COZMART: Corner Shop of Visiting Gods

Eathan moved across the battlefield, his throat clogging up while his legs carried him through the smoke. In the far distance, scattered lines of war banners fluttered beneath a murky horizon, their flames devouring clusters of tents and shelters. Horrified screams pierced through the air like arrows.

He'd appeared mid-air—still wearing his faded grey COZMART hoodie, charcoal jeans scuffed with debris, sneakers squeaking uselessly against the scorched earth. His first instinct had been to wave hello to whoever found him.

His second instinct—to run for his life.

The soldiers chasing him clearly weren't fans of casual attire on a battlefield.

"Stop the demon!" someone yelled behind him, blade slicing through the air alarmingly close.

"Do demons wear hoodies now?!" Eathan protested, ducking low, skidding over blood-soaked dirt. He nearly tripped over a twisted corpse—human, not demon, because demon corpses inconveniently turned to dust the moment they hit the ground.

He cursed inwardly. Whatever nightmare this was, Mister White's subconscious hadn't pulled punches; it had dragged them back into a memory so brutal, so visceral, that it radiated menace even to Eathan, who'd never even seen true war.

Outside of the arena, RealmNet chat exploded in real-time, flooding the virtual world with frantic discourse:

[@RoamingNetizen]: oh dear—did the intern just get yeeted into a warzone?

[@Dragonistafan]: Commander White, therapy, NOW???

[@gimmemoneypls]: #ProtecttheIntern trending already...

In the commentators' booth, Yverie was briefly speechless, eyes wide as she leaned forward. "Commander White's nightmare is… quite terrifying, isn't it? I think Intern Lin's survival instincts just levelled up about ten stages!"

Brother Woo exhaled, watching the chaotic battlefield unfold. "Indeed, the White Tiger's past is far darker than many realize. This illusory realm manifests itself in perfect clarity, indistinguishable from reality."

"But three days?" The starry-eyed streamer gulped. "How can anyone endure this for so long?"

"One must either realize its falsehood or overcome its terror," Brother Woo said. "Those are their paths forward—or, they may choose defeat."

"Somehow that doesn't feel reassuring."

Across the battlefield, reality seemed to ripple in response to the overwhelming violence. For Eathan, who narrowly dodged yet another savage strike, that distinction seemed painfully irrelevant.

Choking smoke and sulfur burned his lungs. He barely had time to scream before another divine artillery exploded mere inches away, scattering dirt and rubble like angry confetti.

A spear sliced overhead, missing by inches. Instinct surged, and Eathan's body moved before thought could register. He dropped low, spun, and reflexively used the spear's momentum to throw the attacker off balance.

The soldier stumbled forward, momentarily stunned. Eathan seized the opportunity, twisting his forearm backwards to disarm him. The spear clattered to the ground.

Several nearby soldiers froze, wary and confused. But more quickly advanced, blades flashing with murderous intent.

He could fight, Eathan realized—his upgraded [Agility] and [Strength] stats pulsed through his limbs like electricity. Yet, even as he dodged attack after attack, weaving between the blades, guilt gnawed at him.

He didn't want this. These soldiers weren't demons; they were people, people who were driven by fear and desperation and had mistaken him for a foe. Killing them wasn't going to solve the problem at hand. More important it, it wasn't him. Of course he knew that, deep within, a war meant only two options—kill or be killed. But even in this illusory nightmare, he didn't want to become a murderer, not unless he was left with no other choice.

"Stop!" Eathan called out, narrowly evading another strike. "I'm not here to fight you!"

No response—just shouts and confusion.

A soldier lunged forward, blade descending above his head. Eathan pivoted to sidestep the swing. He grabbed the soldier's wrist and spun him around, leaving him weaponless but disoriented. The man stumbled, bewildered. Another charged, but Eathan ducked, shifting momentum to swing the broken spear he'd taken from the soldier before, sending the new one sprawling into his comrade.

Their confusion bought him a few precious seconds, but more warriors surged closer. His enhanced abilities hummed beneath his skin, reflexes sharper, strength balanced, perfectly tuned—yet every choice screamed at him. He refused to draw blood.

Eathan scrambled backward again, this time tripping over scorched earth and twisting his ankle painfully. The spear flew from his grasp, dropping to the ground a few feet away. He bit back a curse, glancing around for something, anything, to help him.

More soldiers surged forward, trapping him in a tightening circle of weapons. Eathan spun around, brandishing his only defense left—his barcode scanner. There was nothing to scan, but the presence of the foreign weapon had raised considerable wariness from his adversaries.

"Stay back. You do not wish to go against me," he warned. A few soldiers hesitated, exchanging wary looks. He felt a sudden rush of relief. Maybe intimidation would work.

His heart hammered louder than the clash of metal surrounding him, the deafening noise of war drowning his protests. With eyes watering from the smoke, he careened forward, only to stumble over something solid and land hard on his knees. Pain shot up his legs as he pushed himself up, then froze.

Inches from his hand lay a soldier—barely recognizable, face shredded by a blade's brutal path. His flesh had been torn, white bone horribly visible beneath crimson gore, so brutal that Eathan wondered how he was still alive. Yet somehow, the soldier's mouth moved faintly, a soft, gurgling breath escaping damaged lungs.

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For one endless moment, Eathan couldn't move. The world went silent, leaving only the sight before him. His stomach churned violently, bile rising in his throat.

[SYSTEM] NOTIFICATION:

Mortal Shock Detected!

▸ [Humanity]: 72% → 71%.

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

3 Qi Tokens have been subtracted from your [PROFILE]! (269 → 266)

Eathan reacted without thinking—his hand shot out, glowing with the light of [Minor Reconstruction]. He gasped and gagged simultaneously, fingers glowing gold as he pressed them to the man's ruined cheek. The soldier jolted sharply, back arching, his body illuminated momentarily by the warmth surging from Eathan's fingertips. Flesh knitted, bone rebuilt, blood vessels reconnecting. The grotesque wound vanished rapidly beneath his trembling hand.

The soldier sat bolt upright, gasping for breath, eyes wide as he stared at his newly restored skin.

"Gods above… I—I'm alive!"

Eathan stared at his own hand, still glowing faintly, breath shuddering out of him. Around them, the battle stilled, soldiers pausing in bewilderment. The clash of blades quieted to a murmur as they formed a semicircle around Eathan, regarding the miraculous scene.

"…What kind of demonic trickery is this?" one soldier muttered, eyeing Eathan like he might explode.

"A miracle healer with no need for talisman?" Another gasped. "From the Abyssal Legion? Capture him!"

Eathan barely had time to look up before strong hands grabbed him roughly, ropes tightening around his wrists.

"Wait!" he sputtered. "I'm not—"

But protests died uselessly as he was dragged through the battlefield, toward a cluster of tents. The soldiers marched him through their battered ranks—Eathan glanced around warily, taking in their uniforms, ancient yet oddly refined, banners fluttering amid wreckage. Wounded soldiers sprawled on makeshift cots, medics frantically patching injuries with crude bandages and desperate prayer talismans. The stink of infection and death was everywhere, a tangible fog of despair.

Finally, the soldiers hauled him through a heavy curtain into a central tent, brighter and relatively clean compared to its surroundings. Maps lay scattered across a polished wooden table, illuminated by flickering candles.

At the table stood a man—young, barely older than Eathan himself. The man straightened sharply upon hearing them enter. His dark eyes narrowed, a heavy cloak thrown hastily across slender shoulders that nonetheless radiated unmistakable authority.

"Liang Yun, Captain of United Mortals Coalition," the young man introduced. He assessed Eathan with a calculating gaze, suspicion heavy in the silence. "I don't recognize your attire, nor your qi signature. You're not one of ours."

Eathan swallowed hard, feeling inevitably uncomfortable under the scrutiny. "Uh…"

"You seem mortal," Liang Yun continued slowly, "but feel distinctly different from any of us. And yet"—his gaze sharpened—"I heard from our men that you appeared out of nowhere and healed one of our own with bare hands. Your abilities are unheard of, perhaps even abyssal in nature. Explain quickly, healer—are you friend or foe?"

Eathan felt panic rise in his chest. He glanced around, seeing soldiers gripping their weapons tighter, muscles tensed, ready for violence at Liang Yun's slightest signal.

He took a breath, gauging his strength quietly. Individually, maybe he could hold the captain off temporarily—but if his subordinates joined in, the odds seemed slim. But considering his current situation and drawing from history books, violence would only get him nowhere. Diplomacy was his best shot, at least for now.

At his lack of response, Liang Yun's eyes narrowed. "Who sent you, healer?"

Eathan's thoughts spun for an explanation.

Who sent him? The Jade Deity? The Realm-Barrier Games? None of that would make sense here. He recalled Taeril's casual, annoyingly vague warnings about his past self.

Eathan blinked. They were in Taeril's nightmare—surely, dropping the commander's title could at least clarify he wasn't a threat. The White Tiger's name carried weight; it was a risk, but what choice did he have?

Taking a deep breath, he straightened as confidently as possible—though his voice still shook a little. "Rest assured. I am not your enemy." He attempted a reassuring smile. "In fact, I was sent by Bai Hu."

The words hung in the air, silence sliced down like a blade, and Eathan realized immediately he'd chosen poorly.

The effect was immediate. Captain Liang Yun recoiled, his eyes widening in shock—and unmistakable fear. Around the room, soldiers sucked in collective breaths, blades instantly levelled at Eathan again. The atmosphere, already fragile, had shattered completely.

Eathan winced. "Uh… did I pronounce something wrong?"

"What… did you say?" Liang Yun asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"I, I said Bai Hu sent me," he repeated. It was too late to back out now. "I'm…sort of his intern. You know Bai Hu? The White Tiger."

A surge of dread emerged within him as he watched Captain Liang Yun's face drain of all colour.

"The Pale Judgement," Captain Liang Yun murmured, barely audible. "Has he truly decided our fate at last?"

Eathan's internal panic alarm shrieked. The Pale… who?

Out loud, he kept the trembling smile in place. "Um, possibly. Maybe. I… can definitely ask him?"

Before Liang Yun could respond, footsteps echoed urgently from behind. A figure parted the tent curtains, the soldiers swiftly moving aside, clearing the way for the newcomer—a man older, steel-haired and regal, dressed in ornate but battle-worn armor. He moved with authority, eyes sharp and cold as winter steel.

"General Shen Hai," Captain Liang Yun murmured, stepping aside as the man approached Eathan.

"An emissary of Bai Hu, you claim?" The General's gaze drilled into him, calm yet suffused with quiet intensity. "We have pleaded endlessly for intervention. Tell me, emissary—does your presence here indicate salvation, or have we been judged beyond redemption?"

Eathan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. His heart pounded in his chest. Judged beyond redemption?

This wasn't exactly going as planned.

"Honestly," he stammered, "I think there's been a bit of confusion—"

"Confusion?" General Shen Hai cut in, brows furrowing. "The White Tiger seldom sends emissaries. He annihilates threats decisively, without mercy. You stand here, claiming association yet fumbling with explanations. Speak clearly, emissary—does your master intend to aid us or obliterate us?"

Eathan's mind spun desperately, panic settling in earnest now. Clearly, Taeril's younger self wasn't just ruthless—he was outright feared. Even mentioning his name invoked terror among these soldiers, mortals who'd already seen more suffering than he could fathom.

"I… believe he sent me… to negotiate?" he squeezed out, trying and failing to inject confidence into his voice. He was practically just pulling lies out of his ass at this point. Whatever could conveniently prevent him from getting killed.

General Shen Hai's eyes narrowed. "You 'believe'?"

"I mean," Eathan amended, "I'm pretty sure he's not planning immediate obliteration."

Liang Yun shifted on his heels, glancing between the General and Eathan. "General, respectfully—this healer's presence, whether a trap or salvation, could still change our fate."

General Shen Hai considered Eathan with a grim, heavy silence. "Then," he said at last, "we will keep you safe—for now. But understand clearly: if this is trickery, if your master's intentions prove hostile… our lives are already forfeit, and we will spend them dearly."

Eathan nodded slowly, sweat beading beneath his cap. "Sure, safety. Please. And thank you."

Internally, he screamed. His only real hope of survival had hinged on Mister White's name, but clearly, he'd underestimated just how terrifying the younger version of his usually slightly reliable boss truly was. Eathan took a shaky breath, desperately wishing for someone—anyone—from Team 001 to swoop in and rescue him.

But for now, surrounded by wary mortal soldiers, mistaken as some ominous emissary, he knew he was thoroughly, utterly alone.

"Well," Eathan muttered to no one in particular, "at least things can't possibly get worse."

Outside the tent, artillery exploded again, even louder and closer this time.

Eathan squeezed his eyes shut, praying to no god in particular that he did not just jinx himself.