The Rain Idol: Diva of the Divine

Chapter 2

Genta nearly choked on his own spit when he saw Laras—who had been passed out earlier like some bum who just lost their life savings in a Ponzi scheme—now standing tall with a golden aura so bright it made his eyes sting. The girl had just tapped the shadow monster's shoulder, and it had shattered into pieces like a cheap tin of crackers.

"Damn, is that a buff or a cheat code?" Genta muttered, his legs shaking harder than a T*****r account getting canceled by a mob.

Without wasting any time, he dragged Laras—who was still in some kind of trance—out of Fort Canning before any authorities or random onlookers could record the scene on their phones. They ended up at a sleazy motel on the outskirts of Geylang where the hourly rate was cheaper than a trendy latte in Orchard. Laras immediately collapsed onto a mattress that smelled like a blend of wet socks and desperation.

"Okay, Genta. Deep breath," Genta whispered, staring at his wallet, which contained only a single ten-dollar bill and some leftover coins for the bus. "We’ve got a girl who’s suddenly turned into a goddess, we’re being hunted by hellhounds, and right now, all we’ve got to go on is a wing and a prayer."

Genta looked at Laras, who was snoring softly. The aura around her was incredibly unstable. If Genta didn’t find a "protector" or at least a cash injection to perform an aura-cleansing ritual soon, Laras was going to explode—and Genta would likely end up as a pile of dust that wouldn't even qualify for an insurance payout.

"I need money. A lot of money. And luck bigger than a lottery jackpot," he snapped, grabbing his jacket.

By midnight, Genta was at the Maxwell Food Centre. The place, usually packed with tourists trying to look cool while struggling with spicy chicken rice, was now deserted, except for one stall in the corner that was still churning out fragrant steam that, strangely, felt very... expensive.

There, a stout old man in a tank top—with more sauce stains on it than Genta had I*******m followers—was busy slicing chicken. The man was wearing sunglasses in the middle of the night, and his smile... it was the kind of smile only possessed by someone who had mastered the secrets of the world.

That was him. Uncle Huat. The God of Wealth himself, disguised as a chicken rice hawker.

Genta stepped closer, trying to look as cool as possible even though his heart was pounding like a broken washing machine. "Uncle, one chicken rice. And give me the chili that makes negative auras disappear."

Uncle Huat stopped slicing. He looked up, his eyes behind the dark lenses sparkling like freshly minted gold coins. "Young man, you didn't come here to eat. You came here carrying a 'problem' with an aura that smells absolutely rotten. It smells like the end of the world, but with a hint of a heavenly scent that is... err, a bit annoying."

"I need help, Uncle. My girl—I mean, the girl I saved—is currently a vessel for a goddess, and I need funds for a containment ritual before she turns into a giant firework," Genta said, getting straight to the point, too tired for the usual melodrama.

Uncle Huat laughed, his voice booming like a safe falling from the tenth floor. "What do you think I am? A walking ATM? Here, clean the bad luck off this stall floor left by the people who ate here today. If you can clear out the residue of misfortune in ten minutes, I'll give you the capital. If you fail? You’ll be washing dishes here until the actual apocalypse arrives."

Genta snorted. "Ten minutes? I’ve finished a college thesis the night before the deadline. Challenge accepted."

Genta pulled out a paper talisman he’d drawn with a dying pen on the back of a grocery receipt. He began to move. While muttering incantations to smooth out the jammed chi flow around the customers' tables, he saw the remnants of bad luck clinging to the surfaces—like black shadows as sticky as chewing gum.

Sret!

Genta stomped his foot, breaking the chain of misfortune left behind by a failed businessman earlier that afternoon. "Get lost, bad luck! Don't hang around here; this is a god’s stall, not an emotional dumping ground!"

He grabbed a broom, swinging it not to sweep dust, but to brush away the stubborn negative energy. Hap! Genta leaped, catching a clump of gray cloud hovering in the corner of a table, then crushed it with a snap of his fingers.

"Two minutes left!" Uncle Huat shouted while busy stirring the chicken soup.

Genta was already drenched in sweat. The largest remaining piece of bad luck—a small curse from someone envious of the stall's success—was clinging right to the rice cooker. Genta took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and activated his sixth sense.

Gotcha.

He saw a black thread wrapped around the gas pipe. Without a second thought, Genta grabbed the thread, wound it around his finger, and burned it with a cigarette ember he’d somehow produced.

POOF!

A small burst of lucky energy exploded in the air, making the entire stall feel like it had just been sprayed with luxury gold perfume. Uncle Huat went silent. He took off his sunglasses, staring at Genta with an unreadable expression.

"Not bad," the God muttered. "It's been a long time since anyone could clear the meta-physical filth from my stall that cleanly."

Uncle Huat handed over a black ATM card that felt incredibly heavy with aura. "This card is for living expenses and ritual supplies. But remember, if that girl of yours causes chaos in my territory, I’ll personally claw back all this capital—plus interest in the form of your life."

Genta snatched the card with a trembling hand. "Understood, Uncle! Thank you! One chicken rice to go, please, for her breakfast."

Uncle Huat snorted but tossed a portion of chicken rice into a plastic bag anyway. "Get going. Before that God of War who sent his hounds realizes you two are still breathing."

Genta hurried away from Maxwell Food Centre. He felt like a lottery winner, but a cold sensation crawled up his spine as he looked back toward the motel.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

The motel... was pitch black. But it wasn't a normal darkness. There were cracks of purple light creeping along the walls of the building, as if reality itself was being torn apart by something far greater than just an unstable goddess.

"Laras?" he whispered, his heart feeling like it was about to drop.

He ran, kicking down the locked motel door. The sight inside the room froze him in place.

Laras wasn't on the bed. Instead, the walls of the room had vanished, revealing a void that shouldn't have existed in the middle of the city. And in the center of that rift in space, Laras stood floating. Her eyes were wide open, completely white, and behind her back, a pair of wings made of a thousand blades of light were slowly unfurling.

That wasn't what made Genta tremble, though.

In front of Laras stood a man in a sharp suit, holding a black umbrella, looking at her with a smile that was very... very familiar to Genta.

"Finally found you," the man's voice sounded like a knife scraping against glass. "The host has awakened. Now, it's time to start the real show."

Genta gasped as he realized who the man was. He was the same person from the old photo in his late grandfather's wallet—a man who was supposed to have died twenty years ago.

"You..." Genta stammered. "You... how are you still alive?!"

The man turned around, and for the first time, Genta saw the horrific truth. The man's face began to melt away, turning into a cracked, ancient wooden mask that leaked a darkness swallowing the motel's lights.

"Alive? Who said I was alive, Genta?" the man chuckled, his voice echoing through the dimensions. "I’m just the leftovers of a debt you haven't paid yet."

And suddenly, the entire motel began to collapse into a black hole opening in the floor, sucking Genta, Laras, and the mysterious man into a dimension that... was no longer Singapore.