It seemed I hadn’t grasped the full picture right away.

  Before, everything had looked different. People were almost pying along with the demons. Not officially, not openly, but systematically. An endless game of cat and mouse. Humans hunted demons, but the advantage almost always remained with the horned souls. They were the real cats in that game.

  You could suspect someone, even identify and catch them, but holding them was nearly impossible.

  Suicide remained their ultimate escape, something humans simply couldn’t counter. A body was nothing more than a consumable shell to them. The horned ones could discard it like old clothes and put on a new one the following year.

  And it would all begin again.

  That was exactly why the hunt had been so ineffective. You could spend years building a case, trace an organisation, reach a key figure, and just when it seemed you’d won, everything would colpse. Mass suicide. Empty bodies. Zero results. No threads to follow.

  Demons didn’t fear death, because death meant nothing to them.

  I remembered the metro. The idiot with his belly slit open, who held on until the very end. He was afraid of death. Clung to life to the st second, just to make it into Mendoza’s cylinder.

  The Soul Trap changed everything.

  Now they were the mice. Now they were really hiding. Today, a demon couldn’t simply exit the game. The odds were far from guaranteed. Suicide stopped being a reliable escape. If you got caught in the trap, that was the end. And that changed everything.

  Suddenly, the hunt began to make sense. Suddenly, centuries-old covert organisations became vulnerable, and every exposed agent wasn’t just minus one: minus a node, minus a link, minus a connection.

  Of course, not everyone would be caught. Some would hide. Some would lie low. Some would survive the purge simply because they’d been careful enough, or because they hadn’t yet managed to raise their Space Root to a noticeable level.

  But those who survived would be left alone. Without organisational support. Without the ability to switch bodies and py the long game. And that was no longer a game on their terms.

  I felt a strange, unexpected sense of pride. I was the root cause of humanity finally gaining a tool that allowed it not just to react, but to fight back against the threat.

  Though, to be honest, I wasn’t the true first cause.

  The first was Nur Amira Rahman.

  The girl with the wrong tattoo.

  It was either her or her tattoo artist.

  It was the tattoo itself that acted as the first trap. And everything that followed was just fallout from that single malfunction.

  Not heroism. Not pnning. Not conspiracy.

  Though all of the above, and a hell of a lot more, came into py ter. None of it would’ve worked without Novak and his master pns.

  Still, looking at how everything escated, you couldn’t help but notice the scale. From a tattoo parlour to hunting the demon meant to inhabit that body. From one demon to a global purge operation.

  The games were over.

  Spatial pockets are a damn convenient tool. I can confirm that from personal experience.

  Demons had even more experience, centuries of it. Centuries of using them, which helped them hide from humanity. All the more ironic, then, that this would turn out to be their kryptonite.

  To use a pocket properly, you need a high Space Root. It’s the only meaningful reason to grow it. And considering most people just learned about Space Qi today, a high Root can only mean one thing: someone’s been using a pocket.

  And that’s where it all becomes very simple.

  I’ve got 52.

  I grew it by using essence. Human-controlled essence. Gardens, production, logistics, tracking — every ampoule has a source, a batch, a route. Everyone who receives it leaves a trace, even if it’s not a public one.

  My trace leads straight to Novak. I can show exactly how those 52 points were cultivated. Step by step. Except for the two that were clearly from enlightenment. But that’s not the point.

  The point is: I know what Space Qi is. I use a pocket. I’m someone with legitimate access to essence.

  Now picture a different scenario.

  Some random cadet shows up with a high Root — 15 or more. That can be chalked up to natural talent… to a degree. But how often does that happen? It’s already suspicious.

  Twenty? Thirty? That’s no longer suspicious, that’s a death mark. Because there aren’t many possible expnations. In fact, there’s just one.

  If you didn’t get the essence from humans, you got it from a source that officially doesn’t exist.

  Demons.

  That’s why Mendoza told me to stay home. She and the Order are going to have their hands full today.

  I called Eriksen and cancelled our training. He immediately assumed I’d fallen for the general hype and was throwing myself into Space.

  Of course he asked me what my Root was. There was no point lying, but he didn’t believe me anyway, and even took offence.

  I didn’t take it to heart. He’d have to come to terms with it once he saw my stats through the interface.

  I finally mixed the gin with juice and let myself rex.

  Things were moving without my involvement, and for the first time in a long while it felt… right. I liked what was happening. And I liked it even more that it was happening without me.

  I wasn’t at the centre. I wasn’t making decisions, not that I’m often allowed to. Most importantly, I wasn’t fighting demons or struggling to survive. The system was working on its own. The institutions were in motion. People who had been preparing for years were finally getting to work.

  And that was good.

  I took my gss, sat by the window, and switched to the red squirrel channel. Cedar forest — a whole herd of fluffy red tails. No alerts, no looming sense of doom. I just watched them gnaw on their nuts. If anyone had problems today, they damn well deserved them.

  Zhang’s call caught me in a good mood.

  “You knew?” she asked, skipping the greetings.

  “Whatever else you may think of me — no. It was just as much a surprise to me as it was to you. Though I did know Space Qi existed.”

  “Really? What’ve you got?”

  “Fifty-two.”

  “Uh-huh...” she didn’t believe me. “You need to be more modest. At that level, you don’t even qualify for the promotion.”

  “What promotion?” I asked.

  “Talent search by the Hall of Order. Anyone with 15 or more in Space gets a free vial of M1. But since you’re sitting on 52, I guess one little M1 won’t make much difference to you.”

  I couldn’t help myself — I ughed. A real, honest ugh.

  “What?” Zhang didn’t get it.

  “Sorry. Just... what’s yours? You’re no stranger to talent, are you?”

  “Five,” she grumbled. “And it’s not fair. Hardly anyone has a naturally strong Celestial Root. Five is already a lot!”

  Simplicity, as they say, is genius.

  Anyone with a Root of 15 or higher could walk in and legally receive a vial. Of course, they’d be vetted during the process.

  But if someone had a high Root and didn’t show up for their free ampoule…

  That was the perfect bait. A trap demons simply wouldn’t be able to resist. And a filter they couldn’t bypass.

  I leaned back in my chair.

  "The Order’s doing good work today," I said. "Today, they’re catching mice."

  "What are you on about?" Zhang asked, confused. "Too much gin, or is there something interesting about this promo?"

  Well, I figured I could tell her. It wasn’t some grand secret, besides, rumours would start spreading soon anyway. Zhang already knew the core of it. I wouldn’t give her the full story, but what was happening now might help her stay sharp. Maybe she’d spot something others would miss.

  "No one’s killed themselves out of excitement yet?" I asked.

  That made Zhang go quiet.

  "You do know something."

  "It’s going to cost you something tasty," I said.

  I was always the one doing the treating. This time, she could spoil me for a change. My already good mood ticked up another notch.

  "Fine. Where are we going?" she asked.

  "Better come over to mine."

  "Is it that serious? I’m on my way. I’ll stop by the shop and grab some pastries."

  "To hell with pastries! I want meat. Fatty and tender. Or fish. No bones. Do they even sell fish here? And get some kind of spicy sauce, but don’t go overboard with the heat!" I added, suddenly remembering Zhang was Asian. Didn’t want to nuke my taste buds and end up sweating and gasping after the first bite. That’d kill the mood completely.

  "Fish?! Don’t push your luck."

  "I’m not insisting on anything specific, just make it tasty. And no biscuits."

  Zhang showed up at my door half an hour ter, handed me a bag.

  "It’s not fish, but…"

  "Shhh," I cut her off. "Is it tasty?"

  "And not cheap! It’s…"

  "Shhh. I don’t want to know what it is," I said. I was still coming to terms with the metallic rice.

  "As long as it tastes good."

  "It does," she said. "If you know how to cook it."

  "Perfect! You cook — I talk."

  I gave Zhang a brief rundown. Didn’t go into detail, just told her what was really behind the so-called talent hunt. Though first, I had to expin where my 52 in Space Root came from. I didn’t get too specific there, either.

  Zhang rolled up her sleeves and got to work at the stove. She listened in silence, without interrupting.

  The oil hissed as the slices of ‘fish’ hit the pan. The smell was warm, buttery, with that faint sweetness that only comes from fresh fillet, not frozen pstic.

  It quickly filled the kitchen, pushing out even the scent of gin and coffee.

  Then came the spices — something peppery, but not aggressive, with a green, herbal edge. Then the sauce — thick, dark, with a bit of tang that blended instantly with the frying aroma and gave that exact smell that makes your mouth water on instinct.

  It was oddly calming. Almost homely. Like a life where there were no demons, no inspections, no global purges.

  The fish turned golden, the crust crisped up, but it clearly stayed tender inside. The sauce thickened, the smell grew richer, warmer. At some point, I caught myself in a moment of pure contentment — real, quiet joy in simply being alive.

  Zhang pted the food, and we dug in.

  Mostly in silence.

  I was satisfied. She had food to digest and information.

  The taste was exactly what I’d hoped for: tender, juicy, with a sharp but well-behaved kick from the sauce at the end. Not burning, warming.

  After the meal, Zhang asked for my tablet.

  She tapped, scrolled for maybe a minute, and said: "Got it. Second year — suicide attempt. Stopped in time. This what you were talking about?"

  "Yup."

  "And…"

  She scrolled further. Froze. Then looked up at me with surprise.

  "Sacrificial ritual? Are demons into sacrifices?"

  I slowly leaned back in my chair.

  "No," I said. "They’re not really religious, as far as I know. But they can definitely use cultists. Or…" I snapped my fingers, the idea hitting. "It’s not a sacrifice. It’s an emergency body swap. Unpnned. The local demons are already spooked. They know time’s running out.

  "Did it work?" I asked.

  Zhang read the entry again.

  "Failed."

  "Excellent."

  I looked at my empty pte and the st traces of sauce.

  The day wasn’t over yet. But it was definitely heading in the right direction.

  MaksymPachesiuk