Jack had been training like us.

Well—training is a generous word.

Since he was a ghost, he couldn't lift weights, punch things, or even high-five reality. So Stronges told him to meditate instead—basically the ghost version of uninstalling life and reinstalling patience.

At first, he struggled. Probably because his brain had the attention span of a TikTok viewer. But after years of practice, he leveled up so hard he became the Final Boss of Yoga.

If enlightenment had leaderboards, he'd be ranked just below Buddha and one spot above that one stoner who "feels energy through the floor."

But right now, he was nowhere to be seen.

His body, on the other hand, was back to prime corpse condition—shiny, clean, practically ready for magazine covers.

He thought of me as his best friend. Which is touching, considering I once used his skull as a medieval locksmith tool. Growth, I guess.

Everyone wanted to see him.

So I asked Stronges where he was.

The woman sighed like a tired mom about to reveal her son failed kindergarten again.

"He's meditating."

"Where?" I asked.

She looked me dead in the eyes and said, "In the bathroom."

…

My eyebrow twitched.

"Bathroom? Why?"

"He says he can't concentrate anywhere else. And he likes the smell."

I blinked.

The smell?

Stronges nodded with complete seriousness, like this was the most normal sentence in existence.

"He lived a hundred years in that stinking cell. His nose made peace with hell. Now, only foul odors calm his soul."

Have you ever heard something so stupid it loops back around and becomes wise? Yeah, that.

I nodded like I understood, but deep down, my last three brain cells were filing complaints.

"Tell him to come here, master," I said. "He should see his body. He'll cry tears of joy—or ghost ectoplasm, whatever."

Stronges didn't argue. She went to the bathroom to summon our holy Toilet Monk.

She opened the door and—

WHOOOSH!

A sudden gust of cold wind slammed into the room, like the AC of God just got activated.

Ghost Jack appeared in front of me, glowing faintly, eyes wide like he'd just seen his own reflection and realized he was hot again.

I had picked up his corpse from the floor—me and Erect were holding it together like two guys helping a drunk friend who refused to die properly.

One arm of the corpse was hanging around my neck, the other around Erect's. We looked like the world's most cursed boy band.

Jack floated there, trembling, staring at his body.

His hands shook. His mouth quivered.

His eyes shimmered like cheap anime tears.

"It looks so… goooooood!!" he screamed.

His voice echoed through the basement like an emotional foghorn.

Everyone smiled. It was a weirdly wholesome moment for a scene featuring a corpse with a titanium leg.

Jack turned to me, eyes softer than they'd ever been.

No anger, no resentment—just the peace of a ghost who'd finally stopped plotting my death.

Then he spoke.

"I'm sorry for everything, pal. You kept your promise."

I shook my head.

"It wasn't me. It was the master. I just happened to find her. I should be the one apologizing. I burned you, used you to break locks, and literally treated your body like a Swiss Army knife."

Jack laughed.

"Well, we both made some mistakes. But if it weren't for you, I'd still be locked up and bald. So… thanks."

We looked at each other like two idiots who finally decided to stop being emotionally constipated.

"Forget the past," I said. "Let's kill Malthus and take our world back."

Jack smiled—the kind of smile that makes you forget he's technically dead.

Then, suddenly, he raised a hand and clenched his fist.

"Fist bump, was it?"

I blinked. "You remember that?"

"Of course," he said, smirking. "The first time you showed me, I swallowed your hand."

I lost it.

I straight-up cackled.

The man had evolved from haunting people to haunting punchlines.

So yeah, this was history in the making—the first ghost-human fist bump in the world.

He extended his translucent fist. I extended mine.

Our fists met—well, kinda. His passed through, but I held it there.

It wasn't solid. It wasn't even physical.

But that little motion sealed something real.

Friendship, forgiveness, and a tiny sprinkle of insanity.

Everyone clapped like this was a Hallmark ending.

Then Stronges walked up, face carved from granite and violence.

That look said: sentimental time over—war time now.

She took Jack's dead body off our shoulders like it weighed nothing.

She literally picked up 180 pounds of "post-life regret" like she was taking out the trash.

She turned to Ghost Jack.

"I'll carry your body. You stay close. If anyone's struggling in battle, you help them. You're support now."

Jack nodded respectfully, probably trying not to float into a wall.

Then Stronges looked at me. "You'll get new skills soon, right?"

I frowned. "How did you know?"

She smirked. "I know everything. You've been training hard, but I made sure you were too tired to do anything else. That way, you couldn't waste energy… on other things."

"Other things?" I asked, pretending not to know.

She raised an eyebrow. "You boys at your age tend to masturbate."

The room went silent.

Sexis froze.

Erect's hammer twitched.

Bro. She really said that.

In front of her son.

With eye contact.

Earth could never.

"I went overboard with your training," she continued proudly, "so you wouldn't waste your life force on cheap dopamine."

I stared at her like she just solved world hunger with trauma.

"Right," I said. "You definitely succeeded. My soul's too tired to sin."

Stronges smirked like a woman who's never lost an argument.

Then, without warning, she extended her left hand—and from one of the rooms, metal chains shot out and wrapped around her arm like obedient snakes.

The sound was heavy. Final.

The kind of sound that made even ghosts flinch.

She looked at us, eyes gleaming with war.

"Alright," she said, voice dripping with lethal calm.

"It's time to make some heads roll."

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