(FREE!!) NEW NOVEL! 4 Chapter included! (Patreon)

(I'm writing a new novel, and wanted to hear your opinions about it. Do you like these kind of stories. Comments and critics are highly appreciated)

The 10th Transmigration: Destination, Hollywood

The 10th Transmigration: Destination, Hollywood

Chapter 1: Moving.

[Owen POV]

“Are you sure you’re going to live here?” the elderly white woman asked as I signed the lease for the one-bedroom apartment in Pasadena.

“Sure. This place has the cheapest rent compared to everywhere else,” I replied, taking the key from her hand. Even in 1996, rent in California was expensive compared to other parts of the country.

“That’s because this place has nothing! No basic heating or air conditioning. Only working water,” her eyes darted around, looking uncomfortable with the place.

She gave me a sceptical look, “Are you sure you aren’t a runaway?”

With my dishevelled appearance and a black duffel bag slung over my shoulder, it was no wonder she had those kinds of thoughts.

“You’ve seen—and confirmed—my emancipation papers,” I said with a tired smile. It was already the third time she asked me the question.

She sighed. “Alright then. I won’t press the matter further.”

“You know I’m just short, right? I look twelve, but I’m actually sixteen. I even did a semester in college,” I shooed her away, hinting at the door with my eyes. 

“Alright, Mr. Chase. I’ll be going now. If you need anything… don’t call me. I won’t be responsible for you,” she said, giving me a serious look before leaving.

After she left, my smiling face and innocent façade disappeared.

The cracked white paint on the ceiling of the empty South Pasadena apartment provided me some solace as I laid down on the hardwood floor.

“In a way, my start here began with seeing an unfamiliar white ceiling huh?”

There was no furniture, no bed, no stove, not even a curtain. There was just me, flat on my back with a rolled-up hoodie as a pillow and the smell of leftover paint stinging my nose.

I took some short rest as I contemplated my life.

It was January, and I was sixteen years old again. I woke up inside this body after the original died a month ago. 

He had a heart complication and underwent major surgery, which left him in a coma for three days. No one knew that his soul had already passed on—and someone else had replaced him.

I found myself inside an uncaring family that didn’t even greet me when I came back from the hospital. They treated me as a burden, unwanted, and invisible. Since I had no attachment to them, I decided to leave the family.  

I forced an emancipation process after blackmailing my parents with a few conveniently timed photos that proved my dad’s pathological cheating—and his other family he had with a former Latina maid. 

He was a politician running for the local council, so a scandal at that moment would’ve crushed his political career.

The mother tried to play the “mom card,” tugging at her son’s guilt and love for her. But she hadn’t even spoken to the original me for about a year. The reason I was so small was due to fetal-alcohol syndrome. I survived, even though she tried to kill me while I was still in her womb.

I had already graduated high school. The previous me had skipped multiple grades, had the top SAT scores in the nation, and even got into Harvard Law at 15 years old.

Got offers from Cambridge and MIT. But the parents rejected those and forced him into Harvard, which I dropped out of after waking up from a coma.

It took one month to wrestle away from the family. We went to court for the emancipation process, the judge wanted to wait until I fully recovered, so I had to get the doctor’s release note. My dad had some pull with the hospital so it was easy.

Then I was truly gone. And I didn’t think anyone in the family cared.

My experiences taught me if you weren’t wanted in a place, just find somewhere you would be welcomed. I’ve lived and died nine times, and this method has  proven right almost always.

And no, I don’t mean metaphorically, like “I was dead inside.” I mean full-on dead.

Buried. Incinerated. Atomized. Stabbed. Burned. Crushed. One time, surgically disassembled.

Each death was real, well, as real as it could be for a serial reincarnator like me. Each body was mine—sort of. Every time I woke up in a new one, there was a moment where I wondered-- how long will this one last?

Let’s rewind a bit. Back to the beginning…

The very first time I died, I was almost 18. Hit by a truck in 2025—a classic death.

My first transmigration dropped me into the body of a 13-year-old street urchin in medieval England, right after the plague.

It was disgusting. Rats everywhere. No toilets. People thought soap was black magic. But I had my memories, and I figured—why not lean in? I became a bard. I learned to play a lute, which wasn't hard as I had prior experience with a guitar. 

Sang songs, told stories, earned a little coin.

I used the memory of my previous life to get ahead, like an isekai protagonist always does. And there was something about the absence of cameras that felt strangely freeing. I could make some mistake, and it wouldn’t be plastered on the internet forever.

At fifteen—the peak of my life, since people only lived till thirty back then—I was invited to perform at a king’s banquet. I was at the top of the world.

The king wanted a song for his mistress, Heather. So, I sang Heather by Conan Gray, not thinking too hard about it. Big mistake. The king thought I was confessing my love… to him.

I was executed as I screamed my last words, “I swear I’m not gay!”. I mean, even if I was, that shouldn’t have been a crime. But medieval Europe doesn’t do nuance.

After I died, I started out my third life as a fourteen-year-old girl in plague-era France. Being gender bent is equal parts weird and equal parts interesting. It was my second transmigration. 

I got better from a fever. That’s it. Just a fever. And for that, they burned me at the stake after the towns folk knew about it. 

“I recovered after a disease! I’m not a witch!” I shouted as the flames licked my foot.

“She knows the word ‘recover!’ She is a witch!” the mob yelled.

I only managed to live for a month there. And honestly? I was a witch. But not before I transmigrated there. I found a coven while walking in the woods and learned some rituals from them.

Fourth life, I ended up in a 15-year-old baron’s body in a fantasy kingdom. Knights, magic, mana—it was like Dungeons & Dragons come to life, but with more of a Korean webtoon vibe.

I trained in swordsmanship, learned how to control mana. I was on the path to becoming an aura knight. Honestly? It was cool. I killed some demonic beings, learned about rituals, had some rom-com style life until the genre changed.

My dad, the Baron, was a demon worshipper who decided to sacrifice his virgin son to summon a demon lord.

“Of course,” I muttered with a deadpan expression as he lifted the dagger. “Go ahead, father. Be more original.”

My fifth life started right after. I became a street theatre actor in Renaissance Italy. The troupe was a front for an underground assassin guild. I made some real friends here. I learned how to kill with a dagger and cry on cue—a useful combo.

I made it far. From thirteen years old to almost eighteen. It was a hard life, full of thorns and loss.

It even made me want to give up living, but I promised someone. I went out with a bang, enacting revenge for my theatre troupe member who was killed by a corrupt city lord.

Nineteen stab wounds later, the curtain closed.

In my sixth life, I went to a Murim world—yes, the kind with qi cultivation and sects. I was a ten-year-old, and an apothecary's assistant in the Tang Clan who died because he was experimenting with poisons.

I learned medicine, martial arts, and even got a girlfriend or two. I received a nickname; Poison Dragon.  My genius seemed to threaten the demonic sect leader. He waged war with the orthodox faction and killed everyone.

I died at the age of seventeen, as I found enlightenment and managed to cut off the head of the Heavenly demon. A life for a life type of ending.

In my seventh life, I was born a clone in an intergalactic empire. No rights, no name, just a number and a bunk. I lived for three years as an academy trainee before being thrown into an intergalactic war.

I had an advantage over my classmates since I’d cultivated a bit of internal energy during training. Most of them died within the first month of the war. I survived, but that ended up being my downfall.

They called my internal energy “dark matter” and cut me open to study it, classifying it as an esper ability. They dissected me while keeping me alive. It was a torturous experience.

Naked on a metal slab, organs on the tray beside me, I asked the researcher, “Can I at least get a blanket? It’s drafty in here.”

He didn’t laugh. But I did. I died when he removed my brain from the rest of my body.

My eighth life, I was finally back in LA. But this wasn’t the normal LA. I woke up when the previous owner was killed by a vampire.

I become an ordinary teen in a world of vampires, demons, witches, and even the slayers. I trained hard, broke through the warrior realm, tried to be a hero. For a short while, I did. I become the nightmare for the vampires. Then I did a stupid thing – I fell for a succubus and was sucked dry. 

In my defence… She was ridiculously hot. My hormonal teenage body couldn’t take it.

In my ninth life, I was a 16-year-old prince consort in Imperial China.

The Imperial Princess fell for my jade beauty—yeah, I looked like a porcelain doll. But she was a little… possessive. One might even call her a yandere.

She cut off my hand for touching her sister’s arm, even though I was just helping the kid after she tripped on the stairs.

I learned a lot in this life despite never going out of the house. She showered me with gifts– medical books, exorcisms books, magical beast books and many more. She destroyed my meridian so I couldn’t cultivate after a year, but before that, I learned a lot about the Taoist teachings.

I could transform small things, make a puppet move, and even learned traditional musical elements.

Then my wife got a scar on her face from a fight with a demon. As she became disfigured, she assumed I’d stop loving her. So, she killed me. Then herself.

Was I flattered? Traumatized? Both? Or do I have Stockholm Syndrome? Anyway, I was finally out of the cage.

My tenth life. I was born as a kid in 1980s Japan. Honestly, I was getting pretty tired of it at this point.

Eight-year-old boy. No powers. No monsters. Just a normal kid. That’s what I chose.

I became a child actor as my family was pretty poor. I became famous quickly as I had learned acting before. My parents and I lived a normal life… until my 13th birthday. That’s when monsters attacked Tokyo.

I watched millions die in seconds. A giant hero in a red, white, and blue bodysuit appeared and tried to stop it.

I was pinned under rubble, crushed slowly, atoms scattered when a beam deflected wrong. I regretted not learning the internal energy here, at the very least I could’ve saved my parents. 

I regretted not cutting the cake sooner as I died during my birthday party. It was a small chocolate cake my mother made. I wanted to eat it for weeks.

This time, though, I didn’t wake up in a new body. I went somewhere else—a transfer channel where I met a snobbish goddess and a balding supervisor god.

Turns out, this whole transmigration mess was her fault. Why? When I died the first time, I bumped into her in the afterlife queue. Someone sneezed behind me, made me jump out of line.

My hand accidentally grazed her chest. She shrieked and slapped me into the reincarnation stream before they could erase my memories.

So, she cursed me to die and live again. And again. And again.

The supervisor showed her the CCTV footage. “It was an accident!” he argued, basically acting as my lawyer.

She grunted and shot me a look of disdain, still couldn’t believe in me. She still believed I was a pervert.

Thus, while my godly lawyer’s back was turned, she kicked me back into the cycle—even though I’d actually been acquitted of my so-called crimes. I swore I heard her giggle as I fell into the pit of misery again.

I transmigrated again to the body of a 16-year-old, third son of two emotionally absent, privately wealthy, publicly philanthropic parents in New Jersey. 

I arrived here a month ago on the hospital bed. The body’s kinda chubby, glasses-wearing, and only four-foot-seven (144cm) in height. I pulled at the waistband and peeked under.

“Oh my god. I’m going to be a virgin forever.”

And the cherry on top of everything. I was transferred into the body of the one who started all of this. That son of a bitch who sneezed while we waited in line. 

…

“I also don’t know if that bitch of a goddess won’t kill me again before I hit eighteen.”

In all my past lives, I had never once made it to my eighteenth birthday.

I unzipped the black duffel bag beside me. Inside were several essential items: my birth certificate, emancipation papers, high school diploma, other important documents, fifty grand in cash, some medicines and a candle.

Not only did I blackmail my dad for emancipation—I made sure to secure some startup capital, too.

I had an older brother and sister. The brother worked at a prestigious New York law firm. The sister studied fashion in Paris. Both have trust funds—at least five million dollars each in their accounts.

But not me though. There was nothing allocated to me.

On my sixteenth birthday, my great-aunt sent me a t-shirt with my name misspelled. The same woman got my brother a Hummer. My sister, a Porsche.

I could’ve milked the dad for more since the family was disgustingly rich, but I just wanted out. I even changed my last name. From Jack Kennedy to Owen Chase, which was my name in my first life.  

As I woke up from my nap, I closed my eyes and tried to sense the qi—the natural energy of the world—but my sixth sense was severely blocked.

“It’s been a month. I should use another method.” I muttered as I sat up straight and crossed my legs.

“It’s going to be hard to fix a congenital defect.”  

It was late at night, and I hadn’t bothered turning on the lights. Still, I wasn’t worried. I’d dealt with this before. 

“If I want to fix the defect, I need a full cyclic accumulation of heaven’s energy. At least twelve years’ worth of internal force. If my spiritual root isn’t damaged, I could get there in two years. Maybe less if...”

In one of my lives, I’d used witchcraft to force open my senses. It accelerated my cultivation by leaps and bounds.

“I guess I’ll just repeat that,” I said, standing weakly. My legs weren't familiar with the meditation process yet. 

I grabbed a stack of bills and left the apartment. Despite the cheap rent, the building had decent security, so I didn't  worry about leaving the cash behind.

I took the elevator from the fifth floor and walked to a nearby butcher shop. Before I rented the place, I had made sure I was within walking distance to some of the establishments I needed.

“Do you have chicken blood?” I asked the butcher, a rugged man with a bloodstained apron. He was chopping a thick slab of meat when he looked up, and then looked down again since he didn’t see anyone when he looked up.

He gave me a look. “Kid, does your mom know you’re out this late?”

“I’m actually eighteen. Just a very tall midget,” I lied. “I can show you my ID if you want.” This was a gamble.

He waved it off. “Forget it. But we don’t usually keep the blood. I tossed today’s by-product already.”

My gamble succeeded.

“I understand. I just need it for a movie project. Can I pick it up tomorrow? I need about ten gallons.”

“Sure. Five dollars. Just charging for the container. Chicken blood has no value here.”

We shook hands, and I went to a nearby herb shop, hoping to pick up some useful ingredients. But without my spiritual senses, I couldn’t tell the difference between spiritual herbs and regular ones. 

Still, I bought a few. I picked herbs that would be beneficial to my body whether they were special or not.

My stomach has been growling for a while now. So, I bought potatoes, beets, green beans, and some clean spring water before bringing them all back home.

I saw a cake shop while I was walking back and stopped for a moment when I saw a small chocolate cake by the window. Then, I walked away.

“It’ll help if I cleanse my body—get rid of all the processed crap and enter a state of purity, like a Tibetan monk. No TV. No junk. No temptations.”

My original plan had been to go deep into the woods and survive on meditation alone, but that’d be suicide in my current state. Maybe after a year or two of training.

I took a bite of a raw potato, then a green bean. “Peh—disgusting,” I gagged, nearly spitting the bean out.

I didn’t have a stove. It was supposed to come with the apartment, but the landlord hadn’t installed it yet. Said it’d be another week or two. Or else I would’ve cooked it a little.

The next day, I picked up the chicken blood. Using the blood, I drew runes on the living room floor—five concentric circles using the blood. The entire floor of the house was covered in it. The landlord would be pissed if he walked in right now.

I took off my shirt, revealing the surgical stitches on my chest. As I sat cross-legged in the center, I began connecting the runes to my body—arms, chest, stomach, hands, even my face and forehead.

I lit the thirty candles I’d bought, then grabbed the most important item of all.

“Noise-canceling headphones,” I said aloud, placing them over my ears. I needed absolute focus to recite the Latin incantation without distraction.

“Aperi mentem, sensus sextus,

 Clavis arcanae reseretur.

 Visus ultra, vox occultae,

 Tenebris lux reveletur.

Spiritus fluit, anima surgit,

 Vincula mundi frangantur.

 Sanguis vetus, ignis novus,

 Portae magicae pandantur.”

(Open the mind, sixth sense awaken,

 Let the key of secrets be turned.

 Sight beyond, voice of the hidden,

 Let light be revealed in darkness.

 Spirit flows, the soul rises,

 Let the world’s chains be broken.

 Old blood, new fire,

 Let the gates of magic be opened.)

I repeated the chant nearly a hundred times before I felt something. It was subtle at first. But soon, the blood runes began to move, pulling inward like threads drawn into me.

“Spiritus fluit, anima surgit!

 Vincula mundi frangantur!

 Sanguis vetus, ignis novus!

 Portae magicae pandantur!”

My voice rose. The apartment trembled. The moment the clock struck midnight, the runes flared red-gold and surged toward my forehead. My body started to levitate.

The ritual succeeded! My sixth sense burst open like a long-clogged drain finally giving way. I slipped into a fugue state as the energy of heaven and earth flooded into me.

Then I coughed—hard. A clot of black blood splattered onto the floor. More impurities oozed from my pores.

Time lost all meaning. Minutes melted into hours. Hours into days. Days into weeks.

My cultivation was finally interrupted by furious pounding at the door.

When I opened my eyes, the potatoes had sprouted and the green beans were dry husks.

“Ugh. I smell like a corpse,” I muttered—then froze. “Oh shit. I really smell like a corpse.”

“SPPD! Open up!” someone shouted from outside. Cops.

Panicking, I bolted to the bathroom and took a freezing shower. I kicked over candles and threw open every window, desperately trying to clear the stench.

“Damn it! They must think I’m dead! Or that someone is!” I hissed. “I don’t even have Febreeze!”

“Open up, now!” The cops banged harder.

Still naked, I cracked the door, keeping the chain latch on while I wore my pants. Two cops stood outside—one man, one woman.

“Hey, kid,” the male cop said sternly. “Open the door.”

“Do you have a warrant?” I asked, voice small but steady.

He blinked, caught off guard. “No, we don’t have a warrant. Just open up!”

I shook my head. “Then I don’t have to let you in. Come back when you have a warrant.”

I tried to close the door, but the woman caught it with her hand. Her eyes locked onto the dried blood on the floor behind me.

“Is that blood?! Open the door right now or I’ll kick it in!”

It was the blood I coughed up during the cleansing. Since they had a clear motive, now I had to let them in. 

I sighed and unlatched the chain. “Yeah, yeah. Come on in.”

The moment they stepped inside, both cops recoiled.

“Ugh.” The woman braved forward, crouching to examine the bloodstain. “What happened here?!”

I shrugged. “Missed my meds so I spat up some blood. I’ve been too weak to get out of bed until today—and then you guys showed up.” I leaned on the wall, arm trembling, pulling off a very convincing act of fatigue.

“What?! Why are you spitting blood?” she asked, voice softer now, tinged with concern. Then, she saw the long scar on my chest, the scar from the heart surgery which had healed nicely. 

So, I gave her a version of the truth, minus the blackmail and magic.

She asked if I had any family I could reach out to. I was legally an adult, but she clearly didn’t feel right leaving me alone in this state.

“Oh, I do have an aunt in Hollywood,” I remembered. “She became estranged from the family twenty years ago, so I don’t have any way to contact her.”

“Really? What’s her name?” the male cop asked.

“Jessica. She used to be Jessica Kennedy. I think she’s married now, so I have no idea what her last name is.”

That part was mostly a deflection—I didn’t expect them to actually try to find her. I just needed them distracted from the chicken blood containers and candle remains in the kitchen.

“Hello! I’m here to install the stove!” a handyman called out from the doorway while the cops were still inside.

The male cop stepped in like it was his job to supervise, claiming someone needed to watch over things for a young boy like me. He seemed skeptical of the service guy—maybe just overly cautious, or maybe he just had something against Latino workers.

“Hey kid… Do you not know how to live on your own?” Officer Sandy suddenly asked. 

Chapter 2: Future Path

The woman cop, Sandy, badgered me about getting proper supplies. Clean shirts, underwear, shampoo, face wash, nail clippers, toothpaste, the works.

She even helped scrub the dried blood off the floor while I took a real shower this time—with actual soap. She sprayed Febreze like holy water to clear the air.

Both of them left after poking around a little longer. Thankfully, they didn’t see the fifty grand in cash stuffed inside my duffle bag. That would've earned me a full-blown interrogation. The money wasn’t exactly legal.

When asked about my finances, I told them I had enough money in the bank to survive for six months while job hunting.

They were way too nosy, but I understood it was their job. An emancipated teen needed to have financial stability. That’s what the court decided, a factor in which I managed to get out of the family.

"That reminds me, I need to pay rent."

It had been almost a month since my senses opened. I’d spent the entire time in a cultivation trance.

The energy here was thinner compared to the other worlds I’d lived in, but I still managed to condense about three years’ worth of internal energy through uninterrupted meditation. Not bad, all things considered.

It would be hard to achieve a state like that again.

In the murim martial arts world, they used grain pills for cultivation. In wuxia, the body was nourished by qi. I merged both paths—wuxia for its versatility, murim for its grounding in human physiology.

I had no interest in chasing immortality. Who knew how long I had in this world? Even the foundation of immortality alone would take me decades to achieve. It wasn’t a feasible option for me.

For now, the qi was filling the gaps in my system left by fetal poisoning, which meant I’d go through a small transformation over the next few months, and a big transformation afterward.

Inside my body, I was redirecting internal energy through my meridians, building a foundation.

I also sensed that, despite my weak body, I had remarkably high-quality spiritual roots. Maybe that’s why the body’s previous owner was incredibly smart.

"Hmm… I should fix my eyes." It was tough wearing glasses. I kept having to clean them because of my thick eyelashes. "But that has to wait until I fix the deformity in my heart."

By my calculations, it would take two months before my heart would change to a normal heart.

My stomach suddenly gurgled like a dying engine. "Oh right. I hadn’t eaten in a month."

I stopped by a Korean restaurant and devoured four bowls of samgyetang by myself.

"I should find a part-time job. Something relaxing," I muttered. Then, I sighed. Sandy was really troublesome.

In order for the court to release me from my family’s custody, my mother decided to put the name of her sister on the legal guardian list. The court wouldn’t let me go unchecked since I have a history of a heart complication.

The officers had done their job. They checked I wasn’t dying. But I needed to get my aunt on board with this entire ‘scheme’. She didn’t even need to do much, just pretend she had come to check up on me at least once a month.

Sandy said before she left, "I’m going to check in again. And if no one’s taking care of you, we’ll have to talk about placing you with a court-appointed guardian until you turn eighteen."

There it was—the adult age. Emancipation wasn’t full freedom. Not if you looked sick, smelled like rot, and didn’t have a parent listed on your emergency contact form.

"Don’t worry," I told her. "My aunt’s in town. She’s... family-adjacent."

The flimsy excuse worked on the cop. Although she gave me a timeline. I had to show some proof of the guardianship in two weeks.

In the next few days, I decided to spend some money. I bought a table, a couch, some kitchen utensils, a mattress without the bed frame, and I got a beanbag for free at the used furniture store.

The hardware store clerk looked at me weird when I bought ten glass jars, three kinds of mesh wire, and a bottle of glycerin. Probably thought I was building a bomb.

I was building a nest. For spiders and centipedes. Maybe some scorpions too.

Back home, I cleared a corner of the living room—where normal people put potted plants—and set up a glass habitat.

Handmade. Sealed, ventilated, sectioned. The spiders would have their nest, separate from the other poisonous bugs.

They didn’t need much—just the right humidity, a few beetles or maggots for food.

The centipedes, I caught myself. Tang Clan methods came back to me instinctively.

I rigged a sticky trap using sugar water, raw egg yolk, and crushed garlic. Set it in the crawlspace overnight. At dawn, there they were—three thick-bodied centipedes, each the length of my palm.

I dropped them into a jar one by one, letting them click and coil against the glass. The centipede venom would be useful—nothing too lethal, but it could cause temporary paralysis in a large enough dose.

"I still can’t break the habit huh? Although, it is pretty weird to be walking around without some proper defenses."

I was still learning about this universe. Who knew what dangers lurked around the corners.

The second ingredient I needed was easier. Rhubarb leaves. Nobody suspects them. Everyone grows them for the stalks, thinking the whole thing is edible. But the leaves? Toxic as hell.

I “borrowed” a few from a community garden in Highland Park. The old lady watering the tomatoes didn’t even look twice.

Dried and ground, the oxalic acid in rhubarb leaves could tear up kidneys. Not ideal for a fast-acting defense, but excellent if I wanted to keep someone weak—bedridden.

Next was the Death Cap.

I found the mushroom under an old eucalyptus tree in Arroyo Park, two blocks from my apartment. It looked too perfect. Smooth, pale olive-green, with a skirt-like ring on the stem and a little white bulb at the base.

I cut it carefully with a pocketknife, slipped it into a sealed wax paper packet, and muttered under my breath, "Thanks for coming to California."

One cap. That’s all it takes. It doesn't kill right away—first nausea, then a calm phase, and finally, your liver gives out.

And finally, the Lily of the Valley.

Someone had planted them in their front yard as decoration. I passed it every day on the way to the bodega. They probably thought it was just a pretty white flower. I wore gloves and clipped a few blooms under the cover of dusk. Cardiac glycosides—fast, quiet, no smell. A noble killer.

Back at the apartment, I ground and labeled everything:

Centipede Venom → "Crawler"

Rhubarb Leaf Dust → "Crimson Sleep"

Death Cap Extract → "Whisper"

Lily of the Valley Resin → "Silent Bell"

I also broke into the school lab to get some apparatus and pharmacies to get the chemicals I needed. 

“It’s done.” I said as I stirred the beaker filled with bubbling green liquid. 

The spiders and the scorpion venoms weren't ready yet. I took out some needles I bought in a Chinese store, and lathered the venoms onto the needles.

"Maybe I should search for some medicinal herbs. If only I could find some millennium ginseng or Lingzhi Mushroom. Then, I wouldn’t have to cultivate daily."

A millennium ginseng, once eaten, could supply me with 10–100 years of internal energy, depending on how much I could absorb it.

Days passed by, and my house slowly transformed into a home. I decided to take the bus to get to another town. Tinseltown.

"Hmm?" As I was getting out of my apartment, I saw the stove handyman hanging around the alley, watching me from afar. I ignored him and pretended I didn’t see him.

I was going to find my aunt, Jessica Sloane. Born Jessica Jackson. She’d left New Jersey long before I was born, but I met her once at my maternal grandpa’s funeral five years ago.

She was the only one who cried for her dad while everyone else was busy fighting for the inheritance. She’s someone who hugged too tightly. Deeply emotional. And quite a pushover compared to her siblings.

Compared to everyone else in the family, she was human. The only one who had given the previous me a hug after years at the funeral.

I didn’t know where she lived exactly—only that she was somewhere in Hollywood and married to a man who worked in special effects.

Her last published book had come out five years ago and tanked hard, though she was still trying to write the next Great American Novel. She had released a few more novels, but she never seemed to find her audience. That was back then.

I had one goal: to get her signature on the paper.

The bus smelled like burnt plastic and stale French fries. I carried a backpack, a wallet full of quarters, and a steamed potato wrapped in foil. Since I had a stove, I could get creative with my cleansing diet.

The chicken soup—samgyetang—I'd eaten at a Korean restaurant earlier had been overloaded with salt and MSG. It nearly derailed my detox.

Still, a young boy eating a foil-wrapped potato in the middle of a crowded bus turned more than a few heads.

The bus screeched to a halt, letting out a long, wheezy breath like it was sick of LA’s smog too. I hopped off, hoodie drawn tight over my head, a worn bookstore flyer folded into my back pocket.

The sun hit like a spotlight. Hollywood was cracked pavement, fake gold stars, and a smell that swung between churros and trash juice.

“Hollywood is as weird as ever,” I muttered, passing a shaved-headed woman with a nose ring screaming at a billboard.

The bookstore was easy to find—small, shaded, forgotten—wedged between a psychic’s office and a strip-mall dental clinic. A crooked chalkboard sign out front read:

TODAY ONLY – MEET JESSICA SLOANE!

Author of Dust in the Stars

Signing from 4–6PM. Free cookies.

(Please come in.)

The doorbell gave a sad little ting as I walked in. No one looked up. Not even the blue-haired cashier, who was absorbed in a copy of People magazine.

I made a beeline for the back, past faded posters and crooked shelves of untouched hardcovers.

There she was.

Jessica Sloane sat behind a foldout table, three books stacked neatly in front of her, a flimsy nameplate that looked like it had been printed this morning.

She was scribbling into a notebook, half-distracted, half-despondent, chewing the end of her pencil. The cookie tray beside her sat untouched. A single fly buzzed lazily over the oatmeal raisin.

I paused and stared.

She was exactly how I remembered her: frazzled brown hair tied in a loose bun, gold earrings that didn’t quite match, and a soft expression dulled by fatigue. She was also rather thick, like Bryce Dallas Howard in Jurassic World.

I pulled a paperback from my hoodie pocket and laid it on the table: The Mourning Engines by Jessica Jackson (Sloane)—her first novel. Long out of print. Forgotten even by the bargain bins.

Jessica blinked and looked up.

“…Where did you get this?”

“Time machine,” I said flatly. “Or maybe the used section in Pasadena.”

I stole it, by the way. It wasn’t flying off the shelves, so I didn’t feel guilty about it.

That earned a faint, self-deprecating chuckle. “That book barely sold five hundred copies.”

Over the past few days, I've been gathering information. A tiny blip in an AOL forum—probably posted by her—mentioned the book signing, which is what led me here.

“Well, when I read it, I understood why,” I joked. Her smile faltered just a bit.

Jessica raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t think I have a normal audience anymore.”

“You never had one,” I said, then glanced at the signing pen in her hand. “Could you?”

She clicked the pen and hesitated. “Name?”

“Owen. Owen Chase.”

Using a pseudonym was pointless. No one knew about my name change—not even my parents.

She nodded and slowly wrote:

Keep chasing the stars—even when they go dark. —Jessica Sloane.

It must’ve been the tagline of her latest book. That one tanked too.

I slid the signed book into my bag and gave her a polite nod. “Thanks. Good luck with the rest of the signing.”

I turned to leave. Now that I had her signature, I could replicate it easily. No need to bother her further. I’d registered for a landline, so when the cop called, I could fake a woman’s voice and confirm everything.

“Wait—” Jessica said suddenly, straightening in her seat. “Aren’t you a fan? Don’t you want to talk to me?”

I froze. “I read one book. That… loosely qualifies me as a fan.”

“Well, still. That’s more than most.” Her voice was hopeful, almost shy. “Would you like a cookie? I mean—please take one. No pressure.”

“I think the flies called dibs,” I said, narrowing my eyes at the tray beside her.

My senses were warning me about that plate of cookies. Not because of the cooking—but something darker. A lingering whiff of... evil.

Either she was an awful baker and my sixth sense was trying to save me from death, or something had really tainted those cookies.

Jessica laughed. Not a polite one—a real, weary, warm laugh. The kind you forget how to do after a while.

“Right. Fair point.”

There was a quiet pause.

“You know,” she said softly, “I haven’t talked to a real reader in weeks. Do you mind staying for a bit?”

Her tone wasn’t desperate, just gentle. But underneath it was something I knew all too well: loneliness. Not the hollow kind. The quiet, deep ache of someone who used to matter—and now didn’t.

I hesitated. I hadn’t planned on this.

Still, I nodded and pulled up a folding chair.

“Alright. But if you start reading excerpts aloud, I’m fleeing.”

Jessica smiled and asked, “You said you understood why the story didn’t sell much? Are you just trying to sound smart, or do you genuinely not like it?”

“To be honest, it was a slog to get through,” I said bluntly. “The premise is intriguing, but the execution… It felt like an episode of Star Trek no one ever saw.”

The Mourning Engines was supposed to be a gripping survival story about a crew stranded in the vast emptiness of space with only one working cryo chamber for five people. 

High stakes, right? Except… They meet a friendly alien, everyone holds hands, sings Kumbaya, and everything turns out fine. No conflict. No sacrifice. No real consequences.

“It would’ve worked better as a children’s book,” I told her. “Because that’s what it felt like.”

Jessica gave a resigned nod. “You sound like my husband. And my friends. And my publishers. But the second book actually sold well!”

She reached under the table and pulled out another book, sliding it toward me. The title read Heartfelt Desire.

“The title makes it sound like a romance,” I said, flipping it open. “But… yep. Sci-fi again. Almost said ‘shitty sci-fi.’”

It was close. Too close. I started flipping through it—two pages every three seconds.

“You haven’t even read it yet! How do you know it’s bad?” Jessica snapped.

“I am reading it,” I replied casually. “I’ve already finished the first chapter.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It takes longer than that to read a page.”

“Not for me. I can summarize the whole chapter for you right now, if you want.”

Her irritation softened into disbelief—then morphed into intrigue. In less than ten minutes, I’d already made it through most of the book.

“Yeah… this one also would’ve worked better as a children’s book,” I said. “I think the thirty thousand people who bought it thought it was a romance. Then they got stuck reading about two moon farmers on Ganymede.”

The largest moon on Jupiter. 

Even the cover was misleading. One of the brothers had long hair and was hugging the other from behind. Who even designed this?

“You really did read it!” Jessica’s eyes lit up. “Are you, like, super smart or something?”

I nodded. “I’ve already graduated school and got into Harvard Law on scholarship. So yeah, I’d say I’m pretty smart.”

She squinted at me. “You? A college student? You look like you just started middle school.”

I just smiled. “You can believe me or not. Your choice.”

“Hmm… I choose to believe you. For now.” She said it with mock authority, eyes narrowing.

We ended up talking more about the book. By now, it was almost 5:30. No one else had come to her table since I arrived.

“You kept saying it would work better as a children’s book,” Jessica said. “How do you picture that, exactly?”

I scratched my chin. “You know what? If I had some supplies, I could show you.”

In my first life, I taught myself to animate and draw during COVID—started at thirteen. 

Then AI took over the art world, so that dream didn’t last. I did start to review old movies on Youtube though. 

 But I never really stopped drawing. For most of my lives, I kept drawing. One of my yandere wives even made me paint her constantly, so I got pretty good with brushes, too.

Jessica sighed. “Really? Where are we supposed to get art supplies right now?”

I stared at her.

She caught my gaze and asked, “What?”

“We… are literally in a bookstore.”

Jessica blinked. “Oh.”

I got up and bought a sketchpad, some colored pencils, and a few basic tools. Then I shoved her books to the side and got to work.

“First, characters,” I said, sketching the pair of moon-farming brothers in a style inspired by The Adventures of Tintin.

“Or we could go Tim Burton with it,” I added, switching tone and linework.

The blank A4 page filled quickly. It was rough, but enough to give her a glimpse of what I had in mind.

Jessica was transfixed. Her expression shifted from impressed to almost overwhelmed. I kept drawing for nearly an hour as the sky outside shifted orange.

Finally, I leaned back. “Okay, I need to head home. But you see it now, right? The potential?”

Jessica jolted to her feet and grabbed my hand, eyes wide with excitement. “Owen! You’re AMAZING! Why don’t we do it together? You could illustrate the book!”

“What?!” I blinked. That was not my intention. I’d only meant to help her a little, since—ironically—she was about to unknowingly help me.

“Ma’am,” the shopkeeper called from the front, irritation thick in her voice. “The event is over. Please pack up and leave.”

I shot the woman a small glare. She would have an aggressive, unexplainable case of diarrhea for the next three days. A little divine justice for the dirty looks she’s giving us.

“Oh shoot! Right, right!” Jessica began stuffing books into her tote with practiced resignation. “Owen. Come to my place tomorrow. We can talk more. Here’s my address and number.”

I sighed. “Jessica, you really shouldn’t hand out your address and number to strangers.”

She waved it off and grinned. “For some reason, Owen, I feel like I’ve known you for a long time. And from what I’ve seen today, you’re a nice kid. So come by, okay?”

I was speechless for a second. “Alright then. I’ll come by tomorrow—with a rough draft of the illustrations.”

Since I couldn’t take on physically demanding jobs, this might actually be the perfect solution. I could earn a bit doing something I enjoyed—and help her a bit.

A win-win, for both of us.

“Now, what do I do with these cookies?” I said with a deadpan expression as she left me the plate of cookies to bring home. I felt bad even giving it to the homeless, so I just threw it away.

“Hmm… Since I’m going to her home anyway, maybe I can check and see… I hope that I’m wrong and everything is just in my mind though.”

Because of the cookies, I went to Chinatown and had to spend thousands of dollars buying the stuff I needed to create the talismans.

Chapter 3: Remnants. 

Carrying a satchel and wearing an oversized blue hoodie—although, to be fair, almost everything looked oversized on me—I was planning to take a bus to my aunt’s house when I was stopped by the stove installation guy.

“Are you going out to find a job?” he asked in a friendly manner.

I raised an eyebrow and replied politely, “Yeah. I’m heading to work now.”

The man looked genuinely surprised, almost stunned. “Really? You already got one? Damn! I’m too late. I was thinking of offering you a job. It pays really well too.”

“Really? How much?” I asked, pretending to go along with it. My instincts were already telling me this guy reeked of ulterior motives.

He grinned and pulled out a stack of cash—probably around five thousand dollars. “See this? I made this in a week.”

“Wow!” I gasped like a wide-eyed kid, full of admiration. That seemed to stroke his ego just right, and he grinned even wider.

“Well, if you want, maybe I can take you to the boss,” he said. “You kinda look like a brother of mine, so I’m offering you a once-in-a-lifetime chance here.”

This was literally our second time meeting. He was way too eager with the invitation.

He kept going on and on about this so-called boss. I beamed up at his words, but underneath, I was barely holding back my disdain.

In my head, I figured it was either some multi-level marketing scam or—more likely—drug dealing. Especially after I noticed a faint powdery stain on his black shirt. That tipped my suspicion heavily toward the latter.

He handed me a number and told me to call it after I got back from “work,” or if I ever decided to join them. I took it, nodding like I was seriously considering it.

“Well, my cash reserve is running low,” I muttered to myself after he left. 

“Spent over seven grand last month. I’ve only got forty-three thousand left to last me the next two years. Might as well go do the usual.”

And by that, I meant taking money from bad guys.

In my time as an assassin, I’d occasionally done some Robin Hood-type work—stealing from the rich, the corrupt, the monsters in human skin. I did the same thing back in the world of witches and succubi… though back then, I just kept the riches for myself.

It was easier than starting over with a clean slate. Even now, I’d just blackmailed my dad for some money. As I didn’t know how much time I had left, it would’ve been stupid not to.

If I was going to die anyway, I’d rather live comfortably for a short while. Even with that mindset, though, there was a small glimmer of hope this time.

Since the goddess was already caught, I hoped the other god would actually do something and not let me die again before I turned eighteen. Only time would tell.

I wonder how much cash the drug lord’s sitting on.

If he can hand out five grand to underlings, I could get a lot by raiding him, right? It’s not like he can go to the cops and report it, I thought with a smirk as I got on the bus.

Then sighed as it came to a dead stop in traffic.

I should probably grow up soon and get my driver’s license.

I was already sixteen, technically old enough. But at just 144 cm tall, it felt like a stretch. I figured I’d just wait six more months. Hopefully by then I’d hit 160 or 165 cm.

I had to change buses three times to get from South Pasadena to West Hollywood. Maybe next time, I’d just take a cab—if there’s even a next time.

My aunt lived in an ordinary three-bedroom house with a white picket fence and a garden beside it.

However, as I stood in front of the door, my senses went on full alert. The vile energy I had sensed in those cookies before—here, it was a hundredfold stronger.

“Damn… I don’t think I can handle this sort of thing yet,” I muttered with a heavy sigh, turning to leave—just as the door opened.

My aunt—well, more like my future employer—stood there with a bright smile.

“Oh! Owen! Why didn’t you ring the bell? I’ve been waiting for you all morning!” she said gleefully.

After the initial greeting, I entered the house with a heavy heart. But to my confusion, although there was a strong remnant of vile energy, there was nothing inside the house.

“Hmm?” I pretended to go to the bathroom and checked on every room in the house stealthily, but there was nothing suspicious.

“Are you living here with only your husband?” I asked Jessica as we discussed the children's book and I was sketching some landscape to show her.

I wouldn’t make the real illustrations yet without signing a contract and her rewriting the book, so the discussion was mainly focused on the excerpts and the illustrations genres.

She nodded, “Yeah.”

“Is there no one else who stays here? Or visit here a lot?” I asked again, casually, like I was forced to make conversation.

“Are you trying to see if I have a daughter? Or a niece?” She became gossipy instead of answering the question.

I ignored her and slowly placed a few cleansing talismans around the living room. The vile energy was too thick for me to get comfortable in the house. I placed the talisman strategically without even moving from the chair.

Taoist had some abilities to control the talisman with their energy to a certain extent. The talisman flew out of my satchel which was hung on my chair and stuck itself to the wall.

Without Jessica realizing it, I had completed an array of protection and a trap in case the thing appeared. With enough prep, maybe I would be able to subdue it, or just run away if I couldn’t.

However, even until 5 in the evening, nothing happened. It was time for me to go back home.

As I was discussing things with my aunt, I noticed some things. The energy, it’s interfering with her cognitive ability. Basically, she became dumber and irrational.

I tested her by saying I want a 70-30 split for the profit of the book, with me being the 70. And she freaking agreed with me.

She said she will bring the contract tomorrow. She will ask her husband to print out the contract for her and didn’t even try to get a lawyer involved. Mind you, I only met this woman yesterday.

“Fuck… This…. Fuck…” I cursed out loud as I remembered the evil energy affecting her.

“If it wasn’t for that promise…” I muttered as I walked out of the house again after putting down all of my stuff.

“I need to find a spirit grass, a millennium ginseng, or anything— I need to have something with at least 10 years of energy to stand a chance…”

It was hard to find the spirit grass as it would only grow in the area underneath direct moonlight and there couldn’t be any people around.

The spirit grass was an important medium for me to craft some internal energy pills. I really needed it.

“Or I can awaken my esper ability. I know the formula for the esper potion, and I know how to stimulate my brain with internal energy so that the awakening chances will be greater. But where do I find the ingredients?”

Esper Serum Core Ingredients:

DMSO (Dimethyl sulfoxide): Enhances cellular absorption

Myelin Repair Peptide: Supports rapid brain rewiring

Recombinant Neural Stem Factors (r-NSF): Mimics embryonic plasticity

Neuro-adaptive Glial Serum: Prevents synaptic overload during awakening

Mental Threshold Stimulants: Prepares the consciousness

Psilocybin Microdose: Temporarily dissolves ego barriers (stabilizes traumatic awakenings)

Resveratrol: Real substance from red grapes, boosts brain oxygenation

Ground Electrocrystal (Brazil): Rare, quartz doped with piezoelectric metals; used in ritual circuits

That was the basics of the esper serum. I needed all of that to awaken myself.

In the intergalactic empire, only humans were allowed to use the Esper Serum to awaken. Clones like me didn’t have that privilege. In fact, the main reason I was dissected in one of my past lives was precisely to study the mechanics of esper awakening.

Internal energy—or Dark Matter, as it was known in the empire—was a powerful stimulant for triggering esper awakenings. Some Taoist cultivators had awakened abilities like telekinesis or energy manipulation, so it wasn’t exactly unheard of.

In my current state, though, attempting an awakening could go two ways: either it would kill me… or I’d end up with an ability that couldn’t rely on internal energy as storage, rendering my cultivation nearly useless.

Espers drew strength from their minds—from focus, pain tolerance, and mental resilience. If I awakened a decent ability, it would be a shortcut, a huge leap forward. But if I got saddled with some random or garbage-tier power, I’d be screwed either way.

I ventured deep into the woods, far off the beaten trails, searching for Spirit Grass. Along the way, a pack of coyotes emerged from the underbrush, growling low and circling me like I was just another lost hiker waiting to be eaten.

“Spirit beast core would work too,” I muttered under my breath. “But there's no way anything like that lives around here. Without a ley line, this place is dead land.”

Around 5 a.m., after hours of searching, I finally found it: Spirit Grass, nestled in a secluded glade beneath the moonlight. Not far from it, I stumbled upon something even more surprising.

“A Spirit Flower?” I blinked, crouching beside the pale-blue sage bloom. My fingers hovered over it as I sensed the gentle spiritual energy radiating from its petals.

“This is a great find,” I murmured. “Though honestly… the difficulty spike in finding this stuff is insane. When I was a Princess Consort, these grew like weeds around the palace gardens. Now? I’m lucky if I find even one.”

It took me nearly 45 minutes to trek back out of the forest. The sun had already risen, casting gold light through the canopy. I was covered in dirt and scratches, but satisfied. Almost.

Before heading home to shower and patch myself up, I made a stop at the local Chinese herb shop. I did find something there.

“Hey, do you have the money or not!?” the old Chinese shopkeeper barked as I pointed at the ginseng laid out on his display table.

“Five hundred bucks for this?” I raised a brow. For a ginseng with less than eight years of energy in it? You’ve got to be shitting me.

He squinted at me, trying to play the expert. “That there’s premium mountain-grown Korean red ginseng, boy. You know what that means? Pure potency. It’s worth double, even triple that in the right market.”

That shriveled-looking ginseng, curled up like it was hugging itself to survive a cold winter? No way in hell it was worth 500 bucks.

The shopkeeper had no idea I could sense the exact spiritual energy inside the root—less than eight years’ worth, and not particularly refined at that. But it was something. A stepping stone.

He was clearly trying to rip me off—probably thought I was some clueless teenager flashing fake confidence and daddy’s money.

I sighed and gave him a deadpan look. “I’ll give you twenty for it.”

“Twenty?! That’s too low! Seventy!”

Now he was just insulting both of us.

“Forty,” I countered, still calm.

“Fifty! And I’ll even throw something extra.” He slapped down a Chinese finger trap on the table like it was some divine treasure. A fifty-cent novelty toy.

“…Deal,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. Then I remembered—of course—I didn’t have any cash on me.

“Are you kidding me?! After all that haggling, you’re telling me you don’t even have the money?” the shopkeeper exploded.

“I have money. My place is nearby. Give me ten minutes. I’ll be back.”

And I was. I came back in exactly ten minutes—not a second longer.

But what I returned to? That pissed me off.

The old man was trying to pawn my ginseng off to another customer.

“It’s a Korean premium! For someone like you, it’ll boost your energy, your longevity—you’ll look young for your age!” he said with oily charm, pitching to a gullible-looking man with slicked-back hair and big sunglasses.

“Really?” The guy blinked, easily hooked. “How much?”

“Not much at all! Just a thousand bucks!” The old man grinned, already imagining the cash.

“Oh, that’s actually pretty cheap,” the man said, nodding. “I’ll take it.”

“Hold it right there,” I said, stepping forward.

The old man’s head snapped toward me, face paling like he’d seen a ghost. “GO AWAY! You’re disrupting my business!” he barked. Then, in a desperate move, he leapt from his stool and lunged at me.

Except—he didn’t make it.

His body froze mid-air, arms outstretched, face twisted in confusion and dawning fear.

I didn’t move. I just looked at him and calmly spoke in perfect Chinese.

“Nǐ zhè tiáo lǎo shé… wǒ bù jièyì nǐ xiǎng zhuàn yīdiǎn qián. Dàn nǐ zhēn de yào piàn wǒ, hái xiǎng bǎ wǒ gǎn chūqù? Nǐ bú yào huó le ma?”

["You old snake... I don’t mind you trying to make a profit. But are you seriously trying to cheat me and throw me out? Do you have no regard for your life?"]

Sweat beaded across his forehead. He was locked mid-crouch, trembling as if gravity had betrayed him.

“Nǐ xìnghǎo jīntiān yǒu gèrén zài chǎng.”

["You're lucky there's a witness today."]

“Bùrán, nǐ yǐjīng sǐ zài zhè lǐ le.”

["Otherwise, you'd already be dead."]

Then I released the paralysis. The moment I did, he collapsed to the floor with a yell, limbs twitching as if he’d just escaped death.

 He scurried back like a rat, shouting,“Guǐ! Yāoguài! Jiù mìng a!” ["Demon! Monster! Help!"]

“Hey, what the hell’s going on?” the actor—the guy with the sunglasses—took a startled step back.

I turned to him. “The old man agreed to sell me the ginseng for fifty bucks. But he decided to sell it out from under me the moment I left to get the money.”

The man blinked, eyes darting between me and the still-shaking shopkeeper.

Then the old man suddenly shouted, “Ralph! Ralph Macchio! You’re the Karate Kid! Kick him! Use the crane kick! Kick the demon!”

My head turned slowly. “…Wait, what?”

Ralph looked incredibly awkward now, rubbing the back of his neck like he wanted to disappear. 

“Uhh, I am Ralph M– Macchio, yeah. But I’m not—like—that was acting. I don’t actually crane kick people in real life.” He pulled off his sunglasses, revealing the surprisingly young-looking face underneath.

“Seriously?” I squinted. “You’re the original Karate Kid?”

“Yeah.” He gave a sheepish chuckle. “I was just in the area. Thought I’d check this place out. Honestly, I just wanted to look around…”

“Sorry about the scene,” I said, grabbing the ginseng off the counter. “This was already mine. Paid for. I need it today.” I crumpled the fifty-dollar bill and tossed it onto the table without looking back.

“Wait,” Ralph said, stepping forward. “How about this—I'll give you a thousand bucks. Just let me buy the ginseng. I’m dealing with some… energy issues. Could really use something like that.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I get it. But I need it now. Or else someone might die.”

He paused. The weight of my words clearly landed. “…That serious, huh?”

“Yeah.”

He gave it a moment. Then sighed and raised his hands. “Alright, kid. Fair enough. You got there first.”

“Appreciate it.” I nodded once.

The old man was still on the ground, mumbling “guǐ… yāoguài…” under his breath.

I gave him a faint, devilish smirk. “I’ll leave now. But I live nearby, so I will come again to search for more herbs. Don’t pull that kind of shit again, okay?”

He nodded so fast he could’ve snapped his neck.

As I turned to leave, I looked at Ralph again. Something about his energy stuck with me. I activated my senses. “Hmm…”

“You said you’re dealing with energy problems?” I asked.

He winced. “Yeah–yeah. I mean, kids probably don’t get it, but adults do. It’s—well, not really something I wanna talk to a kid about.” He blushed slightly. 

So it was a problem in the sack.

I gave him a flat look. “That’s too bad. Because I kinda know what’s messing you up.”

His eyes widened. “Wait—really? Can you see, like, a ghost or something?! Are you an exorcist?”

I stared at him, deadpan. “You’ve got way too much imagination, Ralph Macchio. No. It’s not ghosts. It’s you.”

“…Me?”

“You’ve been eating this kind of stuff too often, right? Herbs, supplements, weird roots old men swear by?”

He nodded slowly, scratching his cheek in embarrassment. It showed how gullible he was. 

I sighed. “You don’t have less energy. You’ve got too much. And it’s clashing inside you. Fire qi, yin imbalance, unstable yang—your system’s overloaded. You’re not drained—you’re overstuffed.”

He blinked. “…That’s a thing?”

“Yes. It’ll take a year, maybe two, to detox. If you stop cramming more crap into your body. Give it time to process everything.”

He looked stunned. “That… actually makes sense. You serious?”

“Dead serious,” I said. “Lay off the root cocktails. Let your organs breathe.”

“…Damn. That explains a lot.” He looked down at his own body, genuinely unsure of what to do with himself.

I shrugged and turned to the door. 

But then he grabbed my shoulder. “Wait! Wait a sec—two years?! I need to wait two years?! Can’t it be quicker?!”

I sighed again, almost cutting his hand off on reflex. “There is another way to detox. But you can’t do it.”

“Please! I’ll pay you! My girlfriend and I are in a really rough patch. We could break up if I don’t solve this soon,” he pleaded, borderline panicked.

“Fuck…” I muttered under my breath. “Fine. Give me a pen and paper. Come to my place tomorrow and bring all the ingredients on this list. I’ll help you flush the energy out. But you have to pay me.”

“Deal!” he agreed instantly, like he’d just signed a pact with the devil.

I scribbled down a short list of herbs for a medicinal bath—mostly basic ones like mugwort, peony root, dried licorice bark, plus one or two rarer tonics he’d probably have to special order. Then I left the shop. The shopkeeper was nowhere to be found while I was writing. 

I called Jessica to update her, telling her I’d be coming by at night instead of morning. Morning visits had proven useless so far. Nothing happened in the daylight.

 Night would be better for my investigation. She even offered to let me stay the night.

That woman… her brain was really scrambled.

I was sixteen—and looked twelve. She could get arrested.

“Ugh… This is all your fault for making me make that promise, Isabelle,” I muttered bitterly, biting into the dried ginseng while preparing the spirit flower and spirit grass for pill refinement.

It wasn’t the best setup, but I had to make it work.

I combined them, refining the concoction slowly while sitting cross-legged in my small apartment. 

The ginseng held maybe eight years’ worth of spiritual energy. The spirit flower and spirit grass added another year or two each, and more importantly, they were especially effective in opening up the meridians.

If I focused, I could probably absorb seventy percent of that energy—not perfect, but more than enough to move forward.

The process was excruciating. I was basically raw-dogging the cultivation path—no auxiliary pill, no supportive alchemy, nothing but sheer willpower and internal energy. Every breath felt like fire in my lungs. My muscles trembled and spasmed from the strain, rejecting the influx of qi like poison.

But I endured.

Twelve hours passed.

Black blood oozed from my pores, thick and viscous, as I finally pushed past the invisible barrier—

Foundation Building: Stage Two.

My bones felt lighter. My senses sharper. The internal river of energy surged through me, violent but steady.

I wiped the blood from my face and let out a shaky breath.

Isabelle.

She was the only reason I was doing this.

Back in my life as an assassin, living in the theater troupe, I’d accepted that trying to change anything was pointless. I figured I was going to die anyway. Why fight it?

But then came Isabelle.

A red-haired young woman—strong, stubborn, with a fire in her and a certain naivete that shined like a guiding light for me . She made me promise something.

To never give up on living.

To help those who needed help.

She said that as long as I kept doing that, I wouldn’t lose myself to the darkness again. I wouldn’t fall into the endless spiral of futility that had consumed so many of my lives.

I wouldn’t have cared about Jessica.

I wouldn’t have bothered helping Ralph.

I wouldn’t be trying at all.

But I made a promise. That’s why I kept moving.

And the impact Isabelle left on me… even if I lived ten more lives, it still wouldn’t be enough to repay it.

“Ugh… I really need to stabilize it…. Hmm, I’ll do it in the cab.” I said as I stood up and stretched my body before heading to the shower.

I ate a potato while the cab driver drove me to West Hollywood. It was an expensive ride. I considered paralysing the driver and let him think I was a ghost instead. But if he saw me again, that would be troublesome so I just paid him normally.

The evil energy in the house seemed to be bigger at night. I rang the doorbell and waited for Jessica to open the door.

Chapter 4: Spirit.

[Owen POV]

As Jessica opened the door, I immediately sensed something was off. A subtle shift in the air—like static clinging to your skin before a lightning strike.

Her eyes shimmered unnaturally. It reminded me of that red glow from old flash photos—unnatural and misplaced.

“Owen. You’re here,” she said softly, smiling too wide. It raised goosebumps on my neck. Her fingers wrapped around my wrist, pulling me inside.

“My husband’s been wanting to meet you,” she added.

“Does he?” I muttered, unable to stop the sarcasm. But she didn’t seem to hear it. Instead of the living room, she led me up the staircase toward the second floor.

We entered the den—a windowless, wood-paneled room that smelled like a frat house. The window had been boarded shut with splintered wood. But no one commented on it.

Lenny Sloane sat on a worn recliner. Almost bald, beer gut sagging, blotchy skin. A stained white tank top clung to his hairy chest and shoulders. He wore only boxers. Next to him, curled almost too intimately, was another man.

The guest was scruffy—unkempt beard, thick glasses, acne scars and fresh spots dotting his face. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept well in years.

They were holding hands.

Not casually, but deliberately—like lovers, or conspirators. Fingers interlocked. Eyes locked, too, with that same crimson gleam I’d seen in Jessica. An eerie glow.

“I’d taken out a second mortgage on my house to fund it,” the scruffy man was saying, his voice slow and lethargic.

Lenny nodded, gaze still fixed on him. Their expressions were vacant, yet too focused—like puppets pretending intimacy.

Then Lenny looked at me.

“Oh, you must be the genius artist Jessica hasn't stopped raving about,” he said brightly—too brightly. Like a voice recording played slightly off pitch.

His smile was wide. His eyes didn’t blink.

I was about to respond—when I noticed something else.

A hand—small, porcelain white, unnaturally delicate—resting on the scruffy man’s shoulder.

It moved like a real hand.

Its fingers were too long. The skin had a glossy glaze, like smooth ceramic. Hairline cracks traced across the wrist, like fractures in fine china. It looked like it belonged to a doll—not a person.

“Yeah, that’s me. And you must be Lenny Sloane, right?” I said, shaking hands with—well, I guess he was my uncle-in-law.

“Yep! That’s me!” he replied, still smiling too hard. Then he pulled a contract from a briefcase. “I’ve written it down. You can just sign it.”

The scruffy man suddenly protested. “What? Lenny, are you really going through with this? I told you the contract is predatory—to you!”

Lenny ignored him and turned back to me. “Owen, this is George Burnett. You might not know him, but he used to be a big-time Hollywood director!”

“I see.” I shook George’s hand. He frowned, still focused on Lenny. “Let me get my lawyer to look it over.”

“You don’t have lawyers. You don’t have any money to pay them, remember?” Lenny said flatly.

I sighed. “Don’t worry. I’m not here for the contract.”

All three of them stared in confusion.

“I’m here for you, Mr. Burnett,” I said coldly.

George looked annoyed. “What do you want from me?”

“I just have a few questions. Please answer honestly. Have you ever participated in a ritual before? Maybe… summoned something to bless your films?”

He slammed the coffee table. “ARE YOU WITH THEM?! I TOLD YOU—I’M NOT GOING TO BE ONE OF YOU!”

“I’m not whoever you think I am. So I guess… you haven’t done it?”

“NEVER!” he shouted.

Jessica flinched and quickly stepped in to calm him. “George. Owen’s just being curious, that’s all. Keep your anger in check.”

“Jess—sorry.” He became oddly docile in front of her. They held hands, too. Intimately.

I raised an eyebrow. Hmm? Is my aunt in a throuple? But something felt off. It didn’t seem… genuine.

“Mr. Burnett, are you angry a lot?” I asked.

“Well, he did get a court order to attend anger management after assaulting someone—” Lenny started, before Jessica slapped his arm.

“I see. And do you always feel this way? Like there’s a constant, boiling rage inside you?”

Jessica answered before George could. “No! George used to be really kind! It’s just the stress from work, that’s all.”

George blinked slowly. “Kid… why are you so interested in me?”

I paused. “Because, Mr. Burnett. You’re killing Jessica and Lenny.”

The room went silent.

George’s eyes widened. “What did you just say?”

I took out a talisman and tossed it toward the trio. It burst into flames midair and vanished.

“Look around, Mr. Burnett. Look closely at both of them.”

“What—” His senses distorted, then cleared. And suddenly… he saw them for what they truly were.

Their bodies were covered in pus. Gaunt. Decayed. Blackened hands, claw-like nails. The scent of rot clung to them like a second skin.

George recoiled, slapping their hands away as he stumbled toward the wall. “What—what have you done!?”

“I’ve done nothing. I just lifted the veil. Briefly. Mr. Burnett, I have a theory. Maybe you can tell me if I’m right.”

“You haven’t participated in any satanic rituals… but you know people who have. Lenny said you were once a big name, but suddenly your creativity dried up. Opportunities vanished. No one would fund your work. Tell me—when did this all start?”

“Huh? I… I don’t know. Maybe ten years ago?”

I nodded. “You have remarkable innate resistance, Mr. Burnett. It’s amazing you lasted that long with that thing latched onto you.”

“Thing—what thing—AHHH!”
He finally saw the hand on his shoulder and screamed.

“You didn’t summon it, Mr. Burnett. But you were the target of someone else's ritual. That thing is a spirit messenger. It latches onto people and drains—well, whatever it was the conjurer bartered for. Fame, talent, luck.”

I flicked a talisman at the hand.

The moment it hit, the thing screeched, launching itself at me, clawed porcelain fingers aiming for my neck.

“And these two?” I added, dodging as I drew my dagger—etched with runes along its spine. “They’re infected by proximity. Your friends, your lifelines. That’s how it spreads.”

I slashed at the hand—clang. The blade couldn’t cut it, but the impact launched it across the room, shattering a lamp.

“Shit. It’s strong.”

I turned to Burnett. “If you want to survive, listen carefully. Get them to the living room. Now.”

He hesitated. “Isn’t it dead now—?”

But through the boarded window came a blur.

A humanoid figure, its face pale and glassy. Porcelain skin. Long black hair.

It stood on the window sill, silent, staring at me with lifeless, pit-deep eyes.

Then it lunged.

I bent backward, narrowly avoiding the tackle—it would’ve killed me if it made contact.

“GO!” I shouted.

Burnett yanked Jessica and Lenny out of their trance and dragged them down the stairs. 

I held off the doll with my dagger—barely. Its strength was absurd, inhuman. Every clash with the dagger produced bright sparks.

I didn’t fight back. I waited. The doll was confused as to why she couldn’t touch me. 

I was timing it.

The moment I heard Burnett reach the living room—I jumped.

I landed hard, rolling over the couch. The porcelain doll paused—confused—then followed.

Just as it stepped into the room, the trap activated.

The four talisman corners flared crimson, etching a burning seal across the floor—an invisible prison. The doll froze mid-motion. It twitched, jerked, then locked in place like a glitching puppet.

The ward had caught it. I placed the trap yesterday. 

Lenny and Jessica dropped to their knees. George collapsed beside them, breathing hard.

I pulled out the bamboo box—wrapped in red string, reinforced with seals and iron nails. I unrolled a sheet of prepared talismans, inked in blood and wormwood.

Then I began the chant.

“Exaudi me, Domine, exaudi vocem meam…”

[Hear me, O Lord, hear my voice…]

The doll started shrieking. Its glassy limbs twitched erratically.

“Ligare spiritum per voluntatem meam…”

[Bind the spirit by my will…]

“Signa in nomine lucis…”

[Mark it in the name of light…]

“Claude hostem meum.”

[Bind my enemy.]

The floor glowed white, symbols pulsing beneath the spirit like burning roots. I slapped the final talisman onto the lid of the box. It caught flame—green-blue—and curled into ash.

Then the doll began to crumble.

First the feet. Then the joints. Then the face—slowly turning to powder. Not breaking—dissolving. Its essence twisted into a spiral of ash and red light, shooting into the bamboo box with a piercing scream.

WHUMP.

The lid slammed shut on its own. The string coiled tighter. The seals pulsed once—then faded to black.

Silence.

Only the labored breathing of the three people on the floor remained.

I held the box in both hands and whispered, “It’s in.”

George stared at it in disbelief. “You… sealed it.”

Then came the purge.

All three suddenly clutched their stomachs and began vomiting violently—thick, black bile laced with streaks of crimson. I pinched my nose in disgust.

“Don’t hold it in,” I said firmly, preparing the rest of my tools. “Let it out. All of it. That rot isn’t part of you anymore.”

The stench hit like a wall. The bile sizzled against the floor like acid, releasing a stench of copper, decay, and sulfur.

Jessica screamed mid-vomit. Lenny dry-heaved, his eyes bloodshot and watering. George groaned through clenched teeth, bile trailing down his chin.

But it had to come out. That was the price of cleansing.

“This isn’t over,” I warned. “That was just the messenger. If the contract demon shows up next, we can’t be here.”

“Where—what—what should we do?” Jessica asked, voice shaking. But she didn’t hesitate—she was placing her trust in me completely.

“A hotel. A motel. Or maybe another city. Somewhere with no spiritual imprint. No traces of you for him to follow.”

I placed a fresh talisman in the center of the living room. “If he comes, this’ll ignite and alert me. If it doesn’t, then you’re safe. Chances are he’ll go after the conjurer instead.”

We moved quickly. No cars. Just a cab. On the way, we stopped at a gas station to buy new clothes and burn the old ones in a trash barrel behind the store.

After switching taxis, we checked into a motel to scrub ourselves down—each of us using my tracing erasure compound: a pungent blend of sulfur, crushed herbs, and powdered minerals. It burned the skin a little, but it worked.

Only once we were sure we hadn’t brought any lingering traces from the house did we finally move to a proper hotel.

Anything connected to that house had been left behind—except for my satchel, and the sealed box inside it.

…

The hotel room still smelled like sulfur, but the three adults sitting across from me looked like they’d just come back from a Sunday brunch.

Jessica was sipping chamomile tea like she hadn’t nearly been devoured by a transdimensional parasite.

Lenny was adjusting the audio levels on his portable recorder, muttering about "ambient tone loss" like that was the real problem. He was recording today’s incident in detail for future references. 

And George Burnett—director, has-been, haunted man in ironic sunglasses—was flipping through the room service menu like he could still afford eggs Benedict.

I stared at them from the edge of the bed, swaddled in a hoodie two sizes too big for me, debating if I was the weak one here.

Two months. That’s how long it took me to stop hearing whispers in dead languages after my first demon encounter.

Two months of cold sweats, existential dread, and writing prayers just to feel real again.

These three? They got back up to their feet just a few hours afterward.

I asked them how, and they told me it was because they watched many horror movies before. I wanted to hit each one of them with my poison darts.

“Owen. Can I get hotel service? I’m starving,” George said, already shaving off his beard, which made him look ten years younger.

I scowled and said, “Don’t you think I’ve done enough? I paid for the hotel, the clothes, the taxis…”

None of them had the rationale to bring money during our escape. I had to foot all of the bills. I wanted a job, but I’d already wasted around $1,500 tonight before I even signed the contract.

“Pleaaase,” Jessica begged.

I sighed and let them order the food. They promised to pay me back after this was all over.

George Burnett.

In the '80s, he was the guy film students wrote essays about.

In 1982, he dropped Whispering Shadows, this minimalist noir with existential dread soaked into every frame. It won a Spirit Award and was declared “the voice of a generation” by people who chain-smoked indoors for aesthetic reasons.

Then in ’84, he directed Silent Liberation. Holocaust drama, muted protagonist, something about Morse code and trauma and piano keys. It shouldn’t have worked.

It should have been pretentious garbage. But somehow, it landed. $120 million at the box office. Best Director Oscar nominated. Overnight, he became Hollywood’s Next S-tier Visionary.

And then?

He disappeared.

Well—his talent did.

By ’86, he couldn’t string a screenplay together. Studios often dropped him mid-production, claiming he was butchering their films.

Studios ghosted him. Execs stopped returning his calls. Someone joked he’d been cursed by Orson Welles’ ghost.

They weren’t entirely wrong.

Same with Jessica and Lenny.

All three of them were parasitized by spiritual messengers—leeches from another plane. Talented creatives with bright futures, drained like juice boxes.

Jessica used to be a hot California girl. She even posed for a bikini magazine in her twenties.

Lenny had a head full of hair and used to hit the gym regularly. Both of them finally realized what they’d turned into. 

George was a good looking director that even dated multiple actresses before. All three of them had suffered greatly from the incident. 

“When can we go back home?” Jessica asked.

“Maybe after two or three months,” I replied casually.

All of them widened their eyes in shock and disbelief.

“Why? Why do we need so long?” Lenny asked urgently. “All of my work is in there.”

I replied flatly, “You can go and pick them up. Go in after two or three days, but don’t stay there. The demonic energy needs time to dissipate.”

I didn’t explain much else and went to check on the bamboo box seal.

George turned on the TV in the room. Lenny and Jessica joined him.

“What are you going to do with that?” George asked, jilting toward the bamboo box.

I shrugged and replied curtly, “I’ll handle it.”

If the spirit messenger had any kind of core inside it, that would be great for me. But if it didn’t, I’d just destroy it.

Spirit messengers were ordinary spirits turned into demonic lackeys—either through contracts or just plain cruelty.

No matter how they were turned, they couldn’t return to their original state anymore. It would be better to just destroy them.

George flipped on the TV, probably hoping to catch a late-night rerun of something meaningless. Instead, he landed us straight into chaos.

“We interrupt this program for breaking news—” the anchor’s voice cut in, tense and rehearsed.

The screen changed to a shaky helicopter shot of a mansion in Bel Air, swarming with red and blue lights.

“—A prominent Hollywood director has been found dead at a private party just an hour ago. Authorities are still working to confirm details, but preliminary reports suggest that the victim—identified as Victor Camden—died on-site under... disturbing circumstances.”

George blinked. “Victor? I know that guy.”

I didn’t reply. My attention was fixed on the TV.

“Eyewitnesses claim Camden was dancing when he suddenly collapsed. According to one guest, ‘It was like something snapped. He just dropped. His neck… it bent the wrong way.’”

Jessica gasped. “Victor… He’s your friend… isn’t he, George?” She turned to him.

George let out a beleaguered sigh.

“They’re starting,” I muttered. “The backlash is coming. The contract is absolute, but they can destroy it by killing the conjurer. That’s how a demon used a loophole in the agreement.”

Jessica looked at me. “What?”

Before I could answer, the screen changed again—“This just in—another death confirmed.”

The anchor’s voice was tighter now, a little shaken.

“A second victim, screenwriter Elliot Tseng, was found dead in his apartment minutes ago. Similar cause of death: severe cervical trauma. LAPD has declined to comment on possible connections to the Camden incident. Both of them were working closely together for the upcoming and highly anticipated Disney Film–”

Lenny whispered, “Two?”

Then a third alert came on.

“Developing story: a high-ranking executive at Gold Bell Pictures was found dead in his home office in what investigators are calling a ‘bizarre spinal rupture.’”

Jessica’s hands were trembling. George slowly put down the room service menu.

Three.

That was enough.

By the time the fourth death was confirmed—barely fifteen minutes later—the broadcast cut back to the anchor mid-sentence, then suddenly faded to black.

The screen came back to a generic studio feed.

“Due to the sensitive nature of ongoing investigations, this segment has been temporarily suspended.”

Classic. Government intervention. That was fast.

Censorship didn’t usually move this quickly unless it was alien contact, nuclear threats, or—you know—mass supernatural assassinations targeting the entertainment elite.

George spoke first. “Owen…”

I didn’t answer. Just stared at the box.

The spirit messenger inside it was the contract itself. The demons must have only had this one left—no reserves, no second wave. 

If it were a strong demon, it would’ve just sent another spirit. But this?

This meant desperation.

It’s kill or be killed now—for them and the contractors.

There was thick air inside the room. No one uttered anything for a while.

Suddenly, the front doorbell rang. Everyone jumped from their chairs, faces turning ashen pale.

“The demon—he’s here—”

Before George could finish, I interjected, “It’s food service. You ordered the food, remember?”