Chapter 133: Mental Zombies Revive with Caffeine

Suffering because I only slept two hours today? Such excuses don't fly in MMOs. If you have time to move your mouth making excuses, that resource should be used for chanting magic. In short, I went back and forth between reality and ShanFro, finishing various errands.

Things that would normally be done without feeling much hardship take quite a toll when done almost without rest immediately after fighting an unconventional strong enemy like Lycaon the Night Raider. Though honestly, most of the mental fatigue is due to the Usurper Dragon. Uumu, I really want a long-range attack method.

Besides that, getting lectured by Bilac who screamed upon seeing the battered Gilta Brille, making Bilac scream further by consecutively pushing weapon repairs, enhancements, and creating new armor onto her, making Peets scream by bulk-selling a massive amount of materials because I was short on money, making Emul scream at Elke who caught the scent of money, making Bilac scream at the armor completely shattered for a certain "verification"... Rabituza this morning was 60% noisier than usual. But thanks to that, the gains were huge. Especially the "Scar" that was updated by Lycaon—as some kind of harassment—fulfilled my earnest wish while extremely twisting it, so verifying it was an urgent task in many ways.

Three minutes. That is the time limit until armor equipped on the cursed torso and leg parts explodes into smithereens. Regardless of defense power, a uniform three minutes. Whether it's legendary-class armor or paper armor sold around the corner, it explodes the moment you finish pouring hot water into your cup noodles. I am humbled; it is more fleeting than a cicada.

Not questioning the nobility, baseness, strength, or weakness of the armor means that even Non-Standard Special Reinforced Armor explodes in three minutes. Regarding shattering the newly made armor without a trace, I expressed my apologies to the creator Bilac-sama, while simultaneously expressing deep gratitude for the noble sacrifice for verification. I was forgiven with a headbutt to the solar plexus. Or rather, wouldn't someone metamorphosing into half-naked every three minutes while walking around town definitely be reported? In terms of guards and management alike.

Three minutes. If completely Written Off (Used Up) as an active buff with a time limit rather than passive equipment, it's long, but considering it as the time to remain an intelligent entity with minimal decency, it's too short. Whether stocking a massive amount of armor or unequipping and reusing them at 2 minutes 59 seconds, it continually costs money. Treating it as a type of buff is indeed kindest to the wallet and the most effective way to handle the equipment... I suppose.

In that regard, having Inventoria is a huge advantage. As long as I have money, I can use the three-minute buff almost inexhaustibly. Gathering a full set of equipment would inflict a critical hit to my wallet, plus I'd have to continuously hunt specific monsters, which is impossible right now while pressed for time. But after everything is done, it might be good to pause the rushed conquest and slowly work on filling out my equipment.

I need to return to Barren Darkruin anyway.

There were no changes to skills, and armor remained the same, so the biggest change was to weapons. First, I enhanced and revamped most of the weapons, including the Marsh Daggers, the veterans among my handheld weapons in terms of maintaining their original shape. Because I pushed it a bit, my wallet was blown away. My materials on hand were also blown away.

Right now, I am beyond penniless... yes, a state that should be called super-penniless. I never thought I would end up in the red even after using all the profits gained from the various things obtained by conquering Barren Darkruin. I need a way to make money, no matter what it is, and at a get-rich-quick level.

Oh right, they mentioned something about pirates; I wonder if I can fish. The salmon I fished up endlessly in the Iron Ruins of the Divine Age fetched a good price, so in the great ocean leading to the New Continent... couldn't I catch tuna or something? Tuna is good, tuna is fine, but you have to observe proper dosage and administration. When my dad brought home a stupidly huge bluefin tuna once, it was a hellish scene of tuna for three meals a day for three days and three nights.

I never thought the fat of toro (fatty tuna) would be tough to stomach at a young age not even twenty. When the tuna's head was sitting in the middle of the dining table for the Last Supper, our family silently eating tuna hamburgers in an almost cult-like atmosphere was...

"Uwaa—"

Ah, this is bad. Because I chose to stay silent due to various fatigues, my thoughts are getting weirder and weirder. Why am I passionately thinking about tuna? That said, I took a bath and downed an energy drink, so in a bit, the caffeine will circulate through my whole body and I'll be in a high state... Caffeine is legal, yes, legal.

If my usual Bird Mask is lively, right now it's a dead Bird Mask. Eyes mushy like a chicken head some time after decapitation, and staggering Uboa Uboa with Zombie (Staggering) steps that would definitely earn a shotgun blast if this were that kind of game. Walking down Ruffian Street like this, even I think I look exactly like a monster trying to slip into darkness, hating the light.

Coupled with the Scars on my torso and legs, which have gained even more sinister appearances, I must look like a corpse exhausted from a deathmatch, forcibly moving its tattered body and wandering around... But still, stop readying your weapons, seriously.

Even though the number of blatantly ill-behaved NPCs has increased, every single one of them doesn't even try to talk to me, showing an attitude like "Must not get involved with that." What is this? If I shout "O"eauo"o"a"aaaa" and bite someone, wouldn't the AI arbitrarily misunderstand and cause a zombie panic?

"............Hm?"

Suddenly, I notice a duo of players walking ahead. While NPCs and players alike are heading toward the stupidly huge ship at the port, a Bowman and a Magician are proceeding toward Ruffian Street, the dark underbelly of this town, just like me. The petite Bowman has brown skin and a silver short bob; if she had pointed ears, she's That Convincing (looks the part) enough to be believed if someone said she was a Dark Elf.

The large Magician on the other hand... how should I put it, wrong job? Even though he looks like a battle-hardened swordsman, or a master general who achieved a hundred-man slash unscathed on the battlefield, he's a magic class. From what I can see, isn't he a so-called "Pure Mage" who completely abandoned physical attack power? Despite his rugged appearance, his walking style is somewhat flimsy... No, it's rare to see a player who can fully roleplay down to their movements, but that's not even a sheep in wolf's clothing. At best, a sheep with a doodle of a wolf on it.

"Feels like déjà vu."

An unsociable shorty and a flimsy giant... Intense déjà vu. To be specific, quite recently I hard-countered and beat them to a pulp, and got hard-countered and beaten to a pulp by them. Looking at the player names displayed above their heads... Shorty is "Rust" and Giant is "Mold," yup, bingo.

In this kind of Full Dive, the physical effect on mentality directly links to the avatar's movements as a result.

Though I haven't experienced it, my current mentality, which is in a state close to a hangover or right after working overtime, is a zombie on the verge of reviving via energy drink power. Thoughts are facing the day after tomorrow, and resources barely allocated to recognizing surroundings make my body move with "Approach those two."

Oh, Mold noticed me.

"GOOOOD MOOORNING......"

"Hiee."

Oi.

"A weird outfit... Is that your hobby?"

"Mostly because of a guy named Lycaon. I just split her jaw a few hours ago, but she harassed me even more..."

"Lycaon... wasn't that a Unique Monster?"

Whether it's Unique or not doesn't matter, Mold-kun. The point is whether you can punch it. Ultimately, that's the most important thing. Muscle-brain thinking isn't bad, but punching without thinking is second-rate muscle-brain. First-rate always thinks about maximum efficiency and maximum firepower when punching.

Perhaps the caffeine has circulated from my stomach to my brain; my thoughts are coming together. Having escaped from being a mental zombie, the current me even has the leeway to enjoy the surrounding scenery.

"But how should I put it... It's a sight like a town roughly compressed."

"I heard that when building Fifticia, they had to hurriedly create places for the workers to live, so It ended up like that..."

"So the temporary housing that finished its role after the town was completed became a hotbed for ruffians just like that..."

Looking up, the wreckage of a ship—likely split vertically in two, a size not inferior to the giant ships waiting to depart at the port—is left on the ground as if hiding the morning sun, and a massive number of shacks are densely packed as if using it as a wall.

They say "Sweeping a square room roundly," but this is the opposite. It's a gloomy sight mixed with the smell of the tide and humidity, carrying the danger of burning down completely if a fire breaks out, like scattered houses swept into the middle.

It stands out all the more because the entirety of Fifticia, excluding Ruffian Street, is a cityscape that gives a refreshing impression.

"...Currently setting a new record. Half-naked power is amazing."

"Pardon?"

When I asked what she meant, apparently it's "Time from entering Ruffian Street until being tangled with by NPCs." By the way, the record is apparently two and a half minutes by Mold, who maintained a fierce face to the limit and kept glaring at his surroundings. By the way, five minutes have already passed since we entered this area.

Guys licking their knives and laughing, guys who look like they think they can solve everything in the world with their fists, guys with faces that look like they could kill a person while thinking about dinner menu. They first look at Rust and show interest, next look at Mold and feel convinced "We can take him," and finally look at me and make a face like "Oh crap" and move away. The eyes looking at me are completely those looking at a "Magic Beast walking heavily next to a prime catch and a flimsy-looking guy attached to her." Shouldn't it be okay for me to kick them once?

However, while players are one thing, I understand the NPCs' attitudes too. After all, a soul-level wound is carved into my body by that accursed shitty wolf. No one would want to pick a fight with a guy sporting the stamp of approval of a natural disaster in two places. If they were players, they could understand from the name floating above my head that the human "Me" is just an ordinary person doing roleplay, but for NPCs for whom this world is reality, there's no way to understand that I'm just a high school student.

"Ah—, hiding Emul is troublesome, so the muffler act is enough."

"I-It was a masterpiece mimicry seen once in fifty years! Why are you exposing it desu wa!?"

"Next year it'll be 'Due to good weather this year, the finish is on par with last year. Fluffy with good fur quality,' eh?"

"The muffler..."

"Talked!?"

I intended to reveal it anyway, and once inside the town, it won't matter. Ignoring the two looking at the Talking Monster (Emul) with astonished eyes, I recalled the place we're heading to, what we'll do now, and what we'll do After this.........

From here begins my deadly busy week.

Author's Afterword
Apparently, there is a guy emitting an intimidating aura on the level of "Seven Scars on the Chest."