[Whlu]: Yo, bro! Name's Whlu—and I'm with the Bluebirds Caravan! Heard through the rift, you've got some SCS.
[Adam]: …Some what now?
[Whlu]: SCS, man—Sharp Cool Swords that glow! Don't act like you don't know. Word's out you've got blades that could make a demon cry and a god take notes! Come on, bro—share the love! We pay real good.
He leaned forward, grin flashing like a silver wound. His teeth were metal, liquid-bright, reflecting the sky. A flickering halo hovered above his head—sometimes gold, sometimes glitching into blue static. The two green horns at his temples pulsed faintly, in sync with his heartbeat.
[Adam]: …You came across three worlds to buy glowing swords?
[Whlu]: Correction, my good man—we came across five. Lost my left arm to a singing sandworm just to get here. Totally worth it, though. Because your wares? Legendary.
Behind him, the rest of the Bluebirds were already setting up their stalls—crystal tents shimmering like soap bubbles, carts pulled by manta-shaped beasts that hovered an inch above the ground. Masked traders with bird faces arranged goods that glowed, hummed, or wept softly. One was juggling explosive fruits that whistled every time they spun.
[Vlad]: Are we sure this isn't some fever dream you're having, brother?
[Silk]: Analysis suggests a 72% probability that they're genuine traders. Remaining 28%: insanity, hallucination, or interdimensional prank.
[Whlu]: Oi! We heard that, spider lady! We may be eccentric, but we ain't broke!
He clapped his hands. Dozens of crystal tablets floated from his satchel, spinning and projecting glowing text.
[Whlu]: We're buying weapons, artifacts, relics, cursed cutlery—whatever glows, hums, or screams when you hold it. Especially if it screams.
His grin didn't fade. If anything, it sharpened.
[Whlu]: So, partner… we trading or what?
[Adam]: …Fine. Vlad, bring the swords from storage.
Vlad vanished and returned with a chest of metal and memory. When he opened it, light poured out—steel and song. The blades sang different notes when touched by air: Crescent Rose fragments, a moonlight rapier, and a handful of crimson-edged swords Vlad had forged himself.
Whlu's pupils dilated like a predator's.
He snapped his fingers. Bird-masked assistants darted forward, inspecting each weapon with reverent squeals. They smelled faintly of ozone and gambling smoke.
Negotiations began.
These weren't peasants with coin—they traded in symbols and abstractions: a shard of starlight for a hilt, a memory for a blade. I kept half an ear on Silk's analysis.
[Silk]: Market conversion optimal. Expected yield: medium-to-high. Risk of leakage: 9%.
[Adam]: Just give me the best offer.
Whlu spread his floating tablets like cards in a game of gods.
Numbers and runes scrolled—points, mora, vouchers, access sigils. But the bottom line was clear:
Soul Market vouchers.
A map-stamp to the Lesser Gate.
And an escort.
My heartbeat kicked once, hard. The Soul Market—the one place that could save me.
[Vlad]: Take it. We'll barter.
The exchange lasted hours. Whlu negotiated like a serpent wearing a salesman's smile—patient, smiling, dangerous. By the end, the deal was sealed:
Crescent Rose parts for half their potions.
Vlad's rapiers for two bundles of points and a sealed crate marked Soul Market Authority.
Silk's food boxes for high-tier vouchers.
Lilith's draughts for whispered prayers that pulsed like veins of light.
[Trade Evaluation Complete]
State: Profits Made → +50%
Profit Type: Points / Credits
Points Awarded: 984
Evaluation Rank: [GOOD]
Tax & System Fees: 10% Standard
[Adam]: Pleasure doing business with you, Whlu.
[Whlu]: No problem, bro. May your next trade not end in divine combustion!
The Bluebirds packed up fast, their crystal tents folding like reflections. Within minutes, the horizon shimmered—and they were gone.
I turned to the others, still holding the vouchers.
[Adam]: All right. Count it. We've got 1,084 points from the last two trades. How many vouchers total?
[Silk]: Analysis complete. Twenty vouchers are fully compatible with Soul Market gates. Fifteen partially compatible—restricted to the Minecraft strata only.
[Vlad]: So, twenty tickets to the nightmare bazaar, huh? Not bad. Enough to get us in, maybe out.
[Silk]: Entry confirmed. Survival probability: 42%.
[Adam]: …That's actually better than usual.
[Silk]: Correction. Only if we prepare your vessel for transition.
Silk turned her head toward me. Her optic sensors pulsed with faint blue light.
[Silk]: Meaning the divine contamination has reached forty-eight percent. Your aura is destabilizing. You are, quite literally, leaking reality.
She pointed at my hand.
Tiny motes of golden dust drifted off my skin—so small they looked like sunlight caught in water.
[Vlad]: Brother, run now. Go get yourself fixed—now.
I flipped open the Merchant Book and activated the Soul Market. The world around me shimmered, fractured like glass in sunlight, and I fell into the liminal expanse. Floating platforms, stalls, and impossible shops stretched into infinity, their colors shifting like oil on water.
I ran to the nearest shop, scanning for a vendor.
[Adam]: Hello, sir… where can I find the race-changing service?
[Shopkeeper]: We are already here.
The words twisted reality around me. The floor and walls dissolved into a pixelated hospital, white and clinical, but impossibly large and segmented into rooms that seemed to breathe.
I rushed to the nearest cubicle. A man—or rather, something that looked like a man with a fish head—was wearing a long, tattered coat.
[Fishhead]: How can I help you?
[Adam]: I need a race change that suits my problem. Something… to stabilize the divine contamination.
[Fishhead]: Holy poison and toxins… kid, you're fast. You want a Saint or an Angel…?
He paused, then hissed, almost to himself.
[Fishhead]: F***—I can only make you an angel. Your aura, the foreign DNA… It's incompatible with anything else. It will cost 1,000 Soul Market rules.
He raised two gnarled fingers, and a strange glow spilled from them.
[Fishhead]: And—look at my fingers. Focus. Now.
I blinked. My vision went black. Pain shot across the side of my face, sharp as if someone had struck a nerve straight to my skull. My body froze, trembled, then was slammed with force—he had punched me directly to knock me out.
He raised two gnarled fingers, and a strange glow spilled from them.
[Fishhead]: And—look at my fingers. Focus. Now.
I blinked. My vision went black. Pain shot across the side of my face, sharp as if someone had struck a nerve straight to my skull. My body froze, trembled, then slammed with force—he had punched me directly to knock me out.
When I opened my eyes, something wet streaked across my face. I blinked, and there he was—a grinning fish-headed man, his smile impossibly wide.
[Fishhead]: Congratulations, surgery complete. You are now a girl.
[… … …]
[Adam]: (っ °Д °;)っ N-no… this must be a prank.
I staggered upright, looking at myself. Two new… appendages. Gone. What had just happened? I peeked under my pants. Yep. Missing.
I blacked out.
When I woke, I was staring at Fishhead again.
[Fishhead]: Congratulations, surgery successful. You are now a dog.
I lifted my hands—or paws?—and stared at them. Fur. Pads. Whiskers.
Another blackout.
When I came to, Fishhead was already speaking.
[Fishhead]: Congratulations, the surgery is succ—
I punched him before he could finish.
Everything went black again.
When I opened my eyes the third time…
[Adam]: DO NOT SAY ANYTHING.
I curled into a defensive ball, refusing to look at him, at the Soul Market, at anything. My brain refused to process another identity shift. One thing was certain: this was not going to end normally.
[Fishhead]: nightmares, don't worry, you didn't turn into a girl or a cat, you only have a halo, and you grow a beard, and your hair turns white.
[Adam]: Huh.
I dragged myself out of the room, trying not to think about how my reflection now looked like a holy accountant.
Back in the Minecraft sector, I dumped all my remaining vouchers to buy 5 random mods for 25 vouchers and one NPC awakeners for 10.
[Day 48]
Mike—formerly a skeleton, now suspiciously alive again—blinked at me. His skin was pale, his ears long and sharp. Elf. Somehow, the Awakener had worked.
[picture]
[Adam]: So, Mike… who killed you?
[Mike]: A clown, maybe a Jester. Iron mask. Bloody smile.
He shrugged.
[Mike]: Also—thanks for bringing me back.
I squinted at him. He was wearing digital camo, combat boots, and had a rifle slung across his shoulder.
[Adam]: You're… an elf now. Why the gun? Aren't elves supposed to use bows, magic, and sing to trees or something?
[Mike]: Those are forest elves—the tree-huggers, leaf-lickers, eco-hippies. I'm an urban elf.
He adjusted his sunglasses, dead serious.
[Mike]: We live in cities, drink coffee and Red Cow like it's holy water, use guns, grenades, and Wi-Fi.
He grinned.
[Mike]: We pray facing the nearest router.
[Adam]: …You worship Wi-Fi.
[Mike]: No, like—literally. Our minds sync through the network. Thoughts, memes, grocery lists—all uploaded in real time.
[Adam]: That sounds horrifying.
[Mike]: It is. But at least we get free unlimited cloud storage.
[Adam]: I… can't argue with that.
[Mike]: So, what are the new mods you got?
[Adam]: Let's see… [Modern Life Extended], [Guns, Kevlar, and Tanks Extended], [Alchemy of the Ancient Extended], [Epic Fighting Extended], and [Maps and Waypoints Extended].
[chapter end]