As I passed through the vampires' exclusive district, the world changed. This place was worlds apart from the rusty, radioactively dusty air of the shelters. Titanic skyscrapers sliced through the sky like blades; even in the depths of the nuclear winter, massive holograms and flawlessly functioning technologies from the Old World illuminated the streets. Vampire gangs in the alleys paused as I passed, biting their lips in a frenzy as they caught the fresh scent of the wound on my neck. But the moment their gaze struck that "Premium Gold Chain" seal on my throat, they recoiled like shadows. I was untouchable property.
In one of the side streets, I saw a flickering sign: "Hobby Collection: Old World Antiquarian." When I stepped inside, the smell of mold filled my nostrils—it felt more sincere than the artificial fragrance of the palace. The shop owner was an old man with tangled hair and beard, looking at the world through squinted eyes. He didn't look like a vampire; he was more like a monument resisting time.
The shop's shelves were filled with strange objects. Colorful, furry plush toys that made one shudder when they "spoke"...
"These are children's toys," I muttered. While the children in our shelters played with radioactive mud in nuclear sludges, the memories of the past were exhibited on shelves in this vampire-infested world. I clenched my fists. Old phone models, screens we had never touched...
"Those are antiques from the Qing Dynasty," the old man said, pointing to a jade comb set. "Unless you're a bride, you're looking for a dowry in vain."
"What?" I asked in shock.
"Did you come from a shelter without history lessons?" he asked grumpily. "Brides wear these. But that seal on your neck... You look more like a victim than a bride."
"We weren't given lessons," I said, gritting my teeth. "We were only taught obedience."
The man turned back to the shelves dismissively. "Then look for something for men. Caucasian fur hats, British aristocratic shirts, or Kurtas from India... They were all part of a civilization once."
"I don't know what they are, and I don't care," I said, slamming the silver and coins I had stolen onto the table. "I need weapons. Not for defense—for attack."
A strange glint appeared in the old man's eyes. "I have an old American Colt, but you won't find bullets. It'll just be dead weight. But those Sürmene Turkish knives... Now those tell a story."
"Show me," I said. "The Colt, and the daggers."
Right then, Dante's velvet yet poisonous voice echoed in the depths of my mind:
"Fish oil is used to temper the steel, Dorian. The handles are made from ox horn, and a tiny scratch requires hundreds of stitches. Are you savage enough to know how to use them?"
I clenched my fists, feeling as if I were fighting my own shadow inside the shop. "Don't you have anything better to do than spy on me?" I whispered into the air. "Weren't you in a meeting?"
"You are my best business, little thief rat," Dante said, his voice coming not from the system, but seemingly directly from my soul. "Stealing from your Master is not kind. But take those weapons... If you want to live safely among the other rats, you'll need to find more bullets."
"Maybe the next time I come near you, I'll sink these blades into your immortal flesh," I said fiercely.
Dante's laughter exploded in my ears. "Oh Dorian, while the taste of your blood still lingers on my palate... What if I commanded you to carve yourself with those weapons right now for my entertainment? What if I used those beautiful commands in your system? But no, your rebellion is far more amusing."
The old man took a wheezing breath and pulled a battery from under the counter. "I found these in the warehouse. People in the free zones use them to purify water. Are your hands fit for work, or do you only know how to steal?"
Dante whispered: "His hands only know how to steal, don't they?"
"How much for all of it?" I asked the man.
"One million Viva."
I swallowed. The money in my hand wouldn't be enough. "I... Just give me the pistol."
"Stupid Dori... Are you going to massage your shoulders with a bulletless gun?" Just as I was about to open my mouth to curse, the system interface began spinning wildly before my eyes.
[SYSTEM: YOUR MASTER DANTE HAS CREDITED UNLIMITED VIVA TO YOUR ACCOUNT.]
[SYSTEM: 48-MONTH HOME LOAN ACTIVE.]
[SYSTEM: SIGNATURE AUTHORITY AND OFFICIAL NAME RIGHTS ACQUIRED.]
The old man's eyes lit up. "If you have the power to wear that shirt, you surely have a million Viva!"
"Don't do me any favors!" I screamed into the void.
Dante's voice suddenly turned serious, his mockery gone, replaced by ice-cold reality. "Little thief, these are not my alms to you. There is a price. The apocalypse is coming soon, and I want to watch whether you climb a tree like a monkey or go into battle with those weapons."
"You are a sick, twisted bastard," I said, taking the Colt and the knives from the counter.
"We shall see how tough you can remain while carrying the water of my pool in your lungs," Dante said, and the connection broke.
When I walked out of the shop, I had weapons bought with Dante's money in my pocket, and his chains in my soul. But now, I had a name. On the official documents, it read "Dorian." This was to be the first official document of my rebellion.