Sunlight barely pierced through the grime-caked windows of the abandoned storage building. Alaric stirred awake, every muscle sore but his mind sharper than ever. The events of last night were carved into his memory — the assassin's relentless attacks, the taste of blood, the brutal reminder that Zenith City offered no forgiveness to the weak.
Slowly sitting up, Alaric checked the bandages he'd hastily wrapped around his side. Thanks to his increased Vitality, the wound was already starting to heal, the pain now a dull ache instead of a burning fire.
He wiped the sleep from his eyes and checked the system interface.
[Quest Progress: Survival Instinct (2/3)]
Still incomplete. One more life-or-death encounter before the system deemed him ready for the next stage. He gritted his teeth, feeling both anger and anticipation simmer beneath the surface.
"No room for weakness anymore," he muttered.
Pocketing what little he had, Alaric stepped back into the sprawling chaos of Zenith. Lia needed him. Every risk he took, every step he advanced, was for her sake. For their future.
The city buzzed with life even in the Grey Quarter. Street vendors hawked questionable goods, pickpockets prowled like sharks, and gangs lounged in alleyways, sizing up every passerby. Alaric kept his head low, alert for any hint of trouble.
First, he needed a more stable place to stay. Squatting in a rotting storage building would only invite more trouble. He also needed a plan. Resources, shelter, weapons — all vital to survival. And right now, he had almost none.
Hours later, Alaric found himself wandering the less hostile edges of the Grey Quarter, where crumbling apartment blocks towered overhead like skeletal remains. Most places were owned by small-time landlords or left abandoned. Some, he heard, offered rooms to those who asked no questions.
After asking around carefully, slipping a few credits to a vendor, he found a lead: an old boarding house known as "The Rusted Oak." Once a grand townhouse, now it was a sagging wreck divided into ten cramped units. Still, to Alaric, it was a palace compared to his previous hideouts.
The building had a haunting air about it, like it had witnessed too many tragedies and was still mourning silently. Its faded facade bore graffiti, and the front door hung crooked on rusted hinges.
An old woman with a hawk-like gaze managed the place. She squinted at him from behind the battered reception desk.
"Rent's due weekly. No fighting, no police," she barked. "Break the rules, and you're out."
"Understood," Alaric said, handing over a stack of crumpled bills. His savings were thinning dangerously, but it was necessary.
"Room 6B," she grunted, tossing him a rusted key.
Alaric climbed the rickety stairs, each creaking step a testament to the building's age. He found 6B at the end of the hall. Inside, the room was small—barely wide enough for a single bed, a table, and a cracked wardrobe. The walls were peeling, and the window barely closed.
Still, when he sank onto the mattress and felt the relative softness under him, a wave of relief washed over him. For the first time in days, he had something resembling security.
He spent the afternoon cleaning, setting traps at the door—simple alarms made from broken glass and string—before finally allowing himself to relax. His mind drifted toward Lia. He needed to find a way to bring her here too. She deserved better. She deserved a future where she wasn't looking over her shoulder every moment.
Alaric also took time to review everything Tavros had said. His parents had been important once, vital enough to be "erased" by powerful enemies. If the Syndicate had truly orchestrated their downfall, then crossing paths with them again was inevitable.
He pulled out a small notebook, jotting down every piece of information he could recall: faces, locations, names overheard during missions. Every scrap of knowledge could become a weapon later.
As evening settled in, the system pulsed again.
[New Side Quest Available: First Arsenal]
Objective: Acquire a suitable weapon.
Reward: Skill Proficiency +3%
Alaric smirked. "About time."
He needed a blade. Something better than pipes and broken glass. Real weapons would open up real options. He dressed quickly, wrapping himself in his battered hoodie and making sure the makeshift alarms were armed before slipping out into the night once more.
The streets of Zenith transformed after sunset. The weak scurried home; predators emerged from every corner. Black-market dealers peddled their wares openly under broken neon lights, and whispers of new contracts floated in the fetid air.
Alaric headed for a name he'd heard before—the "Crooked Fang," a pawnshop known to sell weapons to those desperate or reckless enough to ask.
He moved cautiously, blending with the shadows, his enhanced stealth instincts kicking in almost naturally now. Each careful step reinforced one truth:
This time, he wasn't just surviving.
He was hunting.