Michael's eyes snapped open.
Cold leather pressed against his cheek. The hum of an engine vibrated through his bones. For one disorienting second, he thought he'd blacked out mid-pitch—maybe concussed by a rogue fastball. Then the memories slammed in: golden scales, fire breath, a bat that glowed like a lightsaber.
Dragon.
He bolted upright, slamming his head into the SUV's roof. "Ow, f—"
"Language," rumbled Mason King from the driver's seat. The retired MLB star—dragon slayer, apparently—didn't glance back. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as rain sheeted across the windshield.
Michael's left arm screamed. He looked down. Bandages wrapped his blistered hand, the skin beneath pulsing like a second heartbeat. His thrift-store clothes were gone, replaced by dry sweatpants and a hoodie three sizes too big.
"Did you… undress me?!"
"You were hypothermic." Mason tossed a smartphone into the backseat. It landed with a clack beside Michael's thigh. "Your clothes are in the trunk. Check your notifications."
Michael fumbled for the phone. His cracked screen lit up with 127 missed calls and a donation counter frozen at [$152,340]. Texts flooded in:
[Tyler]: DUDE WHERE R U??? COPS RAIDED THE FIELD!!!
[Luis]: Stream died but we hit $150K!!! U better not be dead!!!
[Unknown #]: This is Coach Harris. Call me. Now.
And one from an hour ago:
[Katie]: Are you alive? Do you know that people are talking about… a dragon now??!
His thumb hovered over Katie's message.
"Don't." Mason's voice cut through the static of the radio. "Every text, every call—they're being monitored now."
Michael's head jerked up. "Monitored by who? The police?!"
The radio hissed, then a chipper female voice interrupted:
"…remind citizens that tonight's storm caused widespread outages. Reports of 'dragon sightings' are unconfirmed hoaxes. Stay calm and—"
Mason flicked it off.
"Listen carefully, Cobb. This is all your fault, so stop acting like a spoiled kid and live with the consequence."
"What are you talking—" Michael couldn't believe how he's suddenly being blamed.
Mason waved him off, and continued:
"You used magic in the mortal realm without neutralizing its residue. That's like lighting a bonfire in shark-infested waters. You drew a Celestial predator here. And where there's one…" He glanced at the storm-churned sky. "…there's a swarm."
Magic. Mortal realm. Celestials.
The words swirled in Michael's throbbing skull. "This is a prank. Landon's revenge. Or—or the vial messed with my head. There's no such thing as dragons. Or magic."
Mason's phone lit up. He tapped a photo and tossed it back.
Michael froze.
The screen showed Mason—younger, in a Yankees uniform—standing over a massive reptilian corpse. Its golden scales matched the monstrosity from the field. Behind him, a man in a black tactical vest held a glowing spear.
"2013," Mason said. "Central Park. Took six hours to scrub that from the internet."
The photo blurred. Michael's hands shook. Real. It's all real.
"So what, you're some… superhero squad?"
"We're janitors." Mason's tone was flat. "Cleaning up messes tourists like you create."
Tourists? Before Michael could ask, pain spiked through his arm. He hissed, clutching his bandaged hand. The skin beneath felt wrong—too hot, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
Mason eyed him in the rearview. "Phoenix Vial side effects. Your cells are rejecting the foreign magic."
"It's poisoning me?!"
"Temporarily. If you survive the detox."
If.
The SUV exited the highway, plunging into a wooded area Michael didn't recognize. No streetlights. No signs. Just pines clawing at the car like skeletal hands.
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere your stupidity won't get civilians killed."
Michael slumped against the window.
Rain blurred the world into a gray smear. His reflection stared back—pale, hollow-eyed, broken. Again. He'd gotten a taste of his old power today, only to have the universe yank it away.
Again.
"So," Michael began, "let me get this straight. I used an item from a mobile game, which summoned a dragon because I didn't… neutralize it. Now I need to detox or die. That's the gist?"
Mason's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. "Close enough."
"And 'Celestial' means it's some sort of power progression system?"
"Exactly, but we call them realms. Seven in total."
Mason grunted. "Seven levels. Mortal World's the first—weakest. Celestials like that dragon are second. After that, Ascended, Titans, Archfiends, Eldritch, and Primordials. Seventh's the top. "
Michael's stomach churned.
"Is that basically it? How do you differentiate monsters within a realm?"
"Talents."
"Talents?"
"Ranked #001 to #999." Mason's knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "Lower the number, stronger the potential. #001 is the strongest."
"But how does that work with realms? Like, if I have a #500 talent, I'm stuck in the first realm forever?"
Mason grunted. "Basically. Talents decide your ceiling. A low number means you've got the potential to climb higher. But you still gotta train. Doesn't matter if you're #001—if you sit on your ass eating chips, you'll stay in the first realm till you die."
Michael frowned. "But why bother with realms at all? Why not just use the talent number?"
"Realms are power tiers. Think of 'em like leagues in baseball. Talent's your draft rank. Even if you're a first-round pick, you still gotta claw your way up from the minors. But a #999 talent?" Mason snorted. "That's like a kid swinging a wet noodle. They'll never make it past Single-A."
Okay, baseball metaphors. I can work with that. Michael flexed his bandaged hand, wincing. "So if someone in the first realm has a top-tier talent, like #010… they could eventually reach the seventh realm?"
"If they don't die first." Mason's tone was flat. "Most Talented—that's what we call the low-number folks—get targeted. Monsters. Rival factions. Even their own kind."
Michael's stomach twisted. Targeted. Great. "And what about high-number talents in higher realms? Like a #900 in the third realm?"
"Impossible. And dumb." Mason smirked. "Imagine a scrub making it to the majors by sheer luck. They'd get crushed first at-bat. They'll never be able to have a permanent spot on the team."
The road narrowed, trees clawing at the SUV's sides. Michael's mind raced.
So realms = power level. Talents = potential.
"But how do you even… level up?"
"You advance realms by absorbing essence. Kill monsters. Complete trials. Survive, and your body evolves. But your talent number stays the same. Forever."
"Essence?" Michael leaned forward, ignoring the pain in his arm. "Like… magic XP?"
"Sure. Call it whatever helps you understand." Mason's phone buzzed on the dashboard. He ignored it. "Essence fuels everything."
Killing monsters. Like that dragon.
Michael's bandaged hand twitched. The memory of scales and fire made his throat tighten. "And the Phoenix Vial? Was that… essence?"
"Nor really." Mason's voice sharpened. "Someone crammed refined monster essences into a liquid. Gives a temporary boost, but it's poison to those who are not initiated to the proper realms. Your body's rejecting it now. That's why you feel like roadkill."
Michael slumped against the seat. Poison. Of course.
"So the detox…?"
"The Store's medic will purge it. If you're lucky." Mason turned onto a dirt path, the SUV's headlights slicing through the rain.
Cheery. Michael stared at Mason's driving hands.
"Why help me? "
For the first time, Mason hesitated.
"That Celestial wasn't random. You pissed off something bigger. And the Store needs answers."
Answers. Right.
Michael's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out—another text from Tyler:
[Tyler]: Bro the cops are EVERYWHERE. Campus is locked down. Where ARE you???
He hesitated, then ignored the message.
Michael put the phone away just as Mason slammed the brakes.