Chapter 13: A Chef doesn't make the same mistake twice
June 7th 2026
Mutakamel looks closely at the picture of Harith displayed within the book.
His black, badly drawn arrows carry the book for him without him moving a single hand.
He leans back in his luxurious chair.
"Harith Khraba, what an interesting individual…"
"But there's something pretty important about him…"
Mutakamel's arrows flip the page.
"His vessel carries 'that' entity…"
"Print the photo, Asma."
The book attempts to print the photo of the entity Mutakamel is referring to…
But it suddenly stops printing entirely.
Then, a sharp, violent tearing sound echoes as Asma herself tears the page clean out of the book.
"What the hell was that, Asma?"
"Oh… I see. That entity is so strong and powerful that you can't even print its image."
Mutakamel mocks with an arrogant smirk.
"Quit playing around, Asma. Print that damned photo right now."
Then, the book slowly writes out in a neat, clinical font:
"Whenever I try to print this Entity's photo, some sort of unnatural force stops me."
"Oh yeah?"
He mocks again, grabbing a black stylus.
"If that 'mysterious force' is stopping you, then describe how it should look."
The book then writes:
"It should look like…"
It pauses.
"It should look like what? Hurry up, Asma. I don't have all night."
Then, unexpectedly, the book prints out heavily distorted, glitched text.
"Ḯ̸̡̼̹̙̪̙̻͉̳̼̮̌́͜t̷̢̢͇̺̬̣̮̞̩͙̣̔̅̈͜ ̷̢̗̘̲̟̙͓̼̲̬̔š̵̨̫͖̻̬̝̻͔̯͊͂̐̇͋h̸͇͖̑̓͂̾̓͑ờ̶̢̪͍̟̬̜̋̀̉̓͗͛̀̎͗̚ṷ̶̦̙̀́̃̃͆̈̆͌̃͝l̴̪̋̂̉̍̎̏̕͝ḑ̵̥̖͎͈̥̟̜̐ ̴̨̱̦̦̻̺͓̅̿̈́̏͋̓͊̓̓͘ĺ̸̠̺̱̯̘̑̆̍̈̅̾̓̊̓̚͝ó̴͖̔͊̿̋̂̄̉̃̕͝ò̸͇̩̘̗͎̮̪͇̩́̒̋́̊̃̍̉k̶̢̨̻͚̗̞̤̰̳̞̟͂͛̿̑̎̀̈́͑ ̷̢̢̨̛͎̣̲̞̘̱͒̿̎̃̑͜͜b̴̙̬̲͕̤͉̠̮̮̭͗̅̌̊̈́̒̌͂͛͐̚ũ̴̜̲͚̦̓͑̃̈́͘̚̚͝͠g̵̢̦̘̳̮̫̭̞̭̘͚̾͋̿͌̽̓̒͑͆̚͠ͅg̸͓̘̹̖͓͓̍͑̃̀̾̾͂̌͂̚y̶̛̤̮̰̳̥̒́̈́̊͂̏͛̋͑̆̕.̵̧̛̱̠̣͜.̴͆̊͐̈́̒͆̍Workspace_ْ ̵̧̻͈͍̖͍̞̦̠̏̊́̏̿͘ḽ̵̝͔̜͓̫̝̲̜͍̺̲̂͌̾̓̒̋̏̈́͝i̸̘͗́̿̉̚k̴̡͚̲̇̀͝ͅe̴̡̢͖̰̗̙͚̿͐͒͛̉̚ͅ ̸̧̧͐̾͊̋̇̿̏͋̽á̸̦́͂́͂͛̒̚.̴̦̠̠͉̱̯̪̝̖͈͛͜.̷̨͖̘̻͔̯͌̋̿́̌͒͂͆̃̽ ̸̢͉̤̝̹͇̩̑̈́̾̆̈́̐͝ي̵̧̲͚̙͔͍̤̳͉̩͆̇͌̅͘ب̵̛̗̬̃͐̆͆̓͑̕̚͝͝د̵̧̨̭͍͇͈̙͊̊͑̑̒̈́̽̀و̵̗̠̯͉̻͇̂̆ ̶̡̗̙͔̝͕̯͌̓̽̓͒ا̵̺̻̩̥̯̪͛̂̾͋̾̇̂͑̏̕͝ن̸̛̪̲̦̯̫̫̪̦̺̇̄͋͌̒̚̚͝ه̸̢̡̛̙̰̯̗̣̜̪̲̗̈͑̍̀͑̅̏̅͠.̶̧͓̜̳͚͎̻̹̍̾̈́͗̌̄̓̕̚̕͜.̸̥̬̤̮̼̼̜̏̆̓̀̈́̈́͐́͝ ̶̢̝̦̼̹̹̤̮͆͂̾ي̵͎̩̖̺͚͈̇ت̴̧̩̭͖͆̒̿̈̄͗̅̎͝ع̸̂͌̆͐͆̌̀̚͝͠ͅذ̶̨̡͚̣͓̦̟̰̺͈͖̐͋̋̀̚ͅر̶̢͍̝͚̹̟͖̅ ̷̻̣̮̪̊͊͆̽́͐ع̸̢̛̻̭̣͙̬̦̩̑͛̓̉͗̏̑̎͝͝͠ل̵̻̝͎͓̤̞̗͕͒͛̎̐̑̒͗͘͝ي̸̡̧̣̲̼̤̯̙̮̠̩̺̃̉̽͛ا̵̙̓̚ ̷̹̬͈̲̱̙̅̀̾̎͠͝و̷̛̩̞͎̹͓̣͓̼͍̬̱̒̈́͜ص̵̧͙̘̙͔̥̼͙͔́̅̓́̽̕͜ͅف̸̮̮̮͌͜͜ه̶̢̨̧͕͚̙̠͑̑̿̆͐ ̶̮̤̱͖̫͂̿͝ل̷̨̩̱̺̦͈̞͍͖͈͌̊̍͜ك̵̡̨̖͖̺̰̣́͋̋̉̈́̌̀̽͘"
"??!"
Then, the book slams shut entirely with a sudden, thunderous CLAP that tears straight through the silence of Mutakamel's house.
A single bead of sweat runs down Mutakamel's forehead as he stares at the sealed book for a few tense seconds.
"So… it turns out you were joking around, huh?"
"Well, it doesn't matter. Because I've already told Shagahf what to do."
"But the moment I tame that entity and extract it from Harith Khraba, I'll finally achieve my only goal…"
Meanwhile…
Tariq is midair. He pulls out a special silver spatula forged of pure, heavy steel.
The clown is below him, still running, completely unaware that Tariq is dropping directly onto him from above.
Tariq raises the steel spatula high above his head, letting the rushing atmosphere charge the weapon as he falls.
The clown looks behind him but sees nothing.
He starts laughing hysterically while sprinting, trying his best to ignore the agony searing through his body.
"These dumbasses… they lost track of me. I ruined their little wedding!"
He can hear something tearing through the air behind him, moving rapidly, but he ignores it.
The clown pulls out his phone to call someone.
"Now about my reward… I can finally be—"
SLAM!
Tariq lands perfectly, the heavy spatula crashing into the clown's head with catastrophic, bone-shattering force.
The only thing left for the clown to hear is the heavy crunch of the impact and a sudden, deafening ring of tinnitus in his skull.
His vision blurs instantly as he collapses forward, dark blood pouring heavily from his mouth.
His skull begins to crack apart... until it finally shatters completely, revealing a faceless, pitch-black drawn head beneath.
(He didn't crash to the floor?! How the hell is he still standing??)
The black creature begins laughing a distorted, unnatural laugh.
Tariq stands perfectly still, a single bead of sweat forming on his forehead.
Then, without warning, the former clown grabs the knife still deeply lodged in his own ribs and violently stabs Tariq near the heart.
Tariq's eyes instantly darken. He stands motionless for a moment, his pristine chef hat and ginger hair casting a deep, ominous shadow completely over his face.
"How does it feel to taste your own medicine?!"
The clown yells, his laughter cutting off into raw malice.
"Now die! You good-for-nothing chef!!"
He tries pushing the blade deeper, but Tariq catches his wrist with a cold, vice-like grip.
"I've made a mistake."
Tariq speaks in a low, chilling whisper as blood flows steadily from the chest wound.
"Everybody makes mistakes."
Tariq steps closer, completely refusing to look at him.
The clown steps back, a sudden, primal fear paralyzing his presence.
"But a chef doesn't make the same mistake twice."
Without a split second of warning, Tariq seizes the very same knife and drives it straight through the clown's throat.
Blood explodes violently from his mouth as a choked scream cuts out.
His blood spills onto the asphalt like a rushing river.
"That laugh of yours… it annoyed me."
"You know, I actually appreciate a good laugh."
"And how do I earn that good laugh, you may ask?"
Tariq pulls back the still-scalding spatula.
The clown stumbles backward in absolute panic, his hands raised in a useless defense.
Then, Tariq unleashes a relentless, blinding barrage with the spatula across the creature's face and head.
WHISH!
SLAP!
WHISH!
WHISH!
WHISH!
He finishes the combination with a heavy, sweeping slash straight through the already weakened neck.
But the head doesn't hit the pavement.
Instead… it lands perfectly on the flat of the spatula.
Tariq casually tosses it into a nearby dumpster like a seamless basketball shot.
A dull, hollow crash echoes from inside the bin.
(I've made a deadly mistake... which was to give him that opportunity to stab me. If I hadn't moved... I'd have been in his place.)
"Even killing you didn't make me laugh… you're just that much of a scumbag."
He calmly wipes the dark blood off his weapon with a clean cloth from his waist pouch.
His wounds begin knitting themselves together and healing the exact moment the Disposition user dies.
Tariq takes a deep breath of the fresh city air. He walks around for a bit before settling down on a nearby flight of concrete stairs.
Tariq reaches back into his waist pouch.
Not to draw another weapon, but to pull out a single, pristine green apple.
Tariq ogles the fruit, slowly spinning the apple around in his hand.
"Green apples… they're my favorite for a reason. They contain on average 77 to 116 calories, 10 grams of sugar, 4.4 grams of fiber that helps with your gut and heart. But most importantly… they contain zero fat and cholesterol."
Tariq takes a massive bite of the apple with a loud, resounding crunch.
Meanwhile…
Harith and Mutafakir are still talking. Harith remains deeply suspicious, though the lethal tension has eased slightly.
"So… if you really don't work for that Mutakamel sicko anymore, you wouldn't mind ratting him out, would you?"
Mutafakir freezes in place.
"Mutafakir? So this guy can—"
He cuts himself off completely as he spots something massive looming directly in front of him.
"What, is it really time to—"
Harith suddenly bumps headfirst into something as solid as raw steel.
He steps back, rubbing his nose in confusion.
"What's going on, gentlemen?"
A deep, booming voice calls down from above. Harith looks up.
A massively muscular man stands there proudly wearing a bright blue French maid dress and long white socks. His spiky, auburn hair reaches all the way down his back, his skin deeply bronzed, and his posture utterly imposing.
(What. The. Fuck?)
Harith's mind completely short-circuits.
"Oh, my outfit? Don't mind it… just my regular uniform."
"Aside from my kawaii uniform, I've heard you've been causing trouble here and there… and a friend told me you're both worthy challengers…"
"Because… what's the point of a challenge if it doesn't involve hardship?!"
He bellows it like an absolute declaration of war.
To be continued...
Characters spotlight:
Tariq Al Khazna: "A chef doesn't make the same mistake twice."
The clown: "What a scumbag… imagine ruining other people's weddings? Maximum level of sadness and unemployment."