I stored everything in the **system inventory** with a single thought. The system window flickered briefly before confirming:
> [All items successfully stored.]
I let out a small sigh of relief. At least I didn't have to carry all that stuff around like some RPG pack mule. As the adrenaline started to wear off, I finally noticed how disgusting I felt. Sweat, dirt, and a generous splash of blood clung to me like a second skin. I needed to wash up—badly.
"System, status?" I asked, just to double-check something that had been nagging at me.
> [Time in the real world: 2 seconds elapsed. Real-world age remains unaffected, regardless of time spent in the dungeon.]
"Nice." I chuckled, the tension in my chest easing. "So even if I pull a Rip Van Winkle in here, I won't pop out looking like a prune. Good to know."
I made my way to the small bathroom area that somehow existed in this place. A mystery for another time, maybe. Right now, I needed to stop smelling like death warmed over.
The water was cold at first, but I didn't care. The grime and blood swirled down the drain, leaving me feeling lighter. My thoughts drifted as I scrubbed. Time manipulation, endless opportunities to train, and this inventory space—this system was insane. It wasn't just a survival tool; it was a game-changer.
But why me? That thought lingered like an itch I couldn't quite scratch. Why give me this kind of power? What's the catch?
I leaned against the sink after drying off, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. "Doesn't matter," I muttered to myself, gripping the edges. "One step at a time. Survive, get stronger, and figure out what the hell this system wants."
My reflection didn't answer.
................................................................
"Hand me the onions, will you?" my mother asked, her voice calm but firm as always.
"Got it," I replied, passing her the bowl of chopped onions I'd prepped earlier. She didn't even look up, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she tossed them into the sizzling pan.
The aroma of spices filled the small kitchen, comforting yet overwhelming in the confined space. I stirred the pot at her direction, my thoughts wandering despite the rhythmic clatter of utensils.
I couldn't stop thinking about the system. Sure, it was a lifeline, but it came with its own set of problems.
*How am I supposed to figure out what's going on with these dungeons and towers?* The world was no technological marvel. We barely had radios, for crying out loud. No internet, no TV, not even telephones in most homes. Just the crackling voice of a broadcaster delivering news in slow, deliberate tones.
"If you keep stirring like that, you'll turn the curry into a paste," my mother chided, pulling me back to the present.
"Sorry," I said, tightening my grip on the ladle.
I couldn't exactly Google *"weird glowing tower spawning monsters"* or check a forum to compare notes. Information moved slowly here, like a river winding lazily through the countryside. If I wanted answers, I'd have to find them myself—dig through whatever scraps of knowledge I could gather from books, people, or maybe even the system itself.
But where would I even start?
The thought made me clench my jaw. The towers had shown up like uninvited guests, upending everything without explanation. Everyone was still reeling, unsure if this was some divine punishment or just the end of days as we knew it.
"Are you going to stand there daydreaming, or are you going to hand me the salt?" my mother asked, raising an eyebrow.
I reached for the salt jar and handed it over, forcing a small smile. "Sorry, Ma. Got distracted."
"You're always distracted these days," she said, shaking her head. "Focus on what's in front of you."
I nodded but couldn't take her advice to heart. My mind was already running ahead, trying to figure out how I'd gather intel. People were scared. Rumours and superstition were bound to muddy the truth. But somewhere out there, someone had to know more. Maybe someone who'd been inside a tower—or survived a dungeon.
"Done," she announced, pulling me from my thoughts as she turned off the stove. "Set the table."
"On it."
I moved to the dining area, my brain still churning. No technology meant I'd have to rely on word of mouth, observation, and my wits. It wouldn't be easy.
But then again, nothing worth doing ever was.
Just as I finished setting the table, the door creaked open, and my father walked in. His face looked as tired as ever, lines deepening near his eyes, but there was something different today—something restless in the way he shrugged off his coat and hat.
"Long day?" I asked casually, though my curiosity piqued when I noticed his furrowed brow.
He didn't answer immediately, heading straight to the sink to wash his hands. Only after splashing water on his face and wiping it with a towel did he finally speak.
"I heard something in town today," he began, his voice low, as if he didn't want the walls to hear. "About the shelter."
I froze for a moment, spoon in hand. "The shelter?"
"Yeah," he said, glancing at me and then at my mother, who had just come into the room carrying a pot of curry. "They're saying it might not hold."
Ma's hand faltered for a split second, the pot tilting dangerously before she steadied it. "Not hold?" she echoed, her voice sharp.
My father sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "There's talk that the people running it underestimated how many would come. It's overcrowded, resources are stretched thin. And then there's the monsters…" His voice trailed off.
The air in the room grew heavy. Ma said nothing, but the way she pressed her lips together spoke volumes.
"Did they… did they say anything else?" I asked carefully, setting down the spoon before my hand could start trembling.
He nodded, but his expression darkened. "They're saying the towers are getting worse. More creatures spilling out. People are terrified—packing up what they can and running. But where to? That's the question."
Silence settled over us, broken only by the faint hum of the kitchen radio in the background.
*The shelter's failing?* That was supposed to be the fallback plan, the last bastion of hope for the people around here. If it couldn't hold, then what?
"We'll manage," my mother said suddenly, her voice firm in a way that brokered no argument. She placed the curry on the table and gestured for us to sit. "We always do."
I didn't feel as certain, but I nodded, taking my seat across from my father. The system's words echoed in my mind: *"Time flows differently in dungeons. What you learn there can change everything."*
If what Pa said was true, the towers and dungeons weren't just a threat—they were the only way to survive.
But I'd have to tread carefully. No one could know about the system or what I could do. Not yet. Not until I understood more.
As we began eating, my father shared bits and pieces of what he'd heard: how the shelter's gates were nearly crushed by the crowd yesterday, how some townspeople had seen strange lights above the towers at night. Every word felt like a puzzle piece I had to fit together.
One thing was clear. The world was changing faster than any of us could keep up with. And if I wanted to stay ahead of it, I'd need to start moving soon.
As my father continued speaking, I found myself tuning out, my mind drifting to the bigger picture. The towers had flipped our world upside down, as if some cosmic prankster had rolled dice and decided we were the unlucky ones.
Before the towers appeared, life was... predictable. Cyclical, even. Farmers tilled fields, traders bartered goods, and the radio spouted government-approved news about droughts, taxes, and the occasional village festival. Simple. Manageable.
Now? The world was a chessboard, and the towers were the invisible hand flipping pieces everywhere. From what I'd pieced together through overheard conversations and stray radio broadcasts, the towers weren't just local phenomena—they were global. Every continent had them. Every country was struggling. Some places, like ours, had no technology beyond radios. Others, supposedly, had flying machines and long-distance communication, but even they were in chaos.
I'd always been curious about how things worked, and even as a kid, I had a knack for seeing patterns where others didn't. Ma called it "overthinking," but I knew better. It wasn't overthinking if it got results.
And right now, the pattern was clear: the towers weren't random.
Every story I'd heard pointed to the same conclusion. The creatures spilling out weren't wandering—they stayed close to the towers. The treasure hunters who ventured inside and lived to tell the tale spoke of impossible treasures and strange, otherworldly knowledge. Yet no one understood what the towers *were*.
A punishment? A test? A gift?
Whatever they were, they'd thrown humanity into disarray. Entire cities had reportedly fallen within days. Some governments collapsed under the weight of panic. Even here, far from the so-called "civilized" world, the towers loomed like silent sentinels, daring anyone to approach.
And then there were the adventurers.
People like me.
When the towers appeared, some began awakening strange abilities. Farmers who could suddenly lift ten times their weight. Healers who could mend wounds with a touch. Fighters who moved like lightning. They called it "traits," and though rare, the stories were spreading.
My father had dismissed the tales as exaggerations, but I'd listened carefully. *Too many details match up,* I'd thought. And now, with the system in my head, I knew they were true.
The real question was why.
Why now? Why us? And why was I chosen for this system?
The system felt almost surgical in its precision—logical and methodical. It called the towers "dungeons" and described the creatures as challenges to be overcome. Not exactly comforting, but it hinted at a purpose behind the chaos.
And then there was the time dilation.
Time in dungeons moved slower than in the real world. I could spend years inside one and emerge just seconds later. It was both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it gave me an edge—an unlimited supply of training and preparation time. On the other, it meant the rest of the world would change while I was gone. I couldn't afford to ignore that.
I glanced at my father, who was still talking about the shelter's overcrowding, his voice laced with frustration. He didn't know it yet, but the shelters weren't the solution. Not long-term.
The towers were.
If humanity were going to survive this mess, it would be through the knowledge, resources, and power locked inside those towers. And while most people saw them as death traps, I saw something else.
Opportunity.
My system inventory was proof. The broken sword, the battered shield, and the strange golden coin—all of it had appeared because I was willing to take a risk. If I could figure out how to use these tools, I might be able to carve out more than just survival. I might be able to *thrive.*
But first, I needed information.
Without modern technology, the radio was our only link to the outside world. I'd need to be resourceful, ask questions, and keep my ears open. If there were others like me—other adventurers—I had to find them. Learn from them.
For now, though, I kept my thoughts to myself. Ma and Pa didn't need to know what was brewing in my head. Not yet.
"Hey," my father said, breaking me out of my thoughts. "You listening?"
I nodded, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. The shelter's packed, the towers are in trouble, and the monsters aren't going anywhere. Got it."
He frowned but didn't press.
I picked up my plate and headed to the sink, all the while replaying everything he'd said. Every piece of news, every rumour, every hint—it all fit together like cogs in a machine. The towers weren't just a curse; they were a catalyst.
And if I played this right, they'd be the key to something greater.