Chapter 61

My complaint was approved; the psychologist won’t torment me with their monologues anymore. Even during my first punishment, I learned about the violation of my rights. If I hadn’t played my trump card now, who knows where I’d be in a month—this ship is moving, after all.

But the conversation with my so-called "friend" left me with mixed feelings. He never outright said where he was from or who he represented, but he dropped plenty of hints—he’s from Lunar, and they’re covering my treatment because insurance won’t. I agree with his advice, but I don’t need to limit my abilities—I need to learn to control them. There have been similar cases in history where someone became too lost in their thoughts, leading to overload. As a solution, they recommended engaging in tasks requiring complex calculations. My choice? Designing long-term autonomous spacecraft—Frontiers. The goal of this consciousness flow control method is to create a mental workspace where all calculations happen. For example, designing a hydroponics module or a reactor compartment. Essentially, working within the mind to offload the sensory-processing streams. Only one stream interacts with the outside world; the rest operate internally. Sounds simple, but adapting it to myself won’t be easy. Then comes gathering the necessary knowledge—even with my abilities, it’ll take at least a year. And I need to deal with my guardian before taking active steps. Fun. Time to focus on real problems, not games.

In short: Lunar won’t interfere and is willing to provide treatment as needed. Overloading my mind the old way is off the table—unless I want to live in a hospital. The plan for the real world is set; now I just need to execute while the odds are in my favor—after all, I’m under medical supervision in a capsule. Better conditions are impossible right now.

For the next four hours, I gathered every available resource on spacecraft engineering, legal frameworks, and educational materials—just compiling data and structuring a learning plan. Right now, absorption is key.

Back in the game, I packed my belongings—less than an hour until arrival in Sural. Its towers were already visible.

Today marks the start of everything I’ve prepared for. I won’t just be a kid or some dark mage-swordsman. I know how to surpass my limits and maximize my knowledge and power. It’ll take serious effort.

With time left before arrival, I reviewed the facts: Sural belongs to the Manai Caliphate, stretching along the coast. On this side of the continent, it fully encompasses the Hashan Desert—one of my future grinding spots.

Locals consider the desert cursed, teeming with monsters. No ordinary creatures here—just constant mental and fire damage. At its heart lies a dead zone. Those who ventured too close spoke of horrors: banshees, basilisks, giant serpents, nameless abominations, and an endless river of souls flowing through the sky toward the cursed lands. Legends mention a Sandman and a pit to the underworld at the desert’s center. I’d love to see the truth for myself.

My enemies are strong, and I remember my helplessness on that altar—my naivety, stupidity, weakness. I must correct my mistakes before facing a real opponent here. Being weak… how disgusting it feels. Better a monster than powerless and worthless.

My thoughts lack logic; emotions disrupt reasoning. In moments like this, I seek solutions by any means—and I found one.

The local Monster Slayers’ Guild clears the surrounding lands of the deadliest creatures. These aren’t rabbit hunters—they’re the best players. Any monster on their list has advanced intelligence and immense power.

This world has many guilds—assassins, thieves, mercenaries, couriers, blacksmiths, warriors—but the Monster Slayers are the most profitable and dangerous.

The enemy is always unpredictable, strong, intriguing! This path attracts loners testing their limits or thrill-seekers. It’ll be my income source for now. I am the monster.

Customs let us pass without inspection—I’d feared they’d find my Ring of Dominion. Officially, I’m clean; no suspicion means no search. I’ll never show my stats window, not even on my deathbed. Time to find lodging, and I know who to ask.

"Gerrion, before you go—any good inns here?"

"Funny enough, the best one’s in the slums. Run by ex-convicts and bandits."

"Charming. Anything better?"

"Anji, this is a port city. Where do you expect vacancies? Desert and jungle out there—not some backwater like Heron."

"Got it. Mark it on my map." Gerrion stared at my mega-map in disbelief. I’d paid a fortune for it, but it was worth every coin—it showed global shipping routes and port cities.

No one stopped or approached me. A ragged kid drew no attention—just port urchins and pickpockets sizing me up. Perfect. My clothes made me invisible.

Sural was a major trade hub. Its buildings surpassed Imir or Heron—plastered walls, stone masonry, colored cobblestone roads, towers, and estates. The city’s bustle was overwhelming; I muted ambient voices. The docks fed into a sprawling market, but I needed the auction house and bank first.

Oddly, in Chrysalis, kids can’t use banks—but auctions are fine. Selling through one lets me collect payment from any branch.

I found the inn quickly and rented a room for a month, setting it as my respawn point. The owner gave me a pitying look.

"Something wrong?"

"No. Rest well." Only then did he pocket the money.

I needed answers, and only another kid could provide them. Near the docks, I spotted a streetwise boy—the type who’d know about children’s rights and loopholes.

"Hey, kid. What do you want?" His tone was rude, but that worked in my favor—more honest answers.

"Tell me, if I start beating you, will the guards intervene?" He tensed instantly.

"You think you’re tough? Trying to claim my spot?!" I caught his punch mid-swing and squeezed until his HP dropped.

"Technically, I didn’t touch you first. So if guards come, you’re at fault. Answer: Will they intervene?"

"Yeah," I loosened my grip—no need for a debuff on a kid. "They break up fistfights. Weapons mean a day in the brig."

"See?" I released him. "No hard feelings. Just needed answers. You’re an orphan, right?"

"Yeah."

"You trade info on cargo and people?"

"Yeah. I’m a gatherer for the guild. Who sent you?"

"No one. Another question: If an adult player hits you, what happens?"

"If I provoked it and there are witnesses, nothing. Unprovoked? First strike—a month in the mines. Second—six months. Third—account deletion, though psychos like that are rare."

"What if two men hold you down and I kill you?" He edged back, ready to bolt.

"Just a hypothetical. Not planning it."

"Well… the holders get banned—we’re kids. You’d get a week for extreme misconduct. Your parents would be held liable."

"That’s it? I killed you, and just a week in the brig?" So that’s the punishment Rachel got for my Hell?

"Only if there are witnesses or a god notices. The holders lose their accounts regardless, but you might walk. One kill = red mark for a week. Ten at once = a year. Serve your time, and you’re clean."

Bastards. She walked free. I’m sure she avoided punishment.

"Sorry for the grim questions."

Even in Hell, I’d gathered info on past events. Few players meant scarce data, but one report matched the date of my arrival in Hell: the ascension of a new god, Leon. Rachel and that ritual are connected. And Bernard—why was he involved?

I sought escape from Hell then; now, I seek a way home and retaliation if threatened. But I’ll never forgive this...

It was all so simple once. Chrysalis was just for pocket money, then came family… a home. Now, after Hell, I’m fighting to return—only to face those who’d kill me for existing. Or so they think. They believe I deleted my character and started anew—it’s been a year and a half. I won’t rely on assumptions; I’ll build absolute advantage for counterstrikes.

I sat with the boy awhile longer. One last question:

"How do you know if someone has forbidden skills?"

"I’m not a guard. Catch them in the act or find witnesses."

"Can you force them to show their stats window?"

"Nah." He waved dismissively. "Only if falsely accused—they’d show it to prove innocence."

"Simple. What about forbidden items? Necromantic or blood magic stuff?"

"You’d need to hold the item or have the owner reveal its stats."

"So a necromancer could walk around disguised as a regular mage?"

"Sure. Just don’t use those skills publicly."

"Punishment?"

"Rep loss and exile. But they’re rare—few mentors, always moving."

The boy had mellowed, like many orphans who found family in Chrysalis. I understood him. Envied him, even.

"Thanks. Good luck." He had nothing more to offer.

Sural had five districts: the eastern port, northern upper city, northeastern slums, central market, and western craftsmen’s quarter. Next stop—the Monster Slayers’ Guild by the western jungle gates.

The guild was straightforward: take any contract, complete it free, and gain access to regional quests. Ranks ranged from 10 (newbie) to 1 (elite). Ten contracts per rank unlocked the next. Higher rank = higher reward (and danger).

Behind the counter sat Nell, a life mage in green embroidered robes—likely a druid.

"I want to join."

"Standard rules: Complete any contract, bring proof, and you’re in." She barely glanced up.

"I know. But how do I gauge the enemy?"

"Local monsters range from level 100 to 250. Each rank covers 15 levels—rank 10 is 150–165. Payment varies by difficulty within rank." Finally, she looked at me. "Though you’ve got no chance."

"If it’s not forbidden, it’s permitted." Grinning, I took my first contract: a giant serpent spotted near the road. Proof: its tail or scales.

Nell forgot to mention it was a mini-boss. My heightened perception spotted it first. It lunged—

Monster: Heart-Eater Serpent, Lv. 160.

Immune to stun, thick hide. Its tail swipe sent me flying, but my counterattack—a single stone strike—dealt 25K damage, killing it instantly. Then it shapeshifted back into a human. No tail? Maybe haul the corpse to the guild.

Another serpent attacked from the bushes. Hell taught me never to lower my guard. Eye of the Imp revealed its position; mining in darkness honed my aim. This time, fire magic burned its hide. The drop: tail, rare bow, gloves, two rings, and 45 gold. Hunting here was lucrative.

Back at the guild:

"I’m in, Miss…?"

+1 Manai Caliphate Reputation (Neutral: 999 to Respect)

+10 Sural Reputation (Neutral: 990 to Respect)

Joined Monster Slayers’ Guild (Rank 10)

"Nell. Call me Miss Nell. Yes, you’re in. Name?"

"Saji."

"You’re now a monster hunter. Rare for a child to join."

"Strange times, Miss Nell. You’re a mage?"

"Yes. Want to become one?" Her hat and staff marked her as a druid.

"Yes. Where can I buy spellbooks? Seals for all magic schools and tiers."

"That’ll take a year’s earnings."

"I’m diligent. Just point me to the shop."

"Magic Emporium in the market district. But you’re not a mage. Without the Inscription skill, you’ll craft seals manually, not automatically."

"I know. I’ll take another contract. By the way, what was the reward for the serpent?"

"100 gold. Bonus for killing a traveler. Red checkmarks mean increased danger."

Next target: a lich and its minions. But first, the bookshop.

The Magic Emporium’s eye-shaped sign was unmistakable. Owner Jerome balked at my request but quoted 230K gold after gathering the books.

"I don’t have that. How about an unusual trade?"

"What?"

"Rare books for the ones I need. Restricted editions—banned ones."

"You’re offering contraband?"

"Yes. The Caliphate is lenient compared to Ovidia. There’s always demand."

Jerome whispered: "Do you know the risk I’m taking?"

"Think I’d report you? Give you one book today. If satisfied, we’ll talk tomorrow. I’m risking more—these books are priceless."

After deliberation, he agreed.

Naive, Jerome. In the orphanage, such deals led to blackmail. Plus, I had logs of the transaction.

I hunted monsters till dawn: undead, a giant toad, a phantom, a black panther. Six hours of sleep later, back in-game to collect my ship sale earnings.

Gerrion waited at the auction house. The frigate sold for 64K; my cut was 48K. Pirate hunting sounded profitable.

"I sail in an hour. Be careful—pirates might retaliate."

"Don’t worry. I can handle myself."

I’d chosen the auction house for a reason: I needed blood malachite—lots of it. Its unique properties intrigued me.

Here, it was a mana battery. Rare, thus expensive. Ungraded malachite was cheaper, so I bought all available stock. It’s semi-precious but fragile, used mostly in city mana grids.

After spending 3.5K gold and acquiring 6kg of malachite, Gerrion delivered intel: a healer-mage worked at the arena; top monster lairs were marked on my map; a tattoo artist lived in the port district.

Tattoo Master Bor’s shop was above the port authority.

"Can I get a tattoo?"

"Sure. Which gang’s symbol?"

"Gang? I’m not local."

"Ah. Most kids here are in gangs—tattoos are tradition. Clan marks grant permanent buffs and tracking. Both marker and insignia."

"Charming. How does the Tattoo Artisan skill work?"

"It’s a crafting class. Skill level affects detail and size; crafting level determines bonus effects from inks."

"Can I design my own? Keep it secret?"

"Boy, I’ve kept secrets for decades. I’m the top artisan in the Caliphate, fourth guild-wide. Don’t insult me."

I’d noticed something in Hell: more mental streams didn’t just speed up thinking—they enhanced quality. It’s why I didn’t break after losing everything. Now, I knew how to regain Bor’s trust.

"My apologies, Master. I meant no offense. I need intricate, secret tattoos—work worthy of your skill."

What does a master crave? A challenge! Something to push their limits.

"Boy, I’m hard to impress. What do you want?"

"Magic seals inked onto skin."

He scoffed. "They’ll vanish after use. The activator gets punished for harming a child. And you’re no mage."

Eleven fire orbs materialized around me.

"What if the ink doesn’t fade? And as you see—I am a mage."

Bor’s shock turned to fascination.

"No such ink exists. Unless… you know how to make it?"

"I know how to make them permanent for my tattoos but not how to prepare the ink itself."

"I usually mix my own. Bring me a base and pick a color; my skill will ensure better results."

"Deal. But the composition is… illegal. Nothing extreme."

"Kid, my usual clients would horrify you. Who do you think gets tattoos in a port city?" Pirates, thieves, killers—point taken.

"I’ll need a month to gather materials."

Bor sighed. "The base I can make in days. The issue is spellbooks and payment. That’ll take time."

"I’ll return. Promise."

"Go on. Bring the base in three weeks—I’ll need time to brew the ink."

I spent the next month clearing guild contracts. Reputation discounts helped at the bookshop; I traded unwanted tomes for my needs. 150K gold in two weeks—but Bor’s fee required another 100K.