Midnight Avenue was busier than usual.
Or maybe it just felt that way because Eathan was trying very hard not to drop a god.
Light bled in from every angle, mixed floating billboards and neon calligraphy unfurling mid‑air. Vendors shouted over one another, and SpiritTube jingles bled into the murmur of afterlife gossip.
Eathan kept his head down, jacket zipped to his throat and arms clamped across his chest. The core sat under it, wrapped in layers of cloth and one (1) borrowed table runner. Every ti soone jostled him, his heart tried to escape through his teeth.
"Relax," Chewie muttered at his side. "You're walking like you're smuggling contraband."
"I am smuggling contraband," he hissed. "Highly illegal contraband. That's literally the definition."
She considered that. "Fair."
[Calamity Radar] painted the street in muted greens and yellows. No direct threats. Just the usual low‑level chaos of the Realm of Passing's most fashionable shopping street.
Which, unfortunately, they had to cross to get back to the hotel.
They cut through the thickest part of the avenue, following Hai Xianmo's directions toward the VIP tower. Above them, a shimring sign read YUE SHEN PREMIER – ASCENDANT LEVELS, characters looping like smoke.
They crossed in front of a cluster of boutique fronts, which had stores advertising everything from "Emotion‑Proof Eyeliner to Soul‑Safe Luggage. Ghosts drifted in and out, chatting, posing, scanning codes.
Eathan locked his gaze on the hotel's distant entrance and made himself ignore the ring lights.
"…"
Of course there were ring lights.
"—and that's my unfiltered review of ng's Bureau complaint forms," soone was saying. "If you thought mortal taxes were bad, wait 'til you die."
The voice cut through the noise like a tuned bell, revealing a tight circle that had ford ahead. A SpiritTube setup glowed at its center—floating cara orb, holographic comnt feed, and one girl perched on a glass stool like she owned the afterlife.
Eathan glanced up for half a second, purely to avoid tripping.
Gold gloss-like hair fell to the girl's waist, catching every stray beam of light. Her eyes were a sharp, artificial violet that definitely ca from a filter pack. Frilled sleeves puffed at her shoulders, layered bracelets chiming each ti she gestured at the shop behind her.
A lens drifted in front of her, projecting glowing comnts onto the wall.
[first!!]
[QUEEN MINGRUI REVIEWING SMALL BUSINESSES LET'S GO]
[did u see that rumour about Area 007's new commander—]
"Now, now, one at a ti," she said, turning her head just enough for her gaze to skim the passing river of pedestrians—
—and locked eyes with Eathan.
The manicured hand holding her mic froze mid‑wave.
Eathan's stomach dropped, and Chewie followed his line of sight.
"…Oh no."
"Oh. My. Heavens." The girl's mouth ford a perfect O. She pointed from across the street, voice rising a full octave. "Is that—am I glitching—? Team 001's mortal intern?!"
The crowd turned as one. At least three wristpads lifted to start recording.
Not ideal when you were smuggl—transporting a Commander's divine essence through the afterlife's entertainnt district.
Without hesitation, Chewie grabbed Eathan's sleeve and yanked him sideways, cutting through the edge of the onlookers. Eathan ducked his head, shoulder‑checking a spirit accountant.
But it was too late.
The next second, the ghost influencer ca floating after them. Her heels were a polite few inches above the ground, ring light trailing her like a pet.
"Wait, wait, just one second!" she called. "I don't an harm, I swear! President of the WTFanclub here!"
Chewie stopped mid-step.
"The… what?"
The girl bead, stopping just short of colliding with Eathan. Up close, she had the kind of face that looked born to be in thumbnails, with every emotion dialled exactly to cara‑ready intensity.
"WTFanclub."
She flicked her wrist, and a second SpiritTube interface blood over her wristpad.
"White Tiger Fandom Club. Handle @WTFanclubOfficial. President, vice‑president, entire mbership. Also co‑mod of /r/CalamityIntern."
Eathan's soul left his body for a second. "There's a subrebbit?"
Chewie squinted. "Familiar-looking handle."
"Mm-hm." The girl bead. "I trended three tis during the Thirty‑Ninth Gas. #WhiteTigerForever was my tag. I literally died when he—"
"Please don't finish that sentence," Eathan muttered. "I'm a little sensitive about the word 'died' right now."
She cocked her head. "Oh my gods, you are exactly like the clips. So deadpan. This is amazing."
"@WTFanclubOfficial," Chewie said. "You're the one who spamd three thousand comnts on the semi‑final highlight."
The ghost influencer clasped her hands. "And I would do it again. Commander White needed those emotes. And you"—she spun to Chewie—"your blade work? Iconic. I have three compilation edits."
Chewie blinked. "Three?"
"Long cut, short cut, and one synced to a mortal boy band," she said. "You trend very well in slow motion."
Chewie looked, to Eathan's private horror, genuinely flattered.
"Okay, nope," he said quickly. "Ti-sensitive situation. We really don't want to cause a scene."
The ring‑light orb hovered closer, humming, and he lowered his voice.
"Miss…?"
"Mingrui," she answered. "Top‑100 SpiritTuber, Tier‑Three aspirant, upcoming face of Midnight Avenue's autumn campaign—hopefully."
"Alright, Miss Mingrui," he said with a long exhale. "Can we maybe talk later—at sowhere that's not currently broadcasting to SpiritTube and a thousand strangers?"
Mingrui's eyes flicked to the crowd, then back. For all her glitter and noise, she moved fast. She snapped her fingers; the ring‑light dimd, and a generic "technical difficulties" screen popped up over her floating comnts to cut the feed.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
"There," she said. "Stream paused. Co this way."
Before he could drag her, she spun and tugged them into a side alley off the main street. The noise of Midnight Avenue dampened to a dull roar.
Mingrui planted herself in front of them, hands on translucent hips, eyes sparkling.
"So," she said, entirely unbothered. "Area 001's missing Commander. Fake boom. Then suddenly—Tier‑2 karma spike showing up in my demographic analytics at Midnight Avenue." She tipped her head. "You're really not hiding as well as you think."
Eathan's brain did a full blue‑screen.
Chewie blinked. "You can read karmic analytics?"
"Content creator," Mingrui said modestly. "You'd be amazed at what SpiritTube gives us if we hit adored status. Anonymous, of course." She fluttered her fingers. "Your ID doesn't show, but your aura spikes my dashboard. High‑tier souls are very good for trics."
"So we're… engagent bait," Eathan said.
"Premium engagent bait," she corrected. "Don't worry, I'm not going to leak you. That'd tank my approval rating. I'm a fan, not a tabloid."
"That's weirdly reassuring."
"Those Heavenly officials have a tracking team scraping those stats, you know," Mingrui added. "They hired three agencies last year after that PR fiasco with the fake reincarnation lottery. There's this whole micro‑industry now—narrative managent, spiritual brand alignnt—"
She'd slipped into strear cadence without noticing, words flowing smooth and practiced.
"Wait," Eathan cut in. "The Jade Court has… influencers?"
"But of course," Mingrui said, blinking. "You think those official decrees go viral on rit? Please. They sponsor top channels to react, make explainer videos, do 'Day in the Life of a Palace Clerk' vlogs—"
Eathan pinched the bridge of his nose, and she shrugged.
"Welco to the afterlife," Mingrui said. "Influence is currency. Karma is currency. Attention is—"
"Also currency," he finished weakly. "I get it."
Mingrui turned her full attention on Chewie, eyes lighting. "Anyway. You. Bladework truly iconic. If you ever want to turn that into a brand—"
Chewie, who had been determinedly unimpressed up to now, hesitated. "…Hypothetically."
Eathan's eye twitched.
"Short‑form," Mingrui said instantly. She was in her elent now. "Ten‑second clips with punchy captions. #WarGoddessWednesday. Maybe #BladeAndBloom. And for him"—she jerked her chin at Eathan—"we lean into the contrast. 'Soft‑spoken karmic nuke interns.' People eat that up."
Chewie nodded, gravely impressed. "She's good."
Mingrui leaned in. "Listen, I get exclusive early‑access contracts. You two are essentially walking content factories. All the mortal‑divine crossover agencies would—"
Eathan cleared his throat. "Sorry to interrupt your capitalism, but we are not starting a channel—any channels, actually," he said. "We are on a clock."
That sobered the twelve-year-old. Chewie cleared her throat, glancing at his jacket, where the core sat heavy as a bomb.
Mingrui caught the shift imdiately. For all her chaos, she wasn't stupid.
"…You're doing sothing dangerous," she concluded, voice dropping. "Related to him." She didn't say the White Tiger's na aloud, which Eathan noticed.
He t her eyes. "Yeah."
For a breath, the three of them just stood there, midnight city buzzing beyond the alley.
Then, Mingrui huffed. "Fine. I'll behave. For now. My subscribers can live without an exclusive."
"What a sacrifice," Chewie muttered.
"Cos with the president gig." She waved it off, then brightened, already switching gears. "But if you need sowhere off the grid to lay low—"
She snapped open a side‑panel on her wristpad and flicked Eathan a contact code.
"Safehouse. Top of Tower 7, behind the SpiritTube offices. Anti‑trace wards, private rooms, unlimited SpiritNet bandwidth. Just drop 'WTFanclub' at the door."
Eathan stared at the little floating code.
"That's… very generous of you," he said carefully.
"You're high‑tier content. I'm investing." She shrugged, then lighter: "And, you know. World kind of owes you one. Or it might, depending on what you're about to do. No pressure."
"We'll keep it in mind," Eathan said. "We really do have to go."
Mingrui stepped back, giving them a mock‑salute. "Then go. I'll keep your presence off my channels. For now."
And with that, she spun, ring‑light flaring back to life as she rejoined the avenue like nothing had happened.
Eathan exhaled, long and slow.
"Think she's actually going to keep quiet?" he asked.
Chewie considered. "She's a fan. She'll wait until the drama peaks before cashing in."
They slipped back into the river of people, cutting across toward the towering facade of Yue Shen Premier. The closer they got, the more the noise thinned, street market replaced with more muted conversations.
The hotel pillars were carved from stone that glimred under the twilight. Its sign didn't bother with a na; just a single character hung above the entrance, glowing with smug understatent:
宿—dwelling.
The mont they stepped through the threshold, the noise of the street dropped away. Cool, perfud air washed over them.
The lobby attendants straightened almost in unison. Eathan watched their gazes flick to his floating ID tag, where the Tier‑2 sigil glead like a tiny spotlight.
"Honoured Enlightened Phantom," the nearest attendant said, bowing so low his forehead nearly hit the floor. "Welco back. Your suite is prepared. May your karma remain smooth."
Eathan still wasn't used to that title. He suspected he never would be.
"Where's Hai?" he said, shifting the distracting weight under his jacket.
"In a closed eting, honoured one," the attendant said. "Entertaining high‑priority guests from the Upper Bureaus."
Sothing in his tone suggested capital letters. Eathan's [Calamity Radar] ticked a faint amber at the edge of his vision—nothing imdiate, just the ambient weight of important people gathering in the sa building.
Other High-Tiers, he thought, and chose not to ask.
"Right," Eathan said. "Then please tell him—actually, no. Don't tell him anything."
He straightened slightly.
"We're going up. No disturbances. From anyone. No cleaning spirits, no complintary tea, no 'surprise upgrades.' If anyone knocks on that door, it better be the realm collapsing."
The attendant's shoulders stiffened. Then he bowed again, deeper.
"Understood, honoured Phantom," he said. "Your privacy is paramount."
"Good," Eathan said. "Thank you."
Chewie leaned sideways, murmuring under her breath as they walked toward the private lift. "You're getting bossy."
"I'm holding a live‑leak divine core," he muttered back. "I think I'm entitled."
The lift recognized his ID before Eathan even raised his hand. Doors slid open to reveal a capsule lined in dark wood and warm lighting. The mont they stepped in, wards humd over their skin.
The doors shut, and the city noise vanished. Chewie leaned back against the elevator wall and stared at their reflection.
"Do you think she was serious?" she asked suddenly.
"About what?" Eathan said.
"Branding." Chewie frowned at her reflection in the lift wall. "#WarGoddessWednesday might be too much, but #BladeAndBoom has potential."
He gave her a flat look. "We nearly got eaten by a river disaster baby like an hour ago."
"So?" she said. "Being alive is content."
"Please don't ever say that near Mingrui or any other ghost."
The lift humd them upward all the way to the top floor, past floors labelled with tasteful script—"Noble Suites," "Ascendant Lounges"—until the display simply read: [PRESIDENTIAL | TRANQUILITY WING].
When it opened, instead of a hallway, there was just one set of double doors, inlaid with swirling patterns. They unfolded on recognition of Eathan's ID.
The suite still made him feel like he'd broken into the wrong tax bracket.
They entered into the place that looked less like a room and more like a minimalist shrine. Eathan checked the periter first out of habit. Curtains closed properly. No obvious spirit‑eyes carved into corners. His HUD picked up standard security wards, nothing malicious.
He then crossed to the nearest wall panel and tapped it.
"Do Not Disturb protocol," he muttered. "Lockdown. Internal wards: tighten."
The suite's wards flickered. The outside noise dropped another notch. The glow settled into place and dimd, like a lock clicking shut.
"There," Eathan said. "Anyone trying to peep without permission gets reality‑lagged in the hall."
Chewie flopped onto the couch, boots still on, and gave him a thumbs-up. "Nice."
He hung his damp jacket over a chair and finally laid Bai Hu's core on the low table.
Even through the layers of cloth, the thing pulsed—a faint, uneven thrum against his fingers.
Gently, Eathan unwrapped it.
Silver‑white light spilled out into the room. The main mass of the core sat in his palms like a broken star, with fracture lines still spiderwebbing from one side where the missing shard had snapped off.
He swallowed.
Up until this point, everything had been motion—run, fight, dive, escape. Now that he was still, the weight of what he was holding finally landed sowhere behind his ribs.
"…Hi, Mister White," he said under his breath, feeling stupid and doing it anyway.
The core flickered in his hands, almost like a response. Or maybe that was his imagination.
Chewie sank down opposite him, elbows on knees, chin in her hands. For once, the twelve-year-old didn't say anything snarky.
Eathan set the core down carefully and reached into his bag.
The mory Lattice capsule ca out looking nothing like any respectable divine artifact should.
A palm‑length clear cylinder, twist base, pop‑off cap. If you ignored the runic etchings along its sides, you could slap a COZMART label on it and stick it between school supplies.
Chewie stared. "I still can't believe we're about to fix the White Tiger with a gluestick."
"Technically," Eathan said, turning it over in his hands, "it's high‑grade lattice‑encoded structural mory reinforcent tech."
She arched a brow.
"…Which is, yes," he conceded, "fancy glue."
He popped the cap. Golden lines inside flared at the exposure, rearranging into a dense sh. The hum from earlier returned, stronger now, vibrating through his fingers.
"Manual says one continuous session," he said, flipping the paper over to check for the fifth ti. "Thirty minutes. No interruptions. Maintain steady contact, follow the lattice pattern, don't get distracted, don't let other auras interfere."
Eathan swallowed again. His palms were damp.
He glanced up. Chewie was watching him steadily, small chin propped on her fist. "Will it hurt him?"
Eathan thought of Taeril White chilling behind the COZMART counter, feet up on the stool. Of the White Tiger wreathed in flas on that impossible battlefield. Of the fractured silhouette in that not‑future, hung up like punishnt.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "But leaving him like this definitely does."
Chewie nodded once. "Then glue him."
He huffed a laugh. "When you put it like that."
He scrubbed his palms on his jeans, then reached for the core again. It pulsed under his touch—unsteady, but there.
"Okay," he said.
Chewie shifted closer, one hand hovering near the core as backup, the other resting on the table, steady as a rock. "I gotchu."
Eathan drew in a long, deliberate breath, then popped the cap off the gluestick capsule.
"Here goes nothing."
And with both hands steady as he could make them, he twisted the base to full and brought the gluestick down.
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