King blinked and realized that, in his chase after the soul, he'd somehow swapped places with the men and was now blocking the alley's exit.
But before he could move, the woman scrambled away, running to the young man who was still bleeding in the corner.
King kept his eyes on the armed man and said calmly:
"I want something from you."
The man scoffed.
"What the hell do you want?"
King felt a strange compulsion twist inside him, an urge to answer honestly.
"There's a dark tongue of flame above your head," King said. His eyes glowed faintly as he added:
"I want it."
"So you're a psycho, huh? Well, I warned you."
The man spat the words, and before King could answer, he whipped out his gun but never even managed to aim it.
In a blur of motion, King appeared right in front of him.
With almost casual ease, he twisted the man's wrist sideways, then wrenched his elbow the other way.
The gun clattered to the ground as the man gasped in pain.
Desperate, the man swung his left fist at King's face.
King caught his other arm too and bent it back until the man dropped to his knees, groaning in agony.
He didn't kill him this time.
If the flames were something he could bargain for instead of stealing, maybe it was worth asking.
"Give it to me," King said calmly.
The man stared at him in terror, screaming:
"Take it! Take whatever you want from me! You can take the girl too, I don't care!"
King blinked.
"The girl does not belong to you"
Suddenly, he felt something unlock between himself and the kneeling man, a peculiar sense of permission, like a mental doorway opening.
And then, out of nowhere, a vivid red tongue of flame flickered into existence in his palm.
The fire twisted upward and condensed into a piece of parchment made of animal skin, glowing faintly with runic writing.
King lifted it, eyes scanning the text.
Only then did he understand what the tongues of fire above people's heads were.
Karma.
He exhaled slowly, a dry chuckle leaving his throat.
"A demon that feeds off people's karma. Great."
But the parchment wasn't just a record.
It was a contract.
It laid out terms in crisp supernatural clauses.
For Clinton Seriv, that was the man's name, the contract declared that surrendering his karma, and anything he owned, required an exchange from King in return.
King tilted his head and looked at Clinton.
"So… what do you want from me?" he asked.
"Nothing! Just let me go!!" Clinton sobbed.
King watched as new lines magically etched themselves into the parchment in real time, updating the contract to reflect Clinton's wishes.
He could feel which clauses were flexible and which were inviolable.
Some rules simply could not be changed.
"Deal," King said.
He lowered the contract toward Clinton's face.
"Sign it."
Clinton just stared blankly at him, then at his mangled arms.
"Oh, right," King said dryly.
"You can also just say 'I consent' and kiss the paper. I'll let you go for real."
"Really?" Clinton croaked, eyes flicking between King and the parchment.
"Really."
Without wasting another second, Clinton screamed:
"I consent!"
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the parchment.
Instantly, barbs of crimson energy shot out and pricked his mouth.
Drops of blood dripped onto the parchment, which absorbed them like ink.
A moment later, the contract vanished in a faint shimmer of light.
"You can go," King said.
Clinton staggered to his feet, clutching his broken arms like a cripple, and stumbled away into the street.
But he left something behind.
It wasn't the gun.
Instead, the dark, fist-sized flame above his head split in half, and half of it flowed into Kinh, sinking into his chest.
An immediate, blissful wave of satisfaction surged through King's veins.
His hunger eased, and his body felt lighter.
He exhaled, nodding to himself, and turned as if to leave but felt a tug on his awareness.
He paused and looked back at the girl still kneeling beside the boy who was barely breathing.
King stepped toward them, his movements calm and deliberate.
He was only a meter away when the girl's sobs grew louder.
She refused to leave the dying boy behind, despite the obvious logic of fleeing to get help.
The moment she saw King, the girl didn't even care that he'd just killed people.
To her, those men deserved it.
Instead, she dropped to her knees beside the bleeding young man and pleaded:
"Please… help me. We have to get him to a hospital!"
King stood unmoving, arms folded, his face unreadable.
"It's a surprise he's held out this long," he said calmly, his eyes fixed on the young man.
"But with that much blood loss, I doubt there'd be hope even outside this alley."
"That's a lie!" the girl shouted.
She was still half-naked, trembling, but King didn't seem to care.
He turned his gaze to her, tilting his head slightly.
"I can't lie, sweetheart." His tone was flat, almost gentle.
"Then what do I do?!" she cried, getting to her feet in panic.
"I can't just let him die!"
"Well… for starters, you can do nothing," King replied. "However… he can do something. And I can only act if he consents to it."
Her brows furrowed.
"What do you mean?"
King clasped his hands behind his back.
"I mean… I believe I can heal his injuries and probably extend his life. But he needs to offer something in exchange and consent."
"Get the hell away from him! Who the hell are you?!"
She flung herself protectively in front of the bleeding young man.
King simply took a step back, his movements smooth and almost graceful.
"My apologies," he said, lowering his head in a small bow, one hand over his chest.
"I am the demon Faust. At your service."
It wasn't exactly a lie.
After all, he didn't technically have another name anymore.
He was no longer King.
Whatever body he was in now, he was something else entirely.
And "Faust" felt right.
Behind her, the young man hacked up a fresh mouthful of blood, gasping, his wounds soaking through his shirt.
"I'd suggest you make a choice quickly," Faust said evenly. "Otherwise, he'll be dead in about two minutes."
The girl's mind was spinning.
Questions clawed at her. Who was this man, really? What had she just witnessed?
But what echoed loudest in her head was a single thought:
A deal with the devil… to save him? Ridiculous.
Still… she turned and shouted:
"I consent! Please just help him!"
"Then please sign this contract. A thumbprint is enough."
Faust stayed precisely where he was, holding out the parchment.
She snatched it from his hands and started to press her thumb down only to pause, eyes widening as she caught sight of the fine print.
"Ten thousand dollars?! Where the hell am I supposed to get that kind of money?!"
Faust regarded her for a moment, then gave a faint, amused smile.
"Indeed… you're still a student." His eyes flicked briefly toward the bleeding Samuel.
"However… your need equals my value."
The numbers on the contract shimmered and changed.
Instead of ten thousand dollars, the new terms read:
Six months of servitude under the demon Faust, plus a slightly higher amount of karma, in exchange for healing Samuel Jicks and guaranteeing his full health for one month.
Cynthia bit her lip, hesitated only a second longer, then pressed her thumb onto the contract.
The parchment instantly caught fire, vanishing into embers that floated away as Faust stepped closer to Samuel.
Placing a hand on Samuel's forehead, Faust closed his eyes.
In the blink of an eye, the blood pooled on the ground seemed to reverse direction, rushing back into Samuel's wounds.
Torn flesh sealed itself.
Bruises faded.
Within moments, it was as though Samuel had never been stabbed at all.
When the miracle was complete, Samuel lay unconscious but breathing steadily.
Faust exhaled, looking toward Cynthia and more specifically, at the white tongue of flame hovering over her head.
As he watched, the flame split, shrinking to a quarter of its original size as a cool, refreshing energy poured into him.
He sighed in relief.
So that's how it works… he thought.
The karma I absorb now is only part of the payment.
The rest comes when the contract is fully fulfilled.
That raised questions about Clinton's deal, and whether he might ultimately consider it a loss.
But he pushed those thoughts aside for now.
Cynthia leaned over Samuel, pressing her fingers to his throat, then his wrist. She turned back to Faust, eyes glistening.
"He's alive… just passed out."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Faust didn't respond.
He simply stared at her in silence, his gaze unreadable, until she grew self-conscious of her exposed body.
Finally, she crossed her arms over her bare chest, before covering herself.