When he opened his eyes, he could see the old wooden ceiling of his basement staring back at him. A short turn of his neck while he laid on the dusted floor, and all manner of messes surrounded him, broken glass, half-chopped shrooms, and his trousers laid beside him. Stellan was at an impasse after a long while. He still had no idea what to do with his current situation, and this became more imminent when the effects of the psychedelics had done their job.

  Fuck.

  The short high was not enough to stop his wallowing. His memories reminded him yet again of his actions, leading yet again to the sensation of guilt that he was still hesitant to claim.

  Panel.

  Candidate Name: Castellan Moss/_Dandy628

  Insignia: Smoke

  Skills: [Insignia] → Smoke Touched < Passive Skill >

  Clan: None

  Deity: None

  Grade: Gray 1-Star ★

  Genus: Incorporeal

  Health: 50/50

  Mana: 25/25

  Essence: 100/100

  Experience: 2819/100 [ Promotion Available! ]

  Token: 3488

  Despite the numbers ranging far beyond what it was initially, the increase did not stimulate any kind of pleasure. It only served to cement his doubts that the reason why this came to be was because of him taking lives.

  But there were two questions that were still unanswered.

  Why am I still alive?

  He wanted to know the reason. Everything from his injuries to all the pain he had felt were true, what would explain the excruciating pain he had to endure if it wasn't so? The feeling of his knee being broken to countless pieces. The blood that had lost its way out of his body. The gunwounds, and even the hole in his earlobe, the phantom sting still present when he touched it.

  Each one invaded his pain receptors. They were far too real and too dire for him to survive without medical aid. That, and in his memories, he remembered Terry shot his temple with deadly accuracy. Yet for some reason, it went through him, something that he had no knowledge of doing.

  Soon enough, his mind became clearer. So did his vision that was darting around from each corner earlier. Placing it steadily into one of the words aligned with his skills, one that he remembered wasn't there earlier.

  < Smoke-Touched: Passive > The caster transforms into a smoke-like, intangible state for a set duration. While in this state, the caster is immune to all physical and non-mana-imbued attacks. Mana Cost: 20 MP

  ( Auto-activates when caster is in an instakill event)

  He tried to make sense, I mean how couldn't he? The explanation was already there without him lifting a finger. But he was yet to believe what kind of fortune he had to be able to have such a skill.

  Wait, why can't it be?

  He pondered. He wasn't always lucky. But his means for survival back in the other world relied mostly on his luck, something that he relished in thought, the realization settling like a weight in his chest. Intentionally or unintentionally, these moments of fortune saved his life. From the barrel he thought was empty, to the missed gunshots up until the final moment where he managed to pull the final trigger.

  Terry.

  He was still in disbelief. He didn't expect that his coworker had changed that much, I mean he couldn't blame him. Most prisoners who were held in isolation usually don't even last a week. And if he based his explanation to his, then he must have been trapped in that other world where time went different, far too much for him to comprehend.

  But the truth remained. His playful coworker wanted to kill him. Or was it safe to say that he actually killed him? Seeing that he actually shot him except that they both didn't know he had a skill. Nonetheless it didn't matter now.

  Now was the time for the matter to be hidden. No one knew, no one needed to know. As long as he steered clear from any shady emails and half-lit monitors then he should be safe, the thought providing a small measure of comfort. He had a lot of time on his hands, time that most employees would crave. So after this it would only be right to learn a different passion.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Three months is a long time, Stellan thought. He needed to consider what he was good at except getting high.

  But wait, what now?

  The second question arrived. How should I go on with my life? Am I even allowed to do so? Is this the right thing to do?

  He weighed the option. How could he live knowing that people from other worlds are killing each other for pieces of paper? Surely somebody must know and wants to stop this?

  His mind raced, panic rising. An aftereffect from the psychedelic that made him sweat all over, a second wave of being high that he forgot to anticipate was slowly surging its way towards his constitution. But before he could savor it, a doorbell came.

  It was climactic. Timed perfectly when he was on his way to continue his jig. It was rare for him to have any kind of guests, he only had a couple of people he had invited inside his motel-turned-apartment. Not counting the women of course.

  The ring was rustic, like it belonged to a time where men were expected to only do the work while women raised children. It still was the same in his current timeline but families were more flexible. Having dual income would be a great help especially in this economy.

  It rang again. The chiming sound was far from pleasant, the landlord never bothered to change it even when the demand for modernity arrived. But Stellan never did mind. He was happy with his solitude. The bell rang once more, and again like a demanding encore.

  Did I order any food?

  Stellan thought. Considering that maybe he had munchies in his hallucinogenic state. But it was not possible since he left his phone on the couch of his living room. So he stood up, he didn't want to but it would be rude. It might be some new neighbor that thought it would be a good idea to give a first impression to everyone in the hall. He wasn't gonna reject any good interactions with his fellow tenants.

  The chime rang once more. The interval grew shorter and shorter which mildly irritated him, the sound drilling into his skull with increasing urgency.

  Stellan shouted, "Coming!" His voice still dry from the substance he had just consumed. He took slow and groggy steps towards the wooden stairs that led to his main abode. And tried to increase his pace when he passed by the mirror, only to see that his boxers were not a good fit for introductions.

  The doorbell rang again. But this time it felt more suspenseful, more final as it deemed to be hesitant to ring once more. But Stellan wasn't in the right mind for any considerations. So after he went on and put on unwashed pajamas due to it being the quickest to be worn, he strode towards the door.

  A clacking of the doorknob and a gentle shove outward. There he saw a short man.

  He was an elderly, far from the type that should be in the workforce. He had a plastered smile with a checkered sweater that seemed more appropriate for the holidays. He had a plastic cane that served as his aid for standing. Although Stellan could see that the old man's posture didn't need it since his back showed no sign of aged slouching. One hand in the pocket, another on his cane, he then bore a striking glare towards the young disheveled man in front, craning his neck slightly upward with a tad bit of disappointment.

  "Hel–"

  "Are you the kid?" the old man interjected. An experienced vigor in his voice, followed by a raising of one of his eyebrows.

  Stellan was a bit shocked since this was his first neighborly visit in ages. But still retained his manners, his mother would smack him if he didn't. "Excuse me sir?"

  The old man scanned him from his feet up to his frizzled hair. He sighed internally, the sound barely audible but heavy with judgment.

  "You the one that took care of the Homeowner?"

  "The Homeowner?"

  Stellan genuinely didn't know what he was pertaining to. So he asked questions one should ask to confused elders. "Are you lost sir?" He then craned his neck to see if there was any helper or caregiver around the halls that might be searching for him. But soon felt a tinge of coldness on his throat that made him shudder.

  "Are you fucking with me kid?"

  "S-Sir?"

  The elder never lowered his brow. If the up-to-down scanning was already displeasing to Stellan, the scoffing was the last straw, the condescension dripping from every gesture.

  "Are you telling me a rookie like you killed a yellow grade?" the elder insinuated, hiding a brief smirk that made him appear younger than he actually was. "Well… I guess times are indeed changing."

  Stellan was shocked more than appalled. He didn't know what this 'Homeowner' meant, or who he was. But he certainly didn't give off a friendly vibe. "I don't know what you're talking about. Please leave."

  He was about to shut the door with a rather forceful approach. But was stopped when a leathered footwear lodged itself between the entrance.

  "What are you doing?!" Stellan bellowed. More from worrying that it might injure the foot of the old man rather than the action itself.

  He then opened the door once more. Seeing the same elder who watched him with an expressionless face, his eyes furrowed to a stop. The creases on his face reminded the body of its age while the patch balding that was surrounded by gray hair stood their ground.

  After a couple of seconds of silence, the old man spoke in a higher-pitched voice. "I can't believe a wimp like you managed to do that."

  From the snarling deep groaning tone that fits the voice of any elderly person, it suddenly shifted to a voice of a much younger, preppy woman. In turn Stellan reverted his face to shock. Seeing this act of ventriloquism was far more than the best ventriloquist could do, the old man's lips moving but the voice completely wrong. He confirmed the conversation once more, shaking his head to see if the old man was a hallucination. And if that wasn't enough to clear his doubts, he extended his neck outside the doorway again. And turned left to right, only to see that the pathway still remained empty.

  "News will come out of your victory from The Culling," the female voice left the rough lips of the old man. "Make sure you don't open the door. In the meantime we'll try to lessen the information that's coming out."

  "What do you mean?" Stellan asked. His face still plastered with surprise.

  The old man's face contorted into a rather feminine irritation, eyebrow raised, one hand on the hip and pointed at his lips. It was uncanny. That sent shivers down Stellan's spine. "Just don't open the door to anyone. We'll send somebody to pick you up."

  "Wait? Pick me up? How'd you eve–"

  But before he finished, the old man interrupted once more. This time with a slightly pained twitching expression, the face contorting in ways that seemed impossible for aged skin. "Damned limitation. Look I don't have much time, but if you still want to live longer," old eyes rolled from disgust, "be a good boy and don't make our job harder than it has to be. Also don't read any messages unless you want to put a bigger target on your head."

  Stellan appeared more confused than understanding. But before he could follow up with a question, the old man's face softened. Like the raunchy expression he had never existed, which fully refined it after he spoke in an elderly-like somber

  . "W-where am I? Harvey? I-Is that you dear boy?"