COZMART: Corner Shop of Visiting Gods

KOWLOON. AREA 001.

Midnight had the nerve to rain on them.

Curtains of rain had chased the teams out of Shanghai proper, drumming steadily on the battered van as it fishtailed around a corner and shuddered to a stop in a service lane in Tsim Sha Tsui that smelled of soy-sauce steam and recycling bins.

The rift was waiting—C-class, but loud about it. A crooked mouth of violet static gaped from a leaning lamp-post, coughing sparks at a convenience store's flickering sign. Paper talismans someone had taped up years ago fluttered uselessly, already half-scorched.

Willow popped the back doors. "Three-minute drill, people. I want that tear patched before my gum loses flavour."

Eathan tumbled out after her, [Receipt Printer] already chattering like an anxious typewriter. Lightning spider-webbed up the pole; the concrete under his shoes buzzed.

Xenis slapped a stabilizer coil against the asphalt, streaming instructions to RealmNet because apparently this was entertainment now. Wenrui shoved a suppressor rod into a storm drain. The air tightened, humming off-key.

"Somebody remind me why garbage alleys breed dimensional tears," Tanke yelled, hair pasted to his forehead.

"Residual despair," Xenis shouted back, bracing a tripod stabilizer. "Or late-night hotpot fumes. Debate's ongoing."

Lightning cracked. The rift convulsed, vomiting shards of time-looping receipts—apparently yesterday's lunch orders caught in temporal backwash.

Eathan sprinted, the barcode scanner whirring in his hand. "Anchors exposed at thirty degrees west—printing!"

He slapped two [Cooling Talisman], receipts scanned from some popsicles they'd bought at a convenience store an hour before. The seals flew across the air, sizzling like ice on a griddle. For a moment, the tear seemed to be shrinking, but its core actively fought back, flexing a matrix fracture that would blow wide unless someone rewired the node nerves directly.

Someone with a cheat code.

"Rookie!" Willow tossed him a cable reel. "Do the hand-thing!"

Hand-thing. Right.

[Node Imprint (Lv. 1)] has been activated!

50 Qi Tokens have been subtracted from your [PROFILE] (129 → 79)

[Humanity] has decreased by 1% (85% → 84%)

Eathan planted his palm on the quivering rune pole. Circuits flared gold, [Node Imprint] igniting every bone in his wrist.

The next second, the alley snapped back to boring reality. Rain resumed being just rain.

[EQUILIBRIUM] has increased by 0.1%! (56.9% → 57.0%)

You have completed [Side Quest]:

Stabilize Minor Rift T-3301

You have been rewarded: +100 Karma, +25 Qi Tokens

Eathan's vision fuzzed. The lamp-post cooled from neon to dull metal. Someone cheered; someone else cursed in relief. Willow slapped a bandage over his sizzling wrist before the steam finished rising.

Then, Meng Yao's voice cut through comms like a razor blade, "Lin Eathan, Commander's orders. Report to his office at the HQ, immediately."

"Again?" Eathan blinked. Barely four hours had passed since his last break.

Groans from the squad; then sympathetic pats.

"All right, hero," Willow said, voice gentler than her words, "off you trot. HQ wants its favourite battery back."

Still confused, Eathan managed a shaky salute, mouth full of rainwater. A silver Transfer Gate irised open, and he stepped through beside Meng Yao, waving a soggy goodbye that felt uncomfortably like one's final words.

***

Taeril White's private suite sat high above HQ: majority zen study, occasional war bunker. Dark cedar floors, ink-wash scrolls depicting ancient tigers, a wall of glass overlooking storm-lit Shanghai. On the low table hosted jade weights, a tiny bonsai, and—for reasons best left unasked—a mint-condition COZMART coupon booklet.

Meng Yao deposited him like misplaced mail. "Commander White will arrive shortly."

The door hissed shut.

Eathan perched on the sofa from last time, one that probably cost more than his life, twitching at the silence. He poked his head around and—because panic had lousy self-preservation—opened RealmNet on his [SYSTEM] homepage.

Memes screamed back at him:

#Area001Speedrun trended first—a GIF of Chewie sliding under a subway car, receipt smack in slo-mo, looped with dubstep.

#WhiteTiger fan-chan posted a minimalist poster of a silhouette: The Commander Never Blinks over a stylized tiger eye.

Even an audit-bot had joined the circus:

@CloudJade_Audit-07:
"Systemic risk downgraded [Thumbs-up emoji]"

Thousands of likes, meme edits, celebratory sticker packs.

Eathan wasn't sure whether to laugh or throw the tablet.

On one hand, these memes were peak entertainment to browse without activating your brain. On the other hand, these memes were basically netizens cheering rift closures the same way mortals binge-watched disaster movies—because it wasn't their street collapsing.

He was still scrolling when the door sighed open.

Taeril entered—empty-handed. No thermos, no coffee mug.

Panic sparked as Eathan instinctively straightened.

The commander strolled to the mini-fridge, retrieved a canned cold brew, and cracked it open with a hiss that sounded like mercy. He took a long drink, then leaned against the opposite couch.

Eathan's lungs restarted.

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Taeril settled opposite, gaze unreadable. "You seem confused."

"That's my brand, sir." Eathan laid out his hands, dripping alley water on priceless carpet. "I mean, shouldn't I be out there? The cool-down for [Node Imprint] is only an hour; I can hit another node before curfew."

A rain-lit silence stretched. Taeril didn't answer at once. Rain drummed against the window behind him, city lights reflecting in his obsidian eyes.

"When a blade is over-sharpened," he said at last, tone soft as snowfall, "it chips."

Eathan blinked. "Boss?"

"You burned more of yourself again." Taeril's gaze slid to Eathan's bandaged hand. "One percent per use. Three percent total. All in forty-eight hours. Keep carving pieces, eventually there's nothing left to wield."

"I—it's minor," Eathan stammered. "The team needs the skill. And [Humanity] grows back, right?"

Taeril's smile was thin, almost nostalgic. Memories seemed to have flickered behind his eyes at that moment—sieges, soldiers, someone screaming without sound. Whatever he saw, it wasn't the office.

Eathan's throat tightened. He remembered Li Wei had warned him about the same thing.

"So." He swallowed. "Retire the skill?"

"Temper it." Taeril tapped the can against his knee. "Find what rebuilds [Humanity] faster than you spend it. Or let someone else gamble instead."

Eathan managed a shaky nod.

"Copy that—less self-lobotomy, more… vitamins."

Taeril drained half the can, expression smoothing back into something unreadable. Then, he paused, eyes narrowing the way cats do before they knock things off shelves.

"You asked me why I had you brought here."

Eathan blinked. "It wasn't for the moral lesson?"

"What moral lesson?" Taeril looked at him strangely, as if it wasn't him who spoke all those philosophical metaphors less than a minute ago. "Have you forgotten?"

Eathan rifled frantically through three days of sleep-deprived memory. "Uh—today's equilibrium report? The noodles I owe Willow? My overdue Algorithms homework?"

"None of the above." The White Tiger set his empty can on a priceless jade coaster. "It's Saturday."

"…"

And as if taking in the look on his face as confusion, Taeril added thoughtfully, "Education Day."

"Sir," Eathan said, incredulous. "We're mid-apocalypse."

"And Saturdays are for continuing education." He rose. "Up."

Before Eathan could protest, the ambient lighting changed. Shelves folded away; priceless scroll racks slid aside. A training ward—pearlescent, wickedly expensive—lowered from the ceiling like an NBA jumbotron made of qi.

Eathan eyed the porcelain lions now perilously close to the sparring mats. "Just clarifying—you invited me to break your antiques?"

"You get a fifty-percent discount," Taeril offered, almost kindly. "Collateral beauty fee."

"That's not clarifying, that's threatening."

Taeril's only answer was a lazy hand-wave. Glyph targets blossomed in midair.

"Receipt Printer. Show me control."

***

Two hours later, Eathan knelt amid ceramic shrapnel, chest heaving.

All around him, shimmering seals flew like buckshot. One missed by a centimeter, decapitating a six-figure jade immortal. Another ricocheted, detonating a Tang-era inkstone. Eathan dove, rolled, and swore; Taeril corrected stance with two-word critiques—"Higher elbow," "Less panic," and "Stop screaming."

Skill [Minor Reconstitution (Lv. 2)] has increased in proficiency! (87% → 98%)

Skill [Receipt Printer (Lv. 2)] has unlocked: Burst Mode!

Host may now produce up to eight seals in a 120-degree cone at once for a total cost of 1 Qi Token.

Glass sweat on his spine, Eathan finally landed the last volley clean. All eight tags were stapled to the moving glyph dead-center. He sagged back on his heels, panting—but weirdly proud. The majority of his shots had hit their marks, if you ignored priceless heirlooms.

Taeril flicked his gaze over the fixed pieces. "Correct target-selection rate: ninety-two. Keep it above ninety."

Praise? Threat? Both? Hard to tell.

Eathan beamed—then stepped onto a rolling talisman core, flinging a sharp receipt straight through a blue-white vase.

Crash.

Porcelain snowed the carpet. Both men stared at the glittering debris.

Taeril, legs propped on the desk, announced the final damages like a weather report. "Full cost: thirty-two million spirit-credits; your half: sixteen. I accept jade stones, mortal cash, or kidneys—though kidneys depreciate."

"I'll—uh—pay in installments." Eathan instantly slid towards the crevices on the ground, pressing both palms to the cracked bowl. Gold light stitched porcelain like lightning crocheting the night sky.

Skill [Minor Reconstitution (Lv. 2)] has been activated!

3 Qi Token has been subtracted from your [PROFILE]! (104 → 101)

3 Qi Token has been subtracted from your [PROFILE]! (101 → 98)

3 Qi Token has been subtracted from your [PROFILE]! (98 → 95)

One artifact… two… three… Each knit itself whole again, veins of living kintsugi. By the fourth, sweat trembled off his nose, and his hands were sore.

But the vase glowed perfect.

Eathan straightened, panting. Taking Taeril's words into consideration, he'd also decided to shift his emphasis on improving his [Primary Stats]. Without the cheat code, a man's got to survive, somehow.

Level up pings stacked until his HUD looked like a slot machine.

60 Qi Tokens have been subtracted from your [PROFILE] (95 → 35)

[Primary Stats] Has Been Updated!

[Strength]: Lv. 20 → Lv. 21
[Agility]: Lv. 25 → Lv. 30
[Intelligence]: Lv. 41 → Lv. 44

Host [Level]: Lv. 29 → Lv. 30

Eathan gave a quick glance at his overall [PROFILE], nodding in satisfaction. At least from first glance, the stats were beginning to look somewhat impressive.

Taeril, now perched on the desk like a bored cat, offered a rare nod. "Not bad for Saturday school."

Eathan wiped his forehead. "For the record," he said, eyes narrowing. "This counts as child labour."

The white-haired man didn't respond. He seemed to be focused on something on the tablet in his hands. Noticing Eathan's renewed curiosity, Taeril flicked his wrist, and the office lights dimmed back to "luxury lounge" skin.

Taeril skimmed a side monitor, turning the CCTV holo toward him. The next second, COZMART's dingy aisles filled the feed. Quine Long, in designer streetwear, was levitating ramen bricks into color-coded towers onscreen, artistically ignoring gravitational laws. A sticky note on the register read "No refunds, mortal fools."

Eathan blinked. "…You're monitoring the store?"

"I have inventory standards," the White Tiger said, perfectly serious.

A knock interrupted. Meng Yao slipped in, posture straight enough to cut air. "Commander White. Teams A and B report all scheduled rifts closed. Seven remain."

Chewie's head popped round her hip, brandishing a burlap sack that wriggled suspiciously.

"Team B also caught a Sky-scaled Marmot from Rift T-2092," she said, eyes gleaming. "Late night rooftop grill party? Folk legend says it cures crow's-feet."

"Also good for complexion," Meng Yao added dryly.

Eathan's stomach somersaulted. "We're eating a spirit marmot?"

Chewie shrugged.

"Free protein."

Taeril signed the requisition with a flourish. "Approved. Remove the venom sacs first; they taste like battery acid."

Eathan blinked. Of course, he would know that.

"Coming, boss?" he asked.

Taeril had already drifted half-into shadow, the office lights dimming at his gesture.

"Perhaps later," he murmured. "Visitors arriving soon."

Right then, the air behind him crackled—just a hairline fizz, like code compiling inside a thundercloud.

"Who—"

"Door, Eathan."

Eathan obeyed, retreating into the hallway where roasted-marmot aroma was beginning to mingle with rain and ozone. He glanced back once: silver hair, a thousand-yard stare, and a shimmer at Taeril's shoulder that looked less like light and more like numeric symbols.

The door snicked shut. Hallway lights hummed. Chewie munched candied hawthorn, absent-mindedly twirling the sack; the marmot screeched in profound regret.

"So," Eathan muttered, "sky-marmot kebabs?"

"Helps with wrinkles," Chewie confirmed, utterly straight-faced.

Ahead, drones updated the sector map: seven angry red dots pulsing like metastatic stars. Meng Yao's voice crackled over the PA, calm as a war drum:

"All members—Shift Three launches at dawn. Time to wrap things up."

Eathan flexed his newly upgraded hand. Somewhere inside, [Auspicious Aura] chimed like a loaded dice.

Seven rifts left, three days on the clock, and a barbecue with immortal vermin.

Area 001 was just getting warmed up.