One thing Dirga noticed right away—the Order of the Infinite Coin didn’t just handle quests.
They sold the tools to survive them.
The receptionist had given him a direction: "For internal gear requisition, follow the golden path down the east corridor." Simple enough. But Dirga hadn’t expected what lay at the end.
He pushed open the reinforced door and stepped into a chamber humming with quiet energy.
A sub-level bazaar built into the guild headquarters itself. Unlike the public streets of Ortheva, this space was quiet. Efficient. Dangerous in a different way.
There were no vendors shouting here.
No scam artists or beggars. Just a curated line of booths and stalls manned by official guild suppliers, each selling gear meant for killers, hunters, and elite operatives.
It wasn’t chaos. It was precision.
Each customer was screened at the entrance. You needed a valid guild ID just to enter—Dirga’s had flickered gold the second the door recognized him.
And now, walking through the marble-tiled aisle, Dirga felt the weight of it.
This was a place for professionals.
Failures didn’t shop here.
The air smelled of cold metal and arcane flux. The lighting was soft, but not warm. Everything about this place whispered: prepare well, or die fast.
Dirga moved through the vaulted chamber with steady steps, heading for a booth marked by a stylized emblem: a folded tent encircled by a loop of runes—survival gear.
Exactly what he needed.
Behind the counter stood a burly, four-eyed creature wrapped in a black-and-gold technician’s coat.
His mechanical arms gleamed beneath his sleeves, and two of his eyes were massive, rotating lenses—like arcane sniper scopes grafted into his skull. Half-machine.
Half-beast. All business.
When he grinned, it revealed rows of polished brass teeth.
"Hohoho! Welcome, welcome!" the creature bellowed, spreading his arms theatrically. "Name’s Omni. What can I do for you today?"
Dirga nodded once. "I’m heading into the Dusk Forest. I need gear. Enough to last two weeks, minimum."
"Ahhh, an adventurer! Excellent. Lucky for you, I’ve got just the thing." Omni reached under the counter and lifted a sleek black backpack etched with silver runes.
placing it on the display pad with a little flourish. "All-in-one survival rig. Collapsible tent. Internal storage vault. Ration holder. Blood-seal lock. Waterproof, dustproof, fire-resistant."
He tapped the side, and the pack pulsed once, the runes glowing faint blue.
"I’ll bind it to your Zarion signature and throw in a standard survival kit—includes a map of the forest, two weeks’ ration bricks, flares, stitching balm, and a core-heater."
Dirga tilted his head. The backpack reminded him of the one he’d used with Saelari in the past—the one he’d given to her when they parted ways.
How long ago had that been?
He pulled himself from the memory. "How much?"
Omni rubbed his chin, then gave a beaming, fang-filled smile.
"One hundred Devil Gold."
Dirga’s brow twitched.
Survival wasn’t cheap. Especially not here. In Ortheva, death had a price tag, and the market decided how high it went.
But... it came fully loaded. Bound to his energy signature. And it would save him time—maybe even his life.
He pulled out his guild ID and scanned it over the payment node.
Transaction complete.
"Much appreciated!" Omni grinned and slid the receipt chip into Dirga’s ID. "And hey, if you need anything more exotic later—explosives, void-thread, necro-flares—I’ve tagged my contact in your card."
Omni gave a playful wink with one mechanical eye, which rotated like a lens shutter.
Dirga gave a small nod, slung the backpack over his shoulder, and turned toward the exit.
Dirga stepped out from the gilded gates of the Order of the Infinite Coin.
The air in Sector A was still crisp, polished, like everything here had been buffed for luxury.
But Dirga had no time to bask in it. He had a forest to conquer.
His hand slid into his coat, pulling out the Ortheva ID card—and once again, he was reminded of how useful this level was.
One of the perks? Free use of the teleportation stations.
Dirga exhaled in relief. "If I had to pay 200 Devil Gold per jump like Level 6 users..." he muttered. "I’d be broke before I even reached the forest."
It wasn’t just a financial issue. Time was currency, too. The faster he reached his destination, the sooner he could start adapting.
Training. Pushing past limits the others hadn’t even seen yet.
As he walked, a soft ping echoed from the card.
Dirga flicked it open.
Hello Mr. Dirgantara.
Do you want to fight again in the Gemspire Ring?
Dirga stared at the message, blank-faced.
"How the hell did he even get my contact?"
Maybe later. If he had time. For now, his path pointed toward power—not spectacle.
Still, part of him wondered how far he could push himself in the ring.
Fighting for credits was one thing. Fighting for evolution was another. But sometimes they overlapped. Maybe after the forest.
He reached the teleport station, a spire of black crystal laced with glowing Zarion veins.
Sleek panels hovered midair, humming with quiet energy. A robotic attendant bowed to him as he approached.
Dirga scanned his ID card.
A list of destinations bloomed across the interface.
He selected: Sector Z.
nd then—fwwwooshh—Zarion surged around him like liquid light, wrapping him in threads of translucent energy.
His heartbeat slowed, syncing with the rhythmic pulse of the teleport gate.
There was always that half-second of dislocation—a soft tearing at the edges of consciousness—before the world snapped back together.
And with a whisper of power, he vanished.
Sector Z greeted him like a punch to the senses.
Gone was the quiet elegance of Sector A—the spacious walkways, the curated silence, the expensive perfumes wafting from boutique corridors.
Chaos lived and breathed.
Dirga stepped out into a wall of noise, heat, and motion. Crowds surged like ocean currents through the cramped streets—vendors shouting over one another, creatures of every shape and race
The air smelled of spice, smoke, oil, and something unmistakably alive.
People bumped past him without apology. Neon signs blinked in languages he didn’t recognize.
Somewhere in the distance, music blared. Somewhere closer, someone screamed about getting shortchanged.
And Dirga stood still for a second.
"...Not even one weeks ago," he muttered.
Not even one weeks ago, he’d arrived here—a lone newcomer dragged through the dust, fighting to survive in the Dusk Forest with Kaela, Theryn, and Saelari.
He was walking into this madness with purpose. With power. With something like direction.
He tightened the straps on his new gear-laden backpack, adjusted the collar of his coat, and moved forward.
Back to where it all began.