The Epic of the Disc Chapter 63: Where It all Began

Chapter 63: Where It all Began

When he stepped onto the harbor, he expected—well, the expected. Captains lined up. Lieutenants standing at attention. Soldiers forming neat little rows to welcome home the brave heroes with their weapons pointing at them.

Instead?

Nobody cared. And he felt offended.

He expected at least one person to shout "hey, the traitors are here!" but not a single person looked up. The dock was packed—merchants hauling crates, sailors cursing at each other, fishermen arguing over the day’s catch—and every last one of them walked past Shiro and the crew like they didn’t exist.

’Damn it, and here I was ready to try out my new strength.’

Disappointed, they pushed through the crowded dock, past the lower districts, where the atmosphere shifted. People here weren’t ignoring them. These people were watching. Staring with those hopeful, desperate eyes—the ones that said please tell me you brought something back for us.

And Shiro kept his head low. He couldn’t look them in their hopeful eyes.

Because the so-called Great Hunt. The glorious mission that was supposed to bring back enough food to feed the people for days. The one time a year—if they were lucky—that anyone in the lower districts got to eat well. It was nothing but a joke. A dumb game controlled by two equally worthless bastards.

The whole thing, start to finish, had been a series of traps stacked on top of traps, dressed up in a coat of purpose like that made it okay.

His fake father had set the board. Gave them rings that doubled as spies and weapons, ready to turn on them the moment the command came.

The masked bastard had given Richard a map—a way forward, a lifeline. Except that also turned out to be a trap. A path leading straight to an island supposedly hiding the divine artifact, where a beast powerful enough to level armies was waiting to greet them.

And the artifact? Didn’t exist.

What they got instead was a goddess who was still disturbingly obsessed with him even after he had kicked the bucket.

’Great. Fantastic. Exactly what I needed. A divine stalker.’

The whole thing could have been avoided. All of it.

If the masked bastard had just walked up to him, handed him a piece of paper, and said, "Read this page, and you’ll see why we need to kill your papa."

That’s it. That’s all it would have taken. One conversation. Maybe two. A polite exchange of information followed by a reasonable discussion about patricide.

But instead, the bastard made him risk his life. Made him risk their lives. Every person on that ship, every crew member who trusted Richard, every soul who followed a map drawn by a man who’d already decided they were expendable.

All for what?

A trial Shiro didn’t ask for.

A test he didn’t need.

And an answer he still didn’t have.

’Why the hell does he care so much?’ Shiro thought. ’And who the hell is under that mask?’

Two questions. Zero answers. His favorite combination.

Option one: sit the masked bastard down, pull the mask off slowly, and have a nice civilized conversation about why he’d decided to mess with his life as a hobby.

Option two, his personal favorite so far: smash his fist into that mask until it cracked and whatever smug face was hiding underneath got a proper introduction to his knuckles.

The easiest way to find out the man’s identity was through Richard. But that loyal fool wasn’t going to help. That much was obvious. The man would sooner swallow his own tongue than give up the masked man’s name.

So a fist through the mask it was.

’Works for me.’

They made their way toward the inn, but Luca, finally seeing land for the first time and probably the last time after today, spotted a group of girls waving at him from a nearby bar and he bolted. Cool-guy charm snapping into place like armor, grin already locked and loaded before he’d even reached them.

Darius trailed after him, because apparently almost dying was the perfect excuse for a drink.

Richard walked in silence, still uneasy about the whole encountering-a-goddess-and-completely-failing-the-mission part of their trip.

And Nora? She just waved Luca goodbye. Casually. Like watching the man walk off toward a group of beautiful women meant absolutely nothing to her.

And that jealous little knot that used to twist in Shiro’s chest every time he saw those two together, smiling and laughing?

Gone.

’Take that, you handsome bastard. You’ve been replaced.’

Once they reached the inn and settled quietly in the back of the room, the mood shifted instantly.

The four of them sat around the table with no plan. Without the divine artifact, every strategy they’d built fell apart like wet paper.

And to pour salt on the wound, they were a day late.

Because tonight was the Winter Solstice. The Day of Sacrifice.

And on today’s menu—his nieces. His father planning to end the cycle permanently this time.

That one sat in Shiro’s chest like something he couldn’t swallow.

His eyes glazed over while Richard and Ana kept going, bouncing ideas back and forth, searching for another angle, another way to make this work. Their voices blurred into background noise—strategy layered on top of desperation layered on top of more strategy that all amounted to the same thing.

’We don’t have enough.’

Shiro sighed. Annoyed.

"I do the fighting. You all leave this island. Simple."

The room went quiet.

And Nora’s expression—the way her jaw tightened, the way her eyes hardened into something between fury and fear—made it very clear she did not like that idea.

Not even a little.

Because she’d already lost him once. And the look in her eyes said she wasn’t going to go through that a second time.

Richard shook his head. "It’s not that easy. Seven days before the Winter Solstice, your father’s body changes. He becomes basically unstoppable until sunrise."

’Cool. Love that. Very fair and balanced.’

"Can’t we all just attack at once?" Nora suggested.

"No." Shiro got to his feet. "I’ve already made up my mind. I’m doing this alone."

Before Nora, or anyone, could offer their opinion on his admittedly stupid plan, he kept going.

"I’d rather die before I see you dead." He turned to Richard and Ana. Said nothing for a second. Just looked at them.

Ana felt offended. Left out. "What about us?"

"I guess I’ll shed one tear for each of you."

"You damn brat—" Ana snapped.

"Just follow the original plan you all came up with while I do my part," he muttered. "Divide and conquer. You handle yours. I handle mine."

He couldn’t look back.

Not because he didn’t want to. But because he knew exactly what Nora’s face looked like right now, and if he saw it, if he let himself see the disappointment and the fear and the quiet fury sitting behind her eyes, he wouldn’t be able to walk through that door.

Outside, waiting for him, were the rest of the captains.

All of them.

Fancy armor. Polished clothing. Standing in two perfect lines on either side of the door, organized by squad. All eight divisions, their lieutenants flanking them like this was some kind of military parade Shiro hadn’t been invited to.

Boris slipped past them and stood behind him, fidgeting like a soldier who’d just realized he was standing in the wrong formation.

"Is Brother Shiro in trouble?" he asked, sounding exactly like a worried child.

Shiro glanced at the captains. "Am I?"

They laughed. All of them. Which was somehow more unsettling than if they’d drawn their weapons.

The First Division captain stepped forward. Broad man. Long hair. Sharp jaw. The kind of rough, weathered face that said I’ve killed things you haven’t even heard of and I didn’t lose sleep over it.

"We just came to let you know—we’ve been told not to interfere." He crossed his arms. "Your father said he’ll be waiting for you."

"Well then leave this island," Shiro muttered, walking past them without slowing down. "Because I’m going to sink this place deep into the ocean."

Boris scrambled after him like a loyal shadow.

The captain laughed again, a low, rumbling sound. "We only take orders from the head of the clan. And you haven’t taken that title yet."

Shiro turned. Grinned.

"When I do, I’ll replace every last one of you."

The gathering of captains—all eight squads, their lieutenants, their polished armor gleaming under the fading sun—drew every eye on the street.

But Shiro kept moving.

Past the crowd. Toward the mountain.

’I need to prepare.’

He sent Boris away with a plan, gave the brute of a man a role to play. Boris nodded once, serious for the first time since he had met him, and took off.

Then it was just him.

He climbed until he reached the edge of the mountain—the spot where it all began. The same cliff. The same view. The same wind cutting across his face like it remembered him.

Below, the village spread out like a map drawn by someone who didn’t care if the lines were straight. Tiny rooftops. Tiny streets. Tiny people living tiny lives.

He watched them for a while.

Then he closed his eyes.

And he was back.

His inner world. Sitting on his throne.

One hand pressed against his cheek as he leaned back. Ari was coiled on his lap, warm and still.

And around him, orbiting in slow, lazy circles like plas around a sun, every artifact he’d collected. Rotating. Humming with quiet power, as they drifted past his open hands.

Ari’s head perked up. She watched one float by. Then another. Then another. Unable to resist, she leaped off his lap and joined the orbit, spinning alongside the artifacts with a sound that could only be described as a laughing—a weird little hiss-chirp that had no right being as adorable as it was.

It lit up his mood instantly.

She was having the time of her life.

’At least one of us is enjoying this.’????????????????????????????????