COZMART: Corner Shop of Visiting Gods

Saturday afternoon bathed COZMART in a sleepy gold.

Outside, street traffic rolled in slow tides, blurring into the horizon under a warming spring sky. Inside, the corner shop buzzed under fluorescent lights, faint hints of coffee beans and printer ink curling in the air.

Chewie was tightening the laces on her sneakers, her half-bun bouncing as she grabbed her tennis bag and jacket.

Eathan, leaning over the counter, couldn't hold it back anymore.

"Hey," he said, brows knitting together. "Are you really Mister White's daughter?"

Chewie shot him a look so dry it could have flash-dried grapes. Then she turned, tilted her head toward Taeril, who was lazily sipping a latte behind the cashier, and looked back at Eathan like he had just asked if two birds could produce a tiger.

"Do you really think we look alike?" she deadpanned.

Eathan opened his mouth, then closed it. Now that she pointed it out, the resemblance had been nonexistent from the start.

Where Taeril had cream-blond hair and obsidian-black eyes that gleamed like polished stones, Chewie's short hair was pitch-black, and her irises gleamed a dusky brown that flickered almost scarlet in certain lights.

"...Point taken," he muttered.

Sensing that the eleven-year-old might answer his questions more willingly than his so-called "guardian," Eathan decided to push his luck.

"So..." he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if the walls could listen. "You're not... human either?"

Yesterday, Quine Long had called himself the Azure Dragon. While Taeril refused to give details, he was obviously not human, either.

Chewie stared at him, long enough that Eathan started wondering if he'd just asked something deeply taboo. But eventually, with the air of someone begrudgingly humouring a particularly dumb pet, she squeezed out: "...Not entirely."

Pressing for details, he then hurriedly added, "Then what type of 'not-entirely-human' are you?"

At that, the eleven-year-old slung her tennis bag over one shoulder, pivoted on her heel, and left the shop without another word.

The door chimed lightly behind her.

Eathan stared after her departing figure, feeling like a deflated balloon. He sighed, dragging his palms down his face.

Guess that meant he was stuck asking Taeril White.

Turning around, he found the man already lounging in one of the shop's few armchairs, flipping leisurely through a holographic magazine that floated off his phone. He wore a loose-fitting black sweater and beige pants, somehow managing to look like he belonged in a minimalist furniture catalogue rather than behind a grimy corner shop counter.

As a continuation of the mini-conversation they had yesterday, Saturdays from now onward have been declared "Education Day." Apparently, it was made so that if incidents such as the one with the Succubus-Fey were to occur again, he would at least know how to handle them instead of sobbing like a tone-deaf toad.

At Mister White's request, Eathan had set up a giant projector screen that mirrored the [SYSTEM] interface only he could see. The bright-blue translucent HUD glowed against the far wall.

Eathan plopped into the armchair across from him, still mildly suspicious that none of this was a fever dream.

"Alright," Taeril said, setting his latte down with a faint thud. "Let's go over the basics before you accidentally blow yourself up."

He tapped the floating interface midair, and the [Integrity] and [Humanity] percentages pulsed.

"These two are your operating baselines."

Eathan blinked. "Operating baselines?"

"Think of [Humanity] as how mortal you are," Taeril said lazily. "Lose too much, and you'll start... shifting."

Eathan didn't like the sound of shifting.

"And [Integrity]?" he asked warily.

"That's how much the [SYSTEM] trusts you. High integrity means more features unlocked, better stability. Low integrity..." Taeril made a vague exploding gesture with his fingers.

Eathan gulped.

"Stellar," he muttered.

Taeril moved on, tapping at the [Skill Tree] section.

"Skills branch out from base tools. Right now, you've unlocked [Receipt Printer] and [Minor Reconstitution]. Both at the rudimentary level." He gave Eathan a knowing glance. "You'll use them a lot."

Eathan squinted suspiciously at the floating descriptions. "Wait... So [Receipt Printer] isn't just for making grocery slips?"

Without replying immediately, Taeril leaned over the counter. He ripped the equally dust-caked barcode scanner from its cradle, cable popping free with a disgruntled zap, and slapped it into Eathan's palms. The moment Eathan touched it, the dull plastic shell rippled to lacquered onyx veined with gold; a tiny jade trigger glimmered where a smudged rubber button had been. On the other side, instead of a rounded surface, the scanner's snout widened, forming an obsidian mouth the width of a receipt slot.

Eathan's jaw sagged.

"You're going to craft talismans," Taeril said, ignoring his reaction. "Receipts, but weaponised."

Eathan's jaw continued to sag.

"Scan something," Taeril encouraged.

"Uh." Eathan closed his jaw. "My regrets?"

"Too abstract. Try the couch."

As Eathan hesitantly aimed the scanner at the armrest, Taeril leaned back, folding one leg over the other. Just as he was pressing the lens against the side, Taeril spoke again.

"Oh, right. Two more currencies you'll need to keep an eye on." He flicked his fingers, and a new window popped into view:

[Qi Tokens: 55]

Stolen story; please report.

[Karma: +2460]

"Qi Tokens," Taeril said, tapping the first, "are your convertible stat currency. When prompted, you can trade them to activate minor skills, boost a spell, patch aura wounds, or—if you later become qualified—use them as fuel for a higher-order skill burst."

Eathan raised an eyebrow. "So... mana, but capitalistic?"

"Exactly. You'll earn more by completing all types of quests the [SYSTEM] tosses your way. You may also get them through gambling, but let's not open that tab yet."

He moved on, tapping the second metric.

"Karma points," Taeril said more slowly, "are trickier. You can't use them directly—at least not in the Mortal Realm. But the realms recognise karma like an ambient charm. Stack enough, and you'll get random buffs, lucky escapes, even the occasional auspicious glitch."

Eathan glanced at his total. "I have... two thousand of them?"

"Not bad for twenty years of living."

"Do I get to spend them?"

"Sometimes," said Taeril. "Mostly, the [SYSTEM] spends them for you when your luck's about to hit the fan. Think of Karma like divine pocket change—it jingles louder when death's close."

Eathan frowned. "And what happens when I run out?"

"You'll find out," Taeril said cheerfully. "Hopefully not today. Now scan."

Eathan grabbed the nearest thing—a limited-edition matcha bubble tea bottle left over from some obscure Taiwanese brand—and waved the scanner lens over it. The [SYSTEM] pinged with childlike joy.

[Side Quest (new!)]

Craft 3 Experimental Receipts! (Progress: 0/3)

Reward: +10 Karma, +5 Qi Tokens

A printed slip whirred out from the obsidian underside, levitating into the air like magic. Eathan caught it clumsily, gaping. The receipt glowed dimly in his grasp, an intricate tangle of sigils and barcodes running down its length.

1 Qi Token has been subtracted from your [PROFILE]! (55 → 54)

[Bubbly-Looking Talisman: Minor Shield Barrier] has been generated!

Huh.

Respectfully, he hadn't expected it to work at all. Feeling slightly emboldened, Eathan grabbed a cheap instant ramen pack from the counter and scanned it.

1 Qi Token has been subtracted from your [PROFILE]! (54 → 53)

[Spicy-Tasting Talisman: Flame Spark] has been generated!

He whistled low under his breath. Apparently, the type of item he scanned dictated the talisman's affinity. When he reached for a bottle of dish soap, Taeril held up a hand.

"Word of advice," he said. "Don't scan cleaning chemicals unless you enjoy surprise poison damage."

Eathan, laughing nervously, retracted his hand. He picked a pack of mint gum instead. The receipt fluttered into his palm.

1 Qi Token has been subtracted from your [PROFILE]! (53 → 52)

[Mint-Flavoured Talisman: Breeze Step] has been generated!

Taeril leaned back with a lazy, satisfied grin. "There you go. Three crafted."

[SYSTEM] NOTIFICATION

You have completed [Side Quest]:

Craft 3 Experimental Receipts! (Progress: 3/3)

You have been rewarded: +10 Karma, +5 Qi Tokens

Bonus: Experimental receipt recipes have been unlocked!

Eathan clutched the receipts in awe.

"Great. Passed the talisman chemistry tutorial session," he said, then hesitated as he stared at the chunky-looking scanner in his hand. "But uh—am I supposed to lug this everywhere?"

Taeril gave him a sidelong glance. "Try tucking it somewhere."

Eathan hesitated, then slid the scanner toward his hoodie pocket. The relic shrank, edges folding in on themselves until it became a slim, rune-etched card that fit the pocket like a loyalty stamp. His eyes bulged at the pocket-sized carrier.

"Convenient, right?" Taeril mused. "Perfect for you to clock in any time, any day."

Eathan forced a confused smile. Something didn't sit right with those words, but he was too immersed in the joy of quantifiable validation that he didn't think too much of it. He inhaled. Despite not fully understanding what was happening in his life, he was beginning to realise one thing.

The world had rules he'd never been taught.

And maybe—just maybe—he could start learning them.

***

By the time Eathan finished scanning his twenty-seventh receipt talisman, the sun had already begun to lower into the horizon.

Long streaks of molten orange spilled through the grimy windows of COZMART, casting stripes across the cluttered aisles and faded drink coolers. The corner shop glowed like a lazy dragon napping on a hoard of expired snack foods.

The [SYSTEM] pinged gleefully.

[SYSTEM] NOTIFICATION

[Side Quest (new!)]

Complete your shift at COZMART!

Reward: +10 Karma, +5 Qi Tokens

Eathan stared at the prompt, then turned an accusatory look toward the man lounging across the counter, sipping from a newly acquired French vanilla latte.

"Seriously?" he said, voice dry. "I just survived almost dying twice, and it's still making me work the night shift?"

Taeril raised an eyebrow as if he were the wronged party. He gestured around them, the sleeves of his sweater falling back to reveal a suspiciously luxurious wristwatch.

"The customers," he said, "aren't going to scan items themselves."

Another sip.

"And your rent," he added, voice mild, "is also not going to pay itself."

Eathan paled.

Right—his rent.

Even though Mister White technically provided him with a studio apartment in a fairly nice part of town (suspiciously cheap lease, too, now that he thought about it), he still had to pay utilities and a "token rent" to foster adult responsibility.

Eathan drooped like a wilted plant behind the counter. "Unlawful labour," he muttered.

Taeril smiled faintly, clearly unbothered.

The shop settled into its usual evening hum. A few regulars drifted in and out, buying lottery tickets, ramen bowls, and canned coffee. Eathan, despite his existential crisis, manned the counter like a good soldier, mechanically scanning items while pondering the bizarre events of the past few days. When there was a lull, he leaned back and cleared his throat.

"So..." he started, watching Taeril flip through a battered paperback that looked suspiciously like a second-hand economics textbook. "The realms. You said something about six?"

Taeril didn't look up.

"Mm."

"Six what? Dimensions?"

"Realms," Taeril corrected idly. "Sectors of existence. Each tied to different governing laws."

He lifted a hand, ticking them off on his fingers without breaking eye contact with the book.

"Heavenly, Mortal. Spirit-Beast, Bodhi, Realm of the Passing, and Demon." He clicked his tongue once, lightly. "Six worlds. Six sets of problems."

Eathan blinked slowly.

"...And mortals are the least problematic?"

Taeril actually laughed—a short, sharp huff that didn't reach his eyes. "No," he said cheerfully. "Mortals are disasters. You're just smaller disasters."

He sipped his tea with the air of a man making a fair point.

"And what about the Council of Ten?" Eathan pressed on. "I saw it, you know... floating around that day."

This time, Taeril finally looked up.

"Think of it like a board of regional managers," he said, twirling his straw. "Each one represents one of the realms while also overseeing part of the Mortal Realm. The goal is to keep the chaos from other realms spilling into here, turning hassles into something worse."

"Like giant blackholes and succubus attacks?" Eathan said, only half-sarcastically.

"Exactly," Taeril said, smiling faintly.

Eathan hesitated, then asked what had been gnawing at him since the start. "And you saving me fifteen years ago... was that part of all this?"

Taeril's hand stilled on the page.

For a moment, the corner shop seemed unnaturally still—the soft hum of the fridge, the creak of the ceiling fan overhead, even the lazy flicker of the LED strip lights felt muted somehow. A slow, almost imperceptible pause had stretched between them, but then the man closed the book with a flick of his fingers, smiled, and leaned back.

"Don't overthink it," he said lightly.

"But that Azure Dragon guy—" Eathan said, insistent. "—Quine Long. He keeps calling me a 'vessel'. What's up with that?"

Taeril didn't answer immediately. A faint, peculiar strangeness flickered across his face—so brief Eathan might have missed it if he blinked. It wasn't fear, nor was it guilt. It was something softer. Sadder. Like a note struck too low for human ears.

Before Eathan was given the chance to reach for the note, Taeril was already back to his usual nonchalant self. The man sighed, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves.

"Quine Long talks out of his ass half the time. You'll get used to it."

"But—" Eathan started.

Taeril raised a hand, stopping him. "Call yourself a vessel, sure." His gaze softened, like a sigh curling into words. "But you're a vessel for yourself."

He reached out, ruffling Eathan's hair in that same rough, careless way he always had, despite the latter's dismay.

"Just be yourself," Taeril said simply. "That's the only thing you ever need to be."

The lamplight caught on the silver of his hair, the warm hue softening the shadows around him. For a moment, Eathan just sat there in silence.

Just be yourself.

He frowned but didn't push further. He'd long since learned that when Mister White decided to dodge a question, it was like trying to punch through smoke—no use wasting energy. Yet something about those words, delivered so casually, wrapped around his chest like a second heartbeat.

He didn't know if he truly understood what the man meant. But strangely—despite the secrets, despite the madness that had unraveled his life—he wanted to believe him. Even if everything else cracked apart one day, he thought faintly—

He still wanted to believe in this.

Besides... if Taeril said "be yourself," then he would simply do exactly that.

Big-hearted, questionably reckless, semi-depressed himself.

As Eathan slouched against the counter, he couldn't help his gaze straying toward the faint HUD flickering at the edge of his vision. The progress bars were crawling up and down, slowly but surely.

...But what happens when one of these bars hits 100%? Or if the other hits zero?

The question lingered at the back of his mind like an uninvited guest. Eathan couldn't help but wonder—when the bars finally filled, would he still be himself at all?

The sunset outside faded into night, the first stars kindling faintly in the New York sky. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead.

Taeril drained the last of his coffee, crumpling the cup lazily in one hand.

"Where are you going?" Eathan asked suspiciously.

The man slung on his black coat, expression far too relaxed for someone leaving a traumatised mortal (questionable) behind to staff a cursed convenience store. Taeril adjusted his collar with a flick.

"It's Saturday night," he said dryly. "I already spent Friday giving you a crash course in cosmic survival. Are you going to strip me of my right to have fun on Saturday too?"

Eathan opened his mouth, then closed it. Somehow, he couldn't imagine his corner shop boss hitting VR nightclubs or hanging out at a robot bar like a normal twenty or thirty-something-year-old. He wasn't given a chance to voice a protest or anything, though, as the man was already waving a lazy goodbye, heading toward the door with his coffee in hand.

"Don't break the shop," he called over his shoulder.

Eathan sagged against the counter. "At this rate," he muttered, "I'm going to need hazard pay."

The door jingled as Taeril vanished into the evening.

And Eathan, left alone behind the counter with a glowing [SYSTEM] and an aisle full of mildly radioactive ramen bowls, was hit with another thought.

"Hold on." He straightened from the stool, finally asking the important question:

"If Chewie's not Mister White's daughter, then was the divorce also a lie?"