The smell of disinfectant was so pungent it stung the nose.
When Lin Huai opened his eyes, what he saw wasn't the Stark white ceiling light of a hospital, but the familiar, mold-spotted wall of the restroom.
A kind old librarian was waving smelling salts under his nose. Seeing he was awake, the man finally breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thank goodness, child, you scared me half to death."
Lin Huai pushed himself up to sit. His back felt icy cold, his clothes soaked through with sweat.
Every limb felt weak and unresponsive, as if something had completely drained him dry.
He remembered, of course.
That gamble-like divination had squeezed every last drop of spirituality from his body.
He hadn't walked to the library; he had dragged his nearly broken-down body here by sheer force of will.
His only thought was, "I must deliver the message."
With trembling fingers, he typed the last letter and clicked "send."
The string stretched to its limit finally snapped.
The moment his spirit gave way, his body's retaliation surged up, threatening to swallow him whole.
This wasn't about sending the email.
It was simply because he had finally finished what he needed to do and couldn't hold on any longer.
He declined the librarian's offer to call an ambulance. After sitting in the restroom for over ten minutes, he dragged his heavy steps into the chilly New York night.
The aftereffects of the spiritual overdraft were more severe than he had imagined.
With every step, it felt like a needle was churning deep inside his brain.
Staggering into a deserted alley, a wave of dizziness hit him. The World before his eyes suddenly twisted and melted away!
Boom!
When he regained his senses, he found himself sitting in a High-backed chair.
Before him was an ancient long table covered in copper-green patina.
All around was an endless expanse of grayish-white mist.
A massive, ancient, indescribable palace stood quietly atop the dense fog, as if it had been there since the dawn of time.
"Sefirah Castle..."
The name didn't come from memory; it bubbled up from the depths of his heart.
This time was different from the last. His consciousness was crystal clear.
He could feel the aura of this place—vast, yet deathly still.
He could see the twenty-two High-backed chairs in the distance, each representing a different pathway.
He could also sense the majesty suspended high above reality.
And what about himself?
He felt like a bird returning to its old nest, both fearful and intimately familiar, as if this was where he truly belonged.
In that moment of distraction, a surge of information erupted from the Bronze Long Table, branding itself directly into his mind!
It wasn't words, nor was it images.
It was pure "knowledge," almost instinctive.
—How to mobilize one's own spirituality to erect an invisible wall around the body, isolating all malicious prying and spiritual filth.
[Wall of Spirituality]!
—How to transform symbols or emblems made from Beyonder materials or precious metals, through supplication to deities, into little trinkets that can bring good luck, purify evil influences, bring peace of mind, or even cause harm.
[Rune Talisman]!
Before he could even process it, the palace before his eyes vanished like a receding tide.
Lin Huai jolted awake, finding himself still standing in that cold, damp alley, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.
Everything that just happened felt like a dream.
Yet the two distinct pieces of knowledge in his mind told him it was all real.
It was given by "The Fool."
It was the first reward from the entity above the gray mist, after he completed that life-risking "prophecy"... Malibu, Stark's ocean-view Villa.
In the underground workshop, Tony Stark was pacing back and forth, an annoyed expression on his face.
His expensive handmade leather shoes tapped rhythmically on the floor.
"Jarvis, report."
"Sir, the email sender has been located."
The emotionless electronic voice of the AI butler sounded.
"The IP address points to Public Computer Number Three at the Queens Public Library. Surveillance footage has been retrieved."
Tony stopped pacing, somewhat surprised.
"That simple?"
"Yes, sir. The other party did not employ any encryption or obfuscation techniques."
A massive virtual screen lit up before Tony, displaying a young face of Eastern descent—it was Lin Huai.
In the surveillance footage, the moment he clicked send, he collapsed face-first onto the keyboard.
Tony's brow furrowed.
This wasn't what he had expected.
This wasn't a hacker's taunt or a Conspirer showing off their skills. It seemed more like... a desperate gamble.
"Who is he?"
"Conducting social records investigation... Investigation complete."
Jarvis's voice actually carried a very human-like hint of confusion.
"Sir, I have discovered an... anomaly."
On the screen, data scrolled rapidly.
"This young man named Lin Huai has been operating a fortune-telling stall under the Brooklyn Bridge for the past two weeks, charging one dollar per session."
Jarvis reported.
"I have analyzed all divination cases related to him that could be found from social networks, witness accounts, and scattered surveillance footage."
On the screen, case records popped up one by one.
"Case One: Divined for a lady regarding her missing pet cat, predicted it would appear in a cardboard box in her own garage in three hours. Result: Exactly as predicted."
"Case Two: Divined for a homeless man regarding his next meal, predicted he would find an unopened pizza in a street corner trash can. Result: Exactly as predicted."
"Case Three: Divined for a financial worker regarding the opening trend of a certain stock, predicted a 1.2% drop within three minutes of opening. Result: Actual drop of 1.18%."
... The impatience vanished from Tony's face.
He simply stared at the screen, looking at those trivial yet all marked as "accurate" divination results.
"Jarvis," Tony's voice held a note of disbelief, "final statistical result."
"Among the thirty-one short-term divination cases currently verifiable, the number of accurate cases is thirty-one."
Jarvis stated the most outrageous conclusion in the flattest tone.
"Accuracy rate, one hundred percent."
"Statistically speaking... this is an impossible miracle."
The workshop fell quiet again, a silence that felt unnerving.
Tony Stark slowly walked up to the screen, reached out, and traced his finger through the air over Lin Huai's expressionless face.
A street con artist?
A charlatan with impossibly good luck?
Or... a living, walking "bug"?
One hundred percent... That number pierced Tony Stark's science-and-data-filled brain like a needle.
His entire face lit up.
It wasn't mockery; it was the near-manic excitement of a Hunter spotting the ultimate prey... Two days later.
Lin Huai spent all the money he had earned from fortune-telling to rent a dusty, nearly-defunct antique shop on a remote street in Queens.
He cleared out all the unsellable junk from the shop, placing only a table and two chairs in the center.
Then, he found a clean wooden board and, with an almost reverent attitude, personally wrote three Chinese characters.
[Divination House]
The moment the plaque was hung, he followed the knowledge in his mind, mobilized the small amount of spirituality he had just recovered, and quietly laid down a [Wall of Spirituality] around the shop.
A Magician's performance is never unprepared.
The bait had been cast, and the fish had taken it.
Now, he needed a quiet, undisturbed "stage" of his own, to welcome the most important Spectator.
He closed the shop door, sat down in the chair, closed his eyes, and waited quietly.
He didn't know how much time had passed.
"Ding-a-ling—"
The string of old wind chimes at the door rang.
A man in an ordinary jacket, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, pushed the door open and quickly scanned the empty shop.
He removed his sunglasses, revealing a pair of eyes recognized by the whole World, eyes that held a mix of Pride and curiosity.
Tony Stark.
"One hundred percent accuracy," his voice wasn't loud, but it carried immense pressure, "a pretty good party trick."
"I came today to see for myself how this magic trick is performed."
Lin Huai, who had kept his eyes closed all this time, slowly opened them.
His face showed not a trace of surprise. He merely raised a hand, gesturing "please," as if this scene had long been part of his script.
"Welcome, Mr. Stark."
"I've been waiting for you."