An hour passed.
Eridius searched the house from corner to corner—slowly, carefully, making sure not to miss anything that might keep him alive… or get him killed.
The place was worse than it looked.
He found the kitchen first.
Opened the refrigerator.
And paused.
Inside—
Plastic bags.
Unlabeled.
Dark.
He stared for a second longer than necessary… then opened one.
A chunk of human flesh stared back.
Another bag held something smaller. Rounder.
An organ.
He closed the fridge.
Quietly.
[Eridius]: …Yeah. That tracks.
No surprise. No panic.
Just confirmation.
Backstreet's standards.
He moved on.
The bedroom was barely better.
A broken frame. Torn mattress. Stains he didn't bother identifying.
He checked under the bed.
Paused.
Reached in.
Pulled out—
A small, worn pouch.
He opened it.
Inside—
Stacks of Ahn.
Not much by City standards.
But for him?
Everything.
[Eridius]: …One thousand.
He let out a slow breath.
[Eridius]: That's… not terrible.
Not good.
But not dead.
That counted as a win.
He tied the pouch securely, tucking it into his makeshift clothing.
Then—
He stopped.
His gaze shifted.
The room.
The walls.
The silence.
No marks.
No symbols.
No signs of ownership.
No gang tags. No Syndicate insignias. No hidden stashes or coded warnings.
He had checked thoroughly.
Again.
And again.
Nothing.
[Eridius]: …So no one's coming back for this place.
A pause.
Then, quietly—
He turned, scanning the room one last time.
A broken house.
A dead owner.
A bloodstained floor.
And no one to claim it.
Eridius leaned slightly against the wall, exhaling.
A small pause.
Then—
[Eridius]: New plan.
His eyes sharpened.
[Eridius]: This is mine now.
Another glance around.
[Eridius]: Not much of an office…
A beat.
[Eridius]: But it'll do.
He looked down at his hands—small, scarred, stitched.
Then back up.
[Eridius]: First step—
A faint smirk tugged at his lips.
[Eridius]: Make money… but how?
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.
[Eridius]: Not joining a Syndicate. Not joining a gang. And I'm definitely not passing some office exam without an ID.
A pause.
Then—
[Reloading █▒▒▒▒… @#%$… Loading…]
[Host Name: Eridius]
[Gender: Male]
[Race: Genetic Experiment {Human}]
[Age: 13 {Locked}]
[Commander Points: 1400]
[Gacha Rolls: 0]
His gaze lingered for a second before shifting.
He selected [Commander Points].
The interface flickered—then expanded.
[Rank: General]
[Recruitment: Open] [Special Recruitment: 1]
[Specialty: None]
[Supplies: None]
[Legions/Squads: None]
[Total Members: 0]
A pause.
Then—
He stared at the empty list.
[Eridius]: No army. No supplies. No people.
Another pause.
A faint, dry chuckle.
[Eridius]: …Yeah. Sounds about right.
His eyes sharpened slightly.
[Eridius]: Let's see what you can actually do.
He selected [Special Recruitment: 1].
The interface flickered—
Then unfolded into a character creation window.
Eridius blinked.
A pause.
Then, slowly—
A grin.
[Eridius]: Well… good thing I had that hobby.
He rolled his shoulders, getting comfortable.
[Eridius]: Alright. I need someone who can fight… and work.
A flick of the menu.
Another.
[Eridius]: Has to fit the City… nothing too flashy.
He paused, thinking.
[Eridius]: No… not black hair. Too common.
A few quick adjustments.
[Eridius]: Dark blue. Glassy. Gold eyes.
He leaned back slightly.
[Eridius]: Tall. Strong.
Click.
The model stabilized.
Then—
A new panel opened.
[Talent Selection]
Each talent grants +100 Skill Points.
[Eridius]: …Alright. Let's gamble responsibly.
He clicked.
[Noble]
[Eridius]: Hm. Could be useful.
Another click.
[Fluffy Ears Lover]
A pause.
He stared at it.
[Eridius]: …I'm not even going to question that.
Another click.
[Kind Heart]
Silence.
A long, painful silence.
Then—
He dragged a hand down his face.
[Eridius]: …I regret everything.
Leaning forward, he stared at the talents like they had personally betrayed him.
[Eridius]: …Please tell me the skills can fix this.
A pause.
The panel shifted.
[Skill List – District 9 Set]
His expression slowly went blank.
[Eridius]: …Why are they like this?
[Violin Lv.1]
[Piano Lv.1]
[Street Singing Lv.1]
[Improvised Percussion Lv.1]
A longer pause.
[Eridius]: …Did I just recruit a performer?
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to focus.
[Eridius]: …Fine. Adapt.
His gaze dropped to the remaining points.
[Available Points: 400]
[Eridius]: Let's build something usable.
He started selecting.
[Instrument Fighting Lv.6] {40}
[Eridius]: If it makes noise, it can break bones.
[Cooking Lv.4] {20}
[Eridius]: Food equals survival.
[Violin Playing Lv.5] {30}
[Eridius]: …No choice.
[Singing Lv.4] {20}
[Eridius]: This is getting out of hand.
[Management Lv.5] {30}
[Eridius]: Someone has to run things.
[Cleaning Lv.2] {10}
[Eridius]: …Basic hygiene.
[Gathering Lv.5] {30}
[Eridius]: Resources first.
[Thick Skin Lv.6] {40}
[Eridius]: Needs to survive hits.
[Nimble Lv.7] {90}
[Eridius]: Speed saves lives.
[Strength Lv.7] {90}
He paused.
Looked over the build.
Then leaned back slightly.
A beat.
[Eridius]: A strong, fast, durable… street musician.
Silence.
Then—
[Eridius]: …I hate how this might actually work.
He selected [Create].
The air distorted.
For a brief moment, the room felt… crowded.
Then—
A man stood there.
Tall. Well-built. Composed.
Glassy dark blue hair, gold eyes—sharp, alert.
In his hands—
A lute.
A flute.
And… a violin.
Eridius blinked.
[Eridius]: …Of course.
The man straightened, then gave a refined bow—one hand over his chest, posture flawless.
[The Man]: Greetings, Commander.
His voice was calm. Educated.
[The Man]: May I be granted a name?
Eridius didn't hesitate.
Not even for a second.
[Eridius]: Alexander von Dufrode li Hulu.
Silence.
The man froze.
Slowly—
He raised his head.
Blink.
Once.
Twice.
A longer pause.
Carefully.
Very carefully—
[Alexander von Dufrode li Hulu]: Please tell me you are joking.
[Chapter end]