Back to the present.
Daytime was simple. I ran the antique store—nothing glamorous, nothing crazy, just... normal. My house was right above it, so I didn't even have to commute. Wake up, brush teeth, walk downstairs, open shop. Done.
The sweet part? I had a basement.
It was small, sure. Cramped and a little dusty when I first checked it out, but I cleaned it up. Wiped down the shelves, cleared out the cobwebs, even lit a few old lanterns for the aesthetic. Now it was mine—a little hidden corner of the world. My private space. No sunlight, no noise, no nosy neighbors. Just the quiet hum of old things and shadows.
It wasn't some secret lab or high-tech base. It was a basement. But it was mine, and that was enough.
Today was... uneventful. Had customers, no real clients. You know the type—browsers. People who walk in, touch everything, and leave without buying so much as a paperweight. Some guy came in, started rambling about his "hundred-year-old family legacy." Probably wanted to sell me a fake vase or some rusted coin he dug out of his backyard.
I smiled. Nodded. Played along.
My grandfather—well, this body's grandfather—had taught me how to handle these types. He was sharp, knew how to read people like books. Before he passed, he'd introduced me to a few of his old buddies—collectors, historians, retired traders. That network? Still solid. I wasn't just winging it. I had connections. Not many, but enough.
The real trick in this line of work isn't knowledge—it's flattery. These people love puffing each other up. Every antique has a story, and half the time, it's made up on the spot. You nod, make the right noises, maybe throw in a "This reminds me of an early Bronze-era curve style," and bam—you've earned their trust.
Anyway, life was... good.
Surprisingly good.
Mornings were peaceful. I'd dust a few old books, rearrange the shelves for the third time that week, drink overpriced tea, and banter with customers about the difference between authentic aging and intentional distressing. I'd even started enjoying the rhythm of it—open, sell, smile, close.
But nights?
That's where the real fun began.
Night was mine. My soul slipped free like a whispered secret, floating under the moonlight. I hadn't returned to the void since devouring that glass leech-thing. Maybe I was scared. Maybe I was cautious. Or maybe… I was content.
I had my routine.
Day: antique shop.
Night: cultivation.
It was a weird mix of mundane and mystical. One moment I was arguing over pottery glaze, the next I was meditating under the stars, absorbing moonlight, strengthening my soul. The duality of it all made life... thrilling.
The leech—or whatever it was—remained dormant. I could feel it in my soul like a second heartbeat. Silent. Waiting. Not hostile, not helpful. Just there. A tool? A weapon? A seed? I wasn't sure yet. But it hadn't rebelled or tried to consume me again, so I considered that a win.
I had a few friends. Not many. We weren't some tight-knit group of heroes or anything. Just normal guys, all working different jobs. We'd hang out on Saturday nights—grab some cheap food, drink questionable beer, play a few games. Cards, mostly. Sometimes dice. Just to unwind.
They didn't know anything about my... condition. And I wasn't planning to tell them. What would I say? "Hey, I can leave my body at night and absorb cosmic light while a soul-leech writhes inside me"? Yeah, that'd go over well.
I liked my double life. The ordinary hiding the extraordinary.
Still, I wasn't blind. I knew peace like this never lasted long. It never did—not in stories, not in life. But I wasn't in a rush to invite chaos either.
I was enjoying this.
Heavens seemed to be on my side for once. No monstrous void-things screaming in my ear. No cursed artifacts. No demonic cultivators appearing at my doorstep. Just quiet progression.
The antique store had started turning a small profit, enough to keep me comfortable. I'd learned to spot fakes more easily. Made a few good trades. Even managed to convince one of my grandfather's old friends to give me a few authentic pieces at below market price—said it was out of respect for the old man. I didn't argue.
Occasionally, I'd find something... odd. A mirror that didn't reflect moonlight. A bell that didn't make a sound. Little things. Nothing too dangerous. But I stored them in the basement. Catalogued them. One day, they might be useful. Or important. Or cursed. Who knew?
I also started writing things down. Not a journal, exactly—more like notes. Observations. The rate of moonlight absorption. How long I could stay outside my body before fatigue set in. The way my senses sharpened when I floated near iron. The leech's pulse patterns. I didn't have a name for it yet—my ability, this power—but I figured information was the first step to mastering it.
Besides, if something happened to me, I wanted someone to understand. Even if they thought I was insane.
The strange thing was, sometimes during the day, I'd get flashes. Not memories exactly—more like feelings. Echoes. My soul brushing against something I hadn't noticed before. A flicker of recognition when someone entered the shop. A faint chill when I touched certain objects.
Maybe the leech had changed me more than I realized.
Or maybe I was just imagining things.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was shifting. Slowly. Quietly. Like the calm before a storm.
But for now?
I smiled as I flipped the shop sign to "Closed," pocketed the keys, and headed upstairs. The sun dipped beneath the rooftops, casting long shadows across the street.
Night was coming.
And I had work to do.