Goodman offered me a price I couldn’t refuse.

  Not because I was easily swayed, but because he showed me a file for a Collection called Tomorrow Is a New Day. Besides the usual résumé-style format—appearance, price, and function—it also included the date it was taken out of Nowhere, the Hunter involved, the consequences of its use, its users, and transfer records.

  That was the first time I realized there could be an explanation like this behind “an entire street losing all their memories every morning.” But honestly, I couldn’t accept that someone would force over two hundred people to relive the same day unconsciously, just to sell hundreds of different stocks and insurance policies daily. Sure, the woman named Heather earned around ten grand in commission every day—but... it just felt too unethical.

  After all, anything tied to Nowhere is bad news for ordinary people. Even prolonged exposure can lead to mental deterioration or organ failure. The effects of Collections and Skills can be more terrifying than any natural disaster or act of violence—especially when out of control. Because the anomaly had lasted so long, most victims suffered from neurasthenia, two children developed selective mutism, and one elderly man, his nerves shattered, blew out his neighbor’s wall and shoulder with a shotgun—then his own head. That’s where the Ainsworth clade investigation began: a seemingly senseless murder-suicide possibly linked to Nowhere, prompting the local police to bring in a “special consultant.”

  It was fascinating—no, terrifying. I displayed the proper shock and disgust under Rafe’s watchful gaze and never did ask the question I really wanted to know: “How much does investigating a case like this pay?”

  Back to the point. Goodman said he could show me records of the 124 Collections my father had handled, each just as detailed as Tomorrow Is a New Day. I was confident I could trace a Hunter’s life through those files—even map his relationships. It would at least give me a foundation to understand him, so I wouldn’t sound completely ignorant when facing his old colleagues, or walk blindly into an enemy’s territory.

  And Goodman wasn’t asking me to write a Skillbook—just a die usable twelve times, operating under eight rules, and only to make judgments on things that had already happened. No prophecy or interference required. All I had to do was copy the content he provided onto paper and activate it with my Skill. It wasn’t difficult. I could even finish it in one sitting without falling into a coma. Due to the confidentiality clause Goodman imposed, I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone what I had written, so Rafe had no idea what it was. But judging from his reaction, Goodman’s offer was generous—perhaps a bit too generous.

  “Because of the timing,” Goodman said in his low, muffled voice as he connected the syringe for blood collection. “Whatever it is, it has to be done before the next full moon.”

  How convenient—I wasn’t planning to stay long either. With the help of two Hunters who could be called half-field doctors, I drew 300 milliliters of fresh blood, slowly dried it over candles in a small dish, ground it into powder, then mixed it into ink, blending it with a syringe.

  Judging by the tools and procedure, this was the closest I’d ever come to drug use. Goodman clearly knew exactly what kind of help he needed and already had a specific Collection or Skill in mind. I didn’t have to worry about what I was writing, which saved me a lot of effort.

  Oh, and I haven’t even mentioned how much that gray paper helped my Skill. When I injected the first condition, it was like someone who had been drinking soup with a fork finally getting a spoon—the ease was so liberating, it felt like salvation. Goodman noticed how much the moss paper improved my performance and simply gave me the bar’s entire stock, calling it a gift for passing his test.

  I’d almost forgotten that Rafe had said “the test has begun” the first time I entered Blue Vulture. The Ainsworth clade might value lineage, but they still welcomed the first Hunters born into the family. Rafe hadn’t put my father’s case in the report—because it was unverified and politically messy. The clade’s threshold was already high: seventy percent of candidates failed just by not making it out alive. On top of that, you had to use a Skill, complete the first event, and retrieve an item worth over ten thousand dollars.

  I hadn’t seen the report myself, but before boarding the plane, Rafe told me, “Don’t mention the key or the Sigil,” and gave me no chance to ask why. He just sternly said this was the attitude a newcomer should have. So yes, I had no idea which item I’d brought out was worth over ten grand.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Officially, in the clade’s records, I was the rookie Hunter discovered and vetted by Rafe, now under his guidance as I learned how Hunter society worked—preparing to use Eternity to extend the lifespan of Furnace of Life.

  I was quite pleased with how convincing the deception was—no lies, just selective omission and psychologically calculated guidance. It led the Ainsworth review team to reach the conclusion I wanted, and could withstand any form of scrutiny from the investigation team.

  Rafe seemed to think I did a great job, too.

  “Oh, the interview’s easy. If you can fool me, you can fool those old fools,” he praised. “Just be yourself. You’re gonna kill it.”

  “What Raphael means,” Goodman said, placing two heavy cardboard boxes on the table, “is that the interview isn’t about how you perform as a Hunter in Nowhere. It’s about everything else. What do you bring to the clade?”

  “That na?ve look you used to have made you seem non-threatening, easy to compromise, quick to trust—that’s exactly what Ainsworth likes. So yes, you’re already qualified. You sweet-talked your way into it.”

  All my attention was on the boxes now. Not even Rafe’s final jab could make me look at him, because what Goodman had given me was far more valuable than I’d expected.

  “The originals are in Chinese, so you shouldn’t have any trouble reading them,” Goodman said, watching as I placed the box of Chinese documents on the floor and sat down steadily in the chair. “Someone in the clade handles translations into English for accessibility. Very accurate. By rights, you’re still a few years away from earning the privilege of reading these—so I need to watch you until 9 a.m. tomorrow. No photos. No notes of any kind. No mention of this to anyone. If you slip, we’re both screwed—you’ll be staring death in the face. Got it?”

  I nodded and placed the English box at Rafe’s feet.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Rafe looked baffled, his expression wary, like when he confronted the bartender at Blue Vulture.

  “You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. I didn’t take photos, didn’t write anything down, didn’t tell anyone—should be fine, right?” I lifted my gaze from a photo of a rusted coin to Goodman’s face. “Rafe already promised he’d come with me to investigate some things back home. He’s not exactly an outsider.”

  Goodman didn’t seem angry. In fact, he smirked. “Kid, do you know what those papers are worth?”

  “Information can buy money, but money can’t always buy information. That makes this stuff the kind of treasure money can’t buy. Something this valuable? Letting Rafe see it won’t hurt him, and it doesn’t cost me anything. I can’t think of a reason not to.”

  I had five and a half hours left. It was rude, but I’d already finished reading two Collection files while I was speaking. When reading in my native language, my speed often made people wonder if I was reading or just flipping pages—a skill I owed to all the trashy novels I snuck during high school. That was when I learned to escape overwhelming pressure by truly falling in love with the act of reading.

  I planned to finish my first pass in two and a half hours, then spend the rest going deeper into the parts I thought needed more attention. Tonight, my main goal was to piece together my father’s life; the Collections were just a lens.

  I could tell Rafe still didn’t understand why I was doing this. He even started to suspect I was trying to fool him again. But it was too tempting a bait. After exchanging a look with Goodman, Rafe gave in and opened the box, reaching for a kraft paper folder marked with the deep blue iris of the family crest.

  This was the most bizarre, inhumanly imaginative writing I’d ever read. It opened the door to another world—one where things I’d learned to explain with science and logic could be interpreted in a completely different way, just by adding the concepts of Hunters and Collections.

  “Newbies, time’s up. Put everything back in the boxes. Don’t worry about the order. Just hurry.”

  Reluctantly, I slid the folders back into place and looked toward the window.

  Golden sunlight spilled across the deep green canopy. Despite another sleepless night from overusing my Skill, I felt nothing but excitement and satisfaction.

  “Thank you. You have no idea how much this helped me. If you ever need me to maintain the Note, just say the word. I’ll do my best.” I thanked Goodman sincerely. “Or anything else, really. Just ask. Okay?”