John’s words made sense, but at the end of the day he was only offering a recommendation based on what he thought best. Roman had no way to know if the being he interacted with was truly his friend, bound to him as some sort of tutorial guide. Birch also had one in the form of his wife, but that could’ve just meant that more than one malevolent spirit had converged on their starting location.

From what he could tell, the node system contained no hidden traps. At worst, John was leading him down a suboptimal path. Maybe Roman shouldn’t charge into some dark alley with abandon based on the guide’s word, but he could at least accept some advice in this sort of situation.

As he focused on each starting cluster, an explanatory burst of text explained the benefits of each node and the quirk available at the end. Some of the other starting options appealed to him just as much as [ Hunter’s Eye ]. By focusing he could zoom in a section to analyze each option more closely.

One adjacent possibility offered [ Barricade Mind ], which granted significant protection against mental manipulation, including his dreams and whatever ‘disruptive domains’ were, that scaled based on his Will and to a lesser degree Perception. Not the sort of quirk a spiritual leech would recommend he take.

Another on the opposite side of those two caught his interest. [ Pillar ] claimed to provide a substantial boost to his balance, particularly against losing his footing or being shoved backwards. Even beyond the quirk’s lovely contribution to his ability to stand his ground, the secondary clusters promised to resonate nicely with his brawling style.

He yawned, finding that only dregs of his mental energy remained. At the end of the day, [ Hunter’s Eye ] could be just as useful as the other options in its own way. Superior Perception had its uses in combat as well; subtle movements often betrayed an enemy’s intent, offering him a type of limited precognition. It also only required an investment of five Node Points, opposed to a whopping nine for [ Pillar ].

A pocket of text near the bottom of the map displayed [ Available NP: 4 ]. One per level, apparently. With a thought he filled out all but the final node for [ Hunter’s Eye ], netting himself +5 to his Perception--one for each of the first three, two for the fourth. Unlocking the final part of the cluster promised an additional +3 to Perception and even a +1 boost to Will.

After he distributed the points, Roman’s eyes started burning as if lemons had been squeezed directly into them. Not the worst pain he had ever experienced, but a groan leaked out as he squeezed his eyes shut. He drove his mostly-clean fists into his eyes as if he could somehow push the agony away. After a few seconds the pain abated on its own.

He blinked several times to clear the spots floating in his vision. He discovered his surroundings had become more finely detailed and he could see a touch better in the dark, as if adrenaline still sharpened his focus. Not a bad improvement to his baseline, and he hadn’t even acquired the quirk yet.

Birch nodded at him, apparently already finished with his own investments. He looked a touch pale, beads of sweat standing out along his temples, but his face was just as determined as ever.

Though Roman wondered what the man had chosen as his focus, he didn’t care enough to expend the last of his mental energy asking.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Birch nodded again. John offered a thumbs up.

The interior of the gas station visible through the window appeared completely normal. Fluorescent lights, a touch too bright to Roman’s enhanced vision. Stands of peanuts and chips and meat sticks. A counter with no attendant, along with an eyecatching stockpile of smokes and dip that made Roman realize just how damn bad he needed a cigarette.

Still, something about it looked off in much the same way John did, a subtle wrongness that raised the hair on the nape of his neck.

“Care,” Roman said.

Birch tapped a finger against the barrel of his rifle in acknowledgement.

Together, they stepped foot into the gas station.

Roman’s ears popped as he crossed the threshold. The world shifted, proving his suspicions about the misleading storefront correct.

The interior was twice as vast as it should be according to its outside dimensions. Dozens of aisles of prodcts made it look more like a grocery store than a gas station. Gone were the slushie machines and taquitos. In their place stood an intricate metal dispenser that promised Heartroot Elixir and Everclear Dew, their identifying labels displaying little red and blue potion bottles.

Most of the stock had likewise transformed into a medley of items, including but not limited to decanters of mystery fluid, various constructions of ancient wood and mysterious metals, and even a small armory dangling along the far wall.

Mercifully, the cruel gods had not seen fit to transform the smokes section; Roman rubbed his thumb and first two fingers together in subconscious anticipation.

Most interesting of all, someone did indeed man the counter, though the word was something of a misnomer. Though he was slightly taller than even Roman, the shopkeeper could have been mistaken as a sickly man at first glance, but no longer.

He had the right facial structure as long as one ignored the huge diamond orbs a size too big for his eye sockets, but he had the cyanotic pallor of the recently deceased. The complete lack of hair made his jutting features further stand out. Ivory plates the size of tea saucers stretched his earlobes to ridiculous lengths.

If the shopkeeper noticed their entrance, he gave no indication. Voluminous golden robes hid most of his body, but the hands folded on top of the counter were painfully slender, each bony detail visible against his tight-stretched skin. Instead of offering some dramatic welcome, he merely stood in place with his disgusting mottled tongue dangling out, so long the tip nearly brushed the collar of his robes.

Stolen novel; please report.

Roman touched the tip of his own tongue for some insane reason and winced at the tender stub. Why the hell did I do that?

Birch looked like he was on the verge of pulling the trigger on his rifle. Roman shook his head and the other man relaxed.

No sign of John inside of the store. His disappearance triggered a nagging doubt in the back of Roman’s mind. Should we get out of here?

But to all appearances, the gas station was a proper magical store. The shopkeeper was unsettling but not particularly troublesome. He stood there like a Buddhist statue, radiating infinite patience and unmindful of how the currents of Samsara raged about him.

Roman stepped toward the counter, rubbing his chin as he examined the items on display there. An assortment of vibrant foil packages had replaced the usual candies, their wrappers displaying stylized herbs and pills.

He frowned slightly at the shopkeeper. “Evening, there.”

The shopkeeper’s tongue retracted with a wet slurp. His voice was lifeless, disinterested. “Players Roman Miller and Thomas O’Neill, I bid you welcome to Shop M-C-X-I-I. I am Keeper M-C-X-I-I. Please, feel free to examine my wares. This is a no-harm zone under the Greed Accords. No violence is sanctioned within these walls, though you must depart within an hour. I must turn in for the night shortly.”

He bowed his head in not quite either of their direction.

A countdown timer appeared in the corner of Roman’s vision, displaying 00:59:57. How endearing.

“Alright, thank ya then, Mixie,” said Roman.

“Keeper M-C-X-I-I.”

“Well, I bit off my tongue, so unless you want me to lisp blood all over your merchandise, I’ll call you Mixie for now.” Roman held out a hand as if inviting the shopkeeper to dance. When Mixie failed to do anything but stare off into space with those strange diamond eyes, he continued, “So, how am I supposed to pay for any of this stuff?”

Mixie steepled his slender fingers along the countertop.“Well, you do sound like quite the fool, though I dare say it is not because of your severed tongue. What a shame that it was not instead torn out by the root.

“Regardless, trade may be conducted via barter or through a more standardized system utilizing cores. These cores may be divided into a number of fragments based on the potency of the soul from which they were harvested. I suspect you will not survive long enough to acquire many, so I am afraid most of my wares are far beyond your paltry means.”

“Good. That’s good.” Roman’s tone was sarcastic, but deep down he knew Mixie had just properly roasted his ass. “Well, what would you recommend we buy if we come back with a little pocket change?”

“Though guides are not permitted entrance into the Shop, I am afraid I shall not be replacing yours in the meantime. My compensation is not nearly worth the endeavor of babysitting a sack of muscles.” Mixie pointed one long finger in the direction of Birch, who kept his rifle leveled at the shopkeeper’s face. “However, I will exchange a total of one hundred fragments for that Weatherby Mark V despite the kitschy camouflauge.”

Birch lowered the rifle in surprise and glanced down at it. “This?”

“Yes, none other,” said Mixie, wagging a finger his way. “Mind you, this represents an extraordinary windfall for you. No shortage of potent supplies are available for purchase within the lofty heights of Shop M-C-X-I-I. One hundred fragments will guarantee your survival during this unfortunate galaxy’s most chaotic transition.”

Birch licked his lips. “Two hundred fragments.”

Mixie blinked for the first time. Disgusting blue-green veins stood out along his tortured eyelids as they bulged over the inset diamonds. Golden ichor leaked from the corners of his eyesockets.

He smiled widely, revealing row after row of teeth. “Do not be absurd, mortal. The only reason I have offered such an extravagant sum is due to the current scarcity of such a tool within my collection. Your galaxy has only just been integrated, so this Store lacks a proper inventory of useful local products at this time. Such a primitive weapon will fetch at most a handful of fragments within the week. Bring me other useful tools and I may continue to reward you handsomely.”

Birch offered a mirthless smile. “That so? Wonder who you think’ll be selling their guns to you right about now.”

The tip of Mixie’s tongue darted out like a snake’s. “Your country now possesses far more firearms than it does Players. One hundred and fifty fragments. Final. Offer. Bear in mind I am patience incarnate, mortal. My soul has persisted for aeons beyond reckoning.”

“Well I do reckon a lot,” said Birch. “I’d reckon about…one seventy-five.”

Mixie stared off into space for several seconds before responding with a terse nod. “One hundred and seventy-five fragments in exchange for your Winchester Mark V as well as all ammo within your possession. Most excellent doing business with you, Mister O’Neill.”

“How about throwing in a pack of smokes?” said Roman.

Mixie turned his head mechanically to face Roman, then sniffed and looked away. “However, I must insist on one final requirement. Your companion, Mister Miller here, is no longer welcome at this establishment. He must depart post-haste, so to speak..”

Roman rolled his eyes. Maybe he needed to invest more into his Charisma. “Why’s that, exactly?”

Mixie tapped a laminated sign propped against a little bronze stand. It stood next to his elbow and had absolutely not been there a moment before. It read: No shoes, no shirt, no service.

Roman laughed in disbelief and bit his lower lip. “That so, Mixie?”

“Keeper M-C-X-I-I. And yes, I am afraid I must insist. The rules are the rules, and rules are the only thing that separate civilization from chaos. Now, if you will…”

Roman wiped his nose and looked down at himself. Organic crusts of god-knows-what coated the majority of his torso. Only a few splashes of his short’s original silver coloring peeked through. His bare feet had left behind a foul trail.

The shopkeeper did have a point.

Roman sucked his teeth and looked at the impressive inventory around him. “Well, that’s a real shame. Nice place you have here, Ole Mix.”

“Goodbye, Mister Miller.”

Roman turned to leave, then thought better about it.

In a blur he spun around and seized Mixie by the back of his head. To his surprise just gripping the shopkeeper split the paper-thin skin along his face. Without mercy, Roman forced the entirety of his Strength behind slamming Mixie’s skull into the counter, bending the lanky humanoid deeply at the waist.

Mixie’s face rebounded off, leaving behind a mask of golden ichor.

“You are in violation of Article 5.4.b of the Greed Accords,” he said with some surprise.

In response, Roman slammed the shopkeeper’s face into the counter once again. Mixie wobbled slightly, his knees giving out, but this time he shoved outwards; surprising strength reinforced his spindly arms, throwing Roman off balance.

Mixie’s face was a ruin. His dislocated jaw dangled at an awkward angle, and golden lacerations stretched along the sides of his head. A touch of outrage further disfigured his face. He blinked; in the fraction of a second his eyelids were closed, the diamond orbs were replaced with rubies larger than a hen’s egg.

Carmine sparks winked into existence in front of each gem, glowing with gathering heat. “Wrong move, Mister Miller.”