Eastern District Gate Challenge (2)
Lanz slipped away from the main plaza like a thief, ducking and weaving through the crowd until the scent of sizzling street meat and sugar smoke faded behind him.
He found the dingiest-looking public bathroom the district had to offer — a concrete box that looked like it was constructed last minute for exactly this kind of sketchy back-alley escapade.
The fluorescent lights inside flickered in protest when he stepped in, and the cracked tiles under his shoes made a sound like bones settling into place. Which is the most perfect ambiance for his grand plan.
He pushed into the last stall, ignoring the way the door hung slightly crooked on its hinges, and kicked it shut behind him. The latch barely held, with the kind of dramatic flair that would make any soap opera villain proud, Lanz planted himself down on the toilet lid, elbows on his knees, phone resting in his palm like it was the sinister artifact that would kickstart his reign of terror, or at least his new wardrobe budget.
He muttered to himself as his thumb flicked over the group chat messages, the latest notifications still buzzing in the background. "And they say I'm not friend-oriented. Look at me, a generous, supportive friend, taking my precious three idiots on a wholesome weekend trip just so they could witness my greatest performance yet." His grin curled at the edges, teeth flashing in the cold light as he rolled his shoulders back and leaned in closer to the screen. "They're out there, thinking I'm lugging rice bags for my mom, while I'm about to drag half this district's ego straight into the dirt. This is gonna be better than TV. Hell, this is might be the best thing I've ever done."
He broke into a laugh, though it's not the soft amused kind, but the type that climbed out of his throat like it had been waiting for this spotlight all week.
It bounced around the cramped stall walls, echoing just loud enough to carry through the flimsy gaps. It felt good, like the only sensible way to let out the jittery anticipation that had been scratching at his ribs since he first saw that thousand-credit prize tag.
Outside, near the sinks, a pair of kids who looked like they'd just escaped their parents' shopping list paused mid-handwash. One kid elbowed the other, eyes wide as they both turned their heads toward Lanz's stall.
The younger one whispered so loudly it wasn't even a whisper anymore, "Is there… is there a killer in there?" His friend clamped a damp hand over his mouth, eyes bulging with a mix of fear and pure playground curiosity.
Inside the stall, Lanz paused mid-laugh, head cocking slightly as he registered the tiny gasps outside the thin metal door. He let out a slow exhale, pushed himself upright, and cracked the stall door open just enough for his eyes to meet theirs.
He didn't smile — that would've ruined the effect. Instead, he lowered his voice, letting it slip out low and steady like every creepy adult they'd ever been told to avoid.
"Stay in school, kids. Or else," he muttered, deadpan, like some urban legend that gave out unsolicited life advice from a grimy toilet.
The two kids shrieked, sneakers squeaking against the sticky floor as they bolted out the bathroom door in a flurry of terrified giggles and shouting, "Bathroom ghost! Bathroom ghost!" disappearing into the plaza noise. Lanz couldn't help it and snorted, hand over his mouth to smother the laugh that bubbled up anyway. Now we can officially confirm that this guy is a f*cking freak.
He closed the stall door again, shoulders shaking with amusement, and leaned back against the wall, the grimy tile cold through his hoodie, and unzipped his bag with a dramatic flourish that absolutely nobody was around to appreciate except for the occasional drip from a leaky pipe overhead.
He pulled out what was left of his Zero gear piece by piece, laying it across his lap like some tragic ritual offering to the gods of terrible budgeting.
First came the cloak — or what was left of it. He held it up by the shoulders, watched it sag and flutter under the flickering bathroom light. The edges were frayed into uneven strips that looked like they'd lost a fight with a pack of drunk vultures, and there were three claw marks down the back that practically screamed "free ventilation."
He tilted his head, snorted under his breath, and muttered, "Still good enough for a legend in the making. Probably adds to the intimidation factor... or pity. Either way, dramatic points."
Next were the gloves — if you could still call them that when more skin showed through the holes than actual fabric. He slipped one on halfway just to prove a point to himself, wiggled his fingers through the ragged mesh, then shook his head and tossed it back into the bag like a dishrag that had seen better days and worse nights.
For the boots — poor, loyal, duct-tape-worthy boots. They sat there with soles peeling at the corners like open mouths waiting to confess all his sins.
He tapped one with his knuckle and watched a fresh tear appear near the heel. "Perfect," he said, voice thick with the kind of sarcasm that only comes from a man determined to make it work despite every reasonable signal from the universe.
As for the actual black clothe. Well, let's not talk about that abomination. Just know that it's covering his important "features".... he's basically wearing a f*cking crop top, okay! But luckily for him, he has abs, so that's a plus on the style department for him.
Moving on, the System menu slid up into his peripheral, the familiar soft hum of its activation sounding almost smug in his head. He toggled to the gear loadout screen, scrolling through the battered options like a broke kid window-shopping through a luxury store.
The prize money?
A f*cking chance to stomp through this Eastern District show and walk away not just with new gear but with a real reason for people to start whispering about a ghost in a torn crop top.
Lanz zipped the bag closed with one sharp motion, the sound reverberating a little too dramatically in the half-busted stall. He pushed himself to his feet, cloak half-spilling over the edge of the backpack, his eyes flicking once to his warped reflection in the rusted metal of the door.
"Forget that Tier 2 dungeon warmup," he murmured, voice low, a grin curling up. "Let's start grand with the Eastern District Gate Challenge."
End of Chapter 21.
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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)