The shadows peeled away from the lockers, the door frames, and the ceiling in a current of self-absorbed rot focused solely on the two people in sight.
Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of crimson spheres watched them from the gloom of the corridor's western end, blinking out of sync. They hung suspended in a literal wall of thick tar that completely blocked any escape route toward the main stairs.
Rémy swallowed with difficulty. His hands, which seconds earlier had pointed arrogantly toward the horizon, now sweated cold as they gripped the steel claws and the suitcase. A dull, wet, collective sound began bouncing off the walls. It was the echo of hundreds of deformed jaws opening and closing. The smell of damp paper and putrefaction returned with a toxicity that stung their eyes and throats. The crimson horde began advancing toward them, sliding across the linoleum like a tsunami of hungry tar that devoured the little moonlight in its path.
—¡¿Now what?! — Cartman shouted.
—¡Run!
—The best plan of the whole damn night.
Both spun around in the same instant, their boots skidding comically across the floor before finding traction. Cartman, despite the bulky football armor, ran with the agility and speed of an Olympic medalist.
Rémy stayed right beside him, clutching the suitcase to his chest while casting frantic glances over his shoulder.
The tide of tar wasn't just pursuing them along the floor, it was beginning to climb the walls and ceiling of the hallway, closing the space like a collapsing tunnel. The red spheres blinked, coordinating the advance of that viscous mass that swallowed lockers, smothered the light from the lamps, and shoved doors aside with violence.
Ahead of them, about twenty meters away, the corridor finally forked. The monstrous tsunami accelerated abruptly behind them, extending thick tendrils of darkness that tore through the air mere centimeters from Rémy's back, trying to hook his clothes and drag him into the center of the main mass.
To their left were the doors leading to the emergency stairs toward the second floor; to their right rose the heavy double wooden doors reinforced with metal that led to the school's central library.
Both took a sharp step toward the emergency exit, seeking the most logical route to the street. However, before they could even extend their arms toward the panic bar, a colossal tendril of black tide surged ahead along the ceiling and fell in front of them like a solid waterfall. The tar sealed the metal door completely in the blink of an eye, covering it with a vibrant, viscous layer of crimson eyes staring fixedly at them.
—Nope — They changed course toward the double doors.
Rémy reached them first, slamming his shoulder into the heavy wooden doors that yielded with a solemn groan of old hinges. Cartman burst in behind him like a brakeless freight train, bouncing off the door frame but immediately recovering and throwing himself backward against the double doors to slam them shut.
The echo of the tremendous slam traveled through the immense darkness of the book-filled hall. Less than a second later, the first impact of the horde crashed against the other side of the wood with the brute force of a fleshy battering ram. The hinges groaned in agony and several wood splinters rained from the lintel onto their heads.
Eric dug his cleats into the carpet to brace with all his weight, feeling the thick wood vibrate beneath his shoulder blades from hundreds of scratches trying to break through from the other side. It wasn't nearly enough; the door cracked in seconds. The force of the impact sent them flying through the air, crashing through the windows and tumbling straight into the night void, surrounded by a brilliant storm of shattered glass and old wood splinters.
The tide of tar that peered through the shattered gap on the third floor extended several dark tendrils into the icy air in a futile attempt to catch them mid-flight. Below, the school's concrete courtyard waited, rushing up at an alarming speed.
Rémy hooked his arm around Cartman's waist during the descent, feeling the inertia threaten to tear them apart. With his free hand, he yanked the leather clasps of his suitcase, which flew open wide in mid-air. Without a second thought, he propelled himself toward the dark opening, dragging a screaming Cartman along with him. Both were swallowed by the suitcase's mouth just before their bodies would have smashed into the branches of a tall tree guarding the courtyard.
Inside, the chaos of wind and the pull of gravity vanished the instant Rémy banged his head against a metal bucket that rang like a church bell, while Cartman, in a far more unfortunate trajectory, took a direct hit to his privates, courtesy of a broom propped in an inconveniently strategic position. From outside, through the distant slit of the lid, a massive, vibrating hiss filtered in. The tar was beginning to drip from the third floor, covering the building's facade as it desperately searched for the trail of its stupid prey.
Rémy rose with difficulty, rubbing his forehead where the red mark from the bucket was already throbbing hard. Beside him, Cartman remained curled in the fetal position on the grain sacks, emitting high-pitched, unintelligible sounds as he quietly cursed the broom.
There was no time to waste. Rémy crossed in a blink to the arctic biome section, where the freezing air and perpetual snow gusts kept provisions in quite good freshness.
He returned carrying a row of wrapped hamburgers, still covered in a thin layer of frost on the paper. Without a word, and taking advantage of Cartman still having his mouth open from the broom encounter, Rémy began stuffing them in one after another.
—¡Mphf! ¿What the fu—?! — Eric tried to protest, but his words were buried beneath a mountain of bread, meat, and cheese.
Rémy didn't stop until Cartman's cheeks swelled like a hoarding hamster's, forcing him to process that avalanche of meat.
While Cartman struggled to swallow the last burger, Rémy turned toward the work table. There, amid the clutter of tools and blown-glass vials, his eyes focused on the labels. They were written in elegant British cursive, so tight and refined that deciphering a single word felt titanic. Alchemical terms twisted across the yellowish paper like something alien to his mind.
The hissing of the tar outside filtered through the wooden joints like static threatening to devour the refuge. Rémy, tired of wrestling with the handwriting, decided to ignore the labels and narrowed his analytical eye. He let the sensors register the chemical composition of each brew directly, and the information flooded his mind in a cascade of data that only confirmed his frustration.
-------------------------------
—Dittany Ointment: Instant healing (Useless for killing).
—Occamy Calming Tonic: Broad-spectrum sedative (Useless against a mass of hate).
—Murtlap Essence: Burn relief (Irrelevant right now).
-------------------------------
—Just medicines, ¡damn you, Newt!
He slammed his fist on the table, making the vials clink among themselves. If only that handsome redhead had been a little more aggressive—just enough to bother creating an explosive potion or something actually useful in combat. But no, everything was tonics to calm creatures, ointments for magical wounds, and antidotes for exotic poisons that didn't even exist in this world. Nothing capable of blasting the tide of red eyes suffocating his suitcase from outside.
—¿Nothing? ¿Not even one miserable magical hand grenade? — Cartman asked, now looking like an inflated, energized version of himself after processing the burgers. —¡Tell me you've got something!"
The shed's ceiling began curving inward under the curse's weight outside. Small drops of acidic, vibrant tar started seeping between the beams, burning the cabin's carpet with a corrosive hiss.
Rémy looked at his steel claws and then at the shelf of medicines. If they didn't have a bomb, they'd have to improvise a chemical reaction with whatever was on hand.
Bad news: he had no damn idea how to do that.
All that remained was to trust that Cartman's new strength would be enough to break the siege.
—¡We're screwed! — Rémy shouted, dropping the steel claws onto the table as the shed's ceiling creaked dangerously above their heads.
-------------------------------
—PASSIVE TRAIT UPGRADE: "CALORIC MOTIVATION"—
Status: Activated
Active Effect: ERIC CARTMAN's strength has increased by 25%.
Non-stackable
Time remaining: 3 minutes.
-------------------------------
Cartman's body, which moments ago had seemed shrunken and defeated, underwent an internal metamorphosis. His muscles, fueled by the greasy, icy pleasure of the burgers, began processing the excess calories as pure combat fuel. His eyes flashed with a golden gleam for a second.
—Maybe not so screwed.
Cartman let out a belch that sounded more like thunder, sending a blast of meat-scented air straight into Rémy's face.
—Stop crying — Cartman declared, flexing his arms with a muscular density that made the seams of his uniform creak. —¡I'm gonna kick its ass!
Without waiting a second, Eric leaped toward the stairs in a single bound powered by his enhanced strength and reached the upper platform right beneath the suitcase lid. The hissing outside intensified abruptly; the dark mass, detecting the internal movement, forced the leather clasps open a moment before fully opening the suitcase to enter and devour whatever was inside.
It only found a powerful tackle from a fat kid.
Cartman's shoulder slammed full-force into the core of the tar mass trying to seep in, shattering the curse's cohesion with such brutal strength that the courtyard asphalt cracked beneath his feet, scattering shreds of black substance everywhere.
«Ah, fuck. I hope he doesn't want to hit me afterward», Rémy thought, sweat soaking his face as he emerged from the suitcase behind him.
If Cartman decided to settle scores for everything he'd put him through while still retaining that extra muscular power, his own defense system would be nothing more than a broken toy in the hands of a malevolent child.
Cartman, wrapped in the golden aura of his caloric motivation, didn't stop to look at the damage. He planted himself over the cracked ground, metal claws vibrating and an expression of smugness bordering on divine. The tide of red eyes, for the first time since the hunt began, recoiled with confused and agonized hisses.
—Hey… ¡you're doing great! — Rémy shouted from a safe distance, once again raising the sign with Cartman's face. He held it high, waving it with forced enthusiasm while sweat dripped down his neck.
—Of course I'm doing great, I'm a fucking god!
The curse's blows fell on him with the fury of a dark ocean. Tar tendrils whipped and shoved him with force that would have demolished a load-bearing wall, physically tossing him side to side across the cracked asphalt. Yet the impacts barely tore his football uniform and certainly didn't cause real damage.
Cartman let out a manic laugh that made Rémy shudder as a tar whip struck his helmet without even moving his head.
—¡Mosquitoes in summer sting more than your shitty shadow!
—¡Don't get cocky, Eric! — Rémy warned, waving the sign again to keep the dopamine flowing. —¡Time's running out! ¡Crush them now while you're untouchable! ¡Kill iiiiit!"
Cartman flexed his knees, sinking his boot cleats into the asphalt until it gave way.
—¡Say goodbye to your ass!
With a roar that rattled the remaining glass in the school windows, Cartman charged forward and began delivering shoulder and claw strikes with such violence that the tar couldn't regenerate. It evaporated, leaving behind a trail of fetid vapor and pulverized asphalt without a chance to strike back.
A thick tendril of tar, as wide as a tree trunk and bristling with crimson eyes, rose from the main mass and fell with the force of a hydraulic hammer directly onto Cartman's helmet. But Eric only let out a shout. It hurt, but he could still move without trouble. Cartman threw a punch straight into the center of the mass of eyes, it was more like a concentrated explosion from his metal claws that pulverized the tar in a two-meter radius, sending shreds of darkness and terrified gazes flying through the air.
The tide, desperate, tried to surround him with a dozen sharp whips that lashed frantically from every angle. The attacks tore his football uniform in several places, but the curse's claws and teeth broke uselessly against Cartman's skin.
—¡Use the sonic pulverizing whirlwind gear 4 attack! — Rémy shouted from a safe distance, throwing karate kicks into the air with dubious coordination but overflowing enthusiasm.
The improvised "attack" was too much for the curse. Every tendril that made contact with Cartman ended up turned into a fine mist of black ash. The tide of red eyes hissed in pure panic as it watched its volume drastically reduce under the super-powered fat kid's force.
Rémy, seeing the success of the move, doubled his air kicks.
—¡That's it! ¡Total pulverization! ¡Don't leave a single stain!
The curse, now reduced to a ragged, smoking trail, began contracting with a pitiful hiss. What remained of it crawled desperately toward the depths of the forest behind the school, but was stopped by a stomp from Rémy that crushed the last red eyes blinking in terror beneath his sole. The idiot was already defeated, ¡there was nothing to fear!
—¿Where do you think you're going, idiot?— Rémy murmured, applying more pressure until thick black smoke began pouring from the edges of his shoe.
Now it was Rémy laughing like a maniac. The fear that had once crushed his chest had done a complete turnaround, transforming into pure, intoxicating arrogance that coursed through his system. The force of his stomp increased fueled by that rush of superiority, until the curse completely evaporated beneath his sole, leaving only a trace of inert soot and the echo of his laughter in the courtyard air.
Cartman, still catching his breath and after the boost faded, watched him with a mix of surprise and disgust.
—Hey —he spoke between gasps —I did all the work…
-------------------------------
—CURSE ERADICATED SUCCESSFULLY—
MISSION STATUS: COMPLETED
TARGET: Grade 4 Curse (Lower Class)
STATUS: Eradication confirmed
PERFORMANCE ANALYSIS: Your narcissism impresses and disgusts in equal measure. Thanks to your exceptional talent and ingenuity in decision-making, your summoned character (ERIC CARTMAN - RANK E) has eliminated a Grade 4 curse.
ADAPTATION BONUS: Due to the "Adaptive Configuration Force" trait and dopamine channeling through graphic material (the sign), the learning coefficient has been tripled.
Base Experience: 10 EXP
Multiplier Applied: x3.0
Experience Gained: 30 EXP
-------------------------------
—UNLOCKED REWARDS—
RESIDUAL ESSENCE EXTRACTION
300 fragments of condensed Cursed Energy collected from the target's corpse.
PASSIVE ATTRIBUTE MODIFICATION:
"STEEL SKIN, CRYSTAL NERVES"
Status: Updated (Rank B).
Prolonged exposure to multi-directional impacts has forced cellular restructuring in the summoned unit. Physical trauma is confirmed as an efficient catalyst for stabilizing high-ego entities.
Modified Parameters:
Effect: Physical durability increased by +23% (increase in adipose and muscular tissue molecular density).
Penalty: Susceptibility to pain and volume of auditory complaints increased from 15% to 16%.
—ADRENALINE JACKPOT (TRAUMA DIVIDENDS)—
It is statistically offensive that you continue breathing. Your lucky ass managed to survive a scenario where the probability of death exceeded 90%.
House courtesy: 100 credits
Note:Give me something better next time…
—¿DO YOU WISH TO CLAIM THE REWARDS?—
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—Another Grade 4 — Rémy sighed, pressing both hands to his face. —¡Great! I hope they're all this easy.
Cartman, who was busy trying to scrape a piece of tar stuck to his boot, froze when he heard Rémy's words. His eyes narrowed and the vein on his forehead began to throb.
—¡I want my reward right now!
The system interface tinted an alarming red as a pop-up window blocked Rémy's view.
-------------------------------
—EVENT: MISFORTUNE ROULETTE—
Option: You may attempt to double the loot obtained.
Risk: If you lose, the credits vanish and the slain curse or enemy manifests again with an increased rank and renewed grudge toward you.
-------------------------------
—¡I want my reward next year!
A coin the size of a truck wheel and with a supernatural metallic gleam materialized in the air. On one side, Archie's smiling, cartoonish face; on the other, a red "X" crossed out and radiating an aura of pure failure.
The coin fell to the ground with a metallic crash and began bouncing—slow and dramatic, just to mock both boys' efforts. A frenzied, epic, chaotic opera music burst out of nowhere straight into their eardrums.
The victory fever was eradicated by the roar of operatic choirs. Cartman and Rémy stood petrified, turned into two trembling statues of flesh beneath the oppressive red glow of the system warning. Cold, thick sweat soaked their clothes, dripping down Rémy's forehead until it burned his eyes, but neither dared even blink to wipe it for fear of altering the outcome.
Their eyes followed the coin's path, now spinning on its edge in ever-tighter circles, making the opera chorus reach a deafening climax.
Archie… X… Archie… X…
Time seemed to thicken like the very tar they had just defeated. The chorus hit a note so high and sustained that Cartman's fillings seemed to vibrate in his molars.
With a sharp "clac" that cut the music dead, the gigantic coin finally toppled face-down onto the ground. A small cloud of grayish dust rose instantly from the impact, hiding the metal's upper face beneath a veil of earth and curse residual ash.
Rémy's throat was so dry he couldn't even utter an indignant reply. With legs trembling like melting gelatin, he took a hesitant step forward. He extended a shaking hand, slowly waving the air to disperse the dust floating over the system's implacable verdict.
—¡Archie! — Rémy's shout came out as a strangled crow, but loaded with such pure relief he nearly dropped to his knees.
A fanfare of electronic trumpets and the sound of digital coins raining into a metal piggy bank rang out everywhere. The system flashed with a blinding golden glow that lit up the entire school courtyard, erasing any trace of the red danger light.
-------------------------------
—RESULT: ¡JACKPOT DOUBLED!—
Fortune smiles on the reckless (or those who don't know when to quit). War loot has undergone a multiplicative fission process.
Credits Obtained: 800 (300 base + 100 jackpot ×2).
Experience Gained: 60 EXP (30 ×2).
Game Chips: 1
-------------------------------
—I felt it close, gentlemen — Rémy sighed, wiping sweat from his face with a hand still trembling noticeably —Very close.
The air vibrated with an electric hum and, from a bluish spark that burst right in front of his chest, the same chip he'd used the first time to awaken Archie sprang out of nowhere. Rémy caught it mid-air, feeling the cold metal charged with latent energy pulsing in time with his racing heart.
Things were going to get harder, and he doubted luck would always be on his side; the next curse could very well erase them with a clap while mocking their pathetic survival attempts. Getting more summons and objects was the absolute priority so as not to depend on a single "fat kid" with attitude problems, but the possibility of ending up summoning someone like Dio, Wilson Fisk, or Ramsay Snow was equally high. A psychopath with delusions of divinity or a ruthless strategist could be more dangerous to Rémy himself than any shadow in the woods.
—Luck is a finite resource, after all — Rémy murmured, finally opening the Black Market interface while keeping the game chip in his pocket.
As he tried to decide whether his streak of fortune was a gift from destiny or a trap, his eyes scanned the store sections that didn't belong to the South Park theme category. The interface displayed a series of floating icons ranging from useful to disturbing: from high-end kitchen utensils to torture tools that…
The coin began glowing with such intensity that the light pierced the fabric of his pants, projecting the game chip's silhouette onto the ground. Rémy slowly turned his head, horror growing on his face, only to find Cartman pressing hard on the pocket where he'd stored it.
—¿What? — Cartman asked.
The coin emitted a sharp beep, like a slot machine about to hit the jackpot, and a burst of blue sparks began pouring from the seam of Rémy's pants. The chip flew into the air to greet an explosion that formed the same dense, oily black dome he had witnessed the day he summoned Cartman. One of the worst days of his life so far.
The black dome didn't summon a standing person; instead it stretched and deformed until it became a horizontal fissure torn into the fabric of the school courtyard's reality. With a screech of tires that scratched their ears, a massive armored vehicle emerged from the gap, landing heavily on the scorched asphalt. It was an old noir-style car: a black-and-chrome Lassiter Series 75 (if his memory didn't fail him), with wide fenders and side running boards.
The vehicle's four doors opened.
No dialogue, no introductions or warnings. Four wooden puppets in tailored three-piece suits, fedoras pulled low over their eyes, and dark trench coats leaped from the car. Two of them, Thompson drum machine guns slung over their shoulders, flanked the scene. The other two lunged straight at Rémy and Cartman.
—¡Hey! ¡¿What the hell do you think you're doing?! — Cartman shouted, trying to raise a metal claw, but it was useless.
One of the mobsters, a guy with a scar crossing his jaw, delivered a quick rifle-butt strike to his stomach that knocked the wind out of the boy. Another slipped a rancid cloth gag over his mouth, tying it tightly behind his helmet. Eric was reduced to a mass of muffled complaints and useless kicking, eyes flashing with helpless fury.
Rémy fared worse. As he tried to back toward his suitcase, an arm like an oak trunk caught him by the neck. He smelled garlic and cheap cologne just before a cloth soaked in something bitter and chemical covered his mouth and nose. The world began to spin. His arms were pinned behind his back with leather cuffs, and another gag was viciously tightened, silencing any attempt at logical protest.
The black fissure behind the car began to vibrate, transforming into a stable portal buzzing with violet static. The vehicle's driver, a puppet resembling an older man with a thin mustache and icy gaze, rolled down the window and simply nodded toward the portal.
The mobsters, with minimal effort, lifted Rémy and Cartman as if they were empty potato sacks and tossed them unceremoniously into the back seat of the Lassiter, stacking them one on top of the other. Rémy's suitcase was thrown into the trunk with a dull thud. The four men climbed back in, the doors closed with a heavy, final sound, and the driver floored the accelerator.
The vehicle reversed straight into the fissure. Rémy, dizzy from the gag's chemical, felt crushing pressure as the car passed through the interdimensional barrier. Darkness enveloped everything for an eternal second.
When light returned, they were no longer in the school courtyard, nor even in the system's neon-lit digital nexus. The environment's design had completely changed once again. The car stopped gently on a floor of worn checkerboard tiles. The mobsters opened the doors and dragged Rémy and Cartman outside, dropping them in the middle of what looked like an old, elegant 1930s–40s Italian café. The air was thick, impregnated with the deep aroma of espresso, Cuban cigar smoke, and old leather.
Dark wood-paneled walls were adorned with black-and-white photographs of serious men and Sicilian landscapes. Ceiling fans spun lazily over round marble tables and wicker chairs. In a corner, an old jukebox played a soft violin melody.
The mobsters shoved Rémy and Cartman, still gagged and bound, toward the main table.
—¡Welcome! — Archie shouted, emerging from the shadows at the back of the café. He wore the same uniform as always, the only difference being a long heavy black wool overcoat that gave him an air of clandestine authority.
At Archie's signal, the suited men untied them and forced them to sit at the round mahogany table. Several poker decks already rested on the green felt mat, along with clay chips bearing Archie's face and a carved crystal ashtray that seemed to glow with its own light. Rémy rubbed his wrists, feeling the tingling of returning circulation as Cartman tore off his gag with a deep grimace of disgust, spitting a strand of saliva onto the marble floor.
—Come on. Don't make that face, champ — Archie said, sliding two fine porcelain cups across the table.
—¿Is this going to become a habit? — Rémy asked, holding Archie's gaze over the rim of the porcelain. —Because there are much faster ways to kill me.
Archie let out a dry laugh that echoed against the wood of the place. He leaned forward, letting the chandelier light highlight the shadows under his eyes.
—That's why you're my favorite. Now, I hope I don't have to repeat the rules.
Rémy let out a sigh heavy with bone-deep exhaustion. The hot chocolate had steadied his pulse, but not his patience. He extended his hands toward the deck resting in front of him, already resigned to playing the game to get home as soon as possible. But before his fingers could brush the cardboard, a heavy metallic thud made the table vibrate.
Archie had placed a long-barreled revolver directly on the cards. The blued steel gleamed under the chandelier light, and the smell of gun oil instantly mixed with the cocoa aroma.
—That said, it would be too boring to repeat the games. ¿Don't you think?
Cartman, who still had a bit of chocolate at the corner of his lips, stared at the weapon with wide eyes. His usual verbosity stopped dead, replaced by tense silence.
Archie spun the revolver's cylinder. The ratchet sound was like a series of metallic clicks that ran down Rémy's spine.
—The rules have evolved, champ — Archie explained casually. —Every time you ask for a card, you must decide. ¿Bet your credits or bet your turn with the 'Iron Lady'? If the bullet doesn't fire, your reward multiplier shoots through the roof. If it does… well, the system will have to find a new favorite.
Rémy felt the chocolate settle like a lead block in his stomach. He looked at the three face-down cards and then at the revolver guarding them.
—Hey… that doesn't make sense — he managed to articulate, voice barely above a whisper as his eyes darted from the steel gleam to Archie's impassive face. —The first time you said-
—I said the first round was free — Archie interrupted. —I also said 'for now' you wouldn't have to spend money.
—¡You're like one of those mobile game developers who give you free energy at the beginning and then charge you just to blink! —Eric shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Archie!
Archie didn't even blink at Cartman's outburst; he simply slid the revolver a few centimeters further, letting the barrel point directly at the empty space between the cards and Rémy's chest. In that instant, the previously empty chairs beside them were suddenly occupied by mannequins in various outfits and genders. Wooden and wax figures, some in impeccably tailored suits, others in evening gowns, held their own decks with rigid, lifeless fingers.
—Now, ¿why don't we play?