KamiKowa: That Time I Got Transmigrated With A Broken Goddess

The wagon creaked over the final ridge as night settled over the mountains. Xavier shifted, letting Naomi lean against his shoulder while they both stared at the massive structure ahead. What had been a distant promise of shelter now became flesh—a three-story stone manor nestled against the mountainside, its windows dark except for a few flickering lights on the ground floor.

"That's not a waypoint," Naomi whispered. "That's a bloody castle."

Efler clicked her tongue at the horses. "Duke Harren's hunting lodge. He abandoned it when the winters grew too harsh. Now it serves travelers when the official waypoints are full or destroyed."

The remaining wagons limped into the courtyard, wheels crunching through fresh snow. Xavier counted their survivors again—eleven people where twenty-five had started.

"Hear that?" Naomi nudged him as they climbed down from the wagon.

Xavier paused. The whispers carried on the cold air:

"—took down three Thornbeasts—"

"—never seen anything move so fast—"

"—golden light like the old stories—"

Dalen approached, his weathered face solemn as he clasped Xavier's forearm. "You saved what remains of us. The men are calling you Thornslayer."

"Thornslayer," Xavier repeated, tasting the word. "I like it."

Naomi rolled her eyes.

"What? It's accurate," Xavier shrugged. "Three beasts, three kills. Could have been even more."

"And modest too," Naomi muttered.

"Why be modest when I was fucking amazing?" Xavier grinned, enjoying the way her cheeks flushed. "You saw it."

"I did," she admitted. "And it was... impressive."

Dalen gestured toward the lodge. "We'll honor our dead before we rest. Then the master suite is yours. It's the least we can offer."

The entrance hall of the hunting lodge stretched two stories high, dominated by a massive hearth where people had already started to kindle a roaring fire. Mounted animal heads lined the walls—stags, bears, and creatures Xavier couldn't identify. A grand staircase curved up to the second floor, its banister carved with intricate hunting scenes.

The survivors gathered before the fire, their faces hollow with exhaustion and grief. Dalen stood at the center, head bowed.

"We gather in the warmth of the Flame," he began, his voice echoing in the cavernous space, "to remember those who journey no more."

The group murmured in response: "The Flame remembers."

"Tomas the Silent, whose arrows flew true."

"The Flame remembers."

"Kara of the Hills, whose songs lightened our path."

"The Flame remembers."

Dalen continued through the names, each followed by the same solemn response. Xavier shifted uncomfortably, unused to rituals for the dead.

"We ask the Eternal Flame to guide their spirits home," Dalen concluded, "to burn away their sorrows and light their way to peace."

The group spoke in unison, voices blending into something stronger than their individual parts:

"From ember to spark, from spark to flame, from flame to fire, from fire to sun. What burns never truly dies but transforms. As the Flame endures, so shall we. As the Flame remembers, so shall we."

A moment of silence followed, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then Dalen straightened his shoulders.

"Now we eat, we rest, we continue. As they would want us to."

The survivors dispersed, some to unload supplies, others to prepare a meal from their dwindling provisions. Xavier watched Efler direct the efforts with quiet authority, assigning tasks that best suit each person available.

"She's good at this," Naomi observed, following his gaze.

A young woman approached them, her dark hair tied back in a braid. "The master suite is ready. Top floor, end of the hall. I've started a fire and brought water for washing."

"Thank you," Naomi said.

"No, thank you," the woman replied, looking at Xavier with undisguised admiration. "I saw you. You moved like the heroes from the old stories."

Xavier straightened, enjoying the praise. "Just doing what needed to be done."

===

The smell of cooking drew them to a long table where the survivors gathered. The meal was simple—stew made from dried meat and root vegetables, hard bread softened in the broth, and small cups of firewine to ward off the chill. They ate in relative silence, exhaustion finally catching up to them.

Halfway through the meal, Dalen raised his cup. "To the Thornslayer."

The others echoed: "The Thornslayer."

Xavier nodded, accepting their tribute. "And to those who didn't make it."

"To those who didn't make it," they repeated, more solemnly.

After dinner, Xavier and Naomi climbed the grand staircase. The second floor held multiple bedrooms, all dark and cold. The third floor was designed for the duke himself—a single massive suite taking up most of the space.

The master bedroom lived up to its promise. A four-poster bed dominated the center, piled with furs and blankets. A private hearth crackled with fresh wood, casting dancing shadows across stone walls hung with tapestries. A copper tub stood near the fire, steam rising from the water within.

"Holy shit," Naomi breathed. "Being a hero has its perks."

Xavier closed the heavy door behind them. "One of us should bathe before the water gets cold."

"You first," Naomi said. "You're the one covered in Thornbeast blood."

Xavier didn't argue. He stripped off his clothes, aware of Naomi's eyes on him as he sank into the hot water. The heat penetrated his aching muscles, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.

"That good?" Naomi asked, perching on a nearby stool.

"Better than sex."

She snorted. "I'm offended."

"Almost better than sex," he amended with a grin.

While he bathed, Naomi explored the room, examining the tapestries and opening drawers. "Whoever this duke was, he had expensive taste. Look at these." She held up a set of silver brushes. "And there's a whole wardrobe of clothes. Men's and women's."

"Probably for his wife or mistress," Xavier said, scrubbing dried blood from his arms.

"Or both." Naomi pulled out a silk nightgown. "Think this will fit me?"

"Only one way to find out."

When Xavier finished bathing, he wrapped himself in a linen towel and traded places with Naomi. She disappeared behind a privacy screen with the nightgown, then slipped into the tub with a sigh that bordered on indecent.

Xavier found clean clothes in the wardrobe—soft trousers and a loose shirt that fit well enough. He sat on the edge of the massive bed, watching the fire and listening to Naomi's occasional sounds of pleasure as she soaked.

Closing his eyes, Xavier finally let himself relax. His headache had subsided to a dull throb, no longer the stabbing pain from earlier. Progress, he supposed.

"What are you thinking about?" Naomi asked.

Xavier opened his eyes to find her standing before him in the silk nightgown, her wet hair hanging loose around her shoulders.

"How much I want to just fall asleep forever."

"Aww my poor hero." Naomi crossed the room slowly, her nightgown whispering against her skin. She sat beside Xavier on the bed, close enough that her damp hair brushed his arm. "How about a massage? I have to do something to repay you."

"I don't need—" Xavier started, then caught the playful challenge in her eyes. "Actually, that sounds perfect."

"Thought so." Naomi patted the bed. "Lie down. Shirt off."

Xavier pulled the borrowed shirt over his head and stretched out on his stomach, his face half-buried. "Don't go easy on me."

"When have I ever?" Naomi straddled his lower back, her weight settling comfortably against him. Her hands found his shoulders, pressing into knots of tension he hadn't realized were there.

"Holy—" Xavier groaned as her thumbs dug into a particularly tight spot. "Where'd you learn to do this?"

"Rock climbing builds strong hands." Her fingers worked methodically down his spine. "Plus, I dated a massage therapist for three months."

"Lucky them."

"Lucky you, now."