That's how it is, my friend... . A hangover with heightened senses... is something else.
Something I would never want to experience again. Any sound, even the slightest—like an alarm—pounded on my aching head; any light felt unbearably bright; any smell was nauseatingly strong. Even the relentless craving had retreated... for a while. I rummaged through the closet for my uncle's dark sunglasses, put them on, and made my way to join Parker. The repairs wouldn't do themselves... I thought, right up until the drill roared to life! There I was, dangling from my safety harness next to the window of apartment eighteen—my turn to hang, and Parker's turn to hand over materials.
"Oh! Hello, workers!" the window opened, revealing Sharon, who looked annoyingly cheerful. I waved my free hand in greeting, trying to shield my eyes from the brightness.
"Hard night?" she asked, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
"Disgusting," I confirmed, refocusing on the hole I had started drilling. "Me, a mirror, and three cases of terrible Brighton Beach booze, sixty to sixty-five proof… a truly disgusting night."
"So you got tired of drowning in the East River and decided to drown yourself in wine?" she laughed.
"Hey! I was having a snack!"
"Does that change anything?" she chuckled.
"I'm a mutant, remember? I'm strong."
"I remember," she nodded. "But three cases of Brighton booze would 'kill' even the Juggernaut!"
"Well... it 'killed' me too," I recalled the whole spectrum of last night's escapades.
"And what kind of 'sadness' were you trying to 'drown' in such a sea of alcohol?" she tilted her head, intrigued.
"Um... I have only one sadness. There are no others," I spread my hands. "Is it that bad?"
She chuckled again. "Well, not that bad now. Now I have a hangover... and a drill in my hands..." I stared at the drill thoughtfully, regarding it as one might a medieval torture device. And it was a high-quality one—a powerful Makita, professional-grade. My uncle had spent a fortune on it.
"You should go get some sleep, Thomas," Sharon suggested, her smile fading. "Nobody is chasing you; you're your own boss."
"That's just it," I sighed, feeling the weight of the world. "They said it's going to rain next week. We need to finish. Otherwise, all this work will be for nothing... And 'conscience is the best controller!'"
"That's not conscience, that's greed!" the blonde declared. "And stupidity! Your hand, shaky from the hangover, is going to slip and drill the safety rope! If you don't feel sorry for yourself, then feel sorry for Peter—you'll crush him to death!"
"What an imagination you have!" I admired her creativity. "Re-drill the dynamic rope with a hammer drill! You should come up with something like that." I shook my head, then picked up the hammer drill and resumed drilling the previously abandoned hole.
Attention! The "Hangover" effect has been ignored.
"Don't forget, we're going to the Stark Expo tomorrow!" Sharon shouted over the noise of the drill. "Don't you dare repeat your libations tonight!" I momentarily halted the infernal machine to spare her the need to raise her voice. "There should be a respectable gentleman next to me, not a hungover monster!"
"Okay," I smiled. "I won't embarrass you in front of your friend. I'll drown myself the old-fashioned way..."
"In the East River?"
"No, I'll try the Hudson for a change," I replied.
"Maybe you'd better get a good night's sleep?" she suggested, though I could sense her doubt.
"I'm afraid I'll never get a good night's sleep again," I muttered, nodding to Sharon to signal the end of our conversation. She nodded in agreement and closed the window. The drill howled in my hands once more.
The night swim hadn't brought any benefits, except for one new parameter: "Night Vision," which I now valued at one. We completed the third floor during the day. By evening, Stark Expo awaited us. Sharon donned a light beige evening dress, while I managed to find a sharp blue suit, a white shirt, and a tie in my wardrobe.
Before meeting Sharon, I had a hearty meal, erasing all my debuffs, and cleared my "Inventory" of all unnecessary items, leaving only an "emergency" supply of sausage, a first aid kit, a crowbar, a pry bar... and a pack of condoms (what? Just in case!). All together, they took up no more than twenty kilograms of my three hundred-kilogram storage limit. I stashed all the weapons and ammunition in the basement's farthest, darkest corner, throwing some rags over them to keep prying eyes away.
We took Sharon's car—it was fancier and more presentable than my pickup. Naturally, she was driving. Natasha... Natasha looked stunning. Not acknowledging this would be unforgivable. Her stats: eight and a half thousand health—impressive, considering I, having reached the human limit of survivability, had only three thousand. It was evident that I was standing before a Superhuman, without any doubts or misinterpretations.
I didn't take off my sunglasses even when we met. I knew it was impolite, but better that than risk showing my "Satyr's Gaze."
"Good evening," Sharon greeted Natasha and her companion as we reached the entrance to the hall.
"Glad to see you," she feigned a joyful and surprised smile. "What a lucky meeting!"
"Hello," Natasha replied awkwardly. So I believed her when she claimed she didn't know about our visit! But the way she acted was impressive!
"Miss Potts, allow me to introduce Sharon Carter, my friend. We lived next to each other for a while. She works as a nurse in one of Brooklyn's hospitals."
"Nice to meet you, Miss Carter," Pepper Potts smiled routinely, shaking Sharon's hand.
"Nice to meet you too, Miss Potts," my neighbor responded warmly.
"And this is my friend, Thomas Blank. He's a landlord, owns one of the multi-story buildings in Brooklyn. Remember I told you about him?" She turned to Natasha.
"Is this the same 'young man with a passion for extreme night swimming'?" Agent Romanov grinned, her gaze appraising me.
"The same one," I chuckled, confirming her assumption. She extended her hand for a shake, clearly intending to crush my palm, but I didn't fall for the provocation. Instead, I kissed her hand.
They say that when kissing a girl's hand, the key is not the kiss itself but the look a man sends into the eyes of his companion at that moment. Combined with tactile contact, it becomes very... expressive. So I was told. My glasses slipped down a bit as I bowed.
Attention! Satyr's Gaze: success.
Mmm! I had indeed lost track of time. Natasha winced and quickly pulled her hand away, and I hastily adjusted my glasses, sheepishly turning my head to the side.
"Ahem," she cleared her throat, regaining her composure. "Perhaps you greatly underestimated some of Mr. Blank's... character traits in your description, Sherry."
"Perhaps," Carter shrugged, a mix of cheerfulness and guilt in her expression. "But Thomas is not standing still either. He's already bored with the East River. Now he's storming the Hudson."
"Hmm. Interesting," Natasha replied, giving me another appraising glance. At that moment, I found myself kissing Pepper's hand. This time, I didn't repeat the mistake, keeping my eyes hidden behind the dark lenses of my glasses.
"So maybe you'd like to join us then? Since we've already met?" Miss Potts suggested, though her tone lacked any real interest. Just a routine offer. But Sharon seemed thrilled.
So we found ourselves seated together: Potts and Romanov on the right, Carter and I further down. The show began.
What can I say? It was beautiful. The film only showcased the Hammer presentation, which turned out to be the grand finale—a cherry on top, so to speak. Yet even before that, there had been nearly an hour and a half of wonders that I sincerely applauded and admired, which greatly amused the ladies present. They were quite experienced and perhaps even jaded. Even Pepper, constantly overwhelmed with phone calls about organizing this and that, chuckled at my admiringly naïve comments about where I would place these wonders in my home, though she tried to hide her laughter.
Interestingly, Natasha also took calls, though about one and a half times less often than Pepper—there was a clear difference between the CEO and just her secretary.
But all good things must come to an end. Justin Hammer took the stage with his obnoxious drones. It all unfolded just like in the movie, including Stark's entrance. However, it didn't seem as nightmarish as it did in real life. In the movie, you couldn't see the corpses of the dead, nor could you hear the heart-wrenching screams of the wounded.
A minute before the Hammer drones took off, I looked up and froze in horror: the ceiling, the massive dome of the Stark Expo, was made of thick steel beams and... GLASS!!
A lot of glass. Thick glass, suspended forty meters above the heads of over a thousand spectators. In the movie, all that glass came crashing down into the crowd after the first shots from the drones, just after Stark made his reckless dash upwards. But this... this was real life. And in this moment, I could do almost nothing.
"Miss Potts!" I suddenly leapt to my feet, my voice urgent as I rushed towards Pepper. "Do you have a direct line to Stark? This is critical! Right now!"
In my agitation, I completely forgot about my sunglasses. They flew off my face and clattered onto the floor.
Attention! Intimidation success.
Attention! Persuasion success.
Attention! Unintentional aggressive stance: success...
"Yes... right now." Pepper, clearly startled by my outburst, didn't question me. She was already dialing a number on her phone, her fingers shaking slightly.
"Tell him not to fly up. Under no circumstances. He needs to fly out through the main entrance, the same way he came in! Over our heads!" My voice grew darker, the urgency of the situation overwhelming my usual restraint.
"He's asking why..." she relayed, holding the phone tightly to her ear.
"Glass!" I said gravely, each word punctuated with as much weight as I could muster. "The ceiling. It's going to collapse onto the crowd. All of it. Tell him—now."
I caught the faintest sound of Tony's voice on the other end of the line, just in time to hear him mutter a hasty "thank you" before the call abruptly ended. A second later, the shooting began.
Incredibly, Stark listened to me.
He didn't fly up. Instead, he stayed low, gliding over the crowd, keeping just the right altitude. The drones that began firing couldn't destroy the ceiling, nor could they target the people beneath him. This brilliant move also threw off the anti-aircraft drones. One of them attempted to fire at Stark, but not only did it miss, the recoil from its shot sent it crashing to the floor. After all, it's called "anti-aircraft" for a reason—meant to fire upwards towards the sky, not at a low angle.
The drone's legs were equipped with special mounts designed to stabilize the recoil when shooting directly into the air. However, when the angle was less than thirty degrees to the horizon, the mounts did nothing to absorb the recoil, and that was made painfully clear when the drone slammed into the ground. Its shot had been wildly off-target, aimed high above Stark. But there's a dangerous thing about anti-aircraft shells—they're shrapnel-based.
The shell struck a wall above the crowd, partially penetrating it before exploding. The explosion was mostly contained by the wall, stopping a lot of the steel balls and fragments. Instead of forming a deadly cloud, the shrapnel only spread in a small, cone-shaped pattern, with less than ten percent of the debris making its way through. Thankfully, the deadly cone passed over the crowd.
But not everything escaped unscathed. One of the marine drones chasing Stark flew directly into the path of the shrapnel. The armor of the drone couldn't withstand the impact—something short-circuited inside it, causing a critical malfunction. Its head flew off, and the drone, now out of control, slammed into the same wall before exploding as well. This second explosion sent more fragments spraying across the room, showering the crowd with shrapnel as they tried to rush for the exits.
The rest of the drones surged forward, emitting waves of burning air from their repulsors. The air was filled with the acrid smell of something scorched. All of this—so much chaos, so much destruction—happened in the blink of an eye. Less than five seconds had passed since Stark had taken off from the stage.
In that brief moment, all I managed to do was shove Sharon with enough force to send her stumbling into Natasha, knocking her into Pepper. Natasha, being the trained spy she was, instinctively pinned Pepper down, protecting her. I hovered over them, using my body as a shield. I couldn't fall—if I did, I risked crushing Pepper. So instead, I braced my hands against the chairs in the two adjacent rows, using them to keep myself upright.
The glass shattered above us, raining down. I felt several shards embed themselves into my back.
Warning! 150 units of damage received.
Warning! 170 units of damage received.
Warning! 120 units of damage received.
Warning! Status effect: "Weak Bleeding" applied.
The five seconds were up.
I straightened up, my back stinging from the wounds, and I looked around. The remaining drones hadn't flown off—they were still here, and now they were heading in our direction. About two-thirds of them were still operational, ready to attack.
"Great," I muttered. "This is going to hurt..."
Why did I run towards the drone? Why? All I had to do was wait a little, and these tin cans would chase after Stark on their own. So why did I move? Did I want to be the hero of the day? No, not at all! Let's get real, why was I at this expo in the first place? Aside from Sharon, and maybe the opportunity to meet Black Widow in person. The answer: technology! More specifically, grabbing some useful tech for myself. And there it was, right in front of me, speeding toward the exit: Stark's cold fusion generator! Or, well, the Hammer knockoff powering these junk drones.
What a waste. A miniature nuclear power plant powering a bunch of tin soldiers, chasing after Iron Man in a pathetic attempt to bring him down. The irony was thick. Still, I couldn't let such an opportunity slip away. With a battle cry that probably sounded more heroic in my head, I ran at the drone. Full speed, full force. I collided with it, every muscle straining as I tried to lift the metal monstrosity. This thing easily weighed a ton and a half! But I pushed through, cracking my back with the effort. I raised it high and slammed it down. The impact echoed in the hall.
/ Warning! 10 units of damage received /
I hit it square in the back of the head, and I heard something crack. The drone's neck twisted unnaturally, but it didn't give. So, I went for round two. I raised my fists—yeah, these aren't government-issued weapons—but I hammered down with every bit of strength I had left.
/ Warning! Damage received: 2 units / / Warning! Damage received: 2 units /
Eight blows later, its head finally snapped off. Yet, even headless, the drone kept moving. And of course, the generator wasn't just hanging there, ripe for the picking. I cursed under my breath. It seemed Justin Hammer managed to outdo Tony Stark in at least one thing: he didn't leave his drone's weak spot exposed like a flashing "hit me" button.
I was frustrated. After all that, was I not going to get any "loot" from this takedown? My anger boiled over, and I slammed my hand onto the drone's chest plate.
/ Warning! Damage received: 2 units /
The impact was dull, thanks to the thick armor plating Hammer didn't skimp on. There was no way I was getting to the core by brute force. But then a thought crossed my mind. Why bother with the whole thing? I've got my inventory trick! I don't know much about how it works, but if it's mass-limited, maybe I could take just the part I wanted.
I placed my hand on the chest plate, focused, and gave the mental command. Instantly, the chest plate vanished from the drone and appeared in my inventory! Hell yes! Without breaking any locks or fasteners, I just took it. No hassle.
I tossed the now-useless plate aside with a clank and finally—finally—there it was. The Stark-Hammer-Vanko generator. I touched it, and with another command, it was mine. The drone froze, now a useless hunk of metal.
/ Attention! Intelligence +1 / / Attention! 200 experience points gained /
That's what I'm talking about! I wasn't done, though. I grabbed a gun from the drone, shoved it into my inventory, and, with a mental flick, turned it into a heavy club. I charged toward the next drone.
In the next five minutes, I had taken down seven more drones, scoring myself seven generators and racking up 1,400 experience points. Not bad, if I do say so myself. Now, my house would have its very own nuclear power source. Hot water savings for the win!
But I didn't bother chasing the other drones. They flew; I walked. You do the math. Instead, I rejoined Sharon, Natasha, and the rest of the ladies, who were busy picking a fight with Justin Hammer. I didn't particularly care for their shouting match, so I politely moved Pepper Potts aside, grabbed Hammer by the lapels, and gave him a shake.
Hammer's eyes met mine, and I could see the panic in them.
"Do you want to live?" I asked, my voice calm but menacing.
/*Attention! Strong-willed look: success*/
/*Attention! Strong-willed pressure: success*/
/*Attention! Satyr's Gaze: Success*/
/*Warning! Suppressive Gaze: Success*/
/*Warning! Complete Bastard's Gaze: Success*/ /*Warning! Hungry Complete Bastard's Gaze: Success*/ /*Warning! Strong-willed Gaze of a Hungry Complete Bastard-Pedobear: Success*/
/*Warning! The target has been permanently afflicted with the "Early Gray Hair" effect*/
/*Warning! The target has been permanently afflicted with the "Nightmares" effect*/
/*Warning! The target has been permanently afflicted with the "Stuttering" effect*/
/*Warning! The target has been permanently afflicted with the "Bedwetting" effect*/
His face paled as he stammered, his lips trembling, but no sound came out. The man was petrified. Great. I leaned in closer, my voice soft but cold.
"Where's the guy who did all this?" I asked.
Hammer tried to speak, but no words came. Just a few pathetic squeaks. I'd seen enough. Maybe a little shock therapy would help loosen his tongue. I didn't have electricity, but I did have... well, other methods.
Without hesitation, I bent him over, took a knife, and slashed the back of his trousers, exposing his scrawny rear. The shriek he let out was priceless—so shrill I almost laughed. He squealed like a pig, and I made a mental note to record that sound. Could be useful as an alarm clock for important days when I absolutely cannot afford to oversleep.
After that, Hammer was more than willing to talk. Words tumbled out of him so fast Natasha could barely keep up. She nodded at me and swiftly disappeared, leaving me alone with the terrified man.
I let him go, patting him on the shoulder with a smirk. "Start running," I warned, "I'll be back."
/ Warning! Target afflicted with "Paranoia" /
As Hammer stumbled away, I couldn't help but grin. One down.
------------
POV Sharon
Natasha's instincts were spot-on once again. The Hammer presentation descended into chaos—an absolute slaughterhouse. Explosions, gunfire, blood, and panic. Everything unraveled in a matter of seconds. One moment, Stark was waving to the crowd, embracing Colonel Rhodes; the next, he was jetting over the panicked masses, pursued by Hammer drones firing indiscriminately.
Thomas surprised me with his reaction time. And that "instinct" of his. Before anyone could process what was happening, he managed to get a message to Stark via Pepper. Then, in a single motion, he threw the three of us—Natasha, Pepper, and myself—under the nearest row of chairs, using his own body as a shield. He worked flawlessly.
After ensuring our safety, Thomas straightened up, scanning the wounded civilians and the advancing drones. His face showed no fear, but he sighed heavily, whispering to himself, "This is really gonna hurt." The words were spoken so quietly amidst the chaos, I barely caught them. Yet, thanks to our training, reading lips had become second nature,
Suddenly, his demeanor changed. He clenched his fists, took a series of sharp breaths, and shouted, "WHERE'S MY HEDGEHOG?!" His voice rang out, startling the three of us as we began to crawl out from under the chairs. And with that, he was off—charging at the nearest drone, sprinting along the backs of the chairs with unbelievable agility.
Despite the weight of his body, over a hundred kilos, he moved with the speed and grace of a professional sprinter. The chairs shattered under his accelerating steps, but Thomas didn't lose momentum. Within moments, he reached the nearest drone, crouched low, and with a powerful heave, tore it from the ground. Lifting it half a meter into the air, he slammed it back down with enough force to shake the floor.
Still muttering something about his "hedgehog," and mixing in colorful language—Russian, English, and even a bit of clumsy German—Thomas began battering the drone. Blow after blow, alternating left and right, until the eighth hit sent its head flying across the room.
Thomas jumped up, now armed with an anti-aircraft cannon that he'd somehow ripped off the drone. Holding the weapon like a makeshift club, he swung it with terrifying speed, beheading the next drone before it could react. The lifeless body twitched and stumbled before crashing to the floor, and with one last vicious strike, Thomas finished it off.
Meanwhile, Natasha had regained her composure faster than I had. While I remained in stunned awe, watching Thomas's rampage, Natasha helped Pepper to her feet. Together, they made their way toward the control center where Justin Hammer was frantically trying to regain control of the situation.
Surprisingly, they reached the console without much resistance. Most of the drones had already left the building, chasing Stark, while the sluggish ones left behind were easy prey for Thomas, who was dispatching them one by one. It was clear from their erratic behavior that all the drones were controlled by a single operator—likely Hammer. With his focus on Stark, the rest of us were mere distractions.
Thomas made quick work of the remaining drones and joined us at the sound engineer's console. Pepper was already demanding answers from Hammer, but he remained speechless, frozen in fear. Natasha pushed Pepper aside, ready to interrogate him herself, but stopped when Thomas placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Mind if I give it a try?" he asked, smiling politely.
Natasha shrugged, stepping back as Thomas turned Hammer around to face him. Grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket, Thomas locked eyes with him. It only took a second for Hammer to break.
"Do you want to live?" Thomas asked calmly.
I had heard him say this line before, but it hadn't had this effect on anyone. Hammer, the CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation, looked utterly defeated. In a matter of moments, his pants darkened as a stain spread from the center, and a wet spot formed beneath his feet. His hair even seemed to go visibly grayer.
"Where's the one responsible for all of this?" Thomas's voice remained kind and patient, but the effect was devastating.
Hammer, trembling, tried to speak but stuttered uncontrollably. The once narcissistic showman now seemed incapable of forming a coherent sentence. Thomas sighed, clearly disappointed. He let go of Hammer's jacket, spun him around, and leaned him over the console. Then, with a flash of steel, Thomas drew a knife and, without hesitation, slashed Hammer's pants, right between his scrawny backside. The fabric fell apart, but Hammer remained unharmed.
The humiliation was enough to make Hammer scream like a pig. Words came pouring out in a panicked rush.
"I'll tell you everything! Ivan Vanko! He's alive! He's here, in the building! I got him out of prison! We faked his death! Please, just keep him away from me!"
Hammer's confession was enough for Natasha. She didn't need to hear anything more. She disappeared into the chaos, heading for Vanko. As for Thomas, he stood over Hammer, who was now a quivering mess on the floor, babbling incoherently.
"Try to run, and I'll come back," Thomas warned in a soft voice, his calm demeanor more terrifying than any threat.
Hammer could only nod, tears streaming down his face. He had no fight left in him.
I watched in stunned silence, marveling at Thomas's ability to control the situation. There was no need for physical intimidation—though there had been plenty of that too—just pure psychological domination. It was… impressive, to say the least. And it reminded me that I had rent due soon. Without even thinking, my hands were already transferring payment for the next year to Thomas's account. A wise investment, I decided, as I definitely didn't want to end up like Hammer or… worse, like Peter, our unfortunate neighbor.
-----------------------
"Can you manage things here?" I asked Sharon quietly once we had slipped out of sight, away from the chaos.
She nodded confidently. "I think I've got it under control."
"I'll head outside, see if I can help anyone," I informed her, glancing at the exit. Sharon studied me for a moment before nodding seriously, understanding the gravity of the situation.
With a final nod back, I hurried away, leaving behind the thoroughly wrecked presentation center. Stepping outside, the scene was no better—if anything, it was worse. The chaos extended across the streets: explosions, panic, destruction, the echoing cries of the wounded, the lifeless bodies scattered, dust clouding the air, and debris from collapsed structures everywhere. The flickering streetlights, spotlights, and flashes from malfunctioning equipment only made the whole situation more surreal.
The destruction stretched as far as I could see—this wasn't just a fight anymore; it was a full-blown war zone.
I couldn't help but feel a cold chill run down my spine. No matter how much you try to steel yourself, no matter how brave you pretend to be, the raw fear is always there. The harsh reality hit me: the System might enhance my body, make me stronger, faster, and able to regenerate—but it doesn't make me immortal.
My hands shook slightly, and I swallowed the lump in my throat. I had no intention of testing the limits of my regeneration abilities today, especially when one hit from these drones could tear me apart. Considering the firepower mounted on Hammer's drones—cannons, machine guns—a single well-placed shot would be enough to critically wound me. Hell, even worse, it could take off a limb.
And it wasn't just the drones. There was debris everywhere—fallen structures, high-voltage cables swinging dangerously, and any one of them could finish me off if I wasn't careful. One good smack from a drone or a piece of rubble, and that would be it. Game over.
/ Attention! The "Panic Attack" effect ignored*/ the system chimed in, snapping me out of the paralyzing fear that had begun to creep in.
My field of vision refocused on the scene in front of me—the battlefield Stark Expo had become. And that's what it was now: a battlefield. There was no other way to describe it.
Well, I wasn't about to lie down and die. Not today. No matter how terrifying the situation was, I had to move.
"The eyes are afraid, but the hands still work," I muttered, remembering an old joke to pump myself up. Sometimes, humor—dark as it may be—was the only thing that kept me grounded.
With that, I sprinted toward the nearest wrecked drone, ready to salvage whatever high-tech gear I could find. If there was one upside to all this chaos, it was that I'd soon have some new toys for my little workshop.
"Level Up" saved my life. That's the truth.
I managed to take down twelve drones, though it cost me two-thirds of my health. Five of them were on the ground—those were easy enough. I used my tried-and-true method of tearing out their power cores with the "Inventory" ability. The other seven? I shot them out of the air by commandeering an inactive anti-aircraft drone. Luckily, I figured out how its back-mounted cannon worked. Thankfully, it had a mechanical trigger and feeding system, not an electric one. That earned me a plus-one in "Handy Man" and unlocked the "Shooting" skill.
But the thirteenth drone? That one... it was unlucky.
It was another ground drone. Standing tall, it had its cannon trained on Stark, who was zipping through the sky, firing off blasts occasionally. While I crept up behind the drone, Stark managed to shoot down two more drones that had been targeting him. But just as I was making my final sprint to disable it, a long burst of machine-gun fire roared behind me.
A searing pain ripped through my back, almost unbearable, and the force of the bullets slammed me into the drone I'd been stalking. When I checked later, I saw the anti-aircraft drone was riddled with holes—five clean shots from the same burst that hit me.
/ Warning! 930 damage received!
Warning! "Arterial Bleeding" effect received!
Warning! "Internal Bleeding" effect received!
Warning! "Rupture of Internal Organs" effect received!
Warning! "Spinal Fracture" effect received! /
Overhead, Stark zoomed past with the familiar whine of his repulsors, five more flying drones hot on his tail. Another burst of gunfire rang out, and one of the drones crashed, shot down by another drone. Stark was spinning in tight turns, dodging their fire.
"Damn it!" I gasped, casting a quick glance at the "playboy-millionaire-philanthropist" before my attention snapped back to the drone ahead of me, which had started to turn in my direction.
/ Warning! 20 damage received! /
The bleeding had started. I gritted my teeth so hard I thought they might crack, and forced myself to take another step forward.
/ Warning! The "Spinal Crushing" effect ignored! /
The pain was blinding. It spread from my lower back like an explosion, turning my entire world into a wash of red. But even through the agony, I could see the drone's cannon swinging around to face me.
/ Warning! The "Pain Shock" effect ignored! /
The System's notifications kept rolling in, emotionless as always.
/ Warning! 30 damage received! /
My health bar was blinking a furious red, warning me I was close to the end. I took another step forward, closing the distance between me and the drone. I reached out, my hand barely touching the drone's chest plate.
/ Warning! Damage received: 20 /
The repulsor in the drone's left arm charged and fired at point-blank range, slamming into my stomach. I had almost touched the arc reactor, but...
/ Warning! Damage received: 4376! /
Everything below my chest was obliterated in an instant, blown apart into a gruesome display of blood and viscera that painted the battlefield twenty meters around me. My health bar plummeted to a devastating -4375/3000.
I'll never forget the sight of those numbers. They're burned into my mind, forever etched into my memory like a scar.
/ Warning! "Clinical Death" effect received! /
I screamed—though I still had lungs—and in that moment of pure desperation, I forced my trembling fingers to touch the drone's arc reactor. I pulled it into my inventory, knowing full well that I had no hope left, but refusing to give up. If I was going down, I was taking this metal monster with me.
/ Attention! Experience gained: 200
Attention! You have gained a new level! Current level: 7
Attention! You have gained 5 attribute points!
Attention! You have gained 1 skill point!
Attention! Willpower +2! /
Then, everything twisted around me, and the darkness swallowed me whole. I must've passed out.
I don't think much time had passed before I opened my eyes again. With a groan of effort, I pushed off the heavy, lifeless hunk of the anti-aircraft drone that must have collapsed onto me after I'd shut it down. Getting up was surprisingly easy—almost too easy.
And... wait, why was it so cool and airy down there?
I glanced down and blinked, dumbfounded. The suit I had on was... quite something. The upper part of me was still wearing a white dress shirt, a jacket, and even a tie. Below the chest, though? Completely naked.
And yeah, of course... I was, uh, standing at attention.
"Libido: 10, huh? Well, that's just great," I muttered to myself, shaking my head. "Morning, sunshine," I added, addressing the part of me that had no business being so enthusiastic after nearly getting torn to pieces.
Thankfully, there was no response from, well, myself. If it had, I'd probably have had to check myself into the nearest mental institution. But as things stood, I figured I could still function—mostly.
With a heavy sigh, I glanced at the remnants of my suit. Brand new too. What a waste. I shed the rest of my shredded clothes and swapped into something more practical: a tracksuit and sneakers I had stashed in my Inventory, "just in case." The whole thing weighed practically nothing compared to its size, but boy, was it useful now.
Once dressed, I slowly trudged back toward the dome of the presentation hall. I had had more than enough excitement for one day.
/ Attention! Wisdom +1 /
Oh, nice. Even the System agreed with me. I wasn't in the mood for any more extreme sports today.
But then again... What was stopping me from looting all the drones that had been shot down by someone else? I mean, technically, they weren't anyone's property now, right?
A greedy smile spread across my face at the thought, and I could almost feel my eyes light up with anticipation.
/ Attention! The "Complete Scumbag" achievement has evolved into the "Fool" achievement /
/ Attention! The Luck characteristic has been unlocked. Warning! Luck +1 Warning! The active skill "Turn on the Fool" has been acquired /
Wait, what? "Turn on the Fool"? What kind of skill is that?
/ Achievement Status: Fool: -50% penalty to intelligence. +50% increase to the growth speed of characteristics in life-threatening situations. Fools are lucky: Luck +50%. +2% chance of survival in hopeless situations. +1% chance of surviving when "Everything is completely screwed." +1% chance of pulling off the impossible. +1% chance of getting the princess and half the kingdom. /
No way! That's amazing! Plus fifty percent to Luck, and extra chances of survival? Maybe the intelligence penalty is worth it. Yeah, screw it!
I let out a laugh. My drones were waiting for me. Time to collect the spoils of war!
I didn't make it back to Sharon until an hour and a half later. Yeah, I admit it—I got carried away. My Inventory, which was now at an impressive 104% capacity, made that painfully clear.
How was that even possible? Well, it had something to do with my newest achievement: "Hamster." I earned it by stubbornly trying to stuff in more than the 320-kilogram limit allowed. Persistent, right? Okay, maybe more like "crazy." But hey, after a bunch of determined attempts and using the new skill I got from the "Fool" achievement, even the System caved in. It added another point to Strength and granted me the achievement.
That's a win in my book!
Oh, and speaking of "Fool," that thing is incredible! In just the short time I'd been looting, I managed to raise my Strength by two points (hence the 320-kilogram Inventory), Dexterity by one, and Endurance by two. Vitality, though—that's a whole different story. After reaching a score of "thirteen" and experiencing "Clinical Death," Vitality shot up by five points in one go. Not gonna lie, I'm still not sure if that's good or bad, but it did unlock a new achievement for me.
The achievement was called "Superstitious." The description was... brief, to say the least:
/ Status of the "Superstitious" achievement: You have a SPECIAL relationship with the number "13" /
Creepy, right? But it is what it is. I'll just have to live with it now.
When I finally caught up with Sharon, she looked surprised to see me in a tracksuit, but to my relief, she didn't grill me about it. She was too busy. While I'd been out gathering scrap metal, Sharon had set up a makeshift first aid station for the wounded. She was literally saving lives, sweat dripping down her face from the effort.
Watching her work, I felt a sudden wave of shame. She was out here being a hero, and what had I been doing? Stuffing my Inventory with drone parts like a hoarder.
But just as I was starting to drown in guilt, the drones that were still functioning off in the distance began self-destructing. Not a single one of the drones I'd looted—the ones whose generators I had stripped out—exploded. They were all lying safely on the ground, right in the middle of the crowd, near my feet. That eased my conscience a bit.
Still, despite the nagging itch of my inner "hamster" urging me to raid more pavilions, I couldn't walk away. My conscience wouldn't let me. I stayed with Sharon, helping her tend to the wounded until late into the night.
Actually, it was almost morning by the time we finished. Too many people had been hurt, and the roads were so badly wrecked that it made rescue operations and ambulance evacuations nearly impossible. We did everything we could, but it felt like it would never be enough.
Sharon and I parted ways at the door of her apartment. We were so exhausted that neither of us bothered with formal goodbyes. A simple nod was all it took before we headed our separate ways. Thankfully, Pepper had arranged for a Stark Industries car to drive us home, a gesture of both apology and gratitude for our help earlier.
The door clicked shut behind Sharon, and I dragged myself toward my own floor. Out of some stupid principle, I refused to use the elevator again. It was only two floors up—nothing too challenging, right? Wrong. With my Inventory now loaded to 104% capacity, every step felt like running a 100-meter sprint at full speed. And that wasn't just in my head; the numbers backed it up. The "Overload" icon was glowing next to my name, and my Energy bar was draining at an alarming rate.
Keep in mind, I had already munched on my "emergency supply" of chocolate while still in the car. I even shared some with Sharon, so it wasn't like I had any debuffs from "Hunger" weighing me down. I made a mental note to use this experience for future endurance training. But that's a problem for later.
The real problem? Today. Right now.
All the junk I crammed into my Inventory at the expo—well, technically, it's stolen. And storing stolen goods in my apartment? That's just asking for trouble. Especially considering my less-than-friendly relationship with the City-State Police Department. If they find any of this stuff on me, not even Murdoc will be able to bail me out of that mess. Oh, and let's not forget the "criminal" weapons stashed in the basement, hidden under a pile of rags. There's no way they're fitting into my already overflowing Inventory.
That's a real problem, one I should have thought about before I started pocketing everything in sight. But it's too late for that now. What's done is done.
Even standing still, my Energy is draining. Sitting doesn't help either—I checked that in the car. Lying down probably won't stop it either. So I need a solution, and fast.
But what? I can't leave the stuff in my apartment. Should I load it into a pickup truck and haul it away? But where? Dump it in the Hudson? That's a last-resort option. Besides, it'd be a waste. I worked hard to get all that stuff, and I'm not about to toss it away like nothing.
Lost in these thoughts, I didn't even realize I'd wandered down into the basement. I stood there, staring at the pile of rags covering the weapons. But something was off. Someone had been rummaging through it. Without me.
This is bad. Really bad.
They'll be on me by morning, no question about it. And it doesn't even matter who "they" are—whether it's the police or someone else, I'm done for.
In desperation, I scanned the basement, searching for any possible way out. Some kind of escape. Even something far-fetched, ridiculous. And then it hit me—the Dungeon!
Of course! No one else can access the Dungeon but me. No one can even see it except me!
And even if it's a one-time escape... who cares? My freedom is worth more than a mountain of stolen junk.
With that thought, I started cramming weapons and ammunition into my already packed Inventory. How, you ask? Isn't it full? Well, that's where the "Hamster" achievement comes in handy.
/* Status of the "Hamster" achievement: your greed is only rivaled by your stubbornness (or rather, your sheer willpower) - you can load more into your Inventory than the Strength stat allows, but the excess drains Energy exponentially */
In other words, as long as I've got enough Endurance, I can overload my Inventory beyond the limit. My greed won't be restrained by Strength anymore.
I only need to make it three steps to reach the Dungeon's entrance, even if my Inventory hits 125% capacity. And somehow, I made it.
At that moment, the familiar notification appeared:
/* Attention! You have activated the entrance to the Dungeon. Transfer is in progress */
Suddenly, everything went black, except for one single line of text. The darkness was almost suffocating, though it didn't last long. Well, not exactly. Absolute darkness gave way to just regular darkness. It was clear there was nothing there—it was just the absence of light, not some sort of mystical void like it had seemed moments before.
/ Attention! You have entered the Dungeon: The Great Argnab Dungeons. /
And that was it. No exit conditions, no timers, nothing. Just the Dungeon, just the Great Argnab Dungeons. Interpret it however you like. Well, it didn't really matter. My primary goal in coming here was to offload all the "extra" junk I had been carrying around.
I wasted no time unloading everything from my inventory except my weapons, ammo, emergency supplies, and two dozen Stark-Hammer generators I had "acquired." Thankfully, they weren't too heavy. When I finished, the pile of junk I'd created was so huge that even I couldn't help but whistle in surprise.
With my shotgun equipped and ready, I flicked on the under-barrel flashlight to get a look at where I'd landed.
What could I say? It was a cave.
The tunnel stretched in both directions, with an arched ceiling about three to three-and-a-half meters high. The walls were uneven, rough, somewhat reminiscent of granite but with streaks of red, brown, and gray against a black background. The material didn't seem uniform, though, and it wasn't just stone—it was something else entirely. The oddest part? The tunnel was straight as an arrow, stretching out farther than the beam of my flashlight could reach. And believe me, this flashlight was powerful.
"Night Vision" kicked in as soon as I turned on the light, so what had been impenetrable darkness transformed into a sharp, black-and-white image, with color only appearing directly under the flashlight's beam.
I quickly called up my "mini-map" on my HUD. A hundred meters of the tunnel in both directions had already been mapped out in the middle of the surrounding darkness. My "Observation" skill also activated, identifying the walls as "Stone Wall" and showing an outrageously high durability score.
I examined the area carefully, not leaving any detail unchecked. I wasn't wasting my time either—right behind me, a passage marked "Dungeon Exit" appeared, dark and ominous but reassuring at the same time. It gave me hope that I could get back home whenever I wanted, which was comforting. I immediately marked it on the mini-map with a bold red cross.
Once that was done, I decided to move a bit—starting to the left. I mean, come on, I'm a man, right?
The corridor stretched on, straight and seemingly endless. The floor was rocky and uneven, making it uncomfortable to walk in sneakers, and their durability dropped faster than I would have liked.
After about four hundred meters, the flashlight beam revealed a turn in the tunnel. It veered off to the right and sloped downward. I approached the turn cautiously, running my hand along the wall as I shone my light into the darkness beyond—and froze.
Eyes. Glowing eyes stared back at me, reflecting the light like a cat's. But these eyes weren't from any housecat—they were positioned too high off the ground and too far apart. Whatever this thing was, it was the size of a large pig!
The creature didn't hiss or grunt, though. Instead, it let out a high-pitched, grating squeal that made my skin crawl. The flashlight fully illuminated the creature, and I recoiled instinctively.
It was a rat. A rat! Nearly a meter tall at the shoulder!
And it wasn't running away.
Before I could even think, my finger tightened on the shotgun's trigger.
The deafening roar of the shot echoed in the tunnel, and a blast of buckshot slammed into the creature's face. Lucky for me, its skull wasn't as thick as its size suggested. The rat's head exploded into a gory mess, and it dropped.
/ Attention! Critical hit. 2300 damage dealt. Enemy Rat destroyed. 150 experience points gained. /
But there was no time to celebrate. Three more pairs of glowing eyes appeared in the darkness. Even through the ringing in my ears, I could hear the shrill squeaks of the rats as they closed in.
Shot, shot, shot…
My body acted on instinct while my brain tried to keep up, fumbling between panic and strategy.
/ Attention! Critical hit. 2300 damage dealt. Enemy Rat destroyed. 150 experience points gained. /
More eyes appeared in the darkness. More rats.
Shot, shot, shot…
I kept firing. My hands were operating almost independently, like a well-oiled machine, while my mind scrambled to process everything.
/ Attention! Critical hit. 2300 damage dealt. Enemy Rat destroyed. /
Click.
The shotgun was empty.
At that moment, my brain finally caught up to my body and issued the most primal, life-saving command it could: RUN.
Four hundred meters is a decent distance—not too short, not too long. But in that moment, it felt like a marathon. I sprinted harder than I ever had before, barely keeping track of the rocky path beneath my feet. The shotgun in my hands bounced in rhythm with my frantic movements, and the flashlight beam darted wildly, more of a distraction than an aid at this point.
But I couldn't afford to drop it. I needed the light. Without it, my "Night Vision" would deactivate, and then I'd be completely blind.
I ran like hell, but the rats were gaining. Their squeals echoed behind me, growing louder and more frantic with each passing second. They were closing in, inch by inch, clawing at the ground as they pursued me relentlessly.
And then, I made it. I burst through the exit and collapsed onto the concrete floor of my basement.
I lay there, gasping for air, staring blankly at the ceiling. I had been closer to death than ever before, and the thought chilled me to the core.
Ten minutes passed before I finally got up, still shaky from the adrenaline rush. I stumbled into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the grime and blood. But as the water flowed over me, the reality of what I'd just survived hit me full force.
The fear, the death, the blood, the rats… it all came crashing down. I sank to the floor of the shower, knees to my chest, shaking uncontrollably. My hands trembled, my lips quivered, and my jaw chattered.
It was only after forty minutes, when the water had turned cold, that I managed to pull myself out of the shower.
I made my way to the kitchen, no longer caring about any diets or fitness plans. Why bother? My body stats had already surpassed human limits, but I still looked the same. It didn't make sense, and I was done torturing myself over it.
I had a hearty meal—late dinner or early breakfast, I wasn't sure at this point—and then collapsed into bed.
Before I drifted off to sleep, I checked my stats.
Name: Thomas Blank
Character Class: Mutant
Level: 7 (6200/10000 XP)
Life: 3500/3500
"Explosive" Energy: 3300/3300
"Potential" Energy: 33000/33000
Strength: 33
Dexterity: 32
Endurance: 33
Vitality: 35
Intelligence: 7 (-50%)
Wisdom: 2
Will: 34
Intuition: 3
Libido: 10
Luck: 1 (+50%)
Unallocated Stat Points: 35
I smiled weakly. I survived.
That was all that mattered.
They wouldn't let me sleep. Just my luck. At exactly six in the morning, the police started banging on the door. Well, "banging" might be too harsh a word; it was more like persistent knocking—very polite, but annoyingly insistent. With a heavy sigh, I crawled out from under the blanket, quickly dialed Murdoc's number, and told him what was happening. Then I activated my skill, "Turn on the Fool," and stomped toward the door. An active skill from a unique achievement was just what I needed!
Honestly, after ten minutes of talking to the police, I wanted to shoot myself. After twenty, only a superhuman Willpower indicator kept me from shutting off that skill. I WAS STUPID! I reread the entire warrant, word for word, syllable by syllable. My education may be officially lacking, but I wasn't about to back down. I got stuck on almost every word, frowning, moving my lips, trying to grasp the meaning. The people around me couldn't take it anymore; they tried reading it out loud to me themselves. Naturally, I got offended, accusing them of trying to deceive me, insisting they would read something entirely different from what was written. I told them I didn't trust the police because they beat me...
The onlookers sighed heavily, waving their hands in frustration. I started reading again, got confused, and began anew. The warrant was filled with convoluted words and legal jargon. I demanded explanations, and they tried their best to help. It turned out they didn't really understand either but were too proud to admit it. They started acting smart, getting tangled in their own prevarications, which only fueled my irritation.
I asked again, and the explanations turned into a chaotic symphony of voices. Everyone was getting angrier, interrupting each other. It was impossible to describe. After all, this was a Unique Skill… Everyone wanted to kill me in some delightfully creative way: the detective, the police officers, even the invited "witnesses." By the way, Sharon somehow managed to get roped into their ranks. Out of all of them—including me, but I mentioned that already—she was the only one who didn't want to kill or beat me. Instead, she took notes! Maybe she needed it for her spy business? I don't know. They wanted to take me down, but they couldn't; after the last incident, the police were scared to lay a finger on me, and the presence of uniformed officers prevented any civilians from stepping in.
Murdoc's arrival thirty-five minutes later felt like the appearance of a Messiah! He quickly clarified who had signed the warrant, called back to verify the legality of the document with the person responsible (it took no more than five minutes), and, once everything was confirmed, led me and the police down to the basement. There, the cops immediately began to dig through the pile… and, as expected, found nothing. Not even a trace of gun oil, since I had the foresight to pour half a canister of waste oil where the weapon had been, sprinkled sand on the spot, and laid a rag over it. Thankfully, nothing had spontaneously ignited overnight.
And... that was that. As they say, "No body, no case." No weapon meant no grounds for arrest or detention. The fact that someone claimed to know for sure it was there yesterday didn't hold any weight. Illegally obtained evidence is not considered evidence. The police, however, didn't give up easily. They rummaged through the technical parts of the basement, tore apart the boxing gym, dug through the attic utility rooms, scoured all the utility rooms, and even searched my apartment. Naturally, they found nothing suspicious, because I carry everything that belongs to me with me!
Gritting their teeth, they apologized and left. Murdoc filed another lawsuit on my behalf and took off as well. Sharon decided to stick around for a cup of tea… along with borscht, a pan of roasted meat with sides, and a meat pie for dessert. I had already told myself: to hell with the diet! If I'm a "Jolly Fat Man," then I'm going to enjoy life, not sulk. Besides, the "mirror disease" has become less severe than before; I can now see the tip of my main caliber from under my belly. Sure, it happened not because I've lost weight but due to an increase in caliber, which isn't so bad. If only my libido weren't so lacking, it would be downright perfect!
"I still haven't thanked you for your help at Stark Expo yesterday," the girl began, her hunger finally subdued. I shrugged and cut another piece of roast, savoring the taste as I popped it into my mouth and closed my eyes in delight. It was incredibly delicious.
"Still haven't decided to become a 'nurse,' huh?"
"No," I replied, thoroughly enjoying my meal, washing it down with some compote. "And you, do you really want to see me in that role? Seriously?" I raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious.
"Perhaps not," she sighed, pausing to think. "But you can continue to count on my private assistance. However, officially…"
"There's a hint of doubt in your tone. And something left unsaid," I observed, noticing Sharon hiding a smile behind her glass.
I sighed, a little regretfully, and spread my hands. "But I probably wouldn't refuse a small gesture of gratitude from your 'hospital.'"
"Material?" she asked, making an international gesture with her free hand—rubbing her fingers together.
"Not quite," I hesitated, choosing my words carefully.
"Then what?"
"The very thing the cops have been hounding me about. An official permit to purchase a weapon. I'm sure your 'hospital' can handle that little detail without much difficulty. And it won't cost them much, I bet," I added, trying to be cheeky. What if it worked? At least I'd be able to officially buy shotgun shells, especially since I suspected there were plenty of "rats" in the Dungeon. That's why they're called Great Dungeons, not some back-alley Labyrinth.
"So you still haven't cooled off on this idea of yours? Seems like too much effort for just a 'I want to,'" Sharon narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
I shrugged and cut another piece of the roast. "Who are you planning to fight?"
"Rats," I finally answered after a long silence. "There are countless numbers of them in the sewers. I'm thinking of thinning them out so they don't invade the basement."
"Rats with an assault rifle?" she raised her eyebrows in mock bewilderment.
"Well, a machine gun would be more convenient," I admitted, remembering the glowing eyes of aggressive rodents lurking in the dark and shuddering. "A six-barreled, twelve-millimeter caliber, with a truckload of cartridges…"
"What demands you have!" she laughed, the sound bright and cheerful.
"I'm not insisting on anything," I shrugged, popping another piece of meat into my mouth. "If it's a yes, great; if not, then no case."
"Well, I'll think about what can be done," she said, lowering her gaze. "Although I can't imagine a 'rat' that would scare you, especially after yesterday, when you charged in bare-handed against practically a tank!"
"I was hungry…" I looked away, a faint blush creeping to my cheeks. Sharon burst into cheerful, melodic laughter again, ringing like bells.
All this excitement took up more than half of my day. The only thing I managed to accomplish before dark was a trip to the metal warehouse to buy materials. I decided to put off the main work until the morning. Not feeling tired enough to go to bed, I decided to take a swim in the Hudson. This had become a rather routine activity—more psychological than actually beneficial for boosting stats.
In the morning, Peter and I finished boarding up the house before lunch. We decided to start plastering after the weekend, since Peter had plans for the next couple of days. I had plans too. True, mine were completely different from his, though a date was also on my agenda. Only his was with a girl, while mine was with rats. But it's essential to remember that any date requires careful preparation; otherwise, you risk not getting what you want.
So I started preparing: laying out sheets of iron, reinforcement, tools, and welding equipment. I was in the zone, creating my "Wunderwaffe." I spent the entire day tinkering, and by evening, I entered the Dungeon not empty-handed.
Once again, as it was the first time, darkness greeted me. But this time, it wasn't just a pathetic flashlight, albeit a tactical one. Instead, I was met with the high-beam headlight of a truck on a tripod, connected to the vehicle's battery. I was equipped with sturdy military-style boots, camouflage pants, and a raincoat from an OZK. My eyes were shielded by clear construction goggles, and noise-canceling headphones covered my ears. With this gear, I boldly moved to the left.
About fifty meters from the turn, I stopped. I pulled out a slingshot, lit a cigar, and loaded it with a powerful firecracker. After igniting it from the tip of the cigar, I launched it towards the turn, aiming for it to bounce off the wall and land precisely where I had first spotted those unfriendly eyes. I didn't hear the explosion, but I saw a flash. Then a gray body appeared, and I quickly fired a short burst from my EMK assault rifle. The first body collapsed, and the system notified me of the experience I had gained.
The next rat leaped out and also received its share of steel gifts (the bullets in assault rifles had long since stopped being lead, replaced by steel encased in copper). One after the other, the third, fourth, fifth... until the magazine ran dry at the twelfth. The wave of rat bodies had already covered half the distance from the corner to my position. It felt like a repeat of the previous experience, and it was time to employ the hundred and first Karate technique. But, fortunately, I had learned from my mistakes!
Instead of frantically reaching for the next magazine and trying to reload, I pulled out the second half of my "Wunderwaffe" from my inventory. It was just a wall made of reinforcement and sheet metal, reinforced with stiffening ribs and supported by profile pipes. Two essential features included loopholes and a cleverly mounted second truck headlight with its own battery, shielded by a sturdy grate against claws and teeth while providing ample lighting from that side of the wall.
The next moment, the wall shook from the impact of a hefty rat's body. It quivered but held firm, the supports digging deeper into the rocky surface. I slowly reloaded and aimed through one of the loopholes. Shot, shot, shot…
I had enough rats to reach the eighth level, but I still had a long way to go before hitting the ninth. The rats had vanished. More accurately, they had stopped attacking and no longer appeared in my line of sight. The wall to the right of the entrance hadn't been targeted this whole time, so I felt secure about my rear. So far, everything was going well with the first phase of my efforts—experience gained, now it was time for the second phase: collecting trophies! I grinned and spat out the half-smoked cigar. To be honest, I hadn't really smoked it at all. It had merely served to light the firecracker... and for effect. I didn't have a bad habit of smoking; in fact, I disliked the smell. But I hadn't thought of a more convenient way to ignite it.
I retrieved a hefty hunting cleaver from my inventory and removed the wall.
Meat. Meat is expensive in America—good meat, anyway. Well, unless you're in Texas. And I had already spent a lot of money lately. Curiosity gnawed at me! With these thoughts in mind, I dropped the rat carcass I had been carrying on my shoulder onto the shower floor and began cutting it up. Or dismembering it, depending on how you viewed it... The roast from this creature turned out to be excellent! It paired perfectly with potatoes and cherry compote. I even contemplated making a smokehouse from the metal scraps. After all, there was no other way to procure the amount of meat I had gotten from a single rat in my kitchen. And there were still several dozen of them lurking in the dungeon. "An attraction of unheard-of greed," I mused—after all, it was good meat, and it seemed a shame to waste it...
Standing in the harsh glow of the truck headlights, I found myself staring down at the butchered carcasses, a cleaver clutched in my hand. It struck me just how unnecessary the cleaver truly was. My inventory system provided a far superior alternative: with a mere thought, I could command, "Place the skin in the Inventory." In an instant, the skin detached with an accuracy that would put any scalpel to shame.
I followed up with another command: "Place the ham in the Inventory," and just like that, it was done. The process of examining the body was surprisingly educational as well—my "Observation" skill was leveling up. The more I studied the carcass, the better I understood its structure. Each component broke down in my mind, making it possible to add parts directly into my Inventory or discard them if they seemed useless. For example, I disposed of the rat skin; even my "Hamster" companion couldn't find a sensible use for it. After all, it was just raw animal hide, dirty and of low quality. Proper tanning requires conditions, equipment, and a know-how that I lacked—along with a hefty investment of time and effort. What was I supposed to do with it? Hang it on the wall or sew it into a coat? I lived in New York, where winters, while chilly, were hardly the frigid conditions of Chukotka.
So, the skin went in the trash, while the meat—the better part—minus bones, cartilage, and sinews—went directly into the Inventory. I had a generous capacity, able to handle up to one hundred fifty kilograms. Just then, as I dissected the body, the "Observation" skill kicked in, revealing a startling designation: "Alchemical Ingredient." I sat down right then and there, struck by the revelation. Alchemical ingredients! It was like stumbling upon the Philosopher's Stone! My mind raced with thoughts of the possibilities, dollar signs lighting up my imagination like a cartoon character.
There was only one thought echoing in my head: "I want! I want! I want!" The System responded with a prompt: /Attention! The crafting skill "Alchemy" requires 3 free skill points to obtain. Do you want to purchase: yes/no/ Without a moment's hesitation, I almost instinctively pressed "yes." /*Attention! The crafting skill "Alchemy" has been received. Attention! Alchemy +1 */
An empty buzzing filled my head for a moment, reminiscent of that joke: "Wait, I could have chosen something better!" I felt a wave of regret crash over me, realizing I might have squandered my skill points. But I couldn't dwell on it. I needed to start gathering everything that "Observation" indicated was an "ingredient," "reagent," or "catalyst."
Unfortunately, the available items were limited. Not a single particle from the rats was marked as significant, and I was left unsure of how to "craft" anything useful from them. So, I returned to my task at hand: systematically dismantling the carcasses to extract whatever valuable resources I could find. I worked diligently for about an hour and a half. During this time, small groups of three or four rats appeared again, and I dispatched them effortlessly, adding their remains to my growing collection. Their presence was a reminder that the Great Dungeons were teeming with life, and I couldn't let my guard down.
Before leaving, I constructed a temporary barrier only a hundred meters from the dungeon's exit. As I sorted through the supplies I had collected from the Stark Expo, I noticed they were just as I'd left them—nothing had disappeared. Everything was neatly in place, though I could tell a rat had rummaged through my stash in search of food. Maybe it didn't find anything appetizing? Who could say?
In the midst of my work, I received a notification about an achievement: "Ripper." I skimmed the description and continued my task, somewhat underwhelmed. Compared to my previous achievement, "The Fool," it felt lackluster: "Ripper" achievement status: You have butchered more than fifty living creatures with exceptional care, which has affected your skills. Whether you like it or not, you'll now assess how to butcher any living creature you encounter, even if you have no intention of doing so. It's reflected in your gaze. +10% to the chance of discovering something interesting when dissecting a corpse, +10% to gutting speed, +100% to intimidation effectiveness.
Returning to my apartment, I carried a rat carcass over my shoulder. I had chosen one that didn't fit into the Inventory, unwilling to exceed its limit. I had already figured out that the weight I physically carried didn't count against my Inventory's capacity—definitely a trick worth remembering.
In my shower, I began to cut up the carcass. It yielded about twelve kilograms of meat. I could have utilized the entire rat, like a butcher would with beef or pork, but honestly, I was too lazy to deal with bones, liver, and other innards. Twelve kilograms of usable meat would suffice for now.
My fridge was only a standard household model, albeit a large one, but I had plans. I immediately set aside a kilogram for roasting, and right after, I received another notification from the System. /*Attention! Cooking skill acquired. Attention! Cooking +1 */ This surprised me; I had been cooking daily since entering this world, yet the skill had only just appeared. Why? /*Cooking skill status: "You can't become a true Chef by simply recreating famous dishes. Only through experimentation and creating something unique can you master this Art. This is how you create truly Divine Dishes and Deadly Poisons." +10% to the richness of taste in your dishes. +10% to the effectiveness of poisons. */
It was a promising skill, to say the least, and quite motivating. I continued experimenting, cutting the remaining meat into smaller pieces to marinate in my largest pot. I added onions, tomato juice, vinegar, spices, various types of pepper, lemon, bay leaf, and even a splash of vodka to the marinade. Then, an idea struck me—I tossed in one of the "alchemical ingredients" I had collected. I braced myself for unexpected reactions and even jumped back from the table in anticipation. But nothing happened. No alerts from the System, no changes indicated by "Observation" on the pot of marinade and meat.
Well, if that was the case, then so be it. I closed the lid on the pot and stowed it in the refrigerator, relieved by its spaciousness. Maybe I'd consider getting a second one later; I certainly had the room for it.
Once my marinating was done, I gathered the bones, offal, skin, head, and paws into a large black plastic bag and made my way to the garbage container behind the building. As I walked, I noticed Peter, a guy I knew, turned pale and practically jumped out of my way. Perhaps he feared I'd splatter him with blood? The bag was flimsy, and a few drops had escaped, leaving a trail behind me. I did my best to carry it without making a mess, but it wasn't always possible. After cleaning up the shower, I found myself grabbing a mop to clean the hallway too.
The weekend had come to an end. Peter was out of cash, and the rent was still due. I had no intention of abandoning my plans to renovate the house. So, the student found himself enlisted for some manual labor. We had already covered the house with panels, but now it was time to apply plaster. That's exactly what we set out to do.
At first, for reasons unknown, Peter flinched at every sound I made and turned pale at every glance I threw his way. But gradually, he began to find his rhythm and settled into the work. Sharon had left for her job early in the morning and wouldn't be back until evening, which meant we were on our own for lunch. As a considerate host, I extended an invitation to Peter, but for some reason, he declined flatly. His expression was so anxious that I chose not to press the issue. If he didn't want to eat, that was on him.
Feeling too lazy to prepare anything elaborate, I quickly chopped up a salad, warmed the leftovers from last night's roast, and boiled some pasta. It was a hasty meal, devoid of any culinary creativity. As I gazed into the pot in the fridge, a humorous thought crossed my mind. While Peter was hiding from me, dragging out his lunch break, I dashed to the store and returned home with an electric shawarma grill. I opted for the smallest model—I had no plans to open a restaurant. I was merely curious to see how it worked.
I found Peter two hours later on the roof, choking down a rather stale sandwich and washing it down with cola. I didn't mention the unhealthiness of his meal—after all, he was a super-strong mutate. Maybe he had an ironclad stomach? Who could say? Regardless, work pressed on.
Life gradually fell back into its routine. I made daily trips to the Dungeon, checking on the safety of my stash, sorting through items, and storing them in specially designated boxes. I also inspected the condition of the iron walls, brainstorming ways to run wires along them and where to install lanterns once the funds became available. I ensured that any rat remains I hadn't collected the first time around had been completely devoured by something or someone.
So, my days consisted of: exercise, breakfast, work, lunch, work, evening training, and then dinner. Sharon hadn't returned yet. Peter had grown pale and withdrawn but continued to fulfill his responsibilities. Meanwhile, the meat aged in the refrigerator, waiting for the perfect moment.
By Thursday afternoon, we finally wrapped up our tasks. Peter exhaled deeply, relief washing over him before he darted off somewhere. I received a call from the Licensing Department of the Police Department, informing me that my application had been approved. I barely had the strength to feel happy about it; I was more stunned by the news.
The entirety of Friday was spent filling out paperwork and obtaining the necessary permit. Afterward, I finally made my way to the store and purchased a fully licensed hunting rifle along with a box of cartridges.
Friday evening was a festive occasion for me. I was celebrating my recent purchase: a Remington 700 BDL in .30-06 Springfield. What a piece of equipment! For those who prefer metric measurements, that's equivalent to 7.62 cartridges, featuring an array of bullet modifications in terms of weight and performance. It fits in my hands like it was made for me. I invited Matt Murdoch to share in my excitement, but he politely declined. To say he was surprised I was allowed to own a weapon would be an understatement. He hurriedly excused himself and ended the conversation.
I couldn't find Peter; he wasn't at the apartment, and the thought of running around the city trying to catch Spider-Man to drag him to my party seemed a bit ridiculous, don't you think? So, it ended up being a solitary celebration. Well, I was used to that. I went to the store for groceries and picked out a nice bottle of red wine. Once home, I unpacked the grill I had bought, found a spot for it in my kitchen, and plugged it in.
I took a cherished saucepan out of the fridge, loaded the grill with meat from it, set it to cook, and started prepping a salad by shredding cabbage, slicing cucumbers, and dicing tomatoes and herbs, along with grating cheese. Just then, a yellow and black Lamborghini roared up to my building, its engine's growl so distinct that I couldn't help but peek out the window to see who had arrived. To my surprise, it was none other than Tony Stark himself!
This dapper figure in a white suit and sunglasses stepped out of the car, stretched, and walked up to my door, dialing my apartment number on the intercom. How did I know it was mine? I could hear the intercom ringing from the hallway. I shrugged and pressed the button to open the front door, then turned the key to crack open my apartment door before returning to the kitchen. Stark didn't keep me waiting long. I heard the elevator approaching, followed by the sound of the doors opening. Moments later, the illustrious "billionaire philanthropist genius" stood at the threshold of my kitchen.
"Not a bad rifle," he commented, nodding at the Remington lying on the dining table instead of offering a greeting.
"I like it!" I replied, grinning. "Just bought it today, and now I'm celebrating."
"Really?" he raised an eyebrow. "What about the music?"
"Hmm," I pondered for a moment before nodding. "I guess I overlooked that."
"Jarvis," he called into the space. I didn't catch a response, but soon music filled the room from my open laptop connected to the stereo. It was something upbeat yet unobtrusive.
"Much better," I agreed, continuing to grate the cheese. "You know, I was diagnosed with autism when I was a child," Stark said after a brief silence, his gaze lingering on the rifle. "And I still haven't been approved for a weapons permit…"
"Your company manufactures weapons. Stark Industries is the global leader in their production and sales," I pointed out, surprised.
"There are a lot of nuances," he replied with a grimace. "But the fact remains, how did you manage to get a permit?"
"Gratitude from a pretty girl," I shrugged. "And she knows a lot about pleasing a man." Stark regarded the rifle with respect and shook his head slightly.
"And what's that delicious smell?"
"Just inventing some shawarma," I admitted. "Would you care to try it?"
"Shawarma? I respect shawarma," Stark grinned, taking a seat at one of the empty chairs at the dining table. His hands instinctively reached for the rifle, examining it as he pushed back the bolt to check inside.
"Classic? What about modern?" he inquired.
"I'm open to new things, but I don't trust anything that can fail if the battery runs out," I chuckled, slicing off the browned layer of meat, rolling out the lavash on the cutting board, and beginning to layer the ingredients.
"Well, I always have my battery with me," Stark shot back, tapping his chest lightly with his wrist.
"I have five of those in my pocket, but they still need a standard outlet," I shrugged, wrapping the lavash and placing the almost finished shawarma on a hot frying pan, pressing it with another pan on top.
"So that's who dismantled the Hammer drones," Tony grinned, putting the Remington back down. "SHIELD has been bugging me with questions for ages: 'What do you think, Mr. Stark, how dangerous are these generators in the hands of terrorists? Mr. Stark, how quickly could they be converted into explosives? Mr. Stark, if they fell into Russian hands, could that lead to an energy crisis for the world economy…' and about three hundred more questions in the same vein."
"No, I'm not a terrorist. I just want to convert my boiler to electricity, using the generator as a compact power plant," I clarified. "Energy independence from the city grid."
"And what's stopping you?"
"I'm a mutant, you know that, right?"
"Of course. I've done my research," he acknowledged.
"So, I removed the generators while they were operational. They weren't idle either. Now they're in some sort of stasis. I'm worried that when I take them out of stasis, they'll just burn out at best. Do you think that's an unreasonable fear?" he asked, opting for a straightforward consultation with the most competent person he knew—his creator.
"Hmmm… that makes sense," Stark mused, rubbing his chin. "But Hammer was so unsure of himself that he copied my technology entirely, and I've implemented safeguards against overloads. My life depends on the reliability of this battery."
"Do you really have shrapnel near your heart?" I asked, setting two fully cooked shawarmas on a plate.
Attention! Cooking +1
Attention! Alchemy +1
The skill "Alchemical Cooking" has been acquired.
Attention! Alchemical Cooking +1
The notifications were sudden—so much so that I momentarily lost track of our conversation and focused on examining the food using "Observation."
Attention! Observation +1
Alchemical Rat Shawarma. +100% to the speed of recovery of "Explosive" and "Potential" Energy for 24 hours. Tonic effect. Effects of multiple intakes do not stack.
Now that was quite an experiment! What can I say? "Give me two!!"
"I'm alive," I said, raising my bewildered gaze from the plate to Stark.
"Well, not exactly shrapnel," he clarified, "but small fragments of the metal casing of a mine are near my heart itself." He sighed, simplifying his earlier statement to accommodate my confusion.
Due to my mental lapse, I hadn't fully processed his explanation, so without thinking, I stepped toward him, circled the table, and placed my hand on his chest. Then I poured the seven fragments onto the table in front of him. Stark jerked back, clearly startled, pressing his hands against his chest as though bracing for an impending catastrophe.
A second passed, then another. Nothing happened. His expression shifted from shock to confusion, then to concern. "What was that just now?" he asked, suspicion creeping into his tone.
"Well, you mentioned fragments near your heart, so I took them out. Shouldn't I have?" I replied, still caught up in my shawarma thoughts. My expression must have been utterly dull at that moment—as if I'd used my unique ability.
"Did you just take them out?" His suspicion deepened.
"Yeah, just like I did with the generators from the drones. I'm a mutant."
"The best surgeons on the planet refused to perform such an operation—luminaries of medical science!"
"Well, they were luminaries. For intelligent people, something is always 'difficult' and 'impossible,'" I shrugged, slowly returning to reality.
"And you?"
"I'm a fool."
"Well, that's an argument," Tony replied sarcastically, settling back into his chair. Clearly, he thought it was a ridiculous joke. I couldn't blame him; after all, everyone knew about those fragments. It didn't seem too challenging to gather a few pieces of metal and display them dramatically on the table, right?
"Shall we try this 'invention' of yours?" he chuckled, reaching for the roll of lavash on the table.
"Agreed," I replied, grabbing my portion.
Wow, even my first-level Culinary skills were something! I had never encountered such an explosion of flavor. The Alchemical effectiveness of the dish was confirmed by the stats reflecting a significant boost in the regeneration of my Energy scales and an overall sense of vitality.
"Whoa!" Stark exclaimed, experiencing the first bite. "Shawarma with cocaine?! You're an inventive person! I was skeptical about your 'inventing' skills!"
I simply shrugged and took another bite, closing my eyes to savor the sensations. Stark seemed to be doing the same; the only sound was the rhythm of our chewing.
After about ten minutes of enjoying the flavor in silence, Stark finally broke the quiet. "Do you sell it to go?" he asked, licking his fingers.
"No," I replied, mirroring his actions.
"Too bad," he lamented, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "You should consider it."
"I don't sell it; I can give it to you. To go," I added, finishing my task of licking my fingers clean. "Go ahead," Tony nodded, a playful grin on his face. "Another one?" he inquired.
"I second that. What's it made of? Well, besides the Cociane?"
"Cabbage, tomatoes, cucumbers, cheese, sauce, and marinated rat meat," I replied with a smirk.
"Ratburger?" Tony chuckled, clearly amused. "I've seen that movie too."
"You could call it that…" I mused, the thought making me smile. With a spark of inspiration, he grabbed another frying pan, poured in some oil, and placed it on the burner. He retrieved a couple more pieces of meat from the pot, slicing them thinly before tossing them into the sizzling pan. Next, he rummaged through the bread bin, pulling out some buns and slicing them lengthwise. He took some fresh lettuce from the refrigerator, peeled and chopped an onion into rings, and sliced a tomato.
Once the meat was perfectly cooked, he artfully assembled the ingredients into a classic fast-food style sandwich, creating a delightful presentation. "This is 'Ratburger,'" he declared, placing it alongside my creation. "And that one is 'Classic Station Shawarma.' Please do not confuse them!"
As he spoke, the names of the dishes registered in my mind through my "Observation" skill.
/* Attention! Alchemical Cooking +1 */
The System chimed in, recognizing my culinary achievements.
"'Ratburger'? Sounds delicious!" Tony exclaimed, picking up the burger with a flourish. Quoting John Spartan, he took a hearty bite, his eyes lighting up with delight.
"Tony, you're a genius, aren't you?" After the third glass of wine (one bottle wasn't enough; I had to call the nearest liquor store for a delivery), we were slightly languid and comfortably well-fed, half-reclining in our armchairs in the living room, watching videos on the laptop. I decided to ask.
"Genius," Stark replied without any hint of modesty.
"Do you understand metals?"
"Not in a professional sense, but I know a thing or two," he nodded, taking another sip of wine.
"What the hell is this? Can you tell?" I pulled a piece of something from my Inventory, round and heavy, about the size of a ping-pong ball, and tossed it to him. Stark caught it effortlessly.
"It seems heavy, but it doesn't look like lead," he remarked.
I pulled this 'pebble' from a rat's stomach. In fact, I found similar ones in the stomachs of nearly all the monsters I've killed, with only minor differences in size, shape, and occasionally quantity. The largest had as many as four.
Observation' defined them simply as 'Metal Nugget.' It didn't provide any characteristics, and I'm not very knowledgeable about geology, so I just kept them, hoping to figure them out later. I could use them to make buckshot for a shotgun if their melting point isn't too high.
"Of course it doesn't look like it," Stark chuckled, examining my find. "It's palladium, after all."
"What?!" I exclaimed, setting my glass down in surprise.
"More accurately, it's some kind of compound of platinum group metals, likely mixed with palladium, rhodium… maybe even a bit of ruthenium. There are almost no impurities. It's strange."
"Palladium? So this thing is radioactive?" I couldn't help but ask, my earlier calmness slipping away.
"What makes you think palladium is radioactive?" Stark looked at me as if I were misinformed.
"Well, you had to invent a new element for your reactor…" I almost blurted out, "Palladium near the heart means death." It was already evident, but I could never have heard that phrase from the film in any way, as it was stated in private, not public.
"I'm surprised by your knowledge… and your misconceptions," Stark sighed. "By the way, jewelry is made from palladium. Could that happen if it were radioactive?"
"But how then…?"
"Only some isotopes of palladium are radioactive. None of those exist in nature. Of all the isotopes, only Palladium 107 and Palladium 103 are relatively stable. Plus, the half-life of the 103 doesn't exceed seventeen days."
"And the 107?"
"The 107 has a half-life of six and a half million years," he chuckled.
"Which one was in your reactor?"
"The 107."
"And how long does it last? How often do you have to replace it?"
"Are you asking for practical reasons?" Stark grinned. I shrugged, conceding his point.
"It depends on the load on the reactor."
"A boiler for a four-story apartment building. It would be nice to have some left over for lighting, too."
"It can power the entire area for five years on one element," I whistled. "Then how 'gluttonous' is your suit?"
"I don't skimp on weapons or security at all," he shrugged. "So where did you find that nugget?"
"From a rat's stomach," I chuckled.
"In the rat that made the Ratburger?" he grinned skeptically.
"Something like that," I replied, not bothering to change his mind. "A valuable thing, you say?"
"I wouldn't say it's very valuable," he pondered, examining the nugget. "The metal isn't pure, and its exact content still needs to be determined. There's about a hundred and fifty to two hundred grams here… Well, somewhere between one thousand and three thousand dollars, depending on purity and proportions of the metals it contains."
"Will you take it for five hundred?" I decided to negotiate.
"What do you mean 'for five hundred'?" Stark frowned. "Do you have more?"
"I do," I nodded, pulling out a couple more pieces and tossing them in my palm. "There are a lot of rats in the basement."
"And are all the nuggets the same?"
"I don't know," I shrugged carelessly. "They look the same. But I'm no expert. I was actually thinking of chopping them up into buckshot for cartridges."
"From palladium? Buckshot?" Stark stared at me incredulously.
"I'm a fool, I can do it," I replied, raising my glass again.
"Okay, let's move on. So how many of these do you have?"
I checked my inventory and answered, "Eighty-seven pieces."
For the first time, I saw Stark's eyes widen in disbelief. Perhaps I was the only one who had ever witnessed that reaction. "Sixteen kilograms of palladium alloy in nuggets?! Are you kidding?"
"I don't know if it's palladium or not, but they're heavy," I said, standing up and heading to the kitchen. I rummaged through the cupboards and found a sugar bag. It used to hold ten kilograms, but now only two cups of sugar remained. So I boldly poured it into a double plastic bag and filled the bag with the stones from my Inventory.
I returned to the living room and handed it to Stark. "Sixteen kilograms of palladium in a sugar bag," I said, watching his reaction.
He accepted the bag with feigned calmness, weighing it in his hand. "Well, why not? After the shawarma with cocaine, I'm not even surprised." I was using whatever I had at hand.
"Well, I'm not arguing," he replied in a tone that suggested he was ready to proceed with caution. "But, Tom, business is business—money only after verification and chemical analysis. Trust is trust, but here, maybe half of it is just ordinary cobblestones."
"Money is temporary; the main thing is respect and trust," I shrugged. Stark lowered his glasses and looked me in the eye, and I wondered what he hoped to find there.
"Without trust and respect, no amount of money will save you."
Stark shuddered and quickly looked away, adjusting his collar as if it had suddenly become too tight. He cleared his throat and replaced his glasses before downing the rest of the wine in his glass in one gulp. Then he rose from his chair.
"Okay, Tom, you're doing great, but unfortunately, business can't wait. Your shawarma is superb," he said, shaking my hand before hurrying toward the exit.
"Wait," I said, pausing before the handshake. Stark froze.
"Wait a minute."
"I'm standing here, I'm just thinking," he replied.
"Thinking about what?" he added quietly, with a sigh when I released him and disappeared into the kitchen.
In theory, I shouldn't have heard him since Stark spoke quietly, but "Enhanced Hearing" allowed me to pick it up. A minute later, I returned with a bag in hand. Inside were five servings of "Classic Station Shawarma" and two "Krysburgers."
"You forgot," I said.
"Thank you," he replied graciously. "And this… I actually came to say thank you for looking after Pepper at the Expo." He straightened up, becoming serious, and looked me straight in the face as he said this. And no System notifications popped up.
It would have been wrong to make excuses in this situation, so I simply nodded seriously in response. Then I shook his hand firmly, like a man, and nodded again. After that, the billionaire, clutching a bag of shawarma in one hand and a sack of sugar in the other, with greasy fingerprints staining his white jacket near the chest, left my apartment. I sat there for another half hour, sipping wine and staring at the girls in bikinis dancing wildly to the music while managing to sing along with something displayed on my laptop screen.
Eventually, I got up, printed out sheets of paper with targets, changed clothes, and grabbed a Remington from the kitchen before heading to the basement and the entrance to the Dungeon. I must have looked quite the sight: a hefty guy in combat boots, camouflage pants, an OZK raincoat belted with a sword belt, a carbine slung over my shoulder, and a miner's helmet with a headlamp slowly descending the stairs towards the basement, sipping wine from the bottle clutched in my free hand from time to time.
It's no surprise that Peter, just opening the door to his apartment, freaked out when he saw me. I think the key might have bent in the keyhole. I even made a note in my journal about this time: it was habitually dark, like a staging flashlight. I found the battery I needed in the right place, the left one stood where it should, and the traces of the local fauna's aggression did not please the left wall, prompting me to retreat a hundred meters from the exit.
After completing these preparations, I returned to the exit, lay down on a tourist mat I had brought specifically for this purpose, assumed the general military position for prone shooting, and placed my left hand with the carbine on a rest I fashioned from a stone I liked. Carefully aiming under the lower edge of the sighting target, I fired four shots. Standing up, I approached the wall to count the holes and calculate the STP...
Bringing a weapon to its normal combat readiness, or "sighting in" as it's colloquially known, is an exciting endeavor. It's a bit addictive, actually. You constantly feel the urge to "tweak it a little more to ensure it lands in the top ten," while your eyes blur and your accuracy diminishes with each round. And I still needed to sight in the "emka." Why, you ask? After all, I'd already fired it, and it seemed to have gone well.
The choice of fifty meters as my target distance from the wall to the turn where the rats were supposed to appear was no accident. At fifty meters, the splashes of hits are visible, allowing you to shoot without even using the rifle's sights, adjusting your fire based on these splashes. What can I say about a shotgun at point-blank range? But at a hundred meters, such a trick won't work. Here, even in the field during the day, hits aren't visible. You can only rely on the sight. And at greater distances, confidence in your weapon becomes even more critical. Shooting at such distances starts to feel more like solving mathematical problems, where constants are known for each range and specific type of weapon, but only if the sight is verified. If that condition isn't met, hitting a target with such a weapon at distances beyond two hundred meters becomes a matter of luck.
The only time you might get lucky is if the bullets go into the ground, allowing splashes to be noticed even at four hundred meters. You can make adjustments, but that requires significant experience and a keen eye. So, at fifty meters, you can shoot without much aiming — and it shows. Closer in, there's the risk of ricochets; after all, we're not in an open field, but in a stone tunnel. For any other business, you need to have confidence in your weapon.
Why hadn't I sighted in the "emka" before "hunting rats"? And where would I do that? In the city? Outside? The weapon is "criminal" — just one witness, and I'm done for. So I had to improvise. But now I have my personal shooting range, where I can shoot any "emka," even an ATGM or a tank if I really wanted to (well, I might have gotten carried away about the ATGM — I haven't mastered launching missiles in a cave just yet).
It's amusing. The system responded to my actions by increasing my Shooting skill by four points and granted me an active skill with the intriguing name "Pseudocollimator." I tested this skill right then and there, and I have to say — it was nothing short of DELIGHTFUL! When activated with a firearm in hand, a red dot with a green crosshair appears before my eyes, indicating where the bullet will REALLY fly. Just like in computer shooters! The difference is that this dot is tied to the direction of the gun barrel, not the center of the screen.
If I point the rifle forward and look back, I won't see the dot. If I look forward while aiming the gun at my feet, the dot is at the very edge of my field of vision, bouncing off the stones on the floor where the barrel points. And the distance doesn't matter... A sniper's dream, I tell you!
I was so ecstatic, so carried away, that I fired off round after round from my new carbine, completely losing track of time and caution. So when I went to change the target again and encountered the eyes of a giant snake blocking my path to the Dungeon's exit, I was initially more surprised than scared.
Caught off guard, I fell into a stupor for a couple of seconds. But then I sprang into action: I switched out the carbine for an "emka" and began firing short bursts directly at the snake's head, calm and precise. However, the bullets simply bounced off the creature's skin, which shone in the light of the headlights like dark metal. They didn't seem to inflict any harm; the snake just twitched in pain, visibly angered...
"This is the end," I thought calmly, almost detached, as the snake lunged at me with its mouth wide open. I didn't have time to shoot into its maw — the magazine had just run dry. But oddly enough, I felt no fear, no emotion at all. My brain operated like a computer. Or perhaps it didn't function at all, since it was difficult to call the raw rat meat I pulled from my Inventory and threw into the snake's mouth a reasonable choice in such a dire moment.
I barely had time for anything else before the snake collided with me, wrapping its coils around me. "Damn! I'd rip your heart out, but I can't reach it…" flashed through my mind as my ribs began to crack under the pressure. I ignored the panicked messages from the System indicating the damage I was taking. That thought seemed reasonable, so I commanded, "Place the snake's heart in the Inventory." And it appeared there!
The snake thrashed in pain — once, twice, three times, then less vigorously, until it went completely still. I received a message announcing an unimaginable amount of experience earned, followed by a "Level Up." Then, another "Level Up." Later, I reviewed the message log and realized with dread that I had narrowly escaped death once again, with only a meager two hit points remaining. The "Superstitious" achievement reached a new level, becoming simply "13," because this marked the thirteenth time I had descended into the damn Dungeon.