Every game has its own set of rules.

As a game designer, Zi-Cheng’s most fundamental training wasn’t about creating rules but finding loopholes within the existing ones. Yet, this very training had been causing him nothing but pain and anguish for the past two weeks.

“Ahhhh –– hot, hot, hot ––– abort, abort!”

Zi-Cheng yelped in pain, plunging his face into the river to soothe the burning sensation in his right eye. While his head throbbed and his nerves screamed, the backlash from [Developer Mode] didn’t deter him from experimenting. If anything, it only deepened his curiosity about this strange skill and its potential loopholes.

(Well, to be fair, what else can you do when you’re butt-naked in the middle of nowhere?)

Hoping to scavenge some suitable clothing from the trash piles left by the “Hyakki Yagyō” fireflies, Zi-Cheng set up camp near the riverbank. However, the wait stretched into days, much longer than he had initially expected. In the end, seven days passed before the next “Hyakki Yagyō” finally occurred, reminding him of the garbage collection schedules back in his own world.

(Thank goodness there wasn’t a statutory holiday this week...)

During the day, Zi-Cheng hid in the shade of the trees to avoid sunburn, foraging wild berries to stave off hunger. When night fell and the air grew colder, he used leaves processed with [Developer Mode] to craft a makeshift blanket, just sturdy enough to keep him warm as he curled up in the bushes.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get by.

By the seventeenth day, his efforts finally bore fruit. After painstaking work, he managed to assemble the basic tools for wilderness survival: clothing, a tent, a backpack, and even rudimentary tools to start a fire—all fashioned from scraps and improvised with the resourcefulness honed by playing survival sandbox games. While he couldn’t exactly build a house out of raw materials like a Minecraft player, for the first time since arriving in this world, Zi-Cheng graduated from running around naked like a caveman to a proper homeless person living in a tent.

“Taking it easy today, huh, Hana? Just chilling, sipping water, and soaking up the sun all day long.” Zi-Cheng stepped into his tent, toweling himself off as the little white flower in its vase seemed to bask cheerfully in the sunlight streaming through the opening.

Though he had resolved most of the issues with shelter and clothing, the two weeks of surviving in the wilderness had been far harsher than he had ever imagined. If not for Hana’s silent companionship, it would have been unthinkable to endure the danger and solitude for this long.

“Seventeen days, and I’ve already eaten all the berries around here,” Zi-Cheng sighed, flopping onto his makeshift bedding. “What now? Am I supposed to chase after those mushroom monsters or switch to eating slimes? Is this really what it’s come to, Hana?”

The little white flower gleamed quietly in response.

As a flower that had once been abandoned, it understood its limits. There wasn’t anything it could do to help, except quietly accompany the one who had saved its life, patiently waiting for him to find a solution on his own — even if that solution led Zi-Cheng to a life of crime as a bread thief.

And so, after days of silent companionship with Hana, hunger and desperation drove Zi-Cheng back to Hazelton. All it took was a single, stolen loaf of bread to spark chaos, sending him racing through the narrow alleys with the town guards hot on his heels.

“Let’s see where you can run—”

Before the guard could finish, Zi-Cheng ducked low and slid between his legs, scrambling further into the twisting maze.

(All those stories about people becoming heroes or sages in another world, and here I am...)

His bitter thoughts were abruptly interrupted as a sharp, metallic stench filled his nose. He turned the corner, and stumbled upon a corpse sprawled across the ground, nearly tripping him over.

Zi-Cheng froze, his breath catching in his throat. The blood-soaked body lay with its lifeless eyes staring skyward, a slashed throat with dark blood still oozing to the ground.

Then he saw it.

A paper crane white as snow rested in the pool of blood, its white bottom stained vivid red.

image [https://i.imgur.com/MG9KNPa.png]

“It’s the Crimson Plume!”

The guard behind him shouted the words in alarm, his tone trembling with fear.

Zi-Cheng’s gaze shot upward and locked with a pair of eyes — cold, sharp, and devoid of emotion. They pierced through the crimson haze of the alleyway, freezing time itself in place.

It was the calmest and deadliest moment of his life.

Then a sharp “shing” sliced through the silence as Crimson Plume’s blade flashed free from its sheath, its deadly arc aimed squarely at Zi-Cheng. In that instant, his chest tightened with bitter regret. He realized he had accomplished nothing before meeting his end.

But he was wrong on two accounts.

First, he misread Crimson Plume’s intent.

Second, he grossly overestimated his worth as a target.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

As a cold rush trailed down the back of his neck, the blade tore past him with blinding speed, hurtling toward the town guard behind him.

(Was that… a battle technique?)

Zi-Cheng turned slowly, his eyes widening as the shattered fragments of the guard’s freshly drawn sword came into view.

The speed, the precision... it was unlike anything he had ever seen. But... didn’t Elena say battle techniques only worked in the arena? That meant the strike had been achieved through nothing but pure swordsmanship!

The masked man had his eyes on the now-defenseless town guard, but he soon noticed Zi-Cheng’s eyes on him. With a slight tilt of his head, he cast a sidelong glance in his direction.

And that single glance sent a chilling jolt through Zi-Cheng’s body.

Behind the mask, the man’s cold eyes held an indifference so profound it was as if nothing in the world, neither people nor events, had any significance on him.

“Why were the guards after you?” Crimson Plume broke the silence, his voice calm and detached.

What a strange question.

If he didn’t care about anything, then why even bother asking?

“This guy’s a bread thief” the guard spat out, clutching his bleeding wrist in pain. “Arresting him is only right –––“

“Only right,” Crimson Plume interrupted with a dry laugh. “Who who decides what’s ‘right’? Who writes those rules?”

The guard froze, clearly unprepared for such a question. The notion of who created the laws he was so zealously enforced had never occurred to him.

“Rules are made by people, and depending on the perspective of those making them, entirely different laws emerge.”

Although Zi-Cheng never studied law, but as a game designer, this was a truth he knew all too well. The rules of a game were defined by the creator, shaped entirely by their perspective and intentions.

“The perspective of the rule-maker, huh?” For the first time, a flicker of interest appeared in Crimson Plume’s gaze. “I never expected a mere bread thief to have such an interesting insight.”

Zi-Cheng quickly noticed his mistake – how could someone struggling just to fill his stomach think of such abstract ideas?

Just as he was about to explain himself, Crimson Plume darted toward him, closing the distance in an instant.

“A reward for your words. Get out of my sight within one minute, and I’ll pay for the bread myself.”

Crimson Plume’s tone was casual, but the weight behind the words was absolute, like a judge delivering an unappealable verdict.

(Wait, what?)

A murderer who had just killed someone and gravely injured a guard was now offering to cover the cost of a stolen loaf of bread, while letting an eyewitness walk away?

“There’s no way this is legit,” Zi-Cheng muttered under his breath, his nerves prickling with unease.

“Fifty-nine... fifty-eight...”

Crimson Plume calmly sheathed his blade, standing motionlessly as he began the countdown.

Zi-Cheng hesitantly took a step forward, only to be pushed firmly back into place by Crimson Plume’s hand. The force was heavy but precise, just enough to stop him in place but not cause any harm.

“Fifty-five... fifty-four... fifty-three...”

“Come on! I still need to get that loaf of bread over there!”

Zi-Cheng exclaimed, throwing a quick glance toward the alley corner as he sidestepped, aiming to slip past towards the exit. But with a flick of his arm, Crimson Plume blocked his path once again, effortlessly shoving him back to where he had stood.

“Forty-two... forty-one...”

The numbers echoed like a drumbeat, each one tightening the knot of tension in Zi-Cheng’s chest.

(This guy’s toying with me. If he wanted me dead, why bother giving me the minute? If he wanted me gone, why does he keep stopping me?)

Zi-Cheng’s mind swirled with questions as he desperately threw out every idea he could think of, but no matter what he tried, nothing worked against the black-clad figure before him.

“Ten…. Nine…”

As the final seconds ticked away, Zi-Cheng was drenched in sweat, every attempt at escaping thwarted. It was like standing before an unyielding wall.

(A… wall….?)

An idea struck him—a final attempt that required precise execution.

“Six… five….”

Zi-Cheng crouched low, pressing both hands against the filthy alley ground.

“[Developer Mode – Construct]!”

The words had barely left his mouth when a dirt wall shot up from the ground, erecting itself between him and Crimson Plume, completely blocking the man’s view.

However, a mere wall was hardly an obstacle for someone like Crimson Plume.

The instant his vision was obscured, Crimson Plume leapt effortlessly, pushing off the alley’s walls with graceful motion, landing atop the newly constructed barrier. His lips curved into a faint smile as he uttered a single word.

“One.”

Perched high above, Crimson Plume’s gaze swept the alley below, every detail laid bare beneath him. Yet, the alley behind the dirt wall was completely empty, not a single soul in sight.

A moment of silence followed, then a flicker of amusement crossed Crimson Plume’s eyes before he burst into laughter, his voice echoing through the narrow passage.

“Well done, kid. A bet’s a bet, I’ll cover the cost of that bread.”

A silver coin dropped with a crisp “ding” at the guard’s feet. By the time the guard looked up, Crimson Plume was already gone, vanished without a trace.

After some time, the dirt wall crumbled away, collapsing into a heap of loose soil. From within, Zi-Cheng slowly emerged, his hair coated with dirt and his face smeared with mud, like a miner crawling out of a cave-in.

(He knew I was in there…)

It wasn’t just luck that saved him, Zi-Cheng knew that much. Crimson Plume had seen through his ruse the moment he noticed the alley behind the wall was empty. But instead of exposing him, the masked killer stood atop the barrier and allowed the final second of his countdown to slip by.

Zi-Cheng shuddered at the realization. If Crimson Plume had chosen to break his own rules, there was no way he’d still be breathing. Worse yet, the humiliated guard would never have left the scene without dragging him into custody for questioning.

(Why…? Why didn’t he say anything?)

Zi-Cheng pondered as he turned toward the corner of the alley. There, lying half-submerged in the muck, was the loaf of bread Crimson Plume had paid for. Technically, the bread was his now, but after everything it had been through, making it edible again would certainly take more than a few simple wipes.

Shaking his head, Zi-Cheng could only hope this wouldn’t turn into another “Debug Failed” disaster.