The storage room was a temple of greed.
To a normal citizen of the Safe Zone, this room would look like a junkyard. Rows of rusted metal shelves reached the ceiling, packed with dusty crates, loose wires, and piles of bloodstained armor.
But to Aryan, who had spent the last six hours crawling through toxic sludge and fighting for his life in the rain, this room looked like a treasure vault.
He lay still behind a stack of crates marked "RECYCLABLE ORGANICS." The stench of sewage still clung to him, sharp and nauseating, but the air here smelled of something else—machine oil, old tobacco, and ozone.
He checked the grate above. Closed.
He checked the heavy blast door at the far end of the room. Sealed.
He was alone. For now.
Aryan let out a shuddering breath and slumped against the crate. His body was screaming. The adrenaline from the sewer fight was fading, leaving behind the raw, throbbing pain of his broken ribs and the Leech bite on his arm.
He looked at his arm. The makeshift bandage was soaked through with blackish blood. The infection from the sewer water was already setting in; the skin around the wound was hot and red.
[ SYSTEM WARNING ]
[ Status: Infection (Stage 1) ]
[ Vitality decreasing by 0.5% per hour. ]
"Priorities," Aryan whispered to himself, forcing his mind to stay sharp. "Heal first. Loot second. Kill later."
He turned his attention to the crate he had spotted earlier. He pried the lid open with his trembling fingers.
Inside, nestled in straw packaging, were rows of small glass jars.
[ Item: Low-Grade Healing Salve ]
[ Description: A cheap herbal paste mixed with diluted slime-jelly. Accelerates clotting and disinfects minor wounds. ]
[ Market Value: 20 Credits ]
Aryan didn't hesitate. He grabbed a jar, unscrewed the lid, and scooped out a handful of the green, pungent paste. He gritted his teeth and slapped it directly onto the open wound on his arm.
"Hnnngh!"
The sting was blinding. It felt like pouring liquid fire into his veins. His vision blurred, white spots dancing in front of his eyes. He bit down on his own collar to stifle a scream.
'Good,' The King's voice murmured, sounding bored but approving. 'Pain wakes the mind. Comfort breeds weakness.'
Aryan ignored him. He rubbed the rest of the salve onto the cut on his chest and his bruised ribs. The burning sensation slowly faded into a cold, numbing tingle.
[ Healing Initiated... ]
[ Infection Progression: Halted ]
He took a deep breath. The feverish heat in his arm was already cooling down.
Next priority: Food.
He scavenged through the next crate. It contained Nutri-Paste Tubes—the tasteless, gray sludge that F-Rankers ate to survive. Aryan tore one open with his teeth and squeezed the contents into his mouth. It tasted like wet cardboard, but his stomach roared in gratitude. He ate three tubes in under a minute.
Energy returned to his limbs. The fog in his brain cleared.
Now, he needed to get rid of the evidence.
He was wearing the tattered remains of his porter uniform, covered in mud, blood, and sewer waste. If he walked out like this, he would be shot on sight.
He scanned the room. In the corner, hanging on a hook near a workbench, was a pair of grey coveralls—a standard Maintenance Worker Uniform.
Aryan stripped off his ruined clothes, shivering in the cold air, and wiped the worst of the sludge from his skin with a rag. He pulled on the coveralls. They were a size too big, but they were clean(ish) and, more importantly, they blended in.
He tied his boots tight. He felt... human again.
But a human with a weapon.
He looked at his rusted machete. The blade was chipped, the handle cracked. It had served him well, but it was garbage.
He moved to the shelves labeled "CONFISCATED WEAPONS - F/E RANK."
This was the gear taken from dead porters or survivors who couldn't pay their debts. Piles of knives, hammers, and crude spears.
Aryan sifted through the junk until his hand closed around a hilt wrapped in black leather. He pulled it out.
It was a Dagger. Not a kitchen knife, but a combat dagger. The blade was dark grey, made of hardened carbon-steel, about ten inches long.
[ Item: Shadow-Steel Dagger ]
[ Rank: E ]
[ Durability: 45/50 ]
[ Effect: +2 Agility when equipped. ]
"E-Rank," Aryan muttered, testing the weight. It was light, balanced, and lethal. "Perfect."
He sheathed the dagger and tucked it into his belt, hiding it under the loose coveralls.
He was ready.
He had healed. He had eaten. He was armed.
Now, he needed intel.
Beep.
The sound came from the heavy blast door. The electronic lock disengaged with a heavy thud.
Aryan's eyes widened. He dove behind a stack of metal barrels, pulling his knees to his chest. He slowed his breathing, activating the stealth instinct he had learned in the forest.
Make yourself nothing.
The door slid open. Two men walked in.
They weren't guards. They were Processors—the workers who sorted the loot brought in by the hunters. They wore heavy rubber aprons stained with dried blood.
"I'm telling you, the quota is up again," the first man said, dragging a heavy cart into the room. He sounded exhausted. "The Guild Master wants 500 Cores by Friday."
"500?" the second man scoffed, lighting a cigarette. "Impossible. Unless the Swarm attacks again."
"Why do you think the North Gate lights were 'malfunctioning' tonight?" the first man replied, his voice dropping to a whisper.
Aryan froze.
"You think they did it on purpose?"
"I know they did," the first man said, kicking a crate. "I saw the Shift Commander override the generator. They cut the lights to lure the Hyenas. The refugees outside... they weren't let in because we needed their loot after they died."
Aryan's grip on his dagger tightened.
The Codex was right.
It wasn't just a farm. It was a slaughterhouse managed by accountants.
"Whatever," the second man exhaled smoke. "As long as I get paid. Did you check the intake pipe? The sensors showed a blockage earlier."
"Probably just a corpse floating down from the river. I'll check the grate."
Aryan's heart skipped a beat.
The grate he had just come through. The one that was currently unlatched.
The first man walked toward the corner where the sewer grate was located.
If he saw the open latch, he would raise the alarm. The Outpost would go on lockdown. Aryan would be trapped.
'Kill him,' The King whispered.
It wasn't a scream this time. It was a simple, logical suggestion.
'He is walking toward your death. End him.'
Aryan watched the man approach. He was five meters away. Four.
The man wasn't a soldier. He was just a worker. A man complaining about his quota. Maybe he had a family.
'Efficiency, Aryan,' The King urged. 'Mercy is a risk you cannot afford.'
The man reached the grate. He looked down. He frowned.
"Hey, this latch is broken..."
He turned around to call his partner.
Aryan moved.
He didn't burst out with a battle cry. He moved like a shadow.
In two seconds, he closed the distance.
As the man turned, Aryan clamped his left hand over the man's mouth, stifling the shout. In the same motion, he drove the Shadow-Steel Dagger into the soft spot between the man's neck and collarbone.
Shhhk.
It was sickeningly easy.
The blade sank in. The man's eyes went wide with shock. He thrashed for a second, his hands clawing at Aryan's arm, but Aryan held him tight, dragging him down behind the barrels.
He didn't let go until the thrashing stopped.
[ Target Eliminated: Human (Civilian) ]
[ Experience: +5 ]
[ Soul Load: 1.2% ➔ 1.2% (No Soul Harvested) ]
Aryan stared at the dead man. The worker's eyes were still open, staring at the ceiling.
His hands were shaking. Not from fear. From the adrenaline crash.
He had just killed a human.
Not in self-defense against a murderer like Vikram. This was just a worker.
"Did you find something?" the second man called out from the other side of the room.
Aryan froze. He looked at the corpse. He looked at the blood on his new coveralls.
"Yeah," Aryan called back.
His voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm. He mimicked the dead man's rough tone perfectly.
"Just a rat. Big one. I stomped it."
"Gross," the second man laughed. "Wash your hands before you touch the inventory."
"Coming."
Aryan wiped his blade on the dead man's apron. He searched the body quickly.
He found a Level-1 Access Card clipped to the man's belt.
'Well done,' The King purred. 'You didn't hesitate. You didn't justify it. You just... acted.'
"He was going to sound the alarm," Aryan whispered, his voice cold.
'Yes. And now he isn't. That is all that matters.'
Aryan took the Access Card. He pushed the corpse deeper into the shadows behind the barrels. It wouldn't be found for hours.
He stood up and walked out from behind the crates, keeping his head down.
The second man was busy counting boxes, his back to Aryan.
Aryan walked past him, toward the main door.
"I'm going to grab a coffee," Aryan muttered as he passed.
"Bring me one too," the man replied without looking up.
Aryan swiped the Access Card on the panel.
Beep.
The blast door opened.
He stepped out into the hallway of Outpost-9.
The air here was clean. Electric lights hummed. People—hunters, merchants, workers—walked past him, ignoring the maintenance worker in the oversized coveralls.
He had made it. He was inside the Safe Zone.
But as he walked through the crowd, clutching the stolen dagger, Aryan realized something.
The forest was honest. The beasts tried to eat you to your face.
Here? Here, the monsters wore uniforms and smiled.
[ Quest Complete: INFILTRATION ]
[ Reward: Access to Outpost-9 (Restricted Areas Locked) ]
[ Current Objective: Survive the Night ]
Aryan looked at the digital map on the wall.
PROCESSING SECTOR ➔ RESIDENTIAL DISTRICT ➔ GUILD DISTRICT.
He needed a place to sleep. He needed information on the Black Market.
But first, he needed to blend in with the prey.