Inside the dim airplane cabin, Locke felt completely screwed. His heart hammered against his chest like a war drum, each beat louder than the last, echoing in his ears until it was almost deafening. Sweat gathered along his spine despite the cold, and his breathing came shallow as he tried to steady himself.
If the Blood Ancestor noticed anything off about him, even a flicker of awareness, Locke knew he wouldn't last a second. He wasn't built for this kind of encounter—not like this. Fighting back wasn't even an option, and the thought of it was almost laughable.
"With this body?" he thought bitterly. "I'd be lucky if I lasted half a bite."
He slumped deeper into his seat, helpless frustration crawling through him. For a brief, absurd moment, a thought crossed his mind.
"Am I really about to become the first transmigrator killed by my own system?"
The footsteps behind him grew closer, slow and deliberate. Each step felt like a countdown to his death, the sound dragging through the aisle with suffocating weight.
Then… they passed him.
Locke froze.
His eyes snapped open, confusion flashing across his face as he turned slightly. What he saw wasn't a nightmare—but a flight attendant in uniform and heels, calmly leaning over to check on passengers along the aisle.
For a moment, he just stared.
"It hasn't started yet…"
Relief surged through him so suddenly it almost made him dizzy. He had nearly scared himself to death over nothing. The timeline hadn't reached that point yet.
But that relief didn't last.
A strange noise echoed faintly from the rear of the plane, sharp enough to cut through the silence. Locke turned his head instinctively, his expression tightening as he spotted another flight attendant crouched near the cargo hatch. She was staring at it, confused, as if she had just noticed something wasn't right.
At the same time, the attendant in the aisle stiffened. Her posture changed instantly, tension creeping into her movements as she hurried toward the cargo section.
Locke's mind exploded into motion.
That scene—he knew it. He remembered it too well. Once that hatch opened, everything would spiral out of control.
His chest tightened, and without thinking, he shot to his feet.
"You idiots are about to get us all killed!" he shouted.
His voice tore through the cabin, harsh and sudden. The nearest passenger—a white man seated beside him—jerked awake first, blinking in confusion as he looked around.
More passengers stirred, groggy and irritated. Murmurs quickly turned into curses.
"Who the hell is that?"
"Is this some kind of joke?"
The man next to Locke glared at him, anger flaring—until he met Locke's eyes. The fury vanished instantly, replaced by unease as he shrank back into his seat, unwilling to push further.
Locke didn't wait.
He rushed forward, ignoring the flight attendant stepping in his way.
"Sir, everything is under control. Please return to your seat," she said, her tone calm but guarded. One hand subtly moved behind her back, reaching for the stun baton hidden beneath her uniform.
Locke didn't even look at her.
His gaze locked onto the cargo hatch behind her. The other attendant was already crouched low, leaning in as if trying to listen through the door.
Too late.
There was no time left.
"Stop her!" Locke roared, yanking a pen from his pocket and raising it like a detonator. "Or I'll blow this plane out of the sky!"
The words hit like a bomb.
Passengers who had begun to stand froze mid-motion. Even the attendant in front of him stiffened, her instincts screaming at her to act—but hesitation rooted her in place.
Locke seized the moment.
"Everyone move to the cargo hold! Now!" His voice carried a cold authority that left no room for doubt. "Immediately!"
Shock rippled through the cabin.
"I'll count to three," he continued, his tone dropping lower, more dangerous. "Anyone who hesitates… we all go down together at thirty thousand feet."
"Hey, man, let's just calm down—" a burly passenger began, his voice trembling.
But Locke didn't waver.
That man became the turning point.
As fear took hold, he was the first to move, standing up with stiff, hurried steps. The rest followed like a chain reaction, panic spreading as passengers scrambled from their seats.
One by one, they rushed toward the cargo area under Locke's watchful gaze.
"Stay there," he commanded once they gathered. "No one comes out. If you do, I detonate the bomb. Do exactly what I say, and we all land safely."
A dull thud echoed beneath their feet.
The sound froze everyone in place.
Locke's eyes sharpened.
"It's starting," he thought.
"That's my friend down there," he said quickly, his voice steady despite the tension clawing at him. "If he gets out, you're all dead. He's armed."
"What? Armed with what?" someone shouted.
"Those idiots at the airport—" another voice cursed.
"Press it down!" the burly man yelled suddenly, throwing himself flat over the hatch. "Don't let him out!"
Others followed immediately, piling on top of him. Within seconds, the entire hatch was buried beneath bodies, people pressing down with everything they had.
Bang!
A violent impact slammed from below.
Screams erupted.
"What the hell is that thing?"
"He's too strong! Everyone, push!"
"Hold it! Don't let him through!"
The pressure intensified as more people joined, desperation fueling their strength.
Locke stood off to the side, watching with a calm expression that didn't quite match the chaos unfolding around him. Inside, however, his heart still raced, adrenaline burning through his veins.
The attendant had already pulled out her phone, frantically calling for help.
Another crash shook the hatch, but it held.
The alloy door wasn't easy to break, and for now, that was enough.
Locke finally exhaled, his body sagging as he leaned back against a seat. He reached over and lightly slapped the unconscious man beside him.
"Appreciate it, man," he muttered.
It had all been instinct.
When he realized he couldn't stop the hatch from being opened, he'd gambled. A fake bomb, a fabricated threat—just enough to control the situation. Once the thing below started moving, reality would do the rest.
And it had.
As long as the passengers believed the danger, they would hold the line.
The rest of the flight passed in suffocating tension.
When the plane finally touched down, the entire cabin erupted into chaotic relief. Outside, police vehicles surrounded the aircraft, officers in black uniforms forming a perimeter with guns and riot shields at the ready.
Through the window, Locke saw it all—and for the first time, truly relaxed.
The hatch was still sealed.
The passengers were still alive.
And he had made it.
He even gave the group piled on the hatch a silent thumbs-up.
Soon, the authorities stormed in, securing the situation. Locke, however, wasn't treated as a hero.
He was dragged away by four officers.
The interrogation room was cold, sterile.
"Locke," one officer said sharply, "why did you claim there was a bomb?"
Locke leaned back in his chair, his expression composed. "I heard something in the cargo hold. It didn't sound right. I've seen things like that before—planes going down because of something hidden onboard. I wasn't going to take that risk."
"What was in there?"
"I don't know," he replied honestly. "But everyone on that plane heard it."
The officer stared at him, unimpressed.
"Nothing was found. Your actions violated multiple aviation laws."
Locke didn't bother arguing.
Three days later, he walked out.
A notification appeared immediately.
[Plot deviation detected.]
[Reward: 30 Plot Points.]
[Plot Points can be used to enhance abilities or exchange for items.]
[Available item: Anti-Parasite Body.]
Locke stopped in his tracks.
"Anti-parasite…"
His eyes narrowed as the memories resurfaced. The worms—that was the real nightmare. Not strength, not speed, but infection. Once they got inside you, it was over.
He didn't hesitate.
"Exchange."
A faint scent rose from his body instantly.
Locke froze.
"…Is that… mosquito repellent?"
The smell was unmistakable.
His expression twitched.
"Seriously?"
For a moment, he just stood there, processing the absurdity. Then he exhaled slowly.
"As long as it works," he muttered.
He lifted his head, scanning the busy streets around him. People moved normally, unaware of what had almost happened.
But Locke knew better.
He didn't go to the police with the truth for a reason. No one would have believed him—not someone like him. Even the experts in that story had been dismissed at first.
So he had acted alone.
But now…
Something was off.
"The timeline changed," he realized.
If the Blood Ancestor hadn't fed on the passengers, then it would be starving. Desperate.
His mind raced.
In the original events, the coffin would be transported. Someone would move it, unknowingly carrying disaster into the city.
A name surfaced.
Gus.
The driver.
Locke's eyes sharpened.
"If that coffin reaches Manhattan…" he muttered.
Everything would collapse.
Without wasting another second, he grabbed a passerby and asked for directions. Then he flagged down a taxi, jumping inside.
"Drive," he said, urgency bleeding into his voice.
The car sped off toward the airport district.