Eldritch Guidance-Chapter 142- Aftermath Help

Weeks had passed since the harrowing incident with the university—since Cid had been caught in the crossfire of forces far beyond his understanding. The scars of that day ran deeper than the visible wounds; they lingered in the stiffness of his limbs, the ache in his bones, the patches of flesh that had hardened into unyielding stone.

Today, however, marked a turning point. Scarlett had arranged a meeting with a shadowy collective known as the Unseen Hand—a coalition of John’s most influential patrons, operating in the murky intersections of power, wealth, and the occult. Their motives were unclear, but their resources were vast, and Scarlett hoped they might hold the key to undoing the damage to Cid’s body.

The two of them moved down Eld Street, the rhythmic squeak of the wheelchair’s wheels cutting through the hum of the city. Cid sat hunched, his frame wrapped in layers of bandages, concealing the worst of the petrification that had spread across his skin. His face was gaunt, his breathing shallow, every movement sending spikes of pain through his stiffened muscles. Scarlett had done what she could—flooding his system with expensive drugs to numb the agony—but it was a temporary solution at best. Some of his organs had already begun to calcify, forcing her to administer additional compounds just to keep his body functioning.

Scarlett glanced down at him, her grip tightening on the wheelchair’s handles. Tomorrow, they would meet Steph, and if anyone could reverse this, it was her. But tomorrow felt like an eternity for Cid. That was why Scarlett had another idea—one she hadn’t fully voiced yet.

John.

If anyone could intervene faster, it was him. His power, his knowledge of the unseen world—maybe he could do something the drugs couldn’t. The thought gnawed at her. She had already pulled Cid back from the brink once. She wouldn’t let him slip away now.

Cid let out a strained breath, his fingers twitching against the wheelchair’s armrests as if grasping for something to steady himself. Scarlett slowed her pace, leaning down slightly to catch his eye.

Scarlett: “Hanging in there?” she asked, her voice low but firm as she guided him along the cracked pavement of Eld Street.

Cid’s gaze flickered toward the sidewalk, where a small cluster of pedestrians had paused to stare—some with open curiosity, others with poorly concealed unease. A woman clutching a grocery bag quickly averted her eyes when she realized he’d noticed; a man in a rumpled suit pretended to check his watch.

Cid: “Y-yeah,” he muttered, his voice tight. “But people are staring.”

Scarlett didn’t even glance their way.

Scarlett: “Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said smoothly. “This is Yin’s territory. No one here would be stupid enough to say anything to the wrong people.”

Cid: “But what if—”

Scarlett: “They do,” she finished for him, her tone edged with quiet disdain. “I know. And I still don’t trust that bitch to have enough control over East Graheel to completely muzzle gossip or keep the cops out. Some months ago, I had one of those badge-toting pigs tailing me all the way from John’s place.” She adjusted her grip on the wheelchair, her fingers brushing the subtle engravings along its frame—runes woven into the metal. “Which is why there’s an illusion enchantment over us right now. To everyone else, I’m just a dutiful granddaughter taking her frail old grandfather out for some air.”

Cid blinked, then let out a weak, incredulous cough.

Cid: “But you’re the elder between the two of us! Why did I get stuck as the old man?”

Scarlett’s lips curled into a smirk.

Scarlett: “Hush, grandfather,” she teased, giving the wheelchair a light, deliberate push forward. “Or I’ll tell everyone you’re senile and forgot your teeth at home.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Cid’s bandaged face—brief, but there. It was a small victory, but Scarlett would take it. The weight of their situation hadn’t lessened, but for now, at least, the world saw only a harmless old man and his caretaker.

And that was exactly how she wanted it.

As they turned the corner onto the narrow, lane that led to John’s shop, a heavy silence settled between them. The familiar storefront loomed ahead, its darkened windows reflecting the dim glow of streetlamps, the sign above the door creaking faintly in the evening breeze.

Cid’s hands tightened around the armrests of his wheelchair, his knuckles whitening beneath the bandages. The weight of what had happened—of his own mistakes—pressed down on him like stone.

Cid: “Do we really have to go see John?” he asked, his voice low.

Scarlett exhaled through her nose, her grip on the wheelchair steady.

Scarlett: “We should’ve gone to him sooner,” she admitted. “But after everything that happened we needed time for the heat to die down. Couldn’t risk leading trouble straight to his doorstep.”

Cid swallowed hard.

Cid: “But… what if he’s mad at me?”

Scarlett actually snorted at that.

Scarlett: “John? John doesn’t get mad. Not like normal people do.” She glanced down at him, her expression softening slightly. “Annoyed? Sure. Disappointed? Maybe. But outright angry? You’d have to work a lot harder to pull that off.”

Cid: “He specifically warned me,” Scarlett’s disciple muttered, guilt lacing his words. “Told me not to worry about the outsiders or get involved with them. And I didn’t listen. Now look at me.” He gestured weakly at his bandaged limbs, the patches of petrified skin hidden beneath layers of linen.

Scarlett stopped the wheelchair just outside the shop’s entrance, turning to face him fully.

Scarlett: “Listen,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “John’s not the type to kick someone when they’re down. Yeah, you screwed up. But you’re here, trying to fix it. That counts for something.”

She reached out, giving his shoulder a brief, reassuring squeeze before straightening up.

Scarlett: “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

The shop’s interior swallowed them whole—the scent of old paper, dried herbs, and something faintly electric hanging in the air. Somewhere in the shadows, John was waiting.

And for better or worse, they were out of time to hesitate.

♦♦♦♦♦

John leaned back in his creaking wooden chair, fingers laced behind his head as he stared at the ceiling of his dimly lit shop. Another slow day—not that he expected anything different. Business had never exactly boomed, but lately, the silence felt heavier, more deliberate.

In the past, he’d been lucky to get a few new customers a year. Now, though… now he’d noticed a trickle. A few more curious faces peering through his door, a handful of hesitant questions about things most people shouldn’t even know to ask. It wasn’t enough to call it a trend, but it was… different.

He exhaled through his nose, his gaze drifting to the rows of dusty tomes and peculiar artifacts lining the shelves. Ever since Onyx had offhandedly mentioned that he’d “broken fate,” John couldn’t shake the thought. What did that even mean? In his old world, fate had been a story people told themselves to make chaos feel like order. But here? Here, the threads of fate weren’t just metaphor—they were something tangible, something woven, something real.

And he’d apparently destroyed it.

Onyx had said divination wasn’t working right anymore—that the usual patterns were scrambled, the future flickering like a candle in the wind. John still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. On one hand, no more prophecies. On the other… if the people who relied on those prophecies suddenly found themselves blind, what would they do?

“Panic, probably.”

John's fingers drummed restlessly against the worn wooden counter as his mind wandered down increasingly uneasy paths. Ever since Scarlett's cryptic message about finding Cid in some "bad shape," he'd been turning the possibilities over in his mind. The lack of details gnawed at him - what exactly had happened to the kid? More disturbingly, he couldn't shake the creeping suspicion that he might bear some responsibility for whatever tragedy had occurred.

A bitter taste filled his mouth as he considered the growing web of unintended consequences surrounding him. The destruction of fate's threads hadn't been his intention - he didn't know it was possible, let alone that he'd done it. Yet here he was, living in a world where divination faltered and the future grew increasingly opaque. If he could unravel something as fundamental as fate without even trying, what other damage might he have inadvertently caused?

The shop's familiar bell jingled, its cheerful tone starkly at odds with John's dark musings. He automatically straightened his posture, the seller's mask sliding into place - until he saw who stood in his doorway.

The transformation in Cid was shocking. The last time John had seen him, the university student had been the picture of ordinary youth - maybe a bit world-weary for his age, but fundamentally healthy. The figure slumped in the wheelchair bore only a ghostly resemblance to that young man. Bandages swathed much of his visible skin, peeking out from beneath a loose hoodie. His face, where not covered in gauze, was drawn and sallow, with dark purple smudges beneath his eyes that spoke of relentless pain and sleepless nights. His hands, resting limply in his lap, were wrapped like a mummy's, fingers stiff and unnatural in their positioning.

Scarlett's grip on the wheelchair handles was white-knuckled, her usual sardonic expression replaced by something far more vulnerable. The fluorescent lighting of the shop mercilessly highlighted every detail of Cid's condition - the way his breathing seemed labored, how his bandages bulged slightly where his body had clearly changed shape beneath them, the faint yellow stains of medicinal ointments seeping through the dressings.

For a long moment, the only sound was the quiet hum of the shop's refrigeration unit and the faint, wheezing rhythm of Cid's breath. John found himself unconsciously holding his own breath, as if afraid that even the slightest disturbance might cause the fragile figure before him to crumble completely.

When John finally spoke, his voice was uncharacteristically quiet, all pretense of shopkeeper's charm abandoned.

John: “Jesus Christ, what happened to you?”

Cid: "What is Jesus Christ?" he asked, his bandaged face tilting in genuine confusion.

A muscle in John's jaw twitched. “Right. Different world. Different gods.” He could practically feel Scarlett's sharp eyes studying his reaction.

John: "Just... a saying from my old home," he deflected, waving a hand as if brushing away the cultural landmine. "Forget it. More importantly—" His gaze dropped back to Cid's ruined body, "—what happened to you?"

The wheelchair creaked as Cid tried to sit straighter, his bandaged fingers gripping the armrests.

Cid: "Mr. Li, I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I really messed up." A dry, painful cough wracked his body before he continued. "You told me to focus on what I could control. Not to chase things beyond my understanding. But I... I got involved anyway."

John leaned forward, his elbows pressing into the counter's worn surface.

John: "Okay, but what specifically happened?"

Scarlett and Cid exchanged a loaded glance, one of those wordless conversations people have when deciding how much truth to tell someone they think might break from hearing it. The silence stretched just a beat too long.

Finally, Scarlett cleared her throat.

Scarlett: "Cid tried to tamper with things he shouldn't have. A Prime Order." Her fingers tightened on the wheelchair's handles, the leather creaking in protest.

John blinked.

John: "A... Prime Order?"

The term meant absolutely nothing to him. In his years in this world this was the first he'd heard of it. But the weight in Scarlett's voice, the way Cid flinched at the words—this was something fundamental, something everyone here apparently knew instinctively.

He schooled his features into careful neutrality, the way he did when clients expected him to know more about their situation than he actually did.

John: "Right, of course," he nodded sagely, buying himself mental space while his mind raced through possibilities. "And the effect where...?"

Scarlett: "Partial petrification on certain parts of his body." Her voice carried an edge John hadn't heard in a while. "We were wondering if you could help Cid in some way."

John: "Me?" The word came out higher pitched than John intended. He cleared his throat, adjusting his stance to appear more confident than he felt. The shop's overhead lights flickered slightly, casting strange shadows across Cid's bandaged form.

Scarlett: "You know a lot of things and have access to... unusual remedies." She gestured vaguely at the cluttered shelves surrounding them. "I thought you might have something."

John's expression twisted into something conflicted. He'd heard tales of petrification before - the classic monster's gaze turning victims to stone - but those had been stories, myths from a world where magic didn't actually exist. The cognitive dissonance of facing it here, in the flesh, left him momentarily unbalanced.

His gaze drifted to Cid's exposed skin where bandages had slipped slightly. The grayish hue creeping up the young man's forearm wasn't just discoloration - the texture was all wrong, the pores disappearing into an eerily smooth mineral surface. John suppressed a shudder.

John: "Partial petrification, huh?" he muttered, stepping closer to examine Cid’s exposed skin. The gray patches had an almost marble-like texture, veins of darker stone creeping beneath the surface like roots. He prodded lightly at one spot, and Cid flinched, a sharp hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

John: "Still sensitive?" he asked, pulling back.

Cid: "It’s… not numb," he admitted, voice strained. "It’s like my skin is hardening, but the nerves underneath are still alive. Every movement feels like—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening.

John: "Like your bones are grinding against stone?" He finished grimly.

Cid nodded, and John’s stomach twisted.

Scarlett crossed her arms.

Scarlett: "We’ve tried everything—alchemical stabilizers, counter-curses, even a few black-market tonics. Nothing helps. That’s why we came to you."

John ran a hand through his hair, conflicted. The truth was, his shop did have a way of providing exactly what he needed—but it was never in the form of grand, magical solutions that he noticed. When Scarlett had been sick, the shop hadn’t conjured some glowing elixir; it had simply stocked an seemingly unremarkable box of medicinal tea leaves. Effective, yes, but hardly miraculous.

And this? Petrification wasn’t just an illness. It was magical in nature. No mundane remedy from his world could reverse that.

But this wasn’t his world.

A memory surfaced—one of his rare conversations with the enigmatic patrons who occasionally drifted through his shop. Among them was a woman whose very presence had radiated a quiet, soothing energy.

John: "I can’t fix this," he admitted, meeting Scarlett’s expectant gaze. "But I know someone who might be able to."

Scarlett’s eyes narrowed.

Scarlett: "Who?"

John: "A healer. Goes by Steph."

Scarlett's eyes flickered with recognition.

Scarlett: "You're talking about Stephene Kor."

John: "Yeah, have you met him—" he caught himself and cleared his throat. "—I mean, her?"

Scarlett: "We were going to see her soon," she admitted,. "But we thought we'd try you first."

John exhaled through his nose, arms crossing as he sank into thought. The weight of their expectations pressed against him. He wanted to help—truly—but the reality was stark. Even if Steph agreed to see Cid, there were no guarantees. Petrification didn’t seem like a normal sickness. If Steph failed...

“Then what?”

His mind raced through possibilities, each more futile than the last. Nothing from his original world could reverse this. No drug, no surgery, no technology. His shop's strange tendency to manifest things he imagined from his word wouldn't cut it either—not for something like this.

That left only one option.

And it was the one he dreaded most.

Onyx.

Just the thought of asking that cryptic entity made his blood go cold.

A sharp ting of the doorbell shattered his thoughts.

The air in the shop thickened, the temperature dropping just enough to raise goosebumps on John's arms. A familiar presence seeped into the room, heavy and deliberate, like ink dispersing in water.

John didn't need to look to know who had entered.

The footsteps were measured, unhurried—each one accompanied by the soft tap of a polished skull cane against the floorboards.

There, framed in the doorway, stood the very "person" he'd been hoping to avoid.

Onyx, draped in their usual tailored obsidian suit, their crimson eyes gleamed with amusement beneath the brim of their hat. A smirk played at their lips—as if they'd known exactly what John had been thinking moments before.