The mansion buzzed with activity—if by activity, one meant trap-building, mild property damage, and way too much yelling before breakfast.
It was a normal week.
Except for the part where Jim wasn't there.
No drunken sarcasm. No spontaneous sparring. No loud declarations of wanting to be a rock star mid-battle.
His absence wasn't just noticed—it echoed.
"Is it just me," Bob muttered, chewing on something questionably edible, "or does the mansion feel like it's missing a punching contest?"
"Jim," Marcus replied from his corner, tightening the gears on a brand-new crossbow. "Definitely Jim."
Bam stood in the center of the common room, holding a glowing fire orb in his hand.
It hovered, smooth and stable, rotating slowly.
No sparks. No uncontrolled flare-ups. No one was screaming yet.
"I've actually been practicing," Bam said proudly. "Look—controlled casting. No collateral. No flammable furniture involved."
Bob blinked. "Weird. I almost miss ducking."
Marcus gave a slow clap. "Look at you. Actual magical discipline."
Bam grinned. "I've even been studying real theory. Like positioning, spell delay timing, mana thresholds—"
"—and Anna still won't teach you?" Marcus asked.
The grin faded instantly.
Across the hall, Anna was in her usual place in the library, completely absorbed in a thick, ancient tome. Her crimson eyes scanned each page with clinical precision.
Bam stood just outside the door.
"Anna. Look. I'm not even burning anything."
Silence.
"I've been practicing mana control. I can hold a fire rune for two full minutes now."
Nothing.
"I even cleaned the hallway. And the stairs. And the ceiling! Do you know how hard it is to clean a ceiling with magic?"
Flip. Sip.
"Come on. Just tell me if I'm casting this rune right."
Anna didn't blink.
She turned another page. Slowly.
Bam deflated.
"She's… terrifying."
"She's consistent," Marcus said, loading a bolt.
Back in the living room, Bob sat at the table with a pencil in hand, scribbling numbers on a surprisingly neat parchment labeled 'Financial Plan: MAYHEM BUDGET V3'.
"You're budgeting?" Marcus asked.
Bob nodded. "Yeah. I was thinking… maybe we should invest in some kind of long-term food storage."
"You mean like a pantry?"
Bob gasped. "We don't have one?!"
Marcus facepalmed. "We do. You just keep eating it."
Outside, in the training yard, Derek trained in silence. Swing by swing, he carved paths through the air, sweat beading down his forehead.
His sword—Excalibur—was quiet now. No glowing runes, no battlefield energy. But even dormant, it felt alive.
Every movement was measured. Focused.
Derek didn't speak much these days. He trained harder. He listened more. Something about wielding a soul-bound sword of interdimensional royalty had that effect.
Back inside, Marcus gave his new crossbow—sleek, silver-trimmed, custom-loaded—a final inspection.
He aimed.
Fired.
The bolt ricocheted once, twice, and embedded itself into a loaf of bread Bob had just set down.
"My snack," Bob said flatly.
"My precision!" Marcus countered.
Bam sighed and sat beside them, letting the flame in his hand gently dissipate.
"Jim would've made fun of me by now."
"He'd have stolen my crossbow by now," Marcus said.
"He'd probably have spiked the punch bowl," Bob added.
The room was quiet for a moment—just long enough to feel the hole Jim had left behind.
Then Marcus blinked. "Wait. We don't have a punch bowl."
Bob raised an eyebrow. "Exactly."
A tiny fireball drifted out of Bam's hand, hovered, then flickered out like a candle flame.
"I've changed, you know," Bam muttered. "I'm not just the blow-things-up guy anymore."
From the library: Flip. Sip.
Bam slumped. "She doesn't care."
"She never cared," Marcus said.
"Jim cared," Bam said wistfully. "He once told me my aim was 'tragically beautiful.'"
"That was after you almost incinerated a stable," Bob reminded.
"Details."
Outside, Derek raised his sword one last time as the sun began to set.
Inside, Bob set his budgeting scroll aside, Marcus admired his crossbow, and Bam cast spells that didn't explode.
Things were still chaotic.
Still noisy.
Still them.
But somewhere in the noise, the quiet hole Jim had left behind remained.
"Hope he's doing okay," Bam said softly.
"He's Jim," Bob replied. "He's probably punching something inspirational right now."
They all nodded.
And somewhere, far off in the wilderness, Jim probably was.