Reymond was forced to remain with the guards inside the watch station near the city gate until dawn. He did not even have enough money in his pocket to spend a night at one of the city's inns. After the horrifying events of the night before, this cold and cramped room felt like the safest shelter imaginable to him. Once morning arrived, one of the guards who had rescued him the previous night escorted him toward the city center.
Along the way, Reymond learned that these guards were players as well. Instead of completing dangerous quests and gambling with death, they had chosen to find stable work within the System and live peaceful, steady lives. Although they could never match the absolute loyalty of programmed NPCs, players possessed quick thinking and the ability to adapt to various situations, making them far superior to ordinary NPCs. Because of this, the city authorities preferred hiring players as guards.
As Reymond walked through the streets, he observed his surroundings in amazement. This place was completely different from that ruined village. It looked newer, cleaner, and far more organized. The roads were paved neatly with sturdy bricks, and the buildings on both sides were constructed from solid stone and brick.
The streets were crowded with merchants. Some sold freshly baked bread and fruit, while others displayed colorful clothes and fabrics. The noise of the marketplace and the mixture of scents filled the air. During the night, Reymond had already learned important information from the guards regarding this world's currency system.
Gold coins were the most valuable currency here, followed by silver coins, while iron coins served as the smallest unit.
The values were as follows:
1 gold coin = 100 silver coins
1 silver coin = 100 iron coins
At the moment, Reymond had no money at all. Because of that, he decided to sell the only valuable item he possessed — the sword forged from the bones of a Grave Hound Stalker. Even though the weapon had saved his life, it was now his only way to earn money.
He headed toward the weapon market. The sound of hammering metal and the smell of fire were much stronger there. Reymond went from shop to shop searching for someone willing to pay a fair price for the sword. Most shopkeepers either shook their heads after seeing the bone weapon or offered insulting prices. Eventually, he entered a small but orderly-looking shop at the edge of the market. The owner — a middle-aged man whose face carried the mark of experience — took the sword and began examining it carefully.
The shopkeeper, whose name was Silas, inspected the blade from multiple angles. He ran his fingers along the sharp edge and the structure of the bone itself. A faint expression of surprise appeared on his face.
"This is not an ordinary Stalker bone," Silas said in a low, serious voice. "The structure of the blade and the density of the bone show that it has been soaked in intense killing intent. This sword is quite rare."
Reymond's heartbeat quickened. He had suspected the sword was valuable, but the shopkeeper's words filled him with hope.
"How much would you pay for it?" Reymond asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
Silas placed the sword on the table and looked directly at him.
"I can buy it for fifteen silver coins. That's a very good price for a Stalker weapon."
Fifteen silver coins! It was far more than Reymond had expected. According to the guards, a normal player could survive for several days with just one silver coin.
"I accept," Reymond replied immediately.
Silas took fifteen shining silver coins from his pouch and placed them on the table. Reymond picked them up. They felt heavy and cold in his hands. At last, he finally had money. Now he could find a place to stay, buy food, and start making plans.
He placed the coins inside a pouch and tightly fastened it to his belt. As he walked through the city streets, he began to feel much more confident. Yet, even though the horrors of the Red Zone were now behind him, other dangers still lurked within the city itself.
A System window flashed before his eyes:
[Trade successfully completed: +15 Silver Coins]
Reymond's next destination was the clothing district. His current clothes had been torn apart during the battle with the wolves. They were covered in blood, dirt, and dust, completely worn out. Walking through the city in such a state was not only uncomfortable, but dangerous as well — beggar-like appearances were looked down upon here.
He decided not to buy ordinary clothes, but armor that could actually protect him during travel. Before long, he found a shop displaying various sets of armor and weapons. As he stepped inside, the small silver bell above the door rang softly, alerting the owner to a customer's arrival.
The shopkeeper — a fat man with reddish cheeks — immediately turned toward the entrance and approached Reymond with a fake warm smile. He had clearly hoped a wealthy customer had arrived. However, the moment he saw Reymond's torn sleeves, muddy boots, and ragged appearance, his expression changed instantly. The smile disappeared, replaced by faint contempt.
"Looking for cheap equipment, sir?" the shopkeeper asked, forcing politeness into his voice as though serving Reymond was a burden.
Reymond felt slightly embarrassed by his miserable appearance, but he did not avert his eyes.
"Yes. I don't have much money right now. I need something affordable, but durable enough to provide decent protection," he answered calmly.
"Then follow me," the shopkeeper replied shortly before leading him toward a dark corner of the store.
Old, dusty, and repaired armor pieces were stacked there. Some had belonged to warriors injured in battle, while others had simply remained unsold for years. Reymond inspected them one by one until his eyes stopped on a particular outfit.
It was a dark-black combat suit made from sturdy leather. Reinforced iron guards protected the elbows and knees, while a steel shoulder plate covered the right shoulder to deflect strikes. The belt was extremely practical, equipped with special holders for daggers, swords, and potion bottles. The most distinctive feature was the black cloak attached to its back. The lower part of the cloak had been intentionally designed to appear torn and uneven, giving the wearer the appearance of a mysterious and ruthless warrior.
When Reymond tried the outfit on, he immediately felt stronger. After bargaining with the shopkeeper for quite some time, he finally purchased the armor for four silver coins.
"At least now I don't look like a walking target anymore," he thought while looking at his reflection in the mirror. The black outfit fit him perfectly, and the dark color only emphasized his serious appearance.
As he prepared to leave the shop, his eyes landed on several luxurious sets of armor displayed deeper inside the store. Every single one looked magnificent and majestic. One gleamed with golden brilliance, while another shone like polished diamonds. Beside them, the price tags read:
"100 Gold Coins"
He could never afford something like that. Not wanting to torture himself any further, he forced his attention away and left the shop.
After exiting, Reymond felt like a completely different person. His next goal was to find a safe inn and gather enough information to fully adapt to city life. After spending four silver coins, he still had eleven remaining. With that in mind, he headed toward the city center.
The sun stood high overhead, and the noise of the city only continued growing louder.
After asking around, Reymond eventually found the cheapest inn in the city. The building looked old and worn from the outside, with yellowed walls, but for someone in his situation, it was the most suitable place available. He approached the front desk and asked for a room.
The inn offered very few choices: private rooms that were quieter but more expensive, or shared rooms where the cost was split between four people. Reymond chose the second option. Every silver coin mattered to him right now. He rented a bed for one silver coin per week and paid immediately.
The cashier handed him an iron key. Reymond looked at the number engraved on it:
"67"
He climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the second floor. Walking along a corridor covered with faded red carpet, he stopped before the farthest door on the right side.
"So this is the place…" he muttered softly before opening the door.
The room was narrow and stuffy. Inside were four beds and a strangely shaped wardrobe. On one of the beds, a young man was sleeping with a book covering his face. The large title on the cover immediately caught Reymond's attention:
"Art of Combat"
Trying not to disturb the stranger, Reymond quietly sat on his own empty bed. Unfortunately, the old frame let out a horrible creaking sound that shattered the silence and startled the sleeping man awake.
The young man removed the book from his face, rubbed his sleepy eyes, and stared at Reymond carefully. There was a cold composure in his gaze typical of experienced players.
"Hey, newcomer. What's your name?" he asked while rubbing his right eye.
"I'm Reymond. What about you?" Reymond replied.
"I'm Mark," the young man answered as he sat upright. Judging from Reymond's appearance, he immediately understood the situation. "You look like you arrived in this world pretty recently."
Reymond hesitated for a moment before quietly admitting it.
"Yeah… you could say that."
"You sound like someone who doesn't trust people anymore," Mark remarked after noticing the suspicion and anxiety on Reymond's face.
"Hm…" Reymond muttered. "Because of trusting people, I nearly died twice within just a few days."
"Twice?" Mark looked toward the window and smirked slightly. "You know, even though it's never officially written anywhere, all players in this world follow certain 'golden rules.' Looks like nobody told you about them."
"What kind of rules?" Reymond asked with both curiosity and unease.
"Then you definitely haven't been here longer than a week," Mark chuckled softly. "There are three sacred rules in this world:
First — trust nobody, whether friend or enemy.
Second — always think about yourself first.
Third — never rely on anyone else."
Hearing those words, Reymond immediately remembered Ronan's face inside the graveyard and the silent death of the old wagon driver.
"Who created those rules?" he asked quietly.
"No one knows," Mark replied. "But one thing is certain — every player who reached the highest ranks and managed to survive followed those exact rules."
"So… three rules…" Reymond whispered.
He looked down at his new black outfit and the calluses on his hands. To him, those rules no longer sounded like mere words. They felt like the only formula for surviving this hell.
Mark picked up his book again before speaking one final time:
"If you want to survive in this world for long, carve those rules into your heart, Reymond. Otherwise, the third time, nobody will come to save you."
Reymond leaned back onto his bed. Silence once again filled the room, but Mark's words continued echoing endlessly inside his mind.
Life in the city would not be as easy as he had imagined.