James couldn't help but marvel at his friend's uncanny ability to spin a believable narrative completely on the spot—a useful skill he realized he thoroughly lacked at the moment.
Tyler folded his arms over his chest, humming thoughtfully as he processed the title.
"Genesis of Nightbound, huh?" He sounded genuinely intrigued, nodding in approval.
"Sounds pretty cool. Might check out some gameplay clips on the net if someone's archived it."
Michael offered a smooth, knowing smile. "I'm afraid that will prove quite difficult."
George glanced over, raising an eyebrow. "And why is that?"
"It is extraordinarily exclusive," Michael replied effortlessly.
James blinked, shifting in his seat.
"Wait... didn't we just walk into that store, and the owner handed it over?" He hadn't gotten the impression the game was rare at all.
"Yes, my good friend," Michael said, his eyes glittering with subtle amusement. "The vintage shop owner was kind enough to inform me about its availability."
"Ohhh." James's eyes widened slightly as the subtext clicked into place. Right—rich guy connections.
"Man, that's a shame," Tyler sighed, deflating a bit. "Sounded pretty fun."
James gave Tyler the nastiest side-eye known to man.
He knew for a fact that unless a game revolved around basketball, Tyler's attention span wouldn't last five minutes.
"Do not fret," Michael added graciously. "I can easily acquire a copy for you."
"Really?!" The sudden spike of genuine excitement in Tyler's voice was almost hilarious.
"Of course."
Tyler looked relieved. The concept sounded surprisingly solid, and lately, the mainstream market had been flooded with uninspired garbage.
He had tried playing the latest basketball release earlier that week, but the entire title was choked with aggressive microtransactions and barely offered anything new.
At this rate, he felt like he might as well go back to playing Grand Theft Auto VI—it might be an older title now, but at least the core experience held up.
"Also, you guys honestly stink," James cut in, holding his breath.
He couldn't keep it to himself any longer—the overwhelming assault on his heightened senses was getting out of hand. His super-nose was working overtime.
"That's the scent of victory, my boy," Tyler declared, puffing out his chest with ridiculous pride.
George let out a quiet laugh, adjusting the towel around his neck as he remembered they needed to clean up. "It was nice catching up, but we've got to hit the showers before class."
"Catch you guys later," Tyler waved, already turning away.
James watched them trek across the cafeteria toward the locker rooms.
Even long after they vanished around the corridor, his hyper-sensitive nostrils were still picking up their distinct scent trail, effortlessly tracking their path through the dense sea of dozens of other students.
Turning back to his companion, James shook his head. "You're terrifyingly quick with the lies."
Michael leaned back against the red vinyl booth, relaxing his posture. "It wasn't a lie. Everything I said was entirely true—just wrapped in a different context."
"Still, your mind works fast," James admitted, genuinely envious of that level of quick thinking.
"Wish I had that kind of mental speed."
"People tend to develop sharp instincts when forced to negotiate with the Fae," Michael remarked softly, his tone taking on a distant, colder edge.
James paused, scratching his cheek. "I think I've heard of them... Aren't they like those cute little garden fairies?"
Michael froze for a fraction of a second, then burst into a ringing, melodious laugh that echoed off the cafeteria walls.
He laughed so hard he had to wipe a stray tear from his eye, shaking his head in disbelief.
James stared at him, his face twisting into utter confusion. "Did I say something funny?"
"Oh... you're actually dead serious," Michael gasped, catching his breath as he took in James's bewildered expression.
"Well, of course I am!" James grumbled, crossing his arms, clearly annoyed.
Michael's laughter subsided, replaced by a dark, deadly serious gaze.
"Allow me to burst your little bubble, James. They are not cute. And if you take away only one piece of advice today, let it be this: the more human a Fae looks, the absolute less you should trust it."
James slumped in his seat with a heavy sigh. Every single day, another supernatural entity was revealed to be a complete dickhead. Fantastic.
"If they're really that dangerous," James asked, his curiosity getting the better of him, "why do people even bother making contracts with them?"
He remembered Michael's earlier point about risk versus reward.
If making a deal with a Fae carried such a catastrophic level of risk, the potential payoff had to be utterly insane.
"Guns and nuclear weapons are exceptionally dangerous," Michael pointed out smoothly, leaning his chin on his hand. "Yet humanity continues to build and utilize them."
James conceded the point with a slight nod. "Fair enough."
"Striking a bargain with a Fae yields power far beyond what a simple spirit can offer," Michael continued, his voice dropping to a low, captivating murmur.
"Where an elemental spirit might grant you a minor affinity for fire or a temporary physical buff, the gifts bestowed by the Fae alter the very fabric of reality itself."
"Like what?" James asked, leaning in.
"For instance," Michael whispered, a dark gleam in his eyes, "one could gain the authority to twist the threads of fate... or bring someone back from the dead."
James's eyes widened. That sounded completely broken.
"Do not get too excited," Michael cautioned softly, his smile fading into something razor-sharp.
"The price for such power is always far worse than you can possibly imagine."
Michael decided to delve deeper into the topic, leaning across the table with a smooth, calculated calm.
The last thing he wanted was for James to get tricked by an ancient Fae creature simply out of sheer ignorance.
"Allow me to illuminate the danger with a classic demonstration," Michael said, his voice dropping to a cool, razor-sharp whisper that commanded James's absolute attention.
James was all ears. He sat up straight, eager to absorb any piece of hidden lore he could get his hands on.
Michael's pale fingers tapped a slow, sinister rhythm against the red vinyl booth.
"Suppose a desperate man approaches a high-ranking Fae Lord. He begs for unimaginable fortune, asking simply to become 'the richest man in his kingdom.' The Fae smiles, accepts the bargain, and grants the request on the spot."
"That sounds easy enough," James remarked, resting his chin on his palm. "Where's the catch?"
"The catch is remarkably simple," Michael purred, leaning closer. "Intent means absolutely nothing to the Fae; only literal wording dictates the contract. The very next morning, a terrible plague sweeps through the realm, wiping out every single living soul except for that man. He wakes to find himself, quite literally, the richest man in his kingdom—because he is the only man left standing, alone in a graveyard of gold."
James winced, letting out a low whistle. "Damn. That's cold."
"Wait, so intent doesn't mean a single thing to them?" James pressed, shaking his head. If a deal could backfire so catastrophically, it seemed insane that anyone ever agreed to one.
Then again, James reasoned, human greed was a powerful force.
Desperate people likely flocked to the Fae constantly, driving themselves straight into the trap without the Fae having to lift a finger.
"Intent is entirely irrelevant when binding yourself to their law," Michael said with a nonchalant shrug, picking up his black coffee mug to take a final sip.
"When drafting a bargain with them, the only metric that matters is precise semantics. That is why it is vital to know the deep, historical definitions of every word before uttering it. For instance... did you know the word 'nice' originally meant 'foolish' or 'ignorant' back in the 13th century?"
James stared at him, processing the thought. "Wait... so if someone wished for his wife to become 'the nicest woman around'..."
"They would effectively make her mindless," Michael confirmed, a faint, dark smile playing on his lips.
"That is an absurdly dirty move," James muttered, rubbing his forehead. "They sound like a bunch of high-stakes lawyers."
Michael offered a smooth, enigmatic grin, keeping certain ancient secrets to himself.
"Or maybe they work at the DMV," James added dryly, trying to imagine another place where such ruthless technicalities flourished.
"That is the game they play," Michael continued, setting his empty ceramic cup onto the table with a soft, deliberate click.
"You ask to live forever? They might turn you into a stone statue—fully conscious for eternity, but forever unable to move or speak. You ask to never feel physical pain again? They sever your nervous system entirely, leaving you an unfeeling shell."
"And what's the ultimate cost?" James asked quietly, leaning forward across the booth. "What do they actually demand in return?"
"If you manage to survive the trickery in their phrasing," Michael said, his dark, piercing eyes locking onto James's with absolute gravity, "the price is almost universally your freedom."
James frowned, adjusting his backpack strap over his shoulder.
"Hold up. What you're describing sounds a lot like the binding contracts used by wolf packs. But from what I know about pack magic, doesn't intent actually matter for them?"
Michael's dark eyebrows rose slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features. "Oh? You are already familiar with oath-binding mechanics?"
"Yeah," James said with a casual hand wave.
"They're basically like binding vows or Nen contracts from anime. I was actually planning on setting a few up for my own training."
Michael raised an eyebrow, intrigued by how quickly James was connecting supernatural principles to modern pop culture concepts.
"To address your observation," Michael explained, sliding out of the booth and smoothing down his dark jacket, "two separate magic systems can easily operate under different rules simultaneously."
James stood up as well, grabbing his empty beverage bottle and pizza tray to toss them into the nearby recycling station.
So mother nature accepts technicalities, he thought to himself. Under that logic, as long as the literal core condition is met, the contract goes through. That means technicalities could be exploited in all sorts of crazy ways.
It was definitely a useful detail to keep in mind.
"Well, my dear friend," Michael said, checking his sleek wristwatch, "it appears it is time for your next lecture."
James nodded, picking up his heavy backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. "Yeah, Advanced Math. Joy."
They walked out of the main dining space together, stepping toward a line of bright, glowing vending machines near the exit.
James paused in front of a glass-fronted machine, scanning the rows of colorful snacks inside.
"I know I have class," James said, pulling out his phone to tap the payment sensor. "Quick question—what kind of snack do you think a werewolf would like?"
He knew discussing supernatural traits in a public hallway sounded reckless, but their ongoing cover story about the MMORPG worked as a perfect shield.
To any passing student, they just sounded like two nerds debating video game lore.
Besides, James had always been the guy reading fantasy books on campus, so nobody gave his conversations a second thought.
"Dog food," Michael replied flatly, without a single second of hesitation.
James turned his head slowly, giving Michael the most deadpan, unamused look he could muster.
Michael met his gaze with an expression of pure, unbothered innocence. "What? I am merely offering a candid suggestion."
"I'll just get the sour gummies," James muttered, shaking his head as he selected a bright red bag from the slot. The machine hummed, dropping the candy into the retrieval door with a heavy thud.
He reached down to grab the bag, pocketing it for later. Talia had mentioned wanting something sweet from campus earlier, and he figured these would do the trick—or at least keep him on her good side.
A/N....Probably last chapter in school, next probably back to the pack...
Vote with powerstones