"Adventurer code name?"
"Mad Sword Princess."
"Gender?"
"Male."
The camp registrar paused for a moment but maintained a professional demeanor. "Please read and confirm adherence to the 430 Adventurer Agreement and Confidentiality Pact. Here's the printed copy—"
"Accepted."
"Present your adventurer badge, please."
Masked and hooded, Ash pulled out a circular badge and swiped it across the verification device. The glass screen lit up green. The registrar nodded, "Registration complete. You may proceed."
Without encountering any obstacles, Ash effortlessly entered Camp 53. The camp's interior was enclosed by rough, towering 30-meter dirt walls. At its center stood a tall observation tower. At the tower's apex swirled a deep blue vortex—the Level 2 Voidstream Passage, Ash's primary objective.
Inside the camp, the vegetation had been entirely cleared. Rows of benches and tables were scattered about, where adventurers gathered to chat, laugh, and swig from their portable bottles. Occasionally, someone would pop a Moon Candy, triggering full-body convulsions—a local favorite combo of booze and narcotics.
Shouts echoed intermittently across the camp:
"Blaze Squad, over here!"
"Hungry Wolves, assemble here!"
"Falgar? Falgar? Is Falgar from Coffin Crew still not here?"
Among the boisterous groups were also solitary figures like Ash—adventurers cloaked and masked, silently observing the chaos around them. This disorderly scene epitomized the blood moon adventurer archetype.
As Ash reviewed what he'd learned about the adventurer system during his preparation, he couldn't help but admire the Blood Moon Nation's masterful methods of resource extraction. Faced with the costs of a traditional conscription-based military in a society touting "freedom" and "racial equality," they had abolished their military altogether 300 years ago, replacing it with the Adventurer System.
This system functioned as a decentralized solution: the battle zones offered missions, adventurers took them on, and the battle zones rewarded them. Adventurers were independent contractors, free to come and go as they pleased, ostensibly capable of filling military roles without the overhead of training, logistics, or pensions.
An adventurer's death? Not the battle zone's problem. Hate the job? Quit. For every disgruntled individual, there were dozens waiting to take their place. The absence of even basic "employee rights" streamlined costs dramatically.
Within the system's first year, it reduced military expenditure by 80%.
Remarkably, this shift had no adverse effects on national security because the Blood Moon Nation didn't face traditional military demands such as rebellion suppression, border defense, or disaster relief.
Rebellion? Impossible due to the universal chip implants and strict social controls.
Natural disasters? Managed preemptively by weather modification technologies.
Border defense? The official stance: "The Blood Moon Sovereign protects us from external threats."
Public safety and crime? Entrusted to the Blood Hunters.
This left the military with two core responsibilities: emergency response and suppressing abyssal threats. Both were tasks adventurers could handle. Transitioning to the Adventurer System didn't improve efficiency, but it didn't diminish it either.
Adventurers comprised a colorful, chaotic mix: noble-hearted warriors seeking to defend the Blood Moon, pragmatic opportunists chasing rewards, and fugitives evading capture by taking refuge in battle zones.
Yes, fugitives. Battle zones accepted criminals. The Blood Hunters wouldn't pursue offenders in these areas. For those guilty of heinous crimes and unable to survive elsewhere, the battle zones became their last refuge.
For instance, the Woodpecker Gang, controlled by Shirin, maintained a splinter group in the Lakeside Battle Zone to shelter members in trouble. If not for his capture, "Goldmouth" Ronald would likely have fled there to become an adventurer himself.
During his time in prison, Ash had asked Igula whether they, as escapees, could make a new life in the battle zones as adventurers. Perhaps they could embark on grand quests, earn merit, and reclaim their names, steering his cult-leader narrative into the fantastical adventure genre it was supposed to be.
But Igula had crushed that dream coldly. "The battle zone doesn't care if you're a murderer or a petty thief, but you need a chip to get in."
Without a chip, fugitives couldn't access the "Safe Rest Zones" within the camps—areas where chip-embedded adventurers were restricted by attack prohibitions. And even if Ash wanted a chip, there was no way to get one. Implantation was a monopoly of the Moonshadow Church. Black markets only offered chip removal, not implantation.
Thus, the Five Jailbreakers were irreversibly severed from society the moment they removed their chips.
Ash had also discovered that adventuring wasn't as romantic as he'd imagined. Battle zones only accepted merit points for transactions. You couldn't live comfortably off wealth alone, as it would quickly make you a target. Eventually, everyone had to take on dangerous missions to earn their keep.
Statistics showed that rookie adventurers had only a 25% survival rate in their first year. While many quit to return to urban life, the stark reality of adventuring was far from the heroic fantasy Ash had envisioned.
The system did, however, introduce one brilliant mechanism: the merit system. All rewards were paid in merit points, which could be exchanged for anything within the battle zones—artifacts, techniques, faction knowledge, you name it.
Crucially, merit wasn't tied to the chip but to the adventurer badge—a non-traceable, non-personalized item.
In other words, whoever held the badge could redeem the merit points. It didn't matter if the badge was earned, found, or stolen.
Upon learning this, Ash fully grasped the Blood Moon Nation's cunning. By making merit badges transferable, they seeded perpetual distrust among adventurers. Large, unified factions couldn't form because betrayal and theft were ever-present threats. The adventurer system was designed to dissuade cooperation at its core.
A nation that banned even family structures certainly wouldn't tolerate a standing military.
As Ash wandered through the camp, he observed various adventurer groups: the "Blazing Squad," "Hungry Wolves," "Gale Brigade." His heart ached with longing. He, too, had once dreamed of a grand fantasy adventure—traveling the unknown with loyal companions, forging epic tales, and retiring at 35 to a peaceful life.
And maybe, just maybe, meeting a stunning lover, a kind wife, a trusted confidante, and a bubbly girlfriend… if they never met each other, even better.
That was what a real fantasy should be.
Instead, his life had devolved into arrest → jailbreak → exile. This wasn't a fantasy; it was a cop drama. He could've experienced the same arc back home by embezzling company funds.
Lost in his brooding, Ash was drawn back by commotion.
A cloaked adventurer claimed his badge had been stolen and accused three passing individuals. The trio denied it vehemently, even offering to be searched.
As the accuser frisked the first, the man raised his hands and slyly tossed the badge to the second, out of the accuser's view.
The surrounding crowd saw it but said nothing, watching with amusement.
The second man repeated the trick, passing the badge to the third. By the time the accuser searched the third man, the badge was back with the first.
The onlookers burst into laughter. These three weren't thieves—they were bullies, using their tricks to humiliate the unlucky lone adventurer.
But just as Ash thought it was another routine display of social cruelty, the three bullies suddenly panicked.
"Where's my badge?! It's gone!"
"Mine's missing too! Damn it, that goblin bastard must've swiped it!"
"Find him! My badge had all my merit points for buying a new artifact!"
The bullies frantically searched, but the cloaked man had vanished into the crowd. Cloaked adventurers were everywhere. They stood no chance of finding him.
Other adventurers jeered loudly:
"Hahaha, serves you right! I saw him snag your badges during the search. Too bad, I didn't feel like saying anything!"
"Go ahead, glare at us. Can't even out-thief a goblin? What a joke."
"We've had our laugh. Now scram, losers!"
The humiliated trio slinked away, their shoulders trembling with suppressed rage.
At that moment, a well-dressed goblin ascended a platform in the center of the camp. His sleek suit, silver-framed glasses, and neatly polished shoes radiated an air of sophistication. Beneath his elegant top hat, his green skin practically glowed.
"Good evening, adventurers," he announced, his voice calm and refined. "I am Kipport Mantras, the secretary for this operation. With only 90 minutes until midnight, the camp is now under lockdown. Prepare for the mission briefing."
"A cushy, risk-free assignment like this? Must be a stepping stone for a goblin politician," a familiar voice muttered nearby.
Ash turned, startled. That sharp political commentary—why did it sound so familiar? He scanned the cloaked adventurers around him but couldn't identify the speaker.