Insomniac Player

He’d entered Murim with one clear goal: find a cure for his insomnia. The second one formed about twelve steps later, discovering exactly why everyone seemed to think he might kill them on sight, given that wearing a mask like this was supposedly a normal fashion choice in the novels.

The broad avenue descended from the First Sanctuary toward the city’s central markets, and he kept his pace ordinary, neither hurried enough to look afraid nor slow enough to invite conversation.

People still gave him room. Subtly at first. A pair of spear-carrying youths drifted to the far side of the street. An old woman gathered up three baskets of herbs and pulled them closer as he passed. A muscular man with a cleaver strapped to his back met the Rakshasa mask’s eyes, bowed once, and suddenly found a fabric stall very interesting.

He reviewed the disguise in his head. Black cloak. Demonic mask. Hidden weapon. Silent footsteps. Red braid. He’d set out to look unrecognizable and somehow ended up dressed like the final boss in somebody else’s revenge story.

"Minor design flaw," he muttered.

The market began under a gate of red pillars and polished jade, four golden characters burning across the upper beam. The system translated them for him.

➤[MARKET OF TEN THOUSAND PATHS]

Past the gate, the avenue split into a dozen crowded streets, and noise came rushing back all at once, merchants calling out from under bright silk awnings, hammers ringing against metal, wooden signs swinging over shops stacked three and four stories high, the smells of roasted meat, sweet rice, bitter medicine, and hot tea all competing for the same air. This wasn’t one district. It felt like an entire city had swallowed several smaller ones and forced them all to trade under one roof.

He passed a weapons street lined with open-fronted shops, blades displayed against black stone. Some swords hummed faintly inside their sheaths. Others radiated enough cold to frost the racks under them. A smith with four arms hammered a red spearhead while sparks shaped like tiny birds flew off the anvil and dissolved before they hit the ground.

He slowed down. The smith wasn’t human, and neither were half his customers. A woman with silver scales running along her neck examined a rack of throwing knives. Two broad, fur-covered figures argued loudly over the balance of an axe. A thin man whose shadow trailed a full second behind his own movements carried six swords with no visible inventory pouch anywhere on him.

Murim had clearly been running as a server for a long time already. Outside races hadn’t just visited here. Some of them had settled in and become part of the scenery.

His hand stayed near the fold of his cloak out of habit. Nobody here bothered hiding their weapons. That difference showed up everywhere he looked. Back on Earth-69, most players kept equipment stored away until real danger showed up, since carrying a greatsword through a restaurant tended to unsettle the other customers. Here, a weapon seemed to function as clothing, introduction, and warning all at once. Sect disciples wore matching scabbards. Merchants displayed jeweled daggers even with hands too soft to plausibly use one. Kids carried wooden practice swords. Even the old man selling steamed buns kept a saber propped beside his stove.

He glanced down at the dagger hidden under his own cloak. Maybe concealing a weapon here didn’t read as peaceful at all. Maybe it read as intent to surprise someone specifically. That would explain a lot of the looks. The mask explained the rest.

He wandered into a food lane strung with hanging lanterns. Whole birds the size of sheep turned over smokeless fires. Bowls of noodles simmered in blue flame. A vendor sliced a translucent fruit that quietly stitched itself back together the second his knife pulled away.

"Fresh Cloud Pear!" the man called out. "Improves the breath, clears the heat, sweetens the voice!"

He spotted Damien approaching and dropped his volume immediately. "Free sample, honored sir?"

Damien stopped. The vendor’s smile went tight, sweat beading at his temple.

"Every gift carries a price," Damien said, aiming for something that sounded profound enough to match the veil.

The vendor hesitated, then answered, "For you, nothing."

"Nothing carries the highest price of all."

The man mistook simple caution for wisdom entirely. Damien set a silver coin on the counter, took one slice, and moved on before the poor guy could start confessing to crimes he hadn’t actually committed.

He slipped the pear under the edge of the mask. It dissolved on his tongue like cold rain, warmth spreading down through his throat right after, and his altered voice deepened slightly with it. Whatever he said next probably came out a little older-sounding than before. Good. The persona could use the practice.

Ahead, the market opened around a circular lake covered in lotus flowers, pavilions rising over the water and connected by narrow walkways. Musicians played under one roof while martial artists drank tea under another nearby. Bright fish leapt clear of the surface, leaving thin trails of light behind them as they fell back in.

Above the water, three young warriors ran through open air, not flying exactly, each one pushing off some invisible point with robes snapping behind them as they crossed the lake in a string of impossible steps. One stumbled, tapped the water once with his toe, and launched himself right back up while his friends laughed.

Damien watched their feet closely, timing the gaps between steps. Not a spell. Controlled bursts of internal energy, each one briefly solidifying into a platform right under the foot that used it. Good for a quick retreat. Dangerous the instant the rhythm broke. He filed it away.

"Mother," a small voice whispered nearby, "is that a demon?"

"Don’t point."

"But it has red hair."

"Don’t describe it either."

He kept walking. The deeper he moved into the city, the more beautiful Murim got. Water channels ran alongside the streets, carrying glowing petals downhill. Courtyards opened up between buildings, filled with miniature mountains and trees shaped by what looked like centuries of patient cultivation. Far off in the distance, enormous chains stretched between two mountain peaks, buildings constructed straight along them like gravity here was more of a polite suggestion than a rule.

The beauty never quite erased the danger underneath it, though. He could feel power sitting everywhere he looked. In the old woman’s footsteps, silent despite the herb baskets weighing her down. In the scholar holding a folding fan with edges clearly sharpened for more than fanning himself. In a loud group of warriors comparing scars a little too proudly nearby. None of their levels showed automatically. Murim’s people clearly had their own ways of keeping that hidden, and he had no intention of staring at anyone long enough to find out the hard way.

The server’s cap sat at Level 2000. That didn’t mean everyone here actually was Level 2000. It meant anyone he passed on the street could plausibly be.

He shifted his route to stay near crowds and open intersections after that. He needed medicine, not a live demonstration of the local combat standard.

At the far end of the lake, the smell changed, food and forge smoke giving way to herbs, clean water, and something sharply medicinal underneath it all. Green banners hung over the street. Mortars and pestles decorated the shop signs. Glass cases displayed pills arranged on velvet like jewelry.

The medicine market. He headed straight for it.

Two men outside a tea house watched him pass.

"Which demonic sect do you think he’s from?" one whispered.

"None I recognize."

"Should we report him?"

"You report him."

"I asked first."

He resisted the urge to sigh. His anonymity was holding up perfectly.

Unfortunately, the mysterious masked earthling was becoming a lot more famous by the minute.