The night in Skyhaven was always loud.
Outside, LED billboards flashed tirelessly. Neon lights pierced the thin curtains of my cheap rental, casting weird shadows on the peeling walls. The noise of the food stalls downstairs, clinking beer bottles, the roar of sports cars on the highway—it all merged into a torrent called "Peace."
This was the world I lived in for twenty-seven years. Prosperous. Cold. But full of life.
But now, I felt like an outsider.
I looked at my phone. The screen displayed a countdown in blood-red numbers, pulsing like a heart.
[Time Remaining in Reality: 00 Hours 58 Minutes 32 Seconds]
Less than an hour.
"Stop staring at it. It won't stop. You're just wasting calories."
A lazy voice broke my trance. Shadow was sprawled in the middle of the bed—my spot, now fully conquered by him. His paws were holding a massive beef bone, one of our "Last Supper" purchases from the deli downstairs.
For the last few days, this dog had lived like a king. Tomahawk steaks, braised pork, imported cans, and now this giant bone. He was eating like he was trying to make up for every meal he missed in the apocalypse.
"I'm thinking... did I forget anything?"
I took a deep breath, forcing my eyes off the suffocating countdown. I turned to the floor. Laid out there was my "entire net worth," bought with the money from selling my life.
The empty room was now packed with supplies. For seven days, I had been a hoarder hamster, converting every digital number in my bank account into survival capital.
"Armor up first."
I stripped off my faded t-shirt and put on a set of tight-fitting, quick-dry sportswear. Wicking sweat and keeping warm. In a world with no heating and freezing nights, body temp meant stamina.
Then, I walked to the pile of "trash" in the corner. Dozens of thick, expired fashion magazines. bought by the pound from the recycling guy. Models on the covers wore glamorous clothes, posing elegantly, smiling brightly.
Who knew that in the apocalypse, the entertainment of the rich would become the armor of the poor?
I picked up a brick-thick issue of VOGUE. Glossy paper reflected the light. I rolled it into a tube and fitted it over my left forearm.
The paper was hard, edges sharp, but I didn't care. High density. When hundreds of pages are compressed, they're tougher than cheap plastic guards.
Riiiip!
I tore a strip of industrial cloth tape. Stronger than duct tape. Used for patching pipes. I held one end in my teeth and wrapped the magazine tightly around my arm.
Tight. Tighter. I didn't stop until my circulation slowed, until the magazine felt like a second skin. I bit the tape off. Then the right arm. Then the shins.
Ten minutes later, I stood before the mirror. The man in the reflection looked ridiculous. Limbs swollen, like a budget mummy or a reject Transformer. The silver-grey tape smelled of chemicals.
But I looked at myself with satisfaction.
I raised my left arm and slammed it against the solid wood table leg.
THUD!
A dull sound. The table shook. The empty cup rattled. No pain. The thick magazines absorbed the impact perfectly.
"It works." I grinned, though it probably looked savage. Next time a zombie tries to bite my arm, he's gonna break his rotten teeth, not my skin.
"Avant-garde fashion."
Shadow spat out the clean bone. Looked at me with that signature 30% sarcasm, 70% laziness. "You look like a cardboard robot. But..." He sniffed the air. "Defense is definitely better than your thin skin. Ordinary walkers can't bite through that."
"That's enough." I moved my limbs. Stiff, heavy, but I could run and swing. "Until I can afford Kevlar, this is the best life insurance money can buy."
"Poor man's wisdom," Shadow commented. "But in the end, it's not the rich who survive. It's the adaptable."
Validation from the "Host." I felt more confident.
Next, the backpack. I ditched my commuter bag for a large, army-green hiking pack. Secondhand, beat up, but tough.
I started the final packing. A ritual of anxiety. Weight means calorie burn, burn means death. But forgetting something means a dead end.
"Water. Five bottles." Packed at the bottom. The heaviest item. I never wanted to feel that burning thirst again.
"Food..." Ten bricks of compressed biscuits. Hard as rocks, but lifesaving. Five cans of Spam—luxury items, fat and protein. Chocolate bars and fruit drops stuffed in every gap for quick sugar and a dopamine hit.
"Meds." A small sealed box, placed against my back. Amoxicillin, bandages, iodine. I had to hit four pharmacies and lie about a gum infection to get the antibiotics. In the wasteland, these pills were worth more than gold.
"Tools." Windproof lighters. A multi-tool (knockoff Swiss Army, but sharp). Spare tape. Flashlight. Batteries.
When I zipped it up, the bag looked like a pufferfish about to explode. I lifted it.
"Oof..."
Twenty kilos, easy. Hiking? Fine. Running for my life? A burden.
"Heavy?" Shadow asked, watching me grimace.
"Heavy," I admitted, swinging it onto my shoulders. "Feels like carrying half a pig."
"You still taking it?"
"If I don't, I'll starve or die of thirst." I laughed bitterly. The hamster instinct wouldn't let me let go. "Last time, we couldn't even find clean water. Drinking sewage, eating bark... never again."
Shadow was silent. He remembered.
"Suit yourself." He flicked his tail. "I'm not carrying it. And if you get too slow and the zombies catch you, don't expect me to save you."
"Don't worry. If it comes to that, I'll throw the bag as bait." I joked, but I knew: this bag was my second life.
Finally, the weapon.
I reached under the bed and pulled out a long object wrapped in dark grey cloth. I unwrapped it layer by layer.
A Tang Dao. Straight, slender, pitch black. The Judgment Blade. The only decent gear from the Starter Pack. My lifeline.
I had cleaned and oiled it for two days. The scabbard had dark red veins, like dried blood.
Click. I pushed the guard with my thumb. An inch of steel exposed. Cold light flashed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Unlike a curved katana, the Tang Dao was straight. Thick spine, straight edge. Unyielding. It reflected a terrifying coldness under the lamp. This wasn't a wall-hanger. This was a tool for slaughter.
Holding the handle, I felt a pulse. It was hungry. It wanted blood. The fear faded, replaced by the grounded feeling of holding power.
"Good blade." Even I knew it was art. Built to stab, built to hack.
I slammed it back into the sheath. Clack. I strapped it tightly to my back with nylon rope, angled so I could draw it instantly with my right hand.
Ready.
I looked in the mirror. Bulky magazine armor. Heavy pack. A murderous black blade on my back. Eyes like a desperado. The Bai Shi who wore cheap suits and bowed for a bonus was gone. Replaced by a warrior—or a madman—ready to die.
"Ready?"
Shadow was off the bed, standing in the center of the room. He shook his fur, and the lazy pet vibe vanished. Back arched. Muscles rippling under golden fur. Ears pricked. Eyes cold and sharp. A miniature lion. This was his true form. Shadow, the Mutated Spirit Dog.
"Yeah." My throat was dry.
I walked to the window. One last look at the city. Smoke rising from the BBQ stall. Laughter of drunk kids. The river of red taillights on the highway. A couple watching TV in the apartment across the street, bathed in warm yellow light.
So vivid. So real. So far away. I stood behind the glass, separated by two worlds.
They were living. I was going to survive.
A wave of sour loneliness hit me.
"Reluctant?" Shadow hopped onto the sill, sitting next to me.
"A little." I didn't lie. "Here, there's AC. Takeout. Hot showers. Humans who don't bite. Over there... ruins. Stench. Monsters."
Who wants to leave heaven for hell? If I had a choice, I'd stay in this twenty-square-meter box and rot.
"But here, you are an ant waiting to be stepped on." Shadow turned, golden eyes reflecting my face. Brutally honest. "No money. No power. Even that female... Vivian... threw you away like trash. Do you really like this life? A life with no dignity?"
My heart seized. Vivian. The name was a thorn. The breakup text. The look of pity and disgust. The manager throwing papers in my face.
Yeah. Here, the rules were set. I was a loser. A cog. Replaceable.
But over there... I touched the hilt of the blade. The cold steel woke me up. Over there, the rules were broken. If I dared to swing the sword, if I was ruthless enough, I could live. Better than here. I was a hunter with a blade, not prey.
Shadow was right. This peace belonged to the strong. Not me.
"You're right." I clenched my fist, nails digging into my palm. The pain grounded me.
I turned my back on the city lights. Faced the shabby room. Faced the coming dark.
"Fate gave me this System. I won't waste it." The hesitation in my eyes burned away. Replaced by resolve.
[Countdown: 00 Hours 00 Minutes 10 Seconds]
The System's cold chime rang like a death knell.
The space around me warped. Vision blurred. Air turned thick and heavy. The water stains, the furniture, the night view... everything twisted, stretched, fading like a watercolor painting in the rain. A low buzzing sound, like a million bees.
"Ready, Battle Pet?" Shadow's voice echoed, trembling with excitement. He couldn't wait to get back to the world where strength mattered.
I closed my eyes. Deep breath. Hand on the sword. This time, I wasn't being dragged in. I was marching to war.
"Let's go, Host." I opened my eyes. Wildfire burned in them.
"Let's wreak some havoc."
[Teleportation Start.][Destination: Wasteland World · Sector C Edge]
BOOM!
Gravity vanished. The floor disappeared. The ceiling collapsed. The lights shattered into dust. Darkness rushed in like a tide, swallowing me whole.
Soul ripped from body.
Goodbye, comfort. Goodbye, warm lamp.
Hello, Hell. I'm back. But this time, I'm not the rookie screaming and running. I brought my fangs.