Chapter 2

Perhaps due to the passage of time causing circuit aging and poor contact, one streetlamp flickered intermittently, its light wavering on and off.

A black shadow drifted past beneath the clear, warm yellow glow.

The cosplayer saw the cursed spirits, which had been peacefully coexisting just moments ago, suddenly surge in all directions, fleeing as if their lives depended on it.

Perhaps, they truly were running for their lives.

The reason for their panic and scattering... The cosplayer walked in the opposite direction from the cursed spirits and, turning a corner, saw a thick black mist spilling out of an alley.

It was not gas nor any scientific phenomenon. That was cursed energy.

Living in a scientific world, the cosplayer had never encountered anything supernatural, magical, or psychic, but at this moment, he was certain that the black mist was cursed energy—or rather, a curse; the meaning was the same.

After all, he was dressed as a character from Cursed Realm. Within its worldview, the only things that defied science were cursed spirits and sorcerers. There was only one choice, so arriving at the correct conclusion was a certainty.

The cosplayer calmly approached the alley and stopped. The black mist surged forth from deep within, writhing like a soft creature covered in slime, resembling a snail—cold, sticky, and clinging. It coiled around his skin, seeming to want to penetrate and corrode the flesh beneath.

He gently tapped his thigh with his index finger. If low-level cursed spirits fled, it meant either a sorcerer stronger than them was nearby, or a powerful ally of theirs had appeared.

Given the situation, the former could be ruled out.

What level of cursed spirit could it be? According to the lore of Cursed Realm, in such circumstances, it must be at least a first-level spirit, or... a special-grade.

What should a fragile ordinary person do when faced with danger? Charge forward? Foolish. The obvious choice is to turn and flee, just like those low-level cursed spirits.

Yet the cosplayer had no intention of avoiding trouble—not only was he bold enough to test the power of the cursed spirits firsthand, but he also saw an opportunity for gain.

“Help! Help!”

A portly man dressed in high-end brands ran through the dark alley. Cold sweat soaked his clothes, his face pale and lips purple.

He was trying hard to escape, but the alley, only about fifty meters long, seemed endless.

Behind him came the heavy breathing and snarls of a beast. The man’s mind held only one thought: Run!

There was no time to wonder why a beast appeared in the city.

Perhaps it had escaped from a zoo.

Logically, this made sense, but the man was no fool. A shrewd businessman, he had built his company from scratch and taken it public.

Faced with the endless alleyway, the man sank into despair.

He had once scoffed at the city’s strange rumors, but now the bizarre was happening to him. He cursed himself for being an atheist and thought of his son, who was interested in Buddhist culture and insisted on ordination despite his father’s opposition and the threat of having his bank card frozen…

If only time could rewind, if only he could go back, he’d slap himself.

What a fool! Why hadn’t he thought to ask his son for talismans, safety cords, or peachwood swords?

If he had another chance, the man vowed bitterly, he would never suppress his son’s interests again.

Oh Amaterasu, or any other deity, please save my life—he vowed to lavish gold in thanks if saved.

“Cough, cough.”

The sudden sound of coughing caught the man’s attention like a lifeline. His eyes brightened, and he gritted his teeth, dragging his leaden body forward.

The cough came from ahead—someone was there! Could he escape? Could he leave this cursed alley?

Seconds later, the man reached the figure. Never before had he been so close to tears simply at seeing another person.

Yet the result was crushing.

He had reached the figure and even stepped a few paces beyond, but the darkness ahead remained impenetrable. Hope of escape shattered, the man collapsed in despair.

“Why... why is this happening? I just wanted to take a shortcut—why did this happen... Maybe I shouldn’t have worked overtime tonight, stayed at the office so late.”

He could run no more. With his breath spent, his strength gave way, and he slid down the wall like a puddle of mud, his face ashen.

The only consolation was that he wasn’t alone in this death—at least he had company on the road to demise.

“You look like you need help,” the figure said.

The man gasped, listless: “Of course, obviously I need help. But no one can help me now. You’re going to die too.”

“Oh? How so?” The young voice chuckled lightly, calm and composed.

“Don’t you realize we’re trapped? It’s like a ghost wall. We’re both going to die at the hands of that cursed thing.”

“I can save you.”

“What?”

As they spoke, on the window of the seventh floor of the office building opposite them, a huge head pressed against the glass like a balloon swollen tight, its features scrunched up. Two inverted triangular eyes brimmed with sinister malice—the cursed spirit manifesting its domain in the alley.

It was not in a hurry to kill the two humans; otherwise, it would have struck long ago, rather than toying with the man like a cat with a mouse.

As for the other intruder, his life energy was lower than normal, posing no threat—weakest among the weak.

“Provided you pay me a price I find satisfactory.”

The man was stunned. To say such a thing now, he must either be mad or truly powerful.

He looked up suspiciously at the young man standing before him. Too focused on fleeing earlier to notice his appearance, and with the darkness obscuring vision, he could only judge age by voice—apparently quite young.

Ordinary people could not see the black mist in the air. As his eyes adjusted to the dark and with a clear, cloudless sky casting faint silver moonlight, the man finally made out the young man’s features.

Black hair falling to his shoulders, sharp contours, delicate features, clearly of European descent. His lips were a deep red, making the man recall some old saying: those with dark lips often have liver issues.

Slender build, dressed in a white turtleneck shirt and white slim trousers, the shirt’s collar embroidered with a purple trim. His ankles and calves were wrapped in black boots.

His eyes, a deep and obscure shade of purple like well-aged wine, contrasted sharply with his youthful appearance, bearing a depth and calmness not expected at his age.

Eighteen? Or sixteen?

Is he even an adult? The man wondered untimely.

“Cough, cough.”

The youth raised his right hand to his lips; bluish veins showed through his pale, translucent skin. In just a few minutes, he had coughed repeatedly.

“Have you decided?”

The man fell silent, then smiled bitterly. “I have no other choice. If you can really save me, money is no object.”

The youth curled his lips into a smile. “Then consider this a contract.”