Chapter 31: Shelter Week (1/2)
In Darwin's Game, there was an item called Shelter.
It was a safe-zone item.
Or facility.
Honestly, the distinction felt less important than the part where it kept me from being murdered.
According to Kenta, Shelter could be purchased from the in-game shop during events for ten points. Once activated, it prevented the player from being placed on the Class Match list for a week.
Or at least, that was how he had explained it to me earlier.
Thankfully, there was an ongoing event right now.
A supposed online in-game event.
The timing could not have been better.
Because I needed that item.
Badly.
So, without much hesitation, I bought Shelter before sleeping.
Not because I trusted it.
Trust was too generous.
Shelter did not make me untouchable. Encounter Battles still existed. If another player stood close enough, noticed me, and decided to challenge me directly, the game would not politely step in and say I was unavailable.
Class Matches were different.
Kenta had explained enough for me to understand the problem.
In Darwin's Game—or D-Game, for short—a Class Match let someone choose an opponent from the available list. The game would arrange the fight from there.
Convenient.
Clean.
Terrible for someone trying to spend a week not getting murdered.
Shelter removed my name from that list.
It would not save me from someone standing directly in front of me.
But it meant I would not get dragged into a match while asleep, shopping, or standing in the bathroom with shampoo in my hair.
That was good enough.
I pressed the purchase button.
54 POINTS → 44 POINTS
The Shelter timer appeared.
6 DAYS, 23 HOURS, 59 MINUTES
Seven days.
Not safety.
Preparation.
After that, I converted four points into cash.
44 POINTS → 40 POINTS
A notification arrived almost immediately.
¥400,000 DEPOSITED
I stared at the number for a while.
Four hundred thousand yen.
Enough to begin buying supplies without bleeding the inherited account dry.
Not enough to solve everything.
Still, it was a start.
I closed the app before my eyes wandered toward the gacha again and finally went to sleep.
___
Tuesday began with shopping.
Normal shopping.
Technically.
From the outside, I was just another university student buying clothes, a large bag, and enough supplies to make people assume I was either moving out or preparing for a very depressing camping trip.
I bought two replacement hoodies, several plain shirts, dark pants, bottled water, packaged food, a flashlight, a power bank, basic first-aid supplies, cleaning tools, storage containers, and a reinforced black duffel bag with thick seams and handles that did not look ready to betray me.
It was not enough.
The shoes I found were either too cheap to trust or too expensive to justify.
The jackets looked durable until I touched the material.
The medical kits were fine if I planned to scrape my knee.
Less fine if someone stabbed me.
I still needed more.
The problem was that the sky was already darkening, and both my hands were full.
Unless I suddenly grew two more arms, I was done.
Technically, I could have made the bags follow me.
Technically, I could also announce to everyone on the street that I was a walking supernatural incident.
So no.
Tomorrow.
At home, I sorted everything into rough piles and packed the duffel with the basics.
Food.
Water.
Flashlight.
Power bank.
First aid.
Spare clothes.
Useful things.
Not enough things.
The duffel was large, sturdy, and still mostly empty.
I glanced at it once.
Then at the pistol on the table.
Then at Kenta's knife.
Then toward the bedroom, where an RPG was hidden beneath my bed like the world's most illegal dust bunny.
"Yeah," I muttered.
I picked up my phone.
"I don't even have excuses."
The snake mascot smiled from the screen.
"I need to make some pulls."
Five pulls later, my balance had dropped to thirty-five.
Most of it was junk.
But one narrow case produced a kukri.
A broad, curved blade.
Forward-heavy.
Sharp.
Useful.
Not a miracle, but useful.
I stopped there.
Getting something decent and stopping immediately felt responsible.
Responsible enough, anyway.
Wednesday reminded me that owning weapons and being good with them were two very different things.
Annoying.
Also true.
I exercised inside the apartment for most of the morning.
Shelter did not protect me from Encounter Battles, so casually wandering around in public while tired and distracted sounded like asking D-Game to introduce me to someone worse than Kenta.
Push-ups.
Squats.
Core work.
Quiet movements that would not make the downstairs neighbor file a noise complaint or come upstairs to discover why their ceiling occasionally trembled.
When I needed to run, I went early.
Very early.
The kind of early where the city still looked half-asleep and even the psychopaths playing D-Game were hopefully in bed.
Hopefully.
The gun in my bag was there in case I was wrong.
Jogging outside with a gun was probably unethical.
Also illegal.
But at this point, morality had started losing arguments to basic survival.
Later, I practiced with the kukri.
Slow movements.
Grip changes.
Footwork that probably looked ridiculous.
The blade wanted to chop, not dance. Every time I got too confident, the weight dragged my swing wider than intended and reminded me that I was not secretly a master swordsman.
By evening, my arms hurt.
So naturally, I rewarded myself with more gacha.
This time, the decent result came on the fourth pull.
RARE
WALTHER P22Q TACTICAL PACKAGE
The case contained a lightweight handgun, magazines, ammunition, and a suppressor.
I stared at it longer than I had stared at the kukri.
Small.
Compact.
Quiet enough to matter.
The kind of weapon that solved a real problem instead of creating several new ones.
I should have stopped there.
I did not.
Two more pulls followed because apparently, my brain saw a good result and immediately whispered, maybe the luck is still warm.
It was not.
Two duds later, I closed the app with twenty-nine points remaining and pretended I had learned something.
Thursday was for my Sigil.
I claimed magazines, coins, keys, empty boxes, and anything small enough to avoid breaking furniture if I made a mistake.
Then I made mistakes anyway.
Turns out, if I did not know how I wanted to hold something I recalled, my Sigil did not know either.
A magazine recalled into my palm at the wrong angle and bounced off my fingers.
A coin came back too fast and stung my knuckle.
The kukri arrived handle-first after several attempts, which was encouraging until I imagined what would have happened if it had arrived blade-first.
Then I practiced Follow with small objects first.
A pen.
A flashlight.
A packed pouch.
Then the duffel.
It rose behind me and followed as I walked through the apartment.
The pressure was manageable.
But not nothing.
Weight mattered.
Distance mattered.
Concentration mattered.
Good to know before I trusted my life to it.
That evening, I pulled three times.
Two duds.
Then a heavy box appeared.
RARE
FLANGED STEEL MACE
I opened it and stared.
A mace.
An actual steel mace.
Dark shaft.
Heavy flanged head.
The kind of weapon that looked less like something you carried and more like something you used to explain why armor was not enough.
I lifted it carefully.
The weight settled into my hand with a very honest promise of violence.
For a few seconds, I just held it there.
Then I looked at the app.
Then at the mace.
Then back at the app.
"What's next, chainmail and a horse?"
The snake simply smiled at me.
No explanation.
Please no.
I gave the mace one slow, cautious swing.
The nearest chair suddenly felt like a civilian casualty waiting to happen.
"Okay, no indoor testing."
I lowered it back into the case before my apartment became historically accurate.
Twenty-six points remained.
Friday, I went out again.
This time, I bought the things I had been forced to leave behind.
Durable boots.
A dark jacket.
Gloves.
A better shirt.
Dark jeans.
More medical supplies.
A few pieces of carrying equipment that could be adapted without making me look like I was cosplaying a tactical catalog.
The outfit was not armor.
It would not stop a bullet.
It would probably not stop a serious knife either.
From the outside, it was just a jacket, shirt, jeans, boots, and gloves.
Still, I had chosen every piece for the same reason.
Movement.
Durability.
Concealment.
The day I finally decided to fight properly, this was what I would wear.
Calling it an ass-kicking suit would be embarrassing.
So I did not call it that.
Out loud.
That night, I pulled six times.
The second pull gave me a Glock 19 package.
Reliable.
Straightforward.
Just a gun that looked like it would do its job if I did mine.
I should have stopped again.
Again, I did not.
Four extra pulls disappeared into trash because I convinced myself the good luck might continue.
It did not.
Twenty points remained.
I sat there staring at the number.
Then at the Glock.
Then at the pile of junk parcels.
"Controlled," I said to absolutely no one.
The apartment did not believe me.
Saturday made the duffel heavier.
Not full.
Heavier.
I spent the day arranging things by purpose.
Quiet tools.
Reliable tools.
Close-range tools.
Emergency tools.
Things too dangerous to casually touch.
The last category was mostly the RPG.
The apartment was starting to feel less like a place to live and more like a room where evidence waited to be discovered.
I cleaned the weapons again.
Practiced drawing without ammunition in the chamber.
Practiced recalling magazines.
Practiced not flinching when something flew back into my hand.
The improvements were small.
Small was still improvement.
That evening, I pulled five times.
The first four were duds.
The fifth was Epic.
I sat up before the parcel even finished materializing.
EPIC
BENELLI M4 PACKAGE
The case was long, sturdy, and heavy.
Inside rested a semiautomatic shotgun, ammunition, a sling, and maintenance tools.
I lifted it from the foam.
For a moment, I forgot to pretend I was calm.
The RPG had scared me.
This was different.
This was not spectacle.
This was something I could imagine using in a hallway, a stairwell, or a room where something was trying to reach me.
I held it longer than necessary.
Then a little longer after that.
"Okay," I murmured.
"Finally, something good."
This time, the words had weight behind them.
Fifteen points remained.
Sunday was when the Shelter timer began feeling short.
Less than two days.
That sounded like plenty until I remembered that D-Game did not care whether I felt ready.
I reviewed what I had.
Clothes.
Weapons.
Ammunition.
A better bag.
Improved control.
More supplies.
It was more than I had started with.
It was still less than I wanted.
That evening, I allowed myself two pulls.
Just two.
The first was garbage.
The second turned gold.
For a second, my brain refused to process it.
Then it caught up.
"Oh."
The gold animation continued.
"Oh!"
I leaned closer.
"Only two pulls?"
The result appeared.
LEGENDARY
I stood up so quickly my knee hit the table.
The pain barely registered, thanks to the overwhelming dopamine rushing through my very being.
"Finally!"
Then the item name appeared beneath it.
BEGINNER FIELD KIT
I stopped.
"Huh?"
I stared at the words.
"Beginner... Field Kit?"
My enthusiasm, which had been standing proudly a second ago, slowly sat back down.
"What, like camping supplies or something?"
No.
Wait.
RPG.
Shotgun.
Mace.
And now this?
"After all the illegal nonsense you've been throwing at me, this is where you suddenly become normal?"
I looked at the screen again.
BEGINNER FIELD KIT
The words did not change.
"What, am I getting a tent? A sleeping bag? A tiny stove?"
A Legendary tent might come with Wi-Fi and emotional support, but that would not be enough.
I spent almost a full minute glaring at the result like it had personally betrayed me.
Then I sighed.
"Fine."
The crate appeared near the wall.
Compact.
Square.
Neat.
Too neat.
I stood up and approached it with the cautious disappointment of a man preparing to receive premium camping equipment.
"There better be barbecue in here."
I opened the lid and peeked inside.
Three grenades sat in a neat row on the top layer of foam.
I stared at them.
One second.
Two.
Three.
"..."
I closed the lid.
Silence.
Then I opened it again, because apparently I needed to confirm the grenades had not transformed into trail mix while I blinked.
They had not.
Three fragmentation grenades.
Still sitting there.
Still very much not barbecue.
Beneath the top layer were two smoke grenades, two flashbangs, one compact demolition charge, and two remote detonators.
Ten pieces total.
A beginner field kit.
I slowly lowered the foam back into place.
Then I looked toward the bedroom.
The RPG was still under the bed.
The rockets were still in the closet.
I closed the crate with both hands, leaned back, and dragged my palms down my face.
"Is this game trying to make a terrorist or something?"
Thirteen points remained.
End of Chapter 31
___
Author's Note:
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