Chapter Four: Don't Be Afraid, I'll Borrow a Light

A few minutes ago, as the sun was setting, Elia—whose schedule was completely reversed—awoke from a nap. Beside him lay a broken toaster, and in front of him stood his trembling, hungry daughter, who hadn’t eaten a hot meal all day due to their gas being cut off for nonpayment. For a brief moment, he considered suggesting they go scavenge for a secondhand appliance at the junkyard.

But, alas, adults are rarely willing to admit their helplessness in front of their children. Elia and Ophelia exchanged glances, frustration evident in their eyes. He wiped the exhaustion from his face, having just removed his disguise to conserve energy, then turned around, pulled out the Book of Fate (since he couldn’t find a screwdriver at home), and prepared to wrestle once more with the broken toaster.

Picture this: a humanoid figure draped entirely in black, faceless and radiating an intimidating aura, sitting in the kitchen, twisting open the toaster’s casing with a glowing silver screwdriver. The scene was eerily bizarre.

Then something even stranger happened. Elia stumbled upon a curious ring that had appeared out of nowhere. It seemed to have undergone some degree of linguistic localization, but not enough to be fully comprehensible.

Under normal circumstances, Elia’s curiosity might have led him to engage the ring in conversation, but his social anxiety was not about nonhumans, and at this moment, he was in an extremely foul mood—almost ready to don a cape and become a vigilante, meting out justice by any means necessary. He had no desire to waste time communicating with a strange object that couldn’t fix appliances.

The ring babbled incessantly: “Detected conflict between current language and target intelligent being’s common tongue. Attempting calibration... calibration failed.”

“Reason for detection failure... unknown.”

“Restarting translation function. Current language: English.”

Elia ignored the incomprehensible chatter, absorbed in poking at the wiring with his screwdriver.

The yellow ring continued to spew information without receiving a response. Several times, it tried to approach Elia, only to be swatted away like a fly by the man wielding the screwdriver. Finally, after endless rambling, it asked: “What if I can repair appliances?”

“...”

Elia furrowed his brow and lifted the toaster, inspecting its base.

The ring pressed on: “If I can repair appliances, will you join the Cenisto Legion?”

Still no reply. Moments later, footsteps sounded behind him.

Ophelia Esposito—who usually kept to the corner whenever he was awake—cautiously stepped closer, stopping about two meters away, and whispered almost inaudibly: “...It can toast bread.”

Strangely, Elia, who had ignored the ring’s words, responded immediately to her.

He set down the screwdriver without turning around and calmly asked in English, “What?”

Ophelia watched his movements closely. Seeing that he remained still, she grew slightly more confident and repeated more loudly, “It can toast bread.”

Children tend to use simpler vocabulary and grammar, and speak slowly, so this time Elia understood clearly. He appraised the ring hovering before him, briefly recalling that in most stories, anything that approaches you and speaks on its own is usually trouble.

But Elia truly needed a working toaster.

He stood still for a moment, still holding the screwdriver in his right hand. He wiped the dust off his left hand with a towel before extending it toward the ring.

“What do you want?”

The ring didn’t answer. Instead, it suddenly transformed into a golden flame, rushing upward.

“Elia Esposito, you are about to be conquered...!”

Hearing the ring’s words, Ophelia’s shoulders and fingers tensed abruptly. She looked at Elia in panic, unsure whether her feelings were fear or worry.

Elia remained composed. On one hand, his daughter was right behind him. On the other, his years navigating society had taught him well: whenever you gain something useful, you inevitably lose something—be it money, innocence, or a part of your soul.

The ring, like the tooth of a beast, clamped firmly onto Elia’s left middle finger.

One second passed.

Two seconds passed.

Ten seconds passed.

Nothing happened.

Elia tapped the steel band of the ring with his screwdriver and asked, “Alive?”

The yellow glow flickered weakly. “Unknown error occurred. Suspected attack. Automatically activating energy shield. Energy shield activation failed. Remaining energy level: 0%.”

Then, like a phone dying from low battery, it went silent, becoming little more than a cheap decorative trinket worth ten bucks on the secondhand market.

Elia: “...”

Is it dead? Just like that? At least fix my toaster first!

He stared at the ring on his finger, unaware that once he was confirmed unharmed, Ophelia’s shoulders relaxed slightly and two tears accidentally welled up and rolled down her cheeks.

Elia removed the ring and casually slipped it into his pocket. Turning back, he was about to offer a brief explanation when he spotted the little girl furiously wiping her tears with clenched lips.

Help!

Why is she crying again? Could she be starving to tears?

Goosebumps rose on Elia’s arm. He silently watched Ophelia for a moment, and seeing her sobs uncontrollable, he shoved the Book of Fate into his pocket and stormed toward the door with grim determination, as if ready to declare war on the world.

Just as he finished donning his full human disguise and stepped out the door, he paused and turned back, asking Ophelia in a low voice, “How do I politely ask the neighbor to toast bread for me?”

...

Ten minutes later, Elia crossed a rusted fire escape and stood before his neighbor’s front door.

His home was on the edge of a desperate slum, separated by only one street from a wealthy district—a heartbreaking contrast. But today, Elia wasn’t seeking help from the rich; he was simply asking the neighbors in the same building for a favor.

Before knocking, he absentmindedly surveyed the surroundings.

This was typical of someone with social anxiety—meticulously preparing and rehearsing conversations in their mind before speaking. Since Elia was unfamiliar with his own neighborhood, he lingered a bit longer in place.

Then, his heightened senses—far beyond ordinary—picked up the crisp sound of a curtain being drawn from a window ahead.

Elia looked toward the noise and glimpsed a very familiar face fleeting between the curtains.

It was the international gang lieutenant who had aimed a gun at him just yesterday!

Without time to think, driven by a sudden surge of danger, Elia rushed to the door in three swift steps, kicked open the iron gate, and charged into the room with the window, catching the lieutenant attempting to escape by another route.

In the flash of a moment, Elia’s reactions were lightning-fast, his movements decisive beyond normal human capacity. Yet his language faculties completely collapsed.

...

After several seconds, Elia grimly uttered in the only language he could recall from the Book of Fate:

“Don’t be afraid, I’m just borrowing a light.”

The gun-wielding lieutenant froze.

Elia’s voice was like a sharp iron hook piercing the lieutenant’s ears, twisting relentlessly inside his mind. He had never before experienced the most intense human fear—until now.

His heart pounded wildly to confirm he was still alive, sweat poured down his body, veins threatening to burst, and his vision blurred with flickering lights and shadows. The lieutenant almost thought he was dead, until his taut nerves finally snapped.

He passed out, utterly relieved.

From Elia’s perspective, the lieutenant had simply blacked out from terror. Skillfully, Elia confiscated the weapon, secured him to a chair with tape as seen in movies, and then proceeded to the kitchen in search of a microwave.

Thank the marvels of modern society!

Elia, unusually in good spirits, watched the bread spin in the microwave while asking the lieutenant in English, “How did you end up here?”

The man answered honestly, “On Morgan Edge’s orders.”

Morgan Edge: international gang leader and CEO of Galactic Communications. Elia had only heard that name from another gang member the day before.

That the mafia boss was targeting Elia meant one thing—his cover had been blown.

But Elia thought hard and couldn’t pinpoint any obvious mistake; the lieutenant himself was clueless. The situation had reached a stalemate:

If Elia ignored it, the powerful gang would send more men sooner or later, and next time it might not be so easily resolved.

But even if he wanted to address it, how could he possibly save himself?

The former law-abiding citizen sat in the kitchen, troubled, pondering the bitterness of eating bread alone. He opened the fridge and found an unopened jar of strawberry jam and half a dozen slices of cheese.

He prepared the bread with jam, salad leaves, and cheese, then delivered it to Ophelia next door. Returning, he asked the lieutenant:

“I want to meet Morgan Edge. Conflict might arise. Any advice?”

The lieutenant replied meekly, “Try to stay alive.”

“And avoid Superman.”

Superman.

Compared to a mafia boss who insisted on calling himself an international gang, Elia paid more attention to this name. Living in Metropolis, he often heard people speak proudly of the city’s superhero.

As the saying goes, your greatest enemy knows you best. Elia intended to ask one of Superman’s foes what kind of person the hero truly was.

But at that very moment, a sharp pain seared across Elia’s cerebral cortex, and an alarm blared in his mind. It felt as if a distant gaze from the far reaches of deep space, from the heavens above, was quietly watching him.