Varkan City.
One of the four major powerhouses governed by the Volaris family. Sleek, towering buildings, military precision, and wealth laced into every streetlight.
The city was closest to Began Hills, which was currently reeling from an attack by the demonic cult.
That meant security was tighter than a miser's coin purse. No one was getting in without a damn good reason.
At the south gate, a long line of vehicles snaked down the road, drivers visibly frustrated.
City guards with stern expressions and stiff posture checked each vehicle thoroughly. The air was thick with tension.
"Next!" a gruff voice barked, and a black SUV rolled into the city after a painfully slow inspection.
VROOM!
Up next came a lone motorcycle, modest in design but humming with power. On it sat a teenager who looked just shy of sixteen.
White hair tousled messily in the wind. A sharp face that carried a kind of detached beauty.
Piercing red eyes that looked like they saw more than they should.
Dressed in a sleek black jacket, he exuded the kind of confidence that made people feel vaguely nervous without knowing why.
"Name and reason for coming to this city?" the guard demanded, squinting at him.
"Alex," the boy said smoothly. "Just Alex. I'm here to register as a hunter at the local Hunter Association branch."
The guard narrowed his eyes. "Identification?"
"Ah… no," Alex said, dropping his head slightly. "I'm an orphan. Just awakened. Left the orphanage to try and support them by becoming a hunter. They're pretty poor, so... you know." His voice was soft, almost too rehearsed. His lips trembled just enough.
The performance was Oscar-worthy.
But his eyes?
Flat. Bored. Totally uninvested.
The guard, however, let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. "Damn shame. But it's not uncommon. Just get yourself registered properly and pick up an ID soon, alright?"
"Will do, sir! Thank you!" Alex beamed with a grin that would've melted hearts if it weren't completely fake.
The gate opened.
VROOOM!
And the motorcycle tore into the city.
***************
'What a moron,' Richard thought smugly. The fake name thing was just for flavor. He could've said his name was "Dick Smacker" and still gotten in.
"Honestly, I didn't think it'd be that easy. I mean, a sob story and poof—entry granted? Is this what passes for security these days?" he muttered, zipping through the streets.
[Perhaps because orphans trying to become hunters is a common situation.]
"Yeah, yeah, tragic lives, hard knock streets, do-gooder dreams. Spare me." He rolled his eyes.
The motorcycle shifted smoothly as he adjusted gears.
"Now this thing? This is the real MVP. Smooth gear shifts. Good grip. Can't believe that guy just gave it away for free."
[He didn't. You killed him. And took it. Along with his jacket.]
"Semantics," Richard said, brushing it off. "He offered his life the moment he pointed a sword at me."
[He also tried to enslave you.]
"Exactly! I consider that an open invitation to redistribute his assets."
The system didn't reply. Just sighed again. Its version of giving him the finger.
Turns out, shortly after escaping Began Hills—where every working vehicle had been flash-frozen into overpriced ice sculptures—Richard had run into a group of bandits.
The classic scumbags troupe: poor hygiene, bad attitudes, delusions of grandeur.
They'd tried to rob and enslave him.
Richard responded with efficient violence. A couple of exploded skulls later, their boss's motorcycle and jacket became his new travel companions.
Blood-stained clothes? Out. Sleek black biker look? In.
Now, cruising down the surprisingly smooth roads of Varkan City, Richard took in the skyline.
The buildings gleamed with technology he'd never seen before. Neon signs. Floating holo-screens.
Digital ads selling everything from mana boosters to "body-enhancing" elixirs with highly questionable side effects.
"Human civilization really got a glow-up," he murmured, stopping at a red traffic light.
"Back in my day, cities didn't even have good functioning sewer systems, let alone traffic management AI. Hell we didn't even have these cars to have traffic management."
The light turned green.
He sped off, weaving effortlessly through traffic until he came to a large building with silver-trimmed windows and a glowing sign:
RAGOLIS HOTEL.
The building looked expensive. The type of place that charged you extra for breathing in the lobby.
A valet in a crisp white shirt and red jacket immediately approached.
"Welcome to Ragolis Hotel, sir," the man said, bowing slightly. "May I take your vehicle?"
Richard didn't even hesitate. Tossed him the keys like he'd been doing it his whole life.
Another hotel staff member appeared at his side like a summoned servant. "This way, sir."
Richard walked inside, his lips curled in a half-smirk. The polished marble floors, the warm lighting, the subtle scent of something floral and absurdly expensive—it all screamed luxury.
Just like the old days, he thought fondly. Back when people bowed and scraped because he had a crown and a sword that could cut mountains.
At the front desk stood a woman who looked like she belonged in a wine commercial.
Mid-thirties, olive green hair pulled back in a neat bun, her figure wrapped in an elegant uniform. Her smile was professional, but her eyes had a sparkle to them—like she could smell money.
"Welcome to Ragolis Hotel," she said warmly. "Would you like to book a room for the night?"
"Yes," Richard said casually, adjusting the jacket he stole, acquired, from the dead bandit. "Single room. Nice view. And quiet, preferably."
"Of course, sir. That'll be 600 Crons for the night. Will you be paying by card or cash?"
Richard reached into his pocket and pulled out the bandit leader's wallet.
With zero hesitation and the confidence of a seasoned grifter, he slid the man's credit card across the counter.
The receptionist took it with a gracious nod. Then paused. Looked at the name on the card.
"Mr... Jerald Scumburke?" she said, trying to keep her face from twitching.
Richard leaned in, smiling slyly. "It's a family name. Don't ask."
She gave a polite laugh that somehow sounded both forced and terrified.
"No judgment here, Mr. Scumburke."
The payment processed. Miraculously.
"Room 407," she said, sliding over the keycard. "Top floor, excellent view. If you need anything—"
"I'll yell."
The receptionist blinked. "Right. Of course, sir."
Richard pocketed the key and turned toward the elevator. As he passed a group of security guards in dark suits, he felt a faint tingle up his spine.
These guys weren't window dressing. Their mana alone was enough to make his skin prickle. At least two of them were stronger than him in his current state.
Note to self: don't start any fights in the lobby.
The elevator dinged, and he stepped in, whistling as the doors closed behind him.
"Luxury hotel, high-tech city, a stolen bike, and an even more stolen credit card," he muttered with a grin. "Now this is how you start a vacation."
[You're not on vacation. You're hiding from an elite force of holy knights who could kill you in one spell.]
"Details, details," he said as the elevator ascended. "Let me enjoy the hot water and plush bed first before we get all doomsday about it."
The system didn't respond.
It was probably trying not to scream.