"Boss, they're in position."
The plainclothes officer pressed his phone to his ear, peering through the darkness at the two gangs converging on the abandoned lot. Twenty-plus thugs on each side, armed with bats, pipes, and the occasional glint of a blade. A proper gang war, brewing nicely.
He texted his superior: "Gang fight imminent. Moving in after engagement."
Months of surveillance, informants, and patience—all culminating tonight. This bust would mean promotion. A raise. Maybe even enough to finally propose. The corner office. The wife. The whole damn dream.
His smile widened.
The phone buzzed.
"WHAT?!" he hissed into the receiver. "You trying to get us killed? Keep your voice—"
"Boss, someone's—"
"Someone's WHAT?"
"Just LOOK!"
He looked.
A figure had dropped from nowhere into the center of the forming brawl. And then—chaos. The man moved like water, like wind, like nothing human should move. Punches sent thugs flying. Kicks folded them where they stood. Both gangs, momentarily united by confusion, turned on him together.
It didn't matter.
Thirty seconds. Maybe less. And then—
A rift. A tear in the air itself, black as oblivion. Weapons—bats, pipes, chains, the thugs' own jackets—lifted and vanished into it. The man stepped through after them, and the rift sealed like it had never existed.
Thirty-odd men lay on the pavement, groaning. And completely, utterly naked.
The plainclothes officer's jaw hung somewhere around his collarbone.
"GODDAMN HERO ASSOCIATION!" He burst from cover, waving his badge at empty air. "This is a POLICE MATTER! You can't just—they're NAKED! How am I supposed to—"
"Boss?" His men emerged from the shadows, staring at the scene. "What do we do?"
He took a long, shuddering breath. Pinched the bridge of his nose.
"...Arrest them. Public indecency. Disturbing the peace. I don't know. Just... get them in the van."
[Encounter Summary]
Intervention: Two-gang conflict (approx. 45 participants)
Tactical Note: Gangs briefly united against outsider before being neutralized
Method: Samurai sword + precision thrown objects + overwhelming aggression
Rewards:
Precise Throwing → 50% Proficiency
Swordsmanship Mastery → 50% Proficiency
Strength +1.5
Agility +1.5
¥600,000
Akira scanned the results, a frown tugging at his lips.
Only six hundred thousand? The currency rewards fluctuated wildly. But the skill progression was solid—Swordsmanship now closing in on perfection. Strength and Agility climbing steadily. No injuries reported.
Acceptable.
His stamina bar, however, was critically low. He popped a Delay Pill and watched it refill by half.
He checked the fight menu again. A new option glowed:
[30-40 Persons] — AVAILABLE
Let's see what that bracket offers.
He selected it without hesitation.
[Encounter Summary]
Target: Gang headquarters raid (approx. 38 occupants)
Tactical Note: Caught them off-guard. Cramped quarters complicated engagement.
Minor Injury: Hand laceration from improvised shield (beer bottle)
Rewards:
Precise Throwing → 40% Proficiency
Strength +1.5
Agility +1.5
¥20,000,000
Akira blinked.
Twenty million?
He examined his hand in the aftermath—turning it over, flexing fingers. No scar. No wound. Nothing.
The notification had promised damage. The reality showed none.
So injuries don't transfer. Good to know.
The world dissolved around him. He was back in the attic, sitting up on his futon, phone warm in his palm. He pulled up his full status immediately.
[Player: Akira]
Strength: 7.8
Agility: 7.3
Stamina: 3.2
Spirit: 0.8
[Skills]
Martial Arts Mastery — PERFECTED
Precise Throwing — PERFECTED
Swordsmanship Mastery — PERFECTED
[Status]
Minor Combat Injury: Hand laceration (in-game)
Recommendation: Rest one full turn OR avoid combat for three turns. Avoid heavy lifting. Self-healing expected.
Akira studied the status with clinical interest.
Avoid heavy lifting. He glanced around the attic—boxes of inventory, cases of drinks. That was going to be inconvenient. But more importantly: Stamina and Spirit had barely budged. The pattern was clear now. Combat grinding only boosted Strength and Agility, with occasional skill unlocks. Stamina came from... other activities. And Spirit remained a complete mystery.
Work. The game has a Work option I've never touched. And trophies I haven't unlocked.
He lay back, phone resting on his chest, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow. I'll experiment tomorrow.
For now, sleep claimed him—dreamless, deep, the satisfied rest of a man who had just become twenty million yen richer and significantly more dangerous.
That explained it.
Akira leaned back, phone still warm in his palm, contemplating the architecture of this strange game. Unlike the disposable butter titles he'd known in his previous life—the ones that promised everything and delivered two hours of repetitive content before being consigned to the digital graveyard—Conquest had depth. Layered mechanics. Actual consequences.
If he were reviewing it? Solid 100. Game of the year material.
And the vitality limit? He no longer saw it as a flaw. A man who chased pleasure 24/7 would burn out—physically, mentally, existentially. The game's structure enforced balance. Day for living. Night for... living differently. It was almost healthy.
Almost.
The thought of adding Busujima Saeko to his roster. Or Hellish Blizzard. That would definitely tip the scales. But those were distant fantasies. This was a crossed-over world, not a harem anime. Women had agency. They wouldn't simply fall into his lap because he willed it.
He wasn't a succubus. He was a convenience store clerk.
For now.
Morning light filtered through the attic window. Akira checked the time, then launched himself off the futon—not a simple drop, but a controlled descent that landed him silently on the main floor.
His new stats sang in his muscles. Everything felt lighter. More responsive.
Curious, he looked up at the loft, then flexed his legs and jumped.
Two meters passed in a blur. He landed on the loft edge, one hand catching the frame for balance, heart rate barely elevated. He looked down. That was effortless. Half power, maybe less. Full output could probably clear four meters. Five?
Holy—
Excitement kindled in his chest. He'd have to test the limits. Later.
His thoughts pivoted to the game's temporal mechanics. The pattern was consistent: enter at 10 PM, exit at 7 AM sharp. Ten hours total. The twelve-hour cooldown was a lie—or rather, included two hours of recovery buffer. If each "event" consumed 3.33 hours of vitality...
Next time, I'm setting an alarm. Three hours per session. Optimize the experience.
He dropped back down, already planning.
Why ask for a bicycle when you're riding a rocket?
The shower was quick, routine. Fresh clothes. A deep breath. He pulled up the rolling shutter, ready to announce another day of business—
BANG!
The wall beside him exploded inward. Wood splintered. Glass shattered. A massive clawed hand ripped through the facade like paper.
A creature stepped through the wreckage. Humanoid, vaguely, but with a grotesque shrimp-like head—antennae twitching, mandibles clicking. It threw its arms wide, basking in the destruction.
"HAHAHAHA! Rise and shine, office slaves! A beautiful new day!" Its voice was a grating, triumphant screech. "Too bad—SNAP—your company's gone! HAHAHAHA!"
In another life—his old life—Akira might have clapped. Hell, he would have cheered. Take that, boss. Overtime. Performance reviews. Your fourth car while I rode the train. The fantasy of corporate destruction had fueled many a bitter commute.
But this wasn't that life.
This convenience store wasn't just a job. It was his home. His base of operations. His connection to Hellish Blizzard, to Busujima Saeko, to the entire fragile infrastructure of his new existence. It was where he slept. Where he played. Where he grew.
A few days old, and already it was his.
"You smashed my store." His voice was flat. Calm. "A million yen, minimum. Pay up, or we have a problem."
The shrimp-headed Monster's laughter redoubled. "Pay? PAY?! HAHAHAHA! Kid, do you even know what I am?! I'm a Monster! Tiger-class disaster level! I don't pay for anything!"
"So that's a no."
"Are you stupid or just suicidal? I'm a—"
Akira didn't let him finish.
His hand closed around a hammer that had fallen from the wreckage—heavy, solid, familiar weight. He didn't wind up. Didn't telegraph. Just threw.
The hammer became a blur. A streak. A statement.
It crossed the distance between them in the time it takes to blink, aimed directly at that ugly, laughing, shrimp-damned head.