Cold rain, mixed with the stench of rust and day-old pizza, slammed against Cloud's face.
He felt like he'd just been spat out of a tumble dryer. The back of his skull was having an uncomfortably intimate relationship with Mother Earth, and the pain made him suck air through his teeth.
What the hell?
Just ten minutes ago, he'd been a "theory god, bronze hands" fighting game enthusiast—sitting in his comfy gaming chair, sipping cola, passionately commentating on a classic KOF '97 match.
"See that? That's how you fight Orochi! Raw Sunshine of Radiance? Is this the distortion of human nature or the decay of morality..."
Before he could finish, the screen flashed white, and he graciously lost consciousness.
When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted by a scene straight out of a Hollywood disaster movie opener.
Someone was dragging him like a dead dog into a dark, filthy back alley. In the distance, neon lights bled through the rain in fractured shards, barely illuminating a massive sign at the alley's mouth—"Pao Pao Cafe."
Wait. Pao Pao Cafe?
Cloud's heart sank like a stone. He knew that name all too well. This was one of the landmarks of South Town in the King of Fighters universe—the crime-ridden city ruled with an iron fist by the underworld emperor Geese Howard himself.
"I... transmigrated?" Cloud's mind went blank, immediately flooded by a tidal wave of terror.
Transmigrate to a wuxia world? He could fake being an alchemist with his nine years of public school chemistry. Transmigrate to a fantasy world? Maybe he could get away with a "don't mock the poor youth" speech.
But transmigrating to the King of Fighters world? And starting on Hell Mode difficulty in South Town?!
This place was crawling with fighters. Street brawls were daily entertainment. Disagree with someone? Hadouken to the face. A weakling like him would be a dead man walking—no, he'd be pixel dust after catching a "Power Geyser" from Terry Bogard.
"Hey, kid. Quit playing dead."
A greasy leather boot planted itself squarely in his ribs. The searing pain made him curl up like a shrimp.
A white man built like a refrigerator—easily over two hundred pounds of pure lard and muscle—crouched down. He used the barrel of a revolver to pat Cloud's cheek, dripping with contempt.
The thug chewed his gum and spoke in heavily accented English: "Tell me. What were you doing skulking around Geese Tower? FBI? Or some clueless grunt sent by a rival gang?"
Geese Tower... Great. Confirmed.
A stampede of alpacas thundered through Cloud's mind. This script is all wrong! Where's my system? Where's my starting equipment and girls throwing themselves at me? Why did I get stuck with a fat guy pointing a gun at my head?
"No, no, no..." Cloud stammered, his body trembling as he tried to explain in his barely-passable English. "I'm... a tourist. Yeah, tourist! I just... got lost."
"Tourist?" The thug acted like he'd heard the joke of the century. His rolls of fat jiggled with laughter. "Touring South Town? Kid, are you insulting my intelligence, or are you insulting South Town's crime rate?"
The smile vanished from his face, replaced by something vicious.
The gun barrel—cold and hard—pressed against Cloud's forehead.
"I'm giving you one last chance. Tell me the truth. Otherwise, I'll use this .44 caliber peanut to crack open that pretty skull of yours and let you take a nice long look at whether your brains are as stupid and white as your lies."
The shadow of death wrapped around Cloud like South Town's sewage—cold, viscous, suffocating.
He could feel the chill radiating from the gun barrel. He could smell the cheap cigar smoke clinging to the thug. He could even hear his own pathetic heartbeat pounding out a drum solo.
This is it. I'm done for.
His transmigration adventure was about to end before it even started.
What should the tombstone say?
"Here lies an unlucky bastard who trash-talked a game boss and got forcibly teleported for a one-on-one rematch"?
Just as Cloud was contemplating the aesthetics of his final pose, a string of cold, mechanical tones rang out in his mind like heavenly music.
[Detected: Host exhibits pessimistic survival instinct. This System simply cannot watch any longer...]
[Even facing death—shouldn't you at least struggle?]
[Force-activating...]
[Dimensional Plunder System binding at light speed... 10%... 50%... 100%!]
[Ding! Binding successful! Starter gift pack has been delivered to your neural pathways. Please check your brain mail!]
Cloud's eyes went wide as saucers.
Yes! Yes! Better late than never! My golden finger!
He was so excited he nearly shouted out loud, but the gun barrel against his forehead reminded him this wasn't quite champagne-popping time yet.
"Who?! Who are you talking to?!" The thug had clearly noticed Cloud's momentary daze. His patience evaporated. His thumb slowly pulled back the hammer with a crisp click.
That was Death's calling card.
[Newbie Quest Issued: Rookie's Last Stand!]
[Objective: Survive the current crisis.]
[Rewards: Source Points x100, Random Draw x1.]
[Quest Tip: Host, stop spacing out! The guy in front of you looks big and tough, but he's actually just a trash-tier minion. Try using this System's core function—'Plunder'—on him. You might be pleasantly surprised. Remember: just think it. Shouting it out loud would be embarrassingly chuuni.]
Plunder?
Now that sounded badass!
No time to think—death was staring him in the face! Cloud locked his gaze onto the thug's greasy mug and screamed internally with every ounce of strength he'd accumulated in his twenty-odd years of life:
"System! Plunder! Strip this fat bastard down to his underwear!"
[Command confirmed! Initiating skill 'Plunder' on target 'Geese Howard's Third-Rate Enforcer (Codename: Fat Ray)'!]
[Plundering... Target's mental resistance too low. Unable to resist...]
[Plunder successful!]
[Congratulations, Host! You have obtained:]
[1. Skill: "Street Fighting (Basic)" — Includes practical techniques such as sucker punches, groin kicks, and throwing sand in eyes.]
[2. Skill: "Revolver Marksmanship (Novice)" — At least guarantees you won't shoot your own foot when pulling the trigger.]
[3. Items: $23 cash, half a pack of Marlboros, and one greasy lighter.]
[4. Special Acquisition: Target Fat Ray's 'combat memories' from the past ten minutes!]
WHOOOM—!
A torrent of chaotic information crashed into Cloud's brain like a dam breaking.