[Chapter 128. Inside the Ruined City]

Searanox materialized on the fourth floor, his boots making almost no sound against the cold stone as he stepped into the hallway. The silence of the tower at night was absolute, broken only by the faint, rhythmic hum of the core deep beneath the foundation. He pushed open the door to Iris’s room, the hinges moving with a well-maintained silence. The dim light spilling in from the corridor cast long, skeletal shadows across the sparse, utilitarian furnishings as he approached her bedside.

The faint rustle of clothing being removed stirred Iris from her heavy sleep. Her eyes, silver and animalistic, widened in the darkness as they adjusted to his silhouette looming over her. There was a moment of instinctual tension, a sharp intake of breath, but it vanished as soon as she recognized the scent of him—cold, metallic, and predatory.

His hand moved with lightning speed, covering her muzzle and silencing any reaction before it could fully form. "Shhh," he whispered, the sound more of a command than a comfort. His fingers slid down the side of her face to the joint of her jaw, scratching the sensitive fur there with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

"Be a good girl and help me calm down," he said, his voice dropping into a low, vibrato-rich register that carried a hint of his natural allure. He positioned himself between her legs, his movements efficient and devoid of standard romantic pretension.

Iris stared up at him, her silver eyes reflecting the minimal light of the room like two burning coals. A soft, submissive hum vibrated deep in her throat as she gave a small, rhythmic nod. She understood her role. In the wake of the psychic assault from Marus and the boiling frustration of the night’s delays, Searanox didn't need a partner; he needed a vessel for his agitation.

When he finally left her room a short while later, the sheets were a chaotic mess of wrinkles, stained with damp patches that caught the moonlight. He didn't look back as the door clicked shut.

The rooftop offered a breathtaking view of the clear night sky, the stars scattered like diamond dust against a backdrop of infinite black velvet. Below, the violet light from the tower’s exterior lines pulsed rhythmically—a heartbeat of contained, artificial power that signaled to the world that this territory was claimed.

Searanox stood at the edge of the parapet, his mind racing through calculations. The six dungeons scattered around the perimeter of his tower were almost ready for farming. However, Marus had robbed him of more than just a first-clear bonus—the spirit had robbed him of time.

The three-hour flight back to the tower to dispose of the possessed blade had been a tactical necessity, but it was an irritation that rankled. The global announcement had already broadcast his name to every survivor under the systems rule. The clock was ticking.

Before he was done with the ruined city, one specific thing remained: that massive mana signature he had detected during his drone sweep. It was too large to be a standard dungeon and too stable to be a random anomaly.

He didn't waste the rest of the night. Within a couple hours, he had systematically cleared six more localized dungeons in a blur of violet beams and mechanical efficiency. Eighty-nine silver coins now rested in his storage ring, clinking together with a satisfying weight.

As he flew back toward the city on his travel drone, he consumed a hurried, cold meal. He pried open a tin of canned ravioli with his Corroded Fang, the metallic taste of the container sharp against his tongue. He washed it down with lukewarm iced tea, the sugar providing a much-needed spike to his focus. It was a mundane, human ritual that felt increasingly alien to his evolving nature, yet he clung to it for the sake of grounding himself.

In the waning hours of the night, as the horizon began to bleed a pale, sickly grey, Searanox landed kilometers outside the city's jagged perimeter. He dismissed the drone into a cloud of cyan sparks and began the trek inward. The journey through the outskirts was trivial with his enhanced attributes—a light, effortless jog that would have winded a marathon runner, but barely registered as a warm-up for him.

Inside the city, a different kind of turmoil was churning through the streets. It felt like poison in a well. The aftermath of his earlier slaughter of the gate guards had rippled through the local populace in waves of frantic, panicked activity. The 'Boss' was clearly tightening his grip, and the locals were paying the price for the breach in security.

As he entered the city proper, navigating through the shadows of collapsed tenements, he witnessed the cost of that tightening grip. A man clad in mismatched System Shop Armor—heavy iron plates that didn't quite fit his frame—was dragging a sobbing woman from a doorway by her hair.

An older woman staggered onto the stoop behind them, her hands clasped together in a desperate supplication. "Please don't! Not my daughter! She’s all I have left!"

"Silence, old hag," the man snapped, not even bothering to look back. "Keep wailing, and I’ll have your husband pulled from the labor pits to join the front lines today. You know the rules: the Boss needs 'entertainment' to keep the morale up after what happened at the gate."

The older woman collapsed against the doorframe, her broken wails cutting through the still night air like a knife. Searanox watched from the shadows of an alleyway, his eyes glowing a faint, predatory spark in them.

This wasn't an isolated incident of cruelty. Before he had even reached the inner city center, he had witnessed similar scenes four more times. Each victim—always young, always terrified—was being hauled in the same direction: toward the massive, 'pristine' building at the city’s heart.

`Apparently, the fallout of the gate slaughter wasn't entirely my doing.` Searanox mused, his internal voice dry. `The 'Lord' of this place simply enjoys the company of others a bit too much.`

He moved through the streets with a ghost-like fluidity, the scenes of misery leaving no visible impression on his features. Empathy was a luxury he had discarded long ago in the ruined wastes of the old world. The buildings in the city center stood mostly intact, a stark contrast to the skeletal, fire-blackened ruins of the outskirts. Thousands of people were crammed into these hastily patched structures, living like rats in a gilded, crumbling cage.

And there, rising above the squalor like a monument to ego, was the structure he had been looking for. It was a luxury hotel, almost completely untouched by the decay that had claimed the rest of the world. It was no surprise that this was where all the women were being taken.

`Power attracts parasites.` He thought. `And parasites love a comfortable host.`

"Stop right there, stranger."

A gravelly voice, thick with the arrogance of unearned authority, cut through the tension of the street.

Searanox stopped and turned slowly. He kept his hood up, his expression masked in the deep shadows. "Yes?"

The man approaching him was a brute of a human, his system shop armor stained with old blood and dented from lack of care. He leveled a rusted halberd toward Searanox’s chest. "You’re a new face. Can’t say I’ve seen someone dressed in high-tier gear like you around here before. You come from the northern camps?"

"Just passing through," Searanox said, his tone perfectly neutral, devoid of any inflection that might betray his disgust. "I saw the buildings and the lights. I figured there might be strength in numbers in a place like this."

The guard scratched a greasy chin, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sleek, black lines of Searanox’s coat and the faint hum of the magitech equipment concealed beneath. "You look like you can handle yourself. High level, traveler? Or just lucky with the loot drops?"

"The roads get rough after dark. Luck doesn't keep you alive for eight days," Searanox replied carefully. "The name’s Victor."

"Right, Victor," the guard grunted, the tip of his halberd dipping slightly as his greed began to outweigh his caution. He gestured toward the intact hotel looming ahead. "With gear like that, Thomas will want you on the watch. We’ve been losing men to... accidents... lately. Follow me."

Searanox hesitated for a calculated second, playing the part of a wary drifter. "I’m still deciding if I’m staying. I value my autonomy."

A jagged, yellow-toothed grin spread across the guard’s face. "Let me convince you, then. Guards in this city have privileges that the 'fodder' out there can only dream of. Thomas takes care of his own."

"Privileges?" Searanox asked, feigning a flicker of interest.

"We answer only to Thomas," the guard said, his hand landing heavily and familiarly on Searanox’s shoulder as he began to guide him toward the hotel entrance. "That means certain freedoms. No labor. Priority on the rations. And first pick of the 'new arrivals.'"

"Like extra food and safety?" Searanox probed, playing the part of the hungry newcomer.

"More than that," the guard chuckled, a wet, unpleasant sound. "Better to show than tell. All the 'Elites' live here. Same building as the Boss."

The walk into the hotel lobby was silent and awkward. When the guard pushed open the heavy glass doors, the interior looked like any other high-end hotel from before the fall—simple, slightly worn, but remarkably unremarkable given the state of the world outside.

"There are plenty of rooms here for the guards," the man said, his smile stretching even wider. "If you feel like entertaining yourself after a long trek, the ballroom is always open."

As he led Searanox deeper into the hotel, the sounds from the upper floors grew clearer—the faint, rhythmic whimpering and muffled sobs from behind closed doors, interspersed with the low, guttural moans of men. Searanox didn't need to look to know what was happening in those rooms. It was the oldest story in history: the strong devouring the weak.

"The entertainment room," the guard announced with a flourish, pushing open a pair of massive double doors. "Open to all sworn members whenever you're not on the perimeter patrol."

Beyond the doors was a converted ballroom that had been turned into a den of debauchery. It was a grotesque sight. Dozens of mattresses were laid directly on the polished marble floor, where men were rutting with women in various states of undress. Others lounged on previously expensive velvet couches, women pressed against their sides like living dolls, while they sipped from bottles of looted wine.

At the center of the room, seated on a makeshift throne of stacked sofas, was a broad-shouldered man in his late thirties or early forties. He looked remarkably ordinary—like a suburban father you’d see at a weekend barbecue. He was clean-shaven, his hair neatly combed, and he had a relaxed, jovial expression. He had three women draped over him, and he was laughing at a joke made by two other men of similar age and build seated nearby.

`That would be Thomas.` Searanox stated, his eyes fixed on the man in the center.

The guard nodded and approached the central group. "Thomas! Sorry to interrupt the party, but I found a live one on the street. High level, good gear. Says his name is Victor. Might be interested in joining the inner circle."

A brief, hushed conversation passed between the two man and Thomas. Then Thomas looked Searanox up and down, his eyes sharp and calculating, belying his friendly appearance. After a moment, Thomas waved him over.

Searanox crossed the ballroom in a few measured, rhythmic strides. He felt the eyes of the other guards on him—some curious, some hostile, all of them beneath his notice.

Before Searanox could even reach for a seat, Thomas spoke, his voice surprisingly soft and articulate. "So, 'Victor.' A Progenitor? Or are you just one of his buddies wearing his hand-me-downs?"

The room went deathly silent. The men on the mattresses stopped their movements. The women looked up, eyes hollow and wide.

"That certainly makes things easier," Searanox answered, his hand reaching up to pull back his hood. He revealed his stark, pale skin and the crimson glint in his eyes. "Yes. I am Searanox."

The guard who had brought him in stumbled back, his hand instinctively going for his halberd.

"You don't seem surprised by my appearance," Searanox said, his gaze shifting to Thomas. "Most humans find my appearance... off-putting."

"Nah," Thomas replied, leaning back and taking a slow sip from a crystal glass. "We were in the system space too during the 'tutorial'. We saw the options." He gestured to the room around him. "In case you haven't noticed, we've embraced the new order."

As Searanox moved to take the seat directly across from him, a cold shower creeped down his back. A feeling utterly strange and unwelcome to him. At the same time one of Thomas’s companions paled visibly. His face drained of color as he stared at Searanox.