“We’re going shopping.”

  “Yes, Max, you’ve said that already,” Samantha replied, her tone flat. “What I want to know is where.”

  “To the Infinimart. Kate, take the next left.”

  “You know ‘Infinimart’ doesn’t mean much to me. Care to explain?”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Max.” This time, her voice carried an unmistakable warning.

  I sighed. “Alright, fine. It’s a shop run by the undead. A huge shop. I’ve worked there before—don’t ask, it was awful.”

  “You mean like those shambling corpses Frankenstein raised?” Helena asked from beside me in the minivan. Diana, seated on my other side, remained silent. She rarely spoke in groups from what I’d seen.

  “No, no, not those. These ones are sentient. Or was it conscious? Either way, they’re pretty chill. Just don’t try to steal anything.” I turned to Diana. “You got the coins, right?”

  She answered by lifting a leather pouch and giving it a shake. The jingle of metal inside made me shake my head in disbelief. The gremlins who ambushed us actually carried gold and silver coins. What was the world turning into? A video game? Sure, why not. We already had vampires and zombies.

  “We’re almost there,” I said, glancing out the window. “Just… keep your guns down. It’s completely safe inside. I think.”

  “Gee, thanks for the confidence,” Kate muttered from the driver’s seat.

  The minivan rolled up to the Infinimart’s entrance. From the outside, it looked as unremarkable as ever—just another old, half-forgotten store. But the aura, the presence only I could see, told a different story. Once, that lingering dead energy had made my skin crawl. Now that I knew it came from the employees and customers, it felt… less ominous.

  The doors slid open with a ding, and we stepped inside. Jackson and Bryndrel had opted to stay behind and hold down the fort back home, so it was just the five of us.

  The moment we entered, I felt it—the subtle pull of the shop’s magic, shifting its layout in response to our intent. Aisles stretched impossibly far, disappearing into the distance, shelves stacked high with everything from the mundane to the outright bizarre.

  Kate slowed her steps, frowning at a nearby shelf. “Umm… is that normal?”

  I followed her gaze. Rolled-up carpets lined the shelf, each embroidered with moving battle scenes—soldiers clashing, cavalry charging, banners burning. The miniature warriors fought with eerie precision, locked in endless, looping warfare.

  “Completely normal,” I said without stopping. “Let’s keep going.”

  I had a destination in mind. That was how this place worked—it could sense what you were looking for and guide you there, as long as you kept your focus. And I could feel them before I saw them, their auras standing out.

  “Ah. There they are,” I muttered. “Everyone, please keep your cool.”

  I glanced back at the squad. Their hands hovered near their holstered guns, their nerves obvious. Perfectly understandable—this store had given me the creeps too, once.

  We turned the corner.

  Two figures crouched around the remnants of a small, burnt-out campfire, clad in dusty, weathered uniforms.

  “Heya, Greg. Gary.”

  Both looked up, momentarily startled. Then Greg’s single eye widened, his skeletal grin spreading across his decayed face.

  “Max! Didn’t expect you back so soon—you barely left!” He laughed, voice full of mirth.

  Gary, as usual, simply lifted a hand in a lazy wave.

  “Yo.”

  I waved back. “Yo.”

  Out of curiosity, I glanced over my shoulder to see the squad’s reactions. As expected, their faces were priceless—Kate’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline, Samantha’s jaw tensed, and Helena’s fingers twitched dangerously close to her gun.

  “Ladies,” I said, gesturing toward the two undead, “meet Greg and Gary. They’re harmless.”

  Kate’s expression remained skeptical.

  “They’ll be helping us find what we need,” I continued. “They know this place way better than I do.”

  Greg let out a low whistle. “Oho, that’s some high praise, coming from the Employee of the Night.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

  Greg chuckled, standing up. “Alright, what do you need?”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The reminder of why we were here dropped my mood straight into a ditch.

  I exhaled. “I won’t bore you with the details, Greg. But we’re hunting a vampire.”

  Greg’s grin faded. He nodded, his usual humor giving way to something more serious. “That, I can help with.”

  *****

  By the time we left the Infinimart, two hours had passed, and we had spent every single coin we brought. Our bag of loot was packed tight: six emergency shirts, a full kilogram of garlic, two water guns, and a couple of boxes of ammo for our handguns.

  What are emergency shirts, you ask? Apparently, they’re some kind of enchanted armor disguised as ordinary T-shirts. According to the packaging, each one can absorb a single fatal strike before disintegrating. Hopefully, we wouldn’t have to test that claim anytime soon.

  After securing our necessities, we decided to splurge a bit, Kate had the brilliant idea to treat ourselves to some elvish shortbread, and honestly? Worth it. The stuff melted in my mouth, buttery and light with just a hint of something floral. Kate practically swooned over it, even Diana, normally stoic, wore a small smile as she savored hers.

  On the drive back, my mind wandered. If Elvish shortbread existed, did that mean elves were real too? Maybe they were out there, hidden away in some untouched forest, living their lives beyond human sight. Hell, they might be closer than I thought, just another thing lurking at the edge of this strange, broken world. I wouldn’t know—I hadn’t exactly gone exploring. Too much risk, not enough backup. But maybe if I got stronger, I could explore more.

  Someone should figure out where those gremlins were coming from, anyway. With the gold they carried, that job could be very profitable.

  But first, there were more pressing matters. Bundewick. My mother. My brother. The rest of the people who were at the church.

  And then I remembered my dad.

  I exhaled through my nose and rested a hand on my holster, fingers brushing the grip of my pistol. His pistol. The same one he used to defend himself back at the church. The same one he—

  Diana noticed the movement. She looked at me, silent, then reached over and squeezed my shoulder.

  I let the moment pass. Enough moping. We had work to do.

  The house greeted us with warmth, the shift from the cold afternoon air making my nose run almost instantly. The scent of home lingered—smoke, old wood, and something faintly herbal, probably from Bryndrel. We shuffled inside, the narrow hallway forcing us into an awkward single-file line.

  No one bothered taking off their boots. What was the point? Better to be ready for anything.

  The kitchen was as cozy as ever, the fire in the potbelly stove crackling softly, casting a dim, flickering glow across the room.

  Bryndrel sat at the heavy wooden table, its bark-like skin blending so well with the furniture that it almost looked like part of it. Across from the dryad, Jackson was murmuring prayers over rows of water bottles, a silver cross in hand. The air around them hummed with power—I could feel the holiness radiating from the bottles.

  I pulled out a chair and sat down, as did Helena and Kate. Samantha stood near the boarded-up window, peering outside through a gap. Diana wandered off to the living room, already lost in the journal she always carried.

  I glanced at Jackson’s work. “Looks like you’re about done with the bottles.”

  “Aye, that I am. I thank the Lord for making this possible,” he said with reverence.

  “Your Lord,” Bryndrel corrected, voice dry, irritation barely concealed.

  Jackson sighed. “Oh, let’s not start this again.”

  Helena, sensing potential entertainment, leaned forward with a smirk. “Whoa. Sounds like tree-man isn’t a fan of Christianity.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Okay, while you guys have fun debating theology, I’ll be busy in the living room. Got some alchemy to do.”

  I grabbed a handful of the freshly blessed bottles and one of the ammo boxes before heading to the next room. The moment I stepped inside, the tension of the kitchen melted away. The living room was quieter, more peaceful. Diana was curled up on the couch, flipping through Frankensteins journal, only half paying attention as I settled into an armchair.

  I turned the items over in my hands—holy water and handgun rounds.

  My plan was simple. The same process I used before with the lightning lichen and the candle: basic essence transference. Bryndrel had described it as channeling a magical essence from a single-affinity object and imbue it into a mundane object. Here, I had holy water, its essence clear and strong, and I had bullets.

  You can probably guess what I was trying to create.

  Exactly. Holy bullets.

  Those vampires were about to have one hell of a surprise.

  If I could get the enchantment to stick.

  That was the problem. Every time I successfully infused a bullet, the essence bled out within minutes. The glow would flicker, the energy would dissipate, and I’d be left with an ordinary round, useless against anything supernatural.

  Half an hour passed. Half an hour of failure. Half an hour of watching my work unravel before my eyes.

  I was about ready to throw something across the room.

  Instead, I stood up with a sigh. Time to ask Bryndrel.

  I walked back into the kitchen, still rolling one of the useless rounds between my fingers, just in time to step into what sounded like the tail end of a very heated argument.

  Bryndrel let out a sharp scoff. The firelight flickered across his bark-like skin, casting deep grooves in shadow, making him look even more ancient than usual. “His will?” the dryad echoed, incredulous. “You speak of divinity as if it is something you alone understand. Do you even realize how young your God is?” He leaned forward, his wooden fingers tapping the table like the creaking of old branches. “The roots of this world were here long before your people named them. You think your cross has power because you believe it does. But belief is not the same as truth.”

  Jackson bristled. “You mock what you don’t understand. Faith is not just belief—it is the truth. The miracles I perform, the blessings I bestow—”

  “—Are fueled by the very same essence you claim is unnatural,” Bryndrel interrupted, exasperated. “You call it a blessing. I call it energy. And yet, here you sit, using it all the same.”

  Helena let out a low whistle, grinning from ear to ear. “Damn, tree-man’s got a point.”

  Kate chuckled beside her, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed. “This is better than TV.”

  Jackson shot them both a glare before turning back to Bryndrel. “It is not the same,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Bryndrel tilted his head, a slow, deliberate motion, like a tree bending in the wind. “Is it not?”

  Samantha, still standing near the boarded-up window, let out a long sigh. “Alright, that’s enough philosophy for one night. We have actual work to do.”

  Bryndrel turned his attention to me, his expression unreadable. Jackson sat back in his chair, muttering something under his breath before crossing his arms.

  “What is it, young shaman?” the dryad asked.

  I set the box of ammo and the bottles of holy water on the table. “I’m trying to make holy bullets,” I explained. “It works for a little while, but then the essence just… leaks out. I can’t make it stick.”

  “Must be a material problem. The lead of the bullet does not wish to hold that essence. Maybe you can give it something which convinces it to hold the essence?”

  Add something that helps hold the essence to it?

  I think I know something which can do it.