December 12, 2022...
Floor 1... Starting Town...
Nearly two weeks have passed since the fateful moment when the first-floor boss was defeated.
The news has spread everywhere like wind rushing through every alley, seeping into every wall, every whispered conversation in hidden corners.
That victory, like a torch in darkness lit hope in the hearts of hundreds of players still trapped in despair.
Surprised optimism began to rise, and pioneer groups began to form: first a few names, then entire squads, and soon dozens of teams mushrooming up like rain-fed sprouts.
Less than a week later, word that floor two had been cleared spread like wildfire, strengthening everyone's belief in their ability to survive, to conquer… stronger than ever before.
"More people have left this place than I expected."
In a quiet corner of the tavern, dim yellow light pooled over a scarred wooden table, where a few players sat in a tight circle. Their voices were low, tinged with doubt and regret.
"I've heard, because of those two successful raids… everyone truly believes we stand a chance."
"Yeah… Now only kids and a few of us are stuck here, caught between ideals and reality. I originally came here just to experience something different... "
His words hung in mid-air. The atmosphere fell silent, as if someone had recalled a dead dream. Each person drifted into private thought, eyes distant and solemn.
Then another spoke, trying to bring things back down to earth.
"Did you guys read the morning paper?"
"Yeah. I heard the pioneer team is preparing to assault the floor-three boss..."
"That's fast... It's like everything's accelerating, leaving behind anyone who can't keep up."
"True...but what I've heard the most isn't about that..." A player raised his cup and drained the remaining liquid in a slow gesture meant to capture attention.
He swept his gaze across the group, half teasing, half hinting at a secret:
"You know who I'm talking about… lightning bolt Asuna. In a flash...boom! The giant boss of floor two stunned, opening a golden opportunity for the squad."
"Yeah, I heard that too." Another chimed in, shrugging with a mysterious smile. "But above all… who wouldn't admire that beauty, even if only by rumor."
The group let out soft laughter, tension easing like a breeze in stifling heat.
Then another player, younger and quiet until now spoke up. His voice was low but enough to silence all laughter.
"No one's going to mention… that, huh?"
His question fell like a stone.
Someone tilted his head in understanding. "You mean…"
There was no need to finish the thought. Their expressions turned serious. Jokes dissipated like thin smoke.
"Yes," the other nodded, eyes on the wooden table. "That blacksmith… and the pioneer squad. The so‑called 'fraud'."
Silence descended once more, heavier now, palpable.
Whispers from nearby tables ceased, as though someone had dropped a dark curtain over the room. A silent suspicion began to seep into their hearts.
"I heard," a voice cut through the suffocating silence, "they used a trick to loot gear from the pioneer players..."
Every eye turned to the speaker. No volume was needed, those words were like a silent blade cutting the still surface of a pond.
"Yes," another affirmed, voice dropping further, "they exploited a little‑known system feature… the item-reclaim function."
He set down his wooden cup, eyes narrowing as if watching a dark memory.
"It's buried deep in the inventory settings, hidden among secondary commands. When you drop or discard an item, the system gives the owner three hours to reclaim it. If that time passes, the item disappears forever from their ownership..."
Another hush. The weight in the air thickened.
"…unless it's been looted," he continued, voice low but each word hammered the table, "in which case the item belongs to the one who used the 'loot' skill... reclaim becomes ineffective."
A quiet breath was drawn, as if someone had just realized the truth.
"And… they actually used that?"
A husky voice from the near-empty tavern asked, clipped by a raw throat, timed with the clinking of cups on rough wood.
Outside, cold wind began to blow, winter approaching...but the chill that truly seeped into their bones was something else.
"Yes…" An older player tightened his grip on the half-held wooden cup and nodded slowly. His voice lacked anger...only coated in deep dislike. "I saw it myself."
All eyes focused on him. He took his time, set the cup down, exhaled…
"One of them was a blacksmith. Not a mediocre one. He was the support of dozens of players. Every sword he forged carried hope, like a small flickering light in a dark tunnel."
He curled his lip...not quite a smile. "We were too naive. Who could've guessed that light would blind us?"
"Wait," one player interrupted, "do you mean... while the enhancement was happening..."
"Exactly," the storyteller didn't wait. "In the moment the flame flared and we were all focused on the glowing effect... he swapped the enchanted gear with a near-perfect copy. Same level, same stats, but cheap. The original? Had been stashed in his storage beforehand."
"But..." another, younger player frowned. "Wouldn't players notice once they got it back?"
The storyteller chuckled wryly. "That's the clever part. You remember the enhancement rules, right? Each item has a safe enhancement level...usually +3 for current-tier gear.
Beyond +3, each upgrade carries risk. He pretended to fail on +4 or +5, causing the item to shatter right before the victim's eyes. They saw their gear 'explode,' felt defeated, gave up, and walked away."
He poured a bit more weak ale from his clay jug, his hand still trembling.
"Then what happened?" someone asked quietly.
"He waited. More than three hours pass... nobody considers this possibility or uses the reclaim feature. When reclaim expires, the original becomes ownerless, and he just picks it up and slots it in. And...That item is now fully his."
A heavy silence fell over the table. The wind howled through the window, stretching the quiet across several beats.
"What punishment was handed down when they were discovered?"
The question hit like a stone on a silent pond, stirring suspicions in everyone's mind. Some swallowed nervously. Others gripped their cooling cups in silence.
"Did..." someone whispered, voice barely audible, "…they do something worse as punishment?"
A pause, then the storyteller shook his head slowly, eyes tired.
"No... we are not allowed to kill them." He emphasized each word as if reminding himself.
"If we kill them, that means we accept jungle law instead of human law. One leniency invites hundreds of imitators."
He paused, drank the rest of his ale...perhaps to steel himself for what came next.
"But the cheater… was spared. Not because they deserved it, but because… someone chose to bear the entire consequence."
"The leader?"
"Yes."
His voice dropped. "He had no idea about his member's actions. Once he found out, he said nothing. He just stepped into the town square and raised his sword under everyone's shocked gaze."
The tavern seemed to freeze.
"He stabbed himself?"
"Yeah." The storyteller nodded slowly. "A single thrust into the stomach. Not lethal, but a blow to honor. Blood spattered across the stone floor. Nobody spoke. Nobody stopped him."
He clasped his hands on the table, eyes staring into space.
"That act... didn't grant the criminals forgiveness. But it made us stop. And maybe…" he faltered, "…it made some of us believe that trust hasn't completely died in this world."
A young player timidly asked, "So… what about the gear? Did the victims get compensated?"
"Yes."
His tone remained steady.
"All swapped items had to be returned. They were forced to pay compensation, I heard it amounted to over a hundred thousand cor.
"All the gold that blacksmith's team had saved over weeks... gone in one afternoon."
Another murmured, "But… was that enough? One self-inflicted wound, one payout, and then it's over?"
The storyteller fell silent, then answered softly, "I don't know."
"But since that day... no one's gone to their forge to have weapons made."
The oil lamp overhead swayed, its light casting shadows on empty cups. In that moment, no one spoke further.
But in their minds lingered the image of a commander driving a sword into himself, in the square, in front of everyone. And it would stay there for a long time.
"Alright, everyone," the leading player stood up, stretched wearily, voice tinged with pride. "You did great grinding the nation today. Just a few more levels and we can move to floor two. Let's rest now and resume tomorrow."
Soft laughter, chairs scraping, hopeful pats on the back echoed briefly. Then they left the quiet tavern, leaving silence in their wake.
They didn't know… all along, someone remained seated in the darkest corner, grey cloak drawn over his head, blending with the damp walls.
Ren.
He didn't watch them go. His eyes stared blankly at the empty wooden cup before him, mind drifting far away. His hand spun the cup's base in slow circles, hearing the faint scrape in the near-silence. A quiet sigh slipped from his lips.
What he heard tonight… still churned in his mind like a persistent thorn.
The others had achieved so much… While he is still stuck in place like a failure...
Ren began to think about many things...
He closed his eyes for a moment. Could this be the result… of a society with no way out?
A world where everyone's trapped together inside a giant iron cage, each person drowning in despair, but no one brave enough to admit it?
Clink-clink...
The sound of a wind chime at the door jolted Ren back to reality.
He opened his eyes, unconsciously set his cup down on the table, and turned his head slightly...
Only to freeze instantly.
That voice…
That smooth voice that made one's spine crawl, laced with teasing and an air of mystery:
"I know... a secret path leading to the dungeon beneath this place."
The words followed right after the familiar chime, dragging like a hairline crack across the silence of the nearly closed tavern.
A figure stepped through the doorway, slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world to enjoy the stunned stares aimed his way.
The swaying golden light above bathed him, highlighting his slightly tousled brown hair and a face that seemed like it had wandered out of a fairy tale, with a confident smile, the kind that made you wonder if he'd just awakened from a long slumber… or a different life altogether.
That familiar half-smile gleamed in the light.
Not friendly, not malicious...just that kind of smile that makes you unsure whether to draw your sword or pretend you didn't see anything.
Ren froze.
A fleeting moment of shock passed like mist.
Then his gaze shifted, from confusion to wariness, from surprise to sharpened caution.
Someone he never wanted to see again.
Not because he was too dangerous. But because he was too unpredictable.
Not because he was powerful. But because he didn't need to be, to drag people into trouble.
That voice, light as wind, carried with it a string of memories of past incidents… each labeled as "accidents" or "misunderstandings."
Ren tightened his grip around the rim of his cup, but didn't look away.
He just stared...quietly, as if confirming something he already knew couldn't be wrong.
A man who didn't need to act.
He only had to say half of something, and let the rest unfold from greed and gullibility. A fox in the garb of a charming rogue. Someone who never set foot on the battlefield, yet earned more than those who bled.
He still looked the same. Still walked with that relaxed gait, like no one in this world could ever lay a hand on him. Still cast those mocking glances, as if everyone else were pawns in a game he'd already mastered.
Copper.
The name slid through Ren's mind like a dull blade scraping raw skin.