Transversal through bloodspring is a familiar, if rusty, set of maneuvers. Atrophied knowledge, nurtured by a single liter of blood, compelled this body back to its prime—if briefly. Digestion is happening; soon enough, the body will deteriorate back into the state of perpetual hunger I’ve learned to withstand, to live in.

I pose unstable Spear the Gungnir against the ground. “… Leave, while Fate yet permits you,” the words come bluntly from me, rage reserved for the parasite that’s preyed on Gensokyo for far too long; my mercy is still available, and my heart has ballooned after one speck of light pierced this dark, its name Hata no Sekai, child of Patchouli Knowledge and Hong Meiling.

A monumental weight lifted from my chest, and I could breathe again. The child is not the fruit of a heinous ritual or meddling Gods beyond planet Earth… to the extent of my knowledge, she’s just regular, if cherished, offspring.

Logistics shall be of concern later.

“… Holy fucking shit,” Toutetsu cackles, glinting eyes on me, her posture shifting to non-threatening. “That ilk of magic, at this day and age…? You must be, what, 10 thousand years old or something~?” There was genuine curiosity in her voice.

“I am around five hundred years old. Only, Fate bows down to me.” A strand of Old Magic lost upon the yawning age of religion and the birth of belief; a magic chaotic and primal. The feeling that echoes from above is of unbelievable expansion. It makes the handling of this power feel small. Patchouli had revealed the connection of child and tree. Perhaps the child herself is the cosmic entity…? I lower Spear the Gungnir; Toutetsu Yuuma’s answer is obvious to me.

“Let’s make something clear, ladies: I got no qualms dying here,” she says, hovering above the ground. “If I still believed whatever you’re doing here harmful to the people I love? You wouldn’t get out of here whole.” Her eyes wander to Hata no Sekai, the wide grin and the sharp eyes softening just a little before she sighs. “… I better see that kiddo there happy and alive when all this shit’s said and done. Otherwise, I’ll be eating you three.” The threat lingers even after the goat blasts away, disappearing in the swimming blue hues. Her words didn’t strike me as particularly serious, so I let them wash off me with a long sigh…

… Meiling and Patchy are alive. They did not die.

I bask in the soothing thoughts before lifting a few centimeters in flight, the wings—not atrophied; giant and alive—beating slightly. I glided towards the magician, the adrenaline having drained from her blood and releasing her from a prison of tension; the woman falls to her knees and heaves onto a ritual much different from anything I’ve ever seen.

Meiling stared at me, her chest and eyes swollen with bright hope.

Patchy seemed, even gasping for air and with drifting eyes, smug. “… I was right.”

“Had you a doubt I’d come to you in your time of need—even with my Manipulation of Fate in play?” I land by her, helping the woman back to her footing.

“No—I just needed to provide time; things would fall in place…” Her eyes go to the child, and I cannot overstate the amount of whiplash I’ve just received: Patchouli Knowledge, smiling ever fondly. “… It is the usual song and dance with those that see into the future.” She reached a quivering hand towards the child, and I helped her get close. She left my hold and fell by the sleeping child the moment we were close enough, fingers trailing her cheek. “I… I see you’ve restored that side of your power—please, Remi…” Her voice is weak, her body broken. Her eyes, burning, determined. “Puppeteer me. Do not let my flesh and blood cause my child’s death.”

Breath hitches in my throat, wide eyes arch to meet Meiling’s. All I get back is the same fierce zeal. “Patchy…” I sense their mutual trust.

I am not failing them again.

“… You’ll feel the strain all the same, Patchy.” Words and actions don’t match, for a bloodspring opens above, cascading blood of the ancients onto the ritual below. Undulating red strings follow, and they latch to the magician’s body, lifting her as if an odd doll. The sight stirs queasiness through me.

With the eyes she bears, nothing that I could’ve said would’ve mattered.

Then, the world froze: “… We spent a year inside the HSE as phantoms, Remi,” her voice conveys invisible hurt. “Sekai had brought us there to help her. She’s the daughter of Anon and of Yukari—not of flesh, but of coagulated pain and suffering. She was manufactured in a cage. She’s powerful, but not free. We’re delivering her freedom, Remi.” As she speaks, the lines shape movements, guided by Fate itself to where they should be. The glass burning blue reshapes to Patchy’s ministrations, and the blood I’d poured seeps into it. Soon enough, it’s turned scarlet red. Patchy seems barely capable of speaking, yet her eyes are on the child, full of love. “… We’re her mothers; we’d do anything for her.”

And the sigil pulses to the sound of a beating heart.