The Undercroft held its breath as I activated the Gacha interface. The flickering torches along the walls cast uneven shadows, and the circle of stone beneath me hummed with latent energy. The kind that waits for a decision.
[GP: 123]
I reached into the screen and tapped the card.
Upgrade Menu
[Rasengan – Rare → Epic]
[Phantom Slash – Rare → Epic]
Cost: 50 GP each
A low thrum echoed through the Undercroft. My palm tingled. Chakra swirled upward in spiraling motion, responding to the shift. The blue orb formed quickly, but this time it did not stop at familiar.
The sphere expanded slightly, became denser, more focused. Its center pulsed like a captured storm.
I held it carefully, testing the weight. Heavier. Balanced. Power surged through it, not wild, but disciplined. Controlled.
Then came the change.
Wind curled into the chakra, spinning along the edges with barely-contained violence. The blue shifted toward silver-white, fine wisps of compressed air hissing outward in irregular bursts.
The Spiraling Wind Sphere.
I stepped back, took aim at one of the stone dummies lining the far wall, and launched it.
The moment it made contact, the impact tore through the target with a hiss and crunch. Not just destruction. Precision destruction. Stone armor split, internal bindings cracked, and a shockwave burst outward with enough force to rattle loose stones from the ceiling. Thin trails of wind cut along the wall beyond the dummy, slicing shallow gashes into the old stone.
Bleeding wind. Unstable currents. It felt alive.
I opened my hand again, summoned the base Rasengan.
No elemental edge this time, but still potent. The orb formed faster now, cleaner. I could feel it humming like a tuned instrument, responding to the smallest shift of my fingers. The moment it struck the next target, a concussive pulse exploded outward, launching the dummy across the floor with enough force to crack the wall behind it.
The air around me settled.
Five uses per day for the base Rasengan.
Two for the Wind Sphere.
Each one a promise.
Heavy concussive force.
Cutting edge chakra.
Piercing wind that shreds armor, rattles enchantments, and leaves even magical shields trembling.
A pulse blast on contact. Perfect for crowd control.
The Rasengan was no longer a flashy attack. It was a weapon. A solution. An answer.
[GP Remaining: 73]
I stood alone in the dark chamber, holding the last flickers of wind in my palm. It died down slowly, like a storm remembering it had somewhere else to be.
I nodded once.
"Now this," I said softly, "this is worth using."
Next card. Phantom Slash.
As I tapped it, the torchlight dimmed slightly. My fingers curled instinctively as shadow pooled into my palm, forming my blade. It looked familiar, but different. The edges shimmered with something colder. Deeper.
I moved forward, swinging in a controlled arc toward the wall.
The blade cut through stone like parchment, but more than that—something else cut through. An afterimage, a ghost of the strike, lingered and then vanished like smoke. It left behind a tingle in the air. A scar not just in stone, but in something spiritual.
I tried again, this time picturing a magical tether—like the cursed chain from the basilisk chamber. I imagined it binding me.
Then I struck.
The blade hissed. Reality bent just slightly at the point of contact. I felt something unravel.
Double-layered. One strike for the body. One for the soul.
Dark forces would feel that. And they would remember it.
"Stuns cursed beings for three seconds," I said aloud. "Not bad. Not flashy. But precise."
[GP Remaining: 23]
The upgrades settled into my magic like oil into water. At first separate. Then seamless.
I dismissed the interface. The torchlight steadied.
I stood alone in the center of the Undercroft, shadows dancing behind me.
Stronger. Sharper. Quieter.
I did not smile. But I allowed myself a nod.
I was halfway to the stairs when I paused.
Twenty-three GP. Ugly number. Lopsided. Irritating.
I sighed and opened the Gacha interface again. Just one roll. A quick flick of the wrist. A cleansing of asymmetry.
[Single Pull – 3 GP]
[Roll Confirmed]
The magical circle pulsed. Cards shimmered in the air like floating leaves. One glowed brighter than the others. Deep red and silver.
It slid forward, turning over in slow, deliberate motion.
[Epic Character Card Unlocked – Plastic Man
Universe: DC Comics
Category: Utility, Stealth, Chaos]
I blinked.
"Plastic... what now?"
The card hovered, displaying an animated figure waving at me like I had just stumbled into a joke and missed the punchline. He wore red goggles, a crooked grin, and moved like gelatin pretending to be a gymnast.
I frowned. Then I read the details.
Shapeshifting Elasticity.
Complete control over body shape and mass. Mimicry. Object transformation. Slingshot movement.
My clone in the corner whispered, "That's either ridiculous… or genius."
I kept reading.
Inorganic physiology. Immune to poisons, charms, mind spells. Can't be broken. Can't be transfigured. Can stretch around corners or flatten into stonework.
Animated mind. Immune to Legilimency. Chaos-mind shielding.
My grin started slow. Grew steadily.
"Well now. You are absolutely unhinged."
Plastic Man. Not a fighter by traditional standards. But utility? Infiltration? Psychological warfare?
I absorb the card and inhale as his powers settle in.
Perfect.
My clones could become anything now.
Not just fighters, not just shadows. But tools. Disguises. Entire identities.
No more masks. No more glamours.
Each one could walk the castle halls with a new face, a new voice, a new body type—crafted from will and chaos and stretchable magic.
A Gryffindor prefect. A Ravenclaw transfer. A suspiciously lifelike gargoyle.
They no longer needed to hide in corners. They were the corners.
Kid Dynamite—who insisted on being called KD for short, and who had never met a dramatic entrance he didn't like—grinned wildly as the power settled into us.
He was the first to shift.
His frame thickened. His jaw squared. Blonde hair buzzed across his scalp like he'd just stepped out of an American action movie. He aged himself up at least a decade, then cracked his knuckles like a soldier in a spy film.
"I look like I drink coffee black and file taxes with my bare hands," KD said, admiring himself in the polished metal of a shield on the wall.
Another clone, more quiet than the rest, crouched beside him and flattened. Limbs reshaped, spine shrank, the texture of his skin became metallic. In seconds, he transformed into a gleaming kunai.
I picked it up and flipped it once through my fingers.
Light. Razor sharp. Humbling.
"I could stage an entire heist disguised as a bookshelf," I whispered.
KD gave a solemn nod. "And the shelf would be smug about it."
I absorbed the last ripple of energy from the card. It sank into me, warm and elastic. Like my muscles had been replaced by ideas that refused to stay still.
I tucked the card into my mental deck and dismissed the interface.
GP Remaining: 20
The Undercroft pulsed, the walls vibrating softly like they had registered a new kind of tension. Not the threat of danger, but the promise of it.
I ran a hand through my hair, grinning at nothing.
"Wind Rasengan. Phantom Slash. And now... cartoon elasticity incarnate."
I could not help it.
I laughed.
Not loudly. But the kind of laugh that starts in your chest and spreads through your bones. The kind that does not ask permission.
So many plans.
"Let's make some chaos," I said softly.
And the stone walls did not answer. But I could feel them smiling with me.
<><><><><><><>
The Rosier Manor was quieter than usual.
The snow outside blanketed the estate in soft white silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of enchanted fireplaces or the gentle clinking of tea cups.
I had only just arrived the day before, and already my mother had organized a perfectly coordinated breakfast, a list of suggested activities, and a dozen polite interrogations disguised as motherly affection. I loved her for it. Quietly. Secretly.
Today, though, I had plans of my own.
I stepped into the drawing room with my hands behind my back, pretending to examine the framed portraits as I passed. A few of them murmured in disapproval. Probably the great-uncle who disowned himself. Again.
My mother sat near the window, tea in hand, wearing a soft green robe that shimmered like fresh pine. She glanced up.
"You're smiling suspiciously," she said.
"Am I?" I replied, all innocence. "Maybe I'm just happy to see you."
"Which means you've either done something terrible or are about to."
I gave a mock gasp and produced the first gift box with a flourish.
"Only a small token, truly. Nothing grand. Possibly cursed."
She arched an eyebrow but accepted the box, opening it delicately.
Inside lay the Witch Weekly Enchanted Beauty Kit, every item neatly arranged, glowing softly. Lip tints that changed with emotion. Soaps that shifted scent depending on mood. A compact that whispered compliments when opened.
She stared at it for a moment, brows lifting just slightly.
"The enchantments are old," I said casually. "Faded, really. Found it tucked away in a forgotten corridor. Probably belonged to one of the founders' great-aunts. Couldn't leave it to rot."
She picked up the soft-handled wand brush and watched it shimmer.
"You... found this?"
"Well," I added with a small grin, "then I might've adjusted a few enchantments. Nothing flashy. Just gave it a bit of a charm-polish. It works now. Mostly."
She looked up, eyes warm. "It's beautiful."
"I thought you'd appreciate it more than the dust it was buried under."
She reached across the table, touched my hand briefly.
"I do."
I coughed once to recover. "Also," I added, reaching into my pocket like I was revealing state secrets, "something I may or may not have created myself in Charms."
I placed a small candle on the table. Softlight Everglow — its flame gentle and steady, the wax shifting between colors like twilight on still water.
"It adjusts to mood," I explained. "And it doesn't go out unless you ask it to. Good for tea. Or reading. Or ignoring family."
She laughed, the real kind, and leaned back in her chair.
"I should have you expelled more often. You bring better gifts than your father ever did."
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," I said. "The next thing I bring home might be a sentient mirror."
…
The Rosier estate always smelled different when Felix was home. A strange mix of soot, dragon scale oil, and something vaguely like burnt cinnamon.
I found him in the study, sleeves rolled up, flicking through a thick leather-bound field journal covered in bite marks and scorch stains. He looked up, eyebrows raised as I entered.
"Let me guess," he said, smirking. "Mother sent you to make sure I bathed before dinner."
"I come bearing gifts," I replied, producing a small, carefully wrapped bundle from my cloak. "Which I am told is better than a bath."
Felix gave me a skeptical look, but took the bundle. He unwrapped it slowly, cautiously. As if he half-expected it to growl.
Inside was a pair of sleek, fingerless gloves. Midnight black, rune-stitched, with a faint shimmer of defensive enchantment just beneath the surface. The leather was thick but flexible, lightly warded against heat, puncture, and acidic sprays.
"What is this?" he asked, holding them up.
"Dragon-handler gloves," I said casually, taking a seat. "Reinforced. Flame-resistant. Layered with stabilizing charms for grip and healing threads sewn into the lining."
He blinked. "You made this?"
"Technically, I 'acquired and modified' them. Found the base set in a locked room behind the Divination tower. Gave them some personal enhancements."
He slid one on. The glove adjusted instantly, molding to his hand like it had been waiting for him.
"These could withstand a Hungarian Horntail's huff," he muttered, impressed.
"That was the idea. And the enchantment on the left palm can nullify minor curses if you touch the source directly. Should help if any fire-breathing reptiles get clever."
Felix looked up, suddenly serious. "This is… Timothy, this is brilliant."
I shrugged, pretending to inspect a nearby bookcase. "You keep getting sent into the teeth of danger. I thought it would be nice if you came back with all ten fingers next time."
He laughed and tossed a half-burnt bookmark at me. "You sound like Mum."
"She says it less coolly."
He flexed his fingers, then closed the journal. "Thanks, Tim."
I gave a small nod. "You're welcome. Try not to lose them in a volcano."
"No promises."
He didn't hug me. Felix wasn't the hugging type.
But as I stood to leave, he gave my shoulder a firm pat. The kind that said he understood. The kind that meant more than words.
___________________________
A/N: I know he is already OP and this makes him ridiculous. Theses random rolls are too OP. Hopefully; you'll like Book 2.