Manhattan (Chinatown), NY

  Chinatown is a vibrant part of the nightlife in New York City. Exotic food, the knock offs in adjacent Canal street, the sweltering heat of the crowd as they surge against you, and the vibrant store signs just scream out ‘THINGS TO DO HERE!’ the moment you get off the subway. Even considering the unrelenting storm, I expected some of the stores to have kept their lights on.

  We stopped in the warehouse district, where it was pitch dark, and dead silent.

  First a trailer park in Brooklyn. Now, the warehouse district in Chinatown.

  This did not bode well for my future in the practice.

  If the dark bothered Abigail, it didn’t show. Without another word, she got off the limo into the snow. I followed suit and nearly fumbled the flashlight she tossed in my direction.

  “This way.” Abigail led the way.

  There was no streetlight here to speak of. No lights, no people, no cameras. It briefly crossed my mind that if Abigail was one of those bounty hunters, it’d sure be easy to kill me without leaving any witnesses.

  There was food for thought. Maybe criminal organizations with enough political pull lobbies against those things. I could see the advantage of having a place at night where you needed to store things in a jiffy. If baby formula companies can lobby against maternity leave to keep their profits up, I don’t think anything is impossible these days.

  And no, that’s not one of Jain’s tin foil hat theories. Look it up.

  We walked without talking. Even if I wanted to, I was too miserable. I folded my arms, tucking my chin into the crook of my hoodie. It wasn’t the snow, as much as the icy wind that stung my skin through my clothes.

  Considering that I was wearing sneakers that had been soaked through once before, my toes were suffering the worst of it. I did my best to step where Abigail did, following the steep cavity of knee-high goth boots.

  She stopped in front of a warehouse and brought out a handcuff-sized keyring with about fifty different keys attached to it. The girl wasn’t even wearing gloves.

  “This is–” She began, took one look at my face, and turned right back around to unlock the door.

  That bad, huh?

  Abigail waited until I was through to come in. The howling wind let escape one last dying wail as the metal door closed shut.

  I was in the middle of stomping my shoes and pants free of snow when he spoke.

  “Eh hem.” Assad Xiaozhi Paris smiled, full of fangs and secrets, “Jain Shin Hallow, I presume?”

  When I looked at Abigail, I saw two things. A normal girl, and the strange occult aura that kept emanating from her. But for the last half hour, I’d gotten used to her. I only saw the girl side of her unless I chose to focus on my Third Eye.

  Assad Xiaozhi Paris had no such skin to wear, for he was as bare as he was created.

  He had a long thick curved nose that belonged to no man, ending in the split lip of a carnivore feline creature –but the rest of his features were distinctly toadish. A thick mane of fur framed his amphibious face, stylized into a beard with various hoops and rings. To top it all off, he had a pair of horns growing out the top of his head.

  I stared, brain frozen in fear. It was an instinctual fear, that humans as a species possess: the fear of something similar to us yet different.

  Abigail answered for me, giving me precious time to recover from the shock. “You are right, Mr. Paris. This is him.”

  Assad’s smile never left his face. If anything, it widened and he leaned forward while maintaining eye contact. “Aye, in the toe-flesh. Well done, dear.” He said in liquid arabic accent.

  Floppy ears on either side of his face flitted as I blatantly studied him.

  “Handshake?” He offered fingers ending in blackened claws, his voice equal parts snake oil and used cars.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Mesmerized, –or haunted, whispered another part of me– I took his hand and felt the tips drag over my skin.

  “You’re not human.” I sputtered.

  “What gave it away? Was it the horns?” He pointed to them. I didn’t know the smile could widen even more. It was terrifying. “Or perhaps Abigail shared a little of my secret?”

  Abigail visibly wilted under his gaze and I saw the smoke around her neck tighten. Being so close, I saw that the smoke trail led to Assad.

  “I didn’t.” She answered.

  “Truly?” But his attention was back on me.

  “What are you?” I finally worked up the guts to ask.

  “I take it you’ve repeated those exact three words many times today, and presume that you will say it countless times more over the course of your lifespan.” His Arabic accent hinted at another –Chinese. “Take this advice. Do not try to classify as your kind love to do. By the very act of putting a definition on my kind, you limit yourself in how you perceive and interact with us.”

  “What’s my kind? Practitioners? Humans?” The questions came out in a rush, “And what’s your kind?”

  “Now isn’t that the million dollar question.” He said wisely. Assad clapped his hands, revealing golden cufflinks that looked like toes. “As much as I enjoy philosophical tomfoolery, we simply do not have the time for it. Suffice to say, I am a friend of your father, former business associate of your mother, and to you," he added in a hopeful tone, "maybe Uncle Assad?”

  I didn’t miss how he phrased the last part as a question. “Uh, not really in the market for an uncle right now.”

  “Family friend? Try calling me Assad.”

  “You’re coming on really strong with the creepy older male role model bit.” I quipped.

  Instead of being upset, he seemed delighted. “I can tell you will be much more entertaining than your predecessors were.”

  I debated pushing the issue, even returning back to the questions from before.

  Later. More important things. I squashed the last bit of curiosity, forcing myself to move on from the issue. "I don't have a lot of time. You said that too."

  “Right you are.” Assad snapped his fingers. “Abigail? Bottom left shelf, blue label.”

  Abigail walked over to an expensive wooden desk in the corner with various utensils strewn about –paper, quill, ink pot, an ashtray full of black licorice. Behind the desk was a metal shelf and it was lined with labeled pickle jars.

  She picked up one of the jars and brought it over. Assad opened it and the scent of vinegar wafted over the entire space.

  Assad basically stuffed his nose into the opening, and inhaled deeply. “Ah, yes. I remember now. A Ripper Original made its way into the hands of a mortal. Drove her mad. Nine dead. The ghosts were too damaged to tell, that’s how we knew it was a Ripper Original. The Table nearly imploded trying to find her.”

  Abigail was slowly recoiling away from Assad. I took a closer look.

  Those weren’t pickles in the jar.

  Toes. They were toes, toes that had turned blue-black from fermentation. Bits of stringy loose skin floated around the brine. Chipped toenails dressed each digit, and to my growing horror, Assad twirled it like a glass of wine and took another sniff.

  I’ll swear on everything between a Scout’s Honor and Baby Jesus’ Golden Cheeks that I tried my hardest to keep up some decorum of manners.

  I gagged.

  Abigail’s eyes met mine, setting off a chain reaction where she heaved as well. But she was much better at dry-heaving without making noise, and being behind Assad, I doubted he noticed.

  In the meanwhile, I recognized the faint scent of magic coming from the toes. Unlike all the other magic I’ve sensed, this one felt wild, untamed even. There was an ancient primalness in the magic emanating from the toes that Paris was holding.

  “It was your mother who caught her. Pieced together the ghosts through a shamanistic ritual.” Assad lifted the jar in my direction in the vague motion of a toast. “Once she apprehended the murderer, she brought the person’s toes. Nine for each of the victims, plus one for the murderer herself. Ten in all.”

  “My mom did what?” I held up a second, "My mom was a bounty hunter?"

  “Your mom was many things.” Assad Xiaozhi Paris said, “For a price, of course. This time, her price was my services. Keeping her knowledge sealed until her dear son grew old enough, then passing it onto him at the opportune moment.”

  I already knew the answer, but had to ask. “What knowledge?”

  “The knowledge on her rituals to summon her familiars.” He answered.

  This was the whole reason I came here.

  Assad had stepped closer to me, inch by inch throughout the conversation. The creature was barely an arm’s length away.

  Unconsciously, I took a step back and realized it was a mistake immediately.

  The toad-goat-leapord's face broke out into that damned smile again and it felt like I had lost something important there. Something that mattered in the equation that made this newfound relationship with Assad. He knew it, I knew it. But I didn't know exactly what it would cost in the future.

  “Here, Jain Shin Hallow.” Reaching into the jar, he took out a toe and held it out to me. “The first part of your inheritance. Hǎo hǎo chī fàn.”

  I didn’t need to speak Chinese to know that meant Bon appètit.

  One moment he’s dying in a warzone — next, he’s naked on a moon full of real cultivators.

  Jake Sullivan just woke up in the wrong body, on a moon called Verdis, inside a cultivation academy where failure means getting culled back to Earth to live as a powerless mortal—and probably die uselessly in the upcoming alien invasion.

  His memories are mostly gone, but his spirit’s intact. His classmates? Rich kids with qi crystals and family techniques. The school? Doesn’t give a damn. Let the strong survive. With enemy agents already on campus, Jake will need to out-cultivate, outfight, and outsmart everyone around him. He has only one year to become a real cultivator.

  No dying this time!

  Dark humor. Sharp dialogue. Flower picking, teeth flying. A fresh blend of sci-fi, xianxia, and LitRPG.