"Everyone, come get your paper and pen!"
"Don't let anyone slip through—otherwise we can't guarantee your safety!"
"For the sake of your own lives, just be obedient and do as you're told…"
The hall, already cramped, was now packed wall to wall with people.
Uniformed staff hurried back and forth, distributing pens and sheets of paper, barking orders every so often, the entire place alive with restless energy.
Dozens of figures sat crowded together in the center of the hall. There were no chairs—everyone had to sit on the floor. Men and women of all ages, dressed in mismatched clothing: some in summer wear, some bundled in heavy winter coats. Counting heads, there must have been several dozen at least.
It was the end of January, midwinter.
Those dressed in thin summer clothes shivered violently in the cold, but dared not voice a single complaint. They meekly accepted the paper and pen handed to them, filling out the forms with their personal details.
Along the edges of the hall stood several fully armed soldiers. They lingered in the corners like statues, assault rifles cradled in their hands, their presence radiating the hard-edged menace of veterans who had truly seen battle. They looked as if they would kill without hesitation. Their aura alone was enough to crush anyone's courage.
And in fact, just moments ago someone had caused a disturbance here—and one soldier shot him dead on the spot. The corpse had only just been dragged out. A slick pool of fresh blood still stained the floorboards.
The lesson was clear. These people would kill.
The refugees sitting cross-legged on the floor quickly abandoned any thought of rebellion.
They began to understand—their lives meant nothing in the eyes of these men. Human life here was worth less than dust. The only way to cling to survival was to follow orders without question.
"Damn it… what kind of world have we been thrown into?"
Someone in the crowd muttered through clenched teeth, a low growl of rage and despair.
Most of them felt the same. Some cursed the fickleness of fate, others raged at whatever unknown god had thrown them into this nightmare. A few stayed silent, though their faces were pale and taut, eyes clouded with the same panic and uncertainty about what lay ahead.
"Mr. Chancheng, the identity forms are all collected."
After some time, the staff returned, handing over a thick stack of documents to the hall's overseer—a middle-aged man named Chancheng.
Chancheng accepted the bundle, gave it a cursory glance, then strode toward the assembled refugees.
"Let me first welcome you—though only barely. All of you, listen well: no matter where you came from, no matter how much wealth or power you once held… that's all in the past. Now, you are refugees. Without the protection of this city, Fuyuki, you'd be nothing more than prey for the beasts, demons, and cursed spirits roaming outside these walls!"
"I'm sure you've already witnessed such things on your way here."
Faces across the crowd tightened in response.
When they had first gathered out in the wilderness, they had numbered well over a hundred. But along the road to Fuyuki, they suffered an attack that shattered their very concept of reality.
Huge beasts, unlike anything they had ever seen, descended upon them. Creatures built solely for slaughter, impervious even to firearms. A dozen refugees were devoured alive before their eyes.
They had endured that horror for what felt like an eternity, until the roar of artillery finally drove the monsters back. What remained was a field littered with severed limbs and broken corpses—and terror that cut to the bone.
Some of them had witnessed it directly. Even recalling the sight now made their stomachs churn. That single encounter had destroyed decades of their worldviews in an instant.
Chancheng, noting how meekly they listened, nodded in satisfaction.
"But you don't need to worry. At least within Fuyuki, you're safe. You can live as you once did. But don't ever forget—you are refugees. It is we who give you a place to survive. Without us, your lives wouldn't even be guaranteed. What you've already received is more than enough. So don't be ungrateful. Don't act rashly, recklessly, or without reason—or you'll bear the consequences yourselves."
His words, part warning, part threat, fell heavy in the silence.
No one dared protest. Even those simmering with resentment swallowed it down under the weight of the soldiers' silent menace.
The routine lecture complete, Chancheng curled his lip and lowered his gaze to the documents in his hands.
The forms listed not only names and basic details, but also skills, former occupations, and personal strengths.
Chancheng's attention lingered on those last entries.
Students. Convenience store clerks. Novelists…
The more he read, the deeper his frown became.
One form even listed "gaming" as a skill—specifically galgames.
Chancheng's eyebrow twitched in irritation. The world was in ruins. What they needed were engineers, doctors, specialists. What use was being good at video games—especially dating sims?!
By the time he finished the stack, he hadn't found a single valuable talent.
Massaging his temple, he clicked his tongue in frustration.
"Forget it. I shouldn't expect much from refugees anyway. In short—you have two choices. First, you can work as miners or farm laborers. You'll receive three meals a day, but no wages. After serving a set number of years, you'll be granted citizenship. Second option—you may become attendants…"
"Oh? That works out nicely."
A voice suddenly cut in from outside the hall.
A figure strode through the doorway—a young man of twenty-four or twenty-five, skin bronze, hair golden, with the sharp features of Middle Eastern descent. Handsome, medium build, his confidence was apparent in every step.
"Who's in charge here? I'll be taking two attendants with me."
His tone was calm, unhurried, yet carried an undeniable authority—as if his words allowed no objection.
His eyes swept over the crowd, cold and calculating, not looking at humans but at merchandise to be appraised.
Chancheng's gaze immediately dropped to the nameplate pinned to the man's vest. Black vest, etched with the characters "First Rank."
At once, his face grew solemn. He straightened and bowed deeply, like a soldier saluting a superior officer.
"My lord, you are indeed entitled to choose two attendants this month. This batch of refugees has just completed registration. Please—select as you wish."
"Mm."
The man gave a short reply, then let his gaze wander among the refugees.
A moment later, his eyes fixed on two figures.
"Well now, I didn't expect such fine stock in this lot. That woman there, and that man beside her—I'll take them both."
He snapped his fingers with a smirk, pointing lazily at his chosen pair.
Chancheng followed his direction.
The man was burly, broad-shouldered, eyes dark and dangerous. Clearly not someone to cross.
The girl, in stark contrast, was about sixteen or seventeen, wearing a Japanese high school uniform. Long black hair spilled down her back, a white headband resting against her brow. At that moment she sat clutching her skirt hem, trying to shrink into invisibility.
Dust smeared her face, her gaze cast downward. Her beauty was muted, concealed—but her mature curves drew attention nonetheless. Her black stockings were torn in several places, exposing smooth, pale thighs that gleamed against the harsh light. Several men nearby couldn't keep their eyes from lingering on her.
"I understand. I'll process the paperwork immediately."
Chancheng nodded slightly and opened the file in his hands.
"Pardon me—could you let me have that girl instead?"
Another voice broke in.
A new figure entered the hall, smiling as he smoothly inserted himself into the exchange.