"Don’t forget yer boots," The dwarf said as Kael was about to leave the workshop.

Kael had already taken two steps toward the door, hand hovering near the latch like he could slip out before the old man changed his mind again. Andre’s voice snagged him by the collar anyway, flat, rough, and annoyingly practical. Kael paused, then glanced back over his shoulder.

The dwarf was still planted on his bed like a grumpy gargoyle, pipe between his fingers, smoke crawling up toward the ceiling beams and staining the air with that bitter, burned-leaf smell.

Kael nodded to the old man who continued to smoke his own pipe and drink as he sat on his bed. Andre didn’t bother standing. Didn’t bother "wishing him luck." The closest the dwarf got to affection was a warning, and even that sounded like an insult.

Kael crossed the workshop and grabbed the pair of boots, and inspected them. The leather looked worn-in, not rotten. The stitching wasn’t pretty, but it was tight. More importantly, no newbie stamp screaming at his ankles anymore. That alone was worth a lot in a community floor where everyone’s eyes worked like knives.

[Old Leather Boots]

+5% movement speed.

Plane old boots that offer a small comfort to the wearer that they’ll not prick themselves on random stuff on the ground. Nothing much in terms of protection is offered.

**

Kael stared at the window for a second longer than he meant to. Old. Not rare. Not epic. Not "Journeyman’s." Just old boots with a small speed buff and the world’s most underwhelming description. On the surface, it was a pity gift.

Under the surface, it was a message.

Kael understood why the old man gave him these boots more than anyone. It wasn’t to just hide the fact that he was a newbie. But also a small push for him, to make Kael use his hands more, to create better materials to wear. This was a base. And once Kael returns to the old man, if he ever. He better have some other boots than these.

The boots weren’t "good," but they were honest. They didn’t pretend to be a miracle, and they didn’t demand worship. They were the kind of gear that said: walk, survive, learn, come back with something you earned.

"Thanks, old man,"

Andre didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The pipe smoke did the talking, lazy curls that looked like dismissal. But Kael caught the smallest shift in the dwarf’s shoulders, like he’d heard it anyway and chose to pretend he didn’t.

Once Kael was out, he was surprised to see that it was already morning. Not the "nice morning" kind either, this place’s daylight felt like it belonged to stone and dust, not to warmth. The streets had already started humming with motion: boots on pavement, armor clinking, vendors yelling, people arguing about routes and rumors like their lives depended on it.

’Of course it’ll be morning, I’ve spent the whole night improving these,’ he muttered as he looked at his gauntlets.

Even with the forge behind him, he could still feel them on his arms like phantom weight. The way the cylinders clicked. The way the palms carried cores like loaded ammunition. He flexed his fingers once out of habit, then stopped himself.

’But they still look too eye-catching,’ he immediately unequipped them.

The action immediately dematerialized the whole gauntlets from over his hands, and they appeared in his inventory, the system’s inventory. One blink they were there, the next they were gone, no straps, no buckles, no awkward "taking time to remove armor." Convenient... and also terrifying.

’Good for now,’ he said, and forced his shoulders to loosen like he wasn’t walking around with weapons that could turn a man into paste.

He also removed the helmet. The Spartan helmet was pretty cool, he believed, but it was too eyecatching. It didn’t matter how "useful" it was; on a community floor, looking cool was a kind of suicide. Cool got noticed. Noticed got followed. Followed got robbed.

The air hit his face raw when the helmet came off. It felt colder than it should’ve, like the tower’s wind had teeth. He ran a thumb over the edge of his brow where the hair had singed before, still tender if he pressed too hard.

His Journeyman’s leather jacket was proof that he wasn’t wearing something casual, but at the same time, not something worth risking one’s life to obtain. So it didn’t draw any attention, and if it did it’ll be minor. Which was something he could manage.

He slid the new boots on and tightened them. The leather creaked softly. It felt... normal. Too normal for what he’d been through. Kael hated that kind of normal. It made him suspicious.

’I feel lost,’ he thought as he turned to the left and then to the right.

Not lost in a "can’t navigate" way. His map could tell him where anything was if he asked it right. This was the other kind of lost, the kind you get when you’re finally not sprinting from death and your brain suddenly remembers it’s allowed to think.

He almost wanted to go back and ask Andre on what he was supposed to do, but he felt he’ll bother the man too much and also, he’ll need to start relying on his own effort to find his way around this place. He won’t have much help in other floors. So, might as well start getting used to this world.

Kael moved forward, seeing that many people were... quite frankly, living quietly here.

That was the strange part. After the first floor, after goblin stink, basilisk blood, and Ifrit heat, this place looked almost civilized. "Almost" being the key word. It wasn’t peace. It was a pause between teeth.

There were couples here and there, a few adventurers that were too boisterous in recounting tales of their adventures. A man on the sideline begging for some cores, and even a couple of onlookers checking everyone who moved up or down the street.

Those onlookers weren’t guards. They didn’t have uniforms. They just stood there with the posture of predators pretending to be lamp posts, eyes tracking gear, posture, confidence. Kael didn’t look back at them directly. Looking back was an invitation.

’Not a single child in sight,’ Kael realized.

It hit him harder than he expected. On Earth you couldn’t walk ten meters without seeing something that reminded you the world kept producing innocence even when it shouldn’t. Here? Nothing. Everyone was old enough to regret their choices. Everyone was old enough to be judged.

After all, the tower only accepted those who have come of age and are old enough in it. It’ll be almost impossible to see a small kid or child in here.

Kael kept moving up ahead, his only point of reference so far was what the barman said. The information guild.

Maybe he’ll find something worth grabbing there. It also comes at a risk. The kind of risk that wasn’t claws and fire, just eyes and mouths and rumors.

If he went there, and someone recognizes that he’s just a newbie, he might get in trouble.

But if he doesn’t go there, he’ll be missing out on information.

’Gotta go there anyway- Cough!"

Kael coughed involuntarily loud.

It exploded out of him like his lungs had decided to betray him in public. He clamped his jaw after, annoyed at himself like coughing was a personal failure. A few heads turned. The street didn’t stop moving, but the attention flickered toward him in that way that felt like fingertips brushing your pockets.

The two onlookers spotted him and began saying something to each other. He didn’t catch the words, but he caught the shape of it, one leaning slightly, the other’s chin tipping in his direction.

He ignored the two and moved forward, cursing inwardly for not being able to stop a simple cough.

Following his own map, he found the information guild rather easily.

The building itself didn’t look like a "guild hall" the way Kael expected. No banners, no grand statue. Just a wide front, thick doors, and a steady flow of masked faces entering and exiting like it was a market for secrets.

At the door, he found several people selling random stuff.

The air here was busy in a different way, vendors shouting, boots scuffing, paper and ink smell mixing with sweat and iron. A low murmur of deals and directions.

One of them shouting at the top of his lungs, "SELLING VANITAS TORCHES! Come grab your Vanitas torches! You don’t want to get stuck in a Vanitas stage without one!"

Yet, most of the onlookers or passersby didn’t even give him a second glance. Since most of them who came here had one person to go to.

An old man selling masks.

Small paper masks, nothing too fancy, but enough to cover one’s face.

Kael watched the exchange twice and understood it fast. People didn’t even haggle. They dropped cores, grabbed a mask like they were buying anonymity, then walked in like they had always belonged.

The people dropped a couple of cores to the man and grabbed the masks they wanted, then headed into the guild.

Kael understood the reasoning without needing to ask anyone.

It wasn’t just "privacy." It was a buffer. A mask meant you could talk about a route, a dungeon, a weakness, without giving someone a face to hunt later. Everyone here was paranoid for a reason. Paranoia was just experience that hadn’t killed you yet.