Chapter 129: The Forbidden Resurrection
The rich, savory aroma of Hinata’s curry had fully enveloped the modest apartment by now, thick and comforting, seeping into every corner of the living room like a warm embrace against the heavier conversation unfolding on the worn sofa.
In the compact kitchen at the back, Hinata moved with quiet determination, her practical white sneakers planted firmly on the tiled floor as she stirred the bubbling pot. The wooden spoon scraped rhythmically against the sides, lifting thick waves of sauce that clung to the vegetables—carrots softening into tender orange chunks, potatoes absorbing the spiced roux, onions melting into sweet transparency.
Steam rose in steady, fragrant curls, carrying hints of turmeric, cumin, and the deep savory undertone of the roux blocks she had crumbled in earlier. She adjusted the heat with a small twist of the knob, her light-blue blouse sleeves rolled up to her elbows, ponytail swaying gently with each focused movement.
The faint sizzle of ingredients hitting the hot surface mixed with the occasional soft clink of utensils, creating a domestic soundtrack that contrasted sharply with the tense exchange in the living room.
Chris sat with his characteristic elegant composure beside Satoru on the sofa, his slim black trousers crossed neatly at the knee, the light coat draped gracefully over the backrest.
Golden hair caught the slanting afternoon sunlight streaming through the half-drawn curtains, framing his androgynous features in a soft glow.
Thin glasses perched on his nose, blue eyes steady and thoughtful as he spoke.
The low coffee table in front of them held its usual modest clutter—remotes,
an empty mug, a folded newspaper—while the mid-sized TV murmured forgotten news reports in the background.
The apartment’s layout mirrored the one next door perfectly: narrow entrance corridor, open-plan living and kitchen, short hallway to bedrooms, and the plain door to the shared restroom.
Beige walls and wooden floors absorbed the curry scents and the faint, occasional bursts of laughter drifting through the thin shared wall from Rin’s lively gathering.
Chris continued smoothly, his neutral voice warm yet precise, each word chosen with effortless charm.
"And well, Ryū wasn’t really happy."
He let the statement settle for a moment, tilting his head slightly as if visualizing the memory.
Ryū had taken matters firmly into his own hands because he held a profound, unyielding belief that humans should not misuse magic in ways that inflicted suffering on the innocent.
Magic was a rare gift, a force meant for protection, healing, and maintaining balance in a world already threatened by monsters and chaos.
To twist it for personal power, to terrorize communities, to corrupt the land and people for selfish gain—these acts represented everything Ryū stood against.
It wasn’t mere anger driving him, but a deep-seated sense of responsibility, a principled fury that compelled him to act when others might look away.
He had tracked the sorcerer methodically, cutting through layers of illusions and dark wards, determined to end the havoc before more lives were ruined.
His pursuit was measured, not reckless, guided by that core conviction that power carried weight and should never be wielded lightly against the vulnerable.
Satoru listened with sharp intensity, his black shirt stretched across his tense shoulders, short dark hair casting faint shadows over his furrowed brow.
As an SCO agent embedded in constant surveillance, every detail mattered—potential threats, patterns of power abuse, anything that could inform the organization’s monitoring of figures like Chris and those around him.
His observant eyes narrowed, jaw set firmly, fingers interlaced tightly on his knees as he absorbed the philosophy behind Ryū’s actions.
The curry aroma grew even richer, now carrying notes of simmering meat substitutes Hinata had found in the fridge, the sauce thickening into a glossy, fragrant gravy that promised comfort after a long day.
Chris leaned back slightly, his graceful posture unchanged, one hand gesturing subtly in the air between them as he expanded on Ryū’s abilities.
"Ryū possesses a rare and powerful gift—the ability to prevent death from claiming someone when it hovers too close.
If a person is gravely wounded, bleeding out, organs failing, soul on the brink of departure, he can channel precise magic to mend the worst of the damage.
Wounds knit together before the final thread severs, breath steadies, life clings stubbornly to the body.
The window is narrow and delicate; it must happen while life still flickers.
But once death has fully taken hold—once the soul has crossed that irreversible threshold—there is nothing he can do to pull them back.
True resurrection lies beyond his reach, and he respects that boundary."
His blue eyes behind the glasses carried solemn respect as he continued.
"Lord Hades does not look kindly on disruptions to the natural order.
The system of life and death operates with careful precision, souls departing according to their fated time, threads of destiny weaving without interference.
When someone meant to die on a given day is suddenly yanked back by external power, it creates imbalances—ripples that echo through the underworld and the living realm alike.
Hades views such acts as forbidden oversteps, affronts that tangle the grand design and risk greater chaos. Ryū understands this deeply.
He saves what can be saved in the moment, heals what remains healable, but never challenges the final crossing. It is a line he refuses to cross, no matter the personal cost."
Satoru’s expression remained locked in intense focus, a muscle twitching faintly in his jaw.
He shifted his weight on the sofa cushions, black pants whispering against the fabric, his sharp mind cataloging every implication for SCO files.
The kitchen continued its steady rhythm—Hinata lifting the lid to check the curry’s consistency, steam billowing out in aromatic clouds, her white sneakers making soft sounds as she reached for spices on a high shelf.
The modest apartment felt alive with layers: the comforting domesticity of home-cooked food contrasting the weight of supernatural ethics and consequences.
Chris pressed onward, his elegant voice steady and descriptive.
"This particular man relied on a magic known as loop magic.
It is extraordinarily rare, something only a true expert or someone with exceptional knowledge and relentless experimentation could ever master.
Loop magic binds an effect into an endless, self-sustaining cycle that refuses to dissipate naturally."
