In my previous life, I had always dreamed of owning a little café—brewing coffee from morning till night, painting in the quiet hours between customers, the soft clink of cups and the scent of fresh grounds filling the air while the world passed by outside. But I never got the chance. I died one night, late on my way home. The streets were abnormally calm, the kind of silence that pressed against your skin like a held breath. The usual crowds, the laughter, the footsteps—everything that should have crowded the sidewalks was gone, as if the city itself had stepped aside. I didn't care. I just pushed forward, boots striking the pavement in hurried rhythm. Then headlights exploded out of the dark. Not a truck—a sleek, black car hurtling straight at me. No screech of brakes, no swerve. Only the sickening crunch of metal meeting flesh, a flash of pain, and then nothing.
When awareness returned, I was no longer myself. I had mysteriously reincarnated into the body of a young, wealthy boy living in the Outer Sector 3. This world was wrong—deeply, skin-crawlingly wrong. No helpful system, no sudden powers, nothing. But the memories that flooded this new mind painted a picture far darker than any nightmare I had known: ancient races still walked the land, some locked in blood feuds older than empires, others keeping an uneasy, watchful peace. The air itself carried the taste of curses, and horrors lurked just beyond the edge of sight—creatures that wore the shapes of men until they didn't.
Yet the old dream refused to die. I opened the café exactly as I had imagined it, and—guided by the lingering wishes of this body—I built an artifact repair shop into the back room. The boy's memories had gifted me a fragile thread of strange fire magic, the kind that flickered with its own sullen will. Somehow I could coax it into patching cracked relics and cursed heirlooms, the flames dancing like living things that hungered for the darkness inside the objects.
That afternoon I sat alone behind the counter, elbows resting on the polished wood, staring out through the wide front windows. The light outside was unnaturally bright for a world soaked in horror—golden, almost mocking, pouring over the twisted spires and crooked streets of the Outer Sector. But the brightness felt like a lie. Long shadows stretched from the warped lampposts and clawed at the glass, shifting when I wasn't looking straight at them, as though something inside them was breathing.
A single, hesitant knock broke the silence.
The door creaked open on hinges that always sounded a fraction too loud. In stepped my regular: a towering figure with the massive, horned head of a bull, nostrils flared, dark eyes gleaming with the dull red of old blood. Below the thick neck, his body was powerfully human—broad shoulders, corded arms, a chest like a blacksmith's anvil—yet every movement carried the careful tension of a man who feared the floor might open beneath him. Scars crisscrossed the exposed skin of his forearms, some still faintly glistening as if the curse that lived in him never truly slept.
He approached the counter the way he always did: slowly, deliberately, lowering his bulk onto the stool with the caution of someone placing a lit fuse on dry straw. His deep voice rolled out like distant thunder wrapped in velvet.
"Mr. Ilfinith… I'll take my usual. The coffee you make… what was it again?"
I smiled, the expression warm and practiced. "The Velvet Ember, right?"
A strange, lopsided smile tugged at his bovine lips, revealing the edges of blunt, powerful teeth. "Yes… yes… you know me too well, Mr. Ilfinith."
I turned to the workspace behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, and began the ritual I had perfected over three relentless months of practice. The ingredients waited in their small jars like obedient soldiers.
Dark roast coffee beans – 18–20 g
Cinnamon powder – ¼ tsp
Nutmeg powder – a pinch
Roasted chili flakes – a pinch
Caramel syrup – 10 ml (or to taste)
Milk or cream – 50 ml
Edible black ash powder – a tiny pinch (optional, for the "ember" effect)
Hot water – 200 ml
My strange fire magic answered at once. A small, controlled flame bloomed beneath the kettle, its color shifting from orange to a sullen crimson that seemed to drink the light around it. I ground the beans, measured the spices, watched the caramel swirl into the milk like liquid amber. Every step was precise; even the slightest hesitation could sour the brew or—worse—let the fire slip its leash. The flames moved in perfect sync with my will, heating, swirling, infusing, until the surface of the finished drink shimmered with faint, ember-like sparks from the black ash.
I set the cup on the counter with a soft clink. Steam rose in lazy spirals that almost formed faces before they dissolved.
The bull-headed man stared at the cup for a long moment, expression unreadable, then lifted it with both massive hands. He drank slowly, each swallow measured, eyes half-lidded. The silence between us grew thick, broken only by the faint, far-off sounds that sometimes drifted through the walls—wet scraping, distant screams cut short, the things that reminded everyone the brightness outside was only a temporary mercy.
After several quiet minutes, curiosity finally won. I leaned forward, keeping my tone light. "Mister, if I'm not being rude… you've been coming here every week for a month now, but I still don't know your name."
He lowered the cup with deliberate care, the porcelain looking fragile in his grip. His voice, when it came, was deep and respectful, each word placed like an offering.
"My name is not worth much… but if Mr. Ilfinith wishes to know… it is Krathun Marvos, sir."
*Whoa. Ancient. Cool,* I thought. *Mine fits right in. Though for some reason this body never had a surname. No one here seems to. I still don't understand it.*
I poured myself a cup as well and sipped while watching him. I had no idea that, since the moment he had crossed the threshold, a storm of thoughts had been raging behind those crimson eyes.
Marvos cradled the half-empty cup, warmth spreading through his chest like forgiveness. *This coffee… it is truly mysterious. It soothes the curse gnawing at my bones as nothing else ever has. It even widens my inner sea, pushing back the rot that has lived inside me for decades. How is this possible? The owner looks barely older than my own child, yet his skill is frightening.* He stole another glance at me, calm and absorbed in my own drink. *And that eerie energy coiled around him… just looking at it blanks the mind, like staring into a well that stares back with teeth. What manner of thing is he?*
He tore his gaze away, focusing on the cup again, the faint tremor in his fingers hidden beneath the table.
When the cup was empty, he placed a single gold coin on the counter. The brew was worth three or four silver at most, yet every visit he paid in gold—never less, never more. I said nothing; the ritual had become comfortable.
He rose with the same meticulous caution, the stool sighing in relief. As he turned toward the door, I set my own cup down and called after him, voice warm and genuine.
"Come again, Mr. Krathun Marvos."
The moment the full name left my lips, his entire body shuddered—horns trembling, shoulders tightening, the scars on his arms flaring a dull, angry red for a heartbeat. He froze mid-step, then slowly turned back. His eyes met mine, wide for the briefest instant before the mask of calm returned.
"Of course, sir," he answered, voice steady, yet something colder threaded beneath the words.
He had seen my smile clearly. It was normal—friendly, ordinary, the same smile I gave every customer. Yet the way his massive frame had reacted told another story.
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click. The café fell quiet once more. Outside, the golden light dimmed by a single shade, as though a cloud the color of old bone had passed across the sun. In the corners of the room, the shadows lengthened and deepened, stretching toward the counter like curious fingers.
I stood alone behind the polished wood, the faint scent of cinnamon and ember still lingering in the air, and for the first time since opening the shop, I felt the weight of something ancient watching me from just beyond the glass.