Chapter 15

In the dimly lit chamber, the handler's monotone voice pierced the silence, posing an unexpected question to 621, "What do you desire in exchange for completing the mission?"

For a fleeting moment, confusion clouded 621's expression. The question seemed incongruous, a deviation from the expected script of a pawn's existence. His mind raced, considering the possibility of a trick question, a test of loyalty, or perhaps an insidious plot designed to expose a flaw in his unwavering obedience.

As the handler awaited an answer, 621 lifted his gaze toward the hooded figure, his eyes reflecting pure curiosity. A brief pause lingered, during which the enigmatic handler remained an inscrutable presence, shrouded in shadows.

However, as 621 delved into his thoughts, he realized that the question was neither rhetorical nor a trick. It was a genuine inquiry about his desires and wants—an aspect of existence he rarely contemplated. The revelation stirred a complex web of thoughts within him.

In the quietude of his mind, 621 grappled with the notion of desire. Was he allowed such indulgences? The foundation of his existence was rooted in absolute obedience, a relentless pursuit of the Order's objectives. The idea of personal desires seemed foreign with his purpose as a pawn—a mere instrument forged in the crucible of the Order's ruthless trials.

Yet, as he pondered, a realization crystallized. It was not about what he wanted in the conventional sense; it was about what he needed. His recent encounter with Vulture had laid bare the stark truth—he was not invincible, and there were others within the Order who surpassed him in strength.

A profound revelation echoed within 621. His internal dialogue unraveled the truth—he needed strength, the very currency of survival within the Order. The memory of his fight with Vulture lingered, a testament to the chasm that existed between them in terms of power. A pawn's worth lay in their utility, and in the shadows of contemplation, 621 acknowledged the imperative to become even more potent, more indispensable so that he may not be discarded.

His gaze, once clouded with uncertainty, refocused with a newfound determination. The answer emerged, spoken not in words but in the unspoken language of purpose. Power, the driving force of the Order's ethos, was his desire. To become more potent, to ascend within the hierarchy of shadows—this was his unspoken yearning.

When he finally spoke, the words carried the weight of a silent pact with the shadows.

"I desire strength," 621 admitted, his voice devoid of emotion but laden with an unspoken understanding.

The handler acknowledged 621's desire with a hidden eerie smile, a gesture which seemed more of a play in shadows than an expression of genuine emotion.

"Good", the handler confirmed.

The simple word echoed like a silent decree reverberating throughout the simple abode.

Afterwards, the handler shifted his humble gaze towards 621's form causing a palpable change in the atmosphere to unfold. The figure's aura akin to an intangible force, seemed to peer into the very essence of 621’s soul, it was an undeliberate scrutiny that emanated with a menacing intensity.

It was as if a mighty predator assessed its prey, the vastness of its power barely restrained like a lion struggling to withhold its true, unbridled aura from affecting a seemingly insignificant ant.

621, caught in the gravitational pull of the handler's gaze, felt a surge of instinctual alarm. His mind, a well-honed instrument of survival, screamed danger, urging him to move, to evade the unseen threat. Sweat pooled on his forehead, and his palms turned clammy in response to the handler's unspoken assessment.

Yet, despite the internal turmoil, 621 dared not move, a pawn obediently submitting to the unpredictable currents of the shadows.

The scrutiny felt like an eternity to him, a cosmic moment where the balance between predator and prey hung in a delicate equilibrium. Then, as abruptly as it began, the handler ceased his observation by closing his eyes once more.

The pressure, once deliberately exerted, dissipated, leaving 621 feeling like a small vessel released from the pull of a tempestuous tide.

The handler, breaking the silence, uttered an unexpected revelation—a glimpse into 621's internal state.

"Ninth stage of the Mortal transformation realm," the handler noted.

A pregnant pause followed, the handler seemingly contemplating a decision that hung in the balance. Eventually, he summoned an item from the unseen depths of emptiness—an object that floated before him, landing delicately on a spectral hand.

With a graceful movement, the spectral hand presented the item to 621 with an almost ceremonial manner—a small, closed black box.

Curiosity flickered in 621's eyes as the box opened, revealing a pearl-like item about the size of a marble, the scent of herbs permeated the air. The herbal fragrance, a subtle dance of earthly essences, merged with the shadows, creating an ambience of both opportunity and uncertainty.

"Qi opening pill."

The handler's words cut through the anticipation like a dagger.

"It serves as a conduit, an aid to ease the transition into the Qi condensation realm”, he informed 621.

“But make no mistake, its power is finite. The realms you seek beyond mortal transformation demand more than the crutch of material substances."

The handler’s grim tone hung in the air, dispelling any illusions of an easy ascent. His dark hood concealed any visible expression, but the gravity of his words hinted at the harsh truths lurking within the shadows.

"The pill offers nothing more. It won't gift you strength; it won't mold you into an invincible force, its neither" the handler continued, his voice devoid of embellishment.

"Advancement purely depends on the indomitable will within one; the raw essence of your being."

The silence that followed was laden with a sense of foreboding, as if the shadows themselves whispered warnings to those who dared traverse the treacherous path.

"Do not mistake it for a shortcut," the handler finally warned.

..

The heavy door closed behind 621, exposing him to the dark courtyard once more. In the aftermath of the handler's revelation, he stood alone, surrounded by the echoes of the enigmatic figure's words, contemplating the weight of his wisdom.

The handler's cautionary advice lingered in the shadowy recesses of his mind, it was a grim reminder of the precarious path that lay ahead of him. In the confines of his mind, he acknowledged the truth whereby the reliance on material crutches was indeed a frailty, a vulnerability that the shadows themselves would exploit in their ruthless dance.

His thoughts turned introspective, as he acknowledged the core of his strength—the sinewy might of his own two hands. The handler's counsel resonated with his own thoughts and experiences. It merely reinforced 621’s internal beliefs.

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After all, in the dark alleys of missions and blood-soaked encounters, it was his skills, his body honed through the Order's numerous trials, which had carved its way through his adversaries. The Qi opening pill, while seemingly a useful tool, it couldn't replace the indomitable will that fueled his actions.

‘As the handler said, it's not about the pill. It's about what I bring to the shadows,’ he mused, the words resonated within his mind, a truth that he knew to be accepted as reality.

Yet, amidst the acceptance, a seed of skepticism sprouted within him. The handler's sudden change from the usual stern demeanor struck him as strange and incongruent. A figure known for unforgiving strictness had suddenly bestowed advice, an act which seemed unprecedented in 621's experience.

"Why now?" he muttered, a low whisper escaping his lips.

‘The handler, offering advice like a mentor, just why? Was it because I've completed a mission? Was it part of his so-called reward? Or was it a test?’

His mind, a labyrinth of speculation, wandered into the dark alleys of what-ifs. The completion of a mission, a testament to his utility, had seemingly altered the handler's stance toward him.

‘What if I fail a mission?’ he suddenly pondered, the scenario unraveled in his developing mind. ‘Will I be discarded, cast aside like a broken tool? How will the handler react?’

Deep down, 621 instinctively knew the answers to his petty thoughts, after all; it was these questions which had fueled his desire for strength.

....

An eerie building stood as an inconspicuous gateway within the surreal landscape of the pocket dimension. Its ethereal presence hinted at secrets veiled in shadows, a clandestine enclave tucked away from the known realms.

As 621 approached, the building seemed to contradict the norms of the other buildings, its wooden structure an enigma to the gothic structures surrounding it. It was adorned with mystical symbols that flickered like ephemeral constellations, hinting at the arcane nature of its existence.

Undeterred by the odd aura of deception, 621 raised his hand to the wooden door as he began to knock against its mysterious material.

His knocks resonated differently here, a fusion of echoes and ripples through the unseen layers of reality. The air held an otherworldly stillness, as if the very dimension observed the unfolding interaction.

Knock after knock, the boundary between the mundane and the arcane blurred. The door, an illusion of wood and ancient magic, remained stoically closed, as if testing the determination of a potential intruder who dared to disturb the tranquil equilibrium, but nobody seemed to answer.

Just as 621 pondered withdrawing from the enigmatic threshold, a commanding shout cut through the spectral quietude. This voice, infused with a hint of annoyance, beckoned him to enter, its origin a mystery as the sound seemed to resonate around him.

"Enter, if you must! But make it quick!" The words, a directive entwined with the essence of the dimension, hung in the air like an enchantment.

With the utterance, the door swung open on its own, revealing an ephemeral passageway into the arcane emporium. 621, guided by the mysterious voice, stepped into the surreal interior.

The interior of the mystical shop unfolded before 621 like a tapestry woven from the threads of the arcane. Shelves adorned the walls, stretching infinitely into the surreal expanse of the interior. Each shelf bore a plethora of enigmatic items, an eccentric array that defied the boundaries of known reality.

Vials containing iridescent liquids shimmered with an ethereal glow, their contents pulsating with an otherworldly energy. Jars housed substances that defied categorization—fleshy tendrils, luminescent orbs, and pulsating masses that seemed to writhe in silent conversation with the unseen forces that permeated the room.

Fabrics of unknown origin draped from the shelves, their textures ranging from ethereal silk that seemed to shift with the slightest breeze to coarse, shadow-woven cloth that whispered forgotten tales of the realms beyond. Objects of uncertain purpose dotted the shelves—ancient sigils, crystalline fragments, and metallic artifacts that resonated with an unseen power.

A pungent aroma wafted through the air, a blend of fragrances that ranged from sweet floral notes to the tang of otherworldly herbs. The shelves harbored slimy concoctions, their containers emitting an eerie phosphorescence that cast a surreal glow upon the surrounding mysteries.

Among the curiosities were crystalline spheres that seemed to capture the essence of distant galaxies, swirling nebulae encapsulated within delicate orbs. Their glow pulsed with an astral rhythm, casting celestial shadows on the nearby shelves.

Fragile, translucent wings of iridescent hues fluttered within enchanted cages suspended from the shelves. Each pair of wings emanated a soft hum, an echo of long-forgotten melodies that resonated with the ethereal beings from which they were harvested.

In glass containers, luminescent mist swirled, encapsulating fleeting moments of forgotten dreams. The mist whispered fragments of forgotten tales, an ephemeral narrative that stirred the air with the hushed cadence of a bygone era.

Fleshy tendrils, reminiscent of forgotten deities, coiled around small pedestals, their alien anatomy pulsating with an enigmatic life force. Their origins remained a mystery, a testament to the incomprehensible tapestry of the pocket dimension.

Phosphorescent stones, scattered like constellations across a velvet-lined tray, emitted a low hum when touched. Each stone resonated with a unique frequency, as if singing the ancient ballads of realms long lost to memory.

An assortment of shimmering mirrors adorned the shelves, reflecting distorted visions of alternate realities. Some mirrors whispered fragmented prophecies when gazed upon, their silvered surfaces veiling glimpses of potential futures.

A brass lantern, suspended in mid-air, cast an ephemeral glow that seemed to draw the shadows closer. Its flame danced with an eldritch rhythm, as if fueled by the very essence of the dimension itself.

These items, and countless others, formed an otherworldly bazaar. The air hummed with arcane energies, and the eclectic display ultimately defied categorization.

Amidst this extraordinary display, a counter stood as the focal point of the emporium. Its surface, a tapestry of engraved runes, seemed to ripple with arcane energy. Behind the counter, a slightly opened door beckoned with an air of concealed secrets, the passage from whence the gruff voice had seemingly emanated from.

The mundane and the magical coexisted in this peculiar space, creating an odd harmony that blurred the lines between the extraordinary and the everyday. It was a realm where the laws of reality bent to the whims of unknown forces, and every item on display held a whispered promise of untold possibilities.

621, an observer in this surreal tableau was overwhelmed by the sheer oddities before him unsure if he had entered a dream or a reality hidden behind a cloud.

The ambient murmurs of the mystical emporium were abruptly shattered as the slightly opened door behind the counter swung wide, revealing a disheveled figure.

The owner of the shop burst through, seemingly irritated by the intrusion, his entrance marked by an explosion of gruff curses and a wave of strong alcoholic fumes that permeated the air.

The man, a coarse and unkempt presence, held a bottle of some sort of potent beverage, its label obscured by layers of grime. His eyes, bloodshot and bleary, scanned the emporium with a mixture of disdain and frustration. The echoes of his crude remarks reverberated through the dimension, a stark contrast to the eerie calm that had previously enveloped the surreal space.

"Who the hell's this now? What the fuck do you want?"

The man barked, his words a barrage of expletives that seemed out of place in the enigmatic landscape of the Order's pocket dimension. The man hiccupped, the strong scent of the alcohol mingling with the peculiar aromas of the shop.

His unsteady stance betrayed the effects of the potent brew he clutched. With a scowl etched on his features, he directed his gaze at 621, demanding an explanation with a tone that brooked no opposition.

"Out with it scum, who the fuck are you, and what's your bloody business?"

The words, harsh and abrasive, continued to punctuate the air, creating a jarring dissonance.

The disheveled man, standing amidst the eclectic wares of his otherworldly emporium, presented an oddity in contrast to the usual garb of the Order. His clothes, a patchwork of mismatched fabrics and faded colors, bore the telltale signs of a chaotic existence. He seemed to defy the conventional uniformity embraced by those within the secretive organization.

“621, I want to trade a few items”, he expressed.

However, the man's irritation only seemed to intensify. He scoffed at the proposition, his demeanor unchanged by the 621's presence. The scent of his alcoholic breath lingered in the air as he vehemently demanded 621 to "fuck off" from his shop.

“I don’t want to trade with a nobody like you, a mere pawn. Piece of shit bastard, can’t you tell its already night time huh? Have some decency you fucking imbecile.”

Unperturbed by the abrasive remarks, 621, the silent pawn, acknowledged the invisible currents of disdain with an unaffected calm. Obeying the command, he turned on his heels, prepared to exit the enigmatic establishment and leave the eccentric merchant to his solitude.

However, before he could fully step out, the man, his frustration reaching a boiling point, unleashed a final barrage of curses into the ether.

“FUCKING CUNT, shitty FUCK!”

A string of expletives filled the air, leaving no room for ambiguity about the shop owner's vexation. In an abrupt shift, the man's tone changed as if sighing in reluctance, a strange impatience lingering beneath the surface.

"Wait, wait!" he barked, a sudden command that sliced through the dimly lit space. "Show me what you got, and make it quick. I don't have all bloody night you fucker!"

621, unfazed by the man's abrasive demeanor, turned back at his command, revealing a stoic countenance that betrayed no emotion. He simply ignored the latter’s schizophrenic tendencies.

The man's gaze scrutinized the silent pawn, a mixture of annoyance and reluctant curiosity playing across his features.

"Well, don't just stand there like a damn statue! What do you have to trade?" The man's impatience crackled in the air as he gestured impatiently for 621 to reveal his goods.

621, expression unchanged, reached into the folds of his dark cloak and retrieved his dimensional bag as he took out his items.