John’s stomach churned as the world around him lurched, the sky spinning violently before snapping back into place. His knees buckled, and he barely caught himself on the cracked pavement, his palms scraping against the rough surface. The nausea clawed at his throat, bitter and unrelenting, as he glared up at Chase, who stood there, annoyingly unfazed.
“I hate you,” John spat, his voice ragged. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his fingers trembling. “I thought we were going to die. What the hell was that?!”
Chase just grinned, his teeth glinting in the dim light of the flickering neon sign above them. The sign buzzed and sputtered, its letters half-dead: The Hot Spot. The “o” in “Hot” was barely clinging to life, casting a sickly green glow over the cracked sidewalk. John’s eyes narrowed as he took in the familiar building, its once-vibrant facade now weathered and crumbling. The faint shimmer that clung to its surface made his skin crawl—a subtle, otherworldly sheen that seemed to warp the air around it.
“The Hot Spot? Seriously?” John’s voice dripped with disbelief as he straightened up, brushing dirt off his jeans. His eyes darted to Chase, who was already pushing open the dented metal door like he owned the place. “Why are we here? And why now? It’s the middle of the night!”
Chase didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped inside, the door creaking on its hinges. John hesitated, his gaze lingering on the shimmering aura that clung to the building. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, and for a moment, he thought he saw something move in the shadows—a flicker of light, a whisper of sound. His stomach twisted again, but this time, it wasn’t from the nausea.
“Don’t tell me—” John started, his voice trailing off as Chase disappeared into the dimly lit interior.
“Exactly,” Chase called back, his voice echoing faintly. John cursed under his breath and followed, the door slamming shut behind him with a finality that made his spine tingle. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale grease and something faintly sweet, like burnt sugar. The flickering fluorescent lights cast long shadows across the cracked tiled floor, and the faint hum of a dying refrigerator filled the silence. Chase was already at the back of the room, pushing open a worn, orange door labeled Employees Only. The glow from the door was blinding, a miniature sun that seemed to pulse with energy. John shielded his eyes, his breath catching in his throat.
“The Hot Spot is—aside from a great sandwich place—a front for a portal to the Bazaar,” Chase explained, his tone casual, as if he were talking about the weather. He stepped through the door, and John had no choice but to follow, his heart pounding in his chest.
The hallway beyond was a stark contrast to the dingy diner. The walls were lined with sheet metal, rust creeping along the edges like veins. The air was damp and cold, carrying the faint scent of mildew and something metallic. The concrete steps beneath their feet were worn smooth, curved from years of use, and they seemed to stretch on forever, disappearing into the darkness below.
“How deep are we going?” John asked, his voice echoing off the walls. His eyes were drawn to the swirling orbs of white light that floated in the air, distorting the world around them like heat waves. They pulsed faintly, casting eerie shadows on the rusted walls.
Chase didn’t answer. Instead, he smirked, his eyes glinting with mischief as they reached the bottom of the stairs. A massive blast door stood before them, its hinges rusted open and ancient. Beyond the door laid a cavernous room that took John’s breath away. In the center of the room stood an enormous silvery ring, its surface rippling like molten metal. It pulsed with a life of its own, the light reflecting off its surface casting strange patterns on the walls. Inside the ring, an ethereal waterfall swirled, its surface dotted with white blotches that seemed to shift and dance. The air around it warped, bending light like a black hole, and John felt a strange pull, as if the ring were calling to him.
“W-What is that thing?” John stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a step back, his hands instinctively rising to shield himself. “And why are you showing me this? We just fought off those fish monsters! Shouldn’t we be dealing with that first?”
Chase waved a hand dismissively, his grin widening. “Calm down. There’s a reason I brought you here. This,” he said, gesturing to the ring, “is how we’re going to save our asses.”
John opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say a word, Chase grabbed his arm and yanked him forward. The world spun, and John’s stomach lurched as they plunged into the swirling waterfall. The air was ripped from his lungs, and for a moment, he was weightless, suspended in a void of light and sound.
Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. John stumbled, his legs buckling as the ground solidified beneath him. The sterile smell of the tunnel was gone, replaced by the acrid scent of smoke and metal. He blinked, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden brightness.
They were standing in front of another massive ring, identical to the one they had just left. But this time, they weren’t alone. The street was teeming with life—dozens of people mingled with creatures straight out of a nightmare. Werewolves with fur that shimmered like liquid silver, thin humanoids whose clothes seemed to warp reality around them, and even a group of fish monsters that made John’s blood run cold. They shuffled past, their gills flapping as they stepped into one of the many rings that lined the street.
“What is this place?” John asked, his voice trembling. He nearly bumped into a dwarf in a three-piece suit, who shot him a glare before disappearing into the crowd. “I have so many questions, you better—”
“This is the Bazaar,” Chase interrupted, his voice filled with pride. He crossed his arms, his grin widening as he watched John take it all in. “So, what do you think?”
John didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the street above them—or rather, the streets. There were countless levels, each one identical to the one they stood on, stretching up into infinity. The higher levels were swallowed by a strange, yellowish fog that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. The air was alive with the hum of voices, the clang of metal, and the faint scent of something sweet and smoky. “It’s… insane,” John finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. He turned to Chase, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. “What the hell have you gotten us into?”
Chase’s laughter echoed through the dimly lit street, bouncing off the walls of the bizarre, otherworldly shops that lined the Bazaar. His blue eyes gleamed with amusement as he leaned against a rusted lamppost, its light flickering faintly. “I wish you could see your face right now,” he said, his voice dripping with mirth. “Priceless.”
John scowled, his fingers fumbling as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket. He stuck it between his teeth, the faint tremor in his hands betraying his calm facade. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” he muttered, his voice low and edged with frustration. He lit the cigarette with a flick of his lighter, the flame casting a brief glow over his sharp features. “I need answers. Now.”
Chase sighed, running a hand through his tousled blond hair. “Right,” he said, his tone shifting to something more serious. “Short version first. The Bazaar is a shopping dimension that exists at the crossroads of all the Bubbles and—”
“Bubbles?” John interrupted, exhaling a plume of smoke. His eyes narrowed as he studied Chase, searching for any hint that this was another one of his jokes. “What the hell are you talking about?”
The werewolf slapped his forehead, his wolfish canines glinting faintly in the dim light. “Think of Bubbles as… groups of dimensions,” he explained, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Dimensions with similar frequencies exist next to each other, forming a Bubble. You can travel between dimensions within a Bubble, but not between Bubbles.”
John took a long drag, the ember glowing brightly for a moment before he exhaled slowly. “What would happen if I tried to go to another Bubble?” he asked, his mind flashing back to the ominous presence of the Ship that had kickstarted this whole ordeal.
“You can’t,” Chase said flatly, shaking his head. “You’d be rejected by that reality. Think of it like trying to shove a square peg into a round hole. Your very existence would be… incompatible. The results wouldn’t be pretty.”
John’s brow furrowed as he processed the information. “I think I get it,” he said slowly, though his tone suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced. “But then why did you say this place exists at the crossroads between Bubbles? Shouldn’t I be turned into minced meat right now?”
“The Bazaar is special,” Chase replied, his voice taking on a note of reverence as he gestured toward the upper levels of the dimension. “Each level here is dedicated to a different Bubble. It’s like a neutral zone—a place where beings from different Bubbles can coexist, even if they can never meet.”
John’s eyes narrowed as he glanced upward, taking in the dizzying sight of countless levels stretching into infinity, each one a mirror of the street they stood on. “Don’t ask me how they do it,” Chase added quickly, cutting off John’s next question. “No one knows.”
“Great,” John muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “So you’re fine with putting your trust in something that could end your existence in the blink of an eye?” He paused, a self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he recalled his own restarts. “Then again, maybe I’m not the best person to judge.”
Stolen novel; please report.
Chase shrugged, his broad shoulders rolling with the motion. “Anyways, that’s not why I brought you here.”
“Let me guess,” John said, his smirk returning. “You wanted to make fun of my reaction, right?”
“Guilty as charged,” Chase admitted with a grin, his sharp canines glinting in the dim light. He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. “But you don’t seem that surprised. Not as fun as I expected.”
John took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face as he exhaled. “What did you expect? I nearly got killed by fish monsters, learned my best friend is a werewolf, found out magic is real, and now there are other worlds. At this point, I think I’m convinced that nothing could surprise me.”
Chase blinked, his grin faltering for a moment before he let out a low chuckle. “I—I guess you’re right,” he said, his tone softening. “Seriously, though, are you doing alright? I know it’s a lot to process, but… we don’t have much time.”
John’s smirk faded, replaced by a look of wary curiosity. “Why?” he asked, his voice low.
“Those fishmen you killed,” Chase began, his expression growing serious. “Their family is part of a gang called the Ninth Street. They’re not exactly the forgiving type.”
John’s eyes widened slightly, and he took a step closer to Chase. “So why were you there?” he demanded. “That sounds downright suicidal!”
“I didn’t know!” Chase shot back, his voice rising slightly before he glanced around and lowered it again. “Fishmen family structures are weird, and—” He grunted in frustration, sidestepping a busy-looking man in a tracksuit who seemed oblivious to their conversation. “Anyways, my family’s been clashing with them a lot lately.”
“Now there’s gang wars,” John muttered, running a hand through his hair. He took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing faintly as he glanced at his reflection in a nearby window. “What did I get myself into?”
“There were witnesses at that party,” Chase continued, his voice grim. “A lot of them. I know they’ll talk, and rumors will spread like wildfire. If word gets out that I broke the Masquerade, then—”
“Then we’re both in deep shit,” John finished, his voice flat. He crossed his arms, his cigarette dangling from his fingers. “Still, I can see through Glamour. Doesn’t that mean I’m a supernatural?”
Chase hesitated, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied John. “I would agree,” he said slowly, “but many within the Enforcers don’t share that opinion. You’re not affiliated with any mage Houses, you know nothing about the Hidden World, and—” His gaze dropped to John’s concealed pistol. “You don’t exactly know a lot of spells, do you?”
“Right,” John said, his voice tinged with bitterness. He flicked the ash from his cigarette, his mind racing. “So, what are we going to do? Am I going to go into express training to become a passable wizard?”
Chase barked out a laugh, the sound echoing through the empty street. “I would pay good money to see that!” he said, his grin returning. “Sadly, we don’t have time. So we’re going to cheat a little.”
John raised an eyebrow as Chase led him down a deserted side street, stopping in front of a dilapidated wooden building. The shop was clearly closed, its windows opaque and covered in a thick layer of dust. Despite its decrepit appearance, the building seemed to shine faintly in John’s vision, as if it were calling to him.
“Safehouse,” Chase whispered, pushing the door open. The hinges creaked loudly, and the door slammed shut behind them as soon as they stepped inside. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and something faintly metallic. “This place is warded,” Chase explained, his voice calm. “We’re safe here.”
John watched as Chase rummaged through a set of drawers, his movements quick and precise. “I knew this would be useful one day,” the werewolf muttered, pulling out a dusty cardboard box. He opened it and handed John a phone-sized slab of granite, its surface smooth and cool to the touch.
“Here,” Chase said, his voice tinged with satisfaction. “This is a HiddenNet Terminal.”
John turned the device over in his hands, his fingers brushing against its surface. “Let me guess,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Internet for the Hidden World?”
Chase grinned. “Exactly.”
John poked at the device, and something clicked beneath his fingers. The Terminal hummed to life, a swirl of multicolored smoke coalescing into a simulacrum of a home screen. “Huh,” John said, his eyes widening slightly.
“A normal person would have no way to get one of these,” Chase explained, his tone serious. “So, it should make your cover story more plausible.” He handed John a small, rectangular purple gem, its surface flawless yet somehow alive with movement. “This is your ID. Don’t lose it.”
John held the gem up to the light, his brow furrowing. “You just happen to have a fake ID lying around?” he asked, his voice laced with skepticism. “Are you sure you’re the good guys?”
Chase shrugged and his expression faltered for a moment. “Hey, sometimes missions require a more… covert approach,” he said. “Anyways, if anyone asks, you’re Thomas Greenheart, a low-tier mage from an insignificant House.”
John stared at the ID in his hand, the weight of the situation settling over him like a heavy blanket. “Thomas Greenheart,” he repeated, his voice flat. “Sounds like a real charmer.”
Chase chuckled, clapping John on the shoulder. “Welcome to the Hidden World, Thomas.”
The faint hum of the HiddenNet Terminal filled the cramped safehouse, its multicolored smoke swirling lazily in the dim light. John stared at the pulsating gem in his hand, its unnatural distortion of light making his stomach churn. The crystal felt warm, almost alive, as if it were breathing in sync with his own heartbeat. He tore his gaze away, his fingers tightening around it. “Do I even want to know why a family of werewolves has a fake ID for a mage?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Chase hesitated, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. He scratched the back of his neck, his fingernails glinting faintly. “I—” he started, then stopped, his lips curling into a sheepish smile. Instead of answering, he reached into the dusty cardboard box and pulled out a silvery ring. The band was plain, unadorned, but the cracked yellow gem embedded in it caught the light in a way that made John’s skin crawl. It looked functional, not decorative, and the faint, erratic glow it emitted suggested it was barely holding together.
“This,” Chase said, holding up the ring, “Is a damaged shielding ring. It won’t protect you, but it’ll leak a steady stream of mana.”
John raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. “A shielding ring?” he repeated, slipping it onto his index finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for him. “So, am I bulletproof now?”
Chase snorted, shaking his head. “Don’t get your hopes up. This ring is a mass-produced model, and it’s on the verge of falling apart. At best, it’ll give you the protection of a thick coat. Maybe.”
John frowned, turning the ring over in his fingers. Unlike the other supernatural artifacts he’d seen, this one lacked the eerie glow that seemed to cling to everything in the Hidden World. It was dull, lifeless, and utterly unremarkable. “Then why are you giving me this?” he asked, his voice edged with frustration.
“Because it leaks mana, mimicking the natural mana of a mage.” Chase explained, his tone patient but firm. “It won’t hold up under close scrutiny, but it’s enough to fool anyone who isn’t paying attention. It’s not ideal, but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice.”
John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I see,” he muttered, though his expression suggested he was far from convinced. “But what if someone asks me to perform a spell? I can’t exactly wave my hands around and hope for the best.”
Chase winced, his grin faltering. “Yeah, that’s… a stretch, even by my standards.”
“You have standards now?” John shot back, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Fuck off,” Chase said with a laugh, punching John lightly on the shoulder. The tension in the room eased for a moment, but it didn’t last. Chase’s expression grew serious again as he reached for another box, this one older and covered in a thicker layer of dust. He opened it carefully, revealing a tarnished silver gauntlet. The metal had lost its luster, but faint green runes pulsed weakly along its surface, their light barely visible in the dim room.
“This,” Chase said, lifting the gauntlet with care, “Is a Spell Glove. It’s an antique—probably older than both of us combined.”
John raised an eyebrow, his skepticism returning. “You people shouldn’t be legally allowed to name things,” he muttered, taking the glove from Chase. The metal was surprisingly smooth, almost velvety to the touch, and it fit his hand perfectly. He flexed his fingers, testing the glove’s flexibility. “Let me guess,” he said dryly. “It lets me cast spells?”
“More or less,” Chase replied, ignoring the jab. He pulled out a smaller box, this one containing three glass cylinders. Each one housed a ticking brass mechanism, and delicate engravings labeled them: Fireball, Wind Blade, and Unknown. “These are spell cartridges,” Chase explained, handing the box to John. “You insert one into the slot on the top of the glove. It’ll shape your mana into the spell. I don’t know if you really have mana, so you can always use the ambient mana lingering in the air. It will charge slower and the spells will be weaker, but that’s all we can do for now.”
John picked up the Fireball cartridge, turning it over in his hands. The glass was cool, and the brass mechanism inside clicked faintly as he moved it. He slid it into the slot on the glove, the mechanism locking into place with a satisfying click. “So I’m a wizard now?” he asked, half-joking, as he pointed his index finger at an old chair in the corner.
“You cast with a button near the cartridge,” Chase said quickly, his voice tense. “Be careful—it’s right next to the one that ejects it.”
John froze, his finger hovering over the glove. “I-I see,” he said, his voice wavering slightly. He remembered fumbling with his gun’s magazine during the fight with the fishmen, and the thought of accidentally firing a spell in this cramped space made his stomach twist. “I guess it’s better than nothing.”
“It’ll have to do for now,” Chase said, his tone grim. He crossed his arms, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied the glove. “But don’t count on this thing in a real fight. Modern shields would stop these spells without breaking a sweat. The cartridges are weak, and the third one doesn’t even work.”
John blinked, his gaze snapping to the Unknown cartridge. “The third one doesn’t work?” he repeated, his voice rising in disbelief. “Seriously?”
“They’re fragile,” Chase said with a shrug. “Another reason why Spell Gloves never caught on.”
“Great,” John muttered, running a hand over his face. “So I have a weapon that breaks when it’s used and does no damage. What am I supposed to do if I run into another supernatural freak?”
“Run away,” Chase said bluntly, his expression softening. He clapped John on the shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. “I’m sorry to drag you into all of this, but we don’t have time to—” He stopped mid-sentence, his body tensing as his ears twitched. His blue eyes darted to the door, his expression hardening. “We have to go. Now,” he said, his voice low and urgent.
John didn’t argue. He grabbed the box of cartridges and shoved it into his pocket, his heart pounding as he followed Chase to the door. The Spell Glove felt heavy on his hand, a constant reminder of how out of his depth he was. “Fuck me,” he whispered under his breath, his fingers curling into a fist. “What did I get myself into?”
As they stepped out into the Bazaar, the air thick with the scent of smoke and metal, John couldn’t shake the feeling that things were about to get much, much worse.
