The red sun hung too close, its brilliant, unrelenting light bathing the scene in a harsh crimson glow that made every shadow sharp and every glint painful. It illuminated the angel M.E. with his newly regrown horns gleaming obsidian-black, and Joel, the hell's inhabitant he had forged over two grueling months, sitting cross-legged on the blood-soaked black sand.
Joel exhaled slowly, then spoke a single word into the air.
"Window."
The translucent interface shimmered into existence before him. He navigated straight to the shop tab with practiced flicks of his finger. Rows of items unfolded: weapons, consumables, upgrades. He scrolled to the water section—regular, holy, demonic—each with escalating prices and promises.
He selected the cheapest: Regular Cold Water – 10 CILS.
A soft chime. A chilled bottle materialized in his hand, condensation already beading on the glass. He cracked it open and drank deeply, the cold cutting through the dry heat in his throat. The balance updated in the corner of his vision: 7,750 CILS.
Over sixty-one days, each Hell's Keeper kill had netted him 250 CILS. He'd spent roughly 7,500 on his current gear, plus whatever he'd made selling body parts—flame-maned pelts, charred claws, vials of glowing blood—back into the shop. Survival had become math. Math he was finally winning.
M.E.'s voice cut through his thoughts.
"It's time. You won't see me for a while. I hope you can survive until we meet next."
Joel rose, using the spear—now almost shattered, shaft cracked in places, edges blunted from endless stabs and parries—as a crutch. The weapon looked as worn as he felt, but it had served.
"No problem," he said, voice steady despite the exhaustion. "You'll see me soon. And by then, I'll be stronger."
M.E. smiled—small, genuine. "The barrier lifts now. Head far north and survive. It won't be easy, but you will be able to do it."
Joel returned the smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "What makes you think that?"
"Just a hunch," the angel replied. "I don't believe you would die that easily."
Space itself shuddered. The invisible barrier that had contained this small patch of hell for two months began to dissolve. Air rushed in with a sudden whoosh, carrying the scent of scorched stone and distant sulfur—freedom, or at least the illusion of it. The distortion rippled outward, distorting the red sky like heat haze over asphalt.
A crack split the air behind M.E. The angel stepped toward it, glancing back one last time.
"Try your best, my friend. See you another time."
The rift swallowed him. Gone.
Joel stood alone under the red sun.
He let his knees buckle and crashed onto the sand—warm, gritty, already dark with old blood. It felt almost like a bed after months of nothing but the mat in the hut.
"I wasn't even given time to rest, damn it," he muttered.
He closed his eyes, willing a nap, even five minutes.
Then he heard it: low growls, multiple sets of paws crunching sand, coming from the east. A pack of Hell's Keepers—drawn by the barrier's collapse, sensing fresh territory, fresh meat.
No rest. Not yet.
Joel pushed himself up, casual despite the ache in every muscle. He grabbed the spear, then turned to the small pile of belongings he'd accumulated.
First, the Pocket Navigation Machine—a palm-sized compass-like device etched with faint runes (800 CILS). It pointed north without fail, even when the sky offered no stars.
Next, the set of dissection knives—sharp, curved, bought cheap but used constantly for carving up keepers after fights.
Then the boots: Silent Sandman Boots—black, flexible, soles enchanted to muffle footsteps by seventy percent (1,000 CILS). They had saved him more than once when circling beasts.
And finally, the crown of his purchases: the Drown Long Man Desert Coat—a long, brown overcoat with deep, impossible pockets. Each one held the storage capacity of a small house, weightless, and reduced body noise by another seventy percent when moving (3,000 CILS). The most expensive item he owned. The most practical.
He shrugged the coat on. It settled over his reinforced tunic and tactical pants like it had always belonged there—loose enough for movement, heavy enough to feel like armor. He opened one of the inner pockets and began stowing everything: the mat, the remains of the hut (collapsed into compact form by the system), knives, navigation device, even the spear (shaft shortened for storage). The coat swallowed them without bulging.
The growls grew closer.
Joel glanced east—dark shapes moving fast against the crimson horizon—then north, where dunes rolled into haze.
He ran.
Silent boots whispered across the sand. The coat flapped once, then settled, muffling even the rustle of fabric. The red sun burned at his back, but north promised… something. Maybe safety. Maybe worse.
He didn't look back.
He just moved.
And for the first time in two months, the world felt open—and terrifyingly vast.