Chapter 5 Part 1

Brilliant bursts of firelight exploded outward.

One second, two seconds… The monster thudded to its knees with a heavy thump, its mountain of flesh toppling forward before collapsing motionless on the floor.

“Haah… haah…” The moment the monster knelt, Ode had rolled sharply away, putting distance between them. Now he lay on his side, gasping for breath, his face slick with cold sweat.

He took a moment to recover, forcing himself to his feet. Dragging his numb legs, he stepped over the creature’s still corpse and peered out toward the hallway.

The wound throbbed with pain. It needed immediate attention. But what if the monster had accomplices lurking nearby?

Gripping his gun tightly, Ode cautiously leaned out and checked the corridor.

It was eerily silent. Night had replaced the fading glow of sunset, blanketing the area in shadow. There was no sign of a second monster.

A strange, grayish-yellow translucent gel enveloped the hallway, slowly receding like mist in the wind.

‘This must be some kind of trick the monster used. Magic or something like that,’ Ode thought, steadying himself against the doorframe as sweat poured from his body. He tried to distract himself with analysis, dulling the throbbing ache in his calf. ‘It must have muffled all sound, or the neighbors on either side would have come out to investigate.’

‘Maybe it even messed with their senses. Otherwise, that boss downstairs would have reacted like any normal person when he saw the monster chasing me—screaming in terror or lashing out on instinct.’

He drew a deep breath—and then realized something was off.

Where was that foul stench from the monster?

And all that slime he’d been covered in earlier? It was gone.

“…” Ode nearly wondered if he’d lost his mind, if everything had been a hallucination—until he glanced down. The massive monster on the ground was silently emitting thick clouds of smoke, its form shrinking rapidly into the shape of a normal human.

Thank goodness it wasn’t imaginary. Ode let out a huge sigh of relief, only to feel a wave of bewilderment wash over him. Did I… just kill a person?

Killing a man.

His father’s words echoed in his ears once more: “…He’ll lose all respect for life! …He’ll start eyeing their weak points with cold calculation—he might even get a thrill from taking lives!”

“But I don’t want my child to turn into that kind of monster one day—”

Monster.

Ode instinctively reached for his heart, as if to feel whether it had quickened with perverse pleasure at the kill. But he stopped short of touching his chest.

No. I’m not a monster.

His father had also said that taking a life purely for amusement, not survival, was what made one monstrous.

He hadn’t killed for fun. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

Ode withdrew his hand and regained his composure. Lowering his gaze to the corpse, he knew he had to dispose of it fast. Otherwise, when the waiter brought up dinner as requested, how would he explain a dead body in his room? Who would believe “This guy just turned into a monster and tried to kill me”? Not even the Ode from half an hour ago would have.

Grinding his teeth, Ode silently cursed the undercover agent. Even in death, the bastard had to primp up and revert to his handsome form. Shutting the door, Ode limped over and began dragging the body.

After shrinking, the bullet holes had contracted too, with only a slow trickle of blood that hadn’t spread far.

Stumbling as he went, Ode shoved the corpse into the bathtub as quickly as he could. He stripped off his bloodied clothes, rinsed away the stains, then used the room’s complimentary brandy to clean the wound.

It hurt like hell.

The instant the alcohol hit the gash, Ode nearly blacked out—but he couldn’t afford to.

With his right hand pouring the liquor, he clamped his teeth down hard on the fleshy web between his left thumb and forefinger.

Once the brandy was gone, he didn’t wait for the burn to fade. Wrapping the injury in a clean towel, he slipped into the hotel’s fresh bathrobe and returned to the main bedroom to wipe the last traces of blood from the carpet.

When he finally slumped against the bed’s edge, sitting on the floor with his legs splayed wide and his eyes glazed, exhaustion overtook him. His usual obsession with appearances was flung straight to Timbuktu. All he could think was: …I’m starving.

Where was that dinner? Hell, he’d even take back the meal from Room 314 if they sent it his way. He wasn’t picky.

His annoyingly sharp memory chose that moment to torment him, replaying the waiter’s mouthwatering description: “…and the ribeye steak drizzled with Kent County black truffles, so juicy that the knife explodes with meat juices when you cut in… and the herb ice cream studded with nuts and raisins, melting into hazelnut dark chocolate…”

Starving, Ode swallowed hard and started to rise in search of food.

Half a second later, with his calf riddled with holes, he obediently sat back down.

Unable to have steak, ice cream, or chocolate, Ode inwardly railed against Room 314’s guest for not appreciating his blessings. Clearly some spoiled rich kid or pampered noble with late-stage pickiness.

But he knew better. Deadly as the fight had been, it had lasted only two or three minutes total. Add in cleanup time, and barely fifteen minutes had passed. Dinner couldn’t arrive that fast.

He patted his stomach, swallowing saliva nonstop as he shifted his thoughts elsewhere—like his utterly shattered worldview.

…Nah, better to focus on food first.

Skipping straight past denial, Ode tilted his head back and stared blankly at the ceiling: If monsters are real, does that mean God is too?

Doesn’t God smite evil gods? If he called out to the Almighty right here, would He answer?

…Why did God take his parents so young, and then his grandfather too?

The pain in his calf was numbing now, feeling almost bearable. Ode gripped the bedframe and hauled himself onto the mattress.

His mind wandered for three seconds, criticizing how “this bed is so damn comfortable—Room 314 must be bored out of their mind to complain”—before turning to serious matters.

Who had set up the barrier around Dreamcatcher Town? What caused the massive fire? And why had time rewound him to 1888?

Was it connected to that grotesque monster? If not it, then how had it tracked him from 1980 all the way to 1888’s Dreamcatcher Town?

Regret gnawed at him: Too bad the thing was dead. If it were alive, maybe he could have used his Charm Value to pry some answers—

Thump.

A sudden thud echoed from the bathroom, something slamming against the tub wall.

“…” Ode jolted upright, freezing in place.

No way. He’d only thought it, not even said it aloud. God wouldn’t pick now to show up—

Crash!

The bathroom door splintered into shards. The bloated monster—which had seemed nothing more than a corpse moments ago—lunged straight for his right side.

It moved blindingly fast. The door hadn’t even fully shattered before it was airborne, hurtling toward the bed.

But even sitting on the floor with legs akimbo, Ode had never let go of the pistol at his waist. The instant the door cracked, he rolled rightward off the bed, hitting the ground and firing two shots point-blank at the monster’s head!

Bang! Bang!

The bullets passed harmlessly through, embedding in the ceiling.

The monster’s form rippled like a mirage and dissolved. On the bed, a lean, wiry figure pushed off the mattress, springing into the air toward Ode. Its outstretched hands zeroed in on the gun: “Give it to me—you bastard, let go!”

Clang!

The two tumbled like bowling pins, rolling across the floor in a tangle of limbs as they wrestled desperately for the pistol.

Ode was a bookish liberal arts type who rarely lifted a finger; the cult infiltrator didn’t seem like field ops material either. Their brawl was amateurish at best—dirty tricks born of desperation to win, to survive. One gouged at eyes, the other kneed low.

“Give… it… to me,” the infiltrator growled through gritted teeth. “Without that gun… you’d be—agh!”

Ode seized the man’s collar and, mid-roll, slammed the back of his head into the bedpost: “You turned into an ugly freak—why can’t I use a gun? Don’t push your luck—stay down!”

Ode was an opportunist through and through, always seizing fleeting chances.

As his foe reeled from the impact, he flipped atop him, pinning him with his weight. Yanking open his bathrobe collar to bare his neckline, Ode jammed the gun barrel against the man’s temple from his superior position:

“Talk! Did you reverse time for me!? Did you drag me to 1888?!”

What was so fascinating about his neck? Ode genuinely didn’t get it. If the guy had that fetish, he should head to St. James’s Park for duck necks—they even had swans.

But in a fight for survival, he’d throw every uncertain chip onto the table. He had to live. And to live, he had to go all in.

His calf screamed from the tussle, but Ode held the gun steady and firm with both hands, drawing a subtle breath and breaking into another sheen of sweat.

“…” The infiltrator’s gaze turned dazed. Those eyes—pretty, even—locked onto Ode with mesmerized greed, roving hungrily over him. Moonlight cast shadows that sharpened Ode’s features and silhouette, weaving them with an ambiguous allure.

The pale skin peeking from the bathrobe gleamed with a thin film of sweat, rising and falling with each breath under the moon’s glow—like it had been dusted with diamond powder for a dreamlike sheen.

“What… time?”

“You don’t know? You don’t know about the time reversal?” Ode scowled. “Then how did you follow me to 1888?”

“I just… trailed you into Dreamcatcher Town…” Seeing Ode’s face darken, the infiltrator rushed on: “Don’t… don’t get mad. Look, that gun of yours is something special. Down in the lobby, I thought it was standard GORCC issue. But once I used my magic, I knew better—it’s Faust’s personal gun, isn’t it?”

The words tumbled out, laced with jealousy: “Why do you have Faust’s gun? What’s your deal with him? He’s no saint, you know—a political player like that, how clean can his heart really—mmph!”

Ode unceremoniously clamped the infiltrator’s jaw and shoved Faust’s pistol straight into his mouth, finger on the trigger: “I’m a political player too.”

Faust might be an ass, but at the last second, he’d come through with this lifesaving gun. And so far, not a single lie from him.

What right did this would-be assassin have to trash Faust’s character?

Ode pressed the gun barrel against the undercover agent’s throat, ignoring his agonized expression. “Answer my questions. No extra words. You just said what’s wrong with this gun?”