Gray and Orange

This is one of the chapters that gave me the most trouble to write in a while—I hope you enjoy it.

If anyone wants to read 3/7/13 chapters ahead, or just support me, you can do so on my (P)(A)(T). If not, I still sincerely appreciate you reading my story—thank you very much!

That said, have a great night and enjoy the chapter!

(P)(A)(T)/CalleumArtori.

[...]---[...]

POV: Devas Asura

After ending the call with John, I tossed my phone into the Voidbag and let out a small sigh.

I stared up at the dark sky for a few more moments.

It was less polluted than I remembered—but it was also a sky from more than ten years before the one I was used to seeing.

Through the haze, I could still make out the countless stars shining above. Stars I recognized. Constellations I vaguely remembered having seen before.

A sky that felt familiar.

("What are the chances John’s ‘you’d have my soul’ actually comes true in the future?") Ozma’s voice echoed through the mental link.

"Small, in my opinion. I don’t think Helen Wick was the kind of woman who’d end up in Hell," I replied without taking my eyes off the sky. "But I could be wrong. I never actually saw her, and I don’t know how Hell works in this world."

A part of me—bigger than it should’ve been, I admit—almost wished she was.

Not because I wanted John’s soul, or because I thought Helen deserved damnation, but because I wanted to see what John would do if he discovered that one of—if not the—person he loved most had been condemned.

It was a little sadistic of me. I knew that.

But the idea of fucking John Wick somehow descending into Hell and slaughtering demons to save his wife sounded insanely badass to watch.

Of course, that would only work if this were a movie and they were just characters.

Which wasn’t the case anymore.

I shifted my gaze slightly to the right, toward John’s house. Extending my senses, I grabbed hold of my connection to Tyrian.

The Nightmare Faunus was inside the card I had given John.

Unlike when I first woke up in Terraria—when I was completely fucked—I was already stable and recovered enough to communicate with him at a distance.

("Wait until Iosef Tarasov gets close to John’s house and kidnap him. Take him to Viggo Tarasov. Tell the father his son has messed with things he shouldn’t have even thought about touching, and that he’d better keep the boy on a leash like a dog if he doesn’t want him put down like one.")

("Avoid killing anyone. Knock out the idiots accompanying Iosef. Dump them all at Viggo’s feet. If they die afterward, that’s not my problem.")

("Tell him John is not to be involved again. If word of what happened leaks, I’ll personally show up next time.")

("Be convincing.")

The reply was immediate and simple:

("Your orders are law, my lord and master. Your decree shall be carried out as it always has, must, and will be.") The same schizophrenic tone echoed through the connection.

Tyrian was… a curious case.

I severed the link and pulled my senses back.

"And with that, we just wait until midnight…" I muttered.

It would’ve been much simpler if I had just stopped John from leaving his house—knocked him out until the next day.

Or even now, if I simply flattened Iosef Tarasov and Viggo Tarasov into paste, left them comatose or vegetative, or whatever equivalent—mission accomplished all the same.

But I preferred this current development.

Looking back, I really had changed…

I turned to Jinn. She was watching me with a somewhat confused expression. Her emotions had been confused all day, actually.

At one point I even thought she might attack me.

And the scariest part was that I had no idea how...

I gave her a smile, letting the “Devil” act drop, and relaxed.

"Want to go to the beach?"

[…]

I slipped off the expensive dress shoes I was wearing and stored them in the Voidbag as I walked across the sand of the night beach.

Jinn was farther to the right, lightly hopping in the water while the waves lapped at her ankles and her pale yellow summer dress fluttered in the wind.

It was a more secluded stretch of beach, empty.

We were alone.

We walked a few hundred meters before stopping and sitting down on the sand. I didn’t care about the suit—getting sand out was easy with Shadowflame.

I stared upward in silence while the waves washed over my feet.

The moon was familiar.

But very different…

"Why did you want sand and seawater?" Jinn asked, sitting to my right. She buried her feet in the sand. "Collection?"

"You’ve been wondering that for a while, haven’t you?" I asked. She giggled. "Collection’s one reason—but not the main one."

I hummed, grabbing a handful of sand and letting it slip through my fingers. I’d already gathered more than enough sand and seawater.

At least from this part of the world.

I’d collect some from everywhere.

"I want to create a planet. An Earth. Not a real one, obviously—a model." I replied, staring at where the sea vanished into the distance. "I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Since Remnant, actually—after an old man talked to me in Vacuo. I’ll make it a hobby."

I didn’t even know the old man’s name—just that he was part of Dahlia’s caravan. But his words had stirred something in me, maybe because they came from a complete stranger.

A complete stranger who had looked at me with what seemed like pity the moment our eyes met…

"A model…?" she repeated quietly, then nodded. "That’s good. A good hobby. How big?"

"Big. A hundred or two hundred meters. Maybe more. But I won’t start now. I still need more materials, and there are a few minor complications."

Complications like: how the hell would I fit something that big inside Proto-A when it would be larger than the ship itself?

The answer I’d come up with was simple.

Magic.

More specifically, Harry Potter magic. I needed to go to Hogwarts. Their spatial distortion magic was borderline ridiculous—it ran on faith and stupidity.

Like almost everything there, with rare exceptions.

"It’s something to build slowly. Just… piece by piece," I finished.

The remaining minutes until midnight were peaceful. I just talked with Jinn and occasionally glanced at the (CHAT).

My trip to Heaven had been far less impactful than it should’ve been, thanks to the massive amount of censorship applied there.

Even so, I was almost certain Rin had fainted—she hadn’t said anything in the (CHAT) for a while afterward. She was back now, so I wasn’t worried.

The “definitely not Jeanne d’Arc” had also been affected and seemed a little shaken. It was kind of cute.

Overall, everyone had taken it with some degree of disbelief. The one most affected was Serafall, who had that little breakdown.

A new transformation… She must’ve unlocked it because of me somehow. Or maybe it showed up later in DxD, in volumes I didn’t have.

Shame this world didn’t have DxD. It would’ve been useful.

No FATE either. Or anything related to Remnant, for that matter. I had looked it up online.

I found MARVEL, NARUTO, and Harry Potter—which wasn’t bad.

But no Percy Jackson.

As the minutes passed, an interaction in the trading (CHAT) caught my attention. The chats there were private, but I checked them occasionally.

[ExplosionCrimsonDemon] Sell it to me for SP! I have a little over 3000 and I can sell stuff from Kazuma house to get more. But I can’t do that! Kazuma will kill me! For real!(A magical explosion girl pouting angrily)

[ArchOfSeasons] I already told you the price: blow up Aqua’s cathedral and I’ll sell you the “EXPLOSION!!! (Nuke)” emote for 1 SP.

[ExplosionCrimsonDemon] What the hell do you have against Aqua?! And that’s in Arcanletia—it’s a two-day trip!

The conversation continued as I watched the way someone watches a car crash.

Part of me felt like I should stop the transaction—or at least warn Kazuma.

But another part, bigger and far more amused, just watched it unfold.

Which reminded me—I needed to unban Aqua. I had almost forgotten.

I pulled my phone out of the Voidbag.

[The user “TheGreatGoddessAqua” has been unbanned!]

There.

If her cathedral got blown up, I wouldn’t go through with my plan to create something that turned all alcohol within ten meters of her into water.

I’m truly a kind and magnanimous person!

I completely ignored the look Jinn was giving me as I laughed to myself.

When the clock struck midnight, the [BabaYaga] mission was completed without any complications.

I collected the rewards in order.

First, the Black Card—which was actually a credit card.

The description said I could use it in any world with a credit card system. It had an “account” inside the card where I could convert my money.

Useful—especially combined with the Piggy Bank.

As for the logistics of how it worked, I didn’t worry about it. The stream could connect different universes and synchronize time between them. Making a credit card that worked in any bank was trivial by comparison.

Finally, the moment I collected the “Location of a [Pink] mission,” the Minimap automatically shifted to what I recognized as Japan, and a question mark appeared above Tokyo.

The mission was set to occur in three days—more than enough time for me to get there without rushing.

At the same time, several other question marks appeared on my Minimap. Five in total, in areas I had already passed through while walking around New York.

"So the other missions were really locked until the initial one was completed…" I muttered, frowning. "That’s actually pissing me off…"

"Uhm? What?" Jinn asked, crawling over the sand to behind me and peering over my shoulder. "What about the Minimap?"

"Random question marks… blinking mission notifications hit something deep inside my soul," I grumbled, pulling up the Minimap settings and disabling the question marks, moving them into a minimized list below it.

The sigh I let out was one of relief.

If I couldn’t go do the missions right now, it was better not to see them. I’d check what each one was later.

While Jinn poked my cheek with her finger, I brought the mission that had appeared right after completing [BabaYaga] into view.

Which, in this case, was Part Two of the [BabaYaga] mission.

-//-

[BabaYaga (Part 2 of ???)]

Rarity: Green >>> BlueWorld: Amalgam WorldTime Limit: ???

Mission Description:The bedroom floor was not stained with blood, the garage is not empty, and grief has not turned into fury.

John Wick remains in retirement, accompanied by the final gift from his beloved, deceased wife.

The Baba Yaga lies dormant beneath the concrete, but the man who remains is restless with the new knowledge he has acquired.

Should a human know, with certainty, that Heaven and Hell exist?

[..]

Objective: Locate the whereabouts of Helen Wick’s soul and deliver that information to John Wick.

Rewards: Angel Feather (10x) or Demon Horn (10x)

[..]

~ “Beati pauperes spiritu, quoniam ipsorum est regnum caelorum...” ~

-//-

The rarity increasing was expected, given the difficulty. But what caught my attention most was the final sentence. I knew it.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Gospel of Matthew 5:3, if memory served. A well-known verse from the Bible.

“Maybe that means she’s in Heaven…” I murmured, glancing upward.

As for the rewards, my interest was honestly minimal. The very act of obtaining the information to complete the mission would probably earn me both items in large quantities anyway.

I threw myself backward onto the sand.

That’s when it happened:

[Mr.Fool has received the item: [Pocket Trump Card (Evolving)]!]

My muscles locked mid-motion, freezing me at a forty-five-degree angle. I blinked twice slowly, staring at the message in front of me.

“Jinn?…” I asked.

“I see it too,” she replied. “Isn’t that item the—”

“The rarest one in the roulette, yes. It is.” I stared at the single-line message as if it had personally offended me.

“Jarvis!” I called out to the A.I.

I didn’t even need to give instructions. The information we had on this [Mr.Fool] from the stream appeared in front of me.

With the stream and profile update, I could now see more details about viewers—when they registered, the last time they logged in, their history—whether they were members, since when, how many (CHAT) messages they had sent, how many trades, visits to the Memory Room, and roulette rewards.

What I saw was ridiculous.

“Joined one week and four days ago…” I muttered. Around the time I fought ‘The Eye,’ I noted incredulously. “Member for ten fucking minutes. No messages. No visits to the Memory Room. No roulette rewards besides this one…”

Who the hell was this lucky bastard?! What kind of idiotic luck was that?!

I stared at the air for a moment.

The longer time passed, the more I felt like the part of my title that dealt with luck was a lie.

Then came the second message I already knew would appear:

[Summon request from Mr. Fool detected — Possess the Memory Image?]

My thoughts sped up as I stared at the notification. I listed nearly everyone who could be Mr. Fool based on the nickname alone.

There were many. I narrowed them down by probability, shortening the list, before realizing I had absolutely no idea.

It could just as easily be someone unrelated to whatever the nickname in (CHAT) implied.

I looked at the message one last time before turning to Jinn, my body still frozen at a forty-five-degree angle.

“I’ll be back. Going to meet our lucky friend,” I said, lying fully down on the sand. “Probably won’t need it, but watch my body for a moment.”

I pulled Proto-A out of the Voidbag and tossed it onto the beach beside me.

“Are you sure?” she asked, standing up.

“There shouldn’t be any danger. It’s not my real body, and my mind is protected. If something happens, I’ll return.” I explained, closing my eyes.

I more or less understood how the [Pocket Trump Card] worked thanks to its description. I could theorize the rest. It shouldn’t be that dangerous—and even if it was, I had plenty of safeguards.

I could always cancel the summoning.

I grasped the strange sensation of connection tied to the [Pocket Trump Card] and confirmed the possession.

The “journey” was quick. Very different from when I’d been teleported between worlds, or when I moved through space after the fight against ‘The Eye’ to reach Melissa.

This time, all my senses were swallowed by gray fog.

I opened my eyes the next second.

I was no longer in my body, nor on the beach of Earth in the Amalgam World with Jinn.

A message appeared before me:

[The Addon “Hyper Reality 4D” has been disabled for viewer safety!]

I ignored it. That didn’t matter right now.

I was more focused on where I was.

My surroundings were strange—an illusion of infinity.

I understood why I had associated the fog’s sensation with a specific color the moment I realized what covered this place.

As far as my senses could reach, everything was gray fog. The horizons folded and unfolded into illusory shapes that made my head ache if I stared too long.

The fog stretched in every direction and carried an ancient feeling, for reasons I couldn’t even explain.

It was almost the same sensation ‘The Eye’ gave off—something I knew just by looking, though I had no idea why I knew it.

I just did.

There was no sky above, no ceiling—only deep darkness dotted with crimson “stars.” Nor was there any visible ground beneath the solid surface I stood on.

It felt like I was standing on top of everything.

Above the world.

I slowly turned my head. The entire inspection took less than a second. Without moving the Memory Image I possessed, I looked to the right, searching for another presence in that space.

My gaze swept across everything—until it reached my host, and what existed around him.

In front of me, emerging from and blending into the fog itself, stood a vast hall.

A long table of what appeared to be ancient bronze cut through the space between me and the one who had summoned me.

Around it, colossal pillars supported a nonexistent ceiling, rising upward and vanishing into the darkness dotted with crimson “stars.”

The silence in that place was what I would expect from the vacuum of space. Lonely. Isolated.

Arranged along the great bronze table were twenty-two high-backed chairs—ten on each side, one at each end. Twenty-one of them were empty.

I looked directly at the head of the table, at the seat of honor. Throne would be a more fitting word. It seemed to merge and fuse with the gray fog surrounding it.

Seated upon it was a humanoid figure with distinctly masculine traits and mannerisms.

His form was almost indistinguishable, concealed by a thick haze that acted like a strange veil around him.

He was there, yet at the same time, he wasn’t. His image distorted occasionally, blending and merging with the surrounding fog, obscuring his features.

Only his silhouette remained clear, chin resting casually on one hand as he observed me with a calm, mysterious air.

Staring at me.

I stared back.

Instinctively, I tried to activate the Transparent World to see through the fog covering the man on the bronze throne—only to realize I couldn’t.

I couldn’t use my abilities. I couldn’t feel my Spiritual Realm. I couldn’t sense my racial traits. I couldn’t access my inventory or see the Minimap. I couldn’t even see the stream’s (CHAT).

And at the same time, I could.

My perspective fractured, splitting into two—similar to what happened when I fully separated from the Shadow Puppet, yet completely different.

My vision and consciousness existed both here, within the Memory Image, and in my real body on the beach of Earth in the Amalgam World. I could feel through both bodies. Control both bodies.

I was in two places at once—and only one.

I was here and not here.

I was and was not Devas Asura.

I was and was not human.

The moment that realization struck, I heard a faint crack from somewhere distant, impossible to locate. Like the tiny fracture forming within a colossal dam.

Then my thoughts were overtaken by a hateful insanity so absolute that no word in my limited primate vocabulary could adequately describe what I was feeling.

My vision rippled, as though I were staring into a lake.

In the water’s reflection, I saw that I had distorted.

.detrotsid dah I taht was I ,noitcelfer s’retaw eht nI

I felt the crack widen, spreading with muffled sounds as if everything were submerged—a random web spreading across the bed of a bottomless abyss.

All of my consciousness vanished—and at the same time, I gained a clarity I had never known before.

My self as Devas Asura anchored itself within itself, existing by the sheer weight of my own existence.

My title did not activate. This was not something it—or by extension, the stream—could interfere with. This was my self dealing with myself.

In an interval so fleeting that, to any other observer, it would never have existed, I closed my eyes.

A blink to the outside world.

But within that blink, I looked at myself—as I, Devas Asura—and contemplated what I was, as a Human.

It required no magic. No mana. No spiritual energy, nightmare energy, Aura, Anima, or any other form of supernatural “mystery.”

It was simply me, looking at what was, is, and always will be: myself.

I have always been, am, and always will be Devas Asura.

I have always been, am, and always will be human.

Within myself, I perceived the connection between my self as Devas Asura and my self as a Memory Image.

A thin, infinite thread created by the Stream, crossing infinite realities within an infinity so much greater that they might as well have been side by side in comparison—something my current self could not even begin to comprehend.

That thread linked my consciousness between my real body on the beach of Earth in the Amalgam World and the shell of the Memory Image I now inhabited.

I extended the “hand” of what was my self and “grasped” the thread connecting me.

There was a certain logic I had learned since arriving in Terraria, something I was beginning to understand more deeply as time passed.

Where there is consciousness, there is necessarily a soul.

There are exceptions, of course—but they are precisely that: exceptions. Sparse anomalies not worth mentioning.

It was a kind of universal logic of “mystery” that permeated every world I had passed through, one that dictated that the soul is the origin.

The soul is born, shapes the vessel of flesh within the womb, and turns the body into a mere physical mirror of its spiritual form.

But that was not how I originated.

I was born in a world without mystery. Without magic. Without anything supernatural.

On Earth, I was only physics, biology, and evolution. A small primate from a species born of chance on a planet that itself was chance.

An apex predator driven by instinct and synapses within a body of flesh.

No soul.

Just me. Human.

When the Stream tore me from my world and cast me into the alien universe that was Terraria, my body sensed the discrepancy. It realized it was no longer the apex if it remained purely physical—and the existence of Mana changed something within me.

So, to survive and reclaim its dominance—to return to the top of the food chain—my body adapted.

It forged a soul.

For me, the order was reversed: my flesh shaped my soul. My soul is the exact mirrored image of my physical body.

So if my self as Devas Asura and my self as a Memory Image shared the same consciousness through that thread, then we shared the same soul.

If my soul was an absolute mirror of my original body, then my self as a Memory Image was, conceptually, housing my true physical body—because it also housed my consciousness.

Where there is consciousness, there is a soul. Where there is a soul, there is a body. If my soul was a mirror molded from my body, then wherever my soul existed, my body existed.

Wherever I existed, Devas Asura existed.

But my physical body could not exist in two places at once—not yet, not with the understanding I currently possessed. Under that “rule” of reality, I would be crushed by paradox instantly.

However, a single body could cast two shadows.

If my self as a Memory Image possessed my soul shaped by my body as Devas Asura, then the shadow of my self as a Memory Image was my own shadow.

And my shadow was, in essence, not merely a shadow—but my mirrored self.

I clung to that logic desperately.

Using the Stream’s infinite thread, I pulled something that existed within my self as Devas Asura into my self as a Memory Image.

I channeled what it meant to be human—to be Devas Asura—directly into the hollow space of that delirious illusion I was clinging to with all my strength.

I manifested the Shadow Puppet.

My own shadow anchored itself to the Memory Image, bringing with it everything that meant being me into this current self.

It filled the gaps, overlaying the false with the real, allowing my essence to materialize almost completely within that false vessel that was nothing more than a memory’s image.

I became, as a Memory Image, Devas Asura.

The insane, delirious madness ceased. The shattered reflection in the water of my mind vanished. The hatred for what I had been forced not to be disappeared.

I was, am, and always have been myself.

The blink lasted an eternity compressed into a fraction—but when my eyes focused once more on the outside world, I was still within the same millisecond as before, staring back at the mysterious man seated upon the bronze throne.

This time, however, I was myself—without that abominable error from before.

Maybe I panicked…

I let out a long, relieved sigh and smiled, genuinely grateful to the person in front of me—whom the gray fog could no longer conceal as thoroughly as before—because, like me, he was human…

“Truly, you have my thanks, Mr. Fool.”

… And nothing human is foreign to me.

Without him, I probably wouldn’t have noticed that weakness before something truly went wrong.

[…]

POV: Third Person

Klein Moretti was satisfied with the progress he had made over the past week and a half.

Ever since arriving in this strange, mysterious world, he had felt like a small angler trapped in a rowboat amid a raging storm.

The reasons for his transmigration were still hidden from him, as were the dangers lurking within the mysterious Beyonder world he had stepped into after accepting Captain Dunn Smith’s proposal to become a civilian consultant for the Nighthawks of Tingen.

But with time—and thanks to his two “golden fingers,” the world above the gray fog and the stream’s phone—he had managed to build a measure of stability for his fragile boat.

Balancing family life with his siblings, Melissa and Benson, alongside his new job at Blackthorn Security Company, while spending much of his time in the library studying world history and basic mysticism, was only the surface of Klein’s new reality.

As a newly advanced Sequence Nine: Seer—and a consultant to the Nighthawks in Tingen—he lived under Dunn Smith’s constant watch, since the Antigonus family notebook remained missing and he was still the only living clue from the incident.

Beyond books, his routine involved combat and firearms training, as well as mysticism lessons with “Old” Neil.

Under Neil’s guidance, Klein had also begun frequenting the Divination Club on Hanau Street. There, acting as a genuine Seer, he sought the practical experience necessary to digest his potion and unravel the secrets surrounding him.

Returning home when the Goddess’s crimson moon was already hanging in the sky, Klein entered quietly so as not to wake his siblings.

He had already eaten outside, so he wasn’t hungry. After changing into an old, worn pajama set, he went straight to bed.

Lying on his back, he picked up his “second golden finger,” the stream’s Phone, as he liked to call it, and began watching the stream.

It was a habit he had developed since being invited. It wasn’t procrastination—he actively searched for information in the (CHAT), not merely watched idly.

Or almost not, since Klein had never personally interacted in the (CHAT).

The chances of my message being seen by the Streamer are minuscule. Not worth the effort. The mysterious Mr. Fool cannot simply mingle with the common crowd, can he?… If my message is to be seen, it will only be after I become a proper, paying member of the stream…

The corners of Klein’s lips twitched slightly.

Who am I kidding? Even if I worked ten months for the Nighthawks without spending a single pence, I still wouldn’t be able to afford membership, thanks to the conversion rate.

Klein mentally mocked his own poverty as he watched The Human stroll along the beach with the beautiful blue Jinn.

Of course, he knew the best course of action would be to spam messages in the (CHAT) until he was noticed and ask for help.

From what he had gathered about The Human while watching the stream in his free time, he was someone who would not refuse to help another—and might even take the initiative to do so.

But Klein hesitated.

For one simple reason that left him faintly frustrated with himself whenever he thought about it.

He was afraid.

Klein feared that if he allowed himself too much hope and nothing happened, the resulting disappointment might cause him to lose control.

So instead, he chose to wait a while longer before sending any message in the (CHAT), resigning himself to remain a silent observer.

Until five minutes ago, of course, when a message appeared on his phone screen:

[You have received one month of membership in the stream as a random gift from the viewer: “(MOD)GeniusBillionairePlayboy”!]

The shock was so great that he dropped the phone directly onto his face.

Rubbing his aching nose, Klein sat upright in bed and stared at the screen in silence for several seconds.

He felt an almost uncontrollable urge to shout to the heavens in gratitude to the man he knew to be Tony Stark—but fortunately restrained himself at the last second.

Klein had no desire to wake his siblings, who would surely think he was losing his mind. Nor did he want to start some strange rumor among the new neighbors. The Morettis had only recently moved to 2 Daffodil Street. If he started screaming in ecstasy at midnight, thanking a man by name, rumors would certainly spread.

Taking several deep breaths to calm himself, Klein felt his fingers tremble. He flexed them for a while, debating whether or not to write something in the (CHAT).

Maybe I’ll appear in that special (CHAT) Devas reads? Or perhaps my message will pop up directly in front of him, like those other messages before?

Klein recalled the messages he had seen—some flying across the screen with bizarre special effects.

Learning that a devil was in the stream had been almost as shocking as watching The Human do something involving Heaven. His heart had pounded for minutes after witnessing that!

What should I write? Should I ask for help and explain my situation? I don’t think Devas could pull me out of this world and back to my Earth. I don’t even know which Earth was mine!

But he could help me with money…

Asking for one or two gold bars wouldn’t be greedy, would it? Devas wouldn’t feel the slightest dent in his wealth if he tossed me a few crumbs.

I could sell them discreetly. It would take effort, but it would at least ease my financial burden.

With that, I could buy more mystical materials. And new clothes for Benson—he’s been complaining about his worn suit. I could buy gifts for Melissa too. She’s still growing; she must want nice things like other girls her age…

Klein’s thoughts raced for several minutes. He organized them as best he could and placed his fingers on the phone screen.

Just as he was about to type, his finger slipped due to unfamiliarity with the device, and he pressed the wrong button.

He had owned the phone for a week and a half and had experience using it, of course—but his current body lacked the muscle memory he had developed over years on Earth.

The stream’s random prize roulette appeared before him, spinning like a profane spiral in Klein’s eyes.

“Hiisss!”

Fuck!

No, not gacha! I didn’t even mean to press that! Stop—stop spinning!

Klein cursed inwardly, his heart aching faintly from distant memories of war.

He watched the roulette slow to a stop. His expectations were low, yet he couldn’t help nurturing a small hope of receiving something useful.

If he won SP, he could maintain his membership, increasing his chances of being noticed. He wasn’t entirely sure whether SP could be converted into money—though the reverse clearly worked.

If it were possible, his financial troubles would shrink considerably!

When the roulette finally stopped and announced his prize, Klein frowned in confusion.

[Mr. Fool has received the item: [Pocket Trump Card (Evolving)]!]

While Klein was still trying to reason out what kind of prize he had won, a card silently materialized from faint particles of light that drifted out from the flat screen of his phone, landing softly on the worn quilt in front of him.

He blinked. The bluish glow of the phone screen was the only significant source of light in the dark room, aside from the thin crimson strands of moonlight filtering through the closed curtains, casting long and peculiar shadows.

…What is this item? With my luck, I thought I’d get some random badge or emote. I’ve never seen anyone win anything like this before.

Devas could at least make the roulette item list public…

The mind of the one known as Klein Moretti was still muddled.

With the caution he had developed over the past week dealing with the unknown Beyonder world, he reached out and picked up the object between his index finger and thumb.

It was surprisingly thin and light, almost weightless, cold to the touch like metal left out during Tingen’s winter—a winter that now existed only in the fragmented memories of the original Klein.

Curious, he brought it closer to his eyes to examine it.

One side was completely black, a shade so deep and absolute that it seemed to swallow the faint ambient light—a darkness without reflection. He carefully turned it over.

The other side bore a simple design.

Just a few aggressive, almost hastily drawn strokes forming a stylized eye. There were no colors except for the iris: a circle tinted in a vibrant, chaotic orange that seemed to flicker with its own inner light, staring back at Klein with unsettling intensity.

A chill ran down his spine.

That sickly orange eye again!

Why does everything involving Devas have that bizarre orange eye?!

As if sensing the fluctuation in Klein’s emotions, a faint sound seemed to crawl out of the card and straight into his bones.

It was eerily similar to the unintelligible, maddened whispers Klein had already grown accustomed to hearing.

Amid the delirious cacophony, he could make out two repeated lines, each composed of two words—one familiar and one new:

Hornacis… Flegrea… Hornacis… Flegrea… Hornacis… Flegrea…

Human… Sins… Human… Sins… Human… Sins…

Klein nearly dropped it in fright. A slight ache throbbed in his forehead before the whispers gradually quieted on their own, fading without him needing to steady his mind.

At the same time the whispers disappeared, he felt a subtle yet undeniable connection form—an invisible thread linking his own spirituality to the strange object.

Klein knew instinctively, like a Seer beginning to grasp the nature of omens, that this item was now irrevocably bound to him.

The thought that came to mind was:

I shouldn’t have touched this thing…

However, the absence of any negative or malicious sensation—combined with the fact that the item had come from the stream—steadied his heart.

Klein’s caution battled against his academic curiosity.

He knew he shouldn’t tamper with unknown items of mysterious origin in the middle of the night—especially with Melissa and Benson asleep in the adjacent rooms.

But the connection he felt was intriguing, almost hypnotic. The orange eye in the design seemed to be calling to him.

Trying to understand the object’s nature without taking excessive risks, Klein did what had become second nature over the past week: he decided to use the barest fraction of his spirituality, just enough to activate his Spirit Vision and “read” the card’s basic aura.

It was a standard inspection procedure. Klein raised his left hand and tapped twice on his glabella.

It was a mistake.

The moment his Spirit Vision activated, Klein felt his spiritual energy ripple—and then move on its own.

The connection between his spirituality and the black card siphoned off a small portion of his spiritual energy, devouring it like a hungry mouth.

“Ah!” Klein let out a muffled exclamation, trying to drop the card—but it was too late.

The black card in his palm began to lose its solidity. It dissolved into a viscous, shadowy substance that quickly seeped into the pores of his skin.

Klein’s eyes widened, his heart racing as he watched in horror while the black substance was completely absorbed into his right hand within seconds.

A paradoxical, intense cold-burning sensation spread across the center of his palm. It was strange and not quite painful—like scratching a limb that had gone numb.

He looked down, his breath caught in his throat.

There, in the center of the square formed by the four points on the back of his right hand, his skin split open. It wasn’t a bloody wound of flesh and gore, but more like an eyelid slowly parting within his own skin.

A vivid, luminous orange eye—identical to the one drawn on the card, but now alive—revealed itself in the center of Klein’s right palm, staring at him unblinking.

Pure terror surged through his mind, along with an overwhelming urge to grab the nearest sharp object and gouge the eye out.

But the instinctive knowledge and information that flooded his mind immediately afterward stopped him from doing anything drastic.

Knowledge about the card—whose name he now learned was [Pocket Trump Card]—and about how it functioned.

“I… can summon it?” he whispered in shock.

Once a week, the thought echoed in his mind. The strength and duration of the summoning depend on me. It’s not the real Devas, but even so, this is incredible!

Did I really win the rarest item on the roulette on my first try?!

A surge of euphoria rushed through his veins—before a realization abruptly settled over his thoughts.

I just activated the card by accident… The summoning will last two seconds, and Devas will be at… that’s way too many zeros to count.

Ignoring the fact that he had accidentally used up the week’s summoning and that he was far too weak to even summon a Memory Image with 1% of The Human’s power, Klein was worried about something else: the summoning would happen here.

It would happen here, in his bedroom, with him in his pajamas!

Forget dying of embarrassment in front of my veteran in being dimensionally kidnapped—if anyone detects Devas’s presence, I’ll have endless trouble!

Exclaiming inwardly, Klein leapt out of bed and stood up. He quickly took four steps counterclockwise and ascended above the gray fog.

There, he swiftly took his seat upon the Fool’s chair.

The moment he sat down, the back of his right hand writhed, and the [Pocket Trump Card] melted out of his skin, flowing upward to take shape above the bronze table.

More information flooded Fool Klein’s mind, making him realize that the space above the gray fog had assumed the burden of the summoning.

The Memory Image about to be called forth would now possess 100% of its strength and could exist there indefinitely—until the summoning was dismissed by either side.

Fool Klein didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this new information.

I just summoned someone who’s openly racist against anything divine at 100% of his strength… and I’m impersonating a god.

Something must have gone terribly wrong along the way…

I’ll kneel and say I’m human the moment anything happens.

Mocking himself inwardly, he waited in silence as a black shadow emerged from the [Pocket Trump Card] and slithered across the table and floor, stopping several meters in front of the bronze table, directly before Klein.

The formless shadow spun along the ground before rising into the air in an unnatural manner. From it, a humanoid outline took shape—a bizarre shadowy figure with features somewhere between two-dimensional and three-dimensional.

Fool Klein instinctively slipped into character upon sensing another presence within the space above the gray fog, casually resting his chin on his right hand and adopting an indifferent, calm, and mysterious tone.

The humanoid Memory Image was almost caricature-like. Large, pupil-less eyes with milky white irises filling the entire space. Its nose was merely two strokes, and its mouth a thin line. It was bald.

It looked like a drawing made by a schizophrenic child.

The Memory Image seemed to inspect its surroundings for a second. Fool Klein might have mistaken it for indifference—if not for the unnerving focus in those large, milky-white eyes.

Then the shadow-formed humanoid figure’s neck tilted sideways, like a paper drawing being turned.

Klein felt himself being inspected by the figure and, inadvertently, couldn’t help but stare back.

He’s not going to say anything? Is he waiting for me to speak fir—

Klein’s train of thought froze as a hateful presence descended upon the entire space above the gray fog, carrying with it an aura of insanity and madness.

It was as if everything around — and nothing at the same time — was the target of that hatred. A madness so ancient and a lunacy so delirious that they attacked everything simply because they did not know what they truly wished to attack.

Cold sweat soaked Klein’s back, and through his spirituality he gained an insight.

If not for this hateful presence being contained within the space above the gray fog, every Beyonder in Tingen would have instantly lost control, and every ordinary human would have been crushed to death beneath the sheer weight of that existence.

He would have been no exception. The only reason he remained untouched was the gray fog shielding him.

Klein hissed inwardly.

Terrifying. Incredibly terrifying!

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the hateful presence vanished, and the surroundings returned to calm silence.

It had lasted no more than a fleeting instant.

The humanoid figure of The Human underwent a physical transformation immediately afterward.

He seemed to gain “weight,” both literally and figuratively.

The shadow that had once wavered between two and three dimensions solidified into a purely three-dimensional presence, outlining distinct masculine features that Klein immediately recognized as belonging to The Human.

Short strands of shadow formed wild, tousled hair atop his head.

His body became clothed in what appeared to be the contours of an elegant suit, also made of shadow, continuously blending and flowing with the rest of his darkened form.

From that moment on, the changes occurred in two distinct stages:

First, dozens of blood-red markings, symbols, and vein-like lines emerged across The Human’s body. They slithered along his “skin” and vanished where there was “clothing.”

They resembled living tattoos, pulsing with a faint glow. Whenever Klein blinked or shifted his gaze, the markings rippled and frantically rearranged themselves.

At the same time, they carried the paradoxical and unsettling sense of being immutable, remaining essentially the same no matter how they shifted.

Like a story that advances and changes with every second a reader reads it—yet the words themselves never change.

Second, his features lost their caricature-like appearance.

His face became more human. It gained a nose, lips, eyebrows, and ears. The line that had served as a mouth curved into a serene, gentle smile. His teeth were an artificially inhuman white—paler than a sheet of paper—perfectly symmetrical and unnervingly sharp.

Covering the surface of each tooth were tiny golden lines, unnaturally straight.

Finally, the large milky eyes reshaped into human ones, gaining pupils and transforming asymmetrically.

In his right eye, the sclera turned white and the iris settled into normal proportions, glowing a deep, radiant orange like a miniature sun.

Around the pupil, a ring formed from the same red symbols that covered his body spun ceaselessly clockwise, surrounded by a faint golden aura.

The very instant that orange eye focused on him, Klein was struck by an instinctive and absolute knowledge: The Human could see through the gray fog and the disguise.

He knew that the Fool was merely a human acting a role.

In complete contrast, the figure’s left eye darkened until the sclera became utterly black, like a lightless abyss. At the center of that void, the iris burned with an insane, delirious red, exuding a disturbing aura of pure madness.

Then The Human’s smile widened, and genuine words of appreciation emerged:

“Truly, you have my thanks, Mr. Fool.”

A strange sensation overtook Fool Klein’s thoughts.

His emotions were tangled.

He was, at the same time, utterly terrified. Every part of his being—physical and spiritual—was screaming that the terrifying existence before him was unimaginably dangerous, and that he would have no way to resist if attacked.

Yet simultaneously, there was a strange calm within him.

I’m not in danger. I don’t know why, but I feel that more strongly than the terror. In fact, I don’t think I’ve felt this safe since I arrived in this world…

Truly, it’s like those phrases I once heard.

‘Fear not!’

‘For where the light shines brightest, the shadow is deepest.’

‘Every angel is terrifying, and all angels are dreadful in order to drive away evil.’

Finally, he was confused by The Human’s words.

But… I didn’t do anything?

I’m just standing here watching you do your strange and terrifying things, and I’m the one being thanked?

Wisely, he remained silent and merely nodded in acknowledgment. Then, with a simple and polite gesture, Fool Klein spoke calmly:

“Please, have a seat. I appreciate you coming.”

Klein had no idea why he was still acting.

[...]...[...]

Before anything else, I need to say this: Klein’s knowledge and insight about what Devas can or cannot do are flawed. Keep that in mind.

With that said, the vote for “Orange” won, with “or” and “Neon Green” coming very close to a tie. This will change a few things in the future.

As for LOTM — well, it’s a complicated world. I like it a lot, but I’ll have to handle it carefully. For those who haven’t read it (you will), I’ll do what I always do and explain things. I explained Terraria, I explained RWBY, and I’ll explain whatever comes next.

Someone asked me before, “How does Devas compare to the sequences in LOTM?” That’s a good question, and I thought it was worth answering.

In short: at 100%, he’s invincible below Sequence 4. For fairly obvious reasons, actually. (You know which ones?)

He could kill most Sequence 4s and deal with nearly all of them — except for anomalies like Sequence 4 Klein. It would be complicated, and things at that level start to get tricky, with some annoying loopholes and cockroaches showing up, but it’s still feasible.

He could survive and escape from some Sequence 3s. Killing them would be almost impossible, and a Sequence 3 would have to be very stupid to die.

Above that, he dies. The end. :D

Another quick explanation: Devas being able to see through the Gray Fog is because Klein is just a small Sequence 9, and Devas literally pulled his existence into the Memory Image. As shown in the chapter, the Memory Image isn’t supposed to work like that.

The Memory Image’s 100% power is purely physical. Devas simply altered that due to the fact that he entered a state of complete panic.

Honestly, I think that was his greatest feat so far, considering what he actually accomplished.

And the Gray Fog is handling things as it always does.

With all that said, good night everyone, and enjoy the chapter!