For a full five minutes, Lucas Rowan sat on his floor, sipping his soda and staring at the neat stack of books that was now his loyal slave.
*Scribbles.*
The name had come to him instinctively, and now he couldn't unthink it. The Tome-Hound gave another soft, papery rustle, like it was shuffling its pages in its sleep.
"Alright," Lucas finally said, his voice cutting through the eerie quiet. "This is my life now. I have a pet encyclopedia, the sky is broken, and my front door is an open invitation to every... walking landfill in the city." He glared at the apocalyptic swirl outside his ruined doorway. "This is objectively the worst game expansion ever. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend."
He forced himself to stand, his muscles protesting. The first rush of adrenaline was gone, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness and the sharp, acrid smell of burnt garbage. He needed a plan. A *grind* plan.
**Step One: Secure the Perimeter.**
His [Ambient Meld - Lvl 1] skill itched at the back of his mind—a new, faint instinct. He looked at his toppled bookshelf, the scattered clothes, the general chaos of his living space. *Clutter. Debris. Hiding spots.* The skill seemed to whisper that if he stood very still over by that pile of laundry, something might look right past him.
"Good to know I can impersonate a dirty laundry ghost," he muttered. "But we need something more substantial."
He couldn't fix the door. But he could block it. His eyes scanned the apartment. His solid oak desk. It was heavy, monstrous, and currently held his prized, now-dead gaming rig.
"Sorry, old friend," he said, patting the cold tower case. "Duty calls." With a grunt, he began unplugging everything. It was a ritual of mourning. Each cable he pulled felt like severing a connection to his old life. He pushed the thought aside. Sentimentality got you killed in hardcore mode.
"Scribbles. Assist."
The Tome-Hound perked up, its green eyes glowing brighter. It waddled over and positioned itself against one leg of the desk.
"Push," Lucas commanded.
Together, they shoved. Lucas heaved, his back screaming. Scribbles... vibrated intensely, making a sound like a frantic librarian shushing someone. Slowly, inch by groaning inch, the massive desk scraped across the floor until it sat flush against the ruined doorway, creating a barricade of solid wood and technology.
[Barricade Established.]
[Security Rating: Low.]
[Note: Will not stop anything determined or stronger than a Level 2 [Detritus Lurker].]
"Low security," Lucas read aloud, wiping sweat from his brow. "Fantastic. My life is being rated by a snarky UI." He patted the desk. "But it's better than nothing. And it gives me a firing... or throwing... position."
**Step Two: Resource Inventory.**
This was his specialty. He knew every item in his apartment, every expiry date, every calorie count. He began methodically ransacking his own home, treating it like a starter zone loot cache.
The haul was depressingly familiar:
- **Hydration:** 12 cans of various sodas, 3 liters of questionable tap water in reused bottles, 2 energy drinks (his last sacred reserves).
- **Sustenance:** 7 packs of instant noodles, 3 protein bars, a half-jar of peanut butter, a bag of rice that might have weevils, and a truly frightening collection of condiment packets.
- **Medical:** A half-empty bottle of generic painkillers, some ancient bandaids, and a concerning amount of caffeine pills.
- **Weaponry:** The "Centurion's Resolve" letter opener (now slightly blackened), a heavy flashlight, a can of industrial-strength air duster (flammable, he noted), and a rolling pin he'd never used.
"A week," he concluded, stacking the noodles into a neat pyramid on his kitchen counter. "Maybe ten days if I stretch the rice and learn to love lukewarm tap water. This is not a sustainable endgame economy."
He needed **System Credits**. The 50 he got for binding Scribbles had to be good for something. He focused on the concept of a shop.
A transparent blue interface, different from the alert boxes, shimmered into existence. It was sparse.
[SYSTEM SHOP - TUTORIAL TIER]
[Available Credits: 50]
[Consumables]
- Nutrient Paste Packet (Satiates hunger for 8 hrs): 10 Credits
- Purified Water (1 Liter): 5 Credits
- Basic Healing Salve (Restores 15 HP over 30 sec): 25 Credits
[Weapons] (LOCKED - Requires [Combat] Rank F)
[Armor] (LOCKED - Requires [Survival] Rank F)
[Skills] (LOCKED - Requires Tutorial Completion)
"Ten credits for flavorless goop?" Lucas complained. "And the healing is so expensive! This is worse than microtransactions!" Still, he was tempted. The salve could be a lifesaver. But spending half his credits on one heal felt reckless. The gamer in him screamed to save for a better item that might unlock later.
He closed the shop. He'd hoard for now.
**Step Three: Understand the Asset.**
He turned to Scribbles, who had been shadowing him quietly. "Okay. Show me what you've got. Status."
A smaller, green-tinted window appeared next to the Tome-Hound.
[Thrall: Scribbles - Tome-Hound]
[Level: 1]
[Health: 50/50]
[Loyalty: 100% (Bound)]
[Skills:]
[- [Trash Camouflage (Original)]: Can perfectly mimic inert debris. Effective against low-perception foes.]
[- [Minor Corrosion]: Can secrete a mild acid to degrade simple materials (wood, cheap plastic, weak metal).]
[- [Fetch]: Can retrieve designated small objects.]
"Corrosion, huh?" Lucas's eyes lit up. He pointed to a section of the floor where the door's metal frame had bent inward, leaving a narrow gap under the barricaded desk. "Can you work on that? Make it... I don't know, weaker? More brittle?"
Scribbles waddled over. It leaned against the twisted metal, and a clear, viscous fluid began to seep from its pages, sizzling softly as it touched the steel.
[Thrall Action: Minor Corrosion Active]
[Target Durability decreasing…]
"Perfect!" Lucas said. "You're not just a weird book-dog, you're a portable acid etch!" This changed things. He could use this. Trap-setting. Weakening structural points. The gears in his head, the ones used to theory-craft boss kills, began to turn.
The distant echo of another crash downtown shook him from his thoughts. Followed by a new sound—closer. Not a monster's growl. A human scream. Cut short.
The reality of it, the finality, hit him like a physical blow. This wasn't a game he could pause. People were dying. Right now.
A cold knot tightened in his stomach, different from the fear of the Lurker. This was heavier. He looked at his pathetic pile of supplies, at his weird book-slave, at his barricaded door.
"I can't save anyone," he whispered to the silent apartment. "I can barely save myself." The thought was a relief and a shame all at once. The Lloyd Frontera protocol activated: *Survive first. Moral quandaries later, when you're not about to die.*
A new, soft chime sounded in his mind.
[Tutorial Objective Update:]
[The first night is the most dangerous. Darkness emboldens the integrated fauna.]
[Bonus Objective: Stay alert until sunrise. Additional Credits will be awarded.]
"Great. A night shift," Lucas groaned. He dragged his gaming chair—the one piece of his old life he refused to sacrifice—behind the desk barricade, creating a watch post. He positioned Scribbles by the gap in the metal, a silent, acidic sentry.
He sat down, the letter opener in his lap, the can of flammable air duster at his feet. The last of the daylight was leaching from the strange sky, painting his apartment in deep, ominous purples.
The grind had begun. It wasn't for XP or loot. It was for the sunrise. And as the first, unfamiliar howls echoed in the concrete canyons outside, Lucas Rowan, the Chainlord with one thrall and a skill for hiding near trash, prepared for the longest night of his life.
"Okay, world," he murmured, his eyes fixed on the shadowy gap in his defenses. "Let's see what you've got."