The crooked neon sign of the Crooked Fang buzzed weakly, illuminating the cracked sidewalk below. Alaric approached the pawnshop cautiously, his hoodie pulled low over his forehead. A sour stench of oil and smoke hung in the air, blending with the faint coppery tang of old blood — a smell that had become all too familiar.
Inside, the shop was a cramped maze of rusted shelves stacked with questionable goods: bent crowbars, battered pistols, hunting knives dulled by years of misuse. Behind the counter lounged a man built like a pit bull — broad-shouldered, scarred, and missing an eye. His remaining one gleamed yellow under the flickering lights.
Alaric didn't flinch when the man's gaze locked onto him.
"You lost, kid?" the man growled, voice rough as gravel.
"Looking for something sharp," Alaric replied evenly. He kept his posture loose, nonthreatening—but his muscles were tense, ready to bolt if things went sideways.
The man let out a low chuckle. "Ain't cheap. Especially not for pretty boys like you."
Alaric slid a handful of crumpled credits onto the counter without a word. The pit bull-like man's eyebrow twitched, amused but interested. He grunted and waved Alaric to follow him into a backroom.
There, displayed behind reinforced glass, were weapons in far better condition: combat knives, short swords, collapsible batons. Tools for serious business.
"This one," Alaric said, pointing to a sleek combat knife with a serrated edge and a matte black finish. The blade felt balanced, deadly, and just heavy enough to suit his growing strength.
The man retrieved the knife, checked the credit, and handed it over without ceremony.
"No refunds if you stab yourself."
Alaric offered a ghost of a smile. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Before stepping out into the night again, he slipped the knife into the hidden sheath under his jacket. Already he could feel a shift in himself—a predator's first tooth.
The streets seemed different now. Or maybe it was him who had changed. Each passing shadow no longer felt like a death sentence but a challenge waiting to be met.
[Side Quest Complete: First Arsenal]
Reward: Skill Proficiency +3%
A surge of warmth coursed through him as the notification flashed across his vision. His senses felt sharper, movements smoother. He hadn't gained raw strength yet, but his body was adapting quickly to the demands of this brutal world.
As he made his way back toward the Rusted Oak, Alaric's mind whirled. Every choice he made now had to serve two goals: protect Lia and carve a future for them both. There was no room for sentimentality or hesitation.
He passed through a narrow alley, boots crunching against broken glass. Suddenly, a sharp prickling sensation crawled up his spine. His body froze instinctively.
Someone was following him.
He pivoted, blending into the shadow of a crumbling doorway. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing shallow. Silent.
A figure darted down the alley, moving fast but sloppy—some amateur looking for an easy target.
Wrong choice, Alaric thought grimly.
When the figure passed his hiding spot, Alaric moved. In one smooth motion, he wrapped an arm around the stalker's throat and pressed the cold kiss of steel against their ribs.
"Why are you following me?" he hissed into the stranger's ear.
The would-be mugger—a scrawny teenager no older than Lia—gurgled, thrashing weakly.
"Spare change! I swear! I thought you were an easy mark!"
Alaric's grip tightened reflexively, a part of him thirsting to end the threat permanently. But then he pictured Lia's face, and forced himself to shove the boy away.
"Next time you pick a mark, make sure they aren't carrying a knife," Alaric muttered darkly.
The kid stumbled back and bolted without a second glance.
Alaric sheathed his blade, muscles still thrumming with leftover adrenaline. He wasn't strong enough yet. One-on-one, he could manage. But soon he would face enemies who wouldn't miss an opening like that.
He needed more skills, better stats, sharper instincts.
By the time he returned to the Rusted Oak, night had swallowed Zenith City whole. Only the faint, sickly green of the industrial towers lit the skyline.
Inside his room, Alaric checked the traps he'd laid earlier. Everything was untouched.
Sitting at the rickety desk, he pulled up the system interface once again.
[Status Screen]
Strength: E
Agility: E
Vitality: E+
[Skills]
Stealth (7.5%)
Danger Sense (Passive)
[Available Points: 0]
After the earlier scuffle, his body felt sharper — like he was finally shedding the frailty the slums had beaten into him. His Vitality boost was already making a difference. Minor aches disappeared faster. His stamina no longer drained from short sprints or sudden fights.
He leaned back, absorbing the quiet satisfaction. Every step forward was bought with blood and grit, and he was determined to make it count.
Not just for himself.
For her.
Alaric pulled out the worn photo he kept hidden deep in his pocket. It was a faded picture of Lia from when she was younger, smiling brightly despite the cracked walls and threadbare clothes.
"She's waiting for me to change everything," he whispered into the darkness.
And he would.