Exposed?
Even with a second chance at life, Liam had never felt the icy grip of terror like this— the kind that seeps into your bones, making your hands tremble and your breath catch in your throat. It was worse than staring down a god, worse than fighting three thugs in a dark alley. This was the fear of being hunted, of having your secrets torn open and your life destroyed by the authorities.
Back when he'd first been reborn and watched countless glowing-eyed moths cling to his window, their tiny bodies writhing like living shadows, he hadn't felt this level of dread.
He sat frozen at the internet café computer, his eyes fixed on the pop-up message that seemed to burn through the screen:
[Café Manager Reminder]
[You're the one the police are looking for, aren't you?]
Liam's jaw tightened until his teeth ached. The manager had been spying on him—stalking his every move, watching him scroll through Sequence forums, tracking his nervous glances toward the door. Why? What kind of sad, bored man spent his days peeking at customers' screens instead of running his business?
But he'd paid for the hour—wasting it panicking wouldn't solve anything. He forced his fingers to move, opening [God-Slayer Camp] again. This might be his last chance to use a public computer; if the manager reported him, every café in the slums would be warned. He needed to find a fake Sequence—one that could cover his [God-Eater] abilities like a mask, no cracks, no questions.
Making up a Sequence from scratch was too risky. The Sequence Administration had to have ways to verify authenticity—maybe through skill tests, or energy readings. A new, unheard-of Sequence would draw unwanted attention, like a torch in the dark. Better to pick an existing one—common enough to blend in, powerful enough to explain his enhanced strength and speed.
He scrolled through the forum's Sequence database, his enhanced memory locking onto every detail. Most Sequences were either too weak (like [Sleepless], which just eliminated the need for sleep) or too flashy (like [Pyromancer], which summoned fire). Then he found it—the [Phantom Assassin] entry, its description glowing faintly on the screen:
[Sequence "Phantom Assassin"]
[Level 1: Assassin Apprentice]
[Skill: Life or Death. Doubles agility for 5 minutes. Leaves user exhausted for 30 minutes afterward.]
[Level 2: Swift Assassin]
[Skill: Life or Death (Enhanced). Doubles agility and strength for 5 minutes. Leaves user exhausted for 20 minutes afterward.]
Liam smiled—a slow, relieved curve of his lips. His [Brutality] skill completely overshadowed [Phantom Assassin]'s first two levels: triple stats vs. double, 10 minutes vs. 5, no pain vs. exhaustion. It was perfect. He just needed to hold back—pretend to struggle during fights, feign exhaustion after using his "skill," never let anyone see the full extent of his power.
He dug deeper, clicking on threads titled "Phantom Assassin Pro Tips" and "Best Teams for Speed-Based Sequences." Unlike most Sequences that unlocked new skills with leveling, [Phantom Assassin] only strengthened [Life or Death]—a single, focused ability that made them prized for hit-and-run attacks and scouting. Hunting teams loved them for their speed; ordinary people feared them for their stealth. It was the ideal cover.
Even better—his base stats, already boosted by two feasts of god flesh, were comparable to a [Phantom Assassin] using [Life or Death]. He could outrun, outfight, and outlast most low-level Sequence users without even activating [Brutality]. "Just need to play weak," he muttered, jotting down key details in his mind: [Phantom Assassins] relied on lightweight weapons, avoided direct combat, and preferred to strike from the shadows. He'd need to buy a dagger, wear darker clothes, and stop charging headfirst into fights.
When the hour ended, Liam logged out, deleting his browser history twice to be safe. The manager's message had said to meet in the back alley— a narrow, garbage-strewn passage behind the café, reeking of spoiled food and stagnant water. It was worse than the cafeteria's worst meals, the stench burning his nose even with his enhanced sense of smell.
He wiped a clean spot on a cracked stone step and sat, his back against a moldy wall. The alley was quiet, save for the scuttling of rats and the distant hum of the café's generators. He waited for three grueling hours, his patience tested by the cold and the stench, until the café's lights finally went out— a signal that the manager was closing up.
A minute later, the manager waddled into the alley—portly, sweating through his stained white shirt, his hair greasy and unkempt. He kicked trash out of his way as he walked, his shoes squelching in a puddle of unknown liquid. When he reached Liam, he leaned against the opposite wall, his small eyes glinting with greed.
"You killed someone, didn't you?" he said, his voice low and gravelly. "The police raided, and you deleted your history so fast—you're a murderer. And you came here to find out if they can track you."
Liam said nothing. He'd guessed the manager had pieced it together—his two visits to the café, both spent poring over [Undead] and [Scent Seeker] forums (the Sequences cops used to solve cases), his panic when the police arrived. It didn't take a genius to connect the dots.
The manager's flabby cheeks trembled with excitement, as if uncovering this "secret" was the highlight of his sad, small life. "I'll keep your secret—for one silver coin. Think about it: one silver coin to stay free. You're a murderer—you'd do anything to avoid jail, wouldn't you?"
Liam let out a cold laugh, his eyes sharp as a blade. "One silver coin? Are you insane? You think a murderer carries that kind of money around in the slums? A silver coin is worth 12,000 copper coins—enough to buy a year's worth of meals here."
The manager flinched under his gaze—there was no faking that killer's intent. This scrawny teenager, with his ragged clothes and hollow eyes, had spilled blood. He swallowed hard, puffing out his chest like a threatened toad. "I don't care how you get it—steal, rob, kill another one. Just bring me one silver coin by next week, or the police get your little secret. I've got it all written down—your face, your visits, everything."
He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, waving it triumphantly. "I sent it to the police via scheduled email. It automatically sends at 3 AM tomorrow if I don't reset it. I update the timer every day. If I die, you go down with me. Fair deal, right?"
A scheduled email—like a ticking time bomb. Liam couldn't risk killing him outright; one wrong move, and the email would send, dooming him. But he also couldn't let this greasy leech blackmail him forever.
"Fine," he said, standing up. "I'll bring you 1,000 copper coins by next week—roughly enough to buy 10 slum meals. That's all I have. Take it or leave it."
The manager's smirk faded. "1,000 coppers? That's only a tenth of a silver coin! You think I'm stupid?"
"I think you're greedy," Liam replied, his voice dangerous. "But you're also scared. Scared of what I'll do if you push me. 1,000 coppers—take it, or I walk right now. You'll never see me again, and your precious email will send. Do you really want to explain to the police why you were spying on customers?"
The manager's face twisted with rage, but he knew Liam was right. He couldn't prove Liam was the killer—only suspect. And admitting he spied on customers would get his café shut down.
"Fine," he spat. "1,000 coppers. Next week. Same alley. Don't be late."
As Liam walked away, the manager called after him. "I'm Liu Dazhi! What's your name?"
Liam didn't look back. A dead man didn't need to know his name.