After the nap, the two went grocery shopping for the week.

  “Buy whatever. You want. Ten bucks limit,” Luther said as he pushed the shopping cart down the dairy aisle.

  “Ten bucks? What can I even get with that? Come on, make it fifteen!” Acher protested.

  “I’m. Poor,” Luther replied.

  “Damn it! I swear, this is the first time since my birth that I’ve experienced what poverty feels like. If word gets out, the entire cosmos will laugh itself silly,” Acher grumbled. “What should I even buy? What the hell? This tiny bag of candy costs four bucks?! This is robbery!”

  Luther’s lips curled up a little. He reached out and dropped the candy bag into the cart.

  “Hey! I’m still thinking!”

  “I buy. You still have ten,” Luther replied.

  When they got back home, he went to check on the garden.

  “Ether crystals. Good fertilizer,” he commented.

  The vegetable beds were lush and thriving, with vibrant green leaves and thicker stalks. The rose bushes were in full bloom, even more beautiful than the ones sold in flower shops. The apple and lemon trees were bearing round, juicy fruits.

  He used a bit of pure white mana stone to water and fertilize the plants again.

  “Actually, you can feed them your magic, too. But be cautious and give them a small amount at first. If you pour too much in, they won’t be able to handle it,” Acher advised.

  “Huh? My type is. Darkness,” Luther replied, confused.

  “Your magic isn’t just darkness. It’s infused with divine authority and ascended power. It has the ability to help all living things transform,” Acher explained.

  Luther’s eyes lit up. He fed a tiny bit of energy into each plant in the garden and then sat still, his eyes fixed on them, gaze sharp and unblinking.

  “You dummy. Even if they do evolve, it won’t happen right away. It’ll take months, maybe years,” Acher said and let out a raspy laugh.

  Luther:

  “…”

  After dinner, the two of them were relaxing on the sofa, watching TV, when all of a sudden Luther’s left hand began to glow.

  The Book of Fate appeared by itself.

  As he opened it, he noticed that all the glowing blue dots on the map had disappeared, and a single deep purple dot had appeared, located quite far from the Ravenswood home. Above it, a timer had started counting down: 4:15:28.

  Acher glared at the dark purple light dot that had appeared on the Book of Fate, his feathers puffed up in irritation.

  "What the hell is this? A mandatory mission? Why is it so early?"

  “Mandatory mission? What you mean?” Luther asked.

  “Being a messenger of the Underworld, especially a reaper, is one of the most honorable and desirable jobs in the Cosmos,” Acher said, his tone filled with annoyance. “Not only is the pay generous, but it is also quite safe. When you arrive at the location of a mission and feel that the task is far too dangerous, you can just walk away from it.”

  “But,” he went on, voice growing heavier, “there’s one situation that makes this line of work risky. That’s when the Flow of Destiny issues what’s called a mandatory mission. The name is pretty self-explanatory: you must complete it no matter what, within a certain time limit. If you fail … the punishment will be severe.”

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  Acher took a deep breath before continuing, as if trying to steady his nerves.

  “For regular missions, you can always pick tasks that are within your level. You get to choose the degree of difficulty based on your rank. But a mandatory mission doesn’t care about your current abilities. The danger level could be way beyond your current power. That’s why the failure rate for these kinds of missions is several times higher than the normal ones.”

  Luther’s brow furrowed in concern. “What kind of punishment?”

  “The penalty is random,” Acher replied. “It could strip you of your Messenger of Hell title. Or even worse, it might remove your magic abilities altogether. These things won’t matter once you’ve matured as a divine being and gained your full powers. But for you, at your current stage, that kind of loss would be critical.”

  Luther’s voice was firm. “Then let’s. Just do it.”

  Acher let out a grumbling curse under his breath.

  “Damn the Flow,” he muttered. “I had planned to guide you through a series of beginner missions first, stuff meant for apprentice and novice mages, even though your power far exceeds that. It would’ve helped you gain some solid experience and also build up some wealth before diving into the real supernatural world. Now everything’s out of order. Let’s just hope we can get through this one in one piece.”

  The time remaining to complete the mission was just four hours and fifteen minutes. That meant they had to finish before midnight struck.

  Luther rushed to the computer and searched for the location of the mission.

  “Bront? Hospital.”

  It was one of the top-rated private hospitals in New York. Known for its exceptional service and skilled medical staff, it also had a reputation for being super expensive.

  Luther threw on a coat, grabbed his bag, and headed out with Acher perched on his shoulder.

  …

  Bront? Hospital, Intensive Care Unit, Room 4.

  The room was spacious and filled with a wide range of advanced medical equipment. In the bed positioned at the center lay a teenage boy, his eyes closed, unmoving. Tubes and wires were connected all over his body.

  Aaron had been unconscious for almost five days since the night of Halloween. His parents, Michael and Helen, were sitting at his bedside, refusing to leave.

  Just then, the door opened, and a doctor stepped in.

  “Dr. Arjun Mehra, what’s the verdict?” Michael asked as he stood up, his face tight with anxiety.

  “All the department heads have reviewed Aaron’s test results and MRI thoroughly,” Dr. Arjun replied, glancing down at the folder in his hands. “Everything shows he’s in perfect health. Physically, there’s nothing wrong with him.”

  “Then why hasn’t he woken up yet?” Michael’s frown deepened.

  “The leading theory among our specialists is that Aaron experienced a severe allergic reaction to alcohol. It’s possible that even a small amount caused some kind of damage to his brain.”

  “What?” Helen gasped. “Are you saying that … his brain … his brain is …?”

  “No, it’s not that serious,” Dr. Arjun replied. “He still has normal pupil and vestibular reflexes. That tells us his brain isn’t dead, he’s just in a very deep coma.”

  The couple both exhaled in relief, though their expressions remained troubled.

  “So, what can we do now?” Michael asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “We’re putting together a treatment plan that includes neurological stimulation and physical therapy. Also, a well-known acupuncture specialist from China is en route and should arrive tomorrow afternoon.”

  Dr. Arjun checked Aaron’s condition one more time before leaving the room.

  Helen sat back down on a chair next to the bed, her face pale and hollow, her eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. She stared at her once bright and loud son, now lying motionless. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “You should try to rest a bit,” Michael said. “Let me stay here with him for a while. You haven’t slept in days, and you will have an important meeting in Illinois tomorrow, won’t you?”

  His own face looked just as worn out. Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, his stubble was unshaven and messy, and his shirt was wrinkled from being worn for too long.

  “I canceled that meeting,” Helen replied with a hoarse voice. “How could I possibly leave now? If … if anything happens to Aaron while I’m not here … I’ll never be able to forgive myself.”

  “Then at least get some sleep. You need to stay strong if you’re going to take care of him. Go eat something and take a short nap. Adam’s waiting downstairs. He’ll drive you home so you can get a few hours of rest. You can come back first thing in the morning. I’ll stay with him tonight. Please, Helen.”

  She wiped her tears, stood up, and walked out of the room without another word.

  Michael let out a quiet sigh of relief once she was gone. About twenty minutes later, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

  “She’s left. You can bring him up now,” he said.

  A few minutes passed, and then the door to the room opened. A group of security personnel entered, escorting a man dressed in a very strange outfit.

  He wore a long cloak that reached down to his ankles and a tall, pointed hat. In his hand, he held a long wooden staff topped with a pale orange gemstone.

  He looked to be in his mid-thirties, yet his hair, eyebrows, and beard were already white as snow. Strange enough, he had a young face, and his deep black eyes gleamed with intelligence.

  In most cases, no outsider would be allowed into an ICU, especially not someone dressed in this manner. However, after Michael made a generous donation to the hospital’s charity fund and signed a waiver releasing Bront? from any liability for what might happen, the hospital finally agreed to let the man in.