NOVEL NEXT Chapter 4 | "I Missed You"
"So you're the vessel?"
The black-haired stranger stretched his hand toward him in a slow, almost gentle manner. Yet it was radiating the kind of suppressed force that made Eathan's instincts scream.
Somewhere above the roiling panic, the [SYSTEM] interface flashed violently into his vision. Bright red warnings scrolled across the translucent blue screen, overloading his senses.
[SYSTEM] NOTIFICATION
[CRITICAL ALERT]
Host in lethal range! Emergency action required!
Draw full Qi Token reserves to activate a random [Skill Tree] extraction?
Eathan could barely think.
His breath sawed through his throat; the smell of scorched metal and wet pavement filled his nose. His vision blurred from the blood trickling near his temple.
Yet somehow, through the haze and shock, he managed a jerky nod. He had only one Qi Token left anyway; what was there to lose?
1 Qi Token has been subtracted from your [PROFILE]! (1 → 0)
The [SYSTEM] chimed cheerfully—an almost mocking brightness amidst his looming downfall.
A slot machine blinked into existence at the center of his HUD, reels spinning with ridiculous fanfare. Bright deer antlers, 7s, and little icons of scrolls and talismans spun rapidly.
It might have been funny if Eathan wasn't on the verge of dying.
The reels clattered to a stop, and confetti exploded inside the interface.
[SKILL ACQUIRED!]
▸ SKILL: Receipt Printer (Lv.1)
▸ USE: Converts one scanned item into a single-use "receipt" spell
▸ COST: 1 Qi Token/receipt
Tutorial mode initialising...
No Qi Token required for first-time activation…
The [SYSTEM] yanked the skill into action. Without warning, the barcode scanner perched on the register twitched, tore free of its cradle, and arced straight into Eathan's grip. The dull plastic shell rippled to lacquered onyx veined with gold, a jade-bright trigger humming under his index finger. Instinct jerked his wrist downward, sighting the stray Poppin' Peach Bubble Gum pack skidding across the linoleum.
Beep!
A crisp beam carved runes over the crumpled foil, and the scanner coughed. From a narrow slot beneath the muzzle fluttered a strip of parchment—thick, gold-edged, a fragrance mixing pine and printer ink—that slapped into his waiting palm.
A receipt.
At least, it looked like one at first glance—until the paper pulsed, crimson and silver sigils racing across its surface in complex, archaic lattices. The writing twisted, flickered, then locked into a final seal.
Eathan barely had time to register the weight of it before the "receipt" detonated right in front of him.
The slip of paper exploded outward in a burst of blinding fireworks, scattering shockwaves that rattled pavement and sent a concussive force slamming into everything nearby.
The black-haired man recoiled, not dramatically, but enough to be forced a half-step back, the coffee cup in his hand shattering into vaporised mist.
Eathan gawked.
He gawked harder when he realized the man barely even looked annoyed. He seemed... intrigued, at most.
"It's doomed," he thought blankly.
He struggled upright, wincing at the new, hot sting along his ribs. His [HP] bar blinked at the edge of his vision.
22%—and steadily dropping.
The stranger rolled his wrist lightly, brushing away the last threads of lingering smoke. Then, eyes gleaming faintly green, he tilted his head.
"You don't remember me?" he asked, voice pitched in almost conversational curiosity.
And then he smiled—a slow, sharp thing—and said something else.
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Eathan heard it. He heard the word.
But the moment the sound reached the air, it warped, as if reality itself refused to process it.
If he had to rationalise it, the phenomenon might have been something along the lines of a censorship distortion. A heavy, glitching static, swallowing the name whole.
Eathan stared at him, hollow-eyed. He wasn't even sure if he was breathing. No scream could be found in his throat, nor were there any desperate attempts to scramble to run.
Some part of him, buried deep under fear and adrenaline, simply... accepted it.
So this is how I die.
Ironically, not from car crashes or basketball injuries or academic stress.
Just casually murdered by a guy who looked like he stepped out of a luxury fragrance ad.
His [HP] continued ticking downward.
20%.
19%.
I'm really going to die, Eathan thought with disbelieving clarity. I totally jinxed it earlier.
And then, he heard it.
A sigh.
So soft it barely stirred the broken air, and so quiet it should have been lost amidst the crackling ruin around him.
But Eathan heard it with utmost clarity.
The sigh slid through the noise, terror, and even [SYSTEM] alerts like a knife through silk.
And the next instant, the black-haired man was ripped off his feet.
An invisible force slammed into him sideways, sending his frame crashing through what looked like remnants of COZMART's back wall. Plaster and concrete exploded outward as his body cratered into it with brutal force.
Eathan flinched violently, instinctively shielding his face against the flying debris. When he dared look again, the stranger was already moving—rolling back to his feet with the fluid grace of something far too used to surviving direct attacks. His black hair whipped around him in ragged strands, and he wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with a slow, deliberate hand.
For the first time, a glint of real aggression flickered across his face.
The man stepped back once. Then, with a quick pivot of weight, he launched forward with a punch that cracked the air itself. The force behind it warped the space around his fist, the motion too fast for mortal eyes to catch.
The target of his attack?
It was someone who had materialised in the middle of the shattered shop, as calm and inevitable as a tide.
Mister White.
Eathan gasped.
Or rather—Taeril White, COZMART's long-suffering owner, standing there as if the ruins of his store didn't bother him at all.
His cream-coloured hair caught the broken light, and his eyes—those bottomless obsidian eyes—shone like sharpened glass. At the approaching enemy, he didn't flinch, not even so much as blink. Instead, with a small step to the side, Taeril caught the incoming punch mid-swing.
With two fingers.
The impact sent out a shockwave that cracked the pavement at his feet. Dust and smoke spiralled outward from the point of contact, rattling the skeletal remains of the shop.
For a breathless moment, the world seemed to hold still as all sound was swallowed by the force of two impossible worlds colliding.
Eathan could only stare, for he no longer retained any words or thoughts. All that was left was the overwhelming, animal part of his brain that shrieked at him to stay still and pray the predators forgot he existed.
The two figures in the wreckage blurred into motion. At least, he assumed they were exchanging moves, because his eyes couldn't even track them. Both moved inhumanly fast. One second they were standing apart, and the next they crashed into each other like colliding storms.
A strangled sound escaped Eathan's throat—pathetic excuse for a warning—but it barely left his cracked lips.
Somewhere behind him, the battered cash register shimmered faintly, releasing an odd glint that made his stomach lurch.
Nausea rose, thick and heavy.
The copper taste of blood drowned his mouth.
The black-haired stranger lunged forward again. This time, it was a punch aimed straight at his boss's chest. It was undoubtedly the kind of blow that, if it connected, would have folded a mortal in half like paper.
Taeril White moved.
Not rushed, not desperate.
Almost lazy.
He slid sideways with a casual grace, his hand vanishing from view, then reappearing directly above the man's head. In one smooth, effortless motion, he pressed his palm down.
Crack.
The stranger's entire body was driven into the concrete.
The ground splintered beneath the impact, fractures spider-webbing outward in a jagged halo while dust and fragments exploded into the air. Even standing meters away, Eathan felt the shudder vibrate through his teeth. The breath whooshed out of him—not from impact, but sheer, visceral horror. A fresh mouthful of blood coated his tongue, sharp and metallic.
It was almost as if he'd been the one smashed into the floor.
But the next second, his eyes bulged. Unbelievably, the man beneath Mister White's hand wasn't broken. Not even close.
Slowly, he lifted his head from the fractured ground. Blood ran down the side of his face, dripping from a shallow gash at his hairline. Instead of looking pained, though, he smiled.
Goosebumps filled Eathan's entire back in an instant.
It wasn't a comforting smile. It was half-mad and fully inhuman—the kind of grin a beast wore after tasting blood for the first time in centuries. The man pushed a hand through his tangled hair, smearing blood through the black strands like war paint.
Then, he laughed—a low, shuddering, almost thrilled laughter.
"I missed you," he said, voice rough with something between hunger and longing.
The words rolled out like a confession.
A terrible, gleeful promise.
Taeril's reply came without a shred of hesitation. His voice was ice.
"Fuck off."
The profanity bent against the backdrop of this absurd reality, the exchange burning itself into Eathan's brain. He didn't know how to react to the situation anymore. Should he be curious? Concerned?
Eathan's consciousness wavered, vision sliding in and out of focus. The colours of the wrecked shop blurred together—steel beams, broken neon lights, blood against grey concrete. Through the buzzing in his ears, he thought he heard the two men speak further. Their voices dropped, too low for him to catch, leaving nothing more than broken syllables and shapes of meaning slipping through the fog.
He craned his neck, forcing his vision upright as he tried to make out the discourse. The next second, he saw—through his dimly lit eyes—the black-haired stranger rise to his full height.
He saw him reach into the swirling air, somehow producing a second cup of black coffee.
He extended it out to Taeril. For one surreal heartbeat, the gesture looked almost polite, as if offering a truce.
Or maybe a reunion gift.
Taeril didn't hesitate. He snatched the cup from the man's hand, then lunged forward with another punch. The stranger smiled faintly as he stepped back, the incoming fist missing his nose by a bare inch. His form shimmered like a glitch against the ruined air. Then he vanished.
Simply disappeared into nothingness.
Eathan's muscles gave out. He slumped sideways against a broken counter, blinking sluggishly as Taeril downed the entire coffee in a few long, slow gulps.
Then, without fanfare, his boss turned toward him.
His cream-blond hair was tousled, wool sweater torn at the sleeves, and splinters of concrete dust clung to his shirt. And yet, his obsidian-black eyes were sharp.
Sharp and unsettlingly calm.
Eathan saw him coming. The figure blurred toward him across the broken shop.
And then—
mercifully—
the darkness folded him under.