KamiKowa: That Time I Got Transmigrated With A Broken Goddess

Torval Flameheart stared at the ornate table before him, tracing the wood grain with a finger that had once commanded flames but now trembled with age and regret. The chamber's volcanic vents hissed beneath the floor, reminding him of whispers—accusations from ghosts he couldn't silence.

Five years of desperate research. Five years of sleepless nights. Five years of lying to his people while the real Selene tumbled through endless void.

And now, seated across from him were the consequences of his actions. Five young people who wore the faces of children he had displaced.

The goddess in his daughter's body sat straight-backed, her wine-red hair swept over one shoulder, eyes pink as dawn. The golden-fractured martyr slouched beside her, face impassive save for occasional twitches when the volcanic heat flared. The pragmatist—dark-haired, sharp-eyed—tapped her fingers against the hilt of a borrowed dagger. The blue-haired healer examined the chamber's crystal formations with professional curiosity.

And then there was Valentine.

Torval studied the young man who had shattered a demigod with his bare hands. The dark-haired, blue-eyed boy who spoke with the confidence of someone thrice his age. The one who seemed most comfortable with the power at his fingertips, yet least comfortable with the responsibility it brought.

These five impossible children were his atonement. His only hope.

"I've assembled everything as promised," Torval said, breaking the silence. He gestured to the spread of documents, maps, and scrolls on the table. "Hearthome's resources are at your disposal."

The blue-eyed man—Xavier—leaned forward. "And the conditions?"

"There are none." Torval spread his hands. "My treasury, my armory, my intelligence network—they're yours."

"Nothing's free," Naomi said, fingers still drumming against her dagger. "Especially from nobility."

"My price was paid five years ago," Torval replied, meeting her sharp gaze. He turned to the red-haired goddess. "When I sent Selene into the space between worlds because I thought the void was safer than what the Winter Court planned for her."

Calypso tilted her head. "And what did they plan, exactly?"

"To make her a vessel for their fallen queen." Torval's voice cracked. "They believed her signature matched their queen's. A perfect host."

Margaret frowned. "So instead, you made her a vessel for Calypso."

"I didn't intend—" Torval stopped himself. "I intended the displacement to be temporary. Just until I found a way to mask her signature." He stared at his hands. "But Elara died during the ritual. The anchor was broken. I've spent five years trying to fix what I broke."

"And failing," Ashley observed, her voice flat. Golden fractures shifted beneath her skin as she spoke.

Torval nodded. "And failing."

Xavier studied the High Burner with narrowed eyes. "What exactly do you want from us?"

"Save her." Torval looked up, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "Save Selene. Save the other children whose bodies you now inhabit. Find a way to bring them home without destroying yourselves in the process."

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Torval reached beneath the table and withdrew a large, ornate chest. Its wood was dark, almost black, inlaid with silver runes that glowed faintly. He placed it on the table and opened it.

"These are yours."

Inside lay an assortment of equipment: five sets of enchanted clothing, weapons crafted from what appeared to be ironwinter steel, and pouches heavy with coins and crystals.

Torval explained. "The clothing contains protection enchantments against both natural and magical elements. The weapons are the finest Hearthome can produce."

Xavier reached in and withdrew a black jacket lined with silver threading.

"And this," Torval said, producing a smaller box from his robes, "is something Malakor never meant for you to find."

He opened it to reveal a leather-bound dispatch, its edges blackened and crumbling, pages warped and stained with water damage. The scent of smoke and mildew rose from the fragile document like ghosts from a forgotten grave.

"This was recovered from his private chambers after his... death." Torval's voice caught slightly on the last word. He pushed the dispatch toward Xavier with a reverence that spoke volumes. "It contains intelligence on other displaced souls. Other 'fallen stars,' as the prophecy calls them. Your companions."

Xavier accepted the dispatch with careful hands, treating it like a bomb that might detonate with careless handling. The binding cracked softly as he opened it. Without a word, the others gathered around him, their shadows merging on the table as he spread the fragile pages across the wooden surface.

"Most of it's destroyed," Xavier observed, squinting at the smeared ink that bled across water-damaged parchment. Pages curled at the edges like autumn leaves, text vanishing into brown stains and charred holes. "But there are still some legible reports here."

"Two in particular caught my attention," Torval said, leaning forward to point at the clearest pages with a finger that trembled almost imperceptibly. The golden light of the hearth cast deep shadows across his face as he indicated a detailed report. "This one speaks of a 'hermit scholar' in the ruined Westlands Empire."

Xavier read aloud: "'The subject demonstrates tactical predictions so accurate they border on divination. Local populations believe him to be a prophet. Winter Court intelligence suggests access to some form of precognition. Threat assessment: moderate to high. Recommended action: capture for interrogation, eliminate if resistance encountered.'"

"They've sent an Inquisitor after him," Torval added grimly. "One of their elite hunters."

"And the other report?" Margaret asked.

Torval turned the page. "A self-proclaimed 'King of the Wastes' has emerged in the southern badlands."

Xavier's eyes widened as he read: "'Subject displays ability to manifest weapons and tools from nothing. Described as an 'infinite arsenal' by witnesses. Currently uniting scavenger clans under revolutionary banner preaching protection of the weak by the strong. Expansion of influence threatens southern supply routes. Threat assessment: high. Recommended action: immediate elimination.'"

"Alexander," Calypso breathed. "And Nolan."

Xavier glanced up at Torval. "You're certain these are our friends?"

"The descriptions match what you've told me about their abilities," Torval replied. "And more importantly, the timing aligns with your arrival through the gate."

Naomi tapped the damaged pages. "So we've got two targets. A scholar with precognition powers to the west, and a revolutionary king to the south." She looked at Xavier. "Which one first?"

Before Xavier could answer, Ashley spoke. "The scholar is being actively hunted. The king has an army." Her golden fractures pulsed. "Logic dictates we save the one in immediate danger."

Xavier nodded slowly. "She's right. We head west for Nolan first."

Calypso studied Xavier's face. "Are you certain? Alexander's 'infinite arsenal' could provide substantial military advantage."

"We're not building an army," Xavier replied. "We're saving our friends."

Naomi snorted. "Since when did you become so noble?"

"Since I watched people die because of me."

A moment of silence followed his words.

Margaret cleared her throat. "The Westlands are at least a two-week journey, assuming we can find reliable transport."

"I've arranged for horses, supplies, and guides familiar with the western passes," Torval said. "They'll take you as far as the border. Beyond that, the empire is... unstable. Civil war has ravaged the region for decades."

"Perfect place for a tactical genius to hide," Naomi muttered.

Torval reached into his pocket once more. "There's one more thing." He withdrew five small objects and placed them on the table.

They were compasses, but unlike any Xavier had seen. Each had a crystal face instead of glass, and golden needles that seemed to hover without touching anything.

"These are Resonance Compasses," Torval explained. "Enchanted by our most skilled crafters. They're keyed to the unique Essentia signatures of displaced souls."

Xavier picked one up, studying the delicate craftsmanship. "How do they work?"

"They detect the specific resonance pattern created when a soul inhabits a body not its own," Torval said. "Each compass will point toward the nearest displaced soul within its range."

As Xavier held the compass, the needle spun wildly before settling. He frowned, turning in place, but the needle remained fixed, pointing directly at Calypso.

"Why is it pointing at her?" Xavier asked.

Calypso picked up another compass. Its needle pointed at Ashley. A third pointed at Xavier himself.

"They're working correctly," Torval said. "You're all displaced souls. The compasses recognize you as what you are."

"So we're on the map now," Xavier murmured, watching the golden needle quiver slightly as he moved.

"These will help you find your friends," Torval said. "But be warned—they may also help others find you. The Winter Court has similar methods of tracking."

Xavier pocketed the compass and gathered the damaged intelligence reports. "We leave at dawn tomorrow, then."

Torval nodded, his shoulders sagging with relief or resignation—it was hard to tell which. "I've had quarters prepared for you to rest before your journey."

As the group stood to leave, Torval called out one last time. "Thornslayer."

Xavier paused at the door, turning back.

"When you find her—when you find my Selene—" Torval's voice cracked. "Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I never stopped trying to bring her home."

"Tell her yourself," Xavier replied. "When we bring her back."