The stench of blood still clung to Aryan's clothes.
He hadn't slept. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of the man being devoured alive replayed in his mind—the snap of bone, the look of shock, the sound of chewing.
But reality gave no time for grief.
By morning, Aryan was hungry. Not just for food… but survival. He wandered through the cracked alleys of Drezan, head low, eyes empty, until he reached the hidden path again—the same back route he had taken the night before.
The black market.
The place looked different in the light of day. No smoke. No chaos. Just shadows of dangerous men and the soft murmurs of deals being made.
He pushed through the hanging tarp and stepped inside.
"Back again, rat?" one of the guards sneered.
Aryan ignored him.
He walked straight to the exchange counter, where the masked man from last night stood. A few other hunters stood in line, dragging small beast carcasses behind them—some still twitching.
Aryan waited, and when it was his turn, he looked up at the man with steady, hollow eyes.
"I want to know…" Aryan said. "How much money can I earn by… bringing a monster?"
The man's masked head tilted. "You? You look like you can barely lift a stick, let alone kill a beast."
"I'm serious," Aryan said, voice strained but firm. "How much?"
The man didn't answer at first. He looked Aryan up and down, then leaned closer.
"Why do you want money so badly?" he asked, voice low. "You'll die out there, kid. There are corpses with more experience than you."
Aryan clenched his fists. "Because I'd rather die out there than rot in this city like a beggar. I've got nothing. No food. No family. No place. I don't care if I die—I just don't want to die starving."
There was silence for a moment. Then the masked man gave a sharp exhale—half laugh, half sigh.
"You've got guts. I'll give you that."
He reached into a drawer and slid out a small, metal tag with the BLADE insignia etched into it.
"Fine. If you're desperate enough to throw your life away, go ahead. Kill a monster, bring the body here. Based on its rank, we'll pay you. C-rank gets you 300 chips. B-rank, 700. A-rank… well, let's not get ahead of ourselves."
Aryan took the tag.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"One more thing," the man added. "Don't try to cheat us. Bring in fake corpses, and we'll feed you to the beasts ourselves."
Aryan didn't flinch. He turned and left without a word.
The path to the Outer Gate of Drezan was long. Most people avoided it. Beyond that rusted wall was the Wasteland—a dead, poisoned zone of ash, broken earth, and horrors.
Aryan stood before the gate, wind whipping his hair.
To his left, a guard leaned against a railing. He glanced over and laughed.
"You? Going out there? Hah. Let me guess—you owe someone, or you just lost a bet?"
"No," Aryan replied. "I'm hunting."
The guard stared. "You're serious?"
Aryan nodded, eyes forward. "Either I come back with a corpse… or I don't come back at all."
The guard shook his head and muttered, "Another one with a death wish…"
With a groaning clang, the gate creaked open, revealing the gray expanse beyond.
Aryan stepped through.
The moment he passed the threshold, the air changed. It was heavier—filled with decay, dust, and something… unnatural. The land stretched endlessly, broken only by the silhouettes of collapsed towers and jagged mountains in the distance. The sky above was a permanent dusk, lit by a sun that seemed afraid to shine here.
There was nothing.
No voices. No machines. No laughter. Just silence, wind, and the faint whisper of something watching.
Aryan exhaled, gripping the worn handle of a broken blade he'd found in the ruins weeks ago.
"I can do this…" he whispered to himself. "I have to."
He took his first step into the Wasteland.
Behind him, the gate shut with a loud, metallic bang.
And just like that, he was alone.