COZMART: Corner Shop of Visiting Gods

Algorithms again.

Eathan slumped into the seat near the back of Lecture Hall B-3, blinking blearily as the smart lens board flickered to life. The walls around him buzzed with low-level static—one of the windows had been flagged as "mildly haunted" on local forums last semester, but the admin said it didn't affect GPA, so no one cared.

Professor Adair, still bearing the charisma of a damp sock, swept his gaze across the entire class.

"Pop quiz today."

The announcement struck like a thunderclap through the sleepy student body, to the point where somebody in the front row actually groaned aloud.

Beside him, Luke Tam muttered under his breath, "Who the hell does pop quizzes these days?"

Eathan barely reacted. He was already dead inside.

Packs of students shifted as the TA distributed printed sheets—actual paper, which probably cost more than the whole department's server budget.

"You may now begin," Adair intoned, already pulling up his grading dashboard.

Eathan's hands moved automatically, borrowing a pen from the front and flipping over the quiz sheet. As he skimmed the first question, something strange—but now eerily familiar—happened.

It was like a CTRL + F function activated inside his brain.

The moment he read a term—Dijkstra's algorithm, recursive depth-first search—the corresponding definition, formula, and class notes surfaced instantly into his mind's eye, crisp and colour-coded.

No scrambling.

No hesitation.

Just... recall.

Eathan blinked once, then shrugged internally and got to work.

When he handed in the paper twenty minutes later, the TA did a double-take at his name on the sheet.

Ignoring the look on the woman's face, Eathan merely smiled at her as he headed out the door.

"Have a good one."

***

Basketball practice after class was even stranger.

Their university team had a match against their rival school, and the courts buzzed with the scent of sweat, rubber soles, and teenage competitiveness.

Luke, ever the team captain, barked plays from center court, but it wasn't long before the entire rhythm of the game shifted.

Because Eathan—normally a reliable but unremarkable shooting guard—was suddenly everywhere.

His feet moved like they belonged to someone else, swift and instinctive. Passes that should have been too wide snapped into his hands cleanly, and shots that should have clanged off the rim swished through the hoop, as if pulled by gravity itself.

By halftime, he had scored more than half their points.

By the final buzzer, he was declared MVP without contest.

Luke tossed him a bottle of water afterward, still half out of breath, staring at him like he'd just sprouted a second head.

"What happened to you overnight?" he asked, voice somewhere between suspicion and awe.

Eathan caught the bottle neatly, cracking a sheepish grin.

"Protein shakes," he said blandly.

Luke rolled his eyes.

"Right. And I'm a Buddhist monk."

He ruffled Eathan's hair with a grunt, then wandered off to chat with a cluster of students near the bleachers—including a few girls who had been particularly enthusiastic about Eathan's shots.

Eathan just shook his head, laughing quietly behind him.

***

By the time they finished cleanup, the sky had already melted into a deep velvet blue. The stadium lights buzzed overhead, scattering pale pools of light onto the emptying courts.

Eathan wiped his face with the hem of his T-shirt, breathing in the crisp night air.

He still had one errand left, and that was to swing by COZMART. He had left his wallet there last night in the chaos of sorting potato chips by colour.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He didn't have a shift today, but it wasn't like Mister White ever minded drop-ins.

The off-peak hour walk was quiet. Most students had retreated to their dorms or the neon haze bars and basement arcades. Eathan cut through the side alleys like he always did—past broken lucky-seal vending shrines, spirit static tagged alley, and a suspicious-looking robot pigeon eating noodles from a can.

Tugging his hoodie over his damp hair, Eathan allowed his mind to wander, turning over the events of the last forty-eight hours.

The [SYSTEM].

The agility boosts.

The freakishly perfect quiz score.

The basketball miracle.

If Eathan was being honest, he had been... excited.

After all, who wouldn't want a cheat code casually injected into their life? Something like a secret advantage, or perhaps a little cosmic nod in their favour.

Indeed, he should be thrilled, and he was—mostly.

Eathan let out a small sigh.

But he'd also read enough web novels, watched enough dramas with Mister White's daughter, to know that sudden power came with sudden consequences. After all, when strange systems dropped into people's lives, it usually wasn't just for laughs. Trouble was probably already on its way.

Eathan squinted.

Maybe a monster would spawn out of nowhere. Or maybe some otherworldly boss fight was in the queue.

Even worse—maybe he would die.

And that was... well.

Fine.

Eathan had stopped expecting fairness from life fifteen years ago, when a single car crash had rewritten his entire existence. He survived then, for god-knows-how, and he was the only one who did.

If he survived again, great.

If not... he'd deal with it when it happened.

Living day to day was easier than borrowing tomorrow's debts.

That was Eathan's motto.

After a few more minutes of dawdling, he reached the block where COZMART hunched between its usual companions: a laundromat that hadn't been updated since 2029, and a nail salon that still advertised "gel-pedicure service."

At first, Eathan thought maybe he had read the sign wrong.

He stood staring at the storefront for a full five seconds. A faint drizzle had begun to fall around him, making the neon lights bleed into the wet sidewalk. Above the entrance, the flickering COZMART sign clearly, unmistakably said:

CLOSED.

Eathan's backpack slid a little off his shoulder.

He stared harder, unsure of whether he was hallucinating or if he had hit his head at the basketball court and hadn't realized until now.

Because in all fifteen years he had known Mister White, the man had never closed COZMART.

Not for storms.

Not for holidays.

Only for Chinese New Year.

Once.

Something cold curled in his gut. Eathan fumbled for his wristpad and hit Taeril's contact.

The line rang, and rang, and rang.

No answer.

The drizzle thickened.

Eathan stepped closer to the storefront, palms pressing lightly against the cold glass, peering into the dim shop interior. The lights inside were still on—faint and lavender-tinged, almost ethereal—but the aisles were deserted.

Nothing moved.

No sign of Mister White's usual slouch behind the counter. No familiar hum of the battered coffee machine.

It was empty.

Indisputably, chillingly empty.

For an entire minute, Eathan just stayed there, forehead pressed lightly to the glass, willing the inside of COZMART to magically come to life and tell him: "Hey, what are you doing there, staring like a stupid dog? Come on in!"

But COZMART only stared back in silence.

Behind him, the steady drip of rainwater pooled in the gutter, merging with the distant buzz of a faulty streetlamp.

A heavy pounding began in Eathan's chest, quick and shallow.

Maybe—maybe the ancient shop walls were blocking the 7G signal. COZMART was old enough to interfere with basic satellite tech, after all. Grasping for logic, Eathan stumbled a few steps backward, fumbling for better reception. He lifted his wristpad, watching the tiny bars flicker weakly in the corner—

—and then COZMART exploded.

There was no warning.

No flickering lights, no ominous rumble, no AR countdown timer. Just a low, thunderous boom that cracked the air apart.

The glass storefront blew outward like a snapped rubber band, and the whole battered structure seemed to crumple inward, as if someone had torn reality along its seams.

Eathan didn't even process it.

For a heartbeat, he simply stood there, locked in stunned stillness. All sound around him vanished simultaneously, as if someone had slammed a vacuum over the world, leaving only belatedly a sharp ringing, high and thin, screaming through his ears.

The neon COZMART sign, still flickering a moment ago, burst into molten pieces. Shelves, plastic packaging, loose flyers—all of it caught in a bloom of debris that painted the night with streaks of grey and fire-orange.

Eathan's backpack slipped off his shoulder and hit the pavement with a dull thud.

But he barely noticed.

He was still standing there, still staring.

And then he wasn't.

The world tilted violently. A sudden gust—no, a force—brushed past his cheek, light but cutting, like the edge of a blade kissing skin. Before Eathan could even react, glass shattered all around him. Thousands of shards rained down, glittering and cruel under the streetlights.

Something struck his temple.

He hit the ground hard enough to drive the breath from his lungs, a wet, metallic taste flooding his mouth. A thin line of blood blurred his vision, streaking his sight with crimson.

[HP] has decreased by 22%! (100% → 78%)

Through the mess of pain and confusion, he heard footsteps. Slow and measured, as they were on an afternoon stroll. It was the kind of footfall that didn't need to rush because everything already belonged to them. Eathan, dazed and half-slumped against the cracked sidewalk, managed to lift his head.

A man stepped through the wreckage of COZMART's shattered doorframe.

He didn't so much walk as glide—a long, lean figure in dark casual wear, every movement radiating a terrifying, effortless presence of power. Black hair, straight and glossy, spilled almost to his waist, brushing against a tailored overcoat that caught the faint breeze like a banner.

In one hand, absurdly casual amid the carnage, the man held a takeaway coffee cup.

Eathan's chest constricted, and his vision swam.

It wasn't just fear—it was pressure.

An instinctual, bone-deep recognition that this man was something utterly alien to the natural order of things.

The stranger paused a few feet away. He tilted his head slightly, studying Eathan with emerald, glinting eyes that seemed to strip flesh from bone. And when he spoke, the first sound that came out wasn't a language.

It was closer to... a glitch.

A garbled echo, as if the words were being censored by the world itself. Like reality was refusing to let the true sound reach mortal ears.

The man's brows furrowed slightly upon hearing no response, a flicker of annoyance crossing his impossibly handsome face. He shifted, exhaling softly through his nose. Then, in perfect, accentless English, he said:

"So you're the vessel?"

The words dropped into the ruined street like stones into deep water.

The buzzing in Eathan's ears redoubled. He could barely comprehend what was happening. His legs refused to move; his fingers trembled faintly against the cold, cracked pavement.

And somehow, even through the panic and confusion, a single, idiotic thought floated across his mind:

Should've gone to Luke's stupid bar after all.