After the house was completed, Zane stepped inside. The place was immaculate, with surfaces gleaming from a fresh polish. Surprisingly, there was no trace of the slums' stench, and the cool air from the air conditioner created a comfortable atmosphere.
This is nice, he thought, as he sank into the living room sofa.
Curiosity led him to turn on the TV, half-expecting nothing but static or an empty screen. Instead, it worked.
The screen displayed updates on dungeon activity, system news, and even programs from his original world. That made him pause. Could these worlds be linked in some way? It was an interesting thought, but not one that demanded his attention right now.
What mattered more was the way people had adapted to this reality. Zane found himself watching a segment on dungeon monopolization. Some groups had started taking control of dungeon entrances, charging tolls for those who wanted to venture inside. He couldn't help but feel a certain respect for how quickly people had adjusted. "Huh," he muttered to himself, "they've already figured out how to exploit the system."
He switched to another channel. The next program was titled Archfiend God. Expecting a documentary on powerful monsters, Zane instead found a bizarre cult. These people weren't hunting or trying to survive—they were worshipping the Archfiends, believing them to be divine beings sent to purify the world.
Zane let out a derisive laugh. He'd encountered an Archfiend himself—he still remembered the one that had watched him run for his life, lounging casually as if it was a game. "Yeah, sure," he muttered to himself, "if your god spends his time drinking cocktails while monsters tear through people, good luck with that."
He turned off the TV, dismissing it as madness. There was no sense in trying to make sense of such delusions. Instead, he opened the system shop and began scanning through the available materials.
When he reached the clothing section, something caught his eye. The assassin-style outfit offered increased speed and a slight reduction in his presence, perfect for his style. Given how useful the extra agility could be, he made the purchase without hesitation.
Zane decided to take a shower and rest. He planned to explore the Safe Zone later that evening. The bathroom surprised him—it featured a deep bathtub with precise temperature control, a small luxury that felt oddly grounding in this chaotic world.
After washing away the grime of the day, he made his way to the bedroom. The closet was decently sized, the room itself clean and well-furnished. It wasn't bad at all. Still, he preferred the layout of his previous place—sleeker, more minimal. He made a mental note to customize this one once he had the time and materials.
He climbed onto the bed. It was soft—dangerously soft. Within seconds, exhaustion claimed him.
When he eventually stirred, he stretched out, his body relaxed and recharged. He got dressed, pulling on the assassin-style gear he'd bought earlier, its sleek design hugging his frame while subtly enhancing his speed and reducing his presence.
Fully equipped, Zane stepped outside, ready to explore the Safe Zone—and see what opportunities, or problems, were waiting.
The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows through the narrow alleys of the slums. The Safe Zone didn't sleep, but it changed—noise took on a rougher edge, faces looked more guarded, and deals were struck in whispers rather than shouts.
Zane walked with purpose, his eyes scanning everything without appearing too interested. Pickpockets, shady vendors, and desperate players were everywhere. But no one bothered him. The new outfit helped. So did the quiet confidence in his stride.
He passed by a few market stalls—most selling low-grade gear, suspicious potions, or food of questionable origin. Still, it was information he was after, not goods.
A loud voice caught his attention.
"Three CP for clean water! Don't miss out!"
He turned briefly. A teenage girl stood behind a crude table, plastic jugs lined up in rows. A few people argued with her about the price, but she didn't budge.
Zane moved on.
Further ahead, a crowd had gathered near a run-down building. Murmurs floated through the air—talk of a new dungeon appeared in the South from the safe zone, deeper than the others, dangerous but rewarding. The kind of place only fools or the desperate would rush into.
Or someone like me. Zane thought.
He didn't stop to join the crowd. Not yet. First, he needed to understand the zone—how it worked, who ran things, and which names mattered.
For now, he kept walking, letting the Safe Zone reveal itself one corner at a time.
Eventually, Zane turned into a narrower street—but this one wasn't what he expected.
The area was bathed in dim neon light. Women in revealing outfits lined the roadside, calling out to passersby with practiced smiles. A large brothel stood prominently at the end of the block, guarded by a few bulky men with crossed arms and bored expressions.
Zane glanced around, unfazed. "Hmm. Guess some things never change," he muttered, walking on without slowing.
Some of the girls tried to catch his attention with flirtatious waves and soft greetings, but he didn't even look their way.
Then trouble came.
One girl suddenly stepped in front of him, yelling loud enough to turn heads. "Stop! I said I don't want to follow you—leave me alone!"
The commotion drew immediate attention. One of the brothel guards turned toward them, eyes narrowing as he began to walk over.
Zane stopped and looked at the girl calmly.
"You don't know me," he said softly, stepping closer, "and you're already trying to play games?"
There was no threat in his tone—but something in his eyes made the girl freeze. A chill ran through her spine.
Still, she forced herself to sneer, thinking, He's from the slums. What can he possibly do? Now let's see how he gets beaten and forced to pay for assault.
She didn't realize she'd just picked the worst possible target. And she was about to find out why.