Wayne felt a little nervous about signing an unequal treaty for the first time. In a frantic hurry, he flipped through the Book of Greed, eager to see just which lucky sucker had taken the bait.
The result was not encouraging. Not only was the contracted party not a living person—it wasn't a person at all.
A dog!
The instant the contract was formed, a table of contents appeared on the second page. Turning to the page for the Spirit of Vengeance, he got a clear look at his very first dependent minion.
It was a vicious hound, half of its body rotted away. Its gums were laid bare, one eyeball cloudy white while the other socket was an empty black pit. Ribs protruded from its exposed flank, and every last organ in its abdominal cavity had vanished.
Remnants of black fur clung to ulcerated muscle, while oozing, yellowish-black fluids acted like glue; working together, they barely managed to hold this battered husk of a body in one piece.
It was a nauseating sight. Even though it was merely an illustration, Wayne could almost smell the foul, gut-churning stench.
"Hrk—"
He gagged twice, nearly throwing up right inside the cab.
"Buddy, you dare puke in my cab, and I'll toss you right out on the road."
The cab driver was thoroughly displeased. This car was his sweetheart, and he wouldn't allow anyone to make a mess of his beloved.
"You can't blame me. Your car reeks," Wayne shot back immediately, blaming the cab driver's sweetheart for her terrible body odor.
The spat over, Wayne resumed examining the page dedicated to the Spirit of Vengeance, finding both good news and bad news.
The Spirit of Vengeance was a dependent minion. Strictly speaking, the moment it became a Spirit of Vengeance, it ceased to be a vengeful wraith and was instead transformed by the Book of Greed into a magical lifeform.
As Wayne's dependent, servant, and summoned creature, its every action depended entirely on Wayne's magic power, and only Wayne's magic power could nourish it.
Wayne had no magic power of his own; opening the Book of Greed and signing his first minion had been entirely fueled by the magic William had placed on him.
Consequently, he was unable to summon or command this minion.
If deprived of its master's magic for an extended period, the Spirit of Vengeance would be driven mad by hunger until it faded completely.
At that point, it had two choices:
First, devour its master to gain freedom and wander through the nocturnal mist as a new urban legend.
Second, await its demise where it stood, offering its master the most heartfelt curse before death.
Reading this, a shudder of dread ran through Wayne. He dreaded the thought of his minion haunting his dreams in the dead of night.
He consoled himself that dogs were loyal, man's best friend. What bad intentions could a dog possibly have? Devouring its master was completely out of the question. Absolutely impossible.
The good news was that contracts shared some functions with sacrifices: Wayne had acquired a portion of his minion's abilities. There were two of them—scent and supernatural perception.
There wasn't much to say about scent; dogs were naturally adept at it. Supernatural perception was also easy to understand: on a human, it was called a sixth sense; on a dog, beastly instinct.
Neither ability required magic power to use. The instant he acquired them, they integrated into Wayne like second nature. Furthermore, if he channeled magic power, he could amplify their range and intensity.
Regrettably, he couldn't amplify anything. He had no magic power.
Why had it turned out like this...?
Opening the Book of Greed for the first time, signing a minion to become part of the supernatural realm—two joyful events overlapping. And these two joys should have brought even more joy, yielding a dreamlike, blissful time...
So why, why had it ended up like this...?
Why were they both support skills, without a single offensive ability?
Even as dusk approached and the cab reached the warehouse district, Wayne was still wallowing in self-pity.
As a weak, helpless, and pitiful novice, the sprawling expanse of warehouses looked to him like predatory beasts crouching across the earth, ready to tear him to shreds the moment he stepped inside.
The death cultists' stronghold was at No. 66, Section F. Walking there would take at least twenty minutes. Was it too late to start learning magic now?
Wayne looked thoroughly miserable. Under his speechless gaze, Veronica moved ahead, taking a roundabout path toward the rear of Warehouse No. 66 in Section F.
Splitting forces for a pincer attack—wasn't that just a recipe for getting wiped out all at once?!
"Wayne, I admire your courage and your resolve to fight criminal elements to the bitter end. You're scared half to death, yet here you are anyway." William raised two fingers in a salute while hauling Wayne forward with his other hand.
"The hymn of humanity is the hymn of courage. For justice, I am willing to contribute my meager strength," Wayne mumbled feebly. He had only tagged along because he was afraid of losing Veronica and William; who knew how long he'd have to wait before running into another magician? It certainly had nothing to do with courage or resolve.
"Don't panic. Veronica is very strong, and with me here, nothing bad will happen to you."
*I just hope nothing dead happens to me!*
It had to be said that even though William was gay and possessed a terrifying knack for reshaping the orientations of other men, his burly frame offered a tremendous sense of security. Having him around put Wayne considerably more at ease.
Besides, William was right: Veronica really was formidable. With that pretty face and alluring figure, sleeping with her could easily fetch a nine-figure fortune; if disaster struck, she alone could draw all the enemy's fire.
***
By six in the evening, as the sun dipped completely beneath the horizon, sparse streetlamps flickered to life across the warehouse district.
Mist followed close behind, sheer as a veil, gently blanketing the entire City of Londan.
Having just obtained supernatural perception, Wayne felt a foreboding chill rise in him at the sight of the thin mist. Instinct warned him that night in Londan was truly perilous; the best solution would be to scurry home immediately, crawl into bed, and seal himself under the quilts.
Unfortunately, the mist-shrouded journey home was fraught with danger. Too terrified to walk the nocturnal streets alone, he chose to stick close to William.
"The scent of death... and a barrier. It's here, all right..."
Gazing at Warehouse No. 66 in Section F from a distance, William drew a black hooded cloak from his handbag and draped it over his hulking frame.
After a brief pause, he rummaged around and pulled out another, handing it to Wayne. It was Veronica's black robe, and it fit Wayne terribly.
"Stay behind me. If a fight breaks out, stand aside..."
Shielded by the darkness and mist, William calmly stepped across the boundary into the barrier. It was a run-of-the-mill sensory barrier with minimal targeting, functioning merely as an early-warning tripwire. This indicated that the death cultists gathered in the warehouse possessed only mediocre strength, posing no real threat.
William effortlessly bypassed the barrier's detection. Wayne didn't even need to bother; the aura of death clinging to him was so thick that the barrier registered him as one of their own, unable to trigger any alarms, sparing him the need for concealment altogether.
Wayne had harbored hopes that the barrier might supply him with magic power. After all, magic was magic. If the Book of Greed could swallow William's spell, it could surely devour the cultists' magical barrier too. If he could forge a second contract, he might just land an exceptional minion.
Preferably one that came with offensive skills.
As it turned out, nothing of the sort happened. Now that it had successfully opened, the Book of Greed had grown discerning and wouldn't swallow just anything. From now on, if Wayne wanted to command the book, he could only rely on his own magic power.
The problem had returned to square one: Wayne had no magic power!
At this moment, Wayne craved becoming a magician more intensely than ever before.
By the warehouse door, William pressed his ear against the panel, listening intently. One could call it bold yet careful, or one could call it a blatant lack of infiltration experience.
Wayne's brow furrowed at the sight. Being a complete novice, he had no right to judge, and could only conclude that magicians operated in this crude manner.
A moment later, the rustle of chanting reached William's ears. Confirming that the cultists were engaged in collective praise of the Goddess of Death, he eased the warehouse door open and slipped inside in a crouch.
*Beckoning_hand.jpg*
Staring at the waving hand, Wayne wanted to complain but feared disrupting the venue. Glancing back at the mist-shrouded warehouse district, where every shadow looked like a lurking ghost, he reluctantly followed suit and ducked inside.
William politely pulled the door shut, muttered some unintelligible syllables under his breath, and shamelessly joined the cultists' chorus as if he belonged there.
...
At the center of the warehouse, around twenty people were gathered, every one of them clad in a hooded black robe.
They formed a circle around a pattern laid out with candles, their fists clenched and crossed over their chests. The dim candlelight failed to cast long shadows, leaving the visible halves of their faces flickering between light and shadow. Paired with the eerie cadence of their chants, the whole scene made Wayne deeply uneasy.
Judging by their style, these devotees of death were distinctly bad news.
Passing by a shelving unit, Wayne picked up a crowbar, hummed and mumbled along to mimic the chanting, and pretended to blend into the congregation.
The cultists were so engrossed that they didn't even notice two strangers joining their ranks.
Pretending to praise the goddess, Wayne glanced at the candle pattern—a familiar inverted triangle, relatively simple.
There was no blood, no sacrifices, and thankfully no disemboweled innocent maidens.
As the cultists chanted with fervent devotion, death answered them. The glow of the candles darkened, and the inverted triangle turned pitch-black in an instant. Eight tendrils splayed out from its sides, pointing toward the warehouse ceiling and writhing erratically.
Wayne stared in fascination. In a daze, he seemed to hear something by his ear—a deep, low voice whispering softly, asking whether he would offer up everything without reservation.
*Wait a second... why does the Goddess of Death sound like a burly dude?*
Wayne was bewildered. Could the Goddess of Death actually be male, choosing to crossdress as a woman just to harvest suckers more effectively?
This stray thought broke Wayne's concentration, and the whispering in his ear abruptly snapped. Snapping out of his daze, he realized the surrounding cultists had stopped chanting and were all staring at him.
Suddenly becoming the center of attention, Wayne swallowed hard.
In the dim environment, with most of their faces concealed, Wayne couldn't make out their expressions clearly, but he could easily imagine vicious scowls and rage-filled eyes.
Absurdly enough, William bared his teeth, joined in on the cultists' side, and shouted aggressively as he backed away behind the crowd.
*You said you'd protect me!*
"Intruder, this is no place for you."
A man stepped forward from the crowd—likely the leader. With a wave of his hand, he ordered his companions to pin Wayne down.
Perhaps catching the scent of death lingering on Wayne, he chuckled maliciously and dropped a threat, declaring that Wayne would receive the goddess's blessing tonight and be fully converted into one of their own.
*Give me a break. Your goddess is a macho dude with a gravelly voice!*
Wayne stumbled back, holding the crowbar horizontally in front of his chest. Seeing the cultists halt their advance, a surge of courage welled up in him.
He took back what he said earlier: a crowbar was truly man's best friend.
Then Wayne watched as the cultists picked up steel pipes from the shelves, twenty burly men grinning malevolently as they closed in on him.
Sweat poured down Wayne's face like rain. He said weakly, "Come on, what's the big deal? No need for an armed brawl. How about... we settle this with fists? Shorter prison sentence that way."
*Crash!*
A high window at the far end of the warehouse shattered, and a slender figure leaped inside, sprinting across the floor at a dead dash to reach the center of the warehouse.
It was Veronica. She did not waste the distraction Wayne had provided; taking advantage of the cultists being lured away from the candle array, she hurled a glass jar directly into the center of the inverted triangle.
Following the crisp sound of shattering glass, a plume of green mist billowed outward. Lush, vibrant vegetation sprouted and surged with life, disrupting the cadence of death. The eight spider-leg tendrils withered rapidly, wilting and slumping down into limp heaps.
"Damn it, a lackey of Nature!"
"Seize the heretic! She ruined the sacred ritual! Make her pay!"
The leader roared in fury. Howling like madmen, the cultists spun around and charged at Veronica, swinging their steel pipes.
Right then, the lights in the warehouse snapped on; William had found the breaker switch on the wall.
Veronica narrowed her eyes slightly. Facing twenty brawny men charging at her with steel pipes, she calmly opened her pouch and withdrew an exquisite, compact pistol.
"Nobody move. One step and I shoot."
The cultists stopped dead in their tracks in unison. Urged on by William's barking commands, they grumbled curses, dropped their steel pipes, and lined up against the wall with their hands flat against the brick.
Wayne: "..."
*That's it? That's all?!*
*This is the brutal clash of faiths? This is a battle between magicians?!*
*A bunch of cowards! Aren't you followers of the Goddess of Death? Where's your contempt for death? Why are you so terrified of dying?!*
*Speaking purely as an onlooker, that pistol holds ten bullets at most, and there are twenty of you! Rush her together! She can't possibly win!*
Chapter 6