I Signed a Lease, Not a Ghost Contract!

Tyla sat on her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest as she stared at the dimly lit room. The faint hum of the city outside filtered through the walls, a reminder of how little time she had. The apocalypse was coming.

She needed more money.

The system had gifted her a few things, but it wasn't enough. She needed food, supplies, and—most importantly—more spells and magical tools. She doesn't want to wast any system points on food and supplies that could be found on earth . She had scrolled through the [Shop] before, noting the various spells, talismans, and artifacts. Some were too expensive, others too advanced for her current level.

Her fingers hovered over the translucent interface, her eyes narrowing as she searched for something useful. Something she could turn into a business.

That's when she saw it.

[Tarot Divination: Beginner's Manual] – 200 SP

[Basic Tarot Deck (Bound to User)] – 100 SP

Tyla's heartbeat quickened.

Tarot reading.

She had heard of people making a decent living from fortune telling—whether as a serious skill or just a gimmick. But she wasn't just anyone. She had magic. If she could use tarot properly, especially in conjunction with the astral world, she might be able to achieve something beyond ordinary readings.

She tapped the purchase button.

Golden light shimmered before her as the system deducted her points. A small, leather-bound manual and a deck of dark blue tarot cards materialized in her hands. The cards were smooth, slightly cool to the touch, with silver-etched symbols on the back. The book smelled faintly of old parchment, despite being brand new.

Tyla flipped through the manual, absorbing the basics:

The meaning of each card.

How to attune the deck to herself.

Different types of spreads and readings.

The influence of magic on divination.

She spent the next few days practicing. At first, her readings were clumsy—she mixed up card meanings, misinterpreted spreads, and struggled to sense anything beyond what she could rationally guess. The system occasionally chimed in, correcting her mistakes, though it didn't provide much guidance beyond what was written.

"Lady Boss, divination is not about logic," System 111 chirped one evening, floating in front of her with a pout. "You keep thinking too much. Let your instincts flow!"

Tyla exhaled in frustration, shuffling the cards again. "Easier said than done."

Her first few attempts at reading her own future gave vague, often contradictory results. She had hoped for something concrete—but all she got were cryptic answers.

It wasn't until she tried performing a reading before astral projecting that she noticed a shift.

The moment she entered the astral world, it was as if reality stretched and warped. This realm, a plane of shifting shadows and gleaming light, was connected to time itself. The past, present, and future bled into one another here.

She had brought the tarot deck with her—not physically, but as an extension of her intent. The cards shimmered with an ethereal glow, their images more vivid, more alive. When she shuffled and laid them out in this world, the meanings came easier.

Her first reading in the astral world had been about herself.

"Will I succeed in mastering tarot?"

She drew three cards:

The Fool – A journey, a new beginning.

The Hanged Man – Struggle, learning through hardship.

The Moon – Uncertainty, hidden truths.

A chill ran down her spine. It wasn't a clear answer, but it was something.

As she continued testing, she realized the readings here were sharper, almost like whispers from the universe itself. But they were also… unstable.

One night, she attempted a reading on her future a week from now. The spread suggested danger—something about The Tower and The Five of Swords. Yet, when she asked the same question an hour later, the cards changed.

Frustrated, she consulted the manual again. The answer was there, hidden in small, cursive script:

"At lower levels, divination is fleeting. Fate is always shifting, and the further you look, the more tangled the web becomes."

Tyla sighed, rubbing her temple.

So that was the limit. Right now, her readings could only show short-term glimpses, and even then, accuracy wasn't guaranteed.

Still, it was something but just not what she needed right now.

Frustrated, Tyla sat at her desk, flipping through the [Ultimate Household Spells Guide], which she had received as a reward for saving Arthur. Tonight, she kept looking for a way to make money.

Her eyes landed on a simple yet intriguing spell:

[Minor Repair]

Effect: Restores small damages in non-living non-magical objects, including cracks, scratches, broken hinges, and loose threads. Works on ceramics, wood, fabric, and light metals. Does restore missing pieces.

Her fingers traced the elegant script.

Fixing broken things… If she could do that, she wouldn't need to gamble with divination or take risky shortcuts.

She could buy damaged antiques, repair them, and resell them online.

It was a safe, steady income—one that hopefully wouldn't draw too much suspicion.

She exhaled slowly and placed the book aside. Time to test it.

She dug through her apartment and found an old porcelain teacup with a visible hairline crack along the rim.

Perfect.

Placing the cup in front of her, she followed the book's instructions:

1. Focus on the object.

2. Channel a small amount of mana.

3. Speak the incantation: "Mend."

A faint golden light spread from her fingertips, sinking into the porcelain. The crack shimmered—then sealed itself shut as if it had never been there.

Tyla lifted the cup and inspected it under the light.

Smooth. Flawless.

Her heart pounded.

It worked.

The next day, she hit the flea market.

Instead of looking for hidden gems, she hunted for broken items—cracked pottery, scratched silverware, worn leather goods.

She bought a damaged wooden jewelry box for $3, a tarnished silver bracelet for $5, and a chipped porcelain vase for $10.

Back home, she set to work.

The jewelry box's broken hinge? Fixed in seconds.

The silver bracelet's dull, scratched surface? Polished back to a brilliant shine with a simple cleaning spell.

The vase's crack? Gone.

She listed them online with high-quality photos.

The results were instant.

The $3 jewelry box sold for $50.

The $5 bracelet went for $80.

The $10 vase? $150.

Within a week, her funds had doubled.

At first, the vendors didn't notice.

But as she returned, always seeking broken things, rumors started to spread.

"She only buys damaged stuff, but I swear I saw that same vase online looking brand new."

"She's either a restoration genius or a scam artist."

"Maybe she's got some kinda… special trick?"

One old vendor squinted at her. "Girl, you got some magic hands or what?"

Tyla just smiled and handed him a five-dollar bill for another "useless" trinket.

He shook his head but took the money.

By the end of the first month since her rebirth , Tyla's apartment was well-stocked.

Her bank account had grown significantly.

Her System Inventory was three quarter filled with non-perishable food and supplies.

And most importantly, she had a low-profile way to keep earning money without exposing her powers.

As she flipped a newly repaired silver ring between her fingers, she exhaled in satisfaction.

Her system points increased steadily through minor system missions related to her skill use, and before long, she had more than enough money to stock up on more supplies.

Grains, canned goods, dried meat, bottled water—her inventory filled up fast.

Tyla smiled as she stashed her latest haul. Let the apocalypse come.

Unfortunately, her newfound peace didn't last.

One evening, as Tyla returned to her apartment, she found Mrs. Park lurking near her door.

Mrs. Park was a sharp-eyed, money-hungry woman in her late fifties, always sniffing out ways to squeeze extra cash from tenants. Tonight, she wore an overly sweet smile—which only meant trouble.

"Tyla, dear," she cooed, her sharp gaze sweeping over Tyla's new boots and stylish coat. "Looking quite fancy these days, aren't we?"

Tyla stayed silent, but she could already see it coming.

Mrs. Park sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "You see, times are tough, and I've been so generous keeping the rent low… but with rising costs, I have no choice but to increase your rent."

She smiled, fake and smug. "I trust you understand, dear?"

Tyla's eyes narrowed.

"My lease agreement says the rent stays the same for the next three months."

Mrs. Park waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, paperwork, paperwork. Let's not be so rigid. Besides, there are extra fees to consider—maintenance, security… I'll be kind and only ask for an additional $500 a month."

$500?

Tyla's eye twitched.

This greedy old hag.

Fine. If Mrs. Park wanted to play games, Tyla would make her run for her life.

She gasped softly, her expression turning sympathetic. "Oh, Ms. Park… you don't know?"

Mrs. Park frowned. "Know what?"

Tyla hesitated, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice.

" My apartment is haunted….who would pay expensive rent for a haunted apartment ?"

Mrs. Park stared at her. Then she snorted. "Oh, please. What kind of nonsense—"

Tyla shook her head, her face serious. "You don't have to believe me. But the only reason I'm safe is because Nancy likes me."

Mrs. Park blinked. "Nancy?"

Tyla nodded solemnly. "The ghost. She's really sweet, actually. Helps me clean, cooks sometimes… I think she just wants company. If she doesn't like someone, though…"

She trailed off, giving Mrs. Park a meaningful look.

Mrs. Park scoffed. "You expect me to believe—"

"Come see for yourself," Tyla offered, already unlocking her door.

Mrs. Park hesitated, but her greed won. She stomped forward.

"Fine. I'll prove you're lying."

---

Inside, Tyla's apartment was cozy and clean—except for one detail.

The kitchen was working by itself.

Mrs. Park froze in place.

A knife was slicing vegetables on its own, the pieces falling into a bubbling pot on the stove. A ladle stirred the soup by itself, steam rising as the fire adjusted perfectly under the pot. A broom swept across the floor with steady movements, and a rag was wiping the counter—alone.

Mrs. Park turned white.

Tyla smiled warmly at the air, pretending not to notice the landlady's terror.

"Ah, Nancy, you're so helpful today! Thank you."

She even tilted her head like she was listening. "Oh? You think Mrs. Park looks lovely tonight? That's very sweet of you."

Mrs. Park visibly shook. "T-This is a trick! Some technology or—or—"

Then the knife stopped slicing.

It turned in midair.

And faced directly toward Mrs. Park.

The other knives on the counter rose, hovering like silent hunters.

Mrs. Park screamed.

The knives lunged.

"AAAAAHHHH!!!"

Mrs. Park bolted, dodging as the blades chased her around the room, narrowly missing her hair. She tripped over the broom, scrambled up, and ran in circles as the floating knives darted closer—playfully.

Tyla gasped dramatically, running after them.

"Nancy, no! That's rude!" she scolded the empty air. "Mrs. Park is a guest!"

The knives paused, hovering like they were sulking.

Mrs. Park panted, eyes wild.

Tyla sighed, shaking her head. "I don't know what's gotten into her. She's usually very sweet… Maybe it's the memory of her death."

Mrs. Park let out a strangled noise.

Tyla nodded thoughtfully. "Yes… she was a tenant, you know. Lived here years ago. But her landlord was so greedy, he made her life miserable. She died right in this apartment…mmm…l remember…was the landlord back then your father , Mrs .park ?"

Mrs. Park went still.

The knives twitched.

That was all it took.

Mrs. Park screamed and ran. She stumbled out the door, nearly falling down the stairs in her panic.

Tyla closed the door behind her, biting back a smile.

A moment later, System 111 fluttered out, eyes sparkling with admiration.

"Host is so scary! You didn't even use real ghosts!"

Tyla stretched lazily. "No need. Some people terrify themselves."

Outside, she heard Mrs. Park still running.

Tyla smiled.

Checkmate.

Now, she could focus on getting stronger—and preparing for the end of the world.

*********************************************

The city skyline of Vasthaven stretched endlessly beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of a penthouse perched atop a fortress of glass and steel, towering over the restless world below.

Inside, the air was crisp, cold, almost suffocating. A faint scent of aged leather and polished wood lingered, but it was pierced by the sharp tang of metal and ice—a scent that belonged only to their owner .

The dim lighting cast long, stretching shadows across the dark oak shelves, where books stood untouched, ornamental—useless. The only sound was the slow, rhythmic ticking of an antique clock, marking the passage of time like a predator waiting for its prey to falter.

The penthouse 's owner sat at his mahogany desk, silver hair cascading over his broad shoulders, an untouchable god in his domain. His black suit clung to his frame in crisp, perfect lines, its precision mirroring his nature—sharp, absolute, without flaw.

His icy blue eyes stared at the document before him.

A page he had not turned.

Not because of some pathetic mistake.

Because of her.

Across from him, his secretary,Nathan stood rigid, hands clenched behind his back, his spine damp with sweat. Twenty minutes.

His boss had not moved past the first page in twenty minutes.

That alone should have been a warning.

Nathan didn't dare speak. Didn't dare breathe too loudly. He had worked under Arthur Stone long enough to know that silence was the only way to survive when the air around him grew this cold.

Arthur's grip on the document tightened.

The dream.

It had returned.

It always did.

The suffocating abyss. The endless dark. The shadows, writhing at the edges of his vision, waiting for the inevitable. He had lived through it countless times, trapped in an unbreakable cycle where despair was the only constant.

But this time—

She had been there.

A figure of light, blurred yet unforgivably real.

She had touched him.

Him.

Arthur's jaw clenched.

That wasn't supposed to happen.

His world—his nightmares—were nothing but shadows, death, cold. There was no warmth. No light. No one.

And yet—

She had intruded, stepping into the very depths of his torment as if she belonged there. As if she had a right to exist in his world.

Arthur's fingers curled, the paper beneath his hand crumpling under the force. A flicker of irritation. A slow burn of something that should not exist within him.

The ghostly sensation of her fingertips lingered—featherlight against his frozen existence. He could still feel the heat of her lips, the way they had pressed against his, uninvited, audaciously soft—and then vanished the moment he reached for her.

She had dared to leave.

The thought sent a pulse of something dark, consuming, livid through his veins.

Nathan shifted.

Arthur's gaze snapped to him.

A single flicker of displeasure.

Nathan went still. Didn't breathe.

Arthur exhaled slowly, measured.

He didn't tolerate loss.

He didn't tolerate things slipping from his grasp.

That world belonged to him.

His control was absolute.

Yet somehow, some insignificant, nameless ghost of a woman had appeared in his mind—his world—and acted as if she had the right to leave him behind.

Arthur's fingers tapped once against the polished wood of his desk. A slow, deliberate sound that made Nathan stiffen as if a blade had been drawn against his throat.

Arthur's gaze shifted back to the skyline.

Vasthaven glittered beneath him, sprawling like a kingdom beneath its ruler, its people unaware that their fates balanced on a whim.

It didn't matter who she was.

It didn't matter if she was real or not.

Because Arthur did not accept the concept of chance.

He did not allow things to slip through his fingers.

If the universe had dared to give her to him—

Then she belonged to him.

And he would find her.

And when he did—

She wouldn't have the option to leave.

Not again.