COZMART: Corner Shop of Visiting Gods

Shanghai had never been quiet. But ever since the Sealed Chamber's activation, the city hummed like a leyline struck by tuning forks.

To a regular mortal, it felt like spring air charged with caffeine.

To someone like Eathan, who had spent the past week shoving corrupted rift signatures back into the spiritual ether, it felt like standing on the edge of a very polite apocalypse.

Pedestrian traffic flowed as usual, but here and there, things blinked—half-second glitches where a businessman's reflection showed a two-headed serpent, or a pork bun stand glimmered briefly before a dragon's ward.

Chewie was thriving.

"I love inter-realm tourism," the eleven-year-old declared, biting into a rice cake. "Everything smells like crime and suppressed celestial influence."

The mortal trio was less convinced.

Luke had dragged them all out to "absorb local flavour," which—based on his itinerary—meant getting lost near three (glitched) temples, two (divine) tax offices, and a pop-up shrine disguised as a vending machine.

"My legs are dying," Emily muttered, massaging her calves as they walked.

"My soul is dying," Luke added. "We haven't eaten in four hours. That's, like, starvation in tourist time."

Chewie was already scanning the alleyways like a war general surveying rations. "Left turn. Ninth alley. One of these folds has food. I can smell the sodium."

"Really," Emily said as they turned down the semi-lit street, "this is definitely not on Maps."

"It's on RealmNet," Chewie replied sweetly. "You just don't have the clearance."

"What's RealmNet?"

"Don't worry about it."

And sure enough, down a side path barely wider than a bike lane—wedged between a mahjong parlour and an AR-generated shrine—they found it: a little lantern-lit hotpot shop, its painted characters glowing under warm light. A handwritten menu dangled at the door, shifting languages depending on who squinted at it.

Luke grinned. "Wow. This is totally one of those hidden gems you only discover on niche blog itineraries."

Eathan, suspicious, pushed open the wooden screen door and stepped inside. The warmth hit him first—thick with spice and incense, the smell of boiling broth tangled with brown sugar and spicy onions.

"Eyo! Receipt boy!" came a familiar voice from across the room.

He blinked. At a corner table surrounded by empty plates sat a young woman, face plastered with a curved grin and holding a bottle of rice wine.

"Oh no," Eathan muttered.

"Oh yes," said Chewie, eyes gleaming behind him. "Is that Sector 24F's snake spirit again?"

Indeed, it was the snake spirit from Sector 24F, one who had flirted with Meng Yao during one of the rift rallies.

The snake waved him over.

"Come, come!" she said. "We just got a second pot going. Bring your mortal entourage. The broth's quarter-sentient now, but it only bites if you're rude."

Before Eathan could respectfully decline, she hooked his sleeve with a chopstick and grinned. "It's on us."

Which was how Eathan ended up wedged between Chewie and a man so pale he looked like a ghost.

"My name is Yan Ming," the man introduced himself bleakly to the group. "A second-year literature major at Kudan University."

Chewie leaned toward Eathan and whispered: "Ghost merchant. Died in 1643. Mostly peddle regrets now in the Realm of the Passing. Definitely smuggles cursed antiques."

Beside the ghost from 1643 sat the snake spirit, grinning as she downed the rice wine.

"And I'm Yueyue," the snake spirit said with fluttering eyes. "Third-year student at Kudan University. Absolutely have never hexed a node server in my life."

And beside the snake spirit sat a wiry man in modern streetwear and an enormous calligraphy brush strapped to his back.

"Call me Sen." He adjusted his brush like a scholar about to duel with words. "I'm the seventh reincarnation of the Tang Poet Sen Ren. I write with oolong, mourn with soup."

Chewie again, sotto voce: "Human. Definitely. But has weird main-character energy."

When the introductions circled back, Luke—bless him—took it upon himself to match the vibe.

"Luke Tam," he declared, striking a pose. "Earth realm. Pisces sun, Sagittarius moon. I came here seeking enlightenment—or dinner. Whichever is spicier."

Emily, unbothered, adjusted her sleeves. "Emily Lutin. Nineteen. Triple major. Westpoint University."

There was a beat.

Ah, Eathan thought. She's a genius.

Sera smiled and simply said, "Sera. Dream."

Chewie grunted, still chewing. "Chewie. Don't ask."

When it came to him, Eathan opened his mouth—and realized every possible answer sounded fake.

"Eathan Lin," he said eventually. "Semi-local."

Hotpot was brought out—steaming broth, layered cabbage, lotus root that shimmered when stirred counterclockwise. Someone set down sauce trays that whispered flavour recommendations depending on your spirit static resonance.

The group munched in, the sound of chopsticks clattering against the pot's edge. Side conversations broke out in small surges.

"Shanghai was better before the railroads," Yan Ming the ghost muttered, refilling his cup with steam. "They say I'm just bitter, but bitterness is the correct flavour for nostalgia."

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"Oh yeah? Well I've been reborn seven times," Sen announced, intensely sipping oolong tea. "Each incarnation, more poetic. This time I'm taking a workshop."

"So, you're actually a poet?" Luke ventured.

"A reincarnation," he corrected. "Sen Ren is my origin. Oolong is my anchor. Without them, I lose meter."

Luke: "?"

Next to him, Sera was nodding politely while stirring the broth with unsettling accurateness. The snake lady leaned into Eathan's shoulder and whispered, "You'd be ssss-urprised how many 'mortals' are just retired divinities on sssss-abbatical."

"I would not," Eathan muttered, staring down his bubbling lotus root.

And just when he thought the hotpot night might settle into relative normalcy, Emily struck again. Across the table, the girl swirled her chopsticks once and turned to him with a casual smile that immediately set off internal alarms.

"So," she began, ladling broth. "Your boss."

Eathan coughed.

"He's not really 'operations' material," Emily said, stabbing into a beef meatball with her chopsticks. "I looked up him and his start-up. Neither exists. Neither does not exist either, which is somehow worse."

She paused.

"And that holopad in your bag—why does it flicker near temples? And shrines? And once, near a heavily salted yam stall."

"I-it's a—uh—regional Wi-Fi desync issue," Eathan lied weakly. "Common with… divine hotpots."

Emily stared at him.

Chewie leaned over. "He means spirit static saturated hotspots."

"Right," Eathan mumbled. "I'm fine, by the way. Not being recruited into a pyramid scheme or anything."

Emily creased her brows. "That's exactly what someone in a pyramid scheme would say."

Eathan forced a laugh, too tight around the edges. Three months ago, he might have been giddy over the fact that Emily Lutin was worried about him. But in this present—this current hotpot-sharing, inter-realm-roaming, deity-adjacent present—he couldn't afford to process that.

Because Sera Dream had just said something strange.

"…No, it's not always heat that causes spiritual residue," she told Yan Ming, voice casual. "Sometimes it's temporal misalignment. You see that in tier-4 hauntings."

The ghost raised a brow, intrigued. "True. Most people don't know that."

Sera just smiled.

Eathan stared, listening as the girl shifted into some deep conversation with the snake spirit and the ghost, asking strange questions with unsettling fluency. Something about spiritual paths and domain saturation. His suspicion flared. Emily was sharp, but Sera? Sera was too smooth, too calm, and far too knowledgeable.

So, when the table conversation turned to whether the snake spirit could teach hotpot etiquette via meme tarot, Eathan quietly slipped away, ducked behind a privacy curtain shaped like a seashell, and activated his wristpad.

He scrolled to his most reliable chaos advisor.

[CALLING: Li Wei — Mor(t)al Support Division...]

The line rang three times. Then—

"…You better be dying," Li Wei whispered, voice dry as overcooked rice.

Eathan blinked. "No, why?"

"Can't talk long. We're all locked inside the Chamber," he muttered. "The Jade Deity issued full sequestration protocol. No one leaves until the Hearing's done."

"Are you okay?" Eathan asked.

"In a spiritual sense? No. In a digestive sense?" A pause. "Hell no."

From the background came a chorus of suppressed rage.

"I told you this rice tastes like disillusionment!" Great Peng snapped.

"And that tea has no character arc!" Lady Foxfire cried.

More ruckus ensued, and Eathan managed to piece out that some commander was audibly meditating with clenched fists, while another had made themselves a cup of chamomile tea with just air.

Li Wei sighed. "The food here tastes like ennui seasoned with government budget cuts."

"...But you're allowed calls?" Eathan asked, lowering his voice instinctively as he heard more sobbing in the background.

"Why do you think I'm whispering?"

Another voice cut in, staticky and furious—Great Peng again, it sounded like: "I will not eat sublimated rice paste again. I was born in the Era of Glory!"

Followed by Lady Foxfire: "The tea is so bland it offends my lineage."

Somewhere, a distant bowl shattered.

"Uhm." Eathan winced. "How's Mister White holding up?"

"Still playing five-dimensional chess," Li Wei said dryly. "Drinking tea like it's a blood ritual. Council's rattled."

"Seems like he's just chilling." Eathan hesitated, a touch petulant. "Then why doesn't he ever pick up my calls?"

Silence.

"...He doesn't pick up any calls," said Li Wei.

Pause.

"Wait." Li Wei sounded genuinely disturbed. "Has anyone ever seen him pick up a phone?"

They sat there for a moment—one in an alleyway hotpot booth, the other in divine lockdown—bonded by the strange, shared horror of realizing their white-haired mutual might be physically incapable of answering a call.

"I've only seen him dial," Eathan admitted.

"Me too," Li Wei muttered.

"Oh lord."

They took a solemn breath.

"What's happening out where you are?" Li Wei asked, steering the topic before the implications became too profound. "Sounds rowdy."

"Hotpot. Inter-realm tourists. Possibly being conned by a self-proclaimed Tang poet."

"Sounds about right."

Then, Eathan cleared his throat. "Actually, another reason I called—there's someone. A friend. Sera Dream. She's mortal, I think, but…"

He glanced back at the hotpot table, where Sera was laughing with the ghost from 1643 while unintentionally drawing sigils in soy sauce.

"She could be trouble," he said. "The quiet kind."

He gave a brief rundown. The sigils. The spectral field sensing. The casual conversation handling with the ghost and snake spirit like it was lunch napkins.

On the other end, Li Wei's tone sharpened with a whisper-laced edge. "Tread carefully."

Eathan tensed. "You're saying she's dangerous?"

"No," Li Wei said slowly. "I'm saying she might be important. Might not even know it herself."

That gave Eathan pause.

"There've been mortals before," the man continued, "high-affinity types. Born under overlapping spiritual coordinates. Some don't awaken until much later. Some… never do. They just live strange, charmed lives—or cursed ones."

Eathan thought of Sera's unbothered demeanour, the way she slipped past sigil-bound boundaries without a blink.

"If you're really curious," Li Wei added, "ask about her family. Sometimes it skips a generation."

"Right…"

But before he could say more, the restaurant lights flickered.

First, a slow dim, then complete darkness.

Eathan froze. So did the rest of the group—except Chewie, who sighed like this was mildly annoying background noise.

"Ultra minor rift," she said, licking sauce off her fingers. "Looks like a dust spirit trying to pull a prank. Probably a runt. Doesn't even deserve a class ranking. Smack it once and it'll go cry to its elder."

Around the table, the mortals were the first to react. Emily, blinking, stood up slightly. "Did the breaker blow?"

Luke turned on his wristpad flashlight, glancing around. The flashlight became dysfunctional instantly, but he continued glancing around anyway. "Uh. Guys?"

And Sera?

Sera didn't even flinch.

Instead, she calmly reached into her messenger bag and pulled out what looked like an old scroll rolled in wax paper. She unwrapped it like a snack bar.

Eathan blinked. He dropped out of the call with Li Wei and edged towards Chewie in mild concern. "Wait—what is she doing?"

Chewie leaned closer. "That's a spatial tag. Tier-3 ward linked to a reactive trigger. But how'd a mortal get her hands on that?"

They watched as Sera held the scroll up and casually snapped a photo of it with her camera.

Click.

Reality folded with a polite ripple. The light spirit squeaked and vanished like a popped soap bubble. The lights flickered back on.

Chewie stared.

Eathan blinked at the table.

"Did you just spatial shift the rift through a parallel ward?" he asked, genuinely impressed and mildly terrified.

Sera tilted her head, frowning. "What are you talking about?"

"...You didn't do that on purpose?"

"The blackout? Yeah, that happens sometimes when I'm around." She sat back down and retrieved her chopsticks. "It's kind of a thing."

Eathan was still stuck on "spatial shift."

"I've had weird luck since I was a kid." Sera gave a slight shrug. "One time, I fell off a slide and hit my head. My parents freaked out, went to some temple and asked for divine protection or something. Been carrying these ever since."

She pulled up her shoulder bag, and inside, Eathan glimpsed at least five premade scrolls, each etched with sigils of warding, protection, and resilience. One of them pulsed faintly in a purple light.

Chewie leaned forward, curious. "Do you remember which deity they prayed to?"

Sera popped a quail egg into her mouth. "Qilin, I think? I thought for the longest time it was a superstitious thing."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Chewie blinked.

Eathan blinked harder.

Chewie muttered, "Oh. That explains a lot."

Eathan, blinking rapidly: "Wait—what?"

But the eleven-year-old had already gone back to her hotpot.

"Eat, you're gonna need the strength," she mumbled without looking up. "Life's probably not gonna get better for you anytime soon."