Lucien had always believed that most supernatural forces, no matter how strange, still carried traces of emotion.
Resentment. Obsession. Madness. Desire.
Even the cruelest spirits he had encountered—whether it was the silent puppeteer who killed through sound, or the nightmare demon who hunted within dreams—had something human left in them. Twisted, broken, corrupted… but still human.
This time, however, things felt different.
What Carsten described… what Scarlett had seen…
There was no hatred in it.
No anger.
No intention.
Only order.
And that was what made it truly unsettling.
Lucien sat alone in the antique shop, the dim lamplight casting long shadows across the wooden floor. His fingers tapped lightly against the table, repeating a slow, rhythmic pattern as he reconstructed everything he knew.
Deaths arranged by seat numbers.
Predictions that came true without deviation.
No escape, no loophole, no mercy.
It wasn't hunting.
It wasn't revenge.
It was execution.
Like a program following instructions.
Like something that didn't decide to kill—
But simply continued killing.
"That's troublesome…" Lucien muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple.
If it were an entity, he could confront it.
If it were a curse, he could break it.
But this…
This was closer to a rule.
And rules were harder to destroy than monsters.
He exhaled slowly, then straightened.
Thinking further wouldn't help unless he tested something.
If this "death" operated through accidents, then the only way to fight it—for now—was to interfere with those accidents.
Protection.
Interruption.
Delay.
Even a slight deviation might reveal a weakness.
With that thought, Lucien stood up and moved toward the worktable.
He lit three sticks of incense, placing them upright in a small bronze holder. A faint fragrance spread through the room, calming and grounding, as if drawing an invisible boundary between the mundane world and something deeper.
From the drawer, he took out a thick stack of talisman paper.
Yellow sheets.
Clean.
Untouched.
Beside them, ink.
Not ordinary ink—but one mixed with spiritual resonance, refined through his own cultivation.
Since reaching the Jade Purity Realm, his control over such things had improved drastically. The talismans he created now were far more stable… and far more powerful.
If anything could interfere with that "program," it would be this.
Lucien picked up the brush.
His movements slowed.
Then—
He began.
Each stroke was deliberate.
Each symbol carried intent.
The room grew quieter with every passing minute, until even the faint sounds of the outside world seemed distant.
Time slipped away unnoticed.
—
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, Carsten Johnson drove like a man being chased by fate itself.
The streets of Los Angeles stretched ahead in long, glowing lines of streetlights and passing headlights. The city was alive—but to him, everything blurred into a single objective.
Reach her.
Give her the talismans.
Before it was too late.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened as memories resurfaced.
Not memories of the past—but of deaths.
One after another.
Precise.
Unavoidable.
He had investigated them personally.
Verified each case.
At first, he thought it was coincidence.
Then misfortune.
Then something darker.
Two passengers—close friends—had changed their plans after the canceled flight.
Instead of France, they went to Norway.
A completely different country.
A completely different environment.
And yet…
They still died.
Not by disease.
Not by violence.
But by a chain of accidents so absurd it bordered on impossible.
A fire.
A leaking hydrant.
Water pooling on the street.
A broken power line falling at the exact moment they passed.
Electricity spreading through the water.
One stepping into it.
The other reaching out instinctively.
Both collapsing.
Both falling backward—
Onto a metal structure that had been moved just moments before.
Impalement.
Instant death.
Even the police had called it "unbelievable bad luck."
But Carsten knew better.
That wasn't luck.
That was design.
And if two could die at once—
Then what about Scarlett?
What if Death decided to skip steps?
What if it took her early?
"No…" he muttered, pressing the accelerator harder.
"I won't let that happen."
The speedometer climbed.
The engine roared louder.
He didn't notice how fast he was going.
Didn't notice the changing traffic lights.
Didn't notice—
The truck.
It appeared suddenly.
A small transport vehicle loaded with steel bars, turning sharply from an intersection ahead.
Too close.
Too fast.
Carsten's eyes widened in horror.
Instinct took over.
He jerked the steering wheel—
But it was already too late.
"BANG!"
The collision exploded through the night like thunder.
Metal screamed.
Glass shattered.
The world spun violently.
For a brief moment—
There was nothing.
No sound.
No thought.
Only a single realization echoing in his fading consciousness.
This is it.
—
"Wake up! Hey! Wake the hell up!!"
A voice broke through the darkness.
Loud.
Rough.
Angry.
Carsten's consciousness flickered.
He felt something—pain, sharp and burning, spreading across his face.
Then—
A slap.
Hard.
His eyes snapped open.
For a second, everything was blurry.
Then shapes formed.
A man.
Large.
Bearded.
Covered in blood.
"You insane bastard!" the man roared. "Trying to kill yourself or what?!"
Carsten blinked.
Confused.
Disoriented.
"…I'm alive?"
The man stared at him like he'd just said something stupid.
"No thanks to your driving!"
Carsten tried to move.
Pain shot through his body—but not the kind that killed.
Not the kind that should have followed that impact.
He pushed himself up slightly.
And then—
He saw it.
His car.
Or what remained of it.
The entire front end was crushed beyond recognition. Steel bars from the truck had pierced through the vehicle at chaotic angles, like a cage of deadly spears.
The windshield was gone.
The engine was destroyed.
The frame twisted.
And the driver's seat—
A steel rod had punched straight through it.
Right where his head should have been.
Cold sweat erupted instantly across his body.
"…That's… my car?" he whispered.
The bearded man snorted.
"Whose else would it be?"
"You're damn lucky, you know that? Those rods missed you by inches!"
Carsten didn't respond.
Because he had already realized something else.
His hand moved slowly… trembling… toward his neck.
There was blood.
But only a shallow wound.
Nothing fatal.
Nothing even close.
And yet—
He should have died.
Without question.
Without doubt.
Then…
Why didn't he?
A sudden warmth spread in his pocket.
Carsten froze.
Then, with shaking hands, he reached inside and pulled out what he had almost forgotten.
Two talismans.
Given to him by Lucien.
His breathing grew heavy.
Slowly, carefully, he unfolded them.
One remained intact.
The other—
Crumbling.
The moment it was exposed to air, it disintegrated completely, turning into fine dust that scattered in the night breeze.
Carsten stared at the fading fragments.
Mind blank.
Heart pounding.
He didn't need anyone to explain it.
He understood.
That talisman…
Had taken his place.
And for the first time since this nightmare began—
He saw something beyond fear.
Hope.
Faint.
Fragile.
But real.
"Master Lucien…" he whispered hoarsely.
Then clenched the remaining talisman tightly in his hand.
"I'm not too late."
And somewhere, far away—
In a quiet antique shop filled with incense and ink—
Lucien paused mid-stroke.
As if sensing something had just… changed.