COZMART: Corner Shop of Visiting Gods

GRAND OBSERVATORY. AREA 007.

At the very edge of global jurisdiction—far beyond mortal radars, SpiritTube drones, or even the more adventurous tourist spirits—sat the Grand Observatory of Area 007.

The structure itself was a sphere of black glass and star metal, cracked open like an egg at the top to let the sky bleed through. From here, you could see everything: the fractured shimmer of the polar aurora, the leyline currents spiralling into the Northern Void, and—if you squinted past three layers of protective talisman filters—the edge of the Spirit-Beast Realm's final tether.

It was beautiful.

It was remote.

And Great Peng was already annoyed.

He lounged—no, sprawled—across a throne-like reclining seat upholstered in cloud-feathers and unnecessary drama. His massive, golden wings flared occasionally, with hues corresponding to the passing moods. A silk robe embroidered with sunset trailed off his shoulder, barely holding on like the last thread of his patience.

A golden origami crane hovered in front of him, flapping with too much cheer for something carrying divine orders.

He squinted at it, then sneered.

"Last time the Jade Deity called one of these 'friendly games,' it cracked a tectonic plate and wiped out half of São Paulo's spirit fields," he said. "But sure. 'Unity Initiative.' Sounds about right."

The crane, as if offended, fluttered faster and chirped:

[Council Directive]

Realm-Barrier Games – Attendance Mandatory. Each Area must submit five competitors. Failure to comply will result in karmic audit.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Great Peng groaned, dragging one wing over his face.

"Five competitors per Area, no commander exemptions, mandatory unity... Gods, they're really going all out this year, especially with the attendance policy."

"Commander," ventured a subordinate cautiously, clutching a scroll in wing, "it's just a friendly competition—"

Peng tossed a grape into the void; it vanished with a pop of dimensional feedback.

"Friendly competition?" he interrupted, voice dripping with annoyance. "JD calls it unity. I call it political theatrics. They just want to profit off the SpiritTube views. Otherwise, why are they planning to have it streaming only under official platforms?"

He flicked the crane, sending it fluttering indignantly into the air, its golden wings flicking with an offended chirp.

Another subordinate scurried over from the edge of the observation platform, dodging stray wind talismans and keeping their clipboard close like a shield. "Sir, the venue has been locked. Mount Kunlun."

"Oh?" Peng mused aloud, tapping his fingers against his armrest. "That place is prosperous with qi, overflowing with divine essence. Excellent backdrop for streaming."

His eyes sparkled, already pulling up his virtual wardrobe. "We'll need new robes, of course. Something dramatic. I have followers to please."

His subordinate cleared his throat. "Commander, considering the area, aren't you worried about... them?"

Peng paused.

His expression flickered—not just annoyance now, but something older, more brittle at the edges.

"…Guardian territory, huh."

He turned away from the view.

Behind his eyes, a memory: four figures once laughing in the sun. Vermillion Bird and Black Tortoise wrestling over a spilled wine jug. The White Tiger, his hair tied back with war ribbon, smirking at the Azure Dragon's increasingly poetic rant about 'celestial aesthetics.' They stood shoulder to shoulder on a cliff above Kunlun—four pillars of divine power once unified, back when the world had only one sky. Back then, they had been invincible, their names all the way up in the Heavenly Realm resonating with a harmony Peng once envied.

But that was before the Null Incursion, before betrayal.

Before silence.

Great Peng's wings shifted slightly, folding in. He shook off the memory with a grim chuckle. "Listen, little birds. If you ever see those Guardians in one place, don't bother asking questions. Fly. Opposite direction. Quickly."

His subordinates swallowed audibly, paling even further. "But… this time's Games are so dangerously close to the ancient territories—"

Great Peng cut him off with a laugh, bright and razor-sharp. "Perfect! Fly faster when calamity strikes, then."

Settling back into his chair, he swirled the projection screen back into orbit and posed against the polar lights.

"But before that... It's going to be one hell of a show." He reclined, eyes gleaming genuine excitement.

"I can feel it. This time 'round, things will get extra exciting."

***

HQ. AREA 001.

Back at HQ, chaos reigned supreme.

The lobby had become a scene of pure, unchecked chaos. Interns ran in overlapping zigzags like mice escaping an exploding microwave. Holographic screens buzzed overhead in a technomagical seizure. The central digital bulletin board flickered violently with a singular, unholy announcement:

[CONDITIONAL DRAFT FOR TEAM 001: APPLICATION PORTAL OPEN]

The application portal had, predictably, crashed within seconds.

A shriek came from the hallway. Someone else dropped a tower of resumes. A stabilizer exploded into tears over "just not feeling qualified," which, in Area 001, was code for "failed to close a minor rift by sneezing."

In the eye of the hurricane sat Taeril White.

He was serene, one leg crossed over the other, sipping from a thermos as if chaos were background jazz. The black coffee in his cup didn't even ripple.

Across the room, Chewie and Meng Yao each presided at one end of a long, crystalline desk labeled "Draft Review Panel." A massive applicant spreadsheet hovered between them, labelled "Hopefuls (and Delusionals)." Chewie's expression was halfway between gleeful sadism and corporate efficiency, clearly savouring her newfound power.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Nearby, Eathan squinted at a hastily scribbled list pinned to a board, eyes widening in sudden realization.

"Wait—" he sputtered, pointing, "why am I listed as pre-approved again?"

Taeril barely glanced up, offering a half-hearted smile. "Consider yourself voluntold."

Eathan deflated on the spot, while Chewie grinned wickedly, beckoning the next candidate forward. "Alright, first victim—my bad, volunteer. Step up!"

Applicants lined up like condemned criminals.

First came a Node Manager, proudly presenting four hundred pages of diagnostic logs. "I've only caused two critical collapses in the past year! And they were both intentional!"

Chewie raised one eyebrow. "Intentional?"

"To test resilience protocols."

"Next."

A Stabilizer shuffled forward promptly. "In the past decade, I've single-handedly managed seven minor rift closures with just one ultra minor Armageddon. Technically, it wasn't even my fault."

"Next."

A retired agent hobbled forward, glaring as he lifted his head. "In my day, we fought rifts barefoot. Uphill. Both ways."

Chewie stared dumbfounded. "Next!"

Then came the Mahjong Grandma.

An elderly woman shuffled to the table, slamming down a Mahjong tile with startling authority. "All I'm sayin'," she declared, adjusting her jade bangle, "is that my Mahjong team sealed a Class-B rift in '89. Bare-handed. No formation circle, just raw qi and trauma. The qi was mine. The trauma was theirs."

Chewie leaned forward, intrigued. "Do you have proof?"

"I brought the skull."

She slammed a spiritual beast skull on the table with a grin.

Chewie blinked, appearing impressed for the first time. "You... are terrifying."

Eathan, standing nearby, looked increasingly alarmed.

Amidst the chaos, Taeril took another sip, gaze lax with amusement. Eathan shook his head helplessly. He glanced upwards, half-expecting celestial intervention, but received only another smug, mysterious smile from the white-haired menace.

"Relax, Eathan," the White Tiger drawled. "It's merely interrealm diplomacy."

Eathan groaned, resigned. "If this is diplomacy, I'd hate to see your wars."

Taeril's eyes twinkled. "Oh, just wait."

The "tests" became more ridiculous by the minute. There was a blindfolded rift simulation (complete with screaming projections), an attempt to make Chewie laugh (failed), and a "match Commander White's emotional tone" challenge that ended with one poor soul reaching philosophical burnout.

Eathan leaned back in the bench, watching in disbelief as the next candidate attempted to serenade Meng Yao with a tearful rendition of "Realm-Barrier Blues," complete with interpretive spirit ribbon dancing.

Meng Yao maintained an immaculate poker face, her eyes betraying nothing as she jotted notes in a ledger that seemed suspiciously blank. When the final wail faded, the performer stood expectantly, panting.

"Impressive," Meng Yao said. "But I asked you to demonstrate your ability to handle unexpected rifts, not reenact your last breakup."

Eathan stifled laughter as the candidate slumped away, murmuring something about artistic integrity. At the long table, Chewie took another threatening bite from her tanghulu, her gaze disappointed but ever vigilant.

"Weak," she muttered darkly. "Next!"

Shaking his head, Eathan retreated to an overturned supply crate near the far wall. Yes—he was still processing the fact that he'd been "voluntold" into what was basically a multirealm blood-sport disguised as diplomacy.

Meng Yao, ever the oasis of placid dread, finally decided that she needed a break as well. She leaned against the wall beside him. "You seem stressed."

"I am," Eathan said flatly.

"How novel."

She folded her hands over her lap, eyes tracking the next applicant being chased off the testing platform by Chewie, wielding a clipboard like an execution decree.

"The Realm-Barrier Games," she said, "aren't just vanity exercises. They're one of the few ways an Area can raise its standing without invoking combat clauses."

Eathan turned to her, blinking. "That means…?"

"If your Area performs well," she continued, "the Jade Deity tends to reward with resources. Sometimes entire leyline parcels. Other times—" she tilted her head, considering, "—a talking tea kettle that summons rain spirits. Or a luxury qi cruiser. Or twelve pallets of ginseng. Once, Area 004 got a phoenix egg. Hatched prematurely in slime instead of feathers."

"…Huh." Eathan scratched his head. "Didn't know that was possible."

"Neither did the phoenix."

They both looked up in time to see a hopeful applicant attempting spiritual karaoke—a required challenge, apparently—only to be struck mid-verse by a falling ceiling tile. Chewie took a slow, judging bite of her tanghulu, eyes glowing a demonic red.

"Leave before I change my mind." She sighed. "Next."

It went on like that for hours, absurdity bleeding into exhaustion. Eathan slouched, chin propped against his hand, staring bleakly at the candidate attempting spiritual meditation with far too much sincerity. At some point, he was fairly certain a few names on the list weren't even from Area 001. One guy claimed to be from "Area 010," which didn't exist. Another brought a forged clearance badge signed by "Chairman Long."

The Review Board slowly deteriorated. Meng Yao maintained serene poise. Chewie began assigning scores with dramatic death stamps. Taeril had vanished hours ago, presumably into the void—or possibly to get more coffee.

But between the chaos, there were real contenders.

Operatives with clean track records. Fighters with strategic heads. Specialists who could hold their own against node collapses and psychic backlash. Watching them, Eathan couldn't shake the feeling that his name didn't belong up there.

When Finn finally walked in, the air around him practically sparkled with hope and aspirations. Meng Yao glanced down at her notes, eyebrows raised in mild approval.

The boy beamed under the attention, flipping his holopad to reveal a pristine rift-completion record. "So," he said, dichromatic eyes sparkling as they peered forward. "Where do I sign?"

"Finnian Hawthorne," she began, "your record is impressive, but how do you explain your… special condition?"

"Condition?"

"Your jinx curse. It's still classified as one of Area 001's Seven Active Mysteries."

Finn blinked. "What jinx?"

As if on cue, a distant grinding noise echoed through the ceiling. A tile fell. Someone screamed. The central HVAC system made a sound like a dying whale.

"…Oh," he said, breaking into a sheepish smile.

The entire board exhaled.

***

Across the city, Luke, Emily, and Sera sprinted through the airport, bags trailing wildly behind them as they reached the correct terminal mere moments before check-in closed.

"Told you it was Terminal Two," Emily snapped breathlessly, shooting Luke a glare.

Luke shrugged. "Numbers, letters—same thing, right?"

Sera just sighed, too dignified to look winded, brushing stray strands of hair behind one ear.

Eathan had come to see them off, and now stood awkwardly near the gate. Taking a hesitant step forward, he hugged each of them before coming to a halt in front of Emily. He paused, thought about it, overthought, then stiffly extended a hand.

"Safe travels."

Emily raised an eyebrow but shook his hand gamely, clearly fighting an amused smile. Sera, quietly watching, tucked the scene into her mental folder of "Embarrassing Eathan Lin Moments."

As the other two passed through the first gate, she lingered, stepping close.

"All the coffee you gave me last semester—Emily still thinks it's because I won a lottery that included thirty BOGO coupons."

Eathan coughed. "It's fine... Let's just leave it like that."

"And this time, you had all of spring break," Sera said, sighing like a disappointed guidance counsellor.

She handed him a folded card. Inside, he glimpsed two neatly written account handles—Emily's underlined twice.

Eathan blinked.

"Hit us up sometime," Sera whispered conspiratorially. "You know, if you ever want to remember what normal conversations feel like."

"..."

"Bro!" Luke called from the security gate. "We can HoloChat during your internship at the Celestial-Integrated Multirealm Stabilization Registry!"

Eathan waved back, baffled by the entire sentence.

The gate doors sealed. He watched as they vanished behind security, as their plane disappeared through veils disguised as clouds. For a moment, Eathan simply stood there, feeling strangely adrift between the divine reality and the mundanity of mortal life.

He stood for a long while. Then, his tablet dinged.

[NOTICE]:

Team 001 Final Team Selection Confirmed

Eathan's breath hitched.

He rushed back to the HQ, ran up the flights of stairs, and pushed open the door to the briefing room—

Five heads turned to him at once.

"Late," Chewie said without looking up.

Willow raised a gauntlet the size of Eathan's torso. "Thumbs-up."

"Yo!" Finn waved enthusiastically, twirling a stylus between his fingers. "We can continue our Tokyo bonding!"

Then, his chair creaked ominously.

"...Don't say anything jinx-y," Eathan whispered.

Finally, he turned his attention to the new face in the room. A woman with sleek black hair in a high ponytail glanced up. In her hand was a dagger so polished it could have blinded Eathan's eyeballs if he stared straight at it.

"Esther," she said. He waited for her to continue. She didn't.

"Esther," Eathan repeated, nodding awkwardly. "Nice to meet you?"

This was his team.

Five operatives and a divine war game. One click away from multi-realm headlines. Taeril's voice echoed dryly in his head:

"Relax. It's merely interrealm diplomacy."

And if reading his mind, Chewie added helpfully, "With a side of potential death."

"…"

Perfectly normal. Absolutely not terrifying at all.

Eathan exhaled slowly, like a man walking blind into traffic. Then his [SYSTEM] blinked with a cheerful chime.

[Main Quest (new!)]:

Survive the Realm-Barrier Games!

Rewards: Distributed upon completion of Main Quest.

Eathan: "…"

Eathan: "Dammit."