Zi-Cheng clutched his stomach as he staggered out of the Gourmet District, his steps weak and his thoughts in turmoil.
(Why?)
He had been so careful. So cautious.
He avoided trouble wherever he could, staying out of people's way. And yet, just like in his old world, the person he trusted the most had betrayed him. The man who once lent him a hand had thrown him away like trash, selling him out without a second thought.
(Is this what they mean when they say “history always repeats itself”?)
Where had he gone wrong?
"Stop whining and think about what you did wrong first!"
His father’s voice sliced through his thoughts, sharp and unrelenting.
The old man never cared to hear the whole story, never bothered to figure out what had really happened. To him, Zi-Cheng was always at fault—his mistakes, his weakness, his failure to measure up.
The older generation clung to their so-called virtues of self-restraint and introspection, calling them wisdom. To them, if trouble came knocking, it had to be their own fault. And if it wasn’t? Then they were just unlucky. Better to endure than fight back.
(That era is long gone!)
To Zi-Cheng, their “wisdom” was nothing more than the outdated nonsense of a bygone age.
(Did I deserve this? Did I do something to wrong them?)
"You always think you’re right, don’t you? That’s your biggest problem!"
The memory of his father’s cutting words twisted in his mind. Zi-Cheng let out a bitter laugh, his chest tightening with frustration.
Right. That was it. That was always the refrain.
Growing up under his father’s relentless, harsh criticism, Zi-Cheng had learned to suppress his emotions. No matter how betrayed, humiliated, or angry he felt, it was like a rope around his neck, tightening until he couldn’t breathe.
Bang!
His fist slammed into a dirt wall by the roadside. His knuckles split, and bright red blood trickled down his fingers.
Even on his deathbed, Zi-Cheng’s father had never once offered him a single word of understanding.
"You chose your own path. If you fall, don’t cry and complain about it."
Those were his final words — parting wisdom, or perhaps just a cruel taunt?
Zi-Cheng would never know the answer.
The only thing he did know was that no matter which world he lived in, his own or this unfamiliar one, those words would haunt him, trailing behind him like a shadow he could never escape.
Desperate to avoid further humiliation, Zi-Cheng kept his head low and hurried away from the crowd. Only when the lights and noise faded into the distance, and he was sure there wasn’t another soul around, did his legs give out. He slumped to the ground, his body wracked with pain and exhaustion.
As he leaned back against a hard surface, something tumbled to the ground with a hollow thud.
A wooden sign lay on the muddy cobblestones beside him.
“Three copper coins for one apple.”
The words weren’t exactly “apple,” but somehow, Zi-Cheng understood their meaning instinctively.
(The market…?)
Turning his head, he peered into the shadows. The lively marketplace from earlier in the day was unrecognizable under the veil of night. The bustling stalls now stood silent and deserted, their skeletal frames casting weak, uneven shadows beneath the dim streetlights. Discarded wooden planks and crumpled boxes littered the ground, mingling with the faint, sour scent of rotting produce.
Squinting, he let his eyes adjust to the dark. That’s when he spotted them—a few fat rats darting in and out of a nearby basket. Hunger gnawed at him, curiosity pulling him closer.
He crawled over and peeked inside.
Abandoned apples.
Bruised and battered, they were rejects—unsellable and forgotten. But despite their sorry state, they were still edible.
Guuu...
His stomach betrayed him with a loud growl. Embarrassed, Zi-Cheng slapped his belly with a scowl. “Seriously? Can’t you at least pretend to have some dignity?”
The memory of his last days at the game studio came rushing back. Even on the verge of bankruptcy, he’d never been reduced to this—digging through garbage for food.
Yet, his stomach had no shame. It grumbled again, louder this time, a relentless cry that refused to be silenced.
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Defeated by hunger and his pride in tatters, Zi-Cheng held back tears as he reached into the basket and pulled out an apple. Without even looking at it, he sank his teeth into the fruit.
“Ugh... So sour––!!”
The sharp tang twisted his face into a grimace. There was no way anyone could eat this thing without toning down its acidity and making it even slightly palatable.
If he had any other option, he would’ve abandoned it right there. But penniless and starving, he didn’t have much choice. Forcing himself to swallow the sour bite, he suddenly noticed a faint flicker of light glowing in his palm. The light seeped into the apple before disappearing entirely.
Unaware of what had just happened, his stomach demanded another bite. Zi-Cheng took a deep breath, braced himself for the unbearable tang, and bit down again.
But this time, the awful taste was gone. The second bite was crisp and refreshing, bursting with sweetness that almost seemed unreal.
Startled, Zi-Cheng hesitated before taking a third bite, then a fourth. The delicious flavor remained consistent, and the bruised, battered fruit in his hand had somehow transformed into a beautiful, rosy apple that emitted a fragrant, sweet aroma.
(What... What just happened?)
Still stunned, Zi-Cheng quickly grabbed another damaged apple from the basket and bit into it. The overwhelming sourness hit his taste buds like a wave of punishment, just like his first bite had.
(How did one of these rotten apples suddenly turn into something so fresh and perfect?)
A thought struck him like lightning.
At the Sanctuary, he had been granted two skills completely unrelated to combat. One of them, called [Developer Mode], included an ability known as [Remake].
In the realm of game development, a “remake” referred to taking an older game or program and completely rewriting and improving it from the ground up.
Focusing his thoughts on improving the apple, a soft blue shimmer flickered in Zi-Cheng’s palm, casting a gentle light onto the basket before him.
“[Developer Mode – Remake]!”
The entire basket began to emit a cool radiance, the damaged and decayed apples transforming before his eyes. The bruises faded, their surfaces smoothing out, and the faint scent of rot was replaced by a crisp, sweet fragrance that wafted through the air.
Zi-Cheng froze, staring at the now-perfect apples with wide eyes. What he had assumed to be a useless skill, fit only for manual labor, turned out to be one of the game development functions he was most familiar with.
(Was this... specifically designed for me?)
An unsettling feeling crept into Zi-Cheng’s mind.
Whoever orchestrated the Invocation ritual clearly had knowledge of game development, granting him a skill that shouldn’t exist in this world.
Perhaps this was somehow connected to the cryptic instructions from the person on the phone. But with his memory still fragmented, Zi-Cheng felt as though he were groping blindly in the dark, no closer to solving the puzzle.
He stared at the apple in his hand, its bright red skin glistening under the dim light. [Developer Mode] might not be a combat skill, but it was undeniably the key to surviving in this world. Yet, to wield such power and understand its limits, he needed a place far away from watchful eyes.
He needed to get away from here.
(Should I leave Hazelton?)
The thought sent a chill down his spine. Venturing beyond the city walls meant facing monsters and untold dangers, but staying here without stepping into the arena or earning a place within the city’s rigid system?
If survival meant gambling with the wilds, then there wasn’t much of a choice.
"You chose your own path. If you fall, don’t cry and complain about it."
Zi-Cheng’s lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. He never thought his father’s final words would become the push he needed at a time like this.
“Fine, then. Watch me choose, old man,” he muttered, his voice steady with newfound resolve.
With his hunger finally sated, Zi-Cheng stood to leave the market. But just as he turned, beams of light, flickering and sharp, appeared at the market’s entrance, piercing through the dim shadows.
Were those the town guards? Or his pursuers? His instincts screamed at him as he ducked behind a nearby stall, pressing himself against its rough wood. The ache from Karl’s earlier blows still throbbed in his body, but he also noticed something strange—his limbs felt lighter, his movements less stiff.
(Did those apples… heal me?)
The idea seemed absurd at first, but the minor recovery he experienced was undeniable. It wasn’t a coincidence or wishful thinking—it was exactly the kind of phenomenon one would expect to find in a video game. Once again, this world revealed itself as a place where reality and game-like mechanics intertwined in ways he still didn’t fully understand.
But there was no time to dwell on the apples’ strange effects as a faint hum drew his attention, the lights creeping closer.
The sound was soft, like the fluttering of insect wings. Zi-Cheng peeked out cautiously and caught sight of what appeared to be fireflies. Their glowing bodies shone like miniature lanterns, casting beams of light onto discarded baskets and crates.
One by one, the fireflies hovered over a basket before him. As their light flickered and faded, the basket was left empty, its contents seemingly whisked away.
(They’re... picking up the trash?)
Fascinated, Zi-Cheng edged out from his hiding spot, watching as the fireflies drifted through the air. They weren’t pests but caretakers, tidying the remnants of the market with an almost otherworldly grace.
Driven by curiosity, his gaze followed the luminous trail the fireflies left in their wake. Cautiously stepping out of the market, Zi-Cheng stopped short as the world outside unfolded before him.
The empty streets of Hazelton were bathed in an ethereal glow. Countless specks of light floated above the cobblestone streets. It was as if the stars themselves had descended, cascading like rivers to sweep through the city.
image [https://i.imgur.com/w4bSTcg.png]
Zi-Cheng stood frozen, entranced by the spectacle. In these quiet hours before dawn, with most of Hazelton asleep, the city had transformed into something out of a dream. The fireflies glided in waves through every street and alley, their soft glow brushing over houses, stalls, and trash bins alike.
“Hyakki Yagyō…” he murmured, his breath hitching as he took everything in.
The dazzling scene before his eyes stirred a memory of Japanese folklore: Hyakki Yagyō, or the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons. In the tales, anyone who stumbled upon the parade would be spirited away—but for an outcast like him, would that really be so bad?
A faint smile tugged at his lips as Zi-Cheng walked among the shimmering lights, their glow reflecting in his eyes. For the first time since arriving in this strange new world, he felt no fear, no worry about being an intruder or a target of unfamiliar faces. The mistrust, the betrayal, the pain—all faded into the background. Here, amidst the quiet beauty of the fireflies’ procession, he felt something he hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever: peace.
As the warm, luminous light swirled around him, a childlike curiosity rekindled within. The wonder of this strange world, its beauty so captivating, washed over him in flickering celestial glow. Little did it matter where the lights would take him, as long as they continued leading the way.