June 3, 2024
The sun hung high and hot over Los Angeles by the time I stepped out of the apartment. Ten in the morning, and the city already shimmered with heat rising from the pavement. I'd called Chuck at seven, spinning some bullshit about food poisoning. He wasn't happy, but what could he do? Good construction workers were hard to find these days, especially ones willing to work for the wages he offered.
"Just be back tomorrow," he'd grumbled. "We're behind schedule as it is."
Tomorrow felt like a lifetime away. I had more important concerns than pouring concrete and setting rebar.
'Arcan, what equipment do I need?' I thought as I walked toward my car.
『Basic hunter gear includes weapons suited to your fighting style, protective clothing, medical supplies, and sustenance. For a D-rank gate, minimal investment should suffice.』
I unlocked my Mustang and slid into the driver's seat. The leather stuck to my skin, hot from sitting in the sun. I started the engine and cranked the AC.
'I've got about seven hundred dollars saved up. Will that cover it?'
『Barely adequate for entry-level equipment.』
Great. Shopping on a budget for gear that might determine whether I lived or died. Just another day in the Valentine family tradition.
Noel wouldn't be back until one, and she wouldn't expect me home until seven. Nine hours to get equipped and clear a gate. Tight timeline, but doable.
My first stop was a place called "Good hunting," advertised on a hunter forum as budget-friendly for new or low-ranked hunters. The storefront looked decent enough—clean windows, professional signage, security cameras at the entrance. Inside was another story.
The merchandise looked like props from a bad fantasy movie. Swords with gaudy hilts and paper-thin blades. "Enhanced" leather armor that resembled Halloween costumes more than protective gear. Everything had a cheap, mass-produced quality that set off alarm bells in my head.
A salesman approached. "First dungeon, my friend? I can set you up right."
"Just browsing," I said, picking up a dagger that bent slightly under pressure from my thumb.
"That's our economy line. Good for beginners." He reached past me for a sword with gem-encrusted hilt. "But this—this is what you want for serious protection. Mana-enhanced steel, perfect balance."
I took it, testing the weight. It was off-center, the blade too heavy for the hilt. The "gems" were colored glass.
"How much?"
"For you? Special price. Five hundred."
I nearly laughed. "Five hundred for this?"
His smile tightened. "Quality doesn't come cheap. That sword will save your life."
I set it down. I'd rather take my chances with a kitchen knife.
The rest of the shop was the same—overpriced garbage marketed to desperate or ignorant first-timers. I left without buying anything, the salesman's pitch following me out the door.
Next on my list was "Saffon," located in a renovated warehouse downtown. The difference was immediately apparent. The weapons here were the real deal—well-crafted, properly balanced, clearly designed for actual combat rather than appearance.
Glass cases displayed everything from traditional blades to modern tactical gear. Each piece looked like it could do serious damage in the right hands. Problem was, nothing had a price tag.
I approached a display of short blades, my eyes catching on a pair of fighting knives that would suit my style.
"Can I see these?" I asked the clerk, a beautiful stern-faced woman.
She looked me over, her gaze lingering on my face. "License?"
I fished out my hunter ID. D-rank. Registered but inactive.
Her expression shifted from professional to dismissive. "These aren't for your rank."
"Excuse me?"
"Our merchandise is designed for B-rank and above. D-ranks should try the supply depot on Figueroa."
"That's bullshit."
"It's not about money. It's about proper equipment matching hunter capability. These weapons require mana control that D-ranks simply don't possess."
My fingers twitched. I could feel the mana flowing through me now, far more than any D-rank should have. I could probably use every weapon in this shop better than half their clientele.
But my ID said D-rank, and that was all that mattered.
"Whatever," I said, pocketing my license. "Your loss."
The hunter world in our capitalist society operated on a rigid hierarchy—your rank determined everything from the gear you could buy to the respect you received. It was bullshit, but it was reality.
My third attempt was a military surplus store that advertised "hunter-grade" modifications. The place smelled of gun oil and leather, with rows of practical gear lining the walls. Better than the first shop, worse than the second. The prices were reasonable, the quality acceptable, but nothing felt right in my hands.
I tried several knives and a short sword, but none of them connected with me the way I needed. Fighting monsters wasn't like a bar brawl or a street fight. You needed something that felt like an extension of yourself, especially when you were solo.
After thirty minutes of indecision, I left empty-handed. Three shops, nothing to show for it. My window of opportunity was narrowing.
That's when I remembered a place I'd passed many times but never entered. Dragon's Arsenal, tucked away in Chinatown.
Worth a shot.
I found it wedged between a traditional medicine shop and a bubble tea café. The storefront was modest but well-maintained, with red pillars and gold detailing that stood out from the surrounding buildings. A large display window showed a carefully arranged selection of weapons—nothing flashy, just elegant craftsmanship.
A bell chimed softly as I pushed open the door. The interior was cooler than outside, the air scented with metal polish and sandalwood. Unlike the other shops, this place felt alive—a working establishment rather than a retail space.
An older man looked up from behind the counter, nodding a greeting before returning to the blade he was polishing. No aggressive sales pitch, no immediate judgment. Just acknowledgment and space to browse.
I moved through the shop, taking in the displays. Traditional weapons lined one wall—swords, spears, and weapons I couldn't name. Modern tactical gear occupied another section. Everything was arranged with purpose, each item given room to be appreciated.
I paused at a case containing throwing knives, admiring their simple, functional design.
"Those are balanced for distance work."
I turned toward the voice. A young woman stood a few feet away, watching me with analytical gray eyes. Her black hair was styled in two buns that gave her a distinctive silhouette. She wore a high-collared white blouse with maroon accents and practical pants that allowed for movement.
"Tenten," she said, not extending her hand. "How can I help you?"
"Xavier," I replied. "Looking for equipment. First gate."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "First time clearing or first time entering?"
"Clearing. I've been a porter before."
She nodded, processing this information. "What's your fighting style?"
"Adaptable I think. Quick. I prefer getting close rather than keeping distance."
Without another word, she moved to a different display case, unlocking it with a key from her belt. She withdrew two short blades—not quite daggers, not quite short swords. The metal had a faint blue tint in the light.
"Try these," she said, offering them handle-first.
I took them, surprised by their perfect balance. They felt right in my hands, like they'd been waiting for me.
"Cold iron core with a mana-conductive alloy overlay," she explained. "Simple design, versatile application. Effective against most low rank entities."
I performed a few practice movements, getting a feel for them. "How much?"
"Three hundred for the pair."
Less than I'd expected. "What's the catch?"
A hint of amusement crossed her face. "No catch. They're priced fairly for what they are."
I performed another test cut, feeling how the blades moved through the air. "I'll take them."
"You'll need sheaths," she said, already moving to another section. "And basic protective gear. What's your budget?"
"Six hundred total."
She paused, calculating. "Doable, but we'll need to prioritize. Weapons first, then whatever protection we can manage with what's left."
For the next hour, Tenten guided me through equipment selection with ruthless efficiency. She didn't try to upsell me or push unnecessary items. Instead, she focused on building a practical loadout that would give me the best chance of survival.
"These gloves have reinforced knuckles and wrist support," she said, handing me a pair to try on. "Not as good as full gauntlets, but they'll prevent most wrist injuries when striking."
I pulled them on. Perfect fit. "You've got a good eye."
"I've been doing this since I could walk." She adjusted the strap on one glove. "My parents own the shop."
"Lucky them. You know your stuff."
She didn't smile, but something in her posture relaxed slightly. "Most of these weapons are my selections. I test everything we sell."
"Everything?" I looked around at the extensive inventory. "That's a lot of weapons."
"Two hundred and seventeen distinct types currently in stock. Plus variations." She said this without a hint of boasting. Just fact.
"You must be popular at parties. 'This is Tenten. She can kill you two hundred different ways.'"
That earned me a raised eyebrow. "Two hundred and seventeen. Currently."
I laughed. "My mistake."
We moved on to armor options. With my limited budget, full protection was out of the question. Tenten suggested a lightweight vest that would protect vital organs without restricting movement.
"The material is a kevlar derivative with minor mana resistance," she explained, holding it up for my inspection. "It won't stop everything, but it's better than nothing."
I checked the price tag. "One hundred?"
"For you, seventy-five." When I looked surprised, she added, "First-time customer discount. Store policy."
I had a feeling it wasn't, but I wasn't about to argue.
With the remaining budget, we added basic medical supplies, a utility belt, and a small backpack designed for dungeon exploration. The total came to just under six hundred.
"Not bad," I said as she rang up the purchases. "Better than I expected to do."
"Most shops overcharge beginners," she said, her fingers moving efficiently across the register. "It's bad business. Repeat customers are more valuable than one-time gouging."
"Plus, dead customers don't come back."
"Precisely." She paused, studying me. "You said you've been a porter. For which guild?"
"None. Independent. Just picking up work when I need extra cash."
Her expression remained neutral, but I sensed increased interest. "Unusual choice. Most porters contract with guilds for the insurance benefits."
"I have trust issues with large organizations."
"Understandable." She finished processing the transaction. "Would you like to test your new equipment before leaving? We have a practice area upstairs."
I checked the time. Still plenty of daylight left, and the gate wasn't going anywhere. "Sure. Could use the practice."
She led me up a narrow staircase behind the counter, nodding to the older man as we passed. He returned the nod without comment, continuing his work.
The second floor contained several rooms, including what appeared to be a workshop and a secure display area for higher-grade weapons. Tenten guided me to a space at the back—a small but well-equipped training room with reinforced walls and practice targets.
"This is where we test throwing weapons and demonstrate techniques," she explained, switching on additional lights. "My father built it when I started showing interest in projectiles."
"Nice setup. Very... precise."
"Precision matters when the difference between hitting a vital point and missing it is measured in millimeters."
She took one of my new blades, holding it with obvious familiarity. "These are versatile weapons. They can be used for slashing, stabbing, parrying, or throwing in emergencies."
Without warning, she launched into a demonstration—a series of movements so fluid they seemed choreographed.
"The key is to let the weapon's weight work for you," she said, not even breathing hard. "Every blade has a sweet spot where momentum and control balance perfectly."
She handed it back to me. "Your turn."
I took the blade, attempting to mimic her movements. My first tries were clumsy by comparison.
"You're fighting the weapon," she observed. "Stop trying to force it. Feel its natural path."
I adjusted my grip, tried again. Better, but still not right.
Tenten stepped closer. "May I?"
I nodded. She moved behind me, her hands positioning my arms and adjusting my stance.
"Relax your wrist. The power comes from your core and transfers through your arm. The wrist just directs it."
I followed her guidance, feeling the difference immediately. The blade cut a cleaner arc through the air.
"Better," she said, stepping back. "Now try a combination. Slash, reverse, thrust."
I performed the sequence, finding a rhythm that felt natural. The blade responded like it understood my intentions before I fully formed them.
"You have good instincts," Tenten said, watching critically. "Better than most beginners. You've fought before."
"Not monsters. Just people who needed reminding about manners."
A hint of a smile touched her lips. "People can be monsters too."
We spent the next thirty minutes working through basic techniques with both blades. Tenten was a demanding instructor, correcting my form with blunt efficiency, but also acknowledging improvement without reservation.
"That sequence would work well against goblins," she said after one particularly smooth combination. "They have weak neck joints and poor peripheral vision. Attack from the side, target the junction between head and shoulder."
"Speaking from experience?"
"I've cleared twenty-seven gates containing goblin variants. I keep records." She demonstrated a different movement. "This works better for canine types. They have thicker hide but vulnerable underbellies."
"Twenty-seven, huh? Impressive for a C-rank."
She paused, giving me a measuring look. "Rank isn't everything. Technique and knowledge can compensate for lower mana capacity."
"Tell that to the equipment shops that won't sell to D-ranks."
"Their loss. The system is flawed."
"On that, we agree."
As we headed back downstairs, I felt compelled to ask, "Why are you helping me so much? Most shops just sell the gear and send you on your way."
She considered the question seriously before answering. "Three reasons. First, our business model values customer success. Dead hunters don't become repeat customers. Second, I respect anyone willing to enter gates without guild protection—it shows either courage or necessary desperation, both of which I understand. Third..." She paused at the bottom of the stairs. "You asked intelligent questions and listened to the answers. That's rarer than it should be."
"Well, I appreciate it. Might have saved my life today."
"That remains to be seen." She reached the counter, where my purchases waited in a practical canvas bag. She hesitated for a second before handing me a business card. "Call me if you survive."
I took the card, noting the clean design and embossed dragon logo. "That's encouraging. 'If you survive.'"
"Realistic. The first clear has the highest mortality rate. Statistically."
"I'll try not to become a statistic."
"See that you don't." She extended her hand formally. "Good hunting, Xavier."
I shook it. "Thanks for everything, Tenten."
Exiting the store, I unlocked the Mustang, placing my new gear carefully in the passenger seat. Tenten had wrapped each item individually, with handwritten notes on proper care attached.
As I started the engine, I checked the time. Just past noon. Still plenty of daylight left to tackle the gate. I had decent equipment, basic training, and whatever mysterious abilities my awakening had granted me.
'Time to see what I'm really capable of,' I thought, pulling away from the curb.
『Indeed,』 Arcan replied. 『The true test begins now.』