The wind had died down, and a deafening silence quickly followed. As the debris settled, Mikel fell through the still air and landed with a thud, knees bent to absorb the impact.
For a moment, he didn't move—his head hung low.
"So that's how the Grimoire works."
He touched the right side of his face, brushing against a warm trickle of tears spilling from his right eye. His left eye—the one that saw Doom—remained dry as a desert.
Despite exorcising and neutralizing the threat, there was not even the slightest hint of triumph in his heart—only heaviness.
Just moments earlier, when he opened the Book of the Dead to exorcise the ghost, Mikel had glimpsed the life of Lawrence Gatsby, the person the skeletal creature was before it was corrupted. He recognized it as the same ghost from the fake shaman's shop—the foul-mouthed spirit that spewed curses in every sentence.
Now he understood why the ghost couldn't cross over. It wasn't just because of the ghost's foul mouth, but also because of his regrets, reluctance, and anger toward himself that tied him to this world he had to leave.
And this only made Mikel realize that these monsters weren't all just monsters. They were people; humans once. They had their own lives—each a protagonist in whatever story life had given them.
Doom, however, was unmoved.
[Threat Neutralized.]
[Congratulations on learning exorcism and purification, Master.]
[Objective: ACHIEVED!]
[Calculating Status and Rewards…]
Mikel glanced at the prompts that were quickly moving on, as if this was not something one should dwell on. The weight of it all pressed on Mikel like a mountain. To Doom, it was just another completed protocol.
He had just killed someone...
Surprisingly, the prompts shifted aside to make room for Doom's remarks:
[He was already dead, Master.]
His brows furrowed, staring at what seemed like Doom's attempt to console him or snap him out of it. There wasn't any particular tone in Doom's comment.
[What you did is free him from the shackles that tormented him and saved the ones that he could've hurt had it not been neutralized.]
Then, why did it feel so wrong?
It was hard to tell if Doom meant to comfort him or was simply stating facts. The message had no emotion. And yet... Mikel could almost feel the intent behind the words.
He had seen Lawrence Gatsby's life in a flash, felt the man's pains and struggles, his desire for a better life, his good and bad sides, the little saving grace memories he held onto, his memories, emotions — everything, as if they were a part of Mikel's own life.
And just with this, something became clearer to him.
Indeed, this was his life now.
Not the kind where he should be idling in his bed after finally coming home for the first time after that unfortunate incident. Not the kind where he could simply be grateful for seeing again.
His life now involved this.
Mikel rose shakily, turning in place to face what remained. And there it was—what was left of his home.
Spirits that could turn into monsters, capable of doing real damage in the real world. Cursed relics that helped him progress or drained him of life and soul, and Doom—a system that leaned more on what it believed was logic.
This was his life now.
The sirens, screams, and cries around him faded into the distance.
Mikel gulped, and somehow, it sounded overly loud in his ears.
"Hey, kid!"
Suddenly, a man's sharp yell slashed through the growing silence, embracing Mikel just like how his new reality was slowly wrapping its wicked arms around him.
"Hey! It's dangerous over here!"
An abrupt squeeze on the shoulder snapped Mikel out of his daze, turning him around. The moment Mikel met the man's eyes, he recognized what he was wearing. It was the typical uniform of a firefighter.
The firefighter's eyes shook as he studied the dimness in the kid's eyes. But what took him off guard was not the trickle of blood on Mikel's cheek or the speck on his shirt, but rather, the different colors of his eyes. And how one of them shed a tear while the other — the red one — shone with a different emotion: one was seemingly detached while the other was indifferent.
There was something unsettling about the boy — not just the blood or his mismatched eyes, but the quiet stillness amidst the chaos. Like he didn't belong here. Or maybe… like this world no longer belonged to him.
"Uh." The firefighter cleared his throat. "Let's get out of here."
Tak.
Their attention shifted when something almost faint landed on the ground. Their gaze landed on a book, making the firefighter furrow his brows. However, the man didn't dwell on it.
Meanwhile, Mikel walked away and picked up the book. The Grimoire somehow felt heavier and warmer, pulsing with remnants of energy — or perhaps, it was simply his own guilt or the ghost's remnant emotions. Either way, he chose not to dwell on it.
He glanced at the remains of his home for a brief moment before turning to follow the firefighter. Hearing his last urging, he followed him to a "safer" place.
As he walked away, he felt it—the path beneath him wasn't one he could turn back from.
It was a path where denial meant death.
A path where a killer could be called a savior… and a savior might still be a killer.
And a path he was forced to take just because he made a decision to regain his sight, earning him this damned system and its cursed relic companions.
Little did Mikel know that, from the very beginning, his gut feeling that someone was watching him was correct.
---
At the highest point of a cell tower in a district near District 5, a woman sat casually on a narrow metal railing. The hem of her black, puffy dress fluttered in the high-altitude wind, and a dark lace veil blindfolded her eyes.
Her arm was raised at her side, palm up. Hovering above it was a palm-sized eyeball.
A dark aura radiated from the floating eye, directed precisely toward the site where the Blighted and Mikel had fought.
Standing a few paces away along the same railing was a tall man wearing a tank top that revealed his muscular physique. Dark ink pulsed and slithered across his skin, alive with movement. Despite the surrounding darkness and the dangerous height, he wore thin sunglasses and stood with effortless balance—both of them unnaturally at ease on the precarious perch.
The woman's red lips curled into an amused smirk. "That was interesting to watch."
A sharp gust of wind answered in the man's place before he finally shifted slightly.
"Hmm?" she hummed, the hovering eyeball swiveling to face him. "Where are you headed?"
The man turned his head slightly toward her. "I have to report... that the Eye seems to have awakened."
His voice was flat and dutiful. Hers remained light, amused—like she was watching an elaborate play unfold.
Without hesitation, the man stepped off the railing and dropped out of sight.
The woman chuckled but didn't follow. Instead, she tilted her chin upward, her veiled face turned toward the distant ruins where chaos had erupted.
"The Eye…" she whispered, chuckling softly. "...seems to have found a decent host. This will be interesting. I wonder how long he'll last."