"What to do?"
Scratching his head, Nightingale stared at the wall where the flattened chair had embedded itself. The hole was roughly the chair's profile, about two feet wide and three feet tall, ragged at the edges where plaster had splintered.
Dust hung in the air and a thin, cold draft pushed through the gap.
He cursed beneath his breath.
The chair had not simply hit the wall; in its flattened state it had slid through the drywall like a razor-thin blade, shearing the surface and lodging itself partway into the hollow space behind the plaster. Up close, the chair looked impossibly thin, its grain and varnish preserved as if someone had painted a photograph and then folded it.
Panic flirted at the edge of his thoughts. How was he supposed to fix something like this? His funds were not kind enough for him to call a repairman and he obviously couldn't fix it himself.
Hopefully, the neighbors wouldn't notice the noise.
'Goddamn it. Calm down, it's not that bad... I think? No biggy! I'll simply leave it like this until I have the money!'
First things first, check the chair. He moved cautiously to the opening and probed the exposed edge with two fingers. The flattened wood offered no give; it felt like stiff paper but with an uncanny rigidity. He tugged gently, there was no movement, still. Restoring it had failed before. If the chair would not revert on command, he needed a different approach.
He glanced around the room for something useful. A roll of duct tape sat on a shelf. A heavy blanket lay folded on the sofa. Nightingale grabbed both. He jammed the blanket into the gap to muffle the draft and wrapped duct tape across the torn plaster as a temporary seal. It was ugly, clumsy, and entirely on the wrong side of permanent repair, but it would hide the worst until he could figure out the next step.
While he worked he made mental notes. Flattened objects could pass through thin barriers. They retained surface detail and edge sharpness. They were lighter, slid with less friction, and behaved like sheets rather than solid masses. That meant he could conceivably use flattened matter to bypass defenses, create slashes through armoured gaps, or set traps that cut from impossible angles. It also meant that if something got stuck inside walls, getting it back out might be difficult.
Nightingale sighed and sank onto the sofa, rubbing his throbbing forehead. Practical problems demanded practical tests.
He took his notebook and wrote two lines in neat, hurried script:
†
1. Size limit test — measure max object that flattens.
And,
2. Through-barrier test — what materials can flattened objects penetrate?
A small sliver of excitement threaded through his anxiety. Every mistake was information, information was knowledge and knowledge was power. He looked at the duct-taped tear, then at the flattened chair's edge peeking from the gap.
"Yes, this can work. No, it will work. I'll make it work. Hehehe."
Suddenly, a mad smile appeared on his face.
According to Mr. Christopher, stepping into the Mire was inevitable sooner or later. If that was the case, then he needed to act quickly.
But then came the bigger problem; school. Balancing two lives, one as a student and the other as an Esper, sounded like a nightmare waiting to happen. Dropping out wasn't an option either, not when he was already in his final year. One way or another, he had to figure it out.
And that wasn't even the end of it. There were weapons to consider. Only an idiot would charge into a place as dangerous as the Tower unarmed. At the very least, he'd need something practical, maybe even a firearm. There was a gun store not too far from here…
To steady his chaotic thoughts, Nightingale began sorting through his worries, letting them spill onto the page in a more organized form.
He tapped the pen against the page, staring at the blank lines for a long moment before writing.
***
| Priority One: Survive the Mire.
Training schedule?
Weapons. (Gun? Too loud? Alternatives??)
Supplies like food, first aid and medicine.
| Priority Two: School.
Attendance… maybe keep it minimal?
Graduating from highschool at the very least.
| Priority Three: Money
Sell ether shards, monster parts, get paid a fortune.
Maybe even become a billionaire.
***
Glancing over what he had written, Lu Song gave a small nod of satisfaction.
"Yeah… these are my top priorities. I think?"
Before stepping foot into the Tower, he needed to hammer out a training schedule to adapt to his new body, secure a proper weapon, and stock up on food and supplies. After all, it wasn't like the Tower of Death was going to have a convenience store waiting for him inside.
…Wait. Speaking of supplies, how much money did he actually have right now?
Frowning, Nightingale picked up his phone, unlocked it, and quickly pulled up his banking app to check his balance.
The screen loaded after a short pause, and his eyes landed on the numbers glowing back at him.
[$3,248.67.]
"…Seriously? That's it?" he muttered, staring in disbelief.
It wasn't nothing, but compared to what he needed, it might as well have been pocket change. A decent firearm alone would eat up at least a quarter of that balance. Add in ammo, protective gear, rations, and maybe even a cheap healing potion if he got lucky enough to find one on the black market… he'd be broke before he even set foot inside the Tower.
Nightingale grimaced.
"Damnit. At this rate, I'll be the first billionaire who goes bankrupt. Can someone like that even be called a billionaire? Ugh. What misfortune."
Still, it wasn't hopeless. He could stretch the money if he planned carefully. Maybe settle for something less flashy, or even improvise weapons until he earned enough from his first haul.
The important thing was survival; the profit would come later.
His stomach suddenly growled, breaking his concentration.
"Well, priorities first… and right now, that's instant noodles."
He stood up from the stair, still frowning at the thought of his emptying wallet, and shuffled downstairs, heading toward the counter.
All the while, a single thought echoed stubbornly in his head: I need more money. Fast!
† †
Ring! Ring! Ring!
A sound, clear and resonant like a church bell, echoed through the halls, signaling the end of the school period for the day.
Moments later, a wave of students flooded the corridors, their chatter and footsteps quickly drowning out the once-quiet building. Among them, Nightingale slipped through the crowd and strode toward a particular destination.
Classes had passed uneventfully. Not that anyone expected much from a school these days. Even once-beloved sports like football and soccer had lost their charm; humanity's focus had shifted almost entirely to the mysterious Espers and their progression through the Black Tower.
And speak of the devil... this young man, or rather, young Esper, was already preparing for his own entry into that colossal structure.
Which explained his next destination, one that would surely raise questions if anyone knew.
Step! Step!
Before long, the chatter of teenagers faded behind him, replaced by the muted sounds of traffic and the occasional bark of a stray dog. His path led him to an older part of town, where the streets narrowed and the buildings leaned with age.
At the corner, a faded sign came into view. The painted letters were chipped, but the name was still clear enough:
[Devil Armaments]
Disregarding its ominous name, the store didn't look like much from the outside. It was a modest storefront with barred windows and a reinforced door. But appearances were often misleading.
Most people who looked innocent turned out to be devils.
Nightingale stopped in front of the door, his reflection faintly staring back at him in the glass pane.
Midnight-blue hair framed his face with its shade mirrored in his deep bottomless eyes. His lean build was accentuated by the casual clothes he had changed into, though the dark circles beneath his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep.
He wasn't the most handsome fellow, but calling him plain would be just as untrue. If anything, the word that suited him best was "unremarkable."
A face you could easily overlook in a crowd… until you looked twice. An existence that belonged in both worlds yet nowhere. Still, there was something different about the young man.
It was subtle but it was probably his imagination.
"So this is the place, huh?" he muttered as if to convince himself.
With a deep breath, the young man lingered for a moment before he finally gained the courage to open the door.
A bell jingled overhead, but unlike the cheerful sound of the school's dismissal, this one carried a sharp metallic ring. Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil and gunpowder. Racks of rifles lined the walls, and glass cases displayed pistols, magazines, and survival gear. Behind the counter, a broad-shouldered man with a grizzled beard was polishing a shotgun.
"Mmm..."
Noticing someone step into the shop, the broad-shouldered man looked up with a flicker of hope, only for it to vanish the moment he saw Nightingale. His brows furrowed as he gave the boy a quick once-over, then scowled.
"What are you doing here, brat? Lost your way? This place isn't for kids."
Nightingale shook his head
"No. I didn't miss my way. In fact, I'm exactly where I need to be."
The man grunted.
"Huh? What's that supposed to mean?"
Nightingale's lips curved into a faint smile as he leaned forward.
"Isn't it obvious, old man? I'm here as a paying customer!"