‘The Living Victory’.

The most revered and feared of all titles in the world of magic.

Those who possess this power could come from any background and in any gender.

Riches.

Status.

Colour.

Philosophy.

Age.

Location.

Background.

All those mean nothing.

The criteria to become The Living Victory had one sole requirement:

Determination.

They were those who smash the wheel of fate. Their unusual power flowed and burned so much, their SOUL turned into the most volatile of colours:

Red.

Because this power was neutral in the truest sense, it became vulnerable for misuse.

Too many had fallen into its pitfalls.

Too many had turned from hero to demon.

Too many had lost their heart.

Therefore, the once revered title became steeped in dark stigmas: a taboo to mention in fears of reviving all those who had once tarnished it. Nicknames and euphemisms evolved over time to fit the populace’s common language.

If Mezil Thyme had a choice, he preferred the original. He had a certain fondness to the tried, tested and recorded works.

Except… few would understand him. Certainly not a young skeleton fresh out from a different society.

Therefore he had no choice but to begrudgingly adopt this era’s nickname:

Humanity’s Ultimate Weapon.

It’s past midnight. Not too late for a borderline ‘vampire’. The roads were clear of Saturday’s nightlife and it would stay as such for the next couple of hours.

Thanks to the advancements of technology, Mezil had a self-driving car. Age had diminished his ability to drive in low-lighting. He could still man the helm if he needed to, but the added safety measures were a plus.

So he climbed into the seat and started the engine. Plotted the path to Ebott Town.

Mezil checked his phone time to time. He expected a certain noir detective to call in and yell at him for whatever triggered her temper.

But… it remained silent.

“Hmm. I guess it’s too much to expect things to go right the first time.”

When the car arrived at the town proper, Mezil started driving manually. He followed the instructions of a colleague to Alphys’ Lab.

Upon arrival, a man made up of fire opened the door. Mezil recognized this person as ‘Grillby’ from the wake. Scouts reported that he’s the owner and bartender of his own establishment.

“Hello,” Mezil greeted. “I’m looking for a young skeleton named Papyrus.”

Grillby remained silent for a moment. “…I’m afraid that is not possible… But, please come in… A friend expects you…”

Alphys’ home was a mess in more ways than one. The scent of human blood permeated the living room. For a good reason as well.

A septagram of blood and steel had sealed the entrance to the inner laboratory where the exorcism took place. The person maintaining it was the Seer known as ‘W. D. Gaster’. Papyrus’ apparent uncle, a new entity in this temporal axis.

Cenna’s cold remains leaned at the foot of the lab door. Mezil noticed that the location of the stab wound had shifted. Alas, it was a fatal injury nonetheless. She must have used the last seconds of her life to contain the DEMON by making this Gram.

Blood for ‘Life’, steel casings for ‘Metal’: the basis of a last-resort seal. It was just a level or two away from the infamous ‘Barrier’.

Pounding threatened to break the structure from the inside. Each strike was weighted with great strength.

A terrible sign. The DEMON had harvested too much life force.

Potent as he may be, Gaster had started to show signs of fatigue. Hunched shoulders. Lowered skull. Not long now until he would be forced on his knees.

“Hmph,” the liquid skeleton huffed. “Is it too much to leave some means of contact, Magus? What an unacceptable oversight.”

Papyrus’ ‘uncle’ had a mind as sharp as his tongue.

Mezil answered the best he could. “Apologies, but the circumstances did not permit. Perhaps there’s something in this room that I could use for the future past?”

The next pound had snapped the door hinges. If it weren’t for the seal’s support, the DEMON would have busted through. Gaster grunted as he increased the output of his magic.

“Captain Grillby,” he said, “Please pass Papyrus’ phone to our Magus guest.”

The bartender was not a random civilian monster either. It’s one of those days where all the key players gathered in a single event.

Mezil accepted the phone. “Oh, I know this model. Mid-range. Sufficient for everyday use at an affordable price. Excellent battery life too. This will do just fine.”

In his heart, he hoped that he didn’t have too many needless apps. Clutter drains even the best batteries faster than proper use. He needed this object to last as long as it could.

“Hmm.”

Papyrus doesn’t seem to use the phone much other than for local calls and a group chat. Good.

Mezil recalled how he once tried to mark just a memory card. It corrupted vital evidence. Had to LOAD an older SAVE to undo the damage. Now he knew better than to be too selective.

He keyed in his details and left a note. ‘Call me to RESET’. Then, he ‘Marked’ the entire device for permanence.

“…I’m surprised humans could use magic…” Grillby commented. “…Our historians state… that humans will never know the joy of expressing themselves with magic…”

“Such is true, sir,” said the human with a sigh. “For humankind, magic is not a means of ‘expression’. It’s only a tool. Compare menial labour to dance. Both use the muscles for strength. But one is pure work, the other an art form.”

Passing the phone back to the elemental, Mezil continued his explanation. “Stamina management is a part of the many foundations for our line of work. When we use magic, it must have a purpose. Otherwise, the energy is wasted and waste can be fatal.”

Mezil then crouched down to inspect the body of his dead colleague. At least her eyes were closed this time. “Well. There are talented folks such as our Vanquisher here. Efficient. Your fellow dancer. The envious and the close-minded too often condemned her as a witch. They saw her mastery of magic as a sign that she’s less than human.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

Mezil admired her spirit despite her lack of etiquette. She may not have ‘Determination’ as her most prominent trait, but she had the grit to persevere.

“…I see…” Grillby replied. “…What about you…?”

“Few witness my power and remember it. Soon, the same will be for you.”

Mezil hid in plain sight amongst society. The public knew of his rank, his skill, and his archaic sense of fashion, but none had any idea of his true ability.

Turning towards the elder, the Magus said: “Doctor Gaster, I think your wisdom will help us in this predicament. Shall I mark your memories as well?”

Gaster smirked. “Save your strength, Magus. I’m an Amalgamate. I will remember.”

“Amalgamate?” Mezil asked back.

“Monsters injected with excessive amounts of Determination will lose physical integrity. They merge together until their combined bodies achieve a certain level of stability. I believe your intel would have noticed that some of the residents of Ebott tend to… flow.”

Mezil commented, “I find it a little hard to believe that you are one of them. You’re far more articulate and coherent. Furthermore, your awareness of spacetime supersedes all others.”

Gaster’s face darkened into sorrow. “It’s a long story.”

Their conversation was interrupted by yet another slam on the loosened lab doors.

“Frisk? FRISK! You IDIOT, what the hell are you doing? You’re a demigod now! That flimsy seal is nothing! C’mon, let me show you. Ground your legs, and make sure your arms are straight for the punch.”

“C’mon c’mon c’mon don’t be an idiot and just DO IT! I’m already helping you!”

Just as Mezil had thought, Chara did have martial arts training. It was a part of their village’s culture. From what he had read about their parents… he would be more surprised if they neglected to pass down their family trade.

“Everyone’s DEAD! The survivors will be unhappy! Sans can’t live without his brother, and Mom will break down with him. You MUST finish the job for their sake, Frisk. DO IT! DO IT NOW! WAIT… WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! No no no no no no not now not now we don’t have enough Determination STO--!!!”

What followed after were the sounds of a shattering SOUL. It was much like glass. Veteran he may be, that sound still made Mezil wince inside.

A thud against the door followed after.

Gaster breathed a long, deep sigh.

“Well then,” he said. “Shall we conduct our post-mortem?”

Grillby helped his friend move Cenna’s body. They laid her down onto the floor and covered her face with her iconic hat.

It intrigued Mezil that these two elder monsters knew how to treat the remains with respect.

With the doorway cleared, Gaster stopped maintaining the seal. Without energy, the Arcanagram became nothing more than a grisly mural. Quickly, he backed off, avoiding the door as it slammed straight down in his direction. The hinge was broken after all.

Dust floated in the still air of ground zero. Clothing articles lay scattered on the powdery floor, no doubt shifted around during the struggle.

A long streak of human blood stretched all the way to the entrance. Cenna was dragged out by someone. Most likely by Doctor Gaster.

A red tattered scarf lay on the steel table. He remembered that everyone described Papyrus as the skeleton with a red scarf, although he didn’t wear it during the wake.

To think that the youngster wore red. What a strange twist of fate.

Mezil got down to inspect the child’s body. Frisk’s tangled trappings had started to fade away without its lifesource. “I see Cenna once again used a Truesight Potion on the child. It happened in the past timeline too.”

“What are those webs, exactly?” Doctor Gaster asked back.

“A curse,” explained the Magus. “It’s a sign that the DEMON had claimed an object -- or in this case a person -- as their own. Tampering with a cursed object will notify the possessor. This is why the murder weapon couldn’t be discarded before the ritual.”

When the webs faded in full, he noticed tiny bits of stickiness stuck on the child’s clothing. Mezil pinched them out and put on his reading glasses for a closer inspection.

“Seeds,” he muttered.

Doctor Gaster activated his Eyes to zoom in on the object. “They’re strangely nostalgic.”

“How familiar are you with the ‘Ebott Goldenflower’?” Mezil asked.

“Not quite,” the skeleton replied. “But King Asgore tends to a garden of golden flowers. The tea brewed from them is his favourite. I personally prefer the bolder black teas, but not many share my sentiment.”

Mezil thought it was bad enough that these flowers were used for a funeral. Now, he learned they had become a part of the local cuisine.

“Seer,” he asked. “Did your ancestors carry down any records from the Surface?”

Gaster hesitated to answer. “My parents had their personal collection. It was never released for public reading. Too much… sensitive information. However, I have committed their entire library to memory.”

The skeleton came from an influential background. That explained his mannerisms.

“Did any of them involve botany or anthropology?” Mezil asked.

“…My father wrote a private journal about nature. If, that’s sufficient. He always prefered the company of trees and rocks over people. Many remarked how it was a miracle that he fell in love with my mother.”

“Had he ever written anything about the ‘Cheaters of Death’?”

Doctor Gaster held his breath and clenched his bloodstained hands. “In a poem. Father lamented of how flowers forged of brilliant gold draw more dust than the thorns of a rose. I had always thought it was a figurative work about greed.”

Mezil had an idea about the identity of this doctor’s late father. For a Seer to love nature and write poetry about plants, he had to be someone who lived in the pre-Sealing days.

Except, that was a question for a different day.

Mezil explained the true nature of these flowers to the doctor. Armed with new information, Gaster used his Seer’s powers to check every object in the dust-ridden room.

The clothes.

The armour.

The lab equipment.

The DT-Extraction system itself.

Seeds of doom were found glued on every single object.

Gaster muttered in horror, “Oh goodness gracious. They’re everywhere!”

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place. Mezil crossed his arms and presented his hypothesis: “When Cenna destroyed the SOUL fragment, the DEMON’s essence spread onto these flower seeds. They controlled Frisk and waited for an opportune moment to get the knife back. How did they do that is the next question.”

The skeleton doctor tried his hardest to remember. “…The celebrity Mettaton. He had two forms: one as the glamorous celebrity, and the other… a plain box on a unicycle.”

“The knife was hidden inside the body of the box form. Its steel casing protected his true SOUL, thus making him a living strongbox.”

Despite the safeguards, the android form lay broken and empty. Mettaton somehow got forced to switch into his stylish yet vulnerable mode.

“Who else attended the exorcism?” Asked Mezil.

Gaster gave Mezil a list of names. The fire elemental ‘Grillby’ was not part of it: Papyrus had phoned him after a vision, thus prompting his current visitation.

The Magus took another look at the clothes lying on the floor.

There was a marked lack of blue in this picture…

Strange.

That one person had caused more trouble than everyone else combined. And he’s missing when he’s needed the most.

“Whatever happened to the other Lichborn?” Mezil asked, “I believe ‘Sans Serif’ is his name.”

Just the mere mention caused Gaster undue aggravation. ‘Resentful disappointment’ might be a more accurate description.

Acid dripped from the old skeleton’s words. “That sad sack of bones is too busy drowning in despair. I advise against putting any hopes on him.”

“What a shame,” said Mezil. “His analytical ability trumps our best supercomputers. A great asset, if you ask me.”

Gaster responded, “I’d rather not have him around. Sans has no integrity: too often his actions are swayed by extreme logic. He can and will be a heartless machine if he so justifies it. Certainly not someone I’d want in our current predicament.”

Those were strong words… but not baseless.

Mezil surveyed his surroundings. He can’t proceed from here. The current results were worse compared to the previous timeline. Unacceptable.

“There’s not much else I can do here. I think it’s time for a RESET. Hopefully, Papyrus will do a better job next round.”

“Magus, wait,” Gaster said. “You ‘marked’ Papyrus as you wanted to mark me, did you not? I saw a red butterfly escape from his crumbling body.”

Here he thought no one spotted that little detail. Mezil replied, “Yes. I did.”

“Hence why the boy said he came from ‘the future’. I thank you for preserving his life. But, I’m afraid to inform you that Papyrus can’t save anyone in his current state. And I don’t mean about him being dust.”

Gaster slid over to the table and carried Papyrus’ scarf with both hands. “His body may overflow with might, but his mind cannot tap into its fullest potential. No training, no focus. I’m sure you noticed that in your first meeting.”

Mezil agreed with the doctor. It’s unthinkable that an adult Lichborn of such potential had zero understanding about his own abilities.

Of all people, Papyrus had sought advice from a human.

The Magus sighed. “What do you propose?”

Gaster started folding the scarf, like what a neat mother would do to keep a piece of clothing. He then slung it over his thin arm.

“There is a place where time does not flow.” said the elder. “I had once wandered in that limbo for what seemed like eternity. I’m sure you know of it. If we could bring our boy there, we might be able to restore Papyrus’ lost years.”

“You provide the location, I’ll provide the expertise. How does that sound, Magus?”

Mezil did not like visitors… but he’ll make an exception this time. Out from his palm, he conjured another red butterfly made of his space-time magic.

It stretched its wings, flapping them twice before it fluttered above old Gaster’s head.

So the Magus said: “I’ll see you there.”