[Owen POV]
Two weeks had passed since the demonic culling.
Over twenty cult members had their necks twisted by the demon. Dozens more were found puking their guts out on the same day. It confirmed what I suspected: the three people I helped weren't the only ones caught in the contract's backlash.
One of them had been a major actor—until an "accident" left him in a wheelchair. It was already too late for him.
My ward didn't react to anything in the following days. Which meant the demon wasn't especially good at tracking people. Lazy type, probably.
Still, the news was useful.
I'd killed the demon's spiritual messenger, after all.
There was a core inside its body, but it was too impure for me to absorb directly. Instead, I decided to use it to cultivate a spiritual beast.
After some thought, I chose a snake. They're easier to bond with, and I had experience. I used to keep one as a pet back in the Tang Clan—a small thing, barely the length of my arm. I missed it more than I expected.
"Hopefully I can find one," I muttered. I needed a snake egg with innate spiritual potential. Anything less would just waste the core.
"Good thing I have more money now."
After escaping the demon, I returned home to find Ralph Macchio and his wife waiting outside my door.
Because of Ralph's excessive yang and fire energy, I told them to book a hotel room. My place didn't have a bathtub anyway.
I was surprised to hear he was already 35, with a three-year-old daughter. He looked like he was in his twenties. Probably the result of all those inferior spiritual trinkets he liked to wear—fashionable junk that clogged his meridians.
His wife was suspicious from the start. She watched me with the sharp, unblinking stare of someone who expected me to stab her husband at any moment.
I was tempted. But she stayed silent, so I held back.
She hovered while I set up the medicinal bath and inserted needles into Ralph's meridians. I could feel a vein on my forehead start to throb. Still, I said nothing.
They both freaked out a little when black impurities began bubbling out of Ralph's skin. I guided the purge with my internal energy—siphoning a small portion back into myself (for tax purposes)—then let him absorb the rest.
An hour later, Ralph stood up—wearing a bathrobe, because I don't allow nudity during treatments—and pulled his wife to the bed.
That extra fire energy was working overtime.
I left before the scene could burn itself into my memory.
I don't blame him. With that much fire in the system, reason tends to disappear. Still, he asked for his wife's consent first, and I respected that.
If she'd said no, I could've paralyzed him until the energy cooled. There was no real danger with me around.
Ralph called me in the morning two days later, promising to send the payment directly to my house. He and his wife had stayed in the hotel for two days.
He wired me $20,000—a massive fee for a single treatment—but he still felt it wasn't enough. Unfortunately, the gift tax law limited how much he could legally transfer.
He also sent me a few medicinal herbs. One of them turned out to be extremely beneficial at my current stage of cultivation.
I didn't expect Jessica to reach out so soon after the incident. She wanted to continue working on the children's book with me.
"I wrote trash! How did I not see that this is all trash!" she screamed, ripping apart every book she'd written in the past decade and tossing them all in the garbage.
"You can see that it's trash before, so I'm still signing the contract with you," she said, eyes blazing. "We're making that children's book!" She was really fired up cause after she thought about it now, the idea was amazing.
"Alright," I said. "Not like I have anything better to do."
We agreed on a 7:3 split, with Jessica getting the seven. I tried pushing it to 8:2 in her favor, but she insisted on 5:5. She said I had helped her whole family and deserved more.
I told her flatly that if she insisted on giving me more, I'd walk away and never sign the contract.
I wasn't doing it for the money. I was doing it because she was helping me. She didn't know that, though, and the mystery made her restless.
Maybe I should've told her she was my aunt. But then I'd have to explain where I learned all this stuff, and that was a rabbit hole I wasn't ready to dig through.
At this point, all three of them had created their own backstory for my existence.
Jessica thought I was part of a secret witch society that protects humanity from the shadows.
Lenny was convinced I was a half-vampire—explaining why I looked twelve but could walk in daylight. He also thought I was actually 120 years old.
George believed I was a lone demon hunter, suddenly awakening my power and now helping people with it.
It made sense that they were all in the creative industry. They were really great at making things up.
Jessica, Lenny, and George had been working out nonstop—on my advice—hoping to flush out the demonic residue still lingering in their systems. Sometimes even six hours a day.
They could sense the taint, and it sickened them.
In just two weeks, they were already starting to change. Lenny's hair had even started growing back.
The physical recovery would take more time, but they'd already regained their creative spark and repaired their cognitive defects. Everything was going well—
Until Jessica suddenly squinted at me and said, "You know… you look kind of familiar…"
"Must've been a déjà vu feeling. It happens sometimes when you get your mind back," I said, skillfully throwing the topic away.
Jessica and Lenny had moved to an apartment near my place. It had three bedrooms, and all of them were living there together.
I've seen this type of thinking. They were looking for some solace and something to count on, so they moved nearby.
I had expected this, but I didn't expect them to sell their house immediately after they returned.
They sold it for 20% lower than the market price, which made someone snatch it up instantly. They left all of the furniture, only taking the necessary stuff. Some of it was moved into storage boxes, and they hired me to create a ward around it so that the demonic energy could dissipate sooner.
It was all a trauma response to the supernatural encounter. They might seem normal, but no one could stay the same after experiencing that sort of thing.
"By the way, I have a question about your relationships. Are you guys really a throuple?" I asked as I visited their house to discuss the illustration with Jessica.
"Huh? Why do you say that?" Lenny asked, fully disgusted. Even George and Jessica grimaced.
I wondered if I should tell them about what I saw that night. But before I could, George and Lenny accidentally met eyes, and the memories came flooding back.
"AHHH!" Both of them shrieked and recoiled away from each other.
Jessica asked in shock, "Wh– What's wrong—" Then she saw their expressions, and the memories came flooding back to her too.
"AHHHH!" she yelled in shock.
"What? Hon—don't tell me you slept with him too?!" Lenny was really shocked. George retched dryly, almost puking.
Not that they were homophobic, but they weren't themselves when they were doing that. Especially since they found out they've had sex with their friends of twenty years.
It must've been really awkward for all three of them.
"NO! I didn't sleep with George," Jessica clarified. Lenny breathed a sigh of relief, but was stunned when Jessica said meekly, "But I slept with Jamie."
"Our neighbor?!" Lenny was flabbergasted.
"And Jamie's wife," Jessica added with a weird expression.
"Wait, me too. I slept with my… No… No! NO NO! This can't be!" George was thoroughly shaken by his memories.
"With who!? With who, George?!" Lenny asked, tearing up from the whole thing.
"With… my sister…" George dropped a bomb. Everyone turned silent.
"Wow, it made Jessica sleeping with the neighbor not seem so bad now, huh?" I quipped, trying to fix the awkward situation, but I think I made it worse.
All three of them made a pact to pretend nothing ever happened. I too, pretend that I never heard anything.
…
The next day, I dropped by their apartment to continue working with Jessica on the children's book. As soon as I walked in, I saw George hunched over a stack of scripts, scratching his head like he wanted to tear his hair out.
He looked miserable.
I ignored him and walked over to Jessica, who was lounging on the couch watching TV. Lenny wasn't around as he was the only one with a stable job.
A familiar melody caught my ear—four claps and all. My body tensed from pure muscle memory. It was Friends. Or, well, 'New Yorkers', as it was called here. Different title, same cast. Same intro.
I sat down quietly next to Jessica and joined her.
It was the episode where Joey moved out and Chandler pretended not to be hurt. It felt really nostalgic for me.
"You like the show, Owen?" Jessica asked.
"I have no idea," I replied smoothly. "First time I've ever seen it."
"I think you'll love it." Jessica said confidently.
There might've been some changes, but it looked like the show I remembered. Eventually, George came over too, slumping into the armchair with the same depressed air.
"It's a tape from last night. I recorded it," Jessica explained, acting like I didn't know anything about TV.
Well, she was right. I didn't even know what a VHS was.
George saw the name on the screen and smiled wistfully. "Oh, I know Martha. She really made it."
I turned to him. "You two hook up?"
He flinched. "Why do you always assume I'm hooking up with people?"
"Because I'm usually right," I said, already grinning.
George sighed. "We might've made out. A little."
"See?" I turned back to the TV, satisfied.
"That was before she got married," he added in his defense.
Jessica glanced at him. "Hey, why don't you let Owen look through your scripts and pick one? His brain's sharper than all of ours combined right now."
George lit up. "Oh, right! I can do that!"
"I charge fifty bucks per script," I said, pouring some cold water on his enthusiasm.
George grinned, pulling out his wallet. "I've got two hundred. Let's go."
It was just reading and giving feedback—nothing too serious.
"Then you can't go out to dinner tonight, George," Jessica said in a pitiful tone. "You'll have to cancel your date."
"With your sister?" I asked, bewildered.
He looked horrified. "What?! NO!"
As I started reading through the scripts, George explained without being asked.
"While I was under the demon's influence… I mortgaged my house to fund my next project. The set's already built. The crew's been paid. If I walk now, I lose everything—hundreds of thousands of dollars. So I need something I can shoot now—fast."
I picked up the first script.
Script 1: Plastic People
A surreal satire set in a retro-futuristic Hollywood where actors are literally sculpted in labs to match trends. One malfunctioning prototype gains sentience and escapes, trying to find meaning in a world.
It was a sci-fi comedy, and George needed around 4 to 5 million to make it—a budget he clearly didn't have.
Honestly, it was boring. Not the concept, but the execution. It reminded me of that Brendan Fraser movie where he comes out of a bunker and sees the modern world. It could've become so much more thrilling, instead he opted for a slice of life thing.
Script 2: Idle Hand
A dark comedy about a depressed man whose right hand becomes possessed by his own suppressed ambition. It starts helping him cheat, fight, seduce, and even kill—dragging him into a spiral of success and horror.
It was a horror-comedy. I liked it because of how weird it was—like one of those so-bad-it's-good movies.
Script 3: Spill
A rural town covers up a minor chemical spill that mutates local plants and animals—only to discover the real threat is the paranoia spreading through the town. No one trusts each other, and the breakdown turns violent.
It was a psychological thriller. But it would take around 10 million to make.
"These are all new scripts, right? Not the one you picked for the movie?" I raised one eyebrow and returned the scripts to him.
He nodded, clearly disappointed by my lack of intrigue on the scripts.
"That one… the script's too dark. I don't think it's a great idea anymore. And honestly, working with snakes gives me the heebie-jeebies after everything."
"Snakes?" My ears perked up. "You were working with snakes in the movie?"
"Yeah. I had an unhealthy obsession with snakes for the last three years. I think the demon influenced that. I even bred a few, bought one as a pet, and wrote the script around it."
I must've looked confused, because he paused.
"What?" he asked.
"Why are you blaming the snakes? They might've been the ones helping you." I said, shocking them.
"Wait, aren't snakes like... a symbol of the devil?" Jessica cut in, already aware of George's reasoning.
I sighed and looked at both of them like they were missing the point.
"No—not at all. Like you said, it's an allegory. Demons wouldn't dare to contract snakes. They are too afraid of the devil."
Both of them exclaimed in realization.
"In fact, some animals can suppress evil. You might've actually been protected by them. Did any of them mysteriously die under your care?"
George looked stunned. "Ye—Yeah. A lot of them, actually."
"They were helping you," I explained, feeling a twinge of nostalgia. "Animals are loyal—unlike humans. They were probably absorbing the taint from you, which helped you survive longer."
"I see," George whispered, and then he broke into tears. Jessica teared up too and handed him a tissue.
"Can I read the original script? The real story?" I asked, not bothering to wait until he finished having his moment.
He nodded, wiped his eyes, and pulled it from his briefcase.
Compared to the others, this one was worn down—covered in sticky notes, scribbled comments, and revision marks. I could tell it had been through a lot.
It was based on a true story, with fictional elements layered in.
The title was The Serpent's Son.
It followed a young boy who murdered his abusive foster father, then created a snake in his mind to take the blame. A story about fractured identity, starvation, hallucination, and eventual suicide.
The movie was incredibly dark—but compared to the others, it was easily the best-written script.
"If the others are a three out of ten, this one's a solid six. Maybe more, if you rework it—without the, you know..." I handed the script back to him.
He smiled wryly. "I know it's the best script. In fact, I started casting for it a year ago."
"Then why are you changing it?" I asked, confused.
He pursed his lips and whispered, "Because no one dares to take the role. It's a career killer for young actors. And the shooting conditions? They scare people."
"You've read the script properly, right? Don't you think it's excessive?" Jessica asked, concern creeping into her tone. I couldn't tell whether it was about the film… or my psyche.
"You mean, waking up in a bed full of snakes? Dancing ballet with a broken leg before jumping off a cliff?" I asked. They both nodded.
"Isn't that normal?" I replied.
They looked at me like I was the insane one.
Maybe in this timeline it wasn't common yet. But after growing up watching Berserk and a dozen other psychologically brutal anime, I'd grown pretty numb to scenes like that.
"If I could make Daniel Day-Lewis young again, I'd cast him in a heartbeat," George muttered.
I nodded. The lead needed Oscar-tier talent. Someone once-in-a-generation. Without it, the entire film would collapse.
George covered his face and groaned dramatically. "Production has already started! Why did I do that before locking in an actor?! That fucking cult—They ruined me!"
"Maybe I can rewrite the story for a high school-aged actor…Then I can use an adult actor," George muttered. "But that takes away a lot of the naivety. The innocence."
That's when I remembered something.
I leaned forward. "George, do you want to see what the movie would actually look like—clearly?"
Both of them froze, their expressions shifting with intrigue.
"I can bring you into your dream. You'll see what you've built in your mind, and tweak it however you want."
It was lucid dreaming—but with perfect clarity and recall.
My ex-wife, the yandere princess, had forced me to learn dream-walking and dreamscape manipulation because she wanted to meet me in dreams while she was out hunting demons. So even when she was away, I couldn't escape her.
Taoists have a lot of techniques for that kind of thing. You could recall memories, bring someone into your mind to prove your innocence during trials, or even let them relive events firsthand.
"You can actually do that?" George asked, leaning in with interest.
"It takes a lot of energy," I warned, making the universal money gesture with my fingers. "So I'm going to charge you for it."
George started sweating. He was already deep in debt—loans from banks, mortgaged the house, the works.
Jessica swooped in like a hero. "I'll pay for it!"
"You don't have money either," George said, brutally exposing her.
"I have some from selling the house," she shot back.
"Yeah, and you need that to publish your book," he muttered tiredly.
Jessica wilted. George looked like he was about to plead.
"How about I owe you for now?" he asked, hesitant.
I grumbled. "Alright then. You'll owe me."
Jessica raised her hand. "Will it affect us?"
"Us?" I blinked. "You want in too?"
She nodded. I rubbed my chin. "I can only do this once a month. I'm not strong enough to keep doing it over and over. Wait… actually—if I'm not the one paying for it, I can bring you in too."
They looked hopeful.
"I'll have to rework the ritual," I explained. "Make it so you pay for it yourselves. But you're not like me, so it won't activate… unless I convert the price into something else. Like your demonic taint. That would kill two birds with one stone—cleanse the taint, and let you enter the dream."
"We'll do it!" they said in unison.
I smiled. "Alright then. That'll be $100,000."
They both froze.
"Each," I added, watching their souls leave their bodies.
The ritual was easy enough. We did it that night.
Jessica told her husband about it, and he said he'd hold onto his taint for another time, just in case she needed a second session. It was sickeningly romantic, which made Jessica swoon.
The dreamscape appeared as a pure white void—blank, malleable, and entirely shaped by imagination.
It sounded overpowered, but really, it wasn't. It was just like lucid daydreaming, only with perfectly clear memories.
There were strict rules I explained beforehand:
Everything was limited to your own skills and imagination.
It only influenced you, not others.
It was dangerously easy to get lost in the dreamworld—so a guide was required.
Using dreams to alter another person's will was a criminal offense among Taoists.
Even if George created a masterpiece in his dream, he still needed the actual ability to recreate it in the real world. The dream merely worked out the kinks—saved him time, rewrites, and missteps.
Jessica used the dreamscape for our children's book. She narrated it aloud, and I built the illustrations in real-time. It felt like we were watching a fairy tale movie unfold together. What would've taken months—or even years—was condensed into a single dream session.
Of course, we still had to write it down, and I'd still need to draw everything again manually. But at least now we had the blueprint.
I finally had something to do again.
George, on the other hand, saw his film floating in the dream like a theater projection suspended in the void. He could edit it—cut scenes, tweak dialogue, play around with mood and framing. But his main character was just a blank silhouette.
It ruined the movie.
No matter how beautiful a scene was, the story couldn't carry without a lead. The boy was always present—never off-screen—and without charisma, it all fell flat.
The entire film took place in two settings: a cabin and a cliff. George had written it around an ultra-limited budget. But limitations fueled his creativity. He experimented with stop-motion and puppetry—a baby snake filmed inside a miniature replica of the cabin, then composited into the scenes.
He played with shadows and camera angles. Some shots were truly beautiful. One reminded me of the Mena Suvari flower scene in American Beauty—except instead of petals, a child was being swallowed by a sea of snakes.
"George," I said. "Put me in the movie."
He blinked. "What?"
"Just as a placeholder. A replacement."
He added me to the dream-cast, and immediately, the movie changed.
Because it was a shared dreamscape, the character now reflected my own acting skills. George saw my full range in real time—and Jessica did too. Their faces said it all.
I didn't even notice. I was too busy imagining a soundtrack: an instrumental version of Me and the Devil by Soap&Skin. It fit perfectly.
George was stunned again.
But even with all the upgrades, something still felt off. There was a wall the story couldn't break through.
"That's it," I said. "The lack of hope."
George understood instantly.
He added a new character: a social worker.
Someone searching for the boy. Someone is trying to save him.
It gave the story breathing room. It explained why help never came sooner. The boy's foster father had taken him to a cabin off-grid, across state lines, far from oversight. The system had failed.
But one social worker noticed something off in the foster dad's records—violent incidents in other states. He started digging. He tried to reach the boy.
By the time he arrived, the boy had been left alone in the cabin for months. Starving. Losing his grip.
The social worker couldn't save him.
The ending revealed why the boy imagined a snake. The snake had become his protector. But it also became a gatekeeper—telling him he couldn't go to heaven if he took his own life.
In the story of Adam and Eve, the snake was the one who tricked them into eating the forbidden fruit and falling from heaven. That's why the boy's split personality took the form of a snake.
The new dialogue came together inside the dreamscape, as George finally connected all the pieces.
The boy had been pushed so far that he no longer cared about reunification with his family.
To him, the world was already hell.
Then he stood at the edge of the cliff—just as the social worker arrived at the cabin.
Jessica trembled as she watched the ending. "It's… it's changed… it's… it's…" Then she broke down. "It's really sad!"
The dreamscape didn't last long. One hour in real life, but we experienced over three.
Jessica woke up sobbing. The film had wrecked her—especially since it was about an orphan child.
She had been trying to get pregnant for years. That night, it made her a quiet, miserable mess.
The next day, when I stopped by to confirm things with Jessica—just a final check before I started the illustrations—George suddenly grabbed my shoulder like he'd been waiting for me.
"Owen. Do you want to be an actor?!"
"Hell no," I replied without hesitation.