The first thing Brandon noticed wasn't pain. It was weight.
Not the crushing kind, not the kind that pressed the breath out of his lungs or pinned him in place. This was different—internal, dense, like his body had been packed tighter than before. Every muscle felt compacted, every joint reinforced. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it wasn't familiar either. He felt… complete, in a way that was hard to describe, as if someone had taken the usual tangle of sinew and bone and pressed it into a more efficient shape.
A low vibration rattled through the concrete floor beneath him. At first, he thought it was in his head, but the subtle hum persisted, almost imperceptible, like the building itself was settling—or breathing. Something small had shifted in the distance. Loose metal on the shelving rattled faintly. Brandon's eyes fluttered open.
Gray daylight filtered weakly from somewhere to his left, drifting through jagged panes of a high window in the outer room beyond. Dust motes swirled in the beams, moving like tiny planets orbiting invisible suns. A faint, acrid odor—rust, old concrete, chemical cleaner long dried—hit his nose. He inhaled slowly, careful.
The room was silent otherwise. No alarms. No distant traffic. No voices bleeding through thin walls. Just stillness—the kind that didn't belong anywhere people were supposed to be.
Brandon stayed flat on the floor, eyes closed for a moment longer, letting his body speak to him. There was no stabbing pain, no soreness, no spasms, nothing to indicate that he had been injured. Not even his head hurt, though his hair tingled at the scalp from some subtle residual static in the air. Something had woken him.
His mind drifted for a second, trying to remember. The last thing he recalled was
darkness—then movement, pressure, a faint heat on his back. Something like a nudge, subtle enough not to rattle him awake violently, yet precise. And then: light. A single beam piercing the gloom. He couldn't have called it sound; it was closer to sensation, an almost tactile vibration that tickled at the nerve endings along his spine. That had brought him up.
Brandon opened his eyes fully.
The ceiling above him was low and cracked, stained with irregular watermarks that spread like old bruises. One of the fluorescent light fixtures hung crooked, its plastic cover
yellowed and clouded. It wasn't on. None of the lights were.
He turned his head slowly, just enough to take in the other side of the room.
Rudeus lay several feet away, motionless, flat on his back. Arms relaxed. Breathing slow and steady. Alive. Unhurt, as far as Brandon could tell from this distance. A subtle light caught the strands of his white hair, making them gleam faintly against the gray concrete.
Good.
Only then did Brandon begin scanning himself. No restraints. No pain spikes. No blood. His clothes—dark jeans, scuffed boots, a jacket—were intact, though coated with a thin layer of dust that clung stubbornly to the fabric. The dust seemed older in some patches, newer in others, like it had been disturbed recently, but not violently. A faint crease in the jacket suggested he'd been lying here for only a short while.
He flexed his fingers slowly, noting the absence of tremors or stiffness. The air smelled of old concrete, rust, and something faintly chemical, like dried solvent used for cleaning
equipment. He let the scent register fully. It grounded him.
He shifted slightly, listening again. Silence. The building didn't groan or settle further. It wasn't abandoned entirely—there was energy here—but it was subtle, contained.
He pushed himself up carefully.
The movement felt… wrong. Not weak. Not painful. Just different. Every muscle engaged automatically, perfectly. Core and balance, reflexes and posture, all responding
instinctively, without the micro-adjustments his body usually needed after rest. He caught himself mid-push, letting the difference sink in. There was no stiffness, no grogginess, no post-sleep clumsiness. His body felt denser, reinforced, compacted. He tested his legs.
Strong. Fast. Controlled.
He paused halfway upright, breathing slow, surveying the room. Something had changed
him, subtly but undeniably. His body—his very presence—was… optimized. Not drastically. Not like some superhuman transformation. Just… denser. Sharper. Ready.
Rudeus stirred. A faint creak of metal, a small scrape of concrete under his weight. His eyes opened sharply, snapping into focus in an instant. No flinch. No gasp. Just
assessment. Brandon met that gaze immediately, the silent, automatic communication they had shared countless times before kicking in.
They were alive. Functional. No immediate threat around. "Where are we?" Rudeus asked quietly, voice careful but steady.
"Not sure," Brandon replied. The words felt strange in his mouth, slightly hollow after the stillness. Grounded, though. Solid. "Does anything hurt?"
Rudeus shook his head once. "No. But… something's off."
"Yeah," Brandon said. His eyes swept the room carefully, noting every line, every shadow, every subtle shift in texture across the cracked concrete and the rusted metal shelving.
They rose to their feet together. Slowly. Deliberately.
The room revealed itself more fully with each movement. Concrete floor, cracked and patched unevenly. Shelving lined one wall, mostly empty, but a few warped plastic crates leaned against one another. Coils of frayed cable lay scattered like the discarded skin of
some long-dead machine. The far wall had once been white, now dulled to a lifeless gray by dust, grime, and age.
A doorway led into a wider space, where daylight filtered through high, broken panes. The light illuminated faint patterns in the dust—tiny arcs and scratches that suggested recent movement, footprints from someone much smaller, perhaps, or the errant drift of something heavy rolling across the floor.
No signs of people. No movement. No immediate exits beyond the doorway. Brandon let the observation sink in. Too early to tell if that was good or bad.
Rudeus took a step closer, tilting his head as he studied Brandon. "Your hair."
Brandon frowned, reaching up. White. Not gray. Not bleached. White-white. Cool to the touch, coarse under his fingers. He leaned slightly so Rudeus could see better.
"Yours too," Brandon said.
Rudeus ran a hand through his own hair, then froze, staring at the tips, then at his reflection in a small puddle on the floor, the cracked mirror leaning against the wall behind the shelving. The mirror was spiderwebbed, a few shards missing, but it was enough to confirm what they already suspected.
Brandon approached it slowly, every step measured. Dust shifted under his boots. Light bounced off the fractured glass and caught the contours of his face.
He barely recognized himself.
The face staring back had the same structure, the same hard lines and familiar expressions, but the details were wrong. His skin was a deeper shade than it had been
before, a warm mocha tone that caught the light differently. His eyes—gold. Not hazel, not brown. Gold, sharp and unfamiliar.
Rudeus looked the same.
White hair. Gold eyes. Skin tone changed to match.
No scars added. No features exaggerated. Just… altered. "That's different," Rudeus said.
"Yeah," Brandon agreed.
They stood there in silence for a moment, letting it all sink in.
Then Brandon did what he always did when confronted with uncertainty. He tested.
He stepped away from the mirror and tested his hands.
He clenched his fist slowly, paying attention to the resistance, the feeling. His grip felt solid. Denser.
The muscles in his forearm tightened smoothly, without tremor. He squeezed harder. The concrete beneath his boots made a faint crunch.
Brandon looked down.
The imprint was deeper than it should have been. He released his grip and flexed his fingers.
Rudeus was already watching.
Brandon moved to one of the metal shelves and wrapped his fingers around a vertical support bar. He pulled—carefully at first.
The metal bent.
Just a little. Enough to be unmistakable. The metal didn't give easily.
Brandon had expected resistance but the way it bent under his grip was wrong. It just… yielding. The bar curved a few degrees, enough that it stayed that way when he let go.
He stared at it.
Then he reached out again, gripping a little higher this time. He pulled once more, slower, more deliberate.
The bend deepened.
Not by much. But enough.
Rudeus let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "That shouldn't happen."
Brandon released the bar and flexed his fingers, watching the skin stretch and settle, feeling the way his tendons slid beneath the surface. No pain. No strain. His hands felt solid.
"Not like that," he agreed.
Rudeus stepped closer to the shelf, pressing his palm against the warped metal. He
pushed cautiously at first, then added pressure. The shelf shuddered and shifted a few centimeters, scraping against the floor with a dry, grating sound.
Rudeus withdrew his hand slowly. Neither of them smiled.
Rudeus glanced down at his own arms, rolling his shoulders once, then again. "If that changed," he said quietly, "what else did?"
Brandon didn't answer right away. He was already moving.
He took a few steps back, clearing space. His stance settled naturally, feet aligning without thought. He leaned forward and pushed off the ground.
The first step came out too fast.
He caught himself mid-stride, adjusting instinctively, and slowed down. Tried again—this time controlled. Each movement felt cleaner than it should have been, like the lag between intent and action had been trimmed down.
He shifted his weight sharply from one foot to the other. Pivoted. Turned. No wobble.
Rudeus watched closely, eyes tracking every movement. "Again," he said.
Brandon nodded and picked up speed, weaving between a broken crate and a fallen
support beam. He cut left, then right, stopping on a dime. His boots scuffed the concrete, but his balance held.
He stopped and looked at Rudeus. "Your turn."
Rudeus didn't hesitate.
He started slower, deliberate, mapping the space as he moved. He tested uneven ground first—stepping onto cracked concrete, loose gravel, a patch slick with old oil. His footing adjusted automatically, ankles compensating without thought.
He crouched and jumped.
Not too high but higher than before.
He landed lightly, knees bending to absorb the impact, heels barely touching down. The sound was almost silent.
He straightened and did it again. And again.
Each time, the landing felt easier than it should have. No jolt. No lingering vibration in his bones.
He jogged a short route around the room, increasing pace gradually. His breathing stayed even. Too even.
Brandon joined him, falling into step beside him. They ran in parallel lines through the
space, looping around rusted machinery and past half-collapsed partitions. Their footsteps echoed faintly, the only sound in the building.
Brandon focused inward.
He waited for the familiar signs—the tightening in his chest, the burn creeping into his thighs, the subtle hitch in his breath.
It didn't come. Minutes passed.
They slowed to a stop near the center of the room. Neither bent over. Neither reached for their knees. Their breathing was steady.
Rudeus wiped his palm against his pants, more out of habit than necessity. "That would've winded me before."
Brandon nodded slightly. He rolled his shoulders once, feeling no stiffness. No exhaustion. Brandon glanced back at the bent shelf, then at the cracked floor beneath their feet.
Whatever had changed, changed everything.
How far that change went, they couldn't tell yet.
And more importantly—what it meant, they didn't know either. That was when Brandon felt it.
Not a sound. Not a voice.
Pressure, faint but unmistakable, just behind his eyes like the beginning of a headache that never quite formed.
His vision blurred for half a second, then sharpened. Text appeared in the air in front of him.
No projection. Just… there. Clean, sharp—floating in the air. He didn't react.
Rudeus stiffened beside him.
"You seeing this?" Rudeus asked. "Yes."
It hovered at eye level in front of Brandon, tracking his gaze when he shifted his head. No glow, no fanfare, no sound. Just letters. Blue, clean, sharp—floating in the air.
Brandon blinked. "That's… new."
Rudeus stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Yeah. Did it just… appear? Or did we miss it?"
They both stared at it, letting the silence surround them. The letters didn't move unless they looked at them. And even then, only subtly, as if waiting for attention.
At the top:
Name Level Rank
Brandon's lips moved as he read the third line. "D-Rank."
Rudeus cocked his head. "D…Rank?" He frowned. "You think it's… a ranking? For… us?"
"Maybe." Brandon's voice was quiet. "Or maybe not. I don't know. Could be something else entirely."
Rudeus reached out, his hand hovering near the floating text. "Could it measure our… bodies? Strength? Reflexes?"
"Could. Couldn't," Brandon said. He flexed his fingers and shifted his weight. His muscles responded instantly. His body felt sharper, denser. Faster. Everything he tried seemed
easier.
But the numbers didn't reflect that. Strength, endurance, agility, perception—all marginally higher than what he thought was normal, but far below what his body felt capable of right now.
"See?" Brandon said, almost to himself. "These numbers… they don't match how we actually feel right now, do they?"
Rudeus frowned, scrolling through his own interface, which had appeared after a few moments. It was different. Categories he didn't recognize: Mana, Spell Slots, Technology, Equipment. Most were gray, locked. Blue letters marked them. Small numbers glimmered faintly beside each one.
"What's… the price for that?" Brandon asked himself, pointing at one of his locked options.
"I can't see yours," Rudeus said, keeping his distance from the floating letters. "But… look at this. Everything meaningful has a number. Some kind of cost."
Brandon tapped the skill lightly. Nothing happened. They both leaned closer.
Brandon scrolled through the numbers, glancing at each stat. He flexed again, lifted his arm, rotated his shoulders. The body still responded faster than it should have, balanced instinctively. Yet nothing on the interface moved. No notifications. No increase. No sign that it recognized the effort.
"Maybe it's… potential?" Rudeus murmured. "Like, not what we can do, but what we're… allowed to have?"
"Maybe," Brandon said. He exhaled slowly. "Could be anything. Could even be… just a placeholder." He flexed his knees, tried a small jump. Landed softly. The impact barely registered.
Rudeus followed, testing himself with a series of small movements, jumps, spins. They moved carefully, observing how their bodies reacted. Every step felt effortless, their muscles coordinating with a precision they couldn't explain. Yet the numbers on the interface remained the same.
"Interesting," Brandon said after a long pause. "Our bodies… react. But the display… doesn't."
Rudeus tilted his head. "It might be tracking something else. Or it doesn't update automatically. Could be a lag. Could be conditions we haven't figured out yet."
Brandon nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "We'll have to figure out the rules."
Rudeus scrolled down further, eyes widening slightly. "And this. Each locked skill, every class, has… a number beside it."
They scrolled further.
Near the bottom, a small line of text appeared. Currency Type: USD.
Brandon stared.
Then he looked at Rudeus.
Rudeus let out a short breath that might've been a laugh if there'd been any humor in it. "Money," he said.
Brandon's eyes flicked down. At the bottom of the panel:
Balance: 0
He stared. "It says zero. On mine."
"Mine too. Nothing to spend," Rudeus said quietly. "So… if these are abilities, or stats, or whatever this measures… we can't access any of it."
Brandon studied the interface again, tracing the locked items with his gaze. Blue letters marked them all—clear, crisp, precise. "So, it's… a shop?" he said, almost to himself. "But not for items… for power, abilities?"
Rudeus shrugged. "Could be. Could be for stats. Could be for skills. Could be both. Maybe even… for our bodies. But… we can't know for sure yet. Not without… testing."
Brandon nodded. "Then testing is step one. Figuring out what responds, what doesn't." He crouched slightly, shifting his weight, performing controlled movements—shadowboxing, pivots, short bursts of exertion. His muscles flexed, contracting and releasing perfectly. The body responded. Effort was smooth. Efficient.
The interface didn't blink. Numbers stayed the same.
Rudeus went next. He moved carefully at first, hopping over a small crack in the concrete. Landed softly, knees absorbing the impact perfectly. He spun on a heel, pivoted, shifted weight mid-step. Nothing triggered on his panel. He tried again, more aggressively. Still no change.
"Nothing," he muttered. "It doesn't respond to movement. Not strength. Not balance. Not even effort."
Brandon frowned. "Then maybe… currency. Everything has a cost. The stats, the classes, the abilities. This might only… register if we pay for it."
Rudeus leaned back, looking at his own locked options. "It's precise. Every cost… specific numbers. Everything is locked behind a price. There's no free way around it, no hidden
unlocks that I can see."
Brandon exhaled slowly. He scanned the stats again. Strength, endurance, agility, perception—all low, all locked. Letters flashed faintly when he hovered over each option. He flexed again. The body moved easily, naturally. Yet the interface remained indifferent.
"So… if we want anything useful. If we want to get stronger, get more powerful," Brandon said finally, "we need money. Real money."
Rudeus let the words sink in. He closed his eyes, testing his own thoughts. Trying to see if it responded mentally but nothing responded.
Brandon's eyes drifted across the room, at the dust, the broken concrete, the rusted shelves. Thoughts running wild, trying to make sense of this.
Rudeus opened his eyes slowly. "So… the first step isn't getting stronger physically. Not yet. Step one… is getting money, probably real money. Anything else is useless until we have it."
Brandon nodded, flexing his fingers one last time. "Then that's our starting point. Everything we want, everything we need… costs something. And right now, we have nothing."
They both looked back at the hovering panels. Silent, indifferent, precise. Blue letters gleamed faintly in the stale light, waiting for someone who could pay.
Brandon exhaled slowly, the sound barely more than a whisper in the quiet. The air in the
room—or what remained of it—felt thick, heavy with dust and the faint tang of old concrete.
The beams of light slicing through the broken wall illuminated floating particles that
seemed to hang in midair longer than they should. It was almost mesmerizing. But there was no time to be mesmerized.
"Then step one…" Brandon said, his voice low, deliberate, finally breaking the silence. "We get money."
Rudeus's lips curved into a tight, humorless line. Not a smile. Not even a smirk. Just a curve that spoke of calculation, patience, and a kind of cold amusement at the inevitability of it all. "Money first. Everything else second," he said. The words weren't new, they were
obvious, almost redundant—but still necessary to say aloud, to cement the thought, to make it real.
They stood there for a long moment, side by side, neither moving. Brandon's eyes swept the broken edges of the doorway, the jagged walls, the scattering of dust motes, and beyond that, the world outside.
The silence between them wasn't empty. It was charged with understanding and with the knowledge of what awaited them. Stronger than yesterday, yes, but not strong enough. Not yet. The weight of their bodies—denser, tighter, sharper—was a promise of potential, but not a guarantee. Power had a cost, and in this place, that cost was already clear.
Brandon's eyes flicked to Rudeus, reading the way he balanced on the balls of his feet, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the readiness in the way he held himself. They weren't out of danger. Not yet. But they had an advantage. Awareness. Control. Potential. Focus. And the knowledge that hesitation would cost more than impatience ever could.
The rules were simple. Brutal. Unyielding. This world didn't care about morality, fairness, or second chances. It didn't care that they had survived worse elsewhere. Every decision had consequences. And the only currency that mattered—at least for now—was money.
They needed money if they wanted more power. If they wanted leverage. If they wanted to survive, to grow, to bend this world to their will instead of being crushed by it. Money wasn't just paper, coins, or numbers.
It was information, influence, tools, opportunity. Everything they didn't yet have and would need to seize immediately.
And in this unknown place, power was the only thing they could count on. Not alliances, not luck, not timing. Strength and skill had gotten them this far, but without money, without leverage, without a foothold, even their bodies' newfound capabilities could be
meaningless.
Brandon exhaled again, slower this time, letting the weight of it all settle. He could feel the gravity of their situation pressing in, subtle but undeniable. And yet, beneath it all, there
was a spark—controlled, focused, and dangerous. They weren't helpless. Not by a long shot.
Rudeus's eyes met his, and in that brief, silent exchange, everything was understood. Plans would be made. Moves calculated. Risks measured. But first, they needed the most
immediate and practical thing, money. Step one. The foundation on which every other choice, every act of strength or cunning, would rest.
Brandon straightened, feeling the compact, reinforced muscles in his arms and back. He flexed subtly, testing. His body was ready. His mind was sharp. And the world outside waited, unaware of them, unprepared for them, and dangerous in every possible way
because of the unknown.
"Step one," Brandon murmured again, almost to himself. "We get money."
Rudeus nodded once, tight, precise. "Step one." And with that, the silence ended, not in conversation, but in acknowledgment. The first move had been identified. The target had been set. And the unknown world they've somehow ended up in waited.
Money first. Everything else second.