Death had a face—and it wore his father's silhouette.
The wasteland city's walls rose like bleached ribs against the crimson sky. Ethan Su stepped from the Black Dragon, enhanced vision cutting through swirling dust to lock onto the figure atop the ramparts.
"Father?" The word escaped before professional composure could cage it.
The figure turned.
Where eyes should have been, only writhing darkness remained—a vortex that devoured light like a black hole consuming hope. Ethan's system erupted in clinical warnings:
[TAX AUDIT ALERT: Historical Bad Debt Manifestation]
[ENTITY CLASS: Automated Collection Agent]
[DEBT STATUS: 47 Years Overdue - Compound Interest Applied]
[AUTHORIZATION: Temporal Asset Seizure Approved]
"Boss." Marcus's voice cracked like old leather. "That ain't your pops. That's something else wearing his ID badge."
The shadow-entity raised one arm. Reality shrieked as rusted iron materialized—a spear that pulsed with chronological decay, aging the very air around its blade until oxygen molecules crumbled to dust.
Princess Avira pressed against reinforced glass, her aristocratic composure fracturing. "Impossible. Time manipulation violates the Cosmic Regulatory Framework. Even deities must file proper documentation—"
The spear flew.
Ethan stepped forward. Not away from death, but toward it—an auditor reviewing questionable expenses. The Black Dragon's military-grade prow, designed to punch through dreadnought armor, aged a millennium in seconds and crumbled to powder.
Fascinating. Real-time asset depreciation.
Iron kissed his arm. Agony exploded through every nerve as flesh withered, muscle turning to parchment, bones becoming brittle as autumn leaves. Fifty years of biological value hemorrhaged away in heartbeats.
But Ethan was already moving. Life essence hissed into his neck, flooding his system with concentrated vitality. Youth surged back through his veins as he examined the wound with a collector's hunger.
"Chronological asset manipulation." His eyes gleamed like a shark scenting blood in the water. "Now that's liquid capital with compound interest."
The shadow raised both arms. Space crystallized around Ethan—reality hardening into amber, trapping him for final collection.
He smiled the smile of a man who'd found a loophole in God's tax code.
"Universal Inheritance Law, Amendment Three, Subsection 7-Alpha." His voice carried supernatural authority across the wasteland. "I invoke forced inheritance protocols for all residual paternal assets as accumulated debt interest."
He lunged into the vortex.
His hand plunged through darkness that felt like drowning in ice. The QR code on his palm blazed golden, resonating with blood-red numbers materializing above the entity's head: [-1,000,000,000,000]. Ten trillion in arrears.
The codes sang to each other like tuning forks finding perfect pitch.
Power flowed between them—a circuit of debt and obligation completing across decades of compound interest. The inheritance protocol activated, and fundamental laws of time-based asset management inverted.
The rusted spear dissolved into molten gold streams—pure, crystallized time flowing like liquid starlight. Ethan breathed it in, drawing chronological energy into his lungs like a drowning man gasping air.
His system chimed with orgasmic satisfaction:
[ASSET ACQUIRED: Time Currency (100 Years)]
[GRADE: Premium Chronological Tender]
[EXCHANGE RATE: 1 Year = 10,000,000 Standard Credits]
[STATUS: Immediately Tradeable]
The shadow-entity collapsed, borrowed form scattering like smoke from an extinguished cigarette. Where it had stood, glowing script burned itself into cracked stone—text only time-holders could decipher.
Ethan read. His expression shifted from satisfaction to something approaching concern—a hairline crack in his professional facade.
"What's the damage report?" Marcus called, maintaining respectful distance from the supernatural audit aftermath.
"My father wasn't just dodging standard collection procedures." Ethan's voice carried the careful neutrality of a man reading his own death warrant. "He was fleeing the Temporal Audit Bureau. That entity? Just the processing fee."
Deep within the city, something vast stirred. Clockwork the size of skyscrapers ground against itself—cosmic machinery measuring existence in billable hours. Each tick shook reality's foundations like a universal metronome counting down to final judgment.
"Boss." Marcus barely whispered. "Check your wrist."
Ethan looked down with clinical detachment—a man reviewing his own credit report. A gray skull had branded itself into his skin, numbers bleeding crimson in precise bureaucratic font:
[REMAINING LIFESPAN: 71:59:58]
Seventy-one hours. Fifty-nine minutes. Fifty-eight seconds.
The countdown carved deeper with each passing moment—a biological audit timer that accepted no appeals.
He pulled his sleeve down with practiced calm, hiding the death sentence like concealing an overdue notice. "Standard inheritance tax processing fee. Claiming temporal assets requires collateral."
"Collateral?" Avira's voice climbed toward hysteria. "That's your entire life expectancy!"
"Only if I fail to locate this corporation's legal representative within the specified timeframe." Ethan walked toward the Black Dragon with measured steps, each footfall calculated for maximum efficiency. "The Bureau operates on bureaucratic principles. There's always an appeals process."
Inside his skull, probability matrices cascaded through decision trees at light speed. Risk assessments weighed survival odds against profit margins. Asset liquidation scenarios played out in parallel threads.
Seventy-one hours to find a ghost. To negotiate with entities treating human lifespan like quarterly earnings. To convince the Temporal Audit Bureau that one man's debt costs less than the universe's accounting error.
[71:59:23]
"Marcus." He settled into the passenger seat like a man reviewing his final tax return. "Fire her up. We have a corporate meeting."
The Black Dragon roared to life. As they pulled away, Ethan stared at his father's final message burning in ancient stone—temporal script searing itself into reality with contract permanence:
"The house always wins, son. But sometimes you can audit the house."
They raced into the wasteland, chasing time itself—the ultimate creditor that never accepted payment plans.
Behind them, cosmic clockwork grew louder, counting down to final collection.
[71:59:01]