Chapter 31

By the time he exits the final mirror and steps back into the Material Plane, Aster’s brain feels like warm oatmeal. But his body? His body feels incredible—loose, rested, like he’s just emerged from an expensive week at a recovery spa. Whatever Galamad has done to sync his consciousness between realms deserves a Nobel Prize.

But his brief euphoria vanishes as soon as he remembers who he left behind.

Anathi.

Still infected. Still confused. Still a ticking Wyrm time bomb curled up on his couch.

Panic flutters in his stomach as he bounds down the attic stairs.

What he finds in the living room is… carnage.

Snack wrappers and empty soda cans litter every available surface. The television blares a cartoon where a man argues with an anthropomorphic toaster. And in the middle of it all: Anathi, sprawled out like a queen on her sugar-crusted throne, dead asleep.

Aster sighs and runs a hand down his face. “Right. She’s ten and traumatized. This tracks.”

Still, something about seeing her like that—safe, peaceful, arms tangled in a blanket she’s halfway kicked off the couch—tugs at him. She looks young. Too young for the hell she’s carrying.

He moves quietly, beginning the clean-up operation. Crumpled chip bags, soda bottles, a spoon dipped in raw peanut butter for some reason. The kind of chaos that only someone left alone with nothing but old cartoons and a fridge full of unchecked freedom could create.

“You’re gonna give yourself a stomach ulcer before puberty,” he mutters.

A soft groan stops him mid-wipe.

Anathi stirs. Her brow twitches. Her eyes flutter open.

For a moment, she stares at him like a feral cat caught in a trap.

Aster raises both hands like he’s about to be arrested. “Relax. Just cleaning up your snack apocalypse.”

She blinks. Glances at the mess. Doesn’t say anything.

“You sleep okay?” he asks, tossing a handful of wrappers into the trash bag.

A pause. Then: “…Yeah.”

“Good. ’Cause I’m making breakfast. Real food. Not just sugar and sodium wrapped in childhood dreams.”

She doesn’t respond, but her nose twitches. She’s smelled the bacon.

By the time he plates everything—flapjacks stacked like golden bricks, eggs cooked to runny perfection, bacon still sizzling—she’s sitting up on the couch again, hood over her head, eyes unreadable.

He places her plate on the table.

She stares at it. Then at him. “…Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you being nice to me?”

Aster leans against the counter, arms crossed. He doesn’t look away. “Because you’re here. Because you didn’t ask to be. Because everyone else has been treating you like a curse, and I figured someone should treat you like a person.”

Anathi looks away. Tugging at her sleeves. But she stands up, takes the plate, and goes back to the couch.

Sometimes, the hardest thing to give someone is space.

He cleans a few more things in silence. Sits beside her once he grabs his own plate. Cartoons drone on. They don’t talk.

Then, quietly:

“…Thanks.”

He doesn’t respond.

Just smiles into his eggs.

They sit there for an hour, not speaking, not needing to, watching a man wrestle a demonically possessed sandwich press.

Eventually, when she nods off again, Aster retreats to the attic and cracks open one of Lena’s monstrous tomes.

Because Wyrm or no Wyrm, trauma or no trauma—he has work to do.

Aster is jolted from his study trance by a sharp knock at the door. He blinks at the clock.

Five hours.

He’s been hunched over Lena’s alchemy books for five straight hours and somehow hasn’t noticed. The diagrams, formulas, and layering theories have him spiraling into academic madness. Even the way herbs are classified feels like it’s been designed by a vengeful deity with a grudge against clarity.

Which means, mercifully, the knock has to be Lena.

He quickly phases back to his Material Form and rushes downstairs, throwing open the door with a sheepish grin.

Lena stands with her arms crossed and an expression like she already regrets showing up. “Aster. I called you. Four times.”

He winces. “Right. Sorry. Forgot my phone on silent.”

She sighs but doesn’t bother arguing. Instead, she steps inside, her gaze immediately landing on Anathi on the couch, half-curled beneath her hoodie like a hedgehog trying not to be noticed.

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“Anathi,” Aster says gently, motioning to Lena. “This is the friend I mentioned. She’s here to explain everything.”

The girl doesn’t move. Her eyes flick between them with that same quiet tension, like a cornered animal waiting for the net to drop.

Aster takes the hint. “I’ll make coffee.”

He backs away and heads into the kitchen. Lena slides into the seat across from Anathi, and before he’s even out of sight, he hears her voice—soft, calm, professional.

The conversation starts tense. Anathi’s responses are short, clipped. But Lena doesn’t push. She just explains. Explains the Void Wyrm. Explains the Astral Plane. Explains why Aster has taken her in.

Aster doesn’t interrupt. He just pours hot water over the coffee grounds and listens—every word driving another invisible nail through his ribs.

By the time he places Lena’s cup on the table and quietly vanishes upstairs, he doesn’t need to ask how Anathi is taking it.

He already knows.

Two Hours Later

Aster has only just settled back into his reading when Lena calls for him from downstairs.

He descends to find the living room empty, Anathi nowhere in sight. His bedroom door, however, is closed.

"How’d it go?" he asks carefully.

Lena leans against the counter, arms crossed. "Better than expected, actually. Her parents didn’t know about the Astral Plane, but they always sensed something was wrong. A sangoma told them she was cursed when she was young, and she believed that her whole life. So confirming it isn’t too much of a stretch."

Aster exhales. "That’s… something, at least."

Lena nods but hesitates before continuing. "The hard part was telling her there’s no known cure." She glances toward the closed bedroom door. "But she took it worse when I told her that this affliction is what killed her parents and younger sibling."

Aster closes his eyes, sighing. "Jesus."

"Yeah. She locked herself in your room after that. Give her some time."

He nods. "Thanks, Lena. I know I don’t mean any harm, but… being a guy in this situation makes it harder for her to trust me." He runs a hand through his hair. "She barely even talks to me."

"That’ll take time," Lena says softly. "But you’re doing better than most would. At least she’s listening now."

Aster leans back against the counter, exhaling. "So… have you thought of any way we can actually fix this?"

Lena pushes off the counter and moves toward the kitchen, setting up another pot of coffee. "You already know—Void Wyrms are almost impossible to cure. But, like how you survived, there are ways. And just like your case, it’s impossibly complicated."

Aster watches as she sets the kettle on. "But there is a way?"

Lena hesitates before nodding. "My family has an item that, in theory, can remove the Void Wyrm curse."

Hope flares in Aster’s chest—until she raises a hand.

"But," she continues, "it’s the only one we have. There have been deaths where it could have been used, but the elders chose to save it for something… more important."

Aster frowns. "Why?"

Lena pours water into the plunger, letting the coffee steep. "Because it has another use—it can remove a cultivator’s power entirely. It’s mainly used as a punishment, a way to spare someone from execution by crippling their cultivation."

Aster’s stomach twists. "So, it’s a last resort for criminals?"

"Exactly. The elders wouldn’t waste it on a child. In their eyes, losing one out of a hundred potential cultivators is acceptable if it means keeping an item that could remove a Celestial’s power one day." She gives him a sharp, bitter smile. "Why use something that valuable on an infant?"

Aster stares at her, disgusted. "That’s… inhuman."

"Life just isn’t all that valuable on the Astral Plane." Lena shrugs. "It takes you twenty-one years to just start cultivating, the chance of you reaching the level of Celestial is one in a million. Why waste an item like that on a person that only had a one-in-a-million chance to become someone deserving of it in the first place?" Her voice softens. "Well, that’s what my dad said when I begged him to get it for my friend..."

Aster’s expression softens. Despite everything, Lena still has a good heart. He doesn’t understand the Astral Plane fully yet, but it’s clear that life outside Galamad must be brutal.

He exhales. "Okay. So what’s our move? How do we get it?"

Lena sips her coffee before answering. "My family won’t use it for themselves, but they’d be willing to sell or trade it. But the items they’d accept in exchange? You could count them on one hand."

Aster’s jaw tightens. "How much would it cost if we wanted to buy it?"

Lena hesitates. "...Twenty million Faith."

Aster nearly falls out of his chair. "You’re joking."

Lena’s expression doesn’t change.

"So what then?" he asks. "Stealing it?"

“No, nothing that drastic yet.” Lena steps forward, her voice shifting to something more serious. “Anathi has time. Four years, maybe, before the Wyrm reaches the point if chrysalis. But that’s only if we don’t handle things correctly.”

“What do you mean?”

Lena taps her chest. “You’re acting as her guardian now, right? That has consequences. On the Astral Plane, intent shapes fate. Guardianship, even informal, threads your lives together. If that connection deepens—through emotion, routine, or shared material interest—your luck will start merging. Your Faith pool will become accessible to her Wyrm.”

Aster freezes. “That’s… what? It’ll start siphoning from me?”

“It’ll try,” she says. “You’re saturated with Faith. If it gets a taste, it’ll latch on. You’ll both spiral.”

He paces, anxiety rising. “So what do I do? I can’t just abandon her.”

“You don’t have to. But you need to be smart. You need to make the connection artificial. Legal.”

He stops. “Legal?”

Lena nods. “You need to create holding trusts. Open accounts registered to shell IDs that exist only to store Faith—structured like a custodial bank. Set them up as ‘guardians’ of Anathi’s Wyrm. Route money into those accounts, not from you directly, but from guild contracts or investment proxies. That way, the Wyrm has Faith to feed on. Just not yours.”

Aster blinks. “So I make a fake parent… for a parasite.”

“It’s not perfect,” she admits. “But it works. It’s how powerful families manage curses in bloodlines—treating them like dependents on a payroll. You’re not bonding your fate to hers. You’re signing her over to a legally dead company that exists to feed her Wyrm.”

He stares. “That’s... brilliant. And horrifying.”

“It’s basic Astral estate law.” She shrugs.

Aster shakes his head, already mentally scribbling through logistics. “Alright. So I need to clear the debt, fund the trust, build two workshops, and earn twenty million Faith before her chrysalis stage.”

Lena smiles thinly. “Basically.”

He rubs his temples. “Gods.”

"We have time," Lena reminds him. "With the right course of action, it gives us time to either find another method or acquire something valuable enough to trade for it."

Aster lets out a slow breath. "And both options rely on me getting stronger."

Lena nods. "Exactly. You need to focus on cultivation, combat, and making enough Faith to sustain yourself. I have the paperwork that’ll let you take out a bank loan using my signature. That should be enough to settle Anathi’s debt and buy materials to getting ready for contracts with the Artificing and Alchemy guilds."

She gives him a small smile. "My family can help get you a good deal on an alchemy bench. Yani can do the same for Artificing. The materials, though… you’ll have to find those yourself."

Aster sighs, then nods. "Alright. First, the bank. Then the loan shark. Then I’ll get my workshop sorted and start working towards contracts."

"That’s the plan," Lena agrees.

They spend the next few hours refining his roadmap, making sure he has a solid plan for the next six months. By the time Lena excuses herself around 5 PM, Aster has a clear direction.

After seeing her out, he makes dinner for Anathi. When she still doesn’t leave her room, he simply places the meal outside her door, knocking lightly before walking away.

He doesn’t expect her to say anything.

But as he heads upstairs, he hears the quiet scrape of a plate being pulled inside.

A small step, but a step nonetheless.

Smiling to himself, Aster gets ready for his evening classes, unable to shake the thought that maybe his inheritance has something he could use to trade with.