I learned the rules fast, because stupid people were happy to teach me.
The system protected players from random murder at first. If someone attacked a player who had not agreed to fight, the attacker got marked red. While that red mark lasted, their defense dropped, their escape skills weakened, and safe zone crystals could drag them into jail cells if they were knocked out nearby.
Most decent people saw that and avoided PvP. Player killers saw it and thought of ways to make victims swing first. They threw rocks. They stole food. They shoved children. They surrounded F-ranks and waited until fear made someone desperate enough to fight back.
I had no patience for that. So I became the easiest looking victim in the city.
I walked out of the mall with a gray F above my head, a cheap backpack over one shoulder, and a glowing S-rank tucked away like a hidden sun in my sleeve.
The city outside had transformed into a dungeon theme park designed by a madman. Streets were cracked with blue lava. Buses floated upside down above intersections. Apartment buildings had grown stone ribs and monster nests. In the distance, a tower had punched through downtown, black and silver, with gates opening and closing around it like blinking eyes.
Everywhere I looked, players were sorting themselves into little kingdoms. S-ranks had crowds. A-ranks had bodyguards. C-ranks had recruiters pulling them into teams. F-ranks had empty hands and terrified faces.
And then there was me, strolling down the middle of the road with my fake F-rank shining like a dinner bell.
The first ambush came before sunset.
Five players blocked the road near a pharmacy. They had no armor, no plan, and way too much confidence. Their leader had a D above his head and a smile that said he had been waiting his whole life for civilization to end.
He asked for my bag. I asked if he wanted the left strap or the right strap.
That confused him long enough for his friends to laugh. He stepped closer and grabbed my collar. Red sparks. Aggressor confirmed.
I raised my hands like I was scared and let him shove me against a car. The others came in to search my pockets. One took my bat. One tried to pull off my shoes. One said F-ranks should be grateful when stronger players let them live.
I waited until all five had touched me.
Then I revealed my S.
The leader blinked at the golden letter above my head. I grabbed his wrist and folded him into the hood of the car. The windshield shattered. The alarm screamed. His friends scattered.
But I had already figured out the fun part about shadow step. I did not need to chase the person. I only needed a shadow near them.
The street was full of overturned cars and burning signs. Shadows were everywhere. I vanished into the shadow of the car and came out of the shadow of a street lamp in front of the runner with my bat. One swing to the knee, one spin into the ribs, one elbow into the chin. Then I stepped through the shadow of his falling body and appeared behind the next one.
To anyone watching, I must have looked like a glitch with anger issues.
In eight seconds, all five were on the ground with red marks pulsing over their heads. A safe zone crystal stood in the pharmacy entrance, humming faintly. I dragged the leader by one ankle toward it while he screamed that this was unfair.
Unfair was trying to rob F-ranks. This was delivery.
The crystal flashed. Chains made of light shot out, wrapped around all five red marked players, and pulled them into floating glass cells behind the counter. Their weapons dropped. Their bags dropped. Their dignity also dropped, but sadly there was no inventory slot for that.
I took the stolen supplies from their bags, returned what I could to the people hiding nearby, and kept the monster cores because I had done the workout.
That was how my first day ended. Not with sleep. With a reputation.
By morning, people were whispering about a fake F-rank who baited killers into attacking and fed them to jail crystals. Some called me brave. Some called me insane. A few called me a liar, which was technically the most accurate.
I met Riley at a safe zone convenience store while buying instant noodles with monster cores. He was a B-rank, thin, messy-haired, and wearing three backpacks at once like a human storage rack. His ability let him reinforce cheap items with monster materials. That meant he could turn a plastic raincoat into decent armor, or a kitchen knife into something that could cut through monster hide. It also meant every guild wanted him and he trusted none of them.
He watched my F-rank for ten straight seconds, then looked at the red player killer tags still fading from my wrist.
He said, "That rank is fake, isn't it?"
I said, "The noodles are real."
That was enough for him.
Riley sold me a black hooded jacket lined with wolf teeth, a collapsible chain made from bus cables, and a snack cake that he claimed had been blessed by luck, because it survived the apocalypse without getting crushed. The jacket could absorb weak attacks. The chain could extend when charged with mana. The snack cake tasted like dust and betrayal.
I kept buying from him anyway. He became the first person who did not beg me to protect him or ask me to join his group. He just looked at my fake F-rank, looked at the way player killers stared at me from across the store, and muttered that my business model was terrible but entertaining.