The next morning came with a sound that ripped Joel from sleep: a low, guttural cry—hungry, impatient, edged with something almost human in its rage. He jolted upright on the thin mat laid across the hut's floor. The surface beneath felt cold in patches and warm in others, yet strangely comfortable, as if the world itself had decided to cradle him while it prepared to break him.
Heart hammering, he stayed low. Quiet. He tilted his head just enough to peer through the narrow gap in the curtain that served as a door.
Outside, under the unchanging red sun, stood the beast.
Dog-like, but larger than any wolf he'd ever seen in pictures or zoos. Its body was lean and coiled, dark brown fur matted with ash. A single line of living flame ran from the crown of its head down its spine, flaring brighter at the tail where it whipped like molten whipcord. The eyes burned low and yellow, fixed on the hut. Chains rattled faintly around its neck and forelegs—thick, black, glowing faintly at the links.
Joel's stomach twisted. At first glance, he wanted nothing to do with it. Run. Hide. Anything but face that.
Then he looked again.
He studied it the way his father had once taught him to study diagrams: locate the vitals. Neck for the carotid. Ribs for the heart and lungs. Belly for softer entry. The flame mane might burn, but the body underneath was still flesh. Still breakable.
He exhaled slowly. Determination settled in his chest like a stone.
Three steps out of the hut. Bare feet on warm-cold sand.
Behind him, the angel's voice—deep, familiar now—spoke without warning.
"I thought you would try running. Honestly. I appreciate you not making my work harder by cooperating."
Joel didn't turn. "If I ran, I wouldn't survive. And since I'm already dead… you people are my last resort."
A pause. Then, almost amused: "Well… you're right."
The angel raised one hand skyward. Fingers moved in precise, practiced gestures, as though manipulating an invisible screen. A soft chime sounded in Joel's mind.
A translucent window materialized in front of him:
[You have received 5,000 CILS]
A second panel unfolded beneath it:
[Would you like to purchase anything?]
"You should use the gift to buy a weapon," the angel said. "It will be easier than fighting bare-handed."
Joel understood instantly. This was no dream. This was the system Tiffsili had hinted at—the shop, the perks, the game-like rules wrapped around brutal reality.
He focused on the floating interface. The market bloomed open: rows of weapons, armor, tools. Gauntlets that pulsed with energy. Chakrams edged in blue fire. Swords that looked like they could cut light itself.
Most were far beyond 5,000 CILS.
He scrolled carefully. Survival, not style.
His eyes stopped on one item:
[Basic Spear – Reach + Stability – 300 CILS]
Simple. Long. Versatile. Kept distance. Allowed strikes without closing in.
He selected it.
The angel tilted its head. "A spear? I thought you'd choose a sword. Or a shield."
"Range," Joel said. "And it's cheap. Better than anything fancy I can't afford yet."
"Fair enough."
The angel raised both hands slowly, palms up, as though lifting an invisible weight.
"Let day one of your training… begin."
The clap came—sharp, resonant. The chains on the Hell's Keeper dissolved into smoke.
The beast lunged.
Joel thrust the spear forward, using its length to keep space. The creature snarled, flames licking higher, but the point held it at bay. It circled. Snapped. Joel pivoted—lighter, faster than he'd ever been. The new agility hummed in his limbs like electricity.
The fight blurred into days, then weeks, then two full months.
Two months later.
Joel sat on the black sand, chest heaving, sweat carving clean tracks down his darkened, scarred skin. The spear rested across his shoulders, tip planted in the ground like a victory flag. Bandages—frayed, blood-stiffened—wrapped his wrists and forearms, remnants of countless strikes that had healed only to reopen again. His body was no longer the one he remembered.
The slim, quick-witted university student who once sprawled across a desk was gone.
In his place sat someone forged: shoulders broadened into slabs of muscle, thick cords running down his arms and across his back from endless thrusting, parrying, dodging. His chest and core had hardened into defined ridges, every breath pulling taut skin over new power. Legs thicker, calves and quads etched from sprinting across shifting sand and leaping away from flame. Scars traced faint silver lines across his forearms and one jagged slash along his left ribs—souvenirs that hadn't fully faded even with monthly healing. His short black hair had grown out rough and wild, matted with sweat and ash, falling into sharper, more predatory eyes that missed nothing.
He looked like someone who had walked through fire and come out carrying it.
His original long-sleeved shirt and jeans were long gone—shredded in the first weeks, burned in others. In their place, he now wore gear bought piece by piece from the shop with CILS earned from kills:
A fitted, charcoal-gray tunic of tough, lightweight hide—sleeves rolled to the elbows, reinforced at the shoulders and chest with thin metal plates scavenged from defeated keepers.
Dark tactical pants, reinforced at the knees and shins, tucked into sturdy black boots that had once been basic but were now scuffed, cracked, and re-stitched with sinew from beasts he'd slain.
A thin, hooded cloak of mottled black-and-crimson fabric draped loosely over his shoulders—breathable yet protective against the red sun's glare and sudden flame bursts. The hood was down, but the edges were singed and frayed from near-misses.
Everything about the outfit screamed adaptation: practical, battle-worn, earned. No flash. Just function. Just survival.
Beside him lay the latest Hell's Keeper—dissected with surgical precision. Fur charred black, flames long extinguished, organs laid open in clean cuts that spoke of intimate knowledge: where the heart sat too high, where the spine curved just enough to expose a killing thrust.
Joel stared at it, breathing heavy.
"It's been two months already," he rasped. "The first time I fought your kind… I lost. Would've died if M.E. hadn't stepped in. Now… I can pretty much handle you."
A crack tore open in the air. Violent wind howled as M.E. stepped through.
The angel's horns had fully regrown—sharp, obsidian-black, gleaming under the red sun. It regarded Joel with something close to pride.
Their eyes met.
"You've grown, my friend."
Both smiled—small, tired, but real.
The red sun watched overhead, indifferent.
And somewhere beyond the barrier, the true world waited.