Michael leaned against the cold steel wall.
His mind churned, trying to stitch the chaos into something logical.
Let's break this down.
First, his "accident" was a hit job by Saeko, a cross-dimensional sorceress working for higher-realm powerful beings.
Then, they'd pumped him full of monster-attracting juice, hoping he'd die and become a portal for their realm-merging apocalypse.
However, he'd survived—thanks to the game (or the game was the consequence of his survival?)—making him their favorite lab rat to crush.
Meanwhile, Aiko's survival depended on him outsmarting Saeko in both worlds.
And lastly, the Store's genius plan is apparently to use him as bait and wait for the monsters to show up.
Mason crossed his arms. "You in or not, kid? Clock's ticking."
"Don't overthink it. Just say yes and pretend you're a good little decoy." The Curator chimed in.
"How does this bait idea even work? Do you guys have a plan?"
"Yes. The plan is for you to throw a fundraiser."
Michael stared at the Curator like he'd just suggested juggling live grenades.
"A fundraiser? You want me to throw a party so murder-wizards show up and try to kill me? On purpose?"
The Curator smirked, swirling his Fanta like it was fine wine.
"Nah, bro. Not try. They will. But don't worry—we'll make it sparkly. Balloons. Confetti. Maybe a bouncy castle shaped like your face—"
"This isn't a joke!" Michael's prosthetic arm flickered into visibility. "People could die! I could die!"
Jane sighed, fingers still tapping her holographic keyboard. "Statistically, people die every day. This way, fewer die. Probably." A graph popped up showing disaster scenarios. "If we don't lure Saeko's crew into a controlled environment, they'll hit somewhere random. School. Hospital. Any densely populated district."
Michael flinched. He forced his blades to retract. "So we set the trap. But how?"
Mason stepped forward, his shadow swallowing half the room. "You host the event. We rig the place with sensors, anti-Celestial wards, suppression fields. When they strike, we crush 'em."
"That's it?" Michael's laugh came out sharp. "Last time I 'hosted' something, a dragon torched a baseball field! What's next? A kraken in the punch bowl?"
The Curator snapped his fingers. "Kraken-themed cocktails! Love it. Jane, add that to the merch list—"
"Focus." Michael shook his head, turning to Jane. "How do we even advertise this? 'Come watch the one-armed freak get assassinated! Popcorn $5!'"
Jane swiped a screen toward him. "People think you're a hero. Use that. Say you're hosting a charity dinner to 'rebuild your future.' Rich folks eat that up. Saeko's team definitely will."
The screen lit up with notifications every two seconds:
@ESPN: ONE-ARMED PITCHER STRIKES OUT TOP MLB PROSPECTS!
@MLBScout33: Cobb's changeup defies physics. Teams are scrambling to assess him.
#CobbComeback trends nationwide with 500k tweets
He scrolled through the comments, his prosthetic arm—currently invisible—twitching under the table.
@UTSuperfan: LEGEND.
@DodgersGM: Cobb's mechanics are… unconventional. But that splitter? Elite.
@ConspiracyDude69: Y'all see the dragon in the background?? Glitch or govt tech??
Michael paused. Dragon? He clicked the reply thread:
@TruthWarrior22: I SAW IT TOO! Wings and fire!! Video got deleted tho
@Karen4Real: FAKE NEWS! Cobb's amazing but dragons aren't real sweaty
@RedditMod: [This comment has been removed for misinformation]
If they only knew, Michael thought.
"So. Let me get this straight," he said, turning to Jane. "You want me to smile for cameras, shake hands with rich donors, and wait for killer wizards to crash the party. Meanwhile, you three"—he pointed at the Curator, Mason, and Jane—"hide in the vents like ninjas?"
Jane didn't look up from her holographic screens. "Ninjas don't use thermal drones. But yeah. Basically."
The Curator leaned against a dented steel crate, sipping his third Fanta. "Relax, kid. It's a classic honey trap. You're the honey. Saeko's goons are the flies. We're the rolled-up newspaper." He smirked. "Metaphorically speaking."
Michael gritted his teeth. Honey. Flies. He hated how they talked about his life like it was a game. But he didn't have options. If this plan failed, Aiko would pay the price.
He glanced at Mason. The hulking man was calibrating a device that looked like a cross between a taser and a flamethrower. "What's the exit strategy if this blows up? Literally."
Mason grunted. "Don't die."
Helpful.
Jane flicked a diagram into the air—a 3D blueprint of Tenesia University's event hall.
"Venue holds 500 people. Three exits. We'll seed the crowd with undercover agents, rig the stage with suppression fields, and monitor all essence fluctuations." She zoomed in on the ceiling. "I'll be in the control room, tracking Saeko's signature. The second she appears, we lock the building down."
Michael squinted at the blueprint. "What stops her from teleporting in? Or summoning another dragon?"
The Curator snapped his fingers. "Ah! Glad you asked." He pulled a small, glowing orb from his pocket. "Anti-Celestial wards. These babies disrupt higher-realm magic within a 200-meter radius. No portals. No monster-summoning. Just good ol' fists and firearms."
He tossed the orb to Michael, who caught it with his left hand. The surface hummed, vibrating like a live wire.
"Place this under the stage," the Curator said. "It'll activate once the party starts. Even Saeko's gotta play by some rules."
Michael pocketed the orb, his mind racing. No magic. That levels the field. Maybe. But Saeko had likely survived centuries of wars and betrayals. She wouldn't walk into a trap without backup.
"What about civilians?" he asked. "If Saeko can't use magic, she'll go for hostages. Or bombs."
Jane tapped her wrist device, and the blueprint shifted to highlight red zones. "We'll evacuate the building under the guise of a fire drill once the signal's tripped. Donors think it's part of the event. Saeko's team won't know until it's too late."
Michael nodded slowly. It was risky, but the best they had. He turned to the Curator.
"And you? What's your role besides drinking soda and making bad jokes?"
The Curator grinned. "Distraction, baby. I'll be mingling with the rich folks, keeping an eye out for suspicious activity. Plus, someone's gotta film your heroic speech for the 'gram."