While an ordinary person might hesitate to pick up the wallet of suspected organ traffickers, Asmon felt no pang of guilt as he helped himself to the cash. He snatched up all the watches and jewelry hanging from them without a second thought.
As he searched for anything else of value, his hand brushed against something hard in the older man's pocket. "What's this?" he asked quietly. He pulled it out—a metallic object resembling a fountain pen. The moment he pressed its center button, a low whirring sound emanated as if a tiny engine were starting inside. Faint magical light seeped through circuit-like engravings on its surface. It was no ordinary item.
"This is an illegally modified laser cutter from Dyke Industries—a beast that can slice through sheet metal. Hit someone with it, and they'll be cut to ribbons…" Asmon mused.
'Hmm… Could thugs in this world really be carrying such weapons?' Asmon considered, 'If slicing is the aim, wouldn't magic be more convenient?' After a brief thought, he decided to stow the pen-like cutter in his pocket. With only five rounds left in his pistol, having extra means of self-defense was always welcome. Having gathered everything he could, Asmon rose and surveyed the man who still stirred. Out of all the incidents on the street, he had chosen the simplest, cleanest score—and now, eliminating any witnesses seemed the proper course of action. "Will knocking him out make him forget everything?" Asmon muttered. He let blue sparks of current flow from his hand, and the trembling man convulsed even more violently.
"P-please, I'll never tell anyone!" the man stammered.
"Words mean nothing," Asmon replied coldly.
The man's face turned pale with terror as he pleaded, "I—I have something you want…?"
"I haven't been in this city long," Asmon said with a sly grin. "I'm looking for a job."
***
Watching the huddled man scurry away into a nearby alley, Asmon grimaced in fatigue. He had briefly considered silencing the man permanently—but despite his growing coldness, he wasn't so ruthless as to murder an innocent. When he had killed the supervisors who abused the factory workers, he felt no hesitation—but this was different. He even kept their business cards, in case any trouble arose later. Even if the awakened thugs' wrath soared sky-high, that wasn't his problem to deal with.
Stepping out of the dank alley, Asmon pulled out the stolen cash and counted it. "…Not bad," he murmured. The two men had combined to have about 700,000 credits, which now lay in his hands. With that sum—even after miscellaneous expenses—he could probably afford four days in a hotel. It was a pretty good haul for robbing a couple of street thugs. Clutching the money, Asmon immediately left the red-light district and stopped at a nearby clothing store to buy a new outfit. His old clothes were too ill-fitting and only drew unwanted attention. A modest shirt and a pair of jeans—nothing that would make him stand out.
Returning to Zone 49, Asmon strolled the streets until he found a dilapidated pharmacy with a barely hanging sign. As the door creaked open, a feeble, slumped pharmacist peered up. "I need a sleeping pill. How much for a week's supply?" Asmon asked.
The pharmacist replied slowly, "150,000 credits."
The price far exceeded Asmon's expectations, and his brow furrowed in dismay. Nonetheless, he handed over the money without protest and received seven packets of pills. They were essential if he was to finally put an end to the insomnia that had tormented him. Asmon remembered all too well the torture of sleepless nights at the factory—and vowed never to endure that agony again. He knew that forcing himself to sleep by smoking was a fool's errand—it would only worsen the side effects. Though he had repeatedly doped himself, overtaxing his already fragile body was something he had to avoid. Once he secured the funds and a proper way to sleep, a glimmer of hope returned.
Asmon left Zone 49 immediately and made his way to the heart of downtown. After asking directions from passersby, he eventually arrived at a massive library on the edge of the entertainment district—a 10-story building dedicated to books and data. Having managed to shake off the lingering scent of cigarette smoke, Asmon settled himself inside. The first thing he needed wasn't information about this world, but knowledge about magic. "The most important thing is to maximize my magical ability. Everything else can wait," he declared softly.
Since awakening in this harsh world, many events had unfolded, yet Asmon never forgot the penalties he had crammed into his character using the Karma System—especially the dreadful "shortened lifespan" trait that consumed his life in exchange for raw talent. 'In hindsight,' he mused, 'it was odd that such a penalty even existed.'
If someone could see the absurdity of sacrificing lifespan for power, perhaps things would have turned out differently. But now it was too late for regrets. In the end, that trait had crystallized his single objective: survival. He had to find a way to extend his flickering, candlelight-like life. And the answer, he believed, lay in one of his innate talents. "Magic related to time… maybe among the highest tiers of inherent magic there's a method," he whispered to himself.
Back when he played as a magical gunman, Asmon had yearned to master the unique magic—Sinister—that his class's restrictions had kept him from learning. Now, he knew just how powerful his magic could be, and he had a rough idea of the process needed to harness it properly. Fortunately, the entire eighth floor of the library was devoted to magical subjects, with countless books and datasets neatly arranged.
Asmon grabbed every introductory book he could find and began devouring its contents. "How to sense magical energy, the principles of storing it within your body, the dangers of losing control, the fifteen prerequisites for casting a spell…" he read aloud, his voice barely above a whisper as he flipped rapidly through pages. To someone who had awakened his power and started casting spells in just three days, these details were trivial. He boldly skipped through the basics.
After flipping through dozens—even hundreds—of pages, the rustle of paper echoing softly in the quiet reading room, he reached the final chapter of one book. "Magical Patterns. I recall this concept…" he murmured.
It was a notion that even while playing as a magical gunman, he'd known but never truly considered. Now, focusing intently, Asmon read the passage: Once a mage awakens to magical energy, a distinct magical pattern is generated—a kind of unchangeable fingerprint. "However, mages above level 8 can refine their magical energy down to the particle level, making the pattern irrelevant… But what does level 8 even mean?" he wondered aloud.