Chapter 47: Psychic Power
Ordinary blood replenishment only repairs physical injuries. It also replenishes the spirit and soul, but this is because blood itself is the essence, and it's extremely limited, almost negligible.
Once the spirit is exhausted, what's needed is rest and recovery—rest for the soul, not the body.
He pondered, since his soul power was already strong enough to generate perception, and this perception amplified his ability to dispel the eerie female ghost, could he use this perception to directly attach it to his fist?
The ghost in the white dress seemed to sense something was wrong at this moment; Marcus's punch and slap made her feel danger.
The ghost actually released her spectral hand from Marcus's neck and began clawing at Marcus's chest with her black, bloodstained fingernails.
A grating, piercing sound rang out, somewhat like a knife slicing through leather.
This ghost's hand could actually penetrate clothing. The kevlar vest Marcus wore under his casual clothes could withstand close-range shotgun fire, but it couldn't withstand her spectral hand; streaks of blood appeared on his chest.
However, the bloodstains would heal in an instant, as the blood in his chest's life-sustaining reservoir continuously supplied his heart, keeping his body recovering.
The ghost couldn't penetrate his skin's defenses at all.
Marcus simply ignored her, standing still and concentrating his mind, trying to activate and control the sensory power within a foot of his body.
As his thoughts and spirit focused, the sensory power, like an inverted golden bell, slowly changed shape.
The golden bell formed by the sensory power was gradually pulled away from his feet, shrinking back to his upper body, and the sensory power in his upper body gradually became more refined.
The sensory power was now like a short vest. Marcus didn't stop, continuing to shrink it and controlling it to spread towards his right arm.
The short vest formed by the sensory power changed again, slowly flowing towards his right arm like mercury, gradually covering his fist and enveloping his right arm.
Ordinary people might not be able to see it, but from Marcus's perspective, the compressed sensory power, glowing with ethereal light, clung tightly to his right arm.
His right arm now looked like he was wearing a phantom gauntlet similar to Iron Man's right arm, or like the energy layer covering the area after a power-up in a video game.
At this moment, his perception was no longer a scattered, indistinct field; it was combined with his fist, unleashing a destructive attack with the force of his punch.
"This punch will obliterate you!"
Marcus threw a punch, scattering the air currents, and with a whistling sound, slammed it into the ghost's pale, resentful face.
Poof!
It felt like flicking away cigarette ash.
The ghost in the white dress transformed into a cloud of black mist, which seemed to have mass as it scattered on the ground.
The black mist struggled to coalesce, drifting towards the roadside, sometimes revealing half a leg, sometimes half a head, but instantly dissipating into black mist.
"Not so fast!"
Marcus pounced like a tiger, flashing through the shadows, his right fist completely obliterating the black mist, and everything returned to calm.
He assessed the impact; those two punches had severely depleted his mental energy.
With his current mental strength, he could only manage a hundred punches consecutively at most, after which he would need a full day of rest to recover.
Marcus decided to call this compressed perception power "Psychic Touch."
As the name suggests, it's the power to touch spirits, but this power is still very weak. It's similar to how blessed weapons in horror movies could harm ghosts; he still needed to physically attack to disperse these ordinary specters.
At the night market on Maple Street, rows of food trucks were brightly lit, the air filled with the aroma of various snacks. People moved between the stalls, smiling and chatting with each other, while children chased and played.
"Thank you, come back soon!"
Behind a food truck displaying corn dogs and funnel cakes, a pretty girl in an apron waved goodbye to a customer.
Marcus wore a brand-new black leather jacket, holding a box of chicken tenders in his left hand and a bag of fries hooked under his index finger, eating as he continued to stroll.
He still preferred leather jackets; the pockets were large enough to hide many things, and it was stylish enough.
The night market looked prosperous and bustling, filled with laughter.
Marcus, however, could sense a numb, hollow atmosphere permeating the area. His extraordinary observational skills allowed him to see the paranoia and madness hidden beneath the fake smiles of these people.
Marcus could only marvel at how these people had survived this long; this world was clearly filled with all sorts of bizarre supernatural phenomena.
He walked from one end of the street to the other and had already spotted three people who were clearly not normal—pale, short of breath and weak-willed, as if they were cursed and wouldn't live long, but he had no intention of paying them any attention.
These things were none of his concern, as long as they didn't bother him.
Having eaten and looked around, Marcus decided to leave this food street. He walked along the main road for another five minutes and spotted a motel called the Riverside Inn.
"Mr. Richardson, the room's sixty bucks, twenty dollar deposit, here's your twenty in change."
"Here's your ID and room key, please keep them safe and follow me."
The manager, a tall, thin man in his forties wearing a gray polo shirt, handed Marcus a twenty-dollar bill and two cards, then turned and led the way.
The ID card bore the name: Jake Richardson.
Marcus took the card and glanced at it: 'Room 203, Riverside Inn'.
He put it in his jacket pocket and followed the middle-aged man upstairs through a narrow stairwell.
"Mr. Henderson from 203 checked out yesterday in a hurry without even getting his deposit back, so it's conveniently available today."
"Mr. Henderson was quite a regular guest, I'll return it to him next time I see him—we run an honest business here."
"Mr. Richardson, this way please!"
The middle-aged manager casually chatted as he walked up to the second floor, then gestured politely to the left.
Marcus nodded and walked forward.
"It has to be perfect, it has to be perfect, yes, this is how it should be, all lined up straight, that's better!"
As he passed the door of 202, a young man with slicked-back hair was crouching in front of a shoe rack, muttering as he meticulously arranged the sneakers in a perfect row without a single mistake, before finally letting out a sigh of relief.
"Mr. Carson, organizing your shoes? How thorough!" the manager greeted.
"Hey, Mr. Davis," Carson replied, only managing half a sentence before stopping, his smile vanishing, and he stood up with a serious expression, walking over to the manager.
"It needs to be straightened like this, Mr. Davis. Why don't you pay attention to presentation?"
Carson reached out and smoothed the wrinkled collar of the manager's shirt, straightening both sides until they were neat, before letting out a sigh of relief.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, Mr. Carson, I'll definitely pay more attention next time."
The manager nodded apologetically.
"I appreciate it." Carson nodded back, then hurried to adjust the shoe rack, aligning its edges with the baseboard until they were perfectly parallel, before finally showing a satisfied smile.
Marcus could sense that this was just a slightly OCD normal person, so he didn't pay much attention and followed them to room 203.
"Hey, hey, hey, you got the floor dirty again!"
Carson waited until the two of them passed by, saw the footprints Marcus had left, and frantically grabbed a mop to clean them up.
The dark brown bedroom door opened, revealing a simple studio layout divided into sections.
The back area had a bed and dresser, while the front section surprisingly included a kitchenette with a mini-fridge and microwave.
(End of Chapter)
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