The first thing Nathan felt was cold—not the kind of metallic, clinical cold that comes with hospital lights and antiseptic walls, but a deep, precise cold that slid along bones and memory the way a scalpel slides under silk. He tasted iron and old rain. The room around him was a sliver of light and black: IV drip clinking like a metronome, faded linoleum, the slow, indifferent rotation of a ceiling fan. For a second he believed he was still in Brooklyn, in the cheap room that had been his ruin for the last three years—until the scent of ozone arrived and the world tilted.
He had died before, in other lives and bad choices, small deaths: losing a job, losing a friend, losing a day to stupor. This one was definitive. His lungs convulsed and refused to inhale. A chorus of monitors began a descending, ragged wail. Nathan's vision bleached white around the edges. Somewhere behind the white, words coagulated—shards of memory and regret—until a voice like gravel and velvet said, calm and contractual.
"Candidate: Nathan Valentine. Subject lifetime concluded. Compensation: one System — 'Shop of Everything'. Reward pool: infinite System Points. Condition: shop manifests only at the moment of final death in each reincarnation. Shop user is bound to the system until the termination clause is executed by the user or the global collapse of all manifest universes."
The voice tasted of old pages and thunder. Nathan tried to laugh. Laughter leaked as a broken, breathless sound. He tried to ask if this was a dream, a hallucination, divine intervention, or a bureaucratic cleric sent to inform him he'd won the cosmic lottery. The voice did not laugh back. It started listing terms and options with the efficiency of a mortgage lender.
"You will be given access to an omniversal market. The Shop sells — and I quote — 'anything and everything': conceptual constructs, physical objects, unique laws, power systems, relationships, memories, abstract truths, instances of 'if', 'what if', and metaphysical permissions. Restrictions apply only as per shop policy." The voice paused, as if savouring the policy clause. "Compensation clause: infinite points are granted as immediate replenishment to the account balance."
Infinite.
That single term was a detonator. Nathan's mind produced a dozen childish fantasies—money pouring like rain, the face of every debtor smiling in relief. He pictured the faces of the people he'd let down, the lover he'd left, the little brother who'd needed him. Rage and tenderness braided into one huge, animal howl. He wanted to buy back everything. The system voice continued, patient.
"However. The Shop adheres to universal tension. For every purchase, causality will seek equilibrium. The system may levy taxes, invoke response events, or spawn custodial agents called 'Arbiters' to enforce balance. Use of acquired laws or alterations to fundamental constants may attract attention from domain custodians. You are advised to read the terms."
Nathan could not read. He could only hear, and the rhythm of the IV began to slow as his body shut down. He thought of one life, the last: a string of missteps, a few moments of real kindness, a head full of cheap science fiction and old RPGs. He thought, absurdly, of levelling up. If there were a system, then maybe he could cheat death a little. Maybe he could buy immortality. Maybe he could buy back the brother who had been taken in a car accident when Nathan was nineteen and driving drunk.
Light took him. Not a tunnel, not a white light of metaphors, but a precise, clinical corridor of luminescence with a store at the end: a door-less arched entrance, a brass placard that read SHOP OF EVERYTHING in letters that were both old and unreadable. The corridor smelled of libraries and street markets. He knew, with the dislocated certainty of initiation, that he was in the system.
He fell across a threshold that should not have been passable with crusted skin and broken bones, and sat up on a bench that was exactly the right hardness. There was a counter of inlaid obsidian and an attendant—a figure folded in shadow and light, wearing no recognizably human face, like a shape someone remembers from childhood but forgot the name of. Behind the counter, shelves stacked to oblivion: jars containing storms, boxes with the ticking of universes, glass vials labelled regret and poured-time, a row of swords each in a different language, a clock whose hands moved across improbable intervals.
A screen blossomed above him. Text scrolled in a dozen fonts and then settled into an interface that felt like a command line and a cathedral at the same time.
WELCOME, OWNER.
ACCOUNT: NATHAN VALENTINE (Reincarnation ID: 000…4312)
BALANCE: ∞ System Points
SHOP POLICY: READ BEFORE PURCHASE.
SHOP CATEGORIES: Physical, Conceptual, Power Systems, World Laws, Artefacts, Connections, Events, Custom.
He had spent his life reading rules and fighting systems—credit cards, bureaucracies, job applications. The irony was a jagged little smile at the back of his throat. He flicked a finger toward the interface because what else does one do when presented with a device that seems to require input? The air answered like a tactile thing. The text lowered a menu.
"First-time user: New Player Guidance Protocol?" the interface asked in a voice like paper turning.
"No," Nathan said before his fear or hope could moderate him. He had read enough guides in online games to know that guidance protocols often encouraged small purchases and reliance on systems. Infinite points meant he could skip tutorials. He wanted to get straight to the part where he became stronger—now.
The attendant—if that's what it was—tilted its head and produced a notepad. Its handwriting was a thousand languages. It wrote one line that Nathan somehow read not with his eyes but with a memory-sight.
Note: The System will only manifest in the dying moments of each life. Purchases are immediate but manifestations follow the 'Manifestation Lag' depending on the category: Physical (instant), Conceptual (variable, often iterative), Power Systems (requires integration period), World Laws (high response probability from custodians), Artefacts (often bound to condition), Connections (social/temporal latency), Events (trigger-based). Custodians may contest acquisitions that undermine ontological integrity.
Nathan understood three words: physical instant. Power systems might need integration—fine. World laws would be risky. He slid his hands beneath him and found they were lighter, lacking the tremor of dying flesh. The bench held reality; the shop was the hinge between the world that was and the worlds that could be.
There are moments in fiction where the protagonist says, "I will be the strongest in my world," and the author waves a wand. Nathan was not an author. He had a last chance and the chaotic earnestness of someone who had spent a life building things with other people's money.
He typed with his mind because that is how these things work—because the system wanted drama.
/shop browse Power Systems/
The shelves rearranged themselves. A hundred scrolls unfurled into the air, each a bloom of light and glyphs. Names came like a litany: Mana Flow, Ki Condensation, Divine Mandate, Arcane Codex, Resonance Matrix, Quantum Imprint, Soulforge, Fate Threading, Blood Oath Systems, Construct Protocols, and others he could not pronounce. Each entry had a descriptor: compatibility, domain scope, typical power ceiling, upkeep cost (system balance), and enforcement probability.
He skimmed—how strange, how human, to prefer categories even at the gates of omniversal capitalism. Then he saw one named with a brutality that made his chest constrict.
Omni-Compatibility: "Omni-Canon"
Descriptor: Grants the user the capacity to interface with, emulate, and hybridise with all adjacent power systems. Allows acquisition of "system tiers" across different cosmological frameworks. Integration period variable; risk: systemic backlash if attempted without domain anchors.
He hesitated. To be the strongest in a single world was one thing; to manipulate every power structure in all adjacent worlds was a cosmic malpractice. Omni-Canon would let him be the apex predator across systems: mana, chi, divine decree, tech, psionics—every mechanism of strength. The idea tasted like both salvation and migraine.
Price: ∞ System Points (Requires 用户 to bind a "Soul Pillar" — select: Personal essence, borrowed anchor, or manufactured anchor).
Manifestation Lag: Integration required. Immediate acquisition possible; active usage requires a domain anchor and exposure to alternate power frameworks.
The screen did not flinch at the price. Infinite points made the currency meaningless; the system's friction was not points but consequences. A footnote blinked: "Binding a Soul Pillar may generate domain interest from custodians. Suggested: acquire world-anchoring artefact or temporal loop anchor."
Nathan's first thought was of the brother who died because of him. He imagined buying back a life. The shop had a category for connections. He scrolled.
/shop browse Connections/
Glass jars held names. Each jar whispered a voice. There were options: Reunite (Resurrect specific person), Mend (repair relationship threads), Temporal Loop (rewrite causal chain locally), Swap (exchange one event for another), Echo (duplicate memories into a new vessel), Ghost (maintain presence as an observer).
Resurrection was possible. There it was, glittering and filthy with infinitesimal letters.
Resurrect: Human Instance (Targeted)
Descriptor: Returns a specific human instance to life with continuity of memory. Side effects: possible divergence due to timeline inertia, tethering to original causal node, potential cosmic audit. Requires identification proof and Purchase Bond.
Price: 47,882,333 System Points (plus manifesto registration with the Shop).
Manifestation Lag: Variable (1 day — 1 century).
Notes: Resurrection in the local universe often triggers a high probability custodian review; multidomain resurrections are more complex.
He laughed—half sob, half disbelief. Forty-seven million points, when his balance was unquantifiable. He scrolled further to see variations: resurrect as a clone (cheaper), resurrect only memory copies (cheaper still), resurrect with timeline rewrite (astronomical cost). The shop offered options like a fast-food menu for eternity.
Nathan pictured his brother's face, the way it had flashed when he slammed on the brakes. He pictured the hospital's fluorescent lights. He imagined bending the rules, the way a gambler leans into a lucky streak. And then he saw the list of consequences, the small print that seemed written by someone who had read every tragic play ever written.
Custodial Intervention Clause: Resurrection may provoke Custodians of Life, Death, and Continuum (Level II). Interventions may include memory decay, timeline stuttering, or erasure of collateral nodes. The Shop is not liable for collateral losses.
He felt suddenly, visceral and cold, the idea that the universe keeps ledgers. You could buy what you wished, but the universe would send auditors with clipboards.
So he pivoted. He had something else: a last gasp. The system had said he would get the shop when he died. It had not said the shop would not allow him to raise his power within the dying universe to become the strongest before the end. If he could be the strongest in that universe—if he could break the mortal coil by force—then maybe he could buy time with the shop. Maybe he could force a longer integration period. Maybe he could become strong enough to hold a soul in his palm.
He typed the simplest thing his plan required.
/shop buy Power System: Omni-Canon — bind Soul Pillar: Personal essence — confirm purchase/
The screen pulsed. The attendant's shadow-face folded a smile into its features, though whether the smile was sympathetic or predatory he could not tell. A warning blinked red: Binding your personal essence as an anchor will mark you with a 'Soul Sigil' visible to certain high-tier custodians. Alternative: Acquire manufactured anchor (Artefact: World-Anchor, Temporal Anchor) — recommended to reduce detection.
He hesitated only a fraction. The personal weight of the world pressed against his ribs—regret sharper than fear. He thought of all the small lives he'd abandoned and chose to gamble with his essence. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was cowardice dressed as an ultimatum. Either way, he tapped confirm.
The shop did not ask for points. Instead, it asked for a body. His body back in the room shivered as if someone had poured electricity into it. He felt his essence wrench, like a rope pulled through a knot, and then an anchor—hot and certain—settled into him. The bench dimmed, and a sigil imprinted itself on the space of his chest: intricate, mandalic, containing both coordinates and apologies.
Acquisition successful.
Item: Omni-Canon (Passive: Emulation; Active: Hybridisation Protocols).
Anchor: Personal Essence (Soul Sigil: VIOLET-⨂-4312).
Integration Stage: 1/∞.
Notes: Active usage requires exposure to at least one external power system framework; once used, integration accelerates. Careful: Over-integration risks 'System Feedback'—psychic backlash manifesting as cognitive decay or domain hostility.
Something that felt like a script had attached itself to the back of his skull: lines written in the language of probabilities. He could feel, in a way he had never felt before, the hum of minor power systems passing by—an old man across a street calling down rain with prayer-worn hands; a child humming, accidentally bending light around his toy; the city itself breathing mechanics like a hidden engine. Omni-Canon made him hungry.
The shop's interface pulsed. Another notification appeared.
Recommended ancillary purchase:
Artefact: World-Anchor (stabilises cross-system emulation; reduces custodian detection by 73.4%).
Price: 3,000 System Points.
Manifestation: Instant.
Three thousand points. He could have laughed again. He could buy a world anchor for the cost of a coffee and not even notice. He typed YES like someone pressing a button that meant survival.
The world-anchor slotted into place on the sigil like a key finding its ward. Warmth flooded his chest. The bench felt suddenly like a throne. The attendant removed its notepad and, with the motion of someone closing a ledger, wrote one last line.
User Advisory: You are granted access to the Shop. You are given infinite System Points. You are warned: omniversal purchase freedom is both a gift and a sanction. Your moves will ripple. Begin.
Nathan closed his eyes. The world-bones reassembled; his lungs pulled air as if remembering how. The monitors in his old hospital room faded from red to a slower pulse. He was no longer simply dying; he was an organism with a brand-new set of coordinates—part-man, part-anchor, part-shop-customer-with-a-sigil. He flexed fingers that felt like new tools. He was alive and different, and the word alive tasted like dangerous sugar.
He needed power now. He wanted to be strong in that society, in that universe, before anyone noticed. He could buy power systems, artefacts, laws, friends—everything. But he had learned how real power worked: it is rarely the flash of a purchased sword. It was control over systems and their users. He needed leverage, not just strength; leverage would let him integrate, let him accelerate Omni-Canon, and—if prudence cooperated—let him bend consequence.
He browsed again. This time he approached it like an economist. In a market where currency is meaningless, friction lives elsewhere: time, attention, detection, and the shop's own enforcement mechanisms. The smart move was to buy things that lowered those frictions.
/shop cart add: Artefact: World-Anchor (purchased) — done.
/shop cart add: Artefact: Temporal Loop Anchor (stabilises timeline edits) — Price: 120,000 Points — add?
/shop cart add: Item: 'Minor Domain Cloak' (obscures user from low-tier custodians for 72 hours) — Price: 1,250 Points — add?
/shop cart add: Skill: 'Systematic Negotiation' (ability to bargain with custodians and Arbiters) — Price: 14,500 Points — add?
/shop cart add: Service: 'Integration Jumpstart' (accelerates power system integration by simulated exposure events) — Price: 500,000 Points — add?
He added them all. The interface chimed with a satisfaction that felt almost human. Points poured away in numbers that looked like poetry: 1,250 for a cloak, 120,000 for a timeline anchor, 500,000 for simulated exposures. Numbers that would have ruined a lifetime of municipal work evaporated with no more than a keystroke. The attendant folded its shadow-face in amusement.
"Why?" the attendant asked—not unkindly, but with the same curiosity a surgeon has when presented with a very bad tumour and a very brilliant scalpel.
Nathan thought of the brother, and of all the little men he'd been scavenging from the edges of a life. He thought of how he wanted to undo one gust of a car's momentum. He thought about the System's warning—custodians, audits, feedback—and how being blunt would invite a beating. He needed finesse.
"Because I don't want to just buy back a life," he said. "I want to carve a place so solid in a universe that nothing can take him back."
The attendant's head cocked, and for the first time, it felt like a conversation. "Noted," it said. "Cart finalised. Purchases will manifest per category specifics. Temporal Anchor will require local timeline interaction. Integration Jumpstart will simulate exposure events over an accelerated subjective time of up to six months. Use Minor Domain Cloak to avoid immediate detection. 'Systematic Negotiation' skill will be installed as latent competence."
"Also," Nathan said, voice thinner than he liked, "if there are charges I don't know about—tell me."
The attendant paused as if surprised at a human asking for honesty, then wrote the absolute smallest line.
Cost of honesty: the universe recalibrates equilibrium in ways that cannot always be predicted. You may lose something else to maintain balance: a memory, a chance, a life node. Choose your purchases knowing that infinite points do not equate to consequence immunity.
He closed his eyes. The moral of any story survives in the small print of a bargain. Nathan did not flinch. He had spent the last years of his life paying debts he could not stomach. Infinite points were a razor edge. If he wanted the brother back—or anything like him—he would have to be exact in planning, surgical about consequence.
The shop delivered. The Minor Domain Cloak puddled over his shoulders like cold silk and an old fear of being watched unclenched. The World Anchor hummed like a small planet. The Temporal Anchor tucked into his temporal flesh and sang in harmonic intervals he'd only ever heard in nightmares. The acquisition of the Systematic Negotiation skill felt like a language installing itself into his gut. The Integration Jumpstart queued up like a program waiting for a command.
Above the counter, the shelves rustled. Somewhere, a bell tolled, hopeful and warning.
Nathan rose from the bench with a pillar in his chest and a plan inside his head. He had bought himself leverage, camouflage, and simulated time. He had strapped himself to a mechanism that would allow him to grow stronger in that universe before anyone had the chance to accuse him of cheating the cosmos. He had also, with a single signature at death's threshold, made an enemy of natural law.
Outside the Shop, the corridor opened onto streets that had been both familiar and uncanny: pavement with veins of silver light, constellations reflected in puddles, people moving with ordinariness. He felt like a new man wearing a borrowed name. Little things prickled: a tram conductor with eyes like coins, a child juggling stones that sang. The city bristled with systems—one man's prayer anchored a localised weather loop; a woman's tattoo hummed with a spell of forgetting.
He had entered the market to become the strongest. Now he had to be the smartest. The Omni-Canon would let him chew across systems, but the universe would chew back. The first rule of omniversal markets, Nathan realised, was that leverage beats raw force. Money had no meaning when points were infinite; what mattered was what you could buy that made later purchases safer, faster, and less visible.
He smiled, briefly and thinly, and took a step into a city that now felt like a board written in languages he was beginning to understand.
Somewhere far above, like a closed mouth about to speak, the Shop hummed, and the Universe took note.