The alarms in Chaldea were screaming again.
Ritsuka ran.
Cold air burned his lungs as he sprinted down the white corridors, lights flashing red above him. Technicians shouted over each other, fragments of words chasing him down the hall—"Beast," "deadline," "logic leak"—all of it blurring into the same thing Chaldea always lived on.
The world was ending. Again.
But today felt different.
It wasn't just the alarms or the way the TRISMEGISTUS system hummed like it was seconds away from tearing itself apart. It was the weight in his chest. The memory of a hand he'd once held and then... lost.
Olga.
She was back.
Not a ghost. Not a glitch. Not a memory lingering in some corner of his mind. Olga Marie Animusphere—Director, tyrant, family—had walked back into Chaldea in her third Ascension form like the universe had finally decided to return something it stole.
Ritsuka hadn't meant to move. One second, she'd opened her mouth to yell at everyone, to take control like she always did. Next, his body had closed the distance without asking his brain for permission.
He threw his arms around her.
Her coat was stiff under his fingers. Her body is even stiffer.
"F-Fujimaru? Let go this instant—"
Her voice snapped against his ears like a whip, but he couldn't. Not when the last time he'd seen her, she'd been falling, disappearing, leaving him alone in a burning world.
He didn't sob. Not at first. He just held on, fingers curling into the fabric, throat tight, eyes stinging.
Then her magic flared.
He felt it like a shiver crawling down his spine—Olga's power reaching, digging, pulling at the walls around his heart. She saw it all in a flash: the empty command room, the smell of ash, the way he'd stood there in silence when she left him behind. The way he'd agreed to her last order, even as tears slipped down his face.
Her breath hitched.
Slowly, almost awkwardly, her arms came up around him.
"Idiot," she muttered, but her voice wasn't sharp anymore.
The word broke something loose inside him. The tightness in his chest snapped, and his body finally caught up to the truth: she was here. She was real.
Ritsuka's shoulders shook. A quiet, ugly sound tore itself out of his throat as he buried his face against her shoulder and cried like the recruit he'd once been, not the Last Master of Chaldea everyone expected him to be.
Around them, Chaldea held its breath.
He didn't know how long they stayed like that. Long enough for the alarms to feel distant. Long enough for the people around them to look away, like they were giving him a moment he hadn't asked for but desperately needed.
Olga's hand hovered over his back, then settled there, hesitant but steady.
"You're getting snot on my uniform," she said quietly.
He huffed out a shaky laugh against her shoulder.
When he finally pulled back, eyes red, he caught sight of him.
Azrael.
The young King Hassan stood at the edge of the room, a cold aura clinging to him like a shadow that had learned how to walk. His sword rested in his hand, caught somewhere between existence and death, like even the weapon couldn't decide which side it belonged to.
Ritsuka straightened instinctively. Last Master. Last line of defense. He didn't get to cry for long.
Azrael's eyes met his, ancient and unreadable.
"In one year," Azrael said, voice grinding like stone, "if the Beast is not found... the heads of all who failed will decorate my platter."
Ritsuka swallowed hard, the last of his tears drying on his cheeks.
Right.
Olga was back.
The Beast was moving.
And Chaldea was on duty again.
He reached for the strength he always reached for, the part of him that got up no matter how many times the world burned.
"Then we'll find it," Ritsuka said, steady now. "Whatever it takes."
The moment was shattered when the doors to the command room hissed open.
TRISMEGISTUS roared louder in here, a low mechanical thunder that made the floor vibrate under Ritsuka's boots. The walls glowed with cold blue light, data streams pouring down the main screen like digital rain. Old Chaldea—his Chaldea—looked as pristine as ever, like it hadn't watched the world burn and be rebuilt.
Olga stepped away from him, straightening her uniform, wiping at her eyes so fast he almost thought he imagined it.
"Enough," she said, voice sharp again. "We don't have time to be sentimental. Positions, everyone!"
Staff scrambled back to their stations. The hum of the systems rose as they responded to her orders. This was the part Ritsuka knew: the choreography of crisis.
He moved to stand beside her at the central podium. Azrael stayed on her other side, the three of them forming an uneven line: Director, Executioner, and the stupid human trying to keep up with both.
"Report," Olga snapped.
A nearby operator—Cerejeira—swiveled her chair, fingers still flying over the console.
"Unidentified disturbance anchored in New York City, year 1926," she said. "Classification: Static Anomaly. It's not a standard Singularity, Director. Timeline integrity for the early twentieth century is dropping in localized waves."
Olga clicked her tongue.
"We already secured the foundation of the twentieth century. How can a Singularity manifest there now? This isn't just a ripple; this is a full‑blown logic leak."
Ritsuka stared at the map as red points bloomed over New York, spreading like a stain.
"Is it the Beast?" he asked.
Azrael's answer rumbled through the room.
"The Human Order is no longer a straight line," he said. "It is a garden that has been salted." His gaze stayed fixed on the screen, on the monstrous shadow rising over the digital city. "This 'anomaly' does not follow the laws of Magecraft. It is... a whim. A hidden world of wonders that refuses to accept the Age of Man."
Hidden world. Wonders.
Ritsuka thought of fairy tales, of secret cities behind the veil.
"Like a parallel magic society?" he said slowly. "Separate from Proper Human History... but trying to overwrite it?"
Olga shot him a quick look, surprised.
"Not completely hopeless, are you?" she muttered. Louder, she said, "Yes. This pocket of history is starting to overwrite the 1920s. If we don't stabilize it, the entire logic of human history in that era will be replaced by this nonsense where common sense doesn't apply."
Ritsuka's throat went dry.
Again. They'd just finished restoring everything, and the world had found a new way to break.
Behind him, the doors opened with a soft hiss.
"Senpai, we've got—"
Mash's voice cut off.
Ritsuka turned.
Mash Kyrielight stood frozen in the doorway, her eyes wide. Behind him, gathered near the far wall, were figures he hadn't noticed in the rush: dark coats, familiar weapons, an unmistakable air of barely contained chaos.
Avengers.
Rulers.
Extra classes that had vanished when their contracts ended, when the Singularities were solved. He'd written them off as gone, another set of goodbyes he'd never really processed.
But they were here.
Jalter lounged against a console as she owned it. Edmond Dantès's hat shaded his eyes as he watched the chaos with lazy interest. Other faces—saints, monsters, judges—filled the space like a reunion he hadn't dared to hope for.
Something inside Ritsuka snapped again, but this time it wasn't grief.
It was relief.
He crossed the room before his brain could tell him this wasn't the time. He grabbed whoever was closest—Jalter, Edmond, a handful of others—in a messy, too‑tight hug.
"You're okay," he said, breathless. "You're all— you're really here."
Jalter squawked.
"Oi, Master! Personal space!" she protested, but she didn't actually shove him off. Her cheeks were red. "What's with you, getting all clingy out of nowhere?"
Around them, the others grumbled, laughed, and patted his back. For a second, the command room felt too small for all the ghosts turned solid again.
Then the alarms cut through the moment, shrill and unforgiving.
Jalter sighed dramatically.
"Let me guess," she said. "That noise means what I think it means?"
Mash blinked herself out of her shock and hurried to Ritsuka's side, her shield clutched tight.
"Senpai, there's—"
He met her eyes and understood. He'd been here too many times to need the rest of the sentence.
"Briefing," he said quietly. "Got it."
He forced himself to let go of the Servants, stepping back.
"Let's talk later," he told them, voice rushed but sincere. "My girlfriend and I need to get to the command center. Don't go disappearing on me again, okay?"
A few of them raised their hands in mock surrender. Edmond just lifted his arms like, I have no idea what's happening, and the others copied him until Jalter groaned.
"Idiots," she muttered, but there was a small smile tugging at her mouth.
Mash fell into step beside Ritsuka as they approached Olga and Azrael. The blue light washed over her armor, catching in her eyes. She looked worried. Too quiet.
He didn't like that.
"Director," Mash said, voice steadier than her grip on the shield. "What did you find?"
Olga gestured at the main monitor.
"Static Anomaly, New York City, 1926," she said. "Something has cracked the logic of that era and is trying to rewrite it with an independent magical order."
Mash's gaze flicked over the data. Ritsuka could see the calculations happening behind her eyes.
"Spiritron density is... abnormal," she said slowly. "It's like the world itself is trying to hide from us. But I can go, Director. If Senpai is heading into an unstable world, I should be by his side."
Azrael's answer was immediate.
"No."
The word dropped into the room like a guillotine. Even TRISMEGISTUS seemed to be quiet for a heartbeat.
Mash flinched.
Ritsuka's hand tightened around nothing. He hated that tone. Final. Absolute.
Azrael lifted his sword slightly, the blade hovering in that impossible place between life and death.
"The Beast we pursue has prohibited thy access to this field," he said, eyes never leaving Mash. "Thou know the reason."
Ritsuka looked between them, confusion pricking at his spine.
"Mash?" he asked softly.
She wouldn't meet his eyes. Her fingers dug into the leather of her shield.
Olga sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Earlier analysis confirmed it," she said. "Bringing Mash with you right now is pointless—no, dangerous. The density of her Spiritrons is equivalent to a small mountain." Her gaze cut to him, sharp. "If we send her with you to 1926, we have no idea how the Anomaly will react. Worst‑case scenario, she cracks the whole thing just by existing there."
Ritsuka stared at Mash.
"So she's not just tired," he said slowly. "She's... carrying all the history we saved, isn't she?"
Azrael inclined his head.
"She is becoming the Paladin of the Threshold," he said. "To carry the protection of all humanity is to bear the weight of every life that was, and every life that shall be. Until she learns to thin her existence back to a human form, she is a fixed point. A statue that cannot move."
Mash's shoulders trembled.
"Senpai... I'm sorry," she whispered. "This morning, I tried to lift my shield in the training room and... the floor cracked. My output keeps reacting to the energy of 'After Time.' If I go with you, I might..." She swallowed hard. "I might break the mission just by being there."
Ritsuka stepped closer, close enough to see the fine crack lines of fear in her eyes.
"Hey," he said gently. "Don't apologize. Do you remember the Epic of Remnants?"
Her eyes flicked up to meet his.
"You all kept watch over me," he went on. "I did the running around. We can do that again. You hold the line here, I handle the field. Okay?"
Mash's lips trembled into a small, determined smile.
"Okay," she said.
Olga crossed her arms.
"Then listen carefully, Fujimaru," she said. "Mash is staying here because she's our last trump card. No defensive buffs. No 'Lord Camelot' to hide behind this time. You'll have to rely on those Shadow Servants and whatever allies you can scrape together in that... Wizarding world."
Wizarding World.
The phrase made something spark in his chest—curiosity, dread, both.
Mash lifted the shield slightly.
"Senpai... please take the Case and the shield," she said. "They're both linked to me. They'll help you fight and... help me recover. I'll be with you. Just... from the other side of the screen."
He hated that. He also knew there wasn't a better option.
Ritsuka nodded.
"Then let's get this over with," he said quietly.
TRISMEGISTUS pulsed brighter, as if it had been waiting for those words.
This was the Beginning of After Time. Again, he was about to step into a world that didn't want to be fixed.
And he was going anyway.
The decision was made the moment he stepped toward the coffins.
Ritsuka stood in front of the Spiritron Transference room, the familiar metal capsules lined up like sleek white coffins waiting for their next occupant. No matter how many times he did this, they never stopped looking like something you didn't come back from.
He placed a hand on the closest one.
Its surface was cold. Steady. Unlike his heartbeat.
"Destination locked." Cerejeira's voice crackled over the intercom. "New York City, 1926. Coordinates fixed. Logic stability... as good as it's going to get, Director."
Olga huffed.
"Reassuring as always," she muttered. Then, louder, "All staff to stations! Meunière, stop eating and get to the console! TRISMEGISTUS is not going to run itself."
A muffled, indignant noise answered her from somewhere in the control pit.
Mash stepped up beside Ritsuka, shield hugged to her chest. Being this close, he could feel the power rolling off her in waves—thick, heavy, like standing next to a living reactor.
"Senpai," she said softly.
He turned.
Her eyes were bright with worry and something that hurt to look at.
"Please come back safely," Mash whispered. "We'll hold the line here against the Beast. I'll be watching every second."
He wanted to say something cool. Something reassuring. All that came out was a crooked smile.
"I know," he said. "I'm counting on you."
She reached out like she wanted to touch him, then stopped herself. Her fingers curled in the air before she pulled them back to her chest.
Azrael stepped forward, the temperature in the room dropping a few degrees just from his presence.
"Go, Master of Chaldea," he intoned. "Seek the beast‑tamer in the scarf. His path and thine are entwined by the same 'humanity' both of you struggle to preserve."
Beast‑tamer. Scarf.
Ritsuka filed the image away. A clue was more than he usually got.
He exhaled slowly, then climbed into the coffin.
The interior felt smaller than he remembered. Padding pressed against his shoulders as he lay back, staring up at the curved glass lid.
This was it. Again.
Olga's face appeared above him, framed by the edge of the coffin.
"Remember," she said, voice sharp but eyes soft in a way she probably didn't realize. "No Mash. No fortress Noble Phantasm to bail you out. Use the Case. Use that ridiculous knack you have for making allies out of problem children."
He huffed a weak laugh.
"Yes, Director."
Her mouth twitched.
"Try not to die," she added, like an afterthought.
"I'll put it on the to‑do list," he said.
The lid slid down with a hiss. Her face vanished, replaced by his own faint reflection as the glass sealed shut.
Fluid began to rise around him, cool at first, then numbing. He forced himself not to struggle as it reached his chest, his throat.
TRISMEGISTUS's hum grew into a roar.
"Unsummoned Spiritron conversion in three," Olga's voice echoed through the speakers, distant and metallic. "Two. One... RAYSHIFT START!"
The world dissolved.
Blue light swallowed everything—Chaldea, the coffin, his own body. For a moment, he felt himself stretch, his consciousness pulled thin like a thread of data being dragged through a needle's eye.
He'd done this so many times that parts of it felt almost normal. The vertigo, the way sound turned into static, the sense of falling without moving.
This time, there was something else.
Laughter.
Not cruel. Not kind, either. A playful, slippery sound echoing through the void, like a world giggling behind its hands at a joke only it understood.
Ritsuka's thoughts flickered around it.
Wizarding World. Hidden magic. A society that doesn't want to be seen... but wants to be real badly enough to overwrite history itself.
Images flashed across his mind's eye—wand sparks, dark masses tearing through streets, a man in a blue coat with a battered suitcase, a boy with haunted eyes.
New York, 1926.
The light around him shifted.
The data‑pressure let go all at once, and his consciousness snapped back into something like a body.
He gasped.
Cold air hit his lungs. His back burned with the phantom memory of coffin padding, but instead of hard metal, he felt... weight. Fabric. Gravity settling into his bones.
Ritsuka opened his eyes.
He was lying on his back in a narrow bunk, the ceiling above him low and wooden, painted a dull off‑white. The whole room swayed gently, creaking in a rhythm his body instantly recognized: a ship.
A small porthole window glowed with early morning light, the sky outside streaked with soft orange and pink. Somewhere distant, a horn sounded, deep and mournful.
He sat up slowly.
The clothes on his body were not his usual Chaldea uniform. A heavy charcoal‑gray trench coat fell around him, the collar high and tailored sharp. Underneath, a navy three‑piece pinstripe suit clung to him just right, like someone had taken his measurements while he was busy saving the world.
"Da Vinci," he muttered automatically.
He flexed his fingers. Leather driving gloves hugged his hands, smooth and tight, hiding the Command Spells on the back like they were just another accessory.
A weight tugged at his left wrist.
He glanced down to see a sleek bracelet device there, runes and tiny lights embedded in the metal. It pulsed once, slowly, as if acknowledging him.
On the floor beside the bunk sat a leather briefcase—unassuming, a little scuffed, with an aluminum frame disguised under good craftsmanship.
The Saint Graph Case.
Ritsuka swung his legs off the bed and stood. The floor rolled under him; he caught his balance automatically. Years of running through collapsing temples apparently translated well to ship travel.
He picked up the briefcase. The handle fit his hand perfectly.
"I like this style," he admitted under his breath.
His reflection in the tiny mirror above the washbasin smirked back at him—a young man dressed like he'd stepped out of a 1920s magazine, eyes still carrying the faint glow of rayshift energy.
"Okay," he told the stranger in the mirror. "New world, same job. Don't screw it up."
A distant voice boomed through the ship's corridors, muffled but clear enough: they'd made port.
Ritsuka took a steadying breath, grabbed the Case, and stepped out of the cabin.
The hallway was already filling with passengers in period coats and hats, luggage in hand, excitement buzzing in the air. He slipped into the flow, letting the crowd carry him toward the open deck and the promise of New York.
As he walked, the bracelet on his wrist vibrated once—just enough to make him glance ahead.
A man in a worn blue coat stood a few people in front of him, clutching a battered leather case. Freckles. Tired eyes. A scarf.
The bracelet flashed a name across its surface.
[Person of Interest: Newt Scamander]
Ritsuka's lips curved.
"Found you," he thought.
Welcome to 1926.
The salt wind hit him first.
The moment Ritsuka stepped out onto the open deck, the chill bit through his coat, sharper than Chaldea's filtered air. Ahead, beyond the railing and the forest of other passengers, New York rose out of the morning haze—steel and stone punching at the sky, smoke curling up from chimneys, sunlight catching on glass.
Proper Human History. Version 1926.
He let himself stare for a heartbeat.
We fixed this, he thought. Once. Don't let it slip through your fingers now.
The ship groaned as it eased into the dock. Ropes were thrown, shouted orders bounced back and forth, and the quiet excitement on board tightened into restless energy.
"Disembark in an orderly fashion!" someone yelled.
Naturally, nobody listened.
Ritsuka followed the crowd down the gangway, boots thudding on the wooden planks. The smell changed as soon as he stepped onto the pier—less ocean, more oil, sweat, and the faint sourness of too many people in one place.
Ahead, a line of wooden desks had been set up under a long canopy. Officials in uniforms sat behind them, stamping papers, checking faces, barking questions. A sign overhead welcomed people to the United States in big block letters, like a promise and a warning at the same time.
The human tide funneled into lines.
Ritsuka ended up in one a few people behind the man in the blue coat.
Up close, Newt Scamander looked even more out of place than Ritsuka felt. His coat was scuffed, his bow tie a little crooked. He clutched his case like it held his whole life—and given what Chaldea's intel had told him, it probably did.
The bracelet around Ritsuka's wrist pulsed softly.
[High anomaly relevance detected.]
"Yeah," he thought. "Figured that out."
The line shuffled forward.
"Next!" the immigration officer at their desk called, not bothering to look up yet.
Newt stepped forward, placing his case on the ground beside him.
"Name," the guard said, eyes finally lifting.
"Newt Scamander," he answered, accent thick and absent‑minded.
The guard flipped open his passport, brows pulling together.
"British, huh?"
"Yes."
"First trip to New York?"
"Yes."
Ritsuka watched, pretending to be more interested in the scuffed floorboards than anything else. The Case in his hand felt heavier, as if it were leaning toward Newt's suitcase out of curiosity.
The officer's gaze dropped.
"Case on the table," he said.
Newt hesitated for half a second, then obeyed, setting the battered leather suitcase on the desk.
Ritsuka's bracelet buzzed again, this time with a faint flicker of text he barely caught.
[Containment integrity: unstable.]
The officer reached for the latches.
Newt's fingers twitched.
In the space of two seconds, Ritsuka saw it—a subtle flip, a twist of Newt's wrist, like a magician's sleight of hand married to something deeper. The locks clicked over with a shimmer so faint anyone without circuits would've missed it.
The official opened the case.
Ritsuka leaned just enough to see inside.
Neatly folded clothes. Books. Paperwork. Absolutely nothing that looked like an illegal traveling zoo of magical creatures.
Newt shifted his weight, expression politely blank. Only the tightness in his shoulders betrayed him.
The guard grunted.
"Looks fine." He snapped the case shut and pushed it back. "Welcome to New York."
"Thank you," Newt said, relief smoothing his posture.
He stepped away, melting into the crowd ahead.
"Next!"
Ritsuka walked up to the desk, heart beating a little faster even though he knew Chaldea had prepped him for this.
He set his own briefcase down with deliberate calm.
The officer took his passport, flipping it open.
"Hmm. Japanese, huh?" The man's eyes flicked up, taking in the trench coat, the gloves, the calm face that had seen the end of the world and then learned to smile again. "You speak English?"
"Yes, sir," Ritsuka said, accent mild but clear.
"Fluent?"
"Correct, sir."
The guard nodded slowly.
"Anything edible in the briefcase? Meat, fruit, bread?"
"No, sir."
"Livestock? Plants? Bugs?"
Ritsuka thought of the Shadow Servants sleeping in card form inside the upgraded Case and kept his expression neutral.
"No, sir."
"Bring it here."
"Of course, sir."
He lifted the briefcase onto the desk. As his fingers brushed the handle, he felt the faintest hum—Da Vinci's work responding to his touch, quietly aligning its insides to look exactly like what this era expected.
The officer popped the latches.
Inside, it was boring in the most reassuring way possible: spare shirts and trousers, a notebook with its pages filled in clean, elegant handwriting, a couple of fountain pens, and a folded overcoat. A perfectly normal suitcase for a young man dressed too well for steerage.
The guard raised a brow.
"You must be pretty well‑off to dress like that, kid," he said, eyes lingering on the cut of the suit.
Ritsuka let his mouth curve into something modest.
"Oh, no," he said. "These were a parting gift from an old friend who passed away during the war. I'm just... keeping my promise to wear them, sir."
The lie slid out smooth, anchored by enough truth to make it hurt.
The officer's gaze softened for a heartbeat.
"I see." He closed the case and handed back the passport. "Welcome to New York."
"Thank you, sir."
Ritsuka picked up the Case, feeling the weight of Chaldea, Mash, Olga, Azrael, and an entire fragile century in the handle.
He stepped out of the line and into the noise and light of 1926 New York, the bracelet at his wrist still faintly warm from pinging on one name.
Newt Scamander was somewhere ahead.
And the Wizarding World was waiting.
New York hit him like a punch to the senses.
The city was loud in a way Chaldea never was—car horns, shouted conversations, the clatter of shoes on pavement, the hiss of steam from somewhere under the streets. Brick buildings towered around him, windows stacked like watchful eyes. Signs screamed advertisements in bold fonts. Everything felt too alive.
Ritsuka adjusted his grip on the Case and kept walking, letting the flow of people pull him along.
He tried to see it as a normal tourist would.
Street vendors yelling about hot chestnuts. Kids are weaving through the crowd. Women in cloche hats and men in flat caps, all going somewhere important.
Underneath it, his bracelet kept a low, steady pulse—ambient magic levels, anomaly readings, all the things a normal tourist wouldn't see.
He turned a corner and stopped.
Halfway down the block, a townhouse looked like someone had taken a giant fist to it. The brick was shattered inward, windows blown out, bits of wood and glass scattered across the street. A crowd had already gathered, curiosity pressing them up against a flimsy police line.
Ritsuka drifted closer, slipping into the edge of the onlookers.
A man in a hat and overcoat was speaking quietly with a woman holding a crying child. Ritsuka couldn't hear all the words, but his bracelet helped, picking up fragments and translating the emotional tone.
[Witness statement: "It came out of nowhere... black wind... house just tore itself apart..."]
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Dark mass. Atmospheric disturbance, he thought automatically, Chaldea's terminology surfacing.
The bracelet buzzed hard against his wrist.
[Unidentified phenomenon detected.]
[Classification: HIGH‑RISK.]
[Threat form: UNKNOWN.]
The rest of the line glitched, symbols scrambling like even the device didn't want to define it.
The air changed.
At first, it was just a pressure—like the moment before a thunderstorm, when the sky holds its breath. Then the cracked remains of the townhouse groaned.
Everyone went silent.
A hairline fracture crawled up what was left of the front wall. Brick dust trickled down. Somewhere, a woman screamed.
Ritsuka's Command Spells burned faintly under his glove, reacting on their own.
"...What the hell," he breathed.
The wall exploded inward.
Something black and furious blasted out of the house, smashing straight into the cobblestones. The street buckled like paper, a jagged trench ripping toward a parked car. The thing wasn't a shape so much as a storm—swirling shadow, tendrils of darkness lashing out, devouring light wherever it passed.
The bracelet went wild.
[OBSCURUS‑LEVEL FORCE ESTIMATED.]
[Magic density: CRITICAL.]
[Warning: Direct engagement NOT RECOMMENDED.]
[Warning: Logic integrity in local area failing—]
The text broke off as the dark mass lunged upward, slamming into the corner of a nearby building. Brick and stone cracked like bone. People scattered, some dropping to the ground, others running blindly in every direction.
Ritsuka didn't move.
He watched.
That was his curse and his job: to look at the thing everyone else pretended wasn't there.
The Obscurus dove again, vanishing into a subway entrance in a scream of shattered metal and stone. The rails below shrieked, the ground trembling under his feet. Dust and smoke fanned out over the street.
Then it was gone.
Silence crashed in its wake, broken only by the distant wail of sirens.
Ritsuka let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His heart was hammering against his ribs, his fingertips numb around the Case's handle.
Obscurus, he thought, tasting the new word. So that's what you are.
The bracelet's display slowly stabilized, though the numbers it showed for residual magic were still way above anything he'd seen outside a Singularity.
[Local anomaly anchor: CONFIRMED.]
[Recommend: Track authority‑level response.]
Authority‑level response.
As if on cue, the crowd shifted.
People made way without quite realizing why, parting like water around a single figure walking down the street.
He wore a dark coat, cut sharp and expensive, the lines too clean to belong to a dockworker or clerk. His hair was slicked back, his stride unhurried. Power hung around him, quiet and precise, the kind that didn't need to shout to be noticed.
The bracelet pulsed once, hard.
[Person of Interest detected.]
[Name: Percival Graves][Affiliation: MACUSA / Magical Authority (High‑Rank).][Threat rating: ???]
The question marks did not make Ritsuka feel better.
Graves stopped near the cracked street, gaze sweeping over the damage. His eyes were sharp, calculating. A few men in plain suits hovered near him, clearly waiting for orders.
Ritsuka eased back half a step, angling his body like any other bystander who had just seen way too much.
"Blend in," he reminded himself. "Observe, don't interfere. Not yet."
His bracelet didn't buzz this time.
Maybe that was why Graves noticed him.
For a brief, clean second, their eyes met over the wrecked pavement.
Ritsuka felt it—the weight of that stare. It was like being measured and filed away all at once. Graves's gaze flicked down, taking in the trench coat, the briefcase, the way Ritsuka wasn't as shaken as he should've been.
Something behind those eyes tightened. Not recognition, exactly. Interest.
The bracelet printed one more line across his skin.
[Flagged: You have been noticed.]
Ritsuka forced his shoulders to loosen, let his expression slip into something dazed and appropriately horrified. He took a slow step back, then another, as if he were just another kid who'd seen too much and wanted to go home.
Graves's attention lingered a heartbeat longer.
Then he turned away, barking quiet orders to his men.
Ritsuka slipped into the side street, heart still racing; the echo of that black storm burned into his memory.
So.
The Obscurus was real. MACUSA was moving. And at least one powerful wizard now had his face on a mental list.
He tightened his grip on the Case and kept walking.
The game in 1926 had officially started.
The city didn't slow down just because a street had tried to eat itself.
By the time Ritsuka put a few blocks between himself and the wrecked townhouse, New York had already swallowed the chaos, turned it into something for newspapers and rumors to chew on later. For now, traffic kept moving. People kept shouting. Life went on.
His bracelet finally stopped buzzing like an angry bee.
[Immediate threat level: MODERATE.]
[Obscurus trail: LOST.][Recommend: Continue reconnaissance.]
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered. "Working on it."
He cut through a side street and stepped back into a wider avenue—and straight into the middle of a crowd.
A makeshift stage had been set up at the base of a set of stone steps. Banners flapped overhead, stamped with heavy black letters: SECOND SALEMERS. A woman in a modest dark dress stood at the front, her posture rigid, eyes bright with the kind of certainty that didn't bend.
Ritsuka recognized the type before his bracelet did.
Extremist, he thought. The kind who thinks they're saving the world by setting it on fire.
The bracelet chimed anyway.
[Group detected: "Second Salemers."]
[Non‑magical anti‑witch movement. Hostility index: HIGH.]
[Leader: Mary Lou Barebone.]
Mary Lou held a flyer in one hand like a preacher with a holy text.
"Witches live among us!" she cried, voice sharp enough to cut through the street noise. "Hidden in plain sight, corrupting our children, poisoning our future! You may laugh, but ask yourselves—why do so many terrible things happen with no explanation?"
Some people rolled their eyes and kept walking. Others slowed, curiosity snagging them. Ritsuka let himself be pulled in with the latter, folding into the edge of the crowd.
He'd seen cults before. He'd seen worse than cults.
What made him stay wasn't Mary Lou.
It was the boy handing out flyers.
He moved along the edge of the gathering, slipping paper into hands that didn't quite look at him. His shoulders were hunched, his hair too long over his eyes. Every movement screamed don't notice me.
Ritsuka noticed him anyway.
His circuits prickled.
The bracelet reacted a split second later, its surface flashing.
[Unstable magic signature detected.]
[Source: TARGET – male, approx. 18–20.][Threat classification: UNKNOWN / LATENT.]
The boy stepped closer, and the world seemed to tighten around him.
Magic clung to him like a too‑tight coat—coiled, suffocating, more pressure than flow. It wasn't the open, wild energy of Servants, or the controlled hum of magi. It felt... wrong. Wounded.
The text on the bracelet cleared.
[Name: Credence Barebone.]
[Status: Low‑level magus / Obscurus‑risk profile.]
Obscurus. The same word that had flashed when the black storm tore up the street.
Ritsuka's stomach dropped.
Credence moved past him, eyes glued to the ground, fingers shaking as he pushed a flyer into someone's hand.
Up on the steps, Mary Lou lifted her arms higher.
"Hear my words and heed my warning!" she called. "Laugh if you dare—but when your children vanish, when evil walks your streets, remember who tried to open your eyes!"
Her voice rolled over the crowd like cheap thunder.
Ritsuka wasn't listening to her.
He watched Credence instead.
Every time Mary Lou spat the word witch, Credence flinched, almost too small to see. The magic around him spiked and recoiled, like an animal hit with a whip but too trapped to run.
He lives with her, Ritsuka realized. She's his world. His cage.
His fingers tightened around the Case.
Someone bumped his shoulder.
"Sorry," a familiar voice said beside him.
Ritsuka turned just enough to see a flash of blue coat and messy hair.
Newt Scamander, trying to slip through the crowd like a man on a mission who absolutely did not want to be dragged into a street sermon.
Mary Lou's gaze snapped to them.
"You," she called, pointing straight at Newt—and by extension, at Ritsuka. "Friends."
Newt froze, shoulders hunching like a guilty schoolboy.
Ritsuka met his eyes for the first time, just briefly. There was a flicker of shared understanding there: we do not have time for this.
Mary Lou smiled, the kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"What drew you both to our meeting today?" she demanded. "Are you seekers? Seekers after truth?"
Newt cleared his throat.
"Oh, I was just passing," he said, polite but clearly hoping this would end quickly.
Ritsuka's brain supplied about ten honest answers—I followed a walking magical disaster, I'm tracking a Beast, your adopted son is radiating Obscurus energy like a dying star—and discarded all of them.
"I'm just a traveler," he said smoothly instead. "Wandering around."
Mary Lou's gaze sharpened, like she could smell lies but not quite identify them.
"Then hear my words and think on them," she said. "For the sake of your children. For the sake of tomorrow."
Flyers rustled as Credence moved closer again, doing his job, avoiding her eyes.
The magic around him surged, strangled.
Ritsuka's bracelet vibrated low and steady.
[Emotional stress spike detected.]
[Containment stability: DECREASING.]
Ritsuka's jaw clenched.
This wasn't why he was here. Not officially. The mission parameters were clear: find the Beast's trail, locate the anomaly's anchor, stabilize the timeline.
But he'd never been good at looking away from kids drowning quietly in plain sight.
Newt shifted, clearly preparing to escape.
"Sorry," Ritsuka said to Mary Lou, forcing his voice light. "We'll... think about it. Let you know if we're joining your cause."
He said it as you said, I'll think about buying your newspaper to get someone off your back.
Something in Mary Lou's eyes flickered—annoyance? Suspicion?—but the crowd surged, someone else shouted a question, and her attention moved on.
Newt took the distraction and slipped away.
Ritsuka followed.
As he moved past, he felt Credence's magic brush against his senses one more time—a desperate, flickering thing begging not to be seen.
Ritsuka didn't reach out.
Not yet.
But he looked.
And he memorized the boy's face.
The Wizarding World was full of miracles and monsters. Sometimes, they were the same person.
His bracelet dimmed as he and Newt broke free of the crowd, spitting them back out into the busy street.
"Right," Ritsuka thought, glancing once over his shoulder at the Second Salemers banner.
Hidden magic. Wounded magic. And zealots with torches.
New York, 1926, was getting more familiar by the second.
The crowd spat them back out onto the sidewalk.
Newt moved fast for someone who looked permanently half‑asleep. Ritsuka had to lengthen his stride to keep up, the Case bumping against his leg.
"Do you always walk toward trouble," Ritsuka asked lightly, "or is today special?"
Newt blinked at him, as if just now remembering he'd picked up a shadow.
"I have an errand," he said. "And I'm late."
His eyes flicked down to his suitcase, then back to the street, scanning with the alertness of someone shepherding something unpredictable.
The bracelet on Ritsuka's wrist hummed, reading faint traces of magic bleeding through the worn leather.
[Contained entities: MULTIPLE]
[Stability:... FRAGILE.]
"Right," Ritsuka murmured. "An errand."
They turned a corner and almost ran straight into a wall of people.
A massive stone building loomed overhead, columns reaching for the sky. The crowd outside was thick—men in suits and hats, women clutching bags, all lining up under a sign that screamed BANK in gold letters.
Newt slowed, shoulders hunching.
"Of course," he muttered.
Ritsuka followed his gaze.
Near the steps, a stocky man was fighting with a stack of paperwork and a battered case that looked like it had seen better days. He clutched it to his chest like a lifeline.
The bracelet flickered.
[No‑Maj – Status: NORMAL.]
[Name: Jacob Kowalski.][Occupation: Factory worker / Aspiring baker.]
Normal. Completely, thoroughly normal.
Which, in Ritsuka's experience, meant fate was about to use him as a chew toy.
The line lurched forward.
Newt drifted to the side, suddenly distracted by something only he could hear—a faint jingle, a sense, a tug.
Ritsuka noticed the way his gaze snapped to a glint near the ground, the way his hand tightened on his case.
"Niffler?" Ritsuka guessed silently.
Newt bumped straight into Jacob.
"Sorry," Newt said quickly. "My case."
The collision jarred both suitcases. For a split second, the latches on Newt's seemed to strain, like whatever was inside desperately wanted out.
"Whoa there," Jacob said, steadying himself. "No harm done."
Ritsuka slipped closer, checking Newt's face.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
"Yes. Thank you," Newt answered, but his eyes were locked on his suitcase as it might bolt.
Jacob, oblivious, shuffled toward the bank doors, still clutching his own case.
Ritsuka's bracelet chirped once.
[Warning: Identical object proximity. Risk of case misplacement: HIGH.]
"Of course," Ritsuka thought. "Because it's never easy."
They were swept inside on the next push of the crowd.
The bank's interior swallowed them—marble floors, high ceilings, lines of people waiting under hanging lamps. The air smelled like paper, ink, and other people's money.
Ritsuka slipped into a line under a sign for account services, trying to keep both Jacob and Newt in view.
His bracelet buzzed a soft warning.
[Small magical entity detected.]
[Location: Within 5 meters. Vector: UNSTABLE.]
He followed the reading.
Newt had drifted toward a row of teller booths, pretending to be interested in a brochure. His eyes weren't on the pamphlets. They were on the floor, tracking something invisible to everyone else.
The Case at Ritsuka's side vibrated faintly, reacting to the skittering magic.
Then the bank alarms went off.
A shrill bell shrieked through the hall. People jumped, conversations cut in half.
"Vault breach!" someone yelled. "Seal the doors!"
Panic rippled outward.
Ritsuka's instincts flared. His hand went to the Case's handle, ready to yank a Shadow Servant card if things went completely sideways.
Across the marble floor, Jacob stumbled, eyes wide as a blur of black fur and gold flashed past his feet—too fast for normal eyes, just clear enough for Ritsuka to catch.
Niffler.
It dove under a counter, coins and jewelry tugged in its wake like metal chasing a magnet.
Jacob's suitcase hit the floor with a thud.
Ritsuka winced.
Newt moved.
He bolted after the invisible trail, wand already in his hand, muttering under his breath. The panicking crowd didn't notice him vanish behind a pillar, but Ritsuka did.
"Here we go," Ritsuka said under his breath.
He slipped out of his line and followed.
By the time he rounded the pillar, Newt had disappeared down a side corridor. A telltale shimmer of magic clung to the air, like the aftertaste of a spell.
A heartbeat later, something thumped inside the walls. A teller shrieked as a drawer burst open, coins spraying everywhere. Somewhere under the floor, a muffled crash echoed—vaults, Ritsuka guessed.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.
He reached the end of the corridor just in time to see Newt re‑emerge from a restricted door, wrestling with something small and glitter‑obsessed. For a second, the Niffler was in full view—paws clutching stolen jewelry, pouch bulging comically.
Then Newt shoved it back into the case and slammed the lid.
Jacob stood a few feet away, hat crooked, eyes huge.
"What the hell was that?" Jacob gasped.
Ritsuka jogged over, slightly out of breath.
"Newt," he said. "You disappear again and nearly take the bank with you?"
Newt straightened, cheeks a little pink.
"Nothing to worry about," he said, breathless but trying for calm. "Just a minor containment issue."
The bracelet warmed against Ritsuka's wrist.
[Containment: PARTIAL.]
[Exposure: CONFIRMED (No‑Maj).]
Right. So much for secrecy.
Jacob's gaze flicked between the two of them, then dropped to Newt's case.
"Minor?" he repeated weakly. "That... thing was stealing everything that wasn't nailed down."
Newt opened his mouth, probably to Obliviate first and explain never, but Jacob moved faster than he looked capable of.
He swung his own case up in a half‑panicked, half‑defensive arc.
It smacked straight into Newt's skull.
"Bugger," Newt hissed, staggering.
Jacob grimaced.
"Sorry! I—"
In the confusion, the cases slammed into each other and hit the ground.
Ritsuka saw the latch give, just a fraction, on the wrong one.
The bracelet flashed.
[ERROR: Case identity swap probability – EXTREMELY HIGH.]
Jacob, flustered and mortified, grabbed the nearest suitcase and bolted.
"Hey!" Ritsuka started, but Newt was still rubbing his head, dazed.
The bank staff was shouting now, trying to get everyone under control, alarms still howling.
"Of course," Ritsuka thought for the second time that day. "Of course, this is how it goes."
Newt stared after Jacob, then down at the case left on the floor.
His face went very, very still.
"...Bugger," he repeated, quietly this time.
Ritsuka blew out a breath.
"So," he said. "That's your Niffler. That's your No‑Maj. And that's not your case anymore."
Newt swallowed.
"No," he said. "It is not."
The bracelet on Ritsuka's wrist pulsed like a heartbeat.
[New objective added: Recover compromised case.]
[Secondary risk: Magical creature exposure – RISING.]
Ritsuka picked up the abandoned suitcase and handed it to Newt.
"Then we'd better go find him," he said. "Before your 'minor containment issue' becomes New York's new favorite disaster story."
Newt met his eyes, a mix of panic and reluctant gratitude flickering there.
"Yes," he agreed. "We had."
They ran.
They didn't get far.
Newt and Ritsuka burst out of the bank and onto the street, the noise of the alarms snapping off behind them as the heavy doors slammed shut. The city swallowed the sound, trading it for car horns and the low roar of traffic.
Jacob Kowalski was already gone—vanished into the crowd with a suitcase full of illegal magical creatures he definitely did not order.
Newt spun in a slow circle, scanning faces as he could will Jacob back into existence.
"Where would he go?" Ritsuka asked, trying to think like a panicked, creature-bitten factory worker with a head full of bakery dreams and zero idea he was carrying a walking breach of the Statute of Secrecy.
"Home? Hospital? Bakery supply?" he guessed. "Or just... as far from that vault alarm as possible."
Newt opened his mouth to answer.
He didn't get the chance.
"Don't move."
The voice cut through the street noise like a spell.
Ritsuka froze.
He knew that tone. It was the same one Olga used right before she demoted someone, or Azrael used right before he promised to collect someone's head. Authority mixed with irritation.
A woman stepped out from the mouth of a nearby alley, a wand already in her hand.
She was younger than he expected for someone that confident—blonde bob tucked under a hat, coat buttoned tight, eyes sharp and tired at the same time. The bracelet on Ritsuka's wrist pinged.
[Person of Interest: Porpentina "Tina" Goldstein.]
[Affiliation: MACUSA – Former Auror / Investigator.]
[Threat rating: MODERATE (to fools).]
"Who are you?" she demanded.
Newt pasted on a fragile, apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry," he said. "We were just—"
"And you?" she snapped, eyes flicking to Ritsuka.
There was a familiar beat there—her magic brushing against him, testing the air. Not Legilimency, not yet, but something like a professional nose for trouble.
"Fujimaru Ritsuka," he said, keeping his voice even. "Tourist. Very lost."
She didn't look like she bought it.
Her gaze dropped to the case in Newt's hand.
"What's in the suitcase?" Tina asked, every syllable edged.
Newt hesitated just long enough to answer the question for her.
"That's my—" he started.
Tina stepped closer.
"Why in the name of Deliverance Dane did you let that thing loose in a bank?" she hissed. "Do you have any idea what kind of situation we're in?"
So she'd seen it. Or enough of it.
Ritsuka felt the air around them tighten. A couple of passersby looked their way, then looked away just as fast, as if something in their brains advised them not to get involved.
Newt tried to deflect.
"I didn't mean to," he said, a little helplessly. "He's... incorrigible."
Tina's eyes narrowed.
"And you," she fired at Ritsuka. "Were you helping him? Are you two working together?"
Ritsuka let out a breath.
"At this point," he said, "I'm mostly trying to keep him from accidentally declaring war on your financial system."
Her mouth twitched—halfway to a scowl, halfway to something like reluctant agreement.
"This isn't funny," she snapped anyway. "There was a No-Maj in that bank. Tell me you Obliviated him."
Newt winced.
"The what?" he asked.
Tina's jaw clenched.
"The No-Maj," she repeated. "The non-magic."
"Oh," Newt said. "We call them Muggles."
Ritsuka, doing the mental translation dance, lifted a hand.
"He didn't," he admitted. "Obliviate him. Jacob got in a solid hit with his case first."
Tina stared at them like she couldn't believe what she was hearing.
"That's a Section 3-A violation," she said, voice going tight. "Endangering the Statute of Secrecy. Fantastic."
Her wand hand shifted, and Ritsuka felt the magic coil around them, subtle but firm.
"I'm taking you both in," she announced.
Newt blinked. "In where?"
"Magical Congress of the United States of America," Tina said. "MACUSA."
There was a challenge in her eyes: deny it, run, make this harder.
Ritsuka glanced at Newt.
Running from an ex-Auror, in a city he didn't know, with a suitcase full of magical contraband and a mission that required not drawing attention from local law enforcement.
Yeah. No.
"Do we get a say?" he asked mildly.
Tina answered by grabbing his arm.
Her hand was small, but her grip was iron. She caught Newt with the other, fingers closing around his sleeve.
"Absolutely not," she said.
The world bent.
Ritsuka had rayshifted enough to know what it felt like to be turned into data. Apparition was different. There was no machine, no countdown. One second, he was on a noisy New York street; the next, the air yanked sideways.
His stomach lurched. The city smeared into a rush of color and pressure. For a heartbeat, he felt like someone had hooked him behind the belly button and pulled.
Then they slammed back into existence.
He staggered, boots skidding on smooth marble.
They were standing in a cavernous lobby, bigger than the bank and twice as impressive. Art Deco lines, gleaming floors, a ceiling that probably had a whole room of bureaucrats dedicated just to polishing it.
Except... it wasn't a normal lobby.
Wizards and witches moved everywhere—robes tucked under coats, wands in hand, memos fluttering through the air as paper birds. Elves ran a wand-polishing station near a bank of elevators. The magic here was thick enough to taste.
Ritsuka's bracelet lit up in self-defense.
[Primary location: MACUSA Headquarters.]
[Security level: HIGH.]
[Recommendation: Do NOT reveal Chaldea origin.]
"Welcome to MACUSA," Tina said tightly, releasing their arms.
Newt swayed slightly, hand going to his stomach.
"I—might prefer ships," he muttered.
Ritsuka straightened his coat and took everything in, quick and sharp.
Wand checks near the far wall. Security wards woven into the floor. A central information desk staffed by someone who looked like they ate paperwork for breakfast.
This was their Chaldea.
Tina marched toward the elevators without looking back.
"Come on," she tossed over her shoulder. "You two just crashed a bank and let a magical creature loose in front of a No-Maj. You're not walking away from that."
Newt shot Ritsuka a helpless look.
"I did say I only came to New York to buy a birthday present," he offered weakly.
Ritsuka huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh.
"And I only came here to keep the world from collapsing," he said. "Looks like we're both having a day."
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
An elf operator peered up at them.
"Major Investigation Department," Tina said curtly.
The elf pulled a lever. The elevator jerked, then glided down, deep into the hidden heart of American wizarding law.
Ritsuka felt the Case heavy in his hand, Mash's distant presence faint but steady through their shared link.
"New world," he thought, watching the floor numbers change. "New rules. Try not to get arrested more than once on the first day."
The doors slid open.
MACUSA was waiting.