82. This World

A ray of sunlight pierced through the dark clouds, falling upon the face of the vagrant, covered with a black beard and caked in mud, bestowing upon him a golden, sacred glow.

“Not bad memory—it’s me, Tim.”

He approached the unconscious Karl and knelt beside him, his weathered demeanor akin to the grim reaper welcoming a departing soul.

“How did you end up here?” Dean tightened his grip on the Colt quietly, then relaxed it. If the other had hostile intent, he would have been done for already. Better to be open-minded. “You’ve been following me all along?”

“Relax. I’m not an enemy. I just happened to come across a young man I found agreeable, so I took a few extra glances.” Tim shook his head with a sigh. “This fellow is dying fast. Do you want to save him?”

“Do you have a way?” Dean’s mind swirled with questions, but saving a life was the priority now.

“Of course, but there’s a price to pay.” Tim looked up, his one eye sweeping over Dean’s body with an appraising gaze. “Think carefully—what are you willing to trade for his life?”

“A stake?”

The casual word sounded like a devil’s lure from a legend, stirring unease in Dean.

The vagrant seemed to sense his worry and chuckled, his beard swaying like wild grass. “I’m a genuine man. Neither soul nor body. I only ask because I can’t keep helping you for free forever.”

“Decide quickly. This poor soul will return to the Spirit Abyss in a few minutes.”

Spirit Abyss? What kind of place was that?

Cold sweat oozed from Dean’s palm.

“Anything can be used as a stake? Lifespan, health, body?”

“I’m no god. I can’t take those abstract concepts. You can offer a future favor or your most precious possession in exchange.”

Old Tim’s gaze burned bright as he looked at him, a hint of expectation glimmering in his eye.

A favor?

Dean’s thoughts raced.

Who could predict the future? Agreeing would only be a promise. Yet an instinct urged him to reject that option. He drew out the teardrop-shaped planchette from his chest pocket and opened his palm.

“The soul of the recently slain Devourer?”

The Devourer’s soul lacked corporeal attributes. Destroying it would at most yield some proficiency—worth trading for a comrade’s life.

“You killed that cunning ‘fox’?” The vagrant’s expression was tinged with admiration; his black eyes sparkled. “That one’s not easy to catch.”

“Should I have spared it?”

“No, you did right. If you don’t decisively eliminate the Devourer, it will escape, frame you repeatedly, and make you a wanted man, with no place in human society.”

“Its soul is useless to you but valuable to me.” Tim stroked his beard. “Alright, I accept this deal. Release it first, then I’ll help your friend recover.”

Dean was about to agree when a tearful face flashed before him. Gritting his teeth, he made a second request.

“You’re so powerful—can you do me one more favor? A friend of mine was framed by the Devourer and is still locked in a detention center. Can you get her out legally?”

Tim stared silently at Dean for two seconds. That deep, inscrutable gaze was like a final judgment, making Dean’s heart pound fiercely.

Then he shrugged and sighed.

“Fine, saving one or two—it’s all the same. I agree. Two lives for one soul!”

Dean knew when to stop. With a thought, a cold wind blew from the planchette onto the empty ground between them.

Through the glass piece, Dean saw a translucent spirit standing quietly—limbs, head, torso maintaining a basic human form.

It had human features, but its eyes were snake-like, vertical pupils of dark green. Its expression was vivid and alert, clearly retaining some consciousness after death, unlike ordinary spirits.

Its skin was covered in ugly dark green folds and scales, like melted wax and tar, radiating a faint greenish glow. Just gazing at the glow made Dean’s nostrils sting.

This was the true form of the Devourer—death still spreading sorrow.

Dean raised an eyebrow in disappointment. The legends had been heavily embellished; this appearance was far less terrifying than the image from that folk tale book in Tribeca featuring a monstrous abyssal maw.

Opposite him.

The Devourer’s soul appeared but barely had time to react.

Tim’s one eye widened to a perfect circle; his entire demeanor shifted from casual laziness to a chilling frenzy and hunger.

He grinned, revealing yellowed, rotten teeth. Bloodshot veins spread like sandworms around his eye. Deep bark-like wrinkles etched across his weathered face.

With a sudden breath, he opened his mouth wide.

Pitch black as night, growing with the wind.

A vast wave of blackness surged, engulfing the Devourer’s spirit.

Blackness devoured all.

Dean glanced at the darkness hovering there, then closed his eyes—too late.

A suffocating despair, sorrow, and fear erupted alive in an instant, tearing his skin, burrowing into his body, devouring his flesh and blood.

His heart pounded wildly, his head throbbed unbearably, temples stung sharply. His chest exploded with a tearing pain.

Agony to the extreme, penetrating the soul.

Followed by dizziness, weakness, and powerlessness.

He felt as if drifting in a black ocean, caught in undercurrents, lost and sinking, life and death hanging in balance.

Snap—

Suddenly, a crisp finger snap.

Like a clear spring in the desert, it surged into Dean’s heart.

Washing away all pain.

Dean opened his eyes, weakly lying on the ground as if just crawling from hell, sweat pouring, white mist swirling.

“Sorry, I was too hasty earlier—forgot to tell you to keep your distance.” Tim’s gentle voice sounded. His expression was relaxed and content; his one eye gleamed with joy. His formerly dull skin now shone brightly, as if reborn.

—The Devourer’s spirit before him had vanished without a trace, leaving no mark in the world.

“What was that black thing?”

Dean staggered to his feet, his body still trembling from residual fear.

“You can think of it as a kind of mental illness.” Tim’s apologetic smile deepened, and Dean fell into thought. “The Devourer’s soul can contain vast negative emotions, serving as a good vessel to relieve mental ailments… Thanks to you, I can rest easy for a while. Now it’s time to fulfill my promise.”

Tim snapped his fingers a second time toward Karl, who lay as still as a corpse by the palm tree.

A breeze stirred.

Dean felt a strange haze, his senses distorted.

All sounds around vanished; his heartbeat and breath seemed to halt, as if everything was paused.

But the feeling lasted only a moment.

The next second—

Time rewound.

An invisible hand called the Creator reshaped Karl’s grievously wounded, dying body.

The bloodstained bandages around Karl’s neck and the gaping, bloody hole vanished instantly, leaving skin smooth as if never injured.

This was no mere healing but a miracle.

Dean’s eyes widened in shock, a flash of realization.

Almost simultaneously, Karl groaned and his tightly shut eyelids twitched. But with a wave of Tim’s hand, like swatting mosquitoes, Karl shuddered and began to snore.

Dean quickly crouched to check him over, relieved to find normal breathing and heartbeat.

“Don’t worry, he’s healed. But to prevent him from hearing things he shouldn’t, he needs to sleep a bit longer. Now, your friend in the detention center.”

Tim turned toward the previously decapitated and mangled body of the Devourer.

“A mad masterpiece.”

He studied the severed, crushed corpse, twitched his fingers, and the parts floated up, gathering together.

Snap.

A third finger snap, and a fresh breeze blew.

The corpse, resembling Karl, suddenly restored completely, as if never injured. Its appearance changed—black shiny hair grew in a Mediterranean style, the poker face softened, nose straightened, eyes enlarged, body taller and slimmer, becoming a handsome man with an artist’s aura: Jack, the bar owner.

“Is that him?”

Tim asked Dean. Dean swallowed nervously and shook his head, forming a clear judgment of Tim’s abilities.

Tim—time.

Master of time, able to rewind individuals?

Madness.

“Don’t ask.” Tim saw his doubt. “Probing others’ powers is taboo. I didn’t ask about yours either. How much you discover is your own skill, but keep it quiet.”

Then he snapped his fingers a fourth time.

Jack’s appearance shifted again, instantly becoming a short-haired tomboy, small and slim, with a few pimples glistening in the sun.

She wore an oversized loose men’s suit, eyes closed like a sleeping “ugly duckling.”

“That’s her, Abby!”

Dean crouched to check the girl’s breath; she was lightly panting, her heartbeat and breathing present. Stunned, Dean turned around.

“Wait, you revived the Devourer?”

Dean’s thoughts stirred. If he killed her again now, could he still trigger the supernatural hunter’s attribute absorption?

“Without her soul, she’s an empty shell—less threatening than a regular vegetative patient. She no longer possesses supernatural traits.” Tim shook his head, weary. The finger snaps seemed to drain much of his strength. “Take her back to settle the matter. Exchange your friend from theI'm sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.