Once the tasks was almost over, he commanded the twins.
"You two, when the wire’s done, I want a full map of the block. Everything. If it’s burned out, mark it. If it’s occupied, count heads, even if they’re dead. Bring anything that looks weird—shops, vehicles, places people could hole up."
Roger, predictably, rolled his eyes, but Gregor simply nodded. "You want us to draw a map?"
"Yeah. Cartography’s the new ta. I want it ready by sundown."
It didn’t matter that their map would end up on the back of a pizza flyer or torn-up cardboard—it was information, and information was leverage.
Soon, he withdrew behind his wall and began training.
He started with slow swings of his weapon. Each move was careful, not rushed.
His hands stayed tight on the handle, and his arms followed through with each motion. The air made a light swish as he repeated the sa swings again and again.
His feet stayed planted, steady. Sotis he stepped forward, sotis back, always making sure his form stayed right. He moved in a pattern—downward strike, side swing, block, then again.
With each repetition he felt the Blessing warm in his blood, as if his body was taking notes on his form.
[Sword God Blessing 11%]
He was getting better. But deep down, he could feel the limit closing in.
It was like swimming in a pool and spotting the glass above—no matter how hard he pushed upward, he wasn’t getting past it.
Luck couldn’t brute-force his way up the stat tree forever; the Blessing wasn’t a cheat code, just a multiplier stuck on whatever he already brought to the table.
"System, why does it feel like I’m not getting any better?" he asked.
[Owner, your skill with the blade has already reached the peak of what normal humans can achieve. With your quick learning, strong body, and the blessing, you’ve hit the limit. To improve further, you’ll need to learn a style or technique made for beings beyond human level. Sadly, this world doesn’t have anything like that.]
"What about the online store?"
[You can check it.]
And so he did, but what greeted him was a ssage:
[Unlock this feature for 1,000 EC points.]
His face twitched. Of course, nothing ca free.
And if just unlocking the feature cost 1,000 EC, then the techniques themselves were probably an even bigger scam.
"Forget it," he shook his head.
His best shot now was to find a world that those kinds of techniques—or take down soone who carried the Sword God’s blessing.
By noon, the sun had cooked the asphalt so thoroughly the courtyard shimred like a desert hallucination, and Luck was halfway through a bowl of microwaved mac and cheese.
He walked toward one of the towers where Dima was on duty.
Just like before, he handed over a can of pork and beans for lunch.
Dima’s face lit up as soon as he saw it.
"Ah, my favorite!" he grinned, already pulling out his pocket knife to open the can.
"What’s the status?" Luck asked.
Dima paused mid-bite, wiped his mouth, then replied,
"Quiet so far. No movent for the past few hours."
Just as Dima finished speaking, it was like he triggered a death flag.
Luck eyes narrowed, spotting movent in the horizon.
He tracked the procession through the binoculars, counting heads. Fourteen—no, fifteen, including the two prisoners.
They moved in a loose V, three at the front , the others fanned out behind.
Everyone had sothing sharp or heavy—machetes, pipes, garden tools scavenged from the dead city—but the ones in front had guns slung low.
The lead gunman was a woman, dressed in a tattered jumpsuit with the sleeves rolled up. She walked like she never been afraid—ever—and even the guys with the guns kept a pace behind her.
She didn’t bother to knock. She just called up, voice loud enough to cut through the heat: "Open the gate. If you don’t, we’ll make you regret it."
Luck leaned over the railing, arms folded, every inch the lazy king in his castle.
"You got a better offer than the last idiots who tried?"
Her gaze cut through him, razor-sharp. "We’re not here to play gas. You’ve got sothing we want."
"Yeah? And what’s that?"
She smirked, like she was used to people flinching when she smiled. "Your walls. Your food. Your water. Your weapons."
"And those two," she jerked her chin at Yuna and Fernando. "Open the gate, or we shoot the girl first. Then your guy. Piece by piece, until you let us in."
Dima sucked in a pained hiss. He was a simp for Yuna, no question about it.
"Go ahead. Kill them," Luck sneered "And I’ll make sure every last one of you dies today."
For a second, her smile slipped—just a little.
"Last warning," she said. Her tone didn’t wobble. "You open the gate, or I’ll use your friends to paint the asphalt."
"Do it. I dare you," Luck chuckled, not backing down for a second. He made sure they knew exactly who was in charge. "It’ll be your last mistake."
One of the raiders—tall, gaunt, and already sweating—snapped at the tension. He jerked his AK up a little.
In that split seconds before anyone could blink, Luck’s arm wheeled back, and the throwing knife he been hiding sailed out, flat and fast.
It hit, dead center, right into the gunman’s hand. The man’s eyes bulged. He dropped the rifle and staggered backwards.
Nobody else moved. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the rattling clatter of the knife hitting asphalt, and the agonizing cry of the tall man.
Luck’s voice dropped to a cold, mocking monotone.
"First one’s just for show. Next ti, you’re all hitting the dirt—regretting how stupid you were to pick a fight with soone who spent over a decade getting trained to kill."
He tilted his head, eyes full of contempt.
"All because you clowns think carrying guns makes you important. You’re not. You’re just trash trying to play soldier. Fucking pathetic."
Before anyone could speak, Luck pulled another throwing knife and let it fly. It struck the first knife dead-on, driving it deeper into the post with a loud clank.
No one missed what that ant—he could’ve aid for a skull just as easily.
The new group hesitated. Fernando ntioned that Luck was from the special forces, but most of them figured he was just talking big.
Now, they weren’t so sure.
"Why so quiet? Go on—draw your guns. Let’s get this over with. I don’t have ti to waste on stupid greenhorns like you."
"I don’t even need my battalion to deal with punks like you!"
The mont he said "battalion," the woman leader’s face soured.
They ca here thinking they were dealing with another lucky survivor—so guy who got ahead by chance.
This wasn’t just so survivor. This was soone who led troops, survived wars, and lived through things they couldn’t imagine.
"We’re backing off." She raised both hands slowly, then nodded at her group to let Yuna and Fernando go.
"You better be," he snorted, waving them off like they weren’t worth his ti.
She clenched her teeth and turned around, the others following her lead.
That was all he needed.
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