"What the hell do you mean all the Devil Arms are gone because Dante took them?!"
Soren leaned hard on the counter, glaring at the fat, greasy Enzo.
Enzo puffed on a fat cigar, round little sunglasses perched on his nose, flashy shirt screaming "used-car salesman." Rings loaded with fake gems glittered on every finger.
"Easy, easy, little Soren." Enzo spread his hands like he was innocent. "Few days ago that bastard Dante comes storming in, says some ancient demon woke up and the world's ending."
"So he took every single weapon I was holding for him—in the name of saving the planet, of course." Enzo flicked ash off his cigar. "Oh, and he also grabbed my favorite lounge chair and a strawberry sundae. Left one little note."
"'All the ransom and interest? My dear nephew Soren will cover it. Love, Dante.'"
Soren: "…"
Ancient demon? Bullshit. The old man knew Soren would come running for weapons the second he heard about the debt, so he cleaned house early.
"That goddamn geezer…"
Soren muttered under his breath.
"Relax—he did leave you one thing."
Enzo watched Soren's murder face and smirked. He bent down, grunting, and hauled a dusty wooden crate onto the counter.
Inside sat an ordinary-looking double-barrel shotgun. Intricate alchemical runes etched where the stock met the receiver, wrapped in some weird leather.
"Winchester 1887, custom job," Enzo rubbed his hands together. "Dante used it back in the day. Not a true Devil Arm, but Nicole tuned it herself. Good enough for low-level demons."
"Anti-demon holy flame rounds?"
Soren knew this gun. It was from another world entirely—an exorcist's favorite. Never thought he'd see it here.
He racked the lever with a crisp ka-chunk, and his scowl finally eased a little.
"Fine. Same rules—put it on my tab."
…
After leaving the black market, life slid back into its usual boring rhythm.
Soren spent his days wiping down the office, staring at Alessa while she stared right back, and playing friendly neighborhood demon hunter at night.
Buzz—
His phone vibrated. Text from Patty.
[Little Lowell: 📸]
The picture showed an endless highway under a perfect blue sky, distant buildings shimmering in the heat.
[Little Lowell: Look at this view! You're regretting it now, right?]
Soren tapped back.
[Yeah, I'm dying of regret. Send more pics.]
She'd been gone two days already.
Evening.
Soren had just finished roughing up a couple street punks for pocket money and was carrying takeout back to the office when he found Morrison already parked on the couch, half-finished coffee in hand.
"What?" Soren tossed his coat on the rack, voice grumpy. "I can't afford your dinner and I'm definitely not buying you more coffee."
"Easy on the attitude." Morrison set the cup down with a chuckle. "Got a semi-official job. Pays real good. You in?"
"Pfft." Soren rolled his eyes, cracking open the takeout box and digging in like he was starving.
"Semi-official" always meant trouble. Those stuck-up politicians and police brass only called the "freaks" when the body count got too high to sweep under the rug.
But staring at the mountain of zeros in his system quest log, he sighed.
"How much?"
"Fifty grand, plus police hazard pay."
Morrison didn't drag it out. "Heard of Poho County? Two days ago their whole station got wiped out. Not a single survivor. Scene was a slaughterhouse—didn't even get a distress call off."
"Only witness is some crazy lady who claims she's psychic. Says the attacker was a flying demon with huge wings."
"Fifty grand…" Soren looked disgusted.
Cheapskate politicians—only willing to pay when the monster starts dancing on their desks.
Still, fifty grand beat shaking down street thugs for pocket change.
He waved a hand in defeat. "Fine. What else?"
Morrison slid a yellowed newspaper clipping and a case file across the table.
"Local legend says the thing wakes up every twenty-three years in spring to feed."
"And this attack? Exactly twenty-three years since the last string of missing persons."
"Twenty-three years…"
The number rang a bell in Soren's head, but he couldn't place it. North America was crawling with serial killers and demons—more per capita than 7-Elevens. One old folktale wasn't enough to ID the monster.
Then the system pinged in his skull.
[Ding!]
[Main Quest triggered: The Man-Eater's Feast]
[Quest Description: Poho County's ancient legend speaks of a primordial creature that feeds on human fear. It wakes every 23 years in spring and hunts for exactly 23 days.]
[Quest Objective: Kill the Man-Eater permanently.]
[Rewards: 2000 points]
[Bloodline Awakening +2%]
[Special Drop: Ancient Demon Essence (Regeneration) ×1]
"So it's that thing."
Soren finally remembered. The Creeper—an immortal ancient monster that replaced missing body parts by eating humans. Eat what you need, that was its motto. It loved toying with victims, milking every drop of terror before the kill.
"Police profile adds one more detail," Morrison tapped a red line on the map. "Most disappearances and sightings cluster along one road that cuts straight through the county."
"Which road?"
"East 9 Highway."
Soren's chopsticks froze mid-air. His stomach dropped like a stone.
East 9 Highway—the exact route Patty had been bragging about for weeks. The pretty scenery in her photos…
A cold spike of dread shot up his spine.
Morrison had been watching his face the whole time. He nodded. "Figured you'd catch on."
"So you'd better move fast."
He tossed Soren a set of car keys and a weird-looking communicator.
"Rented you a tuned-up sports car—fast as hell. Don't wreck it."
"And this communicator? Dante left it. I don't think you'll need it… but if something you can't handle shows up, hit the button."