A Coin Toss

The car rolled into Londan. Wayne picked an alley at random, ditched the vehicle, and left the supplies inside for whatever lucky soul happened upon them. The four of them hailed a cab back to the detective agency. Veronica, Villy, and Chris were in a rush to return to the academy; they still had graduation theses to write and an official report to file on their destruction of the Death stronghold. Before departing, each offered Wayne her sincere thanks. Regardless of how things had unfolded, Wayne had saved their lives. Once they cleared their schedules over the next few days, they promised to bring gifts to the agency. Chris specifically warned Wayne not to go out without good reason. While the death aura clinging to him had dispersed thanks to the Gate of Truth—a true blessing in disguise—other Death Walkers still lurked in Londan. There was no telling when he might be targeted again. Chris held Wayne in exceptionally high regard and wished she could drag him straight to the academy for an enrollment ceremony right then and there. Unfortunately, Evanston was a women's college and could not possibly admit a male student. Chris recalled that there were night schools dedicated to training mages. She would need to inquire about the details, but since night schools operated as crash courses with limited curriculum, she intended to tutor Wayne personally in the coming days. Once Wayne completed his foundational studies and built up a sufficient reserve of knowledge, she would recommend a qualified mentor for him. That way, bathed in the radiant grace of the Goddess, Wayne would inevitably throw himself into the embrace of the Moonlight on his own accord. This plan was foolproof! *** Wayne waved goodbye to the three girls, fully intending to follow Chris's advice not to go out without good reason. He then hailed a cab right outside his door and headed for the apartment where the failed art student lived. Don't go out without good reason—well, he *had* a reason. It was time to meet the Spirit of Vengeance! After forming a contract with the wraith hound, Wayne had gained his very first summoned beast. Previously, his mana had sat at zero, leaving him unable to sustain it or grant it free rein to move. Now, things were different. Wayne felt like a young punk who had just awakened superpowers, brimming with self-satisfaction and utterly impatient to awaken his new familiar. Beyond his sheer anticipation for his first summoned beast, he had an unavoidable reason for making the trip: the Spirit of Vengeance was already awake. If deprived of its master's mana for too long, hunger would drive it mad, dramatically increasing the odds that it would turn on its master. Dusk was gathering. Wayne had no desire to dawdle; he planned to handle the matter swiftly and take the good dog home before night completely fell. Naturally, he wasn't entirely unprepared. Just in case, he had tucked the evil-warding Bible against his chest. Along with the white glove. He felt confident that even if he had the bad luck to run into a spook, he could turn the tables and chase it across the streets. Who would end up scaring whom was anyone's guess. Times had changed. A destitute lad was no longer... well, not *as* destitute, and at least he no longer feared spooks! *** The cab pulled over to the curb. Guided by the Book of Greed, Wayne set out to find the resting place of the Spirit of Vengeance. The Book of Greed could capture only the wails of wraiths and couldn't respond to the desires of the living, which left Wayne deeply disgruntled. Living people were far superior—sign a master-servant contract with a magical girl, achieve everything in a single leap, and the road of a mage would surely become infinitely smoother. With the Book of Greed leading the way, it was as if Wayne had a glowing red target marker on his map. He soon arrived at his destination: a stretch of wasteland situated behind an animal shelter, bordered by a veterinary clinic from which the frenzied barking of large dogs drifted periodically. As evening approached, the barks sounded uncannily like wolf howls. Mingled with the gradually creeping fog, the atmosphere instantly turned grim and eerie. It truly was unsettling. Wayne spotted numerous specks of green light rising from beneath the soil, gathering in clusters like will-o'-the-wisps, flickering with a chill, ghostly gloom. "Damn cabbie must have taken the scenic route!" Wayne grumbled at having arrived so late. After a few paces, he halted before a patch of damp, squelching mud. Closing his eyes, he focused his senses, calling out to his familiar and channeling mana toward it through the Book of Greed. The soft, damp earth gradually swelled. A rotted paw clawed its way out, accompanied by a nauseating stench that made Wayne pinch his nose shut. Having the sharp nose of a dog wasn't necessarily a blessing; it shattered far too many illusions, such as the myth that a pretty girl's farts smelled sweet. A large, thoroughly decayed dog crawled free from the grave. One of its eyes was a milky, lifeless grey, while the other hollow socket burned with an eerie green flame. Bolstered by its master's mana, the rotting flesh sloughed away at high speed, leaving behind only an ivory skeleton. A shroud of faint mist rolled in, wrapping around the skeletal frame like tendrils of muscle, reconstructing a translucent body that looked sinister and savage, yet carried an air of imposing majesty. It was a Doberman, compact and well-proportioned, standing nearly seventy centimeters tall at the shoulder. Its ears and tail were uncropped and undocked, leaving the floppy ears hanging loose. The smell of rot in the air dissipated considerably. Their gazes met. The Doberman bared its gums with a low growl, and Wayne could see an unforgettable, searing hatred burning in its eyes. A series of fleeting memories flashed across his mind, recounting the past of the Spirit of Vengeance. The Doberman had been raised as a beloved pet by a young boy. When the boy grew into a young man, he enlisted in the military. His family had no time to look after the dog, so they boarded it at the animal shelter. The shelter staff cared nothing for the animals in their charge. They embezzled funds for personal profit, fed the dogs the cheapest, lowest-grade scrap food, and routinely left them to starve. When washing the dogs, they merely locked them in cages and blasted them with cold water. Because the Doberman had uncropped ears, it developed severe ear infections that caused agonizing, chronic torment. Later, the Doberman became pregnant and gave birth to seven puppies. The shelter staff perked up at that. They registered the seven pups on the books to apply for another round of food subsidies. Not a single penny of that money went toward the mother; it all vanished straight into the workers' pockets. Worse yet, the staff dashed all seven puppies to death right before the mother's eyes. The fog had been thick that night. Driven completely mad, the Doberman attacked the staff, only to be starved to death as punishment and tossed into a pit in the wasteland. Beneath this same patch of wasteland lay the bones of countless other abused pets. Whenever night fell, their lingering, chilly lights drifted faintly into the air. "Those utter bastards!" A throb of pain shot through Wayne's temples. He could feel the Doberman's insatiable thirst for revenge and finally grasped the true meaning behind its title as the Spirit of Vengeance. The moniker had not been given at random. If Wayne wanted to earn its genuine loyalty, he had to let it enact its vengeance. Only then could the Spirit of Vengeance truly leave its past behind. Now, that was a headache! As a scoundrel who loved both cats and dogs, Wayne utterly detested animal cruelty. The shelter staff, in particular—drawing salaries while acting worse than beasts—richly deserved to be hunted down by a vengeful spirit. Even so, Wayne held that a human life outweighed a dog's. Simply letting the Doberman butcher them... *Whimper—grrr—* Sensing Wayne's hesitation, the Spirit of Vengeance immediately bristled, the rumble in its throat growing harsher. "Easy there, I didn't say no." After a moment of inner conflict, Wayne pulled a coin from his pocket. "How about this? We'll let a coin toss decide. Heads, you carry out your revenge. Tails, I'll seek justice for you through legal channels. Deal?" The Spirit of Vengeance was distinctly displeased with this proposition. It glared fixatedly at Wayne's neck, seemingly weighing the feasibility of biting its master to claim its freedom. Wayne rubbed his neck, grimacing. "Good doggy, listen to me. I'm a detective, and evidence gathering is my specialty. With me on the case, those miserable excuses for human beings will definitely get kicked to the curb by the shelter. After that, I'll spend a little money to drum up public outrage and splash their names all over the papers, ripping those heartless scumbags to shreds. The furious mob won't let them off the hook." The Spirit of Vengeance understood none of this and tensed its muscles, poised to strike. Wayne sighed, finding communication impossible. He pressed the Bible against his chest, which finally caused the creature to settle down. Man and dog stood in a tense standoff. Before long, the night deepened, and the surrounding fog thickened to an absurd degree. The Spirit of Vengeance's body was formed from the mist to begin with. Blending seamlessly with the fog, its pair of dancing cold flames exerted tremendous pressure on Wayne. Possibly, perhaps, most likely... he couldn't beat this dog in a fight. "Fine, I'll compromise. In the future, I'll treat you well—the best dog food, the coziest doghouse. Give me some face here. I am your master, after all," Wayne said with a solemn expression. This time, the Spirit of Vengeance offered no resistance. Wayne's description had likely stirred fond memories of its past, and it fell silent, agreeing to leave the choice to a coin toss. "Man proposes, heaven disposes. Let's let fate decide their punishment..." Wayne shrugged and flicked the coin high into the air. Both man and hound tracked its descent, watching until the coin landed upright, stuck directly on its edge in the soft mud. "..." Wayne was dumbfounded, and so was the dog. Neither heads nor tails—how was this supposed to be settled? Snapping out of his daze, Wayne mused aloud, "Landing on its edge means half-and-half. You go maul them half to death, and afterward, I'll investigate, gather the evidence, and tear their reputations apart in the press." The Spirit of Vengeance remained silent, visibly debating whether to demand a re-flip. "Don't worry, I treat my own dogs very well. I guarantee I'll make sure that bunch loses their jobs and ends up on the streets. Whenever they manage to find new work, I'll pay for smear campaigns to blast any shady boss who dares hire them..." The more Wayne spoke, the more invested he became, discovering a vindictive streak in himself he hadn't known existed. "You see, sleeping on the streets means sleeping out in the open. You're up at all hours of the night anyway, so you could 'accidentally' bump into them during your strolls—chasing them, biting them, trapping them in an endless nightmare of being hunted down by a wraith hound." The Doberman's eyes lit up, and it nodded enthusiastically to express its approval. Killing them outright was far too easy a way out! *Master, you're so wicked!* "Only occasionally wicked. As long as you like it," Wayne replied instinctively. The moment the words left his mouth, he froze, realizing he could hear the voice in the creature's heart. "Go on, then. It's late, and I'm still waiting to head home!" *Roar—!* The fog surged violently. In an instant, the tempestuous malice raised a ten-meter wall of mist, sweeping up the pale green ghostly flames like a tsunami crashing down toward the animal shelter. That night, bloodcurdling screams and frenzied barking thoroughly engulfed the shelter in terror. The following morning, the newspapers ran a story about shelter staff being mauled by a rabid dog. The employees bore gruesome bite wounds across their bodies and had developed high fevers from severe viral infections. At the end of the report, the journalist expressed deep sorrow, lamenting that a group of kindhearted animal lovers had suffered such an awful fate. Members of the public expressed widespread sympathy, and several citizens even visited them in the hospital. After the incident brewed for two days, shocking headlines appeared in print once more. Chilling photographs accompanied by blistering denunciations stirred a massive public uproar. The skeletal remains buried in the wasteland were unearthed, thrusting another batch of damning photos into the public eye, and the scandal continued to blaze white-hot... *** Night fell upon the detective agency. Wayne set down his newspaper and cup of black tea, glancing around the room. "Huh? Where did Abin run off to? Out playing with people again?" "So late at night... full of energy, aren't you!"