not where I stand.”
With that, she broke eye contact, turning back to face the vast, desolate expanse of the city, her gaze fixed on the horizon, on the coming dawn.
“I shall watch your victory from here. The view may be the same as it ever was…but there is no better place to see all of Orario, to truly witness its fate.”
Her voice was filled with a sense of destiny, a cosmic observer rather than a participant, yet every fibre of her being was entwined with the unfolding drama.
Ottar remained silent, his eyes fixed on her ethereal form.
He knew his place, knew his purpose.
“I shall be watching over you, Ottar.”
Her words were a blessing, a command, a promise etched into the very fabric of his soul.
“…Yes, my lady.”
And then, with an unshakable loyalty that transcended mere words, a declaration of absolute devotion and certainty, he added, “Victory shall be yours.”
The words hung in the icy wind, a prelude to the coming storm, a promise to the goddess who watched from above.
………………………………………………………………………………………
The air within the temporary Bahamut familia home was thick with the scent of pine and something sweet, a familiar comfort after a long night.
Clair, Michalis, Eleni, Nikolaos, Dimitra, Vasileios, and Vasiliki pushed open the light wooden door, their steps weary but their spirits resolute.
They had just returned from a final briefing, the weight of the impending war pressing down on Orario, and on their young shoulders.
But upon entering, any weariness evaporated, replaced by a collective gasp of disbelief.
Neatly, almost décor-like, beside a plush armchair where their goddess habitually resided, lay two unfamiliar girls.
They were tied securely, their forms limp and unconscious, their faces smudged with what looked like dust.
And there, amidst this bizarre tableau, sat Bahamut herself, not in a state of frantic explanation or even mild concern, but utterly serene.
She was engrossed in a thick, leather-bound book, a sliver of candlelight illuminating her calm features.
The children froze, a silent question hanging in the air.
Clair's hand instinctively went to the hilt of her spear, while Vasileios braced, ready to shield his comrades.
“Ah, you’ve returned,” Bahamut said, her voice a low, resonant purr.
She didn't look up immediately, instead tracing a line of text with a perfectly manicured finger. “As much as I want to tell you all what happened, let’s have lunch first. That useless Hermes managed to do something worthwhile for once.”
With a crisp thud, she closed the book, its cover bearing a draconic emblem, and rose with effortless grace.
Her eyes, ancient and knowing, finally met theirs, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor of worry hidden beneath their tranquil depths as she turned towards the kitchen.
The goddess's casual dismissal of the incapacitated strangers only deepened their confusion, yet her command for breakfast, a ritual of normalcy amidst the encroaching chaos, was enough to momentarily quell their questions.
They exchanged bewildered glances, then, one by one, followed their enigmatic patron.
What her children didn't know was the quiet storm that had raged through the home just hours before.
The tranquility they witnessed was a carefully constructed facade, a shield for their impressionable hearts.
Earlier, the very air had vibrated with the presence of other deities.
Hermes, had arrived first, a mischievous grin plastered on his face, a bulging sack slung over his shoulder, "borrowed," he'd winked, "from Demeter’s hidden stash."
Close behind him came Astraea, her aura of justice a gentle counterpoint to Hermes's chaos, followed by Demeter herself, a scowl on her face about the pilfered provisions quickly fading into a fond smile for Bahamut, and finally, Hephaestus, her strong, smith-calloused hands carrying an offering of fine dwarven ale.
They had come not for strategy or war councils, but for a simple, poignant farewell.
The final battle was on the horizon, a cataclysm that promised to tear through the mortal realm. None of them knew which of their number would survive the war, or if any of them would remain in the mortal realm at all.
Though immune to death in the conventional sense, their time together, their cherished interactions with their children and the mortal world they had come to cherish, would be cut short for thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands of years.
This was especially true for Bahamut, whose impending confrontation with Falazure was a true 50/50 proposition, a clash of titans with deeply uncertain outcomes.
To shield her children from the crushing weight of this uncertainty, she had presented herself as calm, even indolent, a goddess above the fray.
But in reality, a gnawing anxiety tormented her.
If she were to somehow fall, if Falazure claimed victory, there was no telling what fate awaited the children she had nurtured, the souls she had become so deeply attached to.
Their very existence was bound to her, and the thought of their potential ruin tore at her heart.
Hephaestus, Demeter, and Hermes, knowing the depth of Bahamut's unspoken fear, was the true purpose of their visit.
It was a shared drink, a communal breath before the plunge, a quiet acknowledgment of the connection they shared as gods in a world they had come to love.
Astraea, always empathetic, simply offered a comforting presence, her serene gaze a silent solace.
They drank, they reminisced, they laughed, and they shed silent tears, their divine existence momentarily forgotten in the face of mortal emotions.
Not long after the other deities had departed, Bahamut had returned to her calm, collected self, her mask firmly in place, ready to welcome her children with a comforting smile, the two tied-up girls a mere footnote in the grand scheme of her day.
Lunch, a hearty meal of freshly baked bread, savoury stew, and sweet berry jam, was devoured in a respectful, if still slightly bewildered, silence.
Once their plates were clean and the last of the steaming tea had been sipped, Dimitra, stepping forward as the de facto leader in Draco’s absence, began to relay the crucial information.
"Finn's plan is set," she stated, her voice steady despite the underlying tension.
"Orario's forces are to be split in two. One group will defend the five safe zones within the city, protecting the populace. The other, a smaller, elite contingent, will move directly to stop the two behemoths creeping out of the dungeon."
With Draco, their familia captain, still unconscious and recovering from his previous ordeal, the burden of decision-making had fallen to Dimitra and Vasiliki.
After much contemplation, weighing strengths and weaknesses, they had decided to divide their familia into two teams, based on individual specialties and the demands of each mission.
"Team one," Vasiliki announced, her quiet voice carrying an unexpected authority, "will assist the elite team heading into the dungeon. It consists of Dimitra, Vasileios, Nikolaos, and Clair."
A collective nod acknowledged the wisdom of this choice.
Vasileios, a sturdy tank, possessed innate skills that enhanced his protective capabilities, making him an unyielding bulwark against any foe.
Dimitra, with her range and precision, paired with Nikolaos’s explosive enchantment on her arrows, could unleash devastating damage from a distance.
Clair, with her versatile spear and supporting skills, would effectively keep lesser monsters at bay, ensuring the main damage dealers could operate unimpeded.
This combination was solid, a well-oiled machine designed for high-risk, high-reward encounters, maximizing their chances of survival in the dungeon's maw.
"Team two," Dimitra continued, "will assist with the city’s defence, specifically at the Ganesha familia home. This team comprises Eleni, Vasiliki, and Michalis."
Though fewer in number, this team was equally potent.
Eleni and Michalis, both possessing high mobility and swift attacks, were invaluable for rapid response, able to assist anywhere help was needed.
Vasiliki, as a mage, would be crucial for wide-area suppression and defensive spells, and thus would constantly operate from the protected backlines, shielded by all available adventurers in the respective safe zones.
Knowing the unprecedented difficulty of this war, Orario had pulled out all stops, equipping its elite adventurers with the finest gear forged.
Vasileios, fitting his role perfectly, had been given a gleaming set of enchanted full-plate silver armour, a sturdy shield, and a short sword, enhancing his already tough defence.
Nikolaos, Eleni, and Clair received medium armour, their existing weapons enhanced with potent enchantments.
Clair, however, had chosen one of the two magic weapons the Bahamut familia had kept stashed away.
Michalis, Vasiliki, and Dimitra were outfitted with light armour, with Michalis claiming the other magic weapon.
The Bahamut familia's two magic weapons were artifacts of decent power, forged by none other than Hephaestus herself, crafted from the horns of their very own Captain, Draco.
One had been expertly shaped into a spear, the other into a dagger, both imbued with potent, almost sentient abilities.
Draco, knowing their crazy expense and rarity, had sealed them away, deeming them too dangerous for everyday use.
Who could have imagined that their first true deployment would be in a war against the evilus? (Refer to chapter 156 for more details on the magic weapons).
Listening to her children, their voices filled with a mixture of apprehension and grim resolve, and seeing them so well-equipped for the final battle, Bahamut felt a sliver of her deep-seated worry recede.
They were ready, as ready as any mortal could be against such odds.
She felt a flicker of hope, a deep belief that they would all make it back safely from their respective battlefields.
Silently, she offered a prayer, not to any other god, but to the world itself, for the protection of her beloved children.
With lunch concluded, the hung out with their goddess until late in the evening.
Finally, the moment of separation weighed heavily.
Time was ticking, and the war would not wait.
The unconscious Draco, still recovering and vulnerable, was carefully secured to be transported with Vasiliki’s team to the Ganesha familia home, where he would be safest.
Chloe and Luniore, the two mystery girls, still tied and unconscious, could not simply be left behind.
Vasiliki decided they too would be taken to the Ganesha familia home, their presence an additional mystery to unravel once the immediate crisis passed.
Bahamut herself was not accompanying them.
Her own battlefield awaited.
With a final, lingering look at her children, a gaze that conveyed a thousand unspoken wishes for their safety, she watched them depart, their footsteps echoing into the vast, uncertain future.
As her children’s forms disappeared into the empty, anxious streets of Orario, Bahamut turned, her mask of serene indifference finally dropping.
A deep, guttural sigh escaped her lips, carrying the weight of her fears.
Then, with a magnificent display of suppressed power, she sprouted her draconic wings, scales reflecting the hues of the rising moonlight.
With a light, almost ethereal flap, she lifted herself effortlessly, higher and higher, until she was but a speck against the night sky, before vanishing entirely into the swirling clouds, a silent promise of thunder and fire.
Far below, perched on the city walls, Erebus watched Bahamut’s departure with a slow, calculating smile.
The wind whipped his dark cloak around him, mirroring the storm brewing in his heart.
"With her gone," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, "the chances of errors occurring in my grand plan have reduced by a significant amount."
His eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction.
"I can only hope that she doesn't return victorious."
He turned to the stoic guard at his side, Vito, whose face was a blank mask.
"Vito, my boy. Let us return. We have a war to win."
With sinister steps, Erebus and Vito descended from the city walls, disappearing into the shadowed passages that led deep underground.
It was time.
The offensive was about to begin.
A/N: Feel free to read ahead on pat3on, donate and read 1 extra chapter as a free member.