"Storage"
"Point Shop"
She focused her thoughts on the point shop. A silver-white, ghostly list unfurled before her, and several new items appeared.
Her gaze skimmed past the clothing in front—then snapped to one particular entry.
It worked…
"[.450 Revolver (battle-worn)]"
"Fate Points: 1"
So few?
Shaer blinked, not quite believing what she was seeing.
The school uniform and diploma had each cost 1 Fate Point—daylight robbery, considering they were ordinary items.
But a revolver for only 1 point? That was hard to accept.
If 1 point for a dress was a ripoff, then 1 point for a gun was—by any sensible measure—far more valuable.
Still, given the system's attitude so far, there had to be a catch.
"How many rounds are left in the gun?" she asked warily.
"Five-round cylinder; three bullets remain."
"If you want to buy ammunition, it's 1 Fate Point per round. Thank you for your patronage."
I'd have to be crazy to buy from you.
Clearly, the system's value scale differed wildly from that of ordinary people. Whether clothes, a gun, or a single bullet—in the system's eyes, they were all the same.
Only by encountering more items could she better judge the system's pricing logic.
Even with just three rounds left, Shaer chose to purchase the revolver.
For now, only this gun could give her a greater sense of safety. Even if Fate Points had other critical uses, she had to buy the weapon first.
"Purchase."
Her Fate Points dropped from 14 to 13. When she exited the shop, a golden dot glowed at the corner of the "Storage" tab.
Opening Storage, she found the four slots no longer empty; the first now held the revolver's icon.
With a thought, she opened her hand. White motes gathered, and a black, old-style revolver solidified in her grip.
It had some heft; the grip was anything but ergonomic. Several scratches marred the frame, and even the trigger was a touch loose—but it was well maintained, the metal faintly gleaming.
It looked like something from the 18—somethings—matching the era she believed she was in.
She had once assumed she lived in a parallel London. Now, that felt untenable.
A gang boss had plotted to kill her under the pretext of some inexplicable "ritual."
Add in what Mira's letter implied—that the gang had cozied up to a church "believer" and obtained something from him—plus the system's existence itself, and she had to suspect that this world might truly harbor the extraordinary.
Whatever hidden dangers existed, she had to survive the crisis in front of her first.
Shaer returned the gun to Storage and opened "Skills" to view the one she had just received.
Alongside the early "Dexterity Lv.1," a new entry had appeared: "Death Reversal Lv.1."
"Death Reversal Lv.1: When you are about to die, clear all negative statuses and, at the cost of a large amount of mental energy, forcibly maintain a near-death state for a short time. If, after your mental energy is exhausted, you remain near death, you die."
Force a few extra seconds of life…
Shaer studied the skill, her expression a little odd.
In a game, this would be god-tier—an ultimate.
But for her right now, it was borderline useless.
In a simulation, if she died, a few seconds wouldn't change much—at best, they'd let her glean a bit more information.
In reality, if she suffered a mortal wound, a few extra seconds were even less useful. Performing first aid in that time was nearly impossible.
On the bright side, inside simulations she could at least "lock HP" to snatch gear or trade life for vital intel.
If "Dexterity" was a general physical buff, then "Death Reversal" was outright supernatural.
She also noticed a small golden "+" to the right of each skill.
The moment her thoughts brushed the "+," a prompt appeared.
"Spend 10 Fate Points to upgrade [Death Reversal]?"
No.
She refused without hesitation.
She had only 13 Fate Points left—enough for a single simulation. If the next run didn't yield major progress, she'd practically lose the chance to simulate again.
For now, simulations were her only known way to earn Fate Points. Time was too tight to leisurely discover other methods.
Ayan had set his sights on Shaer half a year ago, constantly trying to provoke her and Liqi—like he had a death wish. That no longer looked like coincidence.
In the second simulation, the Blackwater Gang had targeted her instead of killing her sister downtown—unlike the first run.
The only difference was that she had killed Ayan herself.
Was the "ritual" predicated on either her or her sister killing Ayan to begin? Was that why he had worked so hard to enrage them?
What if she and her sister appeared together downtown? At the police station? Even at a noble friend's home? Could the ritual still proceed?
If she could, Shaer would test them one by one.
But with Fate Points dwindling, if the next simulation didn't produce a huge shift and a bigger payout, she wouldn't have enough to continue.
Rather than run and gamble on loopholes in a plan the enemy had prepared for half a year—down to the minute of her death—Shaer favored another option.
One they could never plan for.
Hit back.
She drew a deep breath, summoned the interface, and opened "Simulation."
The "Future" timestamp always shifted. She needed to see if the next run landed on tomorrow, the day after, or even tonight before finalizing her plan.
"Future: 10 h (Saint 741, June 18, 4:45) (Cost: 10 Fate Points)"
"Past: 30 Days (Saint 741, May 16, 7:30) (Cost: 100 Fate Points)"
"Old Days: ***, *** Days (???) (Cost: 10,000 Fate Points)"
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Chapter 6 — Take the Initiative! (Part 1)
Ten hours? As in, ten hours from now?
Shaer opened the system clock. The current time read 18:45—nearly seven.
She had activated the system around 18:30. Only fifteen minutes had passed since then. Discounting time spent fumbling in reality, the elapsed time inside simulations was negligible.
"There's a large time dilation between simulation and reality. You hardly need to worry about long simulations impacting real time ^^"
The interface flickered with an explanation.
Ten hours later… that would be just before five in the morning?
Inside, she would have twenty-four hours to act—plenty.
"System, if I enter a simulation while mentally fatigued, what happens?"
"If the host strongly suggests to herself not to sleep, the simulated host will also be in a state of mental fatigue."
So status carries over…
"And if I don't simulate before that time?"
"If you exceed the 'Future' window (Saint 741, June 18, 4:45) without entering, the 'Future' simulation will reset to a new time."
Shaer nodded. A plan took shape immediately.
She would spend a little time in the relative safety of her room to firm up the plan, then get solid sleep, and enter the simulation before the window opened.
This run was crucial—her longest survival window yet. She had to change the death outcome inside the sim. Even if she couldn't, she needed to make a big enough impact to earn more Fate Points.
She sketched and jotted in her notebook, hypothesizing and discarding based on what she knew, trying to settle on the best approach.
But intel was painfully thin, and she knew next to nothing about combat. For now, she set plans aside, pocketed some coins, went out, and bought a short knife from a street vendor.
On the way back, watching deliberately, she spotted the tall, thin figure in a duckbill cap again—the same tail from the notebook—still tracking her even at night.
Back home, she sharpened the knife. She tried placing it in the system Storage, but failed.
She tried other items; all failed.
So Storage only accepted items purchased from the point shop. A pity.
With all current prep done, Shaer lay down, closed her eyes, and triggered the simulation in her mind.
"The Future."
Silver-white light bloomed in the dark. Her consciousness was drawn into that argent space.
The glittering second hand spun rapidly. When it stopped at a fixed point, the glow peeled away, and sensation of temperature and touch returned.
"Future"
"Saint 741, June 18, 4:45"
"Countdown — 23:59:59"
The silver-white space melted away, leaving only the faint light screen showing the time.
She had arrived at 4:45 a.m. on the 18th—well-rested and sharp.
She didn't light the kerosene lamp. In the dark, she carefully eased out of bed, took the sharpened short knife from under her pillow in a reverse grip, and opened her door.
She cracked Liqi's door, confirmed her sister was still asleep, then closed it and went downstairs.
She wore the gray linen clothes she'd prepared, a shabby gray-black cloak over them, hood up. She lifted the curtain a fraction and watched the street through the gap.
No pedestrians at this hour. Even the cruelest mills had shut down for the night. The street lay in quiet.
Clocktower Lane had no streetlamps burning till dawn. As her eyes adapted to the moonlit dark, she saw a shadow seated against the wall across the way.
Vagrants and orphans were so common here that no one would question a figure sprawled at a lane mouth—but the gray newsboy cap pulled over his face gave him away.
The one sleeping opposite was the man who'd been tailing her.
If she needed intel, he was the easiest mark. Ayan might not know where Blaide Solari was, but this shadow likely would.
Night deepened. Shaer opened the door with knife in hand and padded down the stairs toward the alley.
With [Dexterity Lv.1], even doors and footsteps made almost no sound.
She stopped close enough to hear his faint snoring—and he still didn't stir.
Silver-white motes shimmered. A revolver appeared in Shaer's left hand. Her right hand shot forward, driving the blade into his lower belly.
"Pssht—"
Warm blood splashed across her hand.
"—ngh!"
The man curled around the pain; the cap slipped from his face.
Clutching his stomach, he jerked his gaze up—and saw, by moonlight, the red-haired girl calmly aiming a gun at him.
"Keep it down," Shaer said evenly, holding him at a measured distance.
She didn't know where to stab without killing while still disabling, so she had gone for the soft belly—at least there were fewer immediately fatal organs there.
"Where is Blaide Solari?"
At the name, the man's face twitched, panic and shock flashing in his eyes.
"That 'believer' tricked Blaide. The ritual's fake. Tell me where he is, and I let you live," Shaer stated, voice flat.
It was a bluff woven from the little she knew—and a gamble that the tail knew no more than she did, and valued his life.
Staring at the short knife dripping blood in her right hand and the revolver steady in her left, the man bared his teeth, hesitated, and finally gave up resisting.
(Chapter 6 continues in your source; this is where your excerpt ends.)
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