The Zombie System.

"Well, that could have gone worse."

Elise's forced smile doesn't reach her eyes as they emerge from the dungeon's shimmering exit portal. Her joke falls flat in the afternoon air. Nobody laughs.

Sarah walks beside them in complete silence, staff clutched tight against her chest. Her knuckles are white where they grip the wooden shaft. Every few steps, she glances over her shoulder at the dungeon entrance like something might follow them out.

Leon holds his side where the Night Hag's claws tore through leather and flesh. The venom has mostly cleared his system, but phantom pain still shoots through his ribs with each breath. Black veins spider across his skin beneath torn fabric.

Behind them, Jake carries Tommy's body in his arms. The young mage's head lolls with each step, eyes staring at nothing. Jake's face is carved from stone, but tears track silently down his cheeks.

The dungeon checkpoint sits fifty meters from the portal. Two Association officials wait behind reinforced barriers, clipboards and monitoring equipment spread across metal tables.

The older official's eyebrows rise when he sees them approaching. "Six entered. Five returning." His gaze settles on Tommy's still form. "Casualty?"

"Mental attack," Leon says. His voice comes out hoarse from the hag's psychic assault. "Something called a Night Hag. Not listed in the C-rank bestiary."

The officials exchange glances. The younger one, barely out of academy training, scribbles notes with shaking hands. "Night Hag? Are you certain?"

Elise steps forward, professional demeanor overriding her exhaustion. "Seven feet tall. Black skin. Psychic abilities that induced fatal nightmares. It killed Tommy before we could break him free."

"We'll need a full report," the older official says. He gestures to his partner, who approaches Jake with gentle hands. "We'll take care of your friend. Association morgue will handle the arrangements."

Jake releases Tommy's body reluctantly. The officials lift him onto a stretcher with practiced care, covering him with a clean white sheet.

Sarah finally speaks, voice barely above a whisper. "He was nineteen."

The officials complete their preliminary documentation in quiet efficiency. Standard forms for dungeon casualties. Paperwork that reduces a human life to check boxes and file numbers.

Leon provides basic details about the hag's abilities while Elise fills in tactical information. Neither mentions the deeper chambers they glimpsed beyond the boss room. Some discoveries are too dangerous for official reports.

Twenty minutes later, they're cleared to leave. The team splits at the checkpoint gates without much ceremony. Exhaustion weighs heavier than words.

Sarah heads toward the transit station alone, still clutching her staff like a lifeline. Jake follows a different path, probably toward the nearest bar. Grief takes many forms.

Elise and Leon walk together toward the Middle District. The afternoon crowd flows around them—merchants closing daily business, workers heading home, children playing games between market stalls.

"I made a promise to my mother," Leon says as they navigate the busy streets. "Time to keep it."

"The house?"

Leon nods. "She's spent too many years in the Shadow Quarter. Leaking pipes and drug dealers in the hallway. She deserves better."

They find a housing agency near the Dungeon Plaza. The building's glass front displays property listings for every district in the city. Prices range from modest apartments to luxury estates that cost more than most hunters earn in decades.

A bell chimes as they enter. The interior smells of fresh coffee and expensive cologne. Mahogany furniture gleams under soft lighting designed to make everything seem more valuable.

A man in an expensive garment with a cloak approaches with practiced enthusiasm. Mid-forties, perfectly styled hair, smile that reaches his teeth but not his eyes.

"Welcome to Premier Properties. I'm Vincent Marsh. How can I help you achieve your housing dreams.

Leon studies the man's face. Something in Vincent's expression shifts when he notices Leon's torn clothing and bloodstains. The smile becomes more calculating.

"Looking for a house. Two stories. Safe district. Mana shields if possible."

Vincent's eyes light up with predatory interest. "Ah, a hunter. Dangerous work. You'll want premium protection for your family." He leads them to a desk covered with glossy brochures. "I have several properties that might interest you."

The first listing shows a modest home in the Middle District. Two bedrooms, small garden, basic ward stones. The price tag makes Leon's eyes water.

"That's fifty percent above market rate," Elise says quietly. She's leaning over his shoulder, reading the fine print. "And they're charging processing fees that don't exist."

Vincent's smile never wavers. "Premium properties require premium investments. These fees ensure proper documentation and—"

"Which laws require those fees?" Elise interrupts. Her voice carries the authority of someone who's read the regulations.

Vincent's pause lasts half a second too long. "Well, they're industry standard..."

Leon sets the brochure down with deliberate care. When he looks up, his eyes carry the same cold focus that faced down the Night Hag.

"Here's what's going to happen," Leon says quietly. "You're going to cut this price in half. You're going to eliminate every fake fee on this list. And you're going to do it because I'm tired of people trying to cheat me today."

Vincent's composure cracks slightly. "Sir, I can't simply—"

Leon leans forward. The movement pulls at his bandaged wounds, but his expression doesn't change. "I just spent three hours fighting nightmares that tried to kill me and my friends. One of them died. I'm buying this house for my mother, and I'm not in the mood for games."

The authority in Leon's voice surprises even Elise. This isn't the quiet B-rank from a few weeks ago. This is someone who's learned that power means more than just magic.

Vincent swallows hard. His fingers tap nervously on the desk as he recalculates numbers on his tablet. "Perhaps we can work something out. A veteran's discount..."

Thirty minutes later, they walk out with signed contracts for a two-story house in the safer Middle District. Reinforced mana shields. Clean water. Neighbors who don't deal drugs or scream at three in the morning.

"Remind me never to negotiate against you," Elise says as they step into afternoon sunlight. "That man looked like he wanted to hide under his desk."

Leon manages a faint smile. "Just tired of being taken advantage of."

"Tomorrow we honour Tommy, we visit his family. Still can't believe he's dead." Elise says.

"I'll meet you at the Association gate. Try to get some sleep before then."

They part ways at the district boundary. Elise heads toward her apartment complex while Leon makes the long walk back to the Shadow Quarter.

The late afternoon crowd thins as he descends through the city's economic layers. Marble gives way to weathered stone. Clean streets become littered alleys. The air grows thick with industrial smoke and desperation.

His mother's building squats between two abandoned warehouses like a monument to neglect. Leon climbs the creaking stairs two at a time, key already in hand.

He finds her in the small kitchen, stirring soup with a wooden spoon worn smooth by decades of use. Steam rises from the pot, carrying scents of vegetables and thin broth.

"How was your day?" she asks without turning around.

"Productive." Leon sets the housing contracts on the kitchen table. "I bought us a house."

The spoon clatters to the floor.

His mother spins around, eyes wide with disbelief. She stares at the contracts like they might disappear if she blinks.

"Leon, we can't afford—"

"We can now." He catches her as she stumbles forward, wrapping thin arms around his chest. She smells like soap and medicine and home.

Tears soak through his shirt as she clings to him. "I can't believe it's real."

"Start packing whenever you're ready. No rush."

She pulls back to study his face, searching for some sign this is elaborate joke. Finding only sincerity, fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

"I'll start tonight," she whispers.

Leon kisses her forehead. "I need to visit the Hunter Association first. Submit some reports. Request a meeting with the director."

"Be careful. And come home soon."

——

Miles away, in the gleaming towers of ARES Guild headquarters, Tobias Virell studies surveillance footage on a wall-mounted screen.

The video shows the Serpent's Den entrance. Timestamp: three days ago. Marsen and his team enter the dungeon with confident swagger. The camera captures their faces clearly—four hunters on routine reconnaissance.

Fast forward ten minutes. Leon Graves approaches alone. F-rank badge clearly visible. The footage tracks him entering the same dungeon.

No interior cameras. Guild policy prohibited surveillance inside active dungeons.

Fast forward two hours. Leon emerges alone. Alive. Unmarked.

Marsen and his team never exit.

Tobias's fingers drum against polished wood as the footage loops. His guild director stands beside the desk, tablet in hand, waiting for orders.

"He killed my brother," Tobias says quietly. His voice carries the weight of absolute certainty. "Bring him here. I want to look him in the eye."

The director hesitates. "Sir, Leon Graves will definitely not want to answer us again after last time rejecting us."

"I don't care about his will, bring him here anyhow you see fit, but ensure you're discrete in that area." Tobias throws a knife close to the director's face.

Orders flow through secure channels. Within an hour, a team of ARES hunters receives mission parameters. Target: Leon Graves. Objective: Retrieval. Methods: Discretionary.

That night, three armed figures approach Leon's building in the Shadow Quarter all in dark clothings no sign of any Ares guild insignia visible on their body. Their footsteps echo off narrow walls as they climb toward his mother's door.

She answers their knock with kitchen towel still in her hands.

"We're looking for your son," the leader says. His smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Leon isn't here."

"Then you'll wait with us until he returns."

When she tries to close the door, violence follows.

Leon walks through lamplit streets when a boy comes running. Maybe twelve years old, covered in dirt, out of breath from sprinting through alleys.

"You Leon Graves?" the boy gasps.

"Yeah."

"Your mom, she's in trouble. Some black clothes men barged into your house but she's at the doctor's place now. They hurt her."

Leon's world goes cold.

The next moment, he's sprinting full speed through the streets, heart hammering against his ribs. His boots slam against pavement as distant sirens echo behind him.