My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind-Chapter 180: A New Objective In The Making

Noirette’s eyelids fluttered open to a ceiling of rough-hewn beams, their knots staring down like ancient eyes etched into wood.

Dust motes danced in slivers of light piercing through a narrow window, the air heavy with the scent of aged stone and faint lavender—likely from bundles hung to dry in the corners.

Her body ached in dull waves, as if every muscle had been stretched taut and released too suddenly, leaving echoes of strain.

The narrow bed beneath her creaked softly with her shift, its straw mattress firm against her back, covered by a quilt patched from wool scraps in muted earth tones.

She blinked, vision sharpening on the figure seated beside the bed.

Blanchette occupied a low stool, her narrow frame angled toward the window, snow-white hair catching the light like threads of frost.

Her hands formed a bridge, fingers interlaced, chin resting lightly upon them in a pose of idle contemplation.

That eternal smile curved her lips, crimson eyes half-lidded in serene observation.

"Welcome back to the world of the living," Blanchette said, her voice soft as falling petals, carrying no trace of worry despite the circumstances.

Noirette pushed herself up on one elbow, a sharp ringing piercing her skull like a distant bell tolling without cease.

She pressed a palm to her temple, the coolness of her skin a small anchor against the throb.

Fragments of memories returned in disjointed flashes.

"What happened?" Noirette murmured, the words tasting thick on her tongue.

Another realization surfaced amid the haze—no descent into the dreamscape this time.

She had trained her mind for that refuge on a deliberate anchor during unconsciousness, yet nothing had come.

Only blankness, cold and absolute.

Blanchette’s smile held steady, though her fingers tightened fractionally on the bridge they formed.

She leaned forward slightly. "Fathomi probably took a good look at your situation," she replied, her tone casual as if discussing the evening’s meal. "Your fragmented soul is basically defying the laws and boundaries set by Fathomi itself. Since it could not force an association between you and the sleeping main vessel of Kivas back in Vaingall, Fathomi decided to go for a brute force method. 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

"It attempted to outright erase the fragmented soul and then use the clear absence to create an artificial part that would immediately be imbued back into the main vessel. Which, would probably enact the Apotheosis right away."

Noirette’s breath caught, the ringing in her head sharpening to a pulse that matched her heartbeat.

The explanation settled like lead in her stomach, Fathomi’s vast, indifferent machinery turning its gaze upon her not with malice, but with the cold efficiency of a system correcting an anomaly.

Blanchette continued without pause, her crimson eyes meeting Noirette’s with unwavering calm.

"Of course, that did not happen," she added. "Because I prevented the destruction of your soul. But if it occurs when I am not around, who knows what would happen."

Gratitude welled up, warm against the chill of lingering dread.

Noirette reached out, her hand finding Blanchette’s forearm in a brief squeeze.

"Thank you," she said, managing a smile despite the ache. "Despite being an unruly sister, you really helped me when things took for the worse turn."

"I’m glad that you saw me as an actual sister now."

"Didn’t I already see you as one the moment you declare as one?" Noirette snickered.

"You’re still insincere back then."

"Heh."

"So, what do you plan moving forward?" Blanchette tilted her head. "Fathomi might try doing it again."

"I had already thought of a solution for it."

Blanchette’s eyes brightened fractionally, the bridge of her fingers dissolving as she straightened. "I will hear it."

Noirette drew a steadying breath, "By this moment, despite being a Shallow One, I still carry Fathomi’s influence. That is because my fragmented soul remains somewhat stealthily connected to the main vessel, where the divine portfolio and the Well of the Soul reside...

"I can fix this," Noirette continued, "but I need the help of Marqe to do it."

Blanchette’s smile widened into a grin, sharp and knowing, as if the words had merely voiced what she had already glimpsed in the threads of possibility. "I know where this is going."

Noirette matched the grin, the ringing in her head fading to a distant hum. "We will be taking a trip to a different world. Preferably one with some kind of power or influence that exists in a form different from Fathomi’s.

"And then, we can try obtaining it for ourselves and use the power borrowed from that world as an extra shield framework to deter Fathomi’s interference."

Blanchette tilted her head, the grin softening into approval. "This is also a chance for you to become stronger without relying on the Well of the Soul."

A knock echoed from the door then, firm yet hesitant, wood tapping wood in the hush.

Marqe’s voice followed, muffled through the grain. "May I come in?"

Noirette sat up fully, the quilt pooling at her waist.

"You can come in," she called.

The door swung inward on oiled hinges, admitting Marqe with a rush of cooler air from the hall.

His stooped form filled the frame, tunic dusted with flour from some preparatory task, milky eyes sharp despite the dimness.

His expression was somewhat serious, lines etched deeper around his mouth, but no judgment lingered there—only the quiet resolve of one who had weathered Fathomi’s caprices longer than most.

"It seems both of you need my help one way or another," he said, stepping inside and easing the door shut behind him. "I heard everything. I apologize for listening in."

Noirette’s smile returned, genuine and unforced, easing the tension from her shoulders. "It is good that I do not need to repeat everything. That works for me too. Besides, I had already expected you to hear this, since neither Blanchette nor I created a barrier or forcefield of any kind."

Marqe laughed, the sound rumbling low from his chest like stones settling in a streambed.

He rubbed the back of his neck, the motion betraying a flicker of self-consciousness amid the apology. "You are more devious than I thought."

He sobered quickly, gaze sweeping the room before settling on Noirette. "I will be preparing the portal to a world that I know would fit your criteria. If you can walk, both of you should go to the dining table...

"I have already prepared a meal for us."

Noirette swung her legs over the bed’s edge, testing her balance with deliberate care. The floorboards met her bare feet cool and solid, no sway threatening to pull her under. Blanchette rose fluidly, offering an arm that Noirette declined with a nod of thanks.

They followed Marqe down the narrow hall, the homestead’s walls whispering with the house’s lived-in history—scratches from generations of tools, faint stains from spilled inks long dried.

The dining area adjoined the kitchen, a sturdy oak table dominating the space under a single hanging lantern.

Platters steamed there, like roasted tubers glazed in herb-infused oil, flatbreads baked crisp at the edges, a stew of root vegetables and wild greens simmered to tender perfection.

The aromas wrapped around them like a hearth’s embrace, savory and grounding, chasing the last shadows of nausea from Noirette’s throat.

They ate in companionable rhythm, forks scraping against earthenware, the fire’s crackle underscoring the clink of utensils.

Noirette savored each bite—the stew’s depth, earthy and spiced with mountain thyme, the bread’s crust yielding to soft crumb.

Blanchette mirrored her pace, smile present but subdued, as if tasting more than flavors in the meal’s simplicity. Marqe watched them intermittently, his own portions smaller, satisfaction etching faint lines at his eyes’ corners.

"This is excellent," Noirette said between bites, setting her spoon down with genuine warmth. "You have a gift for this."

Blanchette nodded, dabbing her lips with a cloth napkin. "The flavors balance perfectly, definitely better than the one I made on the road."

Marqe waved off the praise with a modest gesture, though color touched his weathered cheeks. "I am glad you both like it. Simple fare keeps the body honest up here."

Plates cleared, the conversation turned to preparations.

Marqe pushed back his chair, the scrape echoing softly.

"You can try to prepare first before we attempt the world hop. Maybe learn the method itself. I do not want the two of you relying on me in case that you want to hop more than one world.

Noirette met his gaze, appreciation steady in her voice. "I prefer it that way."

The afternoon blurred as Noirette and Blanchette prepared their items.

As dusk bled into night, they gathered outside under a canopy of stars unmarred by Fathomi’s distortions—pinpricks of light steady against the void, the valley below a shadowed expanse where terraced fields merged with cliffside mist.

The air chilled, crisp as blade edges, carrying the faint mineral tang of exposed stone.

Marqe stood at the courtyard’s center, his form silhouetted against the homestead’s lantern glow, hands extended palm-up as if cradling invisible weights.

"World hopping follows certain rules," he began, voice carrying clear over the wind’s low keen. "There are two kinds I use—Chaos World Travel and Pinpointed World Travel...

"Chaos World Travel is what it sounds like," Marqe continued. "You create a portal to an unknown world among the many different grand timelines and universes out there."

He demonstrated with a slow gesture, fingers tracing arcs in the air, essence gathering in translucent threads that Noirette glimpsed as shimmering motes—spirits, to his sight, coiling in response. "The Pinpointed method is world hopping between two worlds that have been traveled and familiarized. It allows for a back-and-forth travel between known places...

"Both methods have one thing in common."

Marqe’s eyes reflecting starlight as essence thickened, forming a faint outline in the space before them—a hazy frame, edges rippling like water disturbed by unseen stones. "The world hop follows the same time dilation. That means when you arrive at a certain point of time in another world, that very time will also sync with the time of the original world.

"When four days equivalent pass on World A, the same amount passes in the original world of the world hopper."

"Hmm, I see," Noirette listened attentively.

"This works for all of the worlds that have been traveled for the first time," Marqe added. "Meaning that if you had traveled to five different worlds, all those worlds’ timelines will also move the same amount as the time you pass on the world you currently are in."

Blanchette opened her eyes briefly, crimson depths glinting. "This means time travel is not possible."

Marqe chuckled, the sound warmer in the open air, though a shadow crossed his features—memories etched in the lines of his face. "I have attempted to abuse it to try time traveling back then. And well, it only backfired and resulted in me permanently losing my youth."

Noirette’s gaze flicked to him, curiosity sharpening. "You look old because of that?"

He confirmed with a nod. "Yes. That’s why you two should not try doing it."

Blanchette’s smile sharpened, a touch of mischief in her tone. "I will not do that. I do not like to look like an old grandma."

Noirette held her tongue on the retort, mind turning inward instead.

A quiet wonder stirred—what if she could leverage her role as Fathomi’s sole timeline-altering entity?

Her future self had sacrificed a branch of timeline to send Kivas a message during the Second Apotheosis, weaving warnings through the veil of possibility.

Could that fracture be pried wider, bent to navigate these synced flows without backlash?

The thought lingered, a seed amid the night’s clarity, as Marqe’s demonstration progressed.

"Focus your interpretation of the Malleable Essence," he instructed, voice dropping to a guide’s cadence. "See how I am doing it."

Noirette complied, essence surging at her call—motes coalescing into threads she visualized as silver veins, pulsing with borrowed intent.

Blanchette mirrored her, closed eyes narrowing in concentration, her weave subtler, laced with crimson undertones that hummed against the night.

Marqe’s hands moved with practiced economy of the mind, fingers splaying to draw essence from the air, the ground, the very winds that swept the valley.

Threads wove inward, intersecting at the frame’s center, colors bleeding from gray to opalescent swirls—hints of alien skies, fractured horizons glimpsed in the depths.

The portal took form gradually, edges hardening into a stable arch, the interior a vortex of muted light that bent perception.

Noirette felt the shift keenly—Fathomi’s influence, that omnipresent pressure like an unseen tide, receded near the threshold.

The air grew lighter, unburdened, essence flowing freer without the world’s metaphysical drag.

"As long as the two of you can replicate what I’m doing, I believe that the world portal will work the same regardless of the method."