The world returned in pieces.
First, a sterile, clean smell. Not the damp rot of the hunter zone, but the aggressive citrus of industrial disinfectant.
Then, a dull, throbbing ache in his ankle, wrapped in something stiff. Light pressed against his closed eyelids, white and clinical.
Ren Sato opened his eyes.
A ceiling of white acoustic tiles swam into focus. He was in a bed, a thin blanket over his legs. A hospital room. Quiet, except for a steady, electronic beep to his left.
He turned his head. The movement sent a spark of pain through his neck. In chairs by the window sat two people.
A man in a sharply pressed grey suit, his hair salted with grey, was reading something on a tablet, his expression impassive. Beside him, a young woman in a dark hoodie and ripped jeans was slouched, chewing gum with a slow, rhythmic pop. Her eyes were fixed on her phone, her thumbs flying across the screen.
"Yamada-san," the man said without looking up from his tablet. His voice was dry, like pages turning. "Please refrain from chewing gum while on duty."
The lady blew a small bubble and let it pop. "Don't tell me what to do, big old fart." Her voice was clear, dismissive. Her gaze flicked from her phone to the bed. Her chewing stopped.
"He's awake," she said, straightening up.
The man looked up. His eyes were the colour of old pennies. He placed the tablet in his suit jacket, stood, and adjusted his cufflinks. The lady was already on her feet, slipping her phone into her pocket.
They approached the bed. Ren tried to push himself up, his arms trembling.
"Please, remain at ease, Mister Sato," The man said. He stopped at the foot of the bed. "I am Inspector Takao Ito of the National Bureau of Hunters. This is Hunter Mayumi Yoshida. Her rapid response team extracted you from the Shimbashi Labyrinth Zone two days ago."
Two days. Ren's mouth was dry.
Mayumi gave a small, two fingered wave. "Yo."
Takao's lips thinned slightly, but he continued. "The retrieval was successful in your case. The others, including Hunter Watanabe... were not recovered. The zone was later stabilised and cleared. I am sorry for your loss."
The words landed with a physical weight. Watanabe-senpai. Makato. Jiro. Kenta. The whole team. Gone.
The image of the rats, the sound of tearing, flooded back. He felt a heat behind his eyes, a blurring at the edges of his vision. He had not even realised he was crying until a tear traced a hot path down his temple into his hair.
Takao produced a small packet of tissue from his breast pocket. He extended it. Ren took it with a shaking hand, wiped his face roughly.
Those damn mages, he thought, the grief curdling into a hard, sharp anger in his gut. It was most likely a C-tier zone. It wasn't for us. They signed our death warrants.
"The Bureau mandated medical hold is now concluded," Takao said, his voice returning to its official cadence. "All standard fees for containment and lifesaving extraction have been forwarded to the hospital administration for processing. They will discuss the matter with you."
Ren's head snapped up. "I don't have insurance."
Takao nodded once, as if this was the most expected thing in the world. "Then the hospital will invoice you directly. I trust you have funds available."
Ren gritted his teeth. The savings. The rent for next month. His younger brother, Daisuke's tuition installment. The numbers scrolled behind his eyes, subtracting the impossible cost of simply not dying.
He bowed his head, not in thanks, but in defeat. "I understand. Thank you for your intervention."
"It is protocol," Takao said. He turned to leave. "We will be in touch if the investigation requires further statement."
Mayumi didn't follow immediately. She leaned against the doorframe, then seemed to think better of it. She walked back to the bed, her eyes on Ren's face. From the pocket of her hoodie, she drew out a small, rectangular object.
It was a book. The cover was a worn, dark leather, and inscribed on it were intricate, swirling symbols that looked like no language Ren had ever seen.
She held it up, turning it slightly. "Found this in the zone. In your pants pocket, actually. Weird place for a diary. What is this language?"
Ren's heart seized. He kept his face still, the way you did when a knife was pointed at you. "I don't know. Never seen it before."
Mayumi stared at him. Her eyes were a deep brown, and they held no warmth, only a focused, animal curiosity. She stared long enough that Ren had to fight not to look away.
She blinked, then tucked the book back into her pocket. "Okay. I'll be holding onto it for a while. In case it's important."
She gave him one last, unreadable look, then turned and left, the door sighing shut behind her.
Ren sank back into the pillows. He remembered now. A green hand, slipping something into his pocket. He had thought it a dream, a hallucination from blood loss and terror. He clutched the tissue in his fist.
Telling them it came from a talking goblin was not an option. It was the fastest route from a hospital bed to a lab cell.
His phone was on the bedside table. He picked it up. A text from two days ago, from Yumi, his friend who'd landed a clerical job at the NBH.
"Heard about Shimbashi. Holy hell. Picked up Daisuke from daycare. He's with me. Told him you had a late job. Call when you can."
Another from yesterday. "Ren? You okay?"
His throat tightened. He typed a reply, his fingers clumsy. "Thanks. I'm fine. Got admitted to the hospital. Tell Daisuke I'll see him soon." He put the phone down.
As he let his head rest, the world rushed in.
Not metaphorically. It was a sudden, violent onslaught of sensation.
The drip of the faucet in the room's restroom was not a drip, but a loud plink of water hitting the sink, followed by a minute sizzle of evaporation.
The steady beep of the patient monitor was a sharp, electronic pulse that vibrated in his molar. A dog barked from across the street, and he could hear the rustle of its collar, the scrape of its claws on concrete.
And beneath it all, the rhythmic, wet double thump of his own heartbeat, too loud, too close.
A hot, piercing pain stabbed through his temples. He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. It lasted only seconds, a coal of agony that then faded to a dull roar.
As the pain in his temples faded the chaotic symphony of sound seemed to... settle, like a radio tuning to a single, clear station.
Salve!
The word did not come through his ears. It vibrated up from his jawbone, a resonance in the bone itself. Ren's eyes flew open.
There, hanging in the air before him, were lines of glowing, pale green text.
[Hello, Ren Sato.]
He jerked, looking around the empty room. He waved a hand through the text. It didn't dissipate. It remained, persistent as a stain on his vision.
[Rank: E-Tier.]
[Current EXP: 5.5/10.]
A hysterical laugh almost escaped him. It was the same pathetic readout from his Hunter certification test. The official verdict on his uselessness. Even Makato had scored an 8.0.
Before he could process the absurdity, the text shimmered and reconfigured.
[Accept Complete Symbiosis?]
[Y / N]
The door opened. A nurse entered with a small tray bearing a pill cup and a plastic glass of water. "Time for your anti inflammatory, Mister Sato."
Ren stared straight through her, at the floating prompt. She didn't glance at it. She placed the tray on his table. "Will you be staying another night? I need to inform the billing office."
Another night. Another astronomical charge. He shook his head as he swallowed the pills, his voice rough. "No. I'm leaving."
"Very well. You can collect your personal effects and payment card from the reception desk upon discharge." She gave a professional smile and left.
Ren looked back. The prompt still hung there, patient, glowing.
Complete Symbiosis? What did that even mean? The goblin's words echoed in his memory. Te fortiorem faciam. What was it supposed to mean?
He swung his legs out of bed. His ankle protested, but held. He took his phone, and limped out into the hallway. The green text followed him, hovering at the edge of his perception like a persistent afterimage.
The receptionist was polite and efficient. She handed him a plastic bag containing his clothes. They had been cleaned, even pressed. A small, shocking kindness. His bank card was in a sealed envelope.
She tapped her screen. "Your balance has been updated for the services rendered. The total charged to your account is fifty thousand yen."
Ren stood very still. The number did not seem real at first. Then it landed, a sucker punch to the gut. Fifty thousand. It was almost everything. The air in the lobby felt thin.
"How about my hunter discount?," he asked, his voice faint.
"It has been removed, sir. Will there be anything else?"
He shook his head, took the envelope, and walked away on legs that felt like wood.
Outside, he hailed a cab. The text in his vision pulsed softly. In the backseat of the car, watching the city blur past, the exhaustion and anger and sheer absurdity of it all crested within him.
He was an E-rank nobody, broke, scarred, and now haunted by a glowing menu.
"Enough. No," he whispered to the empty air.
The text changed.
[Are you sure?]
[Y / N]
He froze. The question echoed his own doubt. Could he refuse this? What if it was his only way out of the gutter? What if saying no meant losing the chance at a better life?
The cab pulled up to his rundown apartment building. For the first time ever, he overpaid, not caring about the change, and climbed the stairs to his tiny single room.
He unlocked the door, entered the familiar, shabby space, and leaned against the closed door, sliding down to sit on the floor.
The green prompt glowed in the dimness of his own home.
[Accept Complete Symbiosis?]
[Y / N]
There was nothing left to lose. Nothing but the faint, desperate hope that had made him press a cloth to a monster's wound.
"Yes," he said aloud.
The text flashed.
[Symbiosis Protocol: Initiated.]
[Initiating Reverie Integration.]
The world did not fade so much as it was erased. The sight of his scuffed floor, the sound of the neighbour's television, the smell of old takeout, all were wiped away in an instant of profound, silent blackness.
Then, he was standing.
The air was cool and still, smelling of damp stone and cold iron. He was in a vast, circular arena. The walls were seamless, dark stone, rising into shadow.
The floor was hard packed earth. Behind him, arranged in rusting racks, was an arsenal of the cheapest, most pathetic weaponry he had ever seen.
Notched swords. Spears with warped hafts. Chipped axes. The disposable tools of disposable hunters.
"Where the hell am I?" His voice echoed flatly, swallowed by the immense space.
A soft squeak answered him. From the opposite side of the arena, a single dire rat emerged from a shadowy archway. It was the size of a terrier, eyes glowing with pinpricks of yellow light.
Instinct took over. Ren lunged for a spear, his hands closing on the familiar, poorly balanced weight. He hefted it, took two running steps, and hurled it.
The point took the rat in the shoulder. It shrieked, a digital, dissolving sound, and vanished into motes of black dust.
Ren exhaled, trembling.
From the same archway, a dozen more pairs of yellow eyes ignited.
He threw spears until the rack was empty, each throw finding a mark, each kill a burst of dissolving shadow. But they kept coming, flowing into the arena. He grabbed a sword, its edge dull.
The first rat leapt. He sidestepped and hacked, feeling the blade bite into matted fur and bone. It vanished. Another came from the left, claws raking toward his thigh. He pivoted, parried. The sword was slow, the metal gritty.
He was not a warrior like Hiroshi. He was a survivor. He fought with frantic, inefficient motion, backing away, swinging to keep them at bay.
A claw caught his chest, slicing through the fabric of the hospital gown and scoring a line of fire across his skin. He cried out, stumbling.
He ran. There was nowhere to go. The arena walls offered no purchase, no door. He ran in a wide circle, the pack of rats closing, herding him.
One rat, faster than the others, darted in and sank its teeth into the hilt of his sword. There was a sharp crack. The cheap blade snapped halfway down.
Ren stared at the broken weapon in his hand. The rats slowed, forming a tightening circle. Their chittering filled the stone chamber.
He was going to die here.
Focus. The memory surfaced of Hiroshi when they first met. Channel your internal mana. Gather it to a point. It is inefficient. It will drain you. Use it only to survive.
He had almost no mana. A low rank's pathetic trickle. But it was all he had.
He closed his eyes. He tried to block out the sound of the approaching rats. He focused inward, on the cold, empty feeling in his core. He gathered it, picturing it as a single drop, and pushed it down his arm, into the broken stump of the sword.
He opened his eyes. The leaden feeling surged.
With a grunt of effort, he thrust the broken blade forward.
A visible pulse of force, colourless and distorted like heat haze, erupted from the tip. It was not a Hammer Thrust. It was a feeble, desperate shockwave.
It struck the five rats at the front of the pack. They did not rupture. They were shoved violently backward, their forms blurring and dissolving as they collided with the ones behind them. A small clearing opened in the circle.
Ren gasped, his limbs turning to water. The fatigue was instant and total, as if he had just sprinted for miles.
The remaining rats hesitated, then surged forward.
He did it again. And again. Each release was weaker than the last, each wave of fatigue deeper. He fought on will alone, a screaming, wordless refusal in his mind.
Ren moved on instinct, a broken dance of thrust and stumble, until the last rat dissolved into nothingness.
He dropped to his knees, the broken sword slipping from his numb fingers. He was drenched in a cold sweat, his lungs heaving. He wanted to vomit.
A new sound filled the arena.
Slow, wet breathing. Heavy paws on earth.
He looked up.
From the largest archway, it emerged. A giant dire rat, scarred and monstrous, its eyes burning with the same sickly yellow as the ones that had killed Hiroshi.
It was not an illusion. It felt as real, as deadly, as the original.
It charged.
Ren scrambled backward, his body screaming in protest. He grabbed another sword, a slightly longer one. He had no mana left. Nothing.
The beast swiped a claw. The blow caught him across the chest and sent him flying. He hit the stone wall with a crunch that stole his breath and slid down, landing on his back. Pain exploded in his ribs.
The rat advanced, jaws dripping.
Ren pushed himself up, swaying. He ran. He had no plan. He just ran, the giant beast loping after him, its breath hot on his neck. He ran until his legs were numb, until the arena was a blur of stone and shadow.
Something made him stop. A instinct, deeper than thought. As the rat lunged for the final time, Ren didn't dodge. He dropped, sliding on his knees under the swipe, and as the monster's bulk passed over him, he drove the sword upward with all the remaining strength in his body.
The blade punched into the soft flesh under the jaw, piercing up into the skull.
The rat shrieked, a sound that shook the arena. It thrashed, trying to dislodge him.
Ren held on, was lifted off his feet, and stabbed again. And again. A raw, animal frenzy took him. He stabbed until the shrieking stopped, until the thrashing slowed to twitches, until the great body began to dissolve beneath him into streams of shadow and dust.
He collapsed onto the now empty earth, lying on his back, gasping. The silence was absolute.
He had won.
A shaky, disbelieving laugh escaped him. He raised a fist, a silent scream of victory in the void.
Then he looked at his arm.
It was streaked with black, viscous dust from the beast. But beneath the dust, his skin was not right. He rubbed at it. The black smeared, revealing a tint beneath. A greenish hue, like fresh grass.
He sat up, his heart beginning to hammer again. He wiped his hand on his chest, looked down.
His skin, where the hospital gown was torn open, was the same colour. It wasn't a trick of the light. It was a fundamental change in pigment. He ripped the gown open, buttons popping.
His chest, his stomach. All of it. The same unnatural shade.
With trembling fingers, he reached up, touched his ear.
His human ear, with its soft curve, was gone. The cartilage was elongated, tapering to a distinct, sharp point.
He stared at his hand, now back in his field of vision. His green tinged hand, with its blunt, human nails. He brought both hands to his face, felt the structure of his jaw, his nose. Still his. But the skin. The ears.
A low moan escaped him, a sound of pure, undiluted horror.
The stone arena, the weapons, the last motes of black dust, all began to shimmer. The world pulled away, dissolving into streaks of darkness.
The last thing he perceived, before the blackness took him completely, was a final line of green text, crisp and inevitable against the void.
[Symbiosis: 3% Complete.]