Derek stared at the glowing portal icon hovering in his system interface. The Netherworld. The name alone carried an ominous weight, sending a cold shiver down his spine. He had fought in underground rings, risked his life against brutal opponents, and survived by sheer instinct. But this... this was something entirely different.
"A whole different world full of monsters, huh?" he muttered, leaning against his old wooden chair. It creaked under his weight, a stark contrast to the high-tech reality the system had just thrown into his lap.
[System Remark: What's wrong? Feeling a little weak in the knees? Don't tell me Mr. Gladiator is afraid of the dark.]
Derek exhaled sharply. "I'd be a fool not to be. I've never even seen a real monster before."
[System Remark: Oh, you'll see plenty. Trust me.]
He shook his head. The system's sarcasm aside, the uncertainty gnawed at him. In the underground fights, he had an idea of what to expect. A man with a knife. A brawler with more muscle than a brain. Here? He had no idea what these 'NetherBeasts' were, how they moved, how they attacked. And that terrified him.
His eyes flickered to the bundle of cash he had tossed on the table. Then to the black card with golden engravings. Three and a half billion dollars. A mansion with its security. He could retire right now, and live out the rest of his days in luxury, never having to lift a finger again.
But then what?
The apocalypse was coming. He knew it. The system had warned him. No amount of money would protect him if he wasn't strong enough to defend himself.
"Damn it," he grumbled, running a hand through his hair. He needed to be smart about this. He couldn't just rush into a death trap unprepared.
He needed weapons. Real ones. Guns, blades—anything that could help him survive.
Instead of contacting Felix, Derek decided to rely on his knowledge of the streets. The underground world of Paleview City wasn't just about illegal fights. It was a web of smugglers, fixers, and arms dealers who thrived in the shadows. If you knew where to look, anything could be bought—for the right price.
Derek pulled out a hoodie from his closet, tugging it over his head before wrapping a scarf around his lower face. He swapped out his usual sneakers for a beat-up pair of boots, ones that made him look more like a desperate street rat than a billionaire overnight.
He left his apartment and made his way into the heart of the city's underbelly, where the real business happened. Abandoned buildings turned into black-market hubs, alleyways that led to hidden deals, and bars where no one asked questions.
Derek moved with confidence, blending into the crowd. His time in the underground fights had given him an edge—he knew how these people operated. He followed the signs: a set of gang tags on a wall, a lookout pretending to be homeless, the flickering neon of a rundown pawnshop that wasn't a pawnshop at all.
Stepping inside, Derek found himself in a dimly lit room filled with old junk and flickering screens displaying security footage. Behind the counter sat a heavyset man with a scar running down his cheek. He barely glanced up, tapping ashes from his cigarette into a rusted tin can.
"Looking for something special?" the man rasped.
Derek slid a few hundred-dollar bills onto the counter. "Something lethal. No questions asked."
The man eyed the money before snuffing out his cigarette. Without a word, he reached under the counter and pressed a button. A door behind him clicked open.
Derek smirked under his scarf. Jackpot.
[System Remark: Now, that's more like it. Time to go shopping for some mayhem.]
Derek stepped through the hidden door, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. The air was thick with the scent of gun oil and cold steel. Racks of firearms lined the walls—everything from handguns to military-grade rifles. Glass cases displayed combat knives, throwing daggers, and even custom-forged blades meant for close-quarters combat.
A handful of men lingered inside, inspecting weapons, testing the weight of pistols, or speaking in hushed voices with the shop's attendants. Some of them gave Derek a glance before returning to their own business.
Behind the main counter stood a wiry man in a tactical vest, his arms crossed as he appraised Derek with a scrutinizing gaze. His buzzed hair and the faint burn scars on his knuckles screamed experience. Not just a merchant—someone who had used these weapons before.
"You looking for protection, or are you going hunting?" the man asked, voice gravelly from years of smoke and bloodshed.
Derek pulled back his hood just enough to meet the man's gaze. "Something for a job. One where I don't get a second chance if I screw up."
As Derek inspected the weapons laid out before him, the dealer leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with curiosity. "Quality like this doesn't come cheap. You sure you got the cash for it?"
Derek didn't hesitate. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the sleek black card with golden engravings—the one Felix had given him. It felt smooth between his fingers, carrying the weight of unlimited resources, something he was still getting used to. He tapped it against the counter. "Run it."
The man raised a brow but didn't ask questions. A high-tech scanner beeped as he swiped the card. Within seconds, the transaction was approved. The numbers that flashed on the screen were high enough to make a few of the nearby customers stiffen, but Derek remained still, unmoved.
Money was just a means to an end. And he wasn't planning on dying rich.
The dealer let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Guess I don't need to ask if you're serious."
Derek's voice was flat. "Throw in body armor. And thirty-four extra magazines for a Glock—fully loaded."
The man's fingers, which had been in the middle of packing the weapons, suddenly stopped. He looked up, blinking. "Thirty-four?"
Derek met his gaze without flinching.
The dealer exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Man, you planning to start a war or something?"
Derek remained silent.
The man gave a half-smirk. "Alright, your money." He moved efficiently, gathering the extra magazines and stacking them carefully. The sound of metal clicking against metal filled the small room as he loaded them into several side pouches, securing them with quick precision.
The body armor came next. It was reinforced tactical gear—lightweight, designed for mobility but still sturdy enough to absorb impact. It smelled faintly of gun oil and synthetic fibers, a sharp contrast to the crisp scent of freshly oiled weapons around them. He tested the straps, adjusting them slightly before setting it aside.
One by one, the weapons disappeared into two heavy-duty black duffel bags.
The machete was wrapped carefully before being secured inside a sheath, its carbon-forged blade glinting dully under the dim lights. Derek had tested its balance earlier, feeling the deadly ease with which it moved through the air. The weight was perfect. It would cut through flesh and bone like butter.
The Glock 19, its suppressor sleek and matte black, was the last firearm to be stowed away—though the dealer left it on top, within quick reach. The cold weight of it had been comfortable in Derek's grip earlier, but soon it would be much warmer, spitting lead into whatever stood in his way.
Then came the XM25 airburst grenade launcher. The moment the dealer lifted it, his movements slowed slightly—whether out of respect for the sheer destructive power of the weapon or because of its weight, Derek didn't know. Either way, it was carefully set into the second bag, cushioned by layers of protective padding.
Lastly, the man packed in the magazines, fitting them snugly into the compartments. Derek watched as they disappeared—hundreds of rounds, sealed away but waiting.
By the time everything was secured, the two duffel bags sat heavily on the counter, brimming with death.
The dealer zipped them up with a final tug. He leaned against the counter, studying Derek for a moment before exhaling through his nose. "That's a lot of firepower," he muttered. "Hope you know what you're getting into."
Derek said nothing. He simply slung the first bag over his right shoulder, feeling the solid weight press against his back. Then the second bag over his left, balancing the load.
They were heavy. Comfortably heavy.
The system chose that moment to chime in.
[System Remark: Thirty-four mags? A machete, a silenced Glock, and a grenade launcher? Someone's planning a hell of a party.]
Derek's lips curled slightly under his scarf. "You have no idea."
Without another word, he turned toward the exit, boots silent against the floor.
" Now my fighting chances have increased, "
Got it! Here's a refined version with the system mocking his over-cautiousness while keeping the intensity of his paranoia intact:
"Wait… what if I die of hunger? Or a fever? Or some random sickness I didn't prepare for? No, I need food. First aid. Maybe even some meds—anything that could keep me alive."
Derek's mind raced as he mentally listed every worst-case scenario. The Netherworld was an unknown, a hostile dimension where the only guarantee was danger. Starving to death or dropping dead from some infection would be an embarrassingly stupid way to go.
Just as he was about to start hoarding supplies, the system chimed in, dripping with amusement.
[System Remark: Oh yes, because out of all the ways you could die, malaria is clearly the biggest threat. Maybe pack a teddy bear while you're at it?]
Derek exhaled sharply through his nose. "Screw you."
Still, he wasn't about to take chances.