The night was alive beneath the silver moon.
Its serene light bathed the world in a quiet blessing — a beauty too pure for what was about to unfold.
In the town below, laughter and music filled the air. Lanterns drifted lazily above the streets as people celebrated, faces glowing with joy. Children played, merchants shouted, couples danced. A night of peace, warmth… and innocence.
But far away, beyond the town's glow, the same moon shone upon a scene of carnage.
A lone swordsman stood beneath it, blade dripping crimson.
A black mask hid his expression, but the faint tremor in his breath betrayed the human beneath the steel resolve. His white hair — once pure as moonlight — now clung to his face, streaked with blood and sweat.
The wind carried the copper scent of death. Grass beneath his boots was painted scarlet. Each drop from his sword fell with a sharp drip, louder than the screams that had faded moments ago. The corpses around him lay twisted, as if death itself hadn't caught up yet.
Zen lifted his gaze toward the moon — the same light that blessed the festival below now watched silently over crimson tragedy. His blade shimmered, reflecting both beauty and horror.
His heart thudded — steady, cold.
There was no trembling in his hands, only a heaviness pressing on his chest.
"So this… is what killing feels like."
The words left him like a whisper meant only for the night. The stillness pressed in, and for the first time, he understood how fragile life truly was. The moon's glow made the scene almost beautiful — but inside, something told him it shouldn't be.
He lowered his sword, staring at his reflection in the rippling pool of blood. His mask hid his face, but not the quiet turmoil behind his eyes — that mix of relief, guilt, and grim satisfaction.
He stood there in silence, he exhaled deeply.
"If you're wondering why I'm here, knee-deep in blood… it didn't start like this.
It started… on a bright, ordinary morning."
Golden light spilled through the window, warming Zen's face. He groaned, turning over before finally sitting up.
"Mm… too bright." He stretched, muscles tensing, then yawned.
"A new start… with the sun kissing my face. Not bad."
He climbed out of bed and headed to the washroom. The mirror greeted him with a reflection he still wasn't used to — lean, toned, honed by training. His chest and arms were firm, faint lines of abs marking his stomach.
"One year," he murmured. "It's already been a year since I came to this world."
He turned on the water and let the warmth flow over him. Steam rose, fogging the mirror until his reflection blurred into a shadow. For a few minutes, there was no training, no system, no survival — just the sound of water and his own breathing.
He closed his eyes, letting the heat soak into sore muscles. A year in this world, and he was still here. Still standing. Still fighting.
When he stepped out, he wiped the fog from the mirror. His reflection stared back — scarred in places, but alive. He gave himself a faint smile.
"Still alive. Still going."
Then he checked his coin pouch. Ten bronze coins. Barely enough for breakfast.
"…Great."
That was when the familiar voice chimed in — calm, teasing, more human than ever. Zen had named it Red.
Red: "You know, you could always steal. Fast money, zero paperwork."
Zen sighed. "You've really changed since your last update."
Red: "Hey, you said I sounded like a calculator. I took it personally."
Zen chuckled. "You were a system, not my roommate."
Red: "Keyword: were."
He rolled his eyes. "Alright, Red. Any legal ideas?"
Red: "Sure. Rob the robbers. Bandits, criminals. You get money, criminals die, Win-win."
Zen smirked. "Robbing thieves, huh? Ironic — but fair."
The day passed in training. Sweat, repetition, shadows curling around his arms before fading. By sunset, the sky burned orange.
"That's enough for today," he muttered. "Now… time to find those bandits."
Red: "Finally. I thought you'd train until you collapsed again."
Zen smiled faintly. "You talk too much."
After another quick wash, he dressed in dark clothes and tied on his mask.
"Red, any clue where they're hiding?"
Red: "Not exactly. But taverns are goldmines. Drunks spill secrets faster than ale."
The tavern buzzed with laughter and clinking mugs. Zen found an old man alone at a table.
"Evening, old man. Mind if I ask something?"
The man squinted. "Not from around here, are you?"
"Been a year," Zen said. "Still learning. Heard rumors of bandits nearby — don't want to be caught off guard."
The man chuckled. "Smart lad. Camp's up the north ridge, near the forest trail. Nasty lot. If you go poking around, don't expect to come back whole."
Zen nodded. "Thanks."
As he turned to leave, the man called after him.
"Be careful, boy. The mountain doesn't forgive foolish steps."
Zen gave a small smile. "I'll keep that in mind."
Outside, festival lights bloomed. Lanterns drifted into the purple sky. Zen paused, watching them rise.
"One year," he whispered. "Guess it's time to start living like it means something."
He adjusted his cloak and stepped through the town gates. Beyond them, silence. Only the wind and rustle of leaves.
Red: "You're actually doing this?"
Zen: "Of course. It was your idea."
Red: "I should start charging commission."
Zen: "Try it, and I'll uninstall you."
Red: "…You wouldn't."
Zen smirked beneath the mask. Then, beneath the dying sun, he vanished into the wilderness — toward the mountains where thieves waited… and where his hands would soon be stained red for the first time.