Chương 2: First Dungeon

Nero didn't go to the potion apothecary right away, and instead headed toward the eatery just beside the Auction House on the eastern side of the seventh district. He bought his usual meal, though since he'd stopped working for Red Rats, the staff there had started charging him again. He paid seven copper for three loaves of bread and some pork jerky. Normally, the bread alone would've cost him seven copper, but the eatery offered a special five-copper package for regulars like him.

He'd swapped out the usual gruel and ale for extra bread and paid a little more for the jerky. He walked toward his house with bags of food in hand. Combined with his new battle gear, he finally felt fulfilled to the heart.

"Now that's what I call shopping," he said to three kids, each a teen, who'd just come out of his house.

"And what are you guys doing over there?" he shouted. They immediately froze in place and turned toward him.

"Nero!" they yelped in unison, none of them older than fifteen. They broke into a run while screaming, as a small stick fell from one of them. Nero stepped forward and picked it up. It was his candle. The thieves would've run off with it if he hadn't gotten there in time. He looked around himself; the two houses flanking his own belonged to these kids' families. They collected handsome rent from tenants and were old, retired members of Red Rats themselves. He sighed at them before entering his shack.

With a match stick, he lit up the candle, pulled out his blunt dagger and the whetstone, and began polishing the dagger's blade, while his mind turned over the irony of it all—pun intended. The two landlord families around him were rich; their kids, too, had studied in school, unlike him, who'd only learned basic reading and writing back at the church.

And even though the parents of these kids were, by slum-rat standards, rich, they actually never discouraged their kids from stealing, at least he'd never seen them do so. That didn't sit right with him, but then again, that was the way of the slums. You steal, you take, and do everything you can to rise. The night outside had turned darker, as the alleyways that, just moments ago, could be seen without the aid of lamps became increasingly hard to make out with the naked eye.

He'd read back at the church about how there used to be a thing called "morning," where a giant bubble of fire would illuminate the whole world every day. Priestess Sofia tended to repeat this story over and over. About how you didn't need lamps for half the day, and only needed them during the other half. And that night was best spent sleeping. This felt pretty ridiculous, but it sure would've been nice. Because that would've saved him a good chunk of his fuel costs.

Not that it was much, it just climbed a tad bit much in winter. Eventually, the scratching rhythm of his blade sliding against the whetstone stopped as he brought it closer for inspection.

"Hmm, it's gotten a bit sharper," he said, sliding his finger along its edge.

"But not enough to cut anything yet." He resumed his sharpening. The sands of time rolled forward, as only the dim light of his candle and the sound of metal over whetstone filled the room. Nero felt calm repeating the rhythm—maybe Priestess Sofia had felt calm too, repeating the same old tale over and over again. It was meditative. But after continuing the same motion of sharpening, checking the blade, and sharpening again, over and over, the process grew tedious.

And just as a bell rang out from the distant church, Nero finally stopped his sharpening.

"It's mid-day already, huh." Outside, the darkness had only deepened. He checked the blade again, running the pad of his finger along its edge. At a slight slide, he felt a sting.

"Well, that'll do," he smirked, sheathing the blade. He'd have to wipe it down with water later. Thinking of water, he realized he'd have to procure some, and a bag to carry it all.

"A bag would cost a pretty penny," he considered, weighing his options before standing up.

"I'll just borrow one from the guild." That was assuming there were spare bags to borrow—he was counting on his luck here. On the floor, his candlestick had already burned halfway down, thanks to the slightly chilly breeze.

"Should've kept it in a better spot," he sighed, realizing he'd lost himself a bit too much in sharpening. Still, he picked it up, along with the whetstone and his lantern.

"Things are good, though." The candle had melted down to about the size of the whetstone, meaning both could now fit in his back pocket. Next, he lifted the sheet he slept on, gave it a hard shake to knock off the dirt, and wrapped the whole thing around himself.

"All set!" He clicked on the lantern in hand, and a soft blue light spread out, illuminating his path forward. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. Within a few minutes, he'd crossed through the alleyways and into the night bazaar, and from there, he found the largest underground tunnel a few meters from the second-hand shop.

After a nerve-wracking ten-minute walk through that gloomy passage, where all sorts of substances were being sold and used in quantity, he came out the other side.

"Phew," he breathed.

"This blanket did a good job hiding my stuff. Otherwise…" Otherwise, it wouldn't have been unusual for some addict or thug to just snatch his stuff and bolt into the darkness. It was like killing two birds with one stone: he got to keep his blanket away from the sticky fingers of those kids, and it gave him genuine cover. Next was the guild, which stood several meters from the underground tunnel's entrance, marked by a large signboard displaying two mugs of booze clinking together.

He resumed his walk after catching his breath. He didn't have to enter the guild hall itself—he just had to slip around back through the side alleyway. Guild halls were for genuine adventurers, not slum rats. He'd never entered one either; his superiors, the ones with actual beast cores, were the ones who went inside.

"Though, I imagine I'll have to enter eventually, to sell monster parts." For now, he just made his way through the dark alley—this one had no addicts hunched over taking powders and using syringes. In fact, using those things was strictly forbidden for adventurers by law. After greeting a few stray dogs happily munching on the quality trash that came from the guild, he found the guild's back door. Besides him, there were a few other slum rats, mainly there to collect their pay.

These were the ones who delivered various items to the guild. He waved to one of them—a chestnut-haired boy, his own age, who perked up at the sight of him. It was Nyx, one of his orphanage friends and a fellow pupil of the priestess.

"Nero! What's up, man?" They shook hands.

"Still working for the Hidden Hands?"

"Yeah. What about you? Heard you left Red Rats." Nero nodded at that.

"But why? You do realize how hard it is to get into that agency. Also, can you pull some strings to get me in there, somehow?"

"I'll try. Say hi to the priestess for me," he said, as the boy was called off by another of his companions.

"Okay, see you later." He waved at him before leaving. The guy still lived at the orphanage and had a soft heart. No wonder the priestess hadn't sent him to Red Rats. And from that exchange, he understood why the priestess had told him not to tell anyone who'd connected him to Red Rats in the first place. Setting that aside, the guild staff were already turning around, about to close the gate.

He quickly went over and asked for a bag, and handed over his adventurer's ID, which brought an odd expression to the clerk's face. But thankfully, the guy didn't make a fuss, went inside, and came back with a brown-colored backpack.

"Thanks a lot," he said with a bow. The guy didn't respond, and instead closed the door.

"Well, now I've gotten almost everything I need." He squatted down and began putting everything inside—first the whetstone, then the candlestick, his lighter, and then the food and coins.

"As for water…" He glanced left and right, walked over to the dust bin, and sure enough, there lay several worn-down water pouches. He checked again whether anyone was watching, quickly picked up the largest one—a twenty-liter pouch—walked over to the tubewell beside the back door, and filled the pouch to the brim.

"Phew. Now, time to move." He promptly tucked the pouch inside his bag and left the alley. It was important that no one saw him taking stuff from that bin, mainly because the Hidden Hands held an explicit contract with the guild for any and all trash it produced. If anyone saw him taking from that bin and reported it to the Hands, they'd be rewarded with a decent chunk of copper, while he'd be rewarded with a decent chunk of lashes.

"High risk, high reward," he repeated, touching the back of his bag where the pouch lay.

"This one alone would go for at least fifteen copper on the market." Next were the potions. The store wasn't far, just a few hundred feet from the guild itself. He went over, greeted the white-haired man who looked to be middle-aged, handed over fifteen copper, picked up three E-grade potions, and left almost as soon as he'd entered. There wasn't much conversation between a core holder and a mere slum rat—he could feel the guy was growing irritated at his presence alone.

Working at Red Rats, he'd heard enough stories from colleagues who'd gotten beaten up just for addressing apothecaries too casually. Nero had zero interest in earning a backhand from a core holder. Their bodies were already enhanced by mana as it was; it mattered little whether the guy was an apothecary or a warrior. He tucked the three potions into the holsters built into his armor specifically for holding them.

At first, he used to imagine the bottles might shatter mid-fight, but the containers, though they looked like glass, were actually made of a clear, shatter-resistant plastic. With everything strapped on, Nero made a beeline for the forest areas—specifically, he was aiming for the western edge of the seventh district. It held quite a number of dungeons, several hundred or so, and wasn't nearly as dangerous as the dungeons found in the forests to the north. The northwestern forest, too, was too dangerous for him.

The dungeons on the western side were much weaker, though with correspondingly lesser loot.

"A perfect place to start out on," he said to himself, walking past the various adventurers. As he drew closer to the dungeon zones, the wind picked up too. He pulled his brown blanket a little closer.

"Those are some cold-ass winds," he cursed. He soon walked past the last danger signboard, which marked the end of the civilian area and the start of the vast wilderness. The people around him thinned noticeably, and the deeper he went, the fewer their numbers grew. He paused just outside the denser part of the forest, lined with thick, dark-barked tree trunks and bushes. Swiveling his head around a bit, he spotted a straight branch—not the curved kind—with just the right amount of thickness.

He climbed the tree and unsheathed his dagger before beginning to chop it down. It took a while, but he eventually came down with the branch; it measured just shy of three feet and held well in hand like a sword.

"Sweet," he said, swinging it around to test the weight. He picked up the dagger, wiped it with the blanket, then sheathed it on his belt. He also folded the blanket and pushed it inside the backpack. He didn't need it now.

"Although I've bought this dagger, it's not gonna see much combat until I hit up one of those chicken or goblin dungeons." He mainly planned to use it to harvest the gene-rich parts of his prey.

"And for the essence rat dungeons just a few meters ahead, this alone would suffice," he said, picking the backpack up and turning on the lantern before venturing deeper into the forest.