Silence.
The snowfall had returned to a whisper. The battlefield—only minutes ago a storm of quakes, flame, and arcane fury—was now frozen in tension.
Mikal Thorne lay unconscious in the snow, his body unscarred, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The ground around him was scorched and cracked, but he showed no signs of physical damage.
It was as if nothing had happened.
But everyone knew better.
Laurick Andersson lowered his hand slowly, his breath steadying. The residual green flicker around his palm faded, drawn back into his skin like smoke returning to a flame.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
He simply turned his head and looked toward Vegar, Hilde, and Brynjar—his protectors.
The same people who had just seen him do something none of them had expected.
"That power…" Brynjar whispered, wide-eyed. "Was that a second quirk?"
Hilde took a step forward, wariness in her expression. "Laurick. Are you okay?"
Laurick nodded once, but his eyes said otherwise. There was a weight in them now. Not fear. Not rage.
Responsibility.
Across the Valley
Maja Våpenhånd kept her rifle trained on the scene for another few seconds before slowly lowering it. "Possession over," she said into her comms. "Target neutralized. Laurick remains unharmed. Standing by for further instruction."
Tormod Iskesson, arms crossed, watched the boy silently.
"He banished a foreign presence with surgical precision," he muttered. "He didn't just fight back—he absorbed him back into his body."
Back at the Scene
Vegar stepped toward Laurick, speaking calmly.
"You did something incredible. But we need to understand what just happened."
Laurick's voice came quiet. Controlled.
"It wasn't me. Not exactly. I... borrowed power."
He looked toward the unconscious Mikal, then to the sky.
"But I didn't borrow it blindly. This time, I was in control."
Barely though, he thought, swallowing hard. But I was in control.
A long pause hung over the team.
Then Vegar asked, "Is he still in you?"
Laurick hesitated.
Then shook his head.
"No. He's back where he belongs."
[Within the Dreamworld]
The Wizard slammed against the ethereal walls of his prison, green lightning sparking as he clawed at the invisible barrier.
His form flickered in rage—arcane robes ragged, his face cracked like stained glass.
Above him, the Moon glowed cold and indifferent.
"He's learning," it said to the others.
The Detective chuckled from a high perch.
"Good. Makes it more fun next time."
Back in Reality
The wind picked up again.
Laurick turned toward the house, the Dreamcatcher still flickering gently on the desk inside.
He whispered to himself:
"Thanks… for holding the door."
Behind him, the others exchanged uncertain glances—but no one spoke.
Not yet.
There was too much to think about.
And too much still unknown.
The reinforced cell was cold and silent.
Mikal Thorne sat on the edge of the bench, wrists magnetically restrained to the steel wall behind him. A new quirk suppression collar was secured around his neck—state-of-the-art, triple-locked, and rune-reinforced.
His body bore no injuries.
But his eyes were heavy.
Haunted.
Two guards stood just outside the containment chamber, watching him through the observation glass.
"He's been like that since they brought him in," one of them muttered.
"He remembers everything," the other replied. "But he didn't do any of it."
Inside, Mikal didn't speak.
He stared at the floor, unmoving—still hearing the Wizard's voice echo faintly in the back of his mind.
"You were a perfect fit, Mikal..."
He clenched his jaw.
Never again.
Meanwhile – Abandoned Cabin, Southern Ridges
Wind howled through the trees, snow clinging to the worn logs of the mountain cabin where Bengt Allamann and Elias Skoggåsen had previously sheltered.
The windows were frosted over. The fire long dead. A chair lay tipped over, footprints partially erased by the storm.
It looked like nothing more than a forgotten hut swallowed by winter.
Suddenly—
FLASH!
Spotlights burst through the treeline as heavily armed Norwegian military units surrounded the area, black-and-white thermal gear camouflaged in the storm.
"Cabin in sight," one commander called through comms. "Prepare breach."
A soldier approached the door—hand raised to knock.
CRASH!
The door burst inward on a single kick. Guns raised. Silence.
Then—
Nothing.
No one.
The place was empty.
Abandoned.
But the kettle on the stove was still warm.
"They were just here…"
One of the soldiers stepped further in, flashlight sweeping the shadows.
Suddenly, a loud THUD from upstairs—
"Contact?!"
Everyone snapped to aim.
But there was no one.
Just a broken beam that had finally collapsed under the snow.
A cold, empty house.
And the growing sense that someone was still watching.
Meanwhile – Southern Slopes, Near Folgefonna
Bengt Allamann trudged through the snow, wrapped in a scarf and heavy coat, his eyes locked on the trail ahead.
Beside him, Elias Skoggåsen followed silently, his breath visible in the frozen air. The snow crunched underfoot, the pace grueling, but they didn't stop.
They were trying to catch up.
Because Pringelina had left hours ago—determined, silent, and focused on one goal: Laurick.
And she was gaining distance with every hour.
"We should've moved sooner," Bengt muttered.
Elias frowned. "She's determined. And she's faster than you give her credit for."
A pause.
Then Elias asked the question that had been gnawing at him.
"Do you think it was a mistake... giving the J-09 Command Beacon to Mr. X?"
Bengt stopped.
His expression was unreadable behind the scarf.
"I don't know," he said finally. "It bought us time."
"But it cost us something bigger."
Elias clenched his fists. "That device controls the defense grid. If someone turns it on Laurick—"
"I know."
The wind howled louder.
They pressed forward—chasing a shadow in the snow, unaware of just how close Pringelina was to completing her task.
And how close Norway was to losing its grip on what lay inside Laurick Andersson.
Bjørnevika had returned to stillness—but not to peace.
Nestled between the mountains and the fjords, the town looked as it always did in winter: quiet, snow-laden rooftops, smoke curling from chimneys, and the calm, gray air hanging low like a shroud.
But beneath the surface, the people were restless.
At cafes, at bus stops, in line at the bakery—rumors were beginning to spread.
"Did you hear that explosion last night?"
"There were helicopters flying low past the ridge. Looked military."
"Someone said they saw a pro hero—Hilde. Or maybe Brynjar Paul?"
"I heard it was him."
Whispers turned into stories.
Stories turned into speculation.
And though no one knew for sure, many were beginning to suspect the truth:
Laurick Andersson—the boy from the Skandevik Incident—was nearby.
Some said he was in hiding.
Some said he was dangerous again.
Others wondered if he was still human at all.
But none of them knew that just beyond the forest line, in a government-funded safehouse, the boy they whispered about had just fought a living nightmare—and won.
Meanwhile – Stavanger, Southern Norway
Beneath a quaint storefront—a hardware and general goods shop—was a disguised operations center. Underground corridors, dim lighting, and old military tech repurposed for darker ambitions.
In a back office, Rost stood quietly, dressed in the humble overalls of a shopkeeper.
But the room before him projected two separate feeds.
The first: Mr. X, his face half-obscured in static distortion.
The second: a neatly encrypted report window—Simon's briefing on the Laurick–Mikal confrontation.
"You have it?" Rost asked, voice low and cold.
"We do," Mr. X replied. "The J-09 Command Beacon is in our possession. Confirmed functional. Awaiting activation."
Rost turned his gaze to a map of Western Norway pinned to the wall. Several red marks dotted the landscape. One circled Bjørnevika.
"Good," Rost said. "The disruption field will be vital once Phase Two begins."
"Agreed," Mr. X answered. "It not only blinds aerial reinforcements—it severs communication between the Hero Association's mountain networks."
Rost's fingers traced the map idly. "And Laurick?"
The screen switched to Simon's report—highly detailed, timed to the second.
"He absorbed the Nightmare entity," Mr. X said, summarizing. "Maintained control. That confirms the dreamcatcher is still functional."
Rost narrowed his eyes.
"Then it needs to be broken."
He turned away from the screen, walked toward a locked drawer, and retrieved a small black case marked only with a red target symbol—his own quirk's crest.
"Laurick is stable now. But he's waking up.
And if we wait too long…"
He opened the case, revealing several specialized throwing weapons—each laced with micro-tracking charges.
"…we'll never contain what's coming."
July – Bjørnevika
The snow had long melted.
The fjords glimmered under the summer sun, the days long and golden, stretching deep into soft, pale nights. Bjørnevika, still quiet in appearance, now pulsed with a tense sort of calm—like the town itself knew the peace was borrowed.
But for Laurick Andersson, things were changing.
After months of psychological evaluations, supervised combat tests, and meetings with the Hero Association of Norway, Laurick was finally granted provisional clearance to attend Bjørnevika Hero Academy—a prestigious, state-overseen institution with heavy security and a zero-tolerance policy for vigilante behavior.
He would begin classes in August.
For the first time in twelve years, he had a future to step into.
In the meantime, he spent the summer under careful supervision and training by the three heroes assigned to his case:
Hilde Akselsen, still fiery and uncompromising, had taken on a dual role as both physical conditioning coach and moral compass.Vegar Magnus, ever-strategic, helped Laurick explore the subtler aspects of his quirk—including containment drills and non-lethal defense patterns.And Brynjar Paul Oliverson… mostly sparred with him, built air-drum kits, and tried to keep Laurick laughing.
Together, they forged a sense of routine.
And slowly, Laurick was becoming something new.
Not a prisoner. Not a weapon.
A student.
Norway's Hero Association – Oslo HQ
Behind the scenes, the Hero Association had not rested.
Following the incident with Mikal Thorne, all facilities across Rogaland and Vestland were placed on enhanced alert. Emergency anti-quirk containment drills were quietly pushed into public school policy. Border surveillance between municipalities was increased.
But the most pressing matter remained unresolved:
The J-09 Command Beacon was still missing.
Only a few top-level officers knew the truth. Officially, it was under "routine maintenance." Unofficially, it was marked as a potential existential threat if misused.
Their eyes turned toward Bjørnevika Hero Academy, which would soon house the very boy that device was built to suppress.
So it wasn't surprising that additional security was installed.
What was surprising, however—
Was Pringelina.
Bjørnevika Hero Academy – Staff Wing
Wearing a blue janitor's uniform and pushing a supply cart through the corridor of the dormitories, Pringelina had become… inconspicuous.
Or at least, she tried.
Despite her criminal record and the attempted assassination plot, she had miraculously been allowed to work as a "community-rehabilitation staff member" under the Special Containment Observation Protocol—meaning she wasn't free.
Two pro heroes—rotating shifts, always in civilian disguise—were assigned to monitor her full-time.
She knew they were watching.
She didn't care.
Her eyes were fixed on one thing.
Laurick.
Meanwhile – Somewhere in the Fjords
On a remote hiking trail deep in the countryside, Elias Skoggåsen and Bengt Allamann rested by a rocky outcrop, staring at a cliff wall shaped like a goat's face.
"Okay," Elias said, sighing. "Tell me again. What's the quest?"
Bengt held up his wrist, where the glowing sigil pulsed with weekly instructions:
WEEKLY QUEST: Secure 12 objects shaped like animals and name them all.
RANDOM POWER GRANTED: Surface Limb – Allows you to grow functioning limbs from any surface (rock, tree, wall, etc.).
FAILURE CONSEQUENCE: You will be stuck speaking in full rhyming sentences for seven days.
Elias blinked. "That's... almost charming?"
Bengt gave a deadpan glare. "You've never tried asking for directions while everything you say rhymes with 'fjord.'"
Behind them, three tree trunks now had fully formed arms, reaching for labeled figurines taped to a rock.
"Only five more to go," Bengt muttered, rubbing his temple. "I hate my life."