CHAPTER 8 – THE NEWCOMER

  The wind changed.

  The stinging grit of sand was gone. Gone, too, was the rancid stench of monster blood rotting beneath the scorching sun. The air here smelled of wet stone, a faint trace of perfume, and something entirely repulsive: prosperity.

  Before me loomed the towering city gates—a stark dividing line between the hell of the desert and the illusion of civilization.

  I stopped just at the boundary of the road.

  Behind me lay a long, dragged trench in the sand. Five hundred kilograms of scorpion carapace and pure crystal, wrapped tightly in the hollowed-out hide of a desert worm. On the sand, the dried, mucous-coated skin acted like a sled, minimizing friction. Efficient.

  But ahead of me lay the city's main thoroughfare. White cobblestones, laid out with neat, mathematical precision.

  Rough. Unforgiving.

  A generalist understands basic physics. Dragging a half-ton load on a soft makeshift sled across rough stone was pure stupidity. The coefficient of friction would spike drastically. The resulting heat would tear the hide, ruin the road, and generate noise pollution that would draw the guards' attention for all the wrong reasons.

  I let out a breath. The smoke from my cigarette danced for a fleeting moment before being swallowed by the city breeze.

  Crouching down, I wedged my shoulder beneath the makeshift rope of monster intestines binding the massive bundle.

  My muscles tensed. This body of mine, which passively absorbed any crystal it touched, pumped an unnatural strength through my muscle fibers.

  Lift.

  "Hmph."

  The colossal bundle lifted off the ground. Five hundred kilograms of sheer death now rested squarely on my back. Its massive black shadow swallowed my silhouette, making me look like a solitary ant hauling the carcass of a giant beetle.

  I stepped inside.

  THUD.

  My footsteps were heavy. The paving stones ground softly beneath my boots, bearing a weight that had no business being there.

  The crowds parted. Their clean, naive faces drained of color. It wasn't mere awe I saw in their eyes, but a primal dread. It was the fear of herbivores watching a predator drag its kill back to the den.

  "Look at that..."

  "Is that... a desert worm's hide?"

  "He's carrying it all by himself?"

  I paid them no mind. My gaze remained fixed straight ahead. At the far end of the thoroughfare, a palace stood arrogantly atop a hill, fronted by a statue of a hero thrusting a sword toward the heavens. A symbol of protection for those who had forgotten how to survive on their own.

  A patrol marched past. Their armor was polished to a mirror shine, devoid of a single scratch. Ceremonial weapons.

  The illusion of safety, I thought.

  They lived in a beautiful soap bubble, blissfully unaware that a single, tiny needle from the outside world could pop it all.

  I kept walking, maintaining a steady, rhythmic pace, until I reached a massive building bearing the sign: Adventurer's Guild.

  The scent of aged paper, worn wood, and cold sweat greeted me.

  The hall was bustling, but the ambient chatter died the instant I stepped through the doors.

  THUD.

  I dropped the burden onto the thick wooden floorboards. The ground shuddered, sending plumes of fine dust puffing up from the cracks.

  I stood upright and rolled my stiff neck. The sharp crack of my joints echoed clearly in the sudden, dead silence of the room.

  I approached the reception desk. A woman in a pristine uniform stared back at me. Her professional smile fractured; her eyes darted to the monolithic bundle behind me, then snapped back to my face, which was still caked in desert grime.

  "Welcome to the Adventurer's Guild of the Sun Child Kingdom," she said, her voice wavering slightly. She shot a glance at the gate guard who had trailed me inside, silently pleading for context.

  "He's a hunter," the guard interjected quickly, clearly eager to put distance between us. "Fresh out of the desert. Needs to be registered."

  I didn't waste time. My calloused hands yanked the gut-cord knot loose.

  The worm hide fell open.

  Pitch-black carapace, a massive telson still seeping the dried remnants of venom, and dark purple crystals clinging stubbornly to the shell.

  The sharp, desiccated stench of desert death wafted out, instantly silencing the lingering whispers behind me.

  "I want to exchange this for a fair price."

  The receptionist swallowed hard. She wasn't a fool; she knew exactly what she was looking at. Materials from a desert apex predator.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "O-Of course... It appears you are a... highly capable hunter." Her demeanor shifted drastically. Fear mingled with respect—the specific kind of respect one reserves for an unexploded bomb. "Please fill out this form for your identification."

  I took the pen. Hands accustomed to gripping a spear felt deeply awkward holding something so delicate.

  Name: ...

  Race: Human

  Age: 22

  Primary Class: Hunter

  I paused at the Name column.

  Azisa...

  The name felt distant. That name belonged to a man who drank coffee in peace within an elven village. That man was asleep, or perhaps already dead, buried deep within a forest of memories. The thing standing here was nothing more than a hollow shell, simply trying to survive.

  I wrote: Nothing.

  The woman accepted the parchment, her brow furrowing deeply. She looked up at me, searching my eyes for some hint of a joke, but found only emptiness.

  "Nothing? Sir... why would you go by 'Nothing'?"

  "Because I've discarded my old name," I replied flatly. My voice was hoarse from disuse.

  The receptionist looked visibly disturbed. Identity was everything in a city like this, and a nameless man was a deeply unsettling anomaly. Her gaze drifted back to the pile of scorpion carapace on the floor. Pitch-black, hardened, lethal, solitary.

  "What if we use... Scorpion? After the beast you just conquered."

  I stared at the carapace. A creature that survived the hellish sands entirely on its own, living by a simple rule: kill or be killed.

  "Fine. That will do."

  The identification card was printed.

  Name: Scorpion.

  Class: A.

  "Class A?"

  "Based on the value of your hunt. Desert monsters are no ordinary foes. A crystal scorpion usually requires a veteran team to subdue," she explained, her fingers dancing across an abacus. "Total estimated material... 500 kilograms of high-quality carapace and pure crystal cores."

  She opened the safe drawer, counting carefully.

  "Twenty-five gold coins."

  She handed over the heavy pouch. The clanking of precious metal broke the silence.

  Twenty-five gold coins.

  In this world, one gold coin equated to a hundred silver coins. A farmer needed three years of successful harvests just to see a single gold coin. And I had just earned twenty-five in a few days of slaughter.

  "Thank you."

  I turned around. The coin pouch was heavy, but somehow, it felt emptier than the 500-kilogram burden I had just cast off.

  City Guard Office.

  "One gold coin," the clerk said without looking at me. His hands were busy sorting files.

  "For what?"

  "Residency tax, civil administration, and a security guarantee for one year."

  I stared at the gold coin in my hand.

  This single coin could feed an impoverished family for years. But here, it was merely the price of a stamp. The price of an illusion called 'security'.

  I placed a single gold piece on his desk.

  Clink.

  The clerk startled, his head snapping up. It was rare for a vagrant—as he surely saw me—to pay off their annual tax upfront. His eyes widened at the gleam of the gold.

  "Y-Yes... yes, of course! Right away, sir. Your citizen card is active. But remember, you still need to report in every two weeks."

  I took the card and walked out.

  I sat on a bench by the main road and lit a cigarette.

  Haa...

  This city was prosperous. Shops on every corner. Luxurious inns. Humans laughing without a care in the world.

  I had money. I could rent the best room, eat meat every day, sleep on a goose-down mattress.

  I was safe.

  But my chest felt tight.

  This sense of safety... it was poison.

  If I stayed here too long, my instincts would dull. My ears would forget how to distinguish the sound of the wind from the breathing of a predator. My muscles would grow soft, just like theirs.

  Monsters could appear anywhere. Disaster did not recognize city walls.

  I could not trust this man-made peace.

  I stood up, crushing the cigarette butt under my boot.

  I had to be prepared. Always.

  Luxury Clothing Boutique.

  Marble floors, velvet curtains, and the scent of lavender.

  Two guards at the door glared at me—my clothes were tattered, dusty, reeking of the desert. They were about to block my path, until I deliberately let my coin pouch clink against the hilt of my sword.

  Chink.

  They stepped aside.

  "Welcome..." A female attendant approached. Her smile was perfectly rehearsed, yet her eyes scanned the dust on my boots with thinly veiled disgust. "What are you looking for... sir?"

  "New clothes."

  She led me to a row of noblemen's suits. Silk, lace, ribbons. Clothes meant for dolls, not men.

  "I am a hunter," I cut in coldly.

  "I understand, sir. But in this city, appearances are a second currency." She pointed to a crimson suit embroidered with gold. "Inspired by the city's hero. Very popular."

  "Too flashy. Do you take custom orders?"

  The woman paused, one eyebrow raised. "Custom? Yes, we accept those as well."

  "I have a design." I asked for pen and paper.

  I sketched quickly. Sharp lines. No lace. Functional.

  "For the material... I want something tear-resistant. Fireproof, if possible. Breathable. Flexible."

  She stared at my sketch. "Fireproof? Are you looking for armor?"

  "No. Armor restricts movement. I want fabric. Do you have cloth that can repair itself? Or at least something woven with magic?"

  The woman looked at me, then back at my design. The doubt on her face vanished the moment she realized I knew what I was talking about.

  "We have fabric woven from cave spider silk. Extremely rare. It can mend small tears due to the magical memory in its threads, but it is not as sturdy as steel. The cost is... quite exorbitant."

  "How much?"

  "Hmm... one gold coin per set."

  One gold coin. Five years of taxes. The price of a small house in a village. Just for a single outfit.

  "Make five sets."

  I placed five gold coins on the counter. The stack gleamed, reflecting the greed sparking in the attendant's eyes.

  The woman's eyes lit up. The disgust on her face vanished instantly, replaced by absolute subservience. Money always spoke louder than status.

  "We will get to work immediately, sir. Immediately."

  Adventurer's Supply Shop.

  Shelves lined with the promise of survival. Weapons, armor, crystals, potions.

  I walked past the racks of standard swords. My eyes were searching for something specific.

  "A dimensional bag and combustible oil," I said to the old male clerk behind the display case.

  "A dimensional bag?" The old man adjusted his glasses. "That's high-tier magical equipment, lad. Not your average sack."

  He pulled a small bag from a locked glass drawer. It looked unassuming, made of worn brown leather, but I could clearly see the intricate weave of mana across its surface.

  "Ten cubic meters of capacity. Time stands still inside for inanimate objects. It'll cost you ten gold coins."

  Ten. Almost half of my hunt's earnings.

  The price was absurd to a layman. But as a generalist, I knew the true value of 'space' and 'time'. Carrying logistics without the physical burden was an absolute strategic advantage.

  "I'll take it."

  The old man was stunned for a moment, then nodded respectfully. He knew only crazy veterans or nobles bought these items without haggling.

  "And... rope?"

  "Yes."

  He presented several types. I touched one of them. Silvery-white, thin, but densely woven.

  "That's webbing from a Dungeon Spider," he noted. "Can hold up to fifty tons, fire-resistant, and virtually impossible to sever with a regular blade."

  "How much?"

  "Fifty silver coins for fifty meters."

  Half a gold coin. Cheap for me, but it was a month's worth of food for a family of four.

  "I'll take fifty meters. And three liters of high-grade combustible oil."

  "Blue Phoenix Oil? Its flame won't easily go out, even in gale-force winds. Ten silver per liter."

  "Binoculars?"

  "Three gold coins. Pure crystal lenses, ten-kilometer visibility."

  "Compass?"

  "One gold coin. Resistant to magical magnetic fields."

  I did the math in my head.

  Bag (10 Gold) + Binoculars (3 Gold) + Compass (1 Gold) + Rope & Oil (~1 Gold).

  Total, fifteen gold coins.

  Plus the clothes (5 Gold) and the tax (1 Gold).

  Twenty-one gold coins vanished in a matter of hours.

  I handed over the coins. The clerk counted them with trembling hands.

  "Thank you very much, sir. May luck accompany your travels."

  I stowed all the items into the new bag. It swallowed them all without altering its shape or adding a single ounce of weight.

  Practical. Terrifying.

  I stepped over to the medical section.

  "Bandages, S-rank topical salves, stamina boosters, and emergency vitamin pills."

  "That will be one gold coin in total, sir."

  I paid once more. Three gold coins remained in my pouch.

  Money flowed like water in the desert. Fast, seeping into the ground without a trace, leaving only a damp patch that evaporated almost instantly.

  But this was the cost of survival. Not to live comfortably, but to ensure I didn't die a foolish death from running out of rope or bleeding out.

  That night, at a mid-tier inn.

  A soft mattress. Clean blankets that smelled of lavender soap, not sweat or blood.

  No bone-chilling wind. No sound of giant insect legs skittering outside a tent.

  Only silence.

  An unfamiliar, oppressive silence.

  I lay there, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling.

  Outside the window, the faint sounds of drunken laughter and carriage wheels drifted in. The human world was so noisy, so alive, so brimming with material desires. I had just spent enough gold to sustain an entire village, yet it felt like tossing pebbles into a river. It left no meaningful ripples within me.

  I sat up. My body felt heavy—not from fatigue, but from inertia.

  I brewed some coffee. The bitter, sweet aroma filled the small room, the only scent I truly recognized.

  Sip...

  In this city teeming with millions of people, strangely enough... I felt more alone than I ever did in the middle of the wilderness.

  I sat on the wooden chair by the window and pulled out a cigarette. Miraculously, I never ran out of them. An anomaly—an infinity artifact tethered to a mortal creature like me.

  A flame flared to life.

  Haa...

  The smoke billowed, thick and white, forming an abstract dance in the air before fading away.

  "Tomorrow..." I muttered into the darkness.

  "Tomorrow, I need to find something real."