I slam onto the mat. Hard.
"Dammit, man! You really don't need to punch me that hard!"
The butler—still as calm and composed as ever—steps into my field of vision and helps me up as if he hadn't just sent me flying a moment ago.
We're in the same hall where we had dinner a couple of months ago, except now it's been transformed into a gym. A track runs along the walls, and inside it sits a matted training area filled with an obstacle course, punching bags, and open spaces for sparring.
Which is what we're doing right now.
Unfortunately for me.
"You think the Seven Padres are going to show you mercy because you can't take a blasted punch?" the old man says, slowly walking toward me, leaning on his cane. "Those religious, rancid, ridiculously dressed people will do anything in their bloody power to kill you the minute they find out you're associated with me!"
He smacks me with the cane.
"Oww!" I yelp, collapsing back to the ground.
"Dear God," he mutters, rolling his eyes. "Get your ass up, you theatrical genius."
I look up at him, still wincing. "Isn't there a montage for moments like this? Or a time-skip?"
The cane comes down again like divine judgment.
"This is not a shitty anime, boy!"
"Now get up and give me my damn laps!"
I bolt upright and hurry onto the track, still wincing as I run.
"Do you think he's ready, my lord?" the butler asks calmly.
"Not even close," the old man replies. "He's still green behind the ears. Forget this world—the viewers and the agency alone will rip him to shreds."
"Did you make the right decision, then?"
"There was no choice," he snaps. "It was either to stand and fight or waste what little time remains until lady death drags me away."
"But—"
"I know!" he barks. "There is no other way! I've spent centuries searching for alternatives. Other paths. Other… options."
He sighs, the weight of years suddenly visible.
The butler steps closer and pats his back. "There is still hope for success. You should have more faith in yourself."
"I don't believe in anything anymore. Especially myself." the old man replies quietly.
I jog back, soaked in sweat. "Are… are we done?" I ask between breaths. "We have to be done."
"We are not finished yet, young master," the butler says. "It is time for you to learn about the world you will be "cleaning" up."
My eyes light up. "Finally! What kind of setting is it? Do I get kick-ass powers? A romantic side character? Ooo, what about—"
"Shut up for one minute and I'll explain!" the old man yells.
"Dear God," he mutters, turning to the butler. "Were all kids like this, Crane?"
"Wait," I interrupt. "Is your name not Alfred?"
"No, young master," he replies primly.
I blink, scrambling for an apology—but before I can say anything, the scene around us begins to fade.
The gym dissolves.
And we're standing in a library.
Not a normal library—an impossible one. Floor-to-ceiling shelves swallow the walls, twisting like a maze. Ladders mounted on wheels rest against nearly every shelf. The paths loop into strange corners and dead ends.
Dear God I think turning back to look at the old man.
I pray I never become this insane if I grow old and rich.
"I didn't make this," the old man says, catching my look and my thoughts. "It was a gift."
"Ah, that fixes everything," I reply dryly. "Don't they say gifts reflect the person they're meant for?"
Crane laughs. "He's got you there, boss!"
The old man and I both freeze, turning toward him.
"You can laugh?" the old man says. "In all my years…"
"I apologize for my misuse of the liberties you've granted me, master," Crane blurts, snapping into a deep bow.
"Hmph. Better," the old man says. "Now get moving and find me that bloody globe."
"Yes, sir!"
Like a rocket, he races off into the maze of shelves. Eventually, he comes tearing back with the biggest globe I have ever seen. He sets it down with a heavy thud and, with a dramatic sweep of his arm, makes three chairs appear around it.
At first glance, it looks like an ordinary-ish globe,except for one small detail.
It's completely white.
"Uh… is it just me," I ask, "or is that globe blank?"
The old man stares at me like I've just discovered fire. "OH MY GOODNESS! I'd never noticed! This can't be right!" He taps the surface, and the globe ripples as if it's made of liquid.
"0-11," he says. "In the reign of the Celestial King."
Color bleeds into the sphere. Lush green continents bloom into existence. Deep blue seas spread between them. Cities burst into life beneath a perfect cotton-candy sky.
"Damn fool," the old man mutters, a grin creeping across his face. He gestures at the slowly spinning world. "Look at this Rio. What do you see?"
I touch the globe and realize it responds, zooming in beneath my fingers. I zip to a random city, hovering over what appears to be a central square. The buildings are medieval—stone, straw, whatever materials people could scrape together. People walk the streets alongside creatures I can't name, all of them moving with easy, unguarded happiness.
"I don't know," I say slowly. "They seem… fine. Happy, even. What am I supposed to be seeing?"
The old man watches the city with a wistful expression. "Those days were nice." He flicks his hand. "But—of the past."
I look back at the globe and gasp.
The city is gone.
The land is black and barren, the ground scorched as if the world itself burned. Bodies litter the streets—drained, twisted, horribly disfigured.
My throat goes dry. "What… what happened?"
The old man answers in a whisper. "Those people masquerading as 'gods' threw the world into chaos when they… did what they did. When they upset the balance of power, fragments of my power leaked out—raw, unfiltered."
He doesn't look away. "Some people gained abilities. Others found objects that were…altered. Most simply died from the poisoning. And as survivors adapted, and as the 'gods' continued their inhumane experiments-monsters were born."
"Wait," I say, dizzy. "They experimented on the "changed" people?"
His eyes are empty. "Do you understand what you could do if you could make people superhuman? Super soldiers. Super spies. Super everything. They each raced to take it all for themselves. Hell why do you think the Cold War happened on Earth? With an advantage that massive, the world is yours."
He scoffs. "The frauds up high understood that much. Though it's impressive they understood anything through all the meth they were doing."
I push that insane thought aside. "Then why do the padres exist? If they were all rushing to build armies, why didn't they succeed?"
The old man leans back and laughs. "Success is an elusive wife. What the best of them created was more monster than human-and stupidly, most of em escaped."
He chuckles darkly. "So they chose the next best thing. They gave fragments of their power to people they believed were loyal, high-born, strong, influential. The chosen of make up the accused padres."
"So you want me to beat seven borderline cults… how?" I ask.
"You are not without help," he says. "You have me.And the agency, of course."
"Wait—the agency?" I frown. "What do they have to do with this?"
They stare at me.
Then the old man bursts into laughter. "They never told you?" he wheezes. "Oh, there's no hope for either of us, Crane."
"The both of us, my lord?" Crane replies dryly. "I hear Cuisar and Sommiel are hiring. Apparently Immortality insurance is included. And they guarantee market wages."
"So just me then," the old man mutters.
He shakes it off instantly like a golden retriever and locks back on me. "So—what do you think of the agency?"
"They seem like good people," I say carefully. "Helping other worlds and all."
"Helping…" he mutters incredulously. "Let me show you something."
He taps the globe. "0–00. Right now."
The world shifts again. Green fades. Blue disappears. Gray megacities swallow the land, deserts spreading like scars. Flying cars streak between towers. Holograms shimmer.
But my eyes lock onto the billboards and signage.
"That can't be…"
I slowly stand.
I… move closer.
I… I rub my eyes.
Every single ad is playing one thing.
Me. Getting run over.
ME. Talking to Hocus.
ME. Opening the door and falling in.
Words flash in a language I can't read—but one message is unmistakable.
"IM IN A FUCKING TV SHOW?"