World of Rules

City of the Night

As evening fell, the secret meeting in the cave began to lose momentum. There was nothing left to discuss—everyone had agreed on the next course of action. Each leader returned to their family, heading toward their respective headquarters to plan the next step.

As for "D," he had stopped watching them. There was no longer any need for stealth or eavesdropping—he had obtained all the information he needed. The formation was incomplete, and the solution lay in the hands of another distant family. He had no reason to remain there any longer.

With quiet steps, he returned to the city, slipping through narrow alleys, avoiding prying eyes.

---

The Night City

When he arrived, the streets were still alive. Merchants called out for their goods, torches lit up the alleys, and passersby moved between shops and restaurants.

He paused for a moment, observing the bustling life. Since arriving in this world, he hadn't taken time to appreciate the scene. He had been too busy—killing, watching, planning.

He decided to take a stroll.

Walking through the markets, his eyes wandered over the strange merchandise—the drinks that glowed with a blue shimmer, the fruits emitting unfamiliar scents, the weapons engraved with ancient inscriptions. But none of it truly interested him. He had no need for food, and he had no time to play with useless weapons.

After some time, he stopped in front of a small but elegant restaurant, its façade adorned with red lanterns and finely carved wooden panels.

He stepped inside. The place was modest yet well-kept, with several customers sitting at tables, engaged in quiet conversation as they ate. He paid them no mind, heading directly to the establishment’s owner—a middle-aged man with neat clothing and sharp eyes.

"I need a room," D said in a calm voice.

The owner studied him briefly before asking, "Duration of stay?"

"A month."

"The price: one primal stone."

Without hesitation, D reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, semi-transparent gray stone, no larger than half a thumb. It emitted a faint glow, as if it contained hidden energy within.

He tossed it onto the table.

The owner examined the stone for a moment before picking it up with a satisfied smile.

"Accepted. Your room is upstairs—number seven."

D gave a slight nod without another word and made his way toward the staircase.

Primal stones were the primary currency among the "Lords of the Domain." Gold and silver meant nothing to them—strength was what determined one’s status in this world. These stones contained pure energy that could be used for training, crafting tools, or even activating formations.

Each stone held a certain amount of energy, varying in quality, but all were far more valuable than any metal.

And as for D, he had a fair amount—collected from the corpses of his victims the previous night.

He entered his room and shut the door behind him.

The space was not luxurious, but it was clean and quiet. A simple bed, a wooden table, and a small window overlooking the street.

But D cared for none of it.

He sat cross-legged on the bed and closed his eyes.

---

Devouring Power

His method of training was unique—it revolved around devouring others. But it wasn't that simple. The energy he stole from his foes was not immediately usable; it needed refinement and transformation.

Inside his body, a massive, chaotic, and violent energy churned—a force taken from his slain enemies, but it was not yet his own.

If left unrefined, it would remain a burden and could even become a danger to him.

He began guiding it, forcing it to merge with his body.

But the process was not easy.

The pain was like fire, burning through his veins, as if his body was being torn apart and reshaped with every moment.

His muscles contracted, his veins bulged for a brief second before returning to normal, and every cell in his body screamed from exhaustion.

Yet, he did not stop.

This was the only path to strength.

Hours passed. He did not move, did not eat, did not drink, did not open his eyes.

Then, the hours turned into days. He remained in isolation for a full week.

---

A Presence Awakens

Deep into the night, as the sky was swallowed by a darkness untouched by the moon or stars, only a few dim lanterns flickered in the silence. The world was still. The only sound was the wind whispering through the alleys, carrying the night's cold breath.

Inside the restaurant, everyone was asleep. The only one still awake was the attendant who had rented D the room. He sat behind his wooden counter, half-closing his eyes, lost in the quiet of the night, unaware of what was about to unfold.

Suddenly, upstairs, a pair of abyssal eyes opened.

---

The Abyss Stirs

In the dark room, D sat motionless. His breathing was steady, his body relaxed, but his aura had changed—dark, unlike any normal human’s.

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

They were pitch black—no difference between the iris and the pupil, as if they were gateways to the void itself, absorbing any light that touched them. They weren’t merely dark in color—they were deep, as if one could stare into them and be pulled into endless nothingness.

His long black hair cascaded over his shoulders, and his features were carved with precise elegance—not the kind that attracted others, but the kind that made one uneasy, as if he was something not meant to exist among humans.

He was handsome, but not beautiful.

He was terrifying.

His expression held no warmth—his soul had long since been erased. His face bore no emotions—no joy, no anger, no resentment—just an abyssal stillness, a cold cruelty that seeped into every inch of his being.

He rose from the bed and moved to the corner of the room, where a small bag lay.

Reaching out, he picked it up.

It was no ordinary bag but a "storage pouch"—a rare tool used by Domain Lords to store their belongings. It wasn’t just a pocket or a magic bag; it was a dimensional space, capable of swallowing massive objects without changing its outward size.

The pouch appeared small in his hand, made of dark leather, unadorned. But when he opened it, a collection of clothes, weapons, and primal stones appeared before him—all taken from his previous victims.

He pulled out black robes with purple edges, looted from one of the enemies he had slain. The fabric was fine, made from materials he couldn’t quite identify, but it was comfortable and light.

Slowly, he dressed, then walked toward the door, opening it without a sound. He stepped into the dark hallway, descending the stairs in silence.

---

Death Walks

In the lower floor, the attendant was still awake.

He sat behind his counter, eyes half-closed, lost in the tranquility of the moment, unaware that death was approaching.

D's footsteps made no sound, but he wasn’t even trying to hide.

As he neared the man, the attendant lifted his head, smiling in greeting.

"Do you need somethi—"

His words never finished.

His body froze.

His eyes widened. His hand instinctively reached for his throat, where a sudden pain flared.

There was no scream.

No chance to comprehend what had happened.

In the blink of an eye, D had lifted his hand and flicked his wrist.

A bare hand tore through flesh as if it were paper.

No weapon was needed. There was no difference between a blade and his fingers. His strength was enough to rip human flesh apart effortlessly.

Blood sprayed into the air for a brief moment before the attendant collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his throat as blood poured uncontrollably.

D did not care.

Calmly, he bent down and pulled the storage pouch from the man’s corpse, then stood once more as if nothing had happened.

In this world, there was no mercy.

There was no giving—only taking.

The strong were not granted power; they seized it. Laws, morals, emotions—these were shackles crafted by the weak to protect themselves, but they meant nothing to one who did not acknowledge their existence.

To D, the world was nothing but a resource.

Everything could be taken.

Food, resources, knowledge, power, life itself—nothing was given freely. Nothing was worth asking for politely.

If you wanted something, you took it.

There was no such thing as "right."

No such thing as "justice."

What someone owned today could belong to another tomorrow. Not because it was "unfair," but because strength dictated all.

D was not one to wait for opportunities—he created them.

He did not ask—he took.

And so, he felt nothing as he killed the attendant.

D does not give. D does not ask. D does not bargain.

D only takes.