The bone-mutt didn't even have time to whimper or realize it was just a minor mob in some twisted progression fantasy, which was probably for the best considering how much it smelled like a wet mop left in a bucket since the last carnival.
My shadow did this weird, oily ripple on the gray rocks, stretching out like a puddle of spilt diesel before this little thing made of pure, translucent geometry just kind of fell out of it.
It was definitely a fox, or at least the universe's best attempt at rendering one with a bunch of floating glass shards and nine tails that looked like those cheap neon fiber-optic lamps you buy at the street market in Brás.
The creature didn't make a sound, which was weirdly creepier than some epic roar or a cutesy anime bark, and it just stared at the bone-thing with a complete lack of interest that reminded me of the guys who work at the DMV back in São Paulo.
Then it just yawned, opening a mouth full of jagged crystal teeth, and bit down on the literal air between them with a dry, sharp crunch that echoed inside my molars.
It wasn't that it bit the monster's throat; it bit the coordinates in the local grid where the monster's neck was supposed to exist, leaving a clean, square hole in reality that leaked a gray smoke smelling like burnt rubber and damp basements.
The rest of the beast's body just stood there for a weirdly long second, balancing on its rotten paws like a table with one leg cut too short, before the whole mess tipped over and dissolved into a pile of gray grease.
It didn't look cool or legendary; it looked like a kitchen accident where someone dropped a giant bowl of gray soup on a hot concrete floor, and I could feel the grease splattering against the hem of my high-top sneakers.
I stood there staring at the grease puddle, wondering if this meant I was now technically a pet owner and if I'd have to pay some kind of fantasy world tax on a magical nine-tailed fox that clearly didn't obey the laws of physics.
I crouched down, ignoring the way my expensive silk skirt was soaking up the local filth, and reached out to touch the fox's snout because I have zero self-preservation instincts when a creature looks like it costs more than a brand new apartment in Pinheiros.
The crystal was ice-cold against my fingertips, a dry and sterile kind of cold that didn't feel like ice but more like touching the metal casing of a server rack in a room where the air conditioning is set to absolute zero.
It didn't bite my hand off, which was a huge plus in my book, and it just leaned its sharp, geometric head against my palm with a faint clicking sound that reminded me of a hard drive struggling to read a scratched CD.
"Your name is Profit," I said out loud, my voice sounding weirdly flat and congested in this heavy, purple air that felt like trying to breathe through a wet towel you used to dry a wet dog.
I figured naming it 'Profit' was the only logical choice since the whole point of this transmigration scam was to make sure I ended up on top of the pile instead of being some tragic side character who dies in the prologue to motivate the hero.
The fox seemed to like the name, or maybe it just didn't care about human labels, because it gave another dry click and its nine tails did a synchronized wave that made the ambient light bend in a way that gave me a fresh migraine.
Then the system panel flickered into existence right in front of my nose, smelling strongly of ozone and hot plastic like a cheap hair dryer that's about to give up on life and start a fire in the bathroom.
The text was still in that atrocious font that made my eyes bleed, rendering the message [Territory Claimed. +100 Sin Points.] in a shade of neon magenta that clashed horribly with the natural purple of the bruised sky above us.
I couldn't help but think that whatever entity designed this user interface probably didn't have a degree in visual communication or any sense of aesthetic decency, but a hundred points was a hundred points.
Since I was already covered in monster grease and questioning all my life choices up to this point, I figured I might as well check out that fourth gift the system had shoved into my soul without asking for my consent or a signature on a digital contract.
I focused on the messy pile of bones and gray lard on the ground, feeling a sudden, sharp pinch behind my eyeballs that felt exactly like that time I accidentally got a bunch of lemon juice in my eye during a family barbecue.
My vision didn't just blur; it literally fractured, splitting the horizon into a thousand tiny, golden hexagons that started spinning at different speeds until I felt like I was going to throw up my breakfast.
The normal, ugly colors of the Death Lands just drained away, leaving everything in a high-contrast grayscale that made the rocks look like they were carved out of old newspaper, while everything else was covered in floating strings of glowing runes.
These weren't cool, mysterious ancient letters, but strings of data that looked like the back end of a messy website, detailing the exact weight, composition, and market value of every single pebble in my field of view.
The carcass of the bone-mutt was glowing with a faint, sickly green light, and a bunch of floating numbers informed me that its ribcage could be processed into a low-grade fertilizer worth about three copper coins if I could find a merchant stupid enough to buy it.
There was also a small, bright red dot pulsing right in the middle of the gray grease, about three centimeters below where the monster's liver would have been if it wasn't made of pure, concentrated corruption and bad vibes.
The data string next to it called it a 'Corrupted Bone Core' and gave it an estimated value of twelve silver coins, noting that it could be used in alchemy to brew a potion that either cures paralysis or gives you explosive diarrhea, depending on how long you boil it.
It was a weirdly specific detail for a system to include, but I guess when you're an all-knowing cosmic interface, you have to find ways to entertain yourself at the expense of the mortals.
I didn't have a knife or a pair of gloves, and the thought of digging through a pile of monster lard with my bare hands made me want to go back to my old life of paying a massive Fies debt while working in a cubicle that smelled like coffee and despair.
But twelve silver coins sounded a lot better than zero silver coins, and my father didn't raise a quitter who leaves money on the table just because things get a little slimy and gross.
I reached into the center of the gray mess, my fingers sinking into the cold, gelatinous grease with a squelching sound that I will probably hear in my nightmares for the next three decades if I survive that long.
The core was about the size of a billiard ball and felt like a piece of polished anthracite, vibrating slightly against my palm with a frequency that made the fillings in my teeth feel loose and itchy.
I pulled it out with a wet pop, leaving a string of black slime connecting my knuckles to the dead beast, and I couldn't help but let out a dry, barking laugh that probably sounded a lot more insane than I intended it to be.
I wiped the grease off on the side of my dress, which was already ruined anyway, and stared at the dark crystal while Profit made another one of his hard-drive clicking noises in approval.
"This place is actually a goldmine," I muttered to myself, my fingers cramping slightly around the cold stone as I realized that being exiled here wasn't actually the death sentence everyone in the capital thought it was.
There were no competitors here, no greedy merchants trying to undercut my margins, and no taxes to pay to a king who probably spent all the realm's treasury on golden toilets and expensive horses that he didn't know how to ride properly.
It was a complete and absolute monopoly on high-level monster materials, assuming I didn't get eaten by something bigger than a starved pitbull within the next twenty minutes or so.
The universe must have heard me being optimistic and decided it was time to put me back in my place, because the purple sky suddenly turned a dark, angry shade of bruised plum and the wind started picking up with a low, wet whistle.
The miasma wasn't just drifting around anymore; it was beginning to swirl into thick, heavy clouds that looked like industrial smoke from a factory in the ABC region on a rainy Tuesday morning.
I could feel the pressure dropping fast, the air becoming so thick that every breath felt like I was inhaling wet cement that was slowly setting inside my windpipe.
There wasn't a single cave or overhanging rock in this part of the ravine that looked like it could provide even the slightest bit of shelter from whatever toxic hurricane was brewing above our heads.
My new bloodline was working overtime, my skin glowing with a faint, greasy golden light as it tried to process the massive influx of corruption, but I could feel my pores beginning to burn as if I were standing too close to an open furnace.
Even Profit seemed a bit annoyed by the change in the weather, his nine tails tucking in closer to his crystal body while he made a high-pitched sound like a microwave beeping that your food is finally done.
Then the system panel forced its way back into my field of view, this time with a faint smell of burning hair that really didn't help with the general atmosphere of impending doom and gross smells.
The text was flashing in that same terrible font, reading [The pressure is unsustainable. Recommends anchoring the 'Void Sanctuary Key' (Gift 2).] right over the top of my vision so I almost tripped over a flat rock.
I reached into the weird, non-existent pocket where the system stored my inventory, my fingers closing around a piece of cold, heavy metal that didn't feel like any material I'd ever handled in either of my two lives.
I pulled the thing out, and it looked less like a key and more like a heavy, industrial fuse you'd find in the basement of an old building in the center of the city, complete with grease stains and a small, cracked glass window on the side.
It didn't have any runes or glowing gems on it, just a dull, grayish metal that seemed to absorb the purple light of the sky instead of reflecting it, and it left a faint smell of motor oil on my palm.
I held it in my hand, wondering if I was supposed to stick it into the ground or if there was some invisible lock floating in the air that I was expected to find by trial and error.
The system didn't give me any further instructions, which is typical for a piece of software that clearly hasn't been updated since the late medieval period and doesn't believe in user-friendly tutorials or helpful tooltips.
I looked down at Profit, who was now sitting on my left sneaker and chewing on a stray piece of bone from the dead monster, his crystal teeth making a sound like someone grinding a handful of marble chips in a blender.
"Any ideas, bro?" I asked, but the fox just ignored me and kept working on his snack, leaving me to handle the existential crisis and the toxic weather patterns all by myself.
The air was getting so thick now that I could actually see the currents of the miasma, heavy gray rivers of toxic sludge that were flowing down the sides of the ravine like invisible water.
I could feel my lungs protesting with every breath, a dry, burning sensation that started at the back of my throat and worked its way down into my chest until I felt like I'd just smoked a whole pack of cheap, filterless cigarettes in a closed car.
I didn't want to die of chemical suffocation in a place that looked like a bad Photoshop job, so I just gripped the gray metal fuse tighter and slammed it against the flat rock at my feet with all the strength my new, reconstituted muscles could muster.
I half expected the key to just shatter against the hard granite or to make a pathetic clinking sound that would serve as the soundtrack to my embarrassing demise in the middle of this wasteland.
Instead, the moment the metal touched the stone, there was no explosion or celestial choir or any of that cinematic garbage you see in high-budget movies where the hero unlocks a legendary artifact; just a heavy, wet click that sounded like someone closing the door of an old refrigerator in a kitchen where the tiles are sticky with grease.
The key didn't break, but the rock underneath it simply gave up and ceased to exist in a perfect, square hole that was about the size of a shoebox from a pair of cheap sneakers.
The hole was filled with a thick, oily blackness that didn't look like empty space but more like a puddle of used engine oil that had been sitting in the sun for too long, and it didn't reflect any of the purple light from the sky above.
I stared at it, my heart doing a weird, irregular thump against my ribs that felt like a dying battery in an old toy, wondering if I'd just opened a portal to a worse dimension or if this was the sanctuary the system had promised me.
Profit didn't seem to have any doubts, however, as he hopped off my shoe and casually walked into the black hole, his crystal tails disappearing into the dark without a sound or a ripple in the oily surface.
I guess when you're a nine-tailed fox made of geometry and expensive perfume, you don't really worry about the logistics of stepping into a bottomless pit of pure void energy.
I took a deep breath of the burning, sulfur-scented air, which tasted like a bad decision made at a roadside diner at two in the morning, and followed the fox into the hole, hoping that the sanctuary had at least a decent couch and a working shower.
The transition wasn't some smooth, instant teleportation that left me feeling refreshed and ready to conquer the world, but rather a greasy, heavy sensation that felt like trying to squeeze through a narrow doorway while wearing a thick, wet winter coat.
My vision went completely black for a second, and the only thing I could smell was that intense, industrial odor of burnt rubber and cheap floor wax that seems to be the official fragrance of this entire system experience.
When my feet finally hit something solid again, it didn't feel like rock or soil, but more like a heavy rubber mat you'd find on the floor of an old gym where the machines haven't been greased since the eighties.
I opened my eyes, and I wasn't in some majestic white marble hall with floating crystals and golden pillars, which was probably the standard for this kind of fantasy setting if the webnovels I used to read during my lunch breaks were anything to go by.
The 'Void Sanctuary' looked exactly like a small, abandoned warehouse in an industrial park on the outskirts of Guarulhos, complete with stained concrete walls and a roof made of corrugated metal sheets that rattled slightly in a wind I couldn't feel.
There were no windows, and the only light came from a few buzzing fluorescent tubes that were hanging from the ceiling by rusty chains, flickering with a frequency that was definitely going to give me a second migraine before the day was over.
Profit was already sitting on a stack of wooden pallets in the corner, cleaning his crystal paws with a dedicated, rhythmic movement that made a dry, scraping sound against the rough wood.
He looked perfectly at home in this dump, and I couldn't help but feel a little cheated by the system's definition of a 'sanctuary' for a primordial empress who was supposed to overturn the heavens and all that jazz.
I sat down on another stack of pallets, my silk dress making a ripping sound as it caught on a rusty nail, and buried my face in my hands while I tried to remember if I'd left the iron on in my apartment back in the real world.
It was a stupid thing to worry about, considering I was currently stuck in a pocket dimension that looked like a storage room for a failed logistics company, but that's how the human brain works when everything else goes to hell in a handbasket.
You don't think about the fact that your soul was ripped out of your body and shoved into a villainess with floating neon hair; you think about whether you're going to lose your deposit on the apartment because you didn't clean the oven before you died.
I stayed like that for a while, listening to the buzz of the broken lights and the dry clicking of the fox, wondering if there was any chance the system shop sold instant noodles or at least a bottle of water that didn't taste like battery acid.
The system didn't give me a notification about my existential crisis, probably because it didn't have a specific metric to measure how much I missed having a normal life where the biggest problem was a delayed bus on a rainy Monday.
I looked at the dark core in my hand, which was still cold and greasy, and I realized that I didn't even have a bag to put it in or a pocket that was clean enough to keep it from staining my skin any further.
I just set it on the pallet next to me, where it looked like a very expensive and very cursed piece of coal, and decided that figuring out how to run a monopoly in a toxic wasteland was a problem for future Evelyn, who would hopefully have a better set of clothes and a brush for her floating neon hair.
Profit let out another microwave-beep sound and curled up on the wood, and I just stared at the ceiling until the flickering of the tubes made me close my eyes again.
The air in here didn't smell like the outside miasma, but it wasn't fresh either; it was just stale and dry, the kind of air that makes your nose itch and reminds you of a library where the books have been rotting on the shelves for fifty years.
I didn't have a pillow or a blanket, so I just leaned against the cold concrete wall, feeling the rough texture through the thin silk of my dress, and wondered if I was going to wake up tomorrow or if this was just a very detailed hallucination before my brain finally shut down from the truck impact.
I didn't even have the energy to check the system shop again to see if I could buy a cheap mattress or a bucket of fried chicken, so I just let the buzz of the fluorescent lights fill the silence.