Novak returned with the same dark green teapot he had used when serving Kate and me.
One teapot on the tray, one cup, and one thick glass filled with a deep amber liquid. When Vaclav set the tray on the table, the liquid rolled against the glass in a thick wave, leaving an oily trace in its wake. The scent of caramel and alcohol blended with notes of citrus, honey, and mint.
The teapot clearly contained Clear Thoughts, and just its aroma alone seemed to clear away the excess noise in my head. But the liquid in the glass was even more tempting.
"What’s that?" I asked, pointing at the glass.
"Bourbon," Vaclav replied curtly.
"For me?"
"You're eighteen, lad."
"We both know I’m older than that," I objected.
Vaclav froze for a moment, considering my words.
"Your body is eighteen," he countered, then immediately added, "You don’t have a problem with alcohol, do you?"
"Not that I know of," I hesitated.
The question caught me off guard. I doubted he’d be worried about my addictions if he planned to harm me. Then again, I wasn’t entirely sure I should be drinking right now. My nerves were just getting the better of me.
Novak sank into his chair and took a sip of bourbon as if it were apple juice. As if reading my thoughts, he continued to reassure me.
"I'm almost certain you're not a demon agent," he said, watching me over the rim of his glass. "If you were, you wouldn’t have kicked up such a fuss. They usually operate in silence, keeping out of sight."
"Almost certain?" I clarified.
"There’s always a slim chance you're just an incredibly talented actor." Novak grinned and spread his arms. "But so far, everything suggests you’re simply a walking disaster, not the eternal enemy of humanity."
I exhaled. The cold weight in my chest, the one I’d felt since the summoning, started to dissolve, and my shoulders eased.
We talked a little more—briefly, without going into too much detail. He asked about what had happened, and I gave him surface-level answers, leaving out anything unnecessary, except for Tariq’s list of injuries. For some reason, that was burned into my memory.
As for the rest… It wasn’t that I was trying to hide anything, but I just didn’t feel like digging through recent events.
"The tea is ready," Novak reminded me when I had already forgotten about it. "Help yourself. I need your head to be clear."
I poured myself a cup of the pale amber liquid—it looked as if someone had watered down his bourbon. But this drink smelled of citrus, honey, and mint. And it caught the light a little too well.
Still wary of a trap, I picked up the cup and took a sip. Not that I had much of a choice.
The hot liquid spread through my body, wrapping every muscle in warmth and lightness. I felt the last traces of tension dissolve. My head cleared, my breathing grew easier. And along with that clarity, I remembered something else.
"By the way… I still have an extra box of Clear Thoughts. Doc didn’t take it."
"Keep it," Novak waved dismissively. "You’ll need it."
He drummed an unfamiliar rhythm against his nearly empty glass, then downed the last drops and set it back on the tray.
"Ready for a serious conversation?"
I nodded.
Vaclav reached into his pocket, leaned forward, and placed something on the table in front of me.
A ring.
Dark metal of unknown origin, carved with intricate script. Nothing special at first glance, nothing remarkable at second. Even when I picked it up and turned it under the light—nothing changed.
"Am I supposed to channel qi into it or something?"
"You know what this is?" Vaclav asked, surprised.
"Not a clue…" I replied, feeling a cold shiver run down my spine again. This tiger in human skin unsettled me, and not even the tea could fully chase away the sense of danger. If I was going to surprise him, I needed to do it carefully. "If we’re going by xianxia logic…"
"By what?"
"It’s a literary genre. Back home, we had stories about cultivators and qi..."Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
"Your memory’s coming back?" Vaclav asked.
"Not really." I shook my head. "At least, nothing significant. I don’t even remember my own name! Sometimes I get these weird déjà vu moments…"
I told him how I’d first knocked Tariq on his ass—and how I had later been absolutely certain he needed to be punished.
"So, what does your xianxia logic tell you?"
"That it’s a storage ring. Except… I didn’t think you had those here."
"We don’t. But demons did." Vaclav said.
My eyes widened.
"So this is…"
"A fake."
I looked at the ring again, turning it between my fingers. The metal was cool to the touch, but not like iron or titanium—hell, it might have been plastic or some composite. Its surface was worn smooth, as if polished by time, but the real focus was clearly on the intricate script. That was where the magic was supposed to be.
"Just for show, or is there something here I can’t sense?" I asked. "It doesn’t actually work as a storage ring?"
"No. But to figure that out, you’d have to put it on."
I took a deeper breath.
Clearly, this fake was meant to bait demons. But where were they supposed to see it? Considering Novak had handed it specifically to me, the answer was obvious.
I was supposed to be the bait.
A demon, a demon’s agent, or something else from that side would notice the ring. And with it—me.
"So I can’t have bourbon, but risking my life is fine?"
Novak smirked.
"Oh, come on," he leaned back in his chair, lazily crossing one leg over the other. "We both know this isn’t your first time. You’ve risked your life before."
I snapped back instantly—sharper, harsher than I meant to. A single, vivid memory flashed through my mind—a sharp whistle of an incoming shell. My dive into the trench. The blast. The dirt. The headache. The ringing in my ears…
"Last time didn’t end so well!" I bit out, then forced myself to take a breath, remembering who I was talking to. I added, more evenly, "I’d rather not do it again."
Novak studied me, his gaze weighing, measuring.
"You were a soldier, weren’t you?" he said at last.
"I was forced to fight. The orcs didn’t give me a choice."
"You think the demons will just let us be?"
He had a point. One way or another, humanity was preparing for an invasion, and what he was suggesting made sense. Hell, last time, I had promised him something similar myself.
"Hm… I heard you’re good at bargaining," Novak hinted.
I raised an eyebrow, then shook my head. He misunderstood me.
"I’ll do it. Just don’t bring up death. It’s not as fond a memory as you seem to think," I told him.
"Deal… So, what do you want?"
"Nothing. I told you—I’ll do it."
"Don’t make me out to be some amoral bastard. I can’t just let you risk your life for free."
"Technically, you can," I chuckled. "But whether it’s to ease your conscience or just to keep me motivated, you want to give me something."
Novak bristled. I felt a ripple of irritation roll off him, sharp enough to make my hair stand on end. But he swallowed it down fast, masking any outward reaction.
"And you’re trying to paint me as the villain so you can feel morally superior," he countered.
"That’s probably true!" I agreed cheerfully. "Is it working well?"
Novak couldn’t help himself—he smirked.
"Not bad, at the very least."
In the end, we understood each other. A joke here, a joke there. Novak pretended to think it over, though I was sure he had already decided what to offer. He just enjoyed this little game of power dynamics.
"Alright then," he finally said. "Since you’re being so honest, here’s my proposal."
Once again, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small case. He placed it on the table in front of me and flipped it open.
Inside lay a black medallion on a chain, made of dark metal. It looked like an old, worn coin—so worn that any details were almost impossible to make out. But when I picked it up, fine, nearly invisible geometric patterns flickered across its surface, like a dense network of cracks in tempered glass.
The medallion itself felt… plastic.
"What is this?" I asked, rolling it between my fingers. I could feel the faint crackle of qi inside. This one was real.
"It’ll help if things go south. Technically, it’s an emergency escape tool."
I looked up at him.
"And less technically? Or better yet—less cryptically? What does it actually do?"
Novak smiled again—that same sharp, predatory grin.
"It’s a shield. Formed from the residual Fist Qi."
"This thing has Fist Qi?!" I perked up.
"What you’re sensing isn’t Fist Qi," Novak brought me back down to earth. "It’s just regular qi, powering a micro-formation that converts it into Fist Qi."
Cool trick, probably. But still…
"A shield made of Fist Qi?" I asked. "Did logic step out for a smoke?"
"I don’t follow," Novak said, completely unfazed. To him, this all fit perfectly within the nature of this world.
"Explain to me how you can make a shield out of Fist Qi. That stuff literally explodes—unless I’ve misunderstood something."
"Ahhh," Novak exhaled. "The more you talk, the more convinced I am you’re not a demon. To them, this would feel as natural as it does to me."
He leaned forward slightly.
"You’ve worked in the Garden, seen the techniques…" He waited for me to confirm.
I nodded.
"You’ve seen how qi holds the shape of a fist before detonation?"
Another nod.
"That shape—that property—is what the shield is built on. Later, you’ll learn to wrap yourself in one on your own. But for now, this thing gives you one free pass. Unlike the ring, though, I wouldn’t flash the medallion around. Best if no one knows about it. No one at all. Not even Kate. And try not to get into fights—it activates automatically on impact."
At least Novak cared about keeping his agent alive.
I put on the medallion, tucking it under my shirt, then slipped the ring onto the middle finger of my left hand.
I asked if I could start a chat with Vaclav, but he warned me against overusing Chatter. Apparently, all those programs had a negative effect on cognitive functions. Best to avoid them unless absolutely necessary—at least at the first stage of cultivation. By the second, the brain could handle much more strain.
With that, we parted ways. I headed back to the dorm. No chance I could finish another shift at the Fist Garden before noon.
Sitting in my seat on the train, I idly spun the ring around my finger.
Then, at the very next stop, a familiar face stepped into the carriage—a towering figure clad in black-and-red armour, mace in hand. The same guy who had politely suggested my meeting with Novak might be my last.
"Oh," he grinned. "Look who it is."
Then his gaze landed on the ring. His expression darkened, his grip on the mace tightening. Danger prickled in the air. Not as sharp as Novak’s, but close enough.
These guys really needed to work on their communication.
"Good to see you," I muttered, eyes flicking to my interface.
Before that mace could introduce itself to my skull, I fired off a message.
Outgoing: K. E. Johansson
Subject: Don’t blow my cover!
Content: Novak signed me up as bait.
The message snapped him out of it. He glanced at me, then at his interface, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. I was already sending the next one.
Outgoing: V. Novak
Subject: I’m about to get smeared across the train!
Content: K. E. Johansson saw the ring.