[POV: Sora Amano] [Location: Capital City - Lower District] [Time: 6:15 PM]
The apple core sat in the gutter, brown and rotting, a perfect metaphor for how Sora felt about the last hour.
He watched Ren and Rika disappear around the bend of the cobblestone street, their silhouettes merging into the golden glow of the upper city's magical lamps. They walked arm in arm, heading toward warm baths, soft beds, and a destiny that had been written for them in shining letters.
Sora pulled his hood up. He turned left.
The transition was immediate. The clean, paved stones of the Merchant District gave way to cracked mud and gravel. The smell of roasting spices faded, replaced by the pungent aroma of stale ale, unwashed bodies, and the distinct, metallic tang of the slaughterhouse district.
He walked with his head down, hands deep in the pockets of his scavenged grey trousers.
He passed a beggar curled up in a doorway, wrapped in rags that looked disturbingly similar to Sora's own cloak. The man reached out a trembling hand. Sora didn't stop. He didn't have a copper to give, and even if he did, he wasn't sure he would. Charity was a luxury for people with full stomachs.
Keep moving. Don't make eye contact. Don't look like a victim.
He navigated the twisting alleys by instinct. The "Deadlands" had taught him how to read terrain, and a city slum was just a different kind of dungeon. The predators here didn't have claws; they had knives and desperation.
He turned a corner and the lighting changed.
Red lanterns hung from the eaves of the wooden buildings. The windows were open, spilling yellow light and the sound of forced laughter onto the street. Women—mostly human, but a few with the distinct ears of half-elves trying to hide their heritage—leaned against the doorframes, smoking thin pipes.
The Red Light District. It was waking up for the night shift.
"Hey, handsome," a woman in a corset called out, blowing a ring of smoke toward him. "You look like you need to forget something. Special price for the quiet ones."
Sora didn't slow down. He didn't even look at her. He just kept his pace steady, his boots making no sound on the dirt.
Forget something, he thought bitterly. If only it were that cheap.
He could still feel the resistance of the machete as it slid between the Elf woman's ribs. He could still feel the ghost of her hand on his sleeve. That wasn't something you could drink away or sleep away. That was a stain on the soul.
He pushed through the crowd of drunken laborers and shady merchants until the street opened up into a large, circular plaza.
In the center stood a building that looked like a fortress. Heavy oak doors reinforced with iron. A sign hanging above the entrance depicted a sword and a shield crossed over a coin.
The Adventurer's Guild.
Sora took a breath. He adjusted his grey cloak, trying to look less like a vagrant and more like a professional. He pushed the doors open.
The noise hit him like a physical wave.
The Guild Hall was massive. It smelled of sawdust, beer, and testosterone. Dozens of tables were filled with armored men and women, shouting over mugs of ale, comparing loot, or arguing about contracts.
Sora scanned the room.
To Ren or Daigo, this room would be a sea of blue boxes. They would see [Level 15 Warrior] or [Level 12 Mage]. They would see health bars and mana pools.
Sora saw nothing but people.
He forced his brain to switch gears. If he didn't have the System, he had to use the only tool he had: Deduction.
Target 1: A massive man at the nearest table, slamming a tankard down. Observation: Heavy plate armor on the right shoulder, leather on the left. Asymmetrical. Deduction: He fights with his right side forward. Probably a Vanguard or a Breaker. The dents in the armor are old, polished over. He hasn't seen real combat in months. He's a braggart. Rank C at best.
Target 2: A woman sitting alone in the corner, cleaning a long, thin needle. Observation: No armor. wearing common clothes. Fingers are stained purple. Deduction: Poison user. Or an Alchemist. She's checking the door every three seconds. Paranoia. High survival instinct. Dangerous. Avoid her.
Sora moved through the crowd, weaving between the tables. He felt invisible. Without a Class Title floating over his head, he was just background noise to these "Heroes" of the local world.
He reached the front reception.
A young woman with chestnut hair tied in a practical bun stood behind the wooden counter. She was pretty in a sharp, efficient way. She was sorting through a stack of parchment requests.
She looked up as Sora approached. Her eyes did a quick sweep—clothes, weapon (hidden), demeanor.
"Welcome to the Central Guild," she said, her voice professional but bored. "New registrations are closed until tomorrow morning. If you're looking for the latrine, it's out back."
Sora placed his hands on the counter. They were dirty, but steady.
"I'm not looking for a membership. Yet," Sora said. "I was told this Guild purchases dungeon materials. Unprocessed."
The girl raised an eyebrow. "We do. Depending on the quality and the source. But if you're trying to sell rat tails or slime cores, take them to the novice branch in the East District. We handle the heavy stuff here."
"I have heavy stuff," Sora lied smoothly.
He tapped the counter.
"Where do I go?"
The girl studied him for a second longer. She saw something in his eyes—the lack of fear, maybe. Or the exhaustion.
"Far right corner," she pointed with a quill. "Material Appraisal. Ask for old man Jareth. And don't waste his time. He throws things."
"Thanks," Sora nodded.
He walked toward the corner. As he passed a group of adventurers gathered around a large map on the wall, he slowed down. They were talking loudly, pointing at the western section of the map.
"Closed!" a man in chainmail shouted, slamming his fist into his palm. "Can you believe it? The Royal Guard has the whole perimeter locked down!"
"They say the dungeon was cleared," another adventurer, a mage holding a staff, grumbled. "Some Royal Academy kids went in and nuked the boss. An A-Rank Basilisk."
"Bullshit," the chainmail man spat. "Students? Killing a Zone Boss? It had to be the Royal Knights taking the credit."
"Doesn't matter who killed it," a third voice chimed in. "The point is, the Core destabilized. The ambient mana is resetting. The Guild Master declared a three-month embargo on the Howling Caverns. No entry until the ecosystem reboots."
Sora paused, pretending to adjust his boot lace.
Analysis: So that's how it works. When a Boss dies, the dungeon doesn't just spawn a new one instantly. It goes dormant. It "resets."
This meant the economy of this world was cyclical. Adventurers depended on the dungeons remaining active. By killing the Basilisk, Ren's party had saved the miners, but they had just put half these adventurers out of work for a quarter of a year.
Heroes save the world, Sora thought, a dry smile touching his lips. But they ruin the economy.
He stood up and continued to the counter.
Jareth was exactly what Sora expected: a withered old dwarf with a magnifying glass screwed into his eye socket and a beard that smelled like formaldehyde.
"What?" Jareth barked, not looking up from a pile of glowing mushrooms he was sorting.
Sora reached into his pouch. He pulled out the five curved, obsidian-black fangs he had pried from the mouths of the Shadow Hyenas back in the tunnel. They were still cold to the touch.
He placed them on the velvet tray.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.
Jareth stopped. He looked at the fangs. He picked one up, holding it to the light.
"Shadow Hyena," Jareth muttered. "Adult. Clean extraction. The root is intact."
He looked at Sora, really looked at him, squinting through his magnifying lens.
"These are fresh. The blood hasn't even fully coagulated in the marrow. You got these from the Howling Caverns?"
"Does it matter?" Sora asked flatly.
"The dungeon is closed, boy," Jareth said suspiciously. "Royal decree."
"I got them before the decree," Sora lied. "Are you buying, or are you interrogating?"
Jareth grunted. He weighed the fangs.
"Shadow Hyena fangs are reagents for Invisibility Potions and Shadow-step scrolls. High demand right now, especially with the dungeon closing. Supply is about to cut off."
Sora kept his face blank. He knew supply and demand.
"So the price just went up," Sora said.
Jareth narrowed his eyes. "Smart kid. Fine. Market rate is usually one silver and fifty coppers per fang. I'll give you two silvers each. That's ten silvers total. Take it or leave it."
Sora did the math quickly.
1 Gold = 100 Silver. 1 Silver = 100 Copper.
Ten silvers was... decent. It wasn't a fortune. It wouldn't buy a sword or armor. But for a guy with literally nothing? It was a lifeline.
"Make it eleven," Sora countered. "For the clean extraction."
Jareth snorted. He reached into a drawer and counted out coins.
"Ten silvers and fifty coppers," Jareth slammed the coins on the tray. "And get out of my face."
Sora swept the coins into his pocket. "Pleasure doing business."
He walked out of the Guild, the heavy purse feeling reassuring against his leg. It wasn't "Hero Money." Ren probably got a thousand gold just for existing. But this? This was earned.
[Location: Merchant District - 'The Thrifty Thread']
Sora stared at the reflection in the cracked mirror.
The boy staring back looked tired.
He had ditched the grey scavenged leather armor. It was too conspicuous, too damaged. He needed to blend in.
He was wearing a simple black button-down shirt made of rough cotton, a dark grey vest that had seen better days, and sturdy black trousers. It wasn't noble wear. It wasn't adventurer gear. It looked like something a servant or a low-ranking guild clerk might wear.
Anonymous.
"It fits well," the shopkeeper said, a bored woman chewing on a toothpick. "Eight silvers for the lot, including the boots."
"The boots are used," Sora pointed out, wiggling his toes in the leather.
"That means they're broken in," she countered.
Sora paid her. Eight silvers.
He had two silvers and fifty coppers left.
"Do you know a cheap inn?" Sora asked. "Somewhere with water."
"The Rusty Tankard, two streets down," she pointed. "Don't drink the ale. But the beds don't have too many bugs."
[Location: The Rusty Tankard Inn - Room 4]
The room was the size of a closet. It had a bed that sagged in the middle, a chair with three legs, and a window that didn't close all the way.
Sora sat on the edge of the bed.
On the floor was a wooden bucket filled with cold water and a rough white cloth the innkeeper had thrown at him.
Cost of room and bath water: 2 Silvers, 45 Coppers.
He opened his hand.
Five coppers.
That was it. That was his net worth. Enough for maybe half a loaf of bread tomorrow morning.
"Success," Sora whispered to the empty room.
He stripped off his new clothes, folding them neatly on the chair. He stood naked in the cold room, shivering slightly.
He picked up the cloth, dipped it into the freezing water, and began to scrub.
He scrubbed the dirt from the Deadlands off his skin. He scrubbed the black goblin blood off his arms. He scrubbed the grime of the city off his face.
But when he got to his hands, he stopped.
He looked at his right hand. The water dripping from it was clear. But in his mind, it was red.
Kill... please...
The Elf woman's voice echoed in the small room.
Sora scrubbed harder. He rubbed the skin until it turned raw and red.
"It was mercy," Sora whispered, his voice shaking. "It was mercy."
He dipped the cloth again. The water in the bucket rippled, distorting his reflection.
He wasn't a Hero. Ren was the Hero. Ren saved people. Ren inspired princesses. Ren brought light.
Sora? Sora was the guy who cleaned up the mess the light couldn't reach.
He finished washing. He dressed in his new black clothes. He combed his wet hair back with his fingers.
He looked in the mirror again.
The dark circles under his eyes were still there. The thin white scar on his jaw stood out against his pale skin. He didn't look like a student of Class 3-G anymore. He looked older. Hollowed out.
"Time to go to the ball," Sora muttered.
He grabbed his rusty machete. He couldn't wear it to the party—the guards would confiscate it. He wrapped it in his old grey cloak and shoved it under the mattress.
"Stay there," he told the weapon. "I'll be back."
He walked out of the inn, stepping back onto the street.
The sun had set completely now. The twin moons of Altherion hung in the sky—one large and silver, the other small and red.
Sora looked up toward the center of the city.
The Royal Castle loomed on the hill, illuminated by hundreds of magical lights. It glowed like a beacon, a massive diamond set in the dark velvet of the night.
He could hear faint music drifting on the wind.
Ren was there. Rika was there. The Princess was there.
Sora adjusted his vest. He touched the five copper coins in his pocket—his anchor to reality.
He started walking uphill. Toward the light. Toward the place where he didn't belong, to celebrate a victory that felt like a funeral.
One foot in front of the other, Sora told himself. Just survive the night. Tomorrow, we get the License. Tomorrow, we start for real.
He merged into the shadows of the street, a ghost walking toward the feast of the living.