Sync Rates (1)

Lanz sat on the floor of his room, legs crossed, staring at what used to be his Zero gear like it had personally betrayed him.

The cloak was shredded beyond salvation, the boots looked like they had kicked their way through a blender made of boar teeth, and the gloves had so many holes they could legally qualify as decorative netting.

The entire outfit reeked of blood, sweat, and faint goblin smoke, and yet it somehow looked more tragic now that it was just... sitting there in the morning light.

He let out a quiet sigh and summoned the System's inventory window again, dragging the screen across his vision like someone skimming a cursed spreadsheet they didn't remember making.

The Aged Blade Fragment, that he hasn't used yet because he's scared of damaging it, was unsellable. Plus, this sh*t had zero trade options and a passive-aggressive tooltip that practically whispered, "You're stuck with me, dumbass."

The Goblin Dagger at least had a value tag, but it was so rusted and jagged that even a black market scrapper would probably ask if it came from a children's Halloween set.

Lanz flipped through the rest of his gear — light padding, starter gloves, and a half-cracked ring that technically gave him a +1 VIT bonus but looked like something fished out of a vending machine from the 90s. None of it would buy him anything remotely close to a new disguise.

He leaned back until his head thumped gently against the floor, arms sprawled wide as he stared at the ceiling.

Maybe he could start a bootleg review channel for janky gear. 'Hi, I'm Zero, and today we're seeing how many goblin kneecaps this glorified butter knife can snap before breaking in half.' He was still half-committed to that internal monologue when a familiar buzz erupted from the corner of his desk, followed by an even more familiar alert name flashing across his phone screen.

"Monday, Dumbass."

The words glared back at him like a slap from Future Responsibility. Lanz sat up like someone had just pulled his soul out of his chest. His eyes scanned the clock. 7:38 a.m. Homeroom started at eight.

He blinked once, and again. Then everything moved at double speed.

"Oh sh*t," he muttered, already stripping off his shirt like it was on fire. The cloak got flung toward the hamper and missed by a solid meter, the gloves were yanked off in a panic and tossed blindly behind him, one of them landing on top of his laptop like a sad, fingerless crown.

His boots clattered into the closet door as he kicked them off without bothering to untie anything.

"The only thing scarier than a Tier 2 Gate," he muttered while flinging open his closet like it owed him money, "is getting marked late for the third time in a row and having to explain it to admin staff who log detentions like it's a f*cking sport."

He grabbed the nearest shirt that didn't smell like dungeon death, shoved his head through the collar in a half-successful attempt at dressing, then pulled on a hoodie and stuffed his tablet into his bag.

There was no time for proper food, so he grabbed two slices of bread, clamped them together like they were gourmet cuisine, and sprinted out of his room with a look in his eyes that could only be described as academic desperation.

In the kitchen, Miko was already seated with her tablet, clearly amused as she watched him skid across the linoleum like a cartoon character mid-chase, well, he is goofy, so it's understandable.

Her voice was flat, unimpressed, and annoyingly alert for this early in the day. "Are you speedrunning again like that green blob?"

Lanz, mouth full of bread and priorities, didn't bother responding.

He shot past her, wrestled with one shoe while hopping in place, and bolted out the front door with a barely-formed goodbye and a trail of crumbs marking his path like edible breadcrumbs.

The commute was a blur of chaotic steps, poorly tied laces, and half-panicked muttering under his breath about hallway slips and strict attendance policies.

By the time he made it to the school gates, his jacket was half-zipped, his socks were trying to escape up his ankles, and his lungs were filing a quiet complaint about cardio abuse. "Good thing I put the affinity thingy on agility," he said, panting like the crazy person that he is.

He burst into homeroom just as the bell rang, the door swinging open with the grace of a man fleeing consequences.

His teacher, a man who wore the tired expression of someone who had long since stopped believing in miracles — or morning punctuality — glanced up from his roll sheet.

He didn't even blink at the entrance, just stared silently as if trying to decide whether acknowledging Lanz's last-second arrival was worth the emotional energy.

Lanz gave him a thumbs-up without breaking stride, sliding into his seat with a breathless huff and slapping his bag onto the desk like he'd just conquered a small mountain.

"Oh yeah, baby. I made it," he wheezed, trying not to visibly die.

A few students chuckled quietly and the teacher just sighed, scribbled something onto his sheet, and said nothing.

A f*cking victory.

A deeply stupid, unglamorous, sweat-soaked victory. But still a W.

By the time morning class actually started, the energy in the room had flatlined. Not in the dramatic sort of way, just the slow death of attention that came after a weekend of poor sleep, bad decisions, and too many alarms snoozed past the point of salvation.

The announcements had already come and gone, half-heard over the shuffle of bags and desks, and now the room was caught in that strange classroom stasis where no one dared speak, but no one was really listening either.

Mr. Shigeno stood at the front with his usual I-drank-coffee-but-it-didn't-help posture, he didn't seem particularly invested in the lesson, but he moved through the slides with the kind of practiced rhythm that said he could probably teach this part of the curriculum in his sleep — and might, in fact, be doing exactly that.

"… mana sync tends to normalize within the first five calibration windows, assuming the subject's neural signature remains stable," he was saying. "Variations occur mostly due to imprint drift, simulation lag, or low-grade residual interference from relic exposure."

Lanz sat somewhere in the middle row, posture relaxed to the point of disrespect, notebook open but barely used.

He'd written the date, drawn a decent sketch of a vulture wearing a helmet, and spent the rest of the time pretending to look thoughtful while letting his mind wander.

His legs were still a little sore from the last sim session, and his arms weren't doing much better.

The only thing keeping him upright was the faint social pressure of not wanting to be called out in front of Talia, who, as always, was seated beside him and already ten steps ahead.

She hadn't slouched once. Stylus in hand, screen tilted at the perfect angle, and the faintest crease between her eyebrows that suggested she was paying closer attention than anyone else in the room.

And then, without warning or hesitation, her hand went up.

Mr. Shigeno didn't react at first. It was the kind of question-prompt that teachers dream about — a student actually asking something that sounded relevant — but it clearly caught him a bit off guard.

"Yes, Talia?"

"If a subject's sync tolerance logs higher than expected," she began, tone calm but precise, "let's say significantly higher, and without any signs of system strain or artifact bleed, what would cause that?"

There was a noticeable shift in the air. A few students lifted their heads just enough to register the fact that someone was talking, but most remained blissfully checked out.

Lanz didn't move either, but he stopped doodling. His eyes flicked sideways toward her, then forward again, watching the teacher's face instead of the screen.

"Well…" Mr. Shigeno started slowly, his voice turning cautious in a way that didn't match his usual lecture flow. "That sort of sync variance is rare, especially outside of formal Hunter training or deep system integration.

If the readings are clean, it's probably just a calibration quirk. The public interface sometimes logs artificial spikes, especially during early simulations."

"But wouldn't those spikes trigger a flag?" she asked, still polite, still not pushing, just curious. "The system's not supposed to ignore anything above the neural safety margin."

Mr. Shigeno adjusted his glasses, glanced briefly at his screen, and gave the kind of vague, bureaucratic answer that made Lanz's stomach tighten without knowing why.

"In most cases, yes. But the system prioritizes pattern consistency, not single anomalies. As long as the user's baseline sync falls within normal parameters, it won't treat outliers as faults.

Besides, there are many reasons a scan could return an inflated number, data latency, localized mana field disruptions, even leftover imprint noise from a relic-based environment. These aren't system issues. They're just noise."

With that, he pivoted the slide forward and launched back into a less interesting explanation about mana loop decay, clearly signaling that the discussion was over, so no invitation for continued debate.

Talia didn't argue, she nodded once, returned her stylus to the screen, and resumed taking notes — but it wasn't from the lecture.

Lanz tried not to look, he really did. But this nosey bastard couldn't help but look, so he turned his head ever so slightly,enough to see out of the corner of his eye, he caught her swiping into a new tab, dark-mode interface glowing faintly, her fingers moving quickly across the display like someone following up on a hunch.

And for one moment, just a second and a half, he saw the title of the active session she had running in the background.

[Session: LANZ.K]

His brain didn't even process it immediately. It just sat there, lighting a fire in his chest while his face stayed blank.

He didn't move, he just kept staring at his notebook like the page had suddenly become the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

He could still feel her moving beside him, not in a hostile way, but with this quiet purpose that made him sweat more than the dungeon ambush he had.

And then, as if she'd known he'd been watching, she looked up.

Her eyes met his.

Lanz didn't say anything, he just yawned, a little too wide, and stretched his arms above his head like he'd zoned out during the whole conversation.

His heartbeat was still crawling up his throat, but his face held the same mild disinterest it always did.

He dropped his arms, tapped his pen once against the desk, and casually tilted his notebook to the side.

The vulture in his doodle had a question mark over its head now. He wasn't sure if it was supposed to be ironic or prophetic.

End of Chapter 18.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

ALT SYSTEM — USER PROFILE: ZERO

Level: 10

EXP: 2 / 100

Next Unlock: Skill — Crimson Slash

Global System Tracking: DISABLED

World Rank Association: UNLINKED

Stats:

STR: 8 | AGI: 8 (Affinity) | VIT: 3 | DEX: 1 | INT: 7 | WIS: 0

[Available Stat Points: 0]

[Derived Stat — MANA: 35 / 35]

Skills:

[Phantom Stride Lv.1] (Active Skill)

[Blade Control Lv.1]

[Parry Timing Lv.1]

[Reflex Sync Lv.1] (Passive Skill)

[Combat Awareness Lv.2] (Passive Skill)

[Skill Fusion Menu: Active]

[Dev Tree: Tier 0 Access Granted]

[Developer Node – Fusion Core Anchor: Active]

[Skill Slot Available — Unassigned]

Equipment:

Aged Blade Fragment (??? Rarity) (Bound)

Goblin Dagger

Spiked Boar Tusk Shard

Lightweight Chest Padding

Boots of Basic Mobility

Fingerless Gloves (Basic)

Starter Cloak: Faded Black

Training Ring (+1 VIT)