Eastern District Gate Challenge (3)

While Lanz was off scaring children and cackling in a grimy bathroom stall.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the buzzing Eastern District plaza, there was a young man named Theodore Prune that stood quietly near the entry queue for solo participants, his presence about as flashy as a shadow on a cloudy day.

He wasn't hunched or tense, just there — duffel bag slung over one shoulder, simple but sturdy gear layered over a faded shirt, boots laced up neat with the kind of careful habit you only learn when you can't afford to replace them twice.

A cluster of rookies a few meters away were practically vibrating out of their cheap chest plates, talking way too loudly about how easy this whole thing was gonna be, how they'd rack up highlight clips for their channels, how they'd split the prize money and blow it all on drinks afterward.

Theodore didn't flinch at their noise, as a matter of fact, he didn't even look annoyed. His eyes just drifted across them once, cataloging half-taped shoulder guards and dented buckles, the careless way they slung their swords around like props for a skit.

Then he turned his attention back to the gate line, expression as calm as ever.

It wasn't arrogance that kept him distant. If anything, the way he watched people like a creep was just how he'd always been. Which needs some fixing to honest.

Even now, he let the buzz of the crowd wash over him like background static, the rising cheer of the big screen replaying a rookie getting face-planted by a slime trap while someone off to his right sold fried squid balls on sticks.

The smell made his stomach twist slightly, but he didn't let the thought linger. He reached into his pocket instead, thumb brushing over a folded slip of paper tucked neatly between his fingers.

He unfolded it just enough to read the same lines he'd read a dozen times already this week — the header of the bill stamped with the clinic's name, a long column of numbers he didn't need to see again, and scrawled at the bottom in the neat, written in a slightly curved, childish handwriting: Be safe. Love, Lea.

For a moment, the noise of the plaza faded behind the memory of a cramped clinic room, the smell of antiseptic and warm broth that hadn't been quite enough to cover the cold tang of metal and medicine.

Lea had been curled up in bed, blanket pulled all the way up to her chin, eyes wide in that way she did when she was about to say something she knew he wouldn't want to hear.

"You don't have to do this," she'd whispered, voice too small for someone who'd always been the louder one between them. "We'll figure it out some other way. I don't want you to—"

He'd cut her off before she could finish, reaching out to gently knock his knuckles against her forehead, a soft little tap that made her wrinkle her nose and try to bat his hand away. "What are you saying, dummy? You just keep your strength up," he'd said, calm as ever, the same words he'd used when they were kids and she'd tried to insist she could walk home alone in the rain. "That's your job, Lea. Let me handle the rest."

A burst of laughter from the loud rookies dragged him back to the present. Theodore refolded the paper along its soft crease, slid it back into his pocket, and rolled his shoulders like he was resetting a stiff joint.

He flexed his gloved fingers, checked the strap on his duffel, and murmured under his breath, barely audible over the carnival chatter and the faint roar of the crowd by the food stalls.

"Can't afford to waste today."

He shifted his weight onto his back foot, eyes flicking up to the big board over the plaza that ticked off participant numbers like a slow countdown to the kind of work he was actually good at.

He doesn't need fame, just the payout — enough for another round of treatment, maybe a few weeks without having to juggle side jobs that barely covered rent. That was the only prize he cared about.

But unfortunately, Theodore will meet three out of the four idiotic musketeers.

And there they are, Kenji was the first one to spot Theodore, because of course he was — the man basically had a sixth sense for anything vaguely interesting that wasn't on the snack stall menu.

He nudged Hiro with his elbow hard enough to almost knock the skewered fish balls from his hand, then pointed across the plaza where Theodore stood near the solo participant queue, duffel bag at his feet like it might as well have been chained to him.

"Hey, hey, isn't that the Seno guy? No, wait, was it Prune? Theodore Prune, right? "Didn't he solo that Tier 2 Gate last month? The one in the canal district that flooded half the training arena near Velmordop Public North?"

Hiro blinked, glanced over at where Theodore was standing almost statue-still, and squinted like he expected to see a celebrity logo floating over the guy's head. "Prune?" he said around a mouthful of mystery meat. "That's not a real name. You're messing with me."

Leo barely lifted his eyes from his drink pouch, sucking noisily through the straw with that infuriating calm he had when he was about to drop the driest take imaginable.

"Bet he's stronger than you, though," he said, words muffled by the straw, voice so flat it was impossible to tell if he was trying to be mean or if he genuinely thought Hiro needed reminding.

Hiro just squawked like a ruffled pigeon. "Bro, you don't know that! I'm plenty strong! I just... you know, haven't gotten my big break yet."

"Uh huh," Kenji drawled, eyes still fixed on Theodore like a magpie spying something shiny. There was something about the guy that stuck out, but in a weird, reverse way.

He didn't look cocky or bounce around for the cameras like those other rookies bragging about how easy the prize money would be. He just looked… calm. Like the giga chad that he is. (I'm sorry)

"Look at him," Kenji said, lowering his voice like they were sharing government secrets. "Doesn't even flinch when they announce new rounds. You think I should go say hi? We should totally go say hi."

"Why?" Leo asked, tone deadpan, straw still firmly between his lips.

"Because, my dear flavorless drink enthusiast, when you see someone that chill, you gotta know what the hell makes him tick," Kenji replied, already stepping forward like his feet had made the decision for him.

Before Hiro could protest that maybe Theodore didn't want to be bothered, they were already standing three feet away, a trio of nosy idiots hovering like pigeons around a guy trying to enjoy five minutes of peace.

Theodore glanced up when he noticed the shadows, eyes moving from Kenji's too-bright grin to Hiro's half-eaten snack, then to Leo's ever-present aura of disinterested judgment. Small correction, he didn't have aura.

Theodore raised an eyebrow, the tiniest lift, almost polite, almost not... definitely not.

"Yo," Kenji said, clearing his throat like he was about to introduce a rock band. "Theodore Prune, right? Didn't you solo that Gate last month? Pretty sick, man."

Theodore didn't puff up or brag. He just shrugged one shoulder, expression the same steady calm as before. "It's work," he said, voice even, like he was telling them the weather forecast. Wait, no. A weather forecaster's voice might have more emotions.

Hiro, who clearly hadn't been briefed on the art of subtle conversation, leaned in a little too close, chewing around the skewer in his hand. "You nervous? Gotta be a bit nervous, yeah? You know like, big crowd, big prize money…"

Theodore blinked once, not annoyed but not particularly amused either. "It's work," he repeated, like that settled it.

Then, after a beat — maybe because Hiro's puppy-dog eyes were impossible to fully ignore — he added, "More useful to focus on staying calm. Also, please stop that."

Leo let out a soft snort. "See, Hiro? Some people know how to stay chill without making everything into a three-part monologue."

Hiro pointed the skewer at Leo like an accusing finger. "You wanna talk about monologues, Mr. Five-Minute Drink Review?"

Kenji clapped his hands once, ignoring both of them. "Ignore these two, man. I'm Kenji, that's Hiro with the stick of questionable meat, and that's Leo, who'll roast you for free. So… any advice for first-timers? You look like you've got the whole 'serious hunter' vibe locked down."

Theodore's gaze flicked past them to the snack stands, eyes narrowing ever so slightly when he spotted the same battered squid stall that Hiro had been eyeing earlier. He exhaled through his nose, voice dropping just enough to sound almost like a joke, though his tone stayed perfectly even.

"Don't eat the fried squid if you want to keep running. Unless you like stomach cramps halfway through."

Hiro stared at him, scandalized, like he'd just been handed the keys to forbidden knowledge. "Bro… that's so real. I respect that."

Kenji threw an arm around Hiro's shoulder dramatically. "See? This is why you talk to the calm guy, real pro tips. I like you, man. I hope you win."

Leo's lips quirked into the faintest grin, straw bobbing slightly. "Same. Better you than those loudmouths." He jerked his chin toward the cluster of bragging rookies a few spots down the line, still running their mouths about the highlight clips they'd rack up for the HunterNet boards.

Theodore didn't say much else. He just dipped his head in a small nod, one corner of his mouth almost lifting into the faintest ghost of a smile. It was there and gone so quick it could've been a trick of the flickering plaza lights.

Before they could try to prod more words out of him, the giant board overhead ticked over with a low chime, flashing new participant numbers in blocky neon. Theodore's name appeared, clean and simple, like a quiet promise nobody here was really ready for.

Kenji clapped once. "That's you! Alright boys, no question, we're staying to watch this man work."

Hiro threw up his snack stick like a tiny flag. "Go get 'em, Prune! Don't die or whatever!"

Leo just raised his drink pouch, like the laziest, chillest toast imaginable. "Break some records."

Theodore didn't break into anything as dramatic as a grin or a smirk. He's not like some certain idiot.

He just nodded again, shouldered his duffel, and stepped forward, calm and steady, exactly the same way he'd been standing before, except now he was moving.

End of Chapter 22.

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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)