SmilinKujo
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Chapter 88 – Cracks Beneath the Flame
🕑 Added 2025-05-14 18:11:25 +0000 UTCThe winter light filtered through the frosted windows of a humble apartment complex in Seoul, its pale gold warmth landing gently on the wooden floorboards. The heater hummed faintly. Outside, a chorus of snow-shrouded rooftops greeted the world like a city draped in silence.
But inside one small, modest home—chaos was brewing. Not the bad kind. The kind filled with the pitter-patter of socked feet, shrieks of joy, and high-pitched declarations of holiday spirit.
"Christmas!!" Two children—one a sprightly girl of seven, the other her wide-eyed little brother barely five—sprinted into the living room in a blur of pajamas and messy bed hair.
Their father, standing in the dimly lit kitchen, flinched at the sound of laughter. He turned to his wife, his voice low, burdened. "My love... you haven't told them yet, have you?"
She shook her head, biting her lip. "I can't. Not yet. Look at them…" Her eyes watered. "They're too happy."
The man bowed his head in guilt, rubbing his rough hands together. "I'm sorry. I should've gotten a job by now. But I only made it to the interview stage…"
The wife placed a gentle hand on his. "We'll figure it out. Maybe we can… pawn my wedding ring—"
"No." His voice was firm, but warm. "Pawn mine. You're beautiful with that ring. You always were. I'll get it back… once I land something. We'll tell them Santa got stuck on a roof or… something dumb like that."
She laughed. A tiny, beautiful sound in the middle of uncertainty. That laugh—the one that first made him fall in love with her, years ago when they had even less. And then—A scream. High-pitched. Joyful. They both froze.
"Umma! Appa!" the little boy shouted from the living room, "Santa came! He came! He really came!"
They rushed in. And stopped dead in their tracks. There—beneath their cheap, leaning Christmas tree, barely propped up with plastic ties, were piles of neatly wrapped presents. Not two. Not three.
Six. All different sizes. Wrapped with care. Trimmed with silver thread and tiny pressed wax seals.
Their daughter was crouched near them, peering with a serious face. "Santa must've misdelivered some! We have way too many!"
Her little brother was already shaking one violently like a maraca. "I bet this one's a dinosaur! Or socks! Dino-socks!"
The mother and father looked at each other. Their faces pale. Their hearts racing. "Did… did you leave the door unlocked?" the father whispered.
"No," the wife replied quickly. "I checked it. I made sure."
He took a slow step back toward the entryway, eyes scanning. The front door… was ajar. Just a crack. Had someone broken in? But what kind of madman breaks into someone's home just to leave perfectly wrapped gifts…?
"Santa really broke into our house?!" the daughter squealed. The parents snapped out of it, fast. The father crouched. "No no no, honey. Santa didn't break in. He… just got a little excited, that's all." The mother knelt beside him. "He must've been in a rush, but he remembered you two. Isn't that sweet?"
The kids cheered, grabbing gifts and shaking them. Their parents sat on the floor, still stunned. But amidst the confusion… was relief. A warm tide rising in their chests. Gratitude. And disbelief.
From the corner of his eye, the father noticed something stuck to the bottom of the front door—a faded paper charm, glowing faintly before it turned to ash and disappeared into the air. "…Magic," he muttered. He didn't believe in miracles. Until today.
Scenes like this played out again and again. In the cramped rooftops of Manila, the glowing windows of Bangkok, the humid dawn of Kolkata, and the quiet tenements of Beijing. Families who'd had nothing woke to gifts wrapped with care. Children cheered. Parents wept in confusion, in gratitude, in awe.
The news had yet to catch up. But the magic was already there. Jack Hou's sleigh, blazing across the final curve of Earth's night, was now approaching the Western Hemisphere. And Christmas Morning was just about to begin again.
…
The fire had long burned low in the hearth. But inside the residence of 10 Downing Street, heat was the last thing on anyone's mind.
The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom stood alone in his private office, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, his eyes bloodshot as they flicked again and again to the silver watch on his trembling wrist.
03:47 AM.
He hadn't slept. He couldn't.
From behind the sealed oak double doors, stationed just outside, one of the SAS captains stood silently, fully equipped in covert tactical gear, armed with a custom FN SCAR rifle—eyes constantly scanning for signs of intrusion.
There were twenty-five men in total, stationed in and around the perimeter. The PM's orders had been very clear: no movement, no light, and if anything bloomed or shimmered or sparkled—"Shoot the tree. No questions."
The Prime Minister sat at his desk, a pile of classified intelligence reports before him. His laptop showed a flurry of secure transmissions. Another ping.
Subject: French President Residence – Confirmed Event. Status: Peach Tree Manifestation – 04:32 CET.
He grit his teeth. "Bloody bastard…" he muttered. He glanced to another tab. Italy. Poland. Spain. The pattern was clear now. The targets weren't random. Every single country that voted "YES" to fire a missile at the mysterious moving island had now been gifted a personal message.
In the form of a giant peach blossom tree, bearing not fruit but damning, unspeakable truths. Another ping.
Germany – No Manifestation. Confirmed 'No' Vote. Status: Safe.
The Prime Minister began to laugh. A slow, manic chuckle at first—like someone hearing the punchline to a cruel cosmic joke. "Yes. Yes! I'm safe. I'm clean. I'm the cleanest politician in the world!" He stood abruptly, knocking over a teacup. "I never accepted bribes, never falsified numbers. I eat my toast dry, for God's sake!"
He paced in tight circles like a lion in a cage. "But just in case," he muttered to himself, "Just in case… he pulls something clever, we'll be ready. We've got boots on the ground. Every angle covered."
His voice rose in intensity. "We've locked every door. Replaced every chimney with sealed metal venting. Not even a bloody butterfly's getting in."
And yet—The reports kept coming. The magic kept spreading. All across Europe, truth trees had bloomed in the living rooms of liars. No alarms. No noise. No resistance. Just blooming evidence.
The Prime Minister rubbed his face, his stubble scratching against his palm. He stared at the window, waiting for signs. Dawn still hadn't broken. It was now 03:59 AM.
He shuffled toward the sofa. Body sore. Mind fraying. "It's all paranoia," he mumbled to himself. "Just dreams. Nightmares. If I sleep through it, it won't be real." He lay down. Smiled faintly. "I'm clean," he whispered.
The clock ticked to 04:00 AM.
His eyes closed. A final twitch of a smile on his lips… as sleep crept in under the door.
…
The entire 10 Downing Street residence shook—an unnatural quake that rumbled through floorboards and spine alike.
The Prime Minister bolted upright from the plush leather sofa in his office, his mind sluggish and confused. He had only just fallen asleep, but the tremor, like a slap from the gods, yanked him awake with a jolt.
A split second later, the hallway beyond erupted in chaos. Blazing gunfire. Shouting. Boots stomping in desperate rhythm. Then—BANG!
The doors to his office flew open with a force that cracked the hinges. "Sir!" his assistant called out, eyes wide and breath short. "We need to move—now!" He stumbled to his feet, confused. He looked at his watch.
04:32 AM.
Only thirty-two minutes of sleep. He rubbed his eyes. It was too late. Too slow. He stepped out into the corridor with a hollow expression, ignoring the security detail that swarmed around him. "Sir, we've secured all entry points, no sign of any breach. We can use this in your next U.N. debrief—"
"Next meeting?!" the Prime Minister snapped, stopping short. He turned sharply to his assistant, his voice hoarse with disbelief. "There won't be a next bloody meeting. Not for me. It's all over."
"Sir—"
"Don't you see? This isn't just about 'security failures' anymore. This is divine humiliation."
But then—Silence. The gunfire suddenly ceased. The shouting faded into stunned murmurs. Even the radios turned quiet, static fizzling into dead air. The Prime Minister and his assistant hurried down the final corridor, guided by the frozen expressions of soldiers standing stunned.
When they reached the central hall, he stopped dead. There, standing proudly in the middle of the chamber that once held press briefings and ceremonial dinners was a towering peach blossom tree.
Its bark shimmered faintly in hues of gold and pink, but its aura was foul—the scent of truth wrapped in rot. Its branches stretched high, cracking the ceiling plaster. And dangling from every branch. Papers. Hundreds of them.
Some still fluttering down like snowflakes, each etched with fine ink detailing secret deals, dirty favors, offshore transfers, and betrayals the Prime Minister had buried and forgotten.
His face paled. "How… how is it still standing?"
The SAS captain approached, removing his helmet. His face was grim. "Sir. Apologies, but… we tried everything. High-caliber rounds. Flamethrowers. Thermite. Nothing works. The tree doesn't burn. The papers can't be torn."
The Prime Minister clenched his fists, shaking with rage and disbelief.
"Seal the perimeter. Right now. No media, no civilians. Not a soul gets in. Do you hear me? I want total lockdown. I want silence. I want this... erased."
"Sir, yes sir!" But the captain didn't move. Because he, too, knew. This wasn't going away. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not until every dirty leaf was seen.
…
Far above the Atlantic, Jack Hou reclined in the sleigh, limbs spread out lazily as the wind kissed his cheeks. He stretched, letting Zephyr steer the sleigh through cloudbanks that shimmered faintly in moonlight.
Behind him, trails of glittering snow and ringing laughter echoed through the air. "Kekekekekeke…" His eyes sparkled with delight. "So, Zeph," Jack said, brushing crumbs off his robe, "do you wanna stop in Mexico for a taco break before we hit North America?"
Zephyr shifted midair, as if rolling his nonexistent eyes. It wobbled slightly, clearly unimpressed.
Jack just laughed louder. "Oh, come on! Don't give me that look. First off, those cookies and milk were left out for Santa. And I'm Santa now. Second…" He patted his belly and winked. "There's always room for tacos."
And with a flick of the reins. The sleigh dove down like a shooting star, streaking toward the warm lights of Mexico City, laughter trailing behind like a comet's tail. Christmas was far from over.
…
"BUURRRRP—" The belch echoed through the clouds, followed by a lazy sigh. Jack Hou slumped deeper into the sleigh's crimson cushions, patting his stomach like a satisfied dragon after a feast. "Aahh… You know it's a good taco when it makes you wanna take a huge shit."
Zephyr, flying beside him, wobbled in midair—visibly shuddering at the statement.
Jack tilted his head toward his loyal cloud, smug grin unfading. "What? I still did my job, didn't I? South America? Check. Brazil, Argentina, Chile? Even that one ranch in Paraguay with three goats and one child who asked for sheep plushie—nailed it."
Zephyr pulsed dimly, acknowledging the truth with a reluctant dip.
Jack pointed a dramatic finger at the horizon. "See? Thirty minutes late. Tops. And tacos are the fuel of the divine. Can't spread holiday cheer on an empty tank, Zeph."
Zephyr sighed.
Jack leaned forward, cracking his knuckles, and said with a spark in his eyes. "Alright, enough delay—let's head to the Big Apple. NEW YORK, BABYYYYY!"
As the sleigh sliced through the winter wind like a comet of crimson and gold, Jack's voice rose into a butchered version of a certain Alicia Keys classic. "New~ York! Concrete jungle wetdream tomato~!"
Zephyr visibly winced.
Jack shrugged. "The lyrics are never clear to begin with anyway."
Beneath them, the lights of New York flickered in sleepy rhythm—early risers in high-rise apartments still glued to their TVs, where every news channel screamed the same headlines.
"MYSTERIOUS PEACH TREES EXPOSE WORLD LEADERS."
"CHRISTMAS MIRACLE OR SUPERNATURAL TERROR?"
"META MENACE: JACK HOU?!"
Jack floated above it all, peering down like a god inspecting an anthill. He scratched his chin, eyes narrowing at a TV store window below. The news anchor babbled in dramatic tones, while an image of the peach tree inside of several world leaders' personal residences dominated the screen.
"Huh…" Jack muttered. "So it's just the tree part they're talking about. What about the gifts I gave?"
Zephyr shifted beside him, reminding him gently—through the rustle of divine wind.
"Oh right," Jack nodded, realization dawning, "the tree stuff is me, but the gifts are technically Santa's act." Then came the tantrum. "Tch—this is so NOT cool." Jack puffed his cheeks like a sulking child, crossing his arms. "I'm Santa! I gave out toys! Love! Mysterious socks! I made a baby reindeer laugh, for fuck's sake!"
He kicked the sleigh's floorboard like an angry little kid at the back of a minivan. "Where's the joy?! The headlines should say: YOUNG, DASHING, HANDSOME MONKEY DELIVERS MIRACLES."
Zephyr, used to this, floated silently, letting him vent. But then… The sleigh began to descend. Jack's eyes lit up. Far below them rose a familiar sight—the glittering barrier of his territory. The Golden Peach, in all its warmth, cozy, in all of its glory.
A rush of emotion hit Jack. He stood in the sleigh and raised his arms toward the block like a prodigal son returning from war. "OH MY HOME!" he cried, "Oh, how I missed you! Finally, this unfilial, handsome son comes back—AFTER LANDING A JOB AS SANTA! I've made it! I made you proud!" His laughter rang out. "KEKEKEKEKEKEKEKEKE!"
Zephyr trailed behind, shaking like an embarrassed older sibling.
…
Two days had passed since Xavier restored their memories. Two days of silence, of glares, of words left unspoken and wounds left raw. And Jean Grey, buried in her own mind, ever since the island debacle, she could only watch.
She stood in the depths of her consciousness, bound not by chains but by something far crueler—the complete loss of control over her body. She watched her fingers move, her legs walk, her voice speak—but none of it was hers anymore.
It belonged to it now. To the Phoenix Force. Jean clutched her arms, the mental projection of her own body trembling. The pressure, the guilt, the overwhelming flood of remembered words crashed around her like a hurricane.
"You lied to us." "She knew all along." "Jealous of Lorna." "You were always dangerous."
She couldn't stop the flood of memory—because the Phoenix wouldn't let her. Jean screamed in her mind. "Stop! Please—stop showing me this!"
But the voice that answered was not kind. "Why stop?" came the reply, slow and melodic like flame licking dry parchment. "You need to see them for who they are. Every snarl. Every betrayal. Every seed of hate sown behind closed doors. This is what they think of you, Jean Grey. This is what they've always thought."
The fire took form, rising like smoke condensing into molten steel. The entity's shape became more refined—a perfect replica of Jean herself, but wreathed in fire, her skin glowing like ember-cracked porcelain, and her hair flowing with golden-red flame that moved on its own. She looked like Jean—but sharper, crueler, eyes not full of warmth but devouring light.
The Phoenix stepped forward and grabbed Jean by the face. "Look." the Phoenix whispered.
And Jean did look—because she had no choice. The Phoenix's power surged into her mind, forcing her to relive every accusation, every look of disappointment from Ororo, the cold silence of Scott, the tears of Lorna, the anger of Alex.
Her sobs shook her body as she collapsed to her knees. "Please…" Jean whispered. "Please… just kill me already."
The Phoenix threw her head back and laughed. "Kill you? Oh, little bird, how narrow-minded you are. I don't want to kill you. I never did. You are my vessel, my key, my anchor to this petty little plane. You are precious, Jean Grey. Even if that crippled fool of a professor couldn't detect me within you—I chose you."
Then the Phoenix leaned down, her eyes blazing. "And with me, you could rule them. Make them crawl. Make them burn. Make them feel every ounce of what you've endured. Let me show you power. Let me show you freedom."
Jean trembled, not from fear—but from the growing seed of doubt that had begun to sprout within her. The Phoenix's voice was a poison—sweet, seductive, and logical. Jean knew she was right in at least one way. They had feared her. They did forget her. And Jean—she had let it happen.
She clenched her eyes shut. Her breath caught. She was starting to crack. Behind her, the Phoenix grinned. The crack would become a fracture. The fracture would shatter. Everything was going according to plan. Until—"Kekekekekeke…"
The laugh slithered through the mindscape like a serpent through mist. Wild, irreverent, and unmistakably alive. The Phoenix's grin froze. Jean turned. "I leave you alone for a few weeks, fire-chicken, and this is what you get up to? Gaslighting a traumatized teen? Shame. No sense of holiday spirit."
