With a single step, the chaos of the Bazaar vanished. No more sharp scents of sizzling meats, no more distant laughter, no more murmuring crowds. Just damp air and the faint stench of mildew from the tunnel beneath the Hot Spot. John exhaled through his nose, forcing a smirk onto his face.

  "Back home," he muttered, though the word tasted bitter. He stepped into the empty restaurant, his boots echoing on the tiled floor. The place should’ve been full of noise—clinking glasses, sizzling oil, regulars arguing about politics. But now? Just rows of silent, empty tables. The stillness sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.

  His gaze drifted toward the Ship. The beige elevator cabin stood there, unchanging, a permanent reminder of his bizarre, frustrating situation. The doors slid open soundlessly, almost like it was mocking him. Swallowing down the tight knot in his throat, he stepped inside. The second the doors closed, the world outside disappeared. No more distant hum of cars. No more city smells. Just the sterile air of the Ship and that fake happiness hammering at the edge of his mind. John let himself collapse into the captain’s chair, the leather stiff and unwelcoming. His fingers tapped against the armrest as he stared at the alien controls spread out in front of him. So many switches. So many levers. So many things he barely understood.

  He let out a harsh breath and pulled out his Terminal. “I need to focus. Chase said all the info on magic fundamentals is on the HiddenNet, so I better get to it," he muttered, his voice hollow. He started typing, scrolling through page after page of dense, arcane theory.

  Hours passed.

  The room felt like it was closing in on him. His skin was clammy with sweat, his limbs trembling from exhaustion—but he couldn’t stop. Not yet. His eyes burned as he forced himself to read every damn word on the screen in front of him. Then, finally—

  John gasped, sucking in a shaky breath. His fingers dug into the armrest. “F-Fuck.” His voice came out hoarse. He glanced at his phone screen, blinking blearily. “An hour. That took an hour.” A wry smile twisted his lips. "Learning all those Spell Components at once was—probably one of the worst decisions of my life." He barely had the strength to reach for a cigarette, but he forced his shaking hands to light it.

  Still… his efforts weren’t for nothing. His gaze flicked back to the screen of the Emulator Station, reading over the list of newly acquired Spell Components.

  "Eight hours," he murmured. "And I only learned all of this?"

  He checked his phone again. “Morning already?”

  A frown crept across his face. His hands didn’t feel heavy. His head didn’t ache. His body should have been screaming at him to stop. Instead, he felt… fine. His eyes flickered to the Ship’s controls. “Is this because of…?” He hesitated. He wouldn’t say its name.

  The Authority of Permanence.

  Or maybe—his gaze darkened—maybe it was this cursed machine.

  John shook his head and flexed his fingers. No point thinking about that now. He had what he needed. His heart kicked up a beat as he typed rapidly, constructing a spell. His spell.

  Fifteen minutes later, he leaned back, staring at the finished result.

  John’s lips curled into a small, disbelieving smile. “My first spell.”

  It wasn’t much—just a simple, fist-sized fireball. But it was his. Then—

  His breath hitched. “Containers?”

  Frowning, he focused on his hand. "What do you mean, containers? Can't I just—?"

  The words hit him like a hammer to the ribs.

  "What?!" His voice cracked as he bolted upright, fingers tightening around the Terminal. "No, no, no. That can't be right!"

  His heart pounded. He stared at his hand, willing the fire to appear. Nothing.

  He clenched his jaw. "So I still can't…" The words caught in his throat.

  He wasn’t a mage. No matter how much he studied, no matter how many components he learned—he still couldn’t cast spells himself. A bitter, frustrated growl built in his chest. His nails dug into his palm as he snatched a spell cartridge from his belt, his hands trembling.

  John gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. "So I have to use—use this garbage?"

  His hands twitched, caught between the urge to throw the cartridge against the wall or crush it into dust. The heat of his own anger burned hotter than the fire spell he still couldn’t cast. But in the end, he sighed. Long. Tired. Defeated.

  "...Fine." His voice was a whisper, barely audible.

  He lit another cigarette with stiff fingers, staring at the dim glow of the embers. "No real point replacing one fireball with another. But maybe…" His thoughts turned, gears grinding. "Maybe the one I wrote is different. Maybe—stronger."

  There was only one way to find out.

  He punched in a landing destination—a wide, empty riverbed far from civilization. Then, with a heavy heart, he pulled the lever. John stepped outside. The crisp morning air, the rustling trees, the scent of damp earth—he ignored all of it.

  His focus was on his spell.

  He loaded the standard fireball cartridge into his glove, raised his palm, and fired. The spell ignited—a fist-sized orb of flame materializing before shooting forward. The heat was faint, barely there, as it splashed into the river with a pathetic hiss.

  John let out a dry, humorless laugh. "That was underwhelming." He flicked his gaze to the Spell Glove, disgust curling in his gut. "No wonder these things never caught on."

  Then—his eyes narrowed. "Alright. Let’s see if my spell is better."

  Stepping back inside, he selected the spell container.

  The moment he confirmed the choice, the Ship shuddered.

  John barely had time to scream as something burst out of the console. A massive, grotesque arm of tangled, dark wires—thick as his leg—erupted from the Ship’s controls. The three-fingered metallic claw at the end flexed, the cables shifting like muscles, coiling and uncoiling in an unsettling, organic motion. John’s breath caught. His heart slammed against his ribs. The arm moved—not randomly, not mindlessly—deliberately.

  It was… breathing.

  John swallowed hard. "...What the hell did I just do?"

  John barely had time to flinch before the arm lunged forward, its claw locking around the cartridge with unsettling precision. The movement was neither fluid nor mechanical—it was something in between, jerking yet purposeful, like a stop-motion nightmare given life. The grinding whine of metal against metal rang out as the device was crushed, twisted, rewritten in an instant. Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the arm withdrew, vanishing into the console as if it had never been there. No seam. No hidden hatch. No sign that anything unnatural had just unfolded before his eyes.

  John’s breath came in shallow gasps as he stared at the object left behind. What once had been a complex mechanism of brass and glass, adorned with delicate gears and tiny, shimmering sigils, was now an unnatural, monolithic block of dull gray metal. Its surface was etched with impossibly intricate runes that seemed too precise, too perfect. It wasn’t glowing. Not like the Spell Glove’s cartridges did. And yet, somehow, it still radiated something. Not energy. Not heat. Just... wrongness.

  A cold dread slithered down John’s spine. He didn’t want to touch it. Every instinct screamed at him to drop the thing and walk away.

  But he had no choice.

  He shoved the cartridge into the Spell Glove, eager to make it disappear, to push away the crawling sensation it left in his mind. His hands were shaking.

  “What the hell did I just make?” He said to himself.

  The thought lingered as he hurried outside, his boots crunching against the gravel. The morning air should’ve been refreshing, but it felt stifling, like the world itself was holding its breath. John exhaled, raised his arm, and activated the spell.

  His heart nearly stopped.

  The orb that formed in his palm was not fire. Not in any way he recognized. It flickered and pulsed like a living thing, a sickly green mass streaked with black blotches that twisted and writhed, shifting between solid and liquid, gas and plasma, as if it couldn’t decide what it was supposed to be. The air around it warped but the distortion was too sharp, too jagged—like reality itself was rejecting it. Before he could react, the spell launched itself, tearing through the air with a deafening crack.

  John barely had time to track its path before it hit the river.

  The water screamed.

  A blast of hissing steam erupted, rising in a choking, suffocating cloud. The riverbed didn’t just scorch—it transformed, the impact site turning into a crater of smooth, blackened glass. The surrounding rocks, the ones nowhere near the point of impact, had melted like wax. Even the air carried a bitter, acrid sting, like burnt metal. John stood frozen. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto them, his breath ragged.

  “H—Holy shit,” he whispered, staring at the devastation. His voice barely carried over the ringing in his ears. “That was a fireball? No. No, it was something else. Something that wanted to be fire but wasn’t.”

  His fingers twitched as he looked at the Spell Glove, now nothing more than an extension of his own hand. “What did the Ship do?” He muttered, unable to take his eyes off the device. The wrongness of the flames echoed in his thoughts, lingering like a parasite gnawing at his mind. “That wasn’t normal. Chase and Carter would know that wasn’t normal. Or maybe—maybe they won’t.” He shook his head. “Who am I kidding? Anyone would say this thing shouldn’t exist.”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  The realization was suffocating.

  John swallowed hard. “It’s powerful. That’s all that matters.” His laugh came out hollow, almost hysterical. “Maybe those fishmen won’t be much of a problem after all.”

  The thought should’ve reassured him. It didn’t.

  He forced himself to stand, dusting off his pants with trembling hands. The numbers in his head added up in a grim equation—fifty Improbability Factor per shot. “Expensive. But worth it. Maybe. As long as I can keep that thing fed, I—” His breath hitched as the familiar pull of the Ship settled into his gut. The Authority. The unseen, unspoken force that allowed him to survive in this unknown world. The one he refused to name aloud. It was watching. It was always watching.

  He clenched his fists, forcing the thoughts aside. There was no point in spiraling now. He had work to do.

  John turned on his heel, stepping back inside the Ship. A few words on a keyboard followed by a single pull of a lever, and the elevator cabin shimmered into existence in the middle of a busy parking lot.

  A large gun shop loomed ahead.

  He exhaled slowly, shaking off the last tendrils of unease. “Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s get something that doesn’t feel like a violation of reality.” John let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he glanced back at the Ship. “I’m getting way too used to this.” The thought had barely formed before that creeping, artificial happiness tried to worm its way into his brain, an unnatural warmth pressing against his thoughts like a pair of invisible hands shaping his mood.

  His smile froze.

  “Right.”

  He tore his gaze away, shoving down the foreign sensation with practiced effort. The unease lingered at the edges of his awareness, but he forced himself to focus. “What can I get that’s armor-piercing, easy to carry around, and—“ His train of thought stuttered as he looked around, suddenly noticing that not a single person or camera in the shop was paying him any attention.

  Not the cashier chatting with a customer.

  Not the guy examining a rack of hunting rifles.

  Not the security camera mounted in the corner.

  A slow, creeping realization settled in.

  “The Glamour,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. His gaze drifted toward the ‘Employees Only’ door just a few steps away. He hesitated. No alarms. No second glances. No one cared. “Does that mean… I can just walk in?” His fingers brushed the door handle. A single push, and it cracked open. The hallway beyond stretched into a backroom filled with unopened crates, some marked with labels that made his fingers itch—military surplus, high-caliber rounds, expensive custom rifles. No one moved to stop him. Not a whisper of protest.

  John exhaled slowly, then let the door swing shut.

  “No.”

  He stepped back, shaking his head. The temptation gnawed at him, but deep down, he knew where that road led. “If I start just taking whatever I want, I won’t stop. I’ll keep justifying it, telling myself it doesn’t matter. That it’s just one thing. Then another. And another.”

  It wasn’t about whether he could afford it.

  It was about who he was willing to become.

  John sighed, rubbing his temple. “Can’t go down that road,” he muttered. “Not yet, anyway.”

  He turned his focus inward. “That woman never told me how to deactivate the Glamour—do I just think about it?”

  The moment the thought crossed his mind, the unnatural glow surrounding him vanished.

  “Huh. Guess that answers that.”

  He squared his shoulders and strode toward the counter, now fully visible to the world. The man behind it, a middle-aged guy in a red flannel shirt, glanced up with an easy smile. His face was weathered in the way that spoke of years spent outdoors.

  “Excuse me?” John said, stepping up to the counter. “I’m looking for something specific, and I was hoping you could help. I need something high-capacity, easy to carry, but with enough punch to get through armor.”

  The shopkeeper let out a low whistle, tapping his chin. “Sounds like you’re gearing up for some serious business. What form factor are you thinking? Rifle? Pistol?”

  “Preferably a pistol,” John replied. “I need to stay mobile.”

  “Ah, gotcha. Running a three-gun match?”

  John gave a noncommittal nod, rolling with the assumption. The man didn’t press further, just grinned and turned toward the display cases.

  “In that case, I’d recommend a Kel-Tec P50.” He reached under the glass and pulled out a strange, futuristic-looking firearm. “Fifty rounds per mag, compact enough to carry, and chambered in 5.7mm, which has excellent penetration for the size.” He turned it over, pressing a button. “See, you pop it open like this, swap out the mag, and you’re good to go.”

  John eyed the weapon. The transparent magazine sat right in the middle of the gun like a sci-fi prop. It was almost funny how small it looked compared to what it could do.

  “We’ve got leg holsters for them too,” the shopkeeper added. “A lot of folks around here like these.”

  John nodded. “That sounds perfect. I’ll take one, plus a holster, a good red dot, and—” He did some quick mental math. “Ten magazines.”

  The man let out a low chuckle. “Stocking up, huh? No problem.” He started tallying things up before glancing at John. “You paying cash?”

  John pulled out a thick roll of bills and set them down.

  The shopkeeper’s eyes practically sparkled. He made no attempt to hide his appreciation as he started counting, nodding in satisfaction. “Alright, with lots of ammo, the gun, and the extras, you’re looking at about nine grand.”

  “Fine by me.”

  The man quickly and efficiently tucked the cash away before looking up. “Anything else catch your eye?”

  John hesitated, then tilted his head. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind picking up something… fun. Something with stupid stopping power.”

  The shopkeeper grinned like a kid about to show off his favorite toy. “Oh, I’ve got just the thing.”

  He ducked behind the counter and came back up holding a monstrosity. A stainless steel revolver, absurdly large, the kind of gun that looked like it belonged in an action movie or a poorly balanced video game.

  “This beauty right here is a Magnum Research BFR,” he said with a laugh. “Chambered in 45-70. Five shots. This thing’ll put down an elephant if you need it to.”

  John took the gun, feeling the absurd weight settle into his palm. “This thing is ridiculous.” He imagined firing it at one of those fishmen and briefly entertained the mental image of it exploding into a fine mist.

  “Leg holster for this one too?” the man asked.

  John smirked. “Might as well.”

  “Good choice. I’ll throw in a couple of boxes of ammo and a solid set of hearing protection.”

  A few signatures later—nothing too detailed, the guy barely glanced at the paperwork—John walked out of the store with a small cart loaded with weapons and ammunition. He wheeled it back toward the Ship, shaking his head as he muttered, “Nearly fifteen grand for

  all this.” He let out a breathy chuckle. “Worth it.”

  He dumped everything inside before turning back and wheeling the cart back into the shop out of courtesy. The store clerk gave him a friendly wave, which John returned before stepping into the Ship once more. Before he could forget, he focused for a brief second, feeling the Glamour flicker back into place like a thin veil over his existence.

  “Alright,” he muttered, cracking his knuckles. “Time to get to work.”

  He sat down, unpacking his purchases, his gaze landing on the small plastic tool in the pile. His lips quirked in mild amusement.

  “They even threw in a free magazine loader.” He smiled as he loaded the magazines.

  For all the wrongness in his life right now, at least some people were still decent.

  An hour later, and the weight of the two new guns settled on John’s hips—his P50 snug against his right thigh, the massive BFR weighing heavily on his left. He shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders. The revolver was a beast, a solid hunk of steel that felt more like a medieval weapon than a firearm.

  He tried to shake off his nerves with a chuckle. “Can’t wait to see Chase’s face when I show up with these.” The humor barely lasted a second before reality came crashing back down. His smile faltered. “Let’s hope it’s enough.”

  His fingers drifted to the shielding ring on his hand, pressing against the smooth metal as if it could somehow reassure him. “One day and a half until the operation.” The thought settled in his chest like a stone. “Maybe I should make a quick stop at my apartment, grab my PC, some fresh clothes—something normal before everything goes to hell.”

  The Ship materialized into the parking lot of his building. As the beige elevator doors slid open, his gaze landed on his old car, parked exactly where he’d left it.

  “I should sell it,” he muttered with a smirk.

  Then he saw them. Two fishmen stood near the front entrance.

  John stopped mid-step. His breath hitched. “Shit.”

  The Glamour clung to them like a shimmering veil, distorting their massive, inhuman forms. They were talking—about what, he had no idea. His mind raced. “Do they live here? Are they after me? No way they found me this fast.”

  He ducked, slipping behind a parked SUV. His fingers clenched around the grip of his P50, knuckles whitening. He risked another glance. The fishmen fumbled with the keypad, clearly trying to get inside. “Maybe they aren’t here for me. Maybe—”

  A thunderous boom split the air.

  John flinched as four more fishmen landed nearby, their heavy boots cracking the pavement on impact. They moved like professionals, their ragged clothes doing a poor job of hiding the gleaming plates of armor beneath.

  “Fuck.”

  His pulse pounded in his ears. His stomach twisted. “That’s Ninth Street. That’s definitely Ninth Street.” He could run. Get back to the Ship. Play it safe. But—his apartment. His stuff. If they got inside, they’d take everything. He forced himself to breathe, but it was ragged, uneven. His mind screamed at him to leave.

  “I-I can’t hide forever.”

  Chase’s warning echoed in his head.

  John swallowed. His mouth was dry. He could feel his hands trembling. He had to fight, had to train—even if it meant facing death. If he ran now, he’d be running forever.

  The thought made something inside him snap.

  He stepped out of cover and pulled the trigger.

  The P50 roared. The first fishman barely had time to turn before the armor-piercing rounds shredded through his chest plate. The beast gurgled, its insides turning to mush, before crumpling like a broken doll.

  The moment lasted a fraction of a second before the others reacted.

  “GET HIM!”

  The largest fishman let out a guttural roar, and suddenly, the parking lot became a warzone. John fired again. The orange shimmer of another shield sparked as his bullets connected, but the barrier only lasted a second before flickering out. His next burst took the creature’s head off.

  Then a jet of water screamed past his face, missing him by inches. It hit a nearby sedan. The vehicle was bisected instantly, the metal shearing apart like wet paper.

  John’s heart stopped.

  He gasped, stumbling back. “T-That could have been me.” His vision swam. His lungs forgot how to work. “It’s just like last time, I—”

  Then another fishman hit him.

  The impact sent him flying. His shielding ring flared—blinding golden light exploding around him as he crashed through his own car, shattering the windshield.

  The world spun. His ears rang.

  Pain flared through his ribs as he gasped for breath. “Move. Move!” He berated himself.

  He gritted his teeth, lifted his P50 with shaking hands, and blindly pulled the trigger.

  By some miracle, the wild burst struck another fishman, severing its arm. The beast screeched, blood spraying as it staggered back, already falling on its knees. The others weren’t so easily shaken.

  “You’re dead!” one of them bellowed. “The Ninth Street never forgets!”

  Then, in the blink of an eye, the fishman vanished.

  John barely had time to register movement before the creature was inches from him. Water surged around its fist—whirling, twisting, arcs of electricity dancing over its surface.

  His body refused to move.

  “I’m dead.”

  Desperation took over. John lashed out with his foot, kicking the fishman’s shin. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The beast stumbled with a startled grunt.

  John scrambled. His P50 slipped from his grasp. “Shit. SHIT.” His hands fumbled to his hip, yanking free the BFR.

  The revolver was heavy. Too heavy. It felt wrong in his grip—awkward, unfamiliar. He could barely steady his aim.

  The fishman was already back on its feet. Its arm drew back, water churning into a spiraling maelstrom of death. The glow of its spell bathed the lot in an eerie blue.

  John’s breath caught as he pulled the trigger.

  For a single heartbeat, the world stood still.

  The roar of the weapon shattered the silence like a thunderclap, drowning out even the howling wind. The muzzle flash erupted in a blinding flare, more akin to a fireball spell than a gunshot, illuminating the parking lot in flickering, violent light. The sheer force of the shot sent a brutal jolt up John’s arm, rattling through his wrist and shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. He staggered, gritting his teeth against the ache.

  A gaping, fist-sized hole was carved straight through the fishman’s chest. The creature’s beady eyes bulged, its mouth flapping open in a final, silent gasp. Then, as if its strings had been cut, it collapsed, crumpling into a heap. The rancid stench of rotten fish and iron flooded John’s nostrils as its blood sprayed across his face. A guttural gag clawed at his throat, but he forced it down, sucking in a shuddering breath.

  A split second later, a jet of high-pressure water slammed into his chest. John barely had time to register the attack before he was hurled backward. His shield sparked—flickered—then shattered as the force tore through it, sending raw shockwaves through his ribs. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, his back hitting the pavement hard.

  Pain lanced through his body. His fingers shook as he gripped the revolver, forcing himself to aim through sheer instinct.

  “The Ninth Street never—”

  The revolver barked twice, cutting off the war cry in an instant. The first shot took the fishman in the jaw, sending an explosion of flesh and bone skyward. The second struck its forehead dead center, erasing everything above its gills in a red mist. The remaining two fishmen recoiled, their confidence shattering in an instant.

  “F-Fuck!” One of them let out a panicked shriek as it scrambled for cover, slipping on wet pavement. “We need reinforcements! Now!”

  “In Wolfheart territory?! Are you insane?!” Its comrade hissed, panic lacing its words. “We have to kill him—quick! He’s just a single mage, there’s no way—”

  Another shot.

  The heavy round detonated the top half of the fishman’s skull, spraying its partner with gore. The lone survivor stood frozen. Blood and brain matter dripped down its trembling hands. Its breath came in ragged gasps as realization dawned.

  It was alone.

  It was prey.

  John stepped forward, his boots splashing through the growing pools of crimson. His silhouette was bathed in flickering light as the shield slowly repaired itself, his face shadowed beneath streaks of gore. The fishman tried to move, to run, but its legs gave out. It stumbled backward, landing hard on the pavement, gasping like a dying fish.

  John said nothing.

  His expression was blank. Unreadable.

  His gaze bore into the fishman, and something deep inside the creature recoiled.

  The revolver came up, slow and deliberate. The cold barrel pressed against its forehead, an unspoken finality in the gesture.

  John’s heart pounded in his chest. Heat rolled off him in waves, his breath coming sharp and uneven.

  The fishman knew it was over. Its body sagged—defeated—just as John pulled the trigger.

  A final gunshot echoed through the lot.

  The fishman slumped lifelessly to the ground, a ruined mess where its head used to be. One of its eyes popped free, rolling until it came to rest at John’s feet.

  He barely noticed.

  Something had shifted in him.

  His lips curled, stretching wide. Too wide.

  A smile—not one of relief, nor triumph, but something else entirely. Something wrong.

  It clung to his face, unnatural in its stillness. A smile that didn’t quite belong to him. A smile that whispered of something other.

  Something watching.

  The Ship’s hum filled his ears.