Qiren stared at the pooling blood near his feet, his mind buzzing. He was shocked to find that his plan—filling his soul with his memories—had actually worked, somehow bringing him back to life.
He didn't know how long it had been, or how he had awakened whole again, standing in the rain.
"Where am I…?" he muttered, touching his head.
Only the night breeze answered.
He looked around.
His eyes were still blue, but they slowly dimmed. The sensation felt surreal. His breath misted as it left him, trailing a cold haze.
Concrete paths.
A playground.
Lampposts glowing faintly through the rain.
"I'm…" He swallowed. "Back on Earth?"
The air was cold—strangely comforting. Crisp, metallic with blood and rain. He could feel it from the temperature alone.
His gaze fell to his hands.
Not blackened.
Not tattooed.
Peach-white.
His hair brushed his shoulders. He touched his ears—rounded. His neck—smooth.
Human.
He would've believed it—
If not for the two souls floating before him.
His throat felt parched. He reached out and watched slits tear open along his arm in real time.
Grrr… Greaa… Rasa…
Qiren's palm, forearm, and biceps split open into human-like mouths.
!?
He froze as new networks formed, linking across his right arm—building a hollow esophagus, tongues, and teeth.
They inhaled the two souls.
Twelve mouths shared Mix and Falco's remains, breaking the spiritual matter down into fuel.
"Karma…" he whispered.
Flash!
A bolt of lightning split the sky.
Thunder roared.
The storm surged louder.
The sound triggered a memory.
Added Clause:
In half a second, all previous rules are forfeit.
Any being within fifty meters of this contract shall die.
Their souls shall become the property of the demon—Qiren.
He remembered setting up this clause, and for a brief second, he saw lightning strike down from the heavens.
As he turned, he heard it.
Clink.
A translucent chain.
For a fleeting instant, he saw the links stretching from his chest into the scorched ground behind him.
The souls he had digested passed through his meridians and flowed into the shimmering links emerging from his chest, sinking into the earth where the faintly invisible chain disappeared.
The karmic energy traveling through it halted briefly at the base of the stump, then slipped through an unseen barrier—continuing down the chain for what felt like an eternity.
"I've seen this tree… Wasn't this where the contract was?" he murmured.
But hadn't the chain originally passed through another tree? The juvenile demon had come out of a different hollow before anchoring his soul to another tree. That meant this was the second tree it had found—not the original one that had transported him here.
That tree should've been somewhere else.
He looked around, but everything appeared the same.
He grasped the chain. It felt longer than the trunk, yet something was pulling it downward at a specific section of the links.
He lifted it to test his theory.
The chain rose from the soil like a ghost, phasing cleanly out of the ground as it extended farther into the distance—presumably toward the original hollowed tree.
Then what had stopped it here before?
The thought intrigued him.
Qiren stepped closer.
His fingers dug into the ash, unearthing a palm-sized object woven from hair and shaped into a crude dreamcatcher.
He examined the charm. Other than having stopped a small flow of karma, nothing seemed different.
He could still feel the fear and spirit fragments inside—but nothing more.
It was the same as before, only slightly burned, with a faint current of electricity preventing him from drawing out the spirit fragments.
I can't deal with all of this right now. I need to lay low. Get my bearings—and move forward from there.
His arm reached for Falco's outer garments.
The man looked like a gangster—or at least an inconspicuous grunt trying not to be identified. He wore a long gray trench coat, gloves, sunglasses, and a hat.
Qiren quickly stripped Falco of his coat, hat, and glasses, dressing himself.
He pocketed the hair-made trinket and pried the gun from Falco's hand.
He then searched the pant pockets, finding a wallet, a flip phone straight out of the 2000s, a small bullet case holding around twenty rounds, an ID, and car keys.
What time period is this?
He looked at Falco's phone.
He didn't know whether it was a burner or if he had truly been transported to the 2000s.
He flipped it open, his eyes instantly searching for the time or a country name—to know where he was and when.
When he found it, his heart sank.
1987?
How…
Ding!
A message stole his attention—
Dao incomplete… Loading initial data… Failed… Failed… Rewriting Dao frequency…
Re-incomparation will be complete in… Unknown… Failed… Failed… Tribulation interference. Dao fractured. Qi insufficiency. Karmic wheel alternator will begin creating two more forced node anchors.
!!
The screen twisted, showing his karmic wheel as three clear Taijitu awakened. They branched off as the screen faded to black, then back to red—revealing the image of a ghostly man wrapped in chains.
The three Taijitu locked into his abdomen.
Fueling new nodes shall begin. Siphoning Qi and Karma from the original karmic wheel has begun.
15% success.
Re-incomparation… 1%… 2%… 3%.
Dao Authorities detected: Contract Manifesting, Mortal-Grade Occultism (Fractured).
WEEOOO—WEEOOO.
Police sirens wailed in the distance.
"Did someone hear the gunshots…?" he murmured, snapping the phone shut. "I can't be seen here."
That was his cue to leave.
He looked down at Falco's group. The police would arrive within minutes. If he was lucky, they'd be distracted by the bizarre state of the bodies.
But as he turned toward Mix, a thought surfaced—one that had lingered since his awakening.
What if this wasn't Earth?
Did supernatural entities exist here? Were they known? Documented?
If this world differed even slightly from Earth, then leaving Mix behind could be dangerous.
He had planned to leave the bodies and let authorities puzzle over the twisted limbs—but if investigators recognized supernatural involvement, they might come after him.
Qiren wasn't willing to take that chance.
If there was even a one percent chance he could fall under suspicion, he had to remove that variable.
He lifted Mix's corpse, then walked over to Tony's body.
Bang! Bang!
Two shots rang out.
He didn't know how Tony had originally died, but with the contract clause and proximity, it was likely his fault as well. Still, a bullet through the skull made it look gang-related.
Time was even more limited now.
From the sound of the sirens and the direction the group had arrived from, he knew there were at least two park exits.
He vanished deeper into the park.
The invisible chain clicked softly as it moved, extending with each step.
He veered off the path, careful not to leave wet footprints, until he reached a parking lot.
It was mostly empty—only a few cars remained.
He cursed under his breath and rushed to the first vehicle, trying the stolen keys. His hands shook. No luck.
He bolted to the next closest car.
The back door opened.
"Finally," he barked, tossing the bulky body inside.
He slid into the driver's seat.
His eyes lingered on the park as he started the old, boxy model. The engine turned over. He tested the stick shift—solid.
The moment his hands touched the wheel, familiarity washed over him.
His fingers traced the grooves. His bare feet hovered over the pedals. His back settled into the seat—
His left hand moved to the glove box without thought, pulling out a CD and inspecting it.
This is beyond stupidity.
"That's right, Mix—you gotta talk to that brunette you were talking about~"
The moment the disc slid in, Qiren slipped into a trance.
His mouth moved on its own, just like the mouths on his arm—repeating the same sentence again and again, mimicking the accent.
He didn't notice as he reversed.
His body relaxed as it visibly changed.
Smoke rose from his skin—peach tones spreading along his limbs, black overtaking his torso, legs, and feet.
A cloud wrapped around him, forming skin texture, clothes, and shoes he'd never worn beneath the trench coat. His eyes turned brown and rounder, his brows softened, and his hair darkened to match, shortening to fit beneath the hat.
He pulled out of the parking lot and drove off.
The sensation was unreal.
Qiren lost himself in an influx of memories and habits.
Language.
City culture.
And Falco Moretti's life.
Falco was a delinquent raised in the slums.
He stole to survive. He had a family, but neither parent was truly present. His father was a local gambler. His mother chased her next fix—sometimes working as a pack mule for gang members.
She sold drugs through alleyways and motels, dragging her son along in case she got caught.
She knew he could run.
At nine years old, Falco became an accessory—his morality twisted early. He became an errand boy, slipping away with drug-filled purses while police were left with nothing.
Incarcerating her only kept her off the streets for days.
During that time, Falco stayed at Red Flags handouts—learning to lockpick and throw a punch.
At fourteen, he formally joined the gang.
After his mother died of an overdose, he took over her routes. Her customers already knew him.
By morning, he went to school. By evening, he worked the streets. At night, he outran cops on his bike.
At seventeen, he dropped out, bought a car, and became a full-time distributor—fetching shipments, dropping packages, patrolling.
One of his closest friends was rumored to be the rat leaking information to a rival ring.
All of it flooded Qiren's soul.
His own personality was pushed back, overwritten by Falco's habits as he drove—one arm out the window, enjoying the ride until he stopped at a red light.
He blinked.
Something shifted in his pocket.
He reached in and pulled it out.
The object rested in his palm—reeking of sulfur and ash.
Blink. Blink.
"What the hell just happened?" Qiren gasped as his own memories rushed back.
He twisted toward the backseat, cold sweat breaking out.
Mix's body lay there.
Qiren wiped his forehead, wondering how he had lost himself so completely.