The reconstruction of Neo-Eldoria moved in waves—some days frantic with new quests and rift clears, others quiet enough to hear the city breathing again. Malcolm's party had become a fixture: the Guardians of the Seal, whispered about in the wards and feared by lingering corruption. Their levels climbed steadily—Malcolm at 18 now, the Cosmic Eater's hunger meter rarely rising above 20% thanks to daily discipline and the scholars' guidance.
On a rare afternoon without active alerts, Malcolm walked alone through the rebuilt Mid-Level Bazaar. Vendors hawked blessed tech upgrades alongside fresh dates and miswak. Children chased glowing Noor orbs in alley games. The air smelled of rain-washed concrete and cardamom coffee.
He stopped at a small stall displaying hand-forged arrowheads—silver alloy etched with protective verses. The vendor, an older woman in hijab, smiled knowingly.
"For the elven archer in your party? These carry extra clarity against illusions."
Malcolm nodded, selecting a dozen. As he paid, a voice—familiar, warm, edged with teasing—cut through the market noise.
"Still buying gifts for your teammates instead of yourself, Mal?"
He turned slowly, heart skipping in a way no devil lord had ever managed.
Standing there, arms crossed and eyebrow arched, was Margarita.
She had grown taller, sharper—black skin glowing under the bazaar lights, red hair braided in intricate cornrows that caught the neon glow, yellow eyes bright and unyielding. She wore practical hunter gear: reinforced jacket over a modest tunic, dual energy pistols at her hips, a lightweight rifle slung across her back. A Guild badge marked her Level 17, with a specialist insignia for rift tracking.
"Cat got your tongue, Shadow Thorne?"
"Rita… you're back."
She smirked, but her eyes softened. "Been back a week. Heard the city almost ended while I was on off-world contract. Figured I'd see if the rumors about a certain dark elf saving the world were exaggerated."
They had been childhood friends—growing up in the same lower-ward orphanage after the plague took their families. Margarita, always bolder, had dragged quiet Malcolm into adventures: sneaking into abandoned tunnels, sharing stolen mangoes on rooftops, trading stories of parents they barely remembered. She'd left at sixteen for a corporate-sponsored hunter program off-world, promising to return when she was "strong enough to protect everyone."
He hadn't seen her in nine years.
"Not the whole world. Just this city."
Stepping closer, studying him, she said, "Heard you went down into the labyrinth. Came back with some kind of… living shadow thing. People say you're different now."
"I am. But not in the ways that matter most."
She tilted her head, yellow eyes searching his face. No fear, just curiosity and something gentler.
"Same old Mal. Always carrying more than you let on."
They walked the bazaar together, conversation starting slow—updates on mutual orphanage friends, her off-world contracts hunting rogue AI constructs, his years of solo bounties. Laughter came easier than expected, old rhythms returning like muscle memory.
At a quiet tea stall, they sat across from each other. Steam rose between them.
"I requested transfer to Neo-Eldoria permanent. Guild approved it this morning. Figured the city could use another rifle if the Guardians are taking point on the remaining rifts."
Malcolm's pulse quickened, but he kept his voice steady. "We could. But it's not easy work."
Smiling faintly, she said, "When has it ever been? Besides… someone needs to keep you from brooding on balconies all day."
He huffed a laugh. "You planning to stick around long enough for that?"
"Long enough to find out if the boy I knew is still in there. No rush."
Her tone was light, but her gaze lingered—warm, patient, familiar. Not a confession. Not yet. Just the quiet acknowledgment that some connections survive years, distance, and even the end of the world.
Malcolm felt the Cosmic Eater shift slightly—curious, but calm. For once, it had nothing to say.
Later, he introduced her to the team at the Minaret Ward courtyard. Gronk clapped her on the back hard enough to stagger most people; she didn't budge. Kira immediately started comparing rifle mods. Elara offered a respectful nod, sensing the history without needing words.
Shaykha Amina greeted her with salam and a knowing smile.
"Welcome home, child. The city remembers its own."
That night, a new party notification appeared in Malcolm's HUD:
Party Invitation: Margarita "Red" Hassan has joined the Guardians of the Seal
Leadership Aura Updated:+18% EXP gain, +12% corruption resistance
He accepted without hesitation.
As the team planned tomorrow's rift patrol, Malcolm caught Margarita watching him across the courtyard—yellow eyes reflecting lantern light, red braids swaying in the evening breeze.
She raised her tea cup in a small salute.
He returned it, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.
The city was healing.
And some things—old friendships, unspoken possibilities—were just beginning.
To be continued...