In this world, wizards are far from the downtrodden figures portrayed back on Earth. They are the shadows lurking in the corners of a society suffocated by industry, thriving amidst the swirling black smoke of diesel fumes.
High above, a celestial body named "Blood Moon" drifts in the distant sky. On the first Sunday of each month, it shines down on those who pray, awakening latent powers within them and transforming them into beings known as "Wizards" monsters that transcend human limitations.
---
A gruesome scene unfolded: blood and brain matter mixed together, oozing out in a chilling display. Just then, the voice of the system echoed in Ivan's mind, slicing through the chaos.
A Wandering Spirit Loses Its Home
[It has been attracted by you]
[You have obtained a new recipe: Blazing Rooster Blood]
[Your rating has been improved!]
[Philosopher: 3D]
[Recipe illustration: 5]
[Refining Level: 3]
[Space: 7/10]
[Not yet developed...]
Ivan stood up, a mixture of relief and anxiety flooding him. "So, my rating has bumped up to 3D, and I've gained an extra space," he murmured, contemplating the implications.
In this world, wizards are ranked from A to E, with each rank subdivided into five levels based on strength. Climbing the ranks requires one thing: the death of other wizards or monsters. For those below level D, defeating a rival of the same level boosts their rating.
An enhanced rating doesn't just signify strength; it grants wizards unique abilities, what they call [Witchcraft]. Ivan's awakened trait, a Delusion-type called [Philosopher], allowed him not only to gain slight physical enhancements but also to increase his space and unlock new recipes with each upgrade.
He deftly stashed the bone spike back into his space and pressed down on Melor's body. The instant their skin met, Melor's form vanished, as if folded away into a virtual realm.
[Collected: Corpses of low-level beast wizards]
[Current space: 8/10]
Leaving a body behind would draw too much attention, but a disappearance? That would slip through the cracks unnoticed for a while. All that remained was a pool of dark red blood, which Ivan quickly obscured with a pile of dirt, erasing the final traces of Melor's presence. Tomorrow morning, when the foreman noticed the unprocessed gypsum powder, he might briefly wonder about Wang's absence.
Hands shoved deep in his pockets, Ivan strolled across the construction site with an air of nonchalance, returning his safety helmet before departing as if nothing had transpired.
---
The following morning at six o'clock, Ivan wished he could sleep in just a bit longer. But a series of sharp, aggressive knocks on his door shattered the peace, heralding the end of his tranquil morning.
"Really? I haven't had a decent night's sleep since I got here," he grumbled, reluctantly rising from his bed.
"I should have known better than to mess with that pendant."
His small rental house, reeking of mold, felt stifling. The only light crept in through the cracked iron door, and the air was stale, barely circulating thanks to a feeble exhaust fan.
Two years had passed since Ivan arrived, struggling for two months to adapt to life devoid of electricity, internet, running water, and especially, money. Now, he shared his nest with bedbugs and lice without so much as a flinch.
"Hey! You deadbeat! You owe me half a month's rent!" The landlord's voice thundered through the door, his fury palpable. "If you don't pay up, I'll—"
Ivan opened the door slowly, interrupting the landlord's tirade. The man stumbled forward, nearly colliding with him.
"Planning to kick me out, huh? No need to worry about it. I'm moving out today," Ivan replied, a mix of defiance and resignation in his voice.
The landlord blinked, momentarily stunned by Ivan's unexpected response. He had anticipated a desperate plea for more time, not an admission of intent to leave.
"Wait, so you're really just going to skip out on paying?" The landlord's eyes narrowed. "What am I supposed to do? Beat you up to collect the rent?"
He scrutinized Ivan, taking in his tall, well-proportioned frame, black hair, and light blue eyes, the quintessential look of a Russian. Stories ran rampant about Russian men's fearless fighting style.
Swallowing nervously, the landlord asked, "So, are you going to pay up or what?"
Ivan sighed, spreading his hands in resignation. "The foreman hasn't paid me in two months. All I have left is one dollar."
"Then give it to me! And you need to move out today, not tomorrow!" The landlord lunged forward, snatching the crumpled bill from Ivan's hand, his face contorted in anger. He stormed off, muttering harsh words under his breath.
Ivan watched him go, running a hand through his tousled hair. With a heavy heart, he turned back to begin packing.
To be honest, there wasn't much to gather. He tossed a few clothes into an old suitcase, while the rest of his possessions were stashed away in his space.
His mind activated the system, pulling up a list of his stored items.
[Space materials: old wallet, silver table knife, metal lighter, old pocket watch, alchemical matrix x4, whisperer bone cone, exorcism spray]
Ivan wasn't sure if he was some kind of "system player." After all, the so-called "system" in his mind had only three functions: refining items, obtaining formulas, and storing items; essentially three forms of sorcery.
His storage space had opened up when his rating reached D level. It had limited slots, each capable of holding only one type of item, although similar items could be stacked. Each slot could hold up to 200 kilograms, enough weight for a small pig. He chuckled to himself, envisioning a future where he might smuggle zombie meat.
Picking up his battered suitcase, which was rumored to be made of cowhide, Ivan smoothed down his hair, turned the key hidden in a flowerpot by the door, and stepped out of the place he had called home for too long.
After a short walk down Zoet Street, he turned into a small old Italian restaurant on the corner. A rusted black iron sign hung precariously above the entrance, creaking in the wind like a ghostly reminder of despair. If not for the locals' love for cheap and plentiful food, this place would have gone under long ago.
"Freddy's Pasta" read the sign, Ivan pushed open the grimy door, ignoring the unsanitary conditions as he pulled up a stool and plopped down.
"Freddy! One plate of red souce pasta, heavy on the meatballs, please!"
Freddy, sporting a greasy white hat, emerged from the kitchen. His eyes lit up when he recognized Ivan. "Hey, Ivan! What brings you in so early? Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
"Not anymore. Something happened yesterday," Ivan replied, a heavy tone lacing his words.
Freddy's smile faltered, concern etching his features. "Did the gang come after you?"
"Yeah, they sent Melor after me, and he got the job done." Ivan's voice dropped, the weight of his words hanging in the air. The unspoken truth lingered: he was still alive, a stark reminder of the brutal world he inhabited.
In the world of wizards, competition meant life or death. They treated each other as threats, often banding together into gangs to carve out their territories. Newly awakened wizards were sometimes "raised" in these groups, only to be hunted down later to bolster the gang's ratings.
This grim reality loomed over their society, a dark undercurrent beneath the industrial age's superficial progress. For seven thousand years since the starlight of Blood Moon first shone upon this land, this brutal existence had persisted; an age-old struggle marked by the shadows of power and survival.
This was the world of wizards.