My Alt Account Became the World's No. 1 Hunter
Chapter 33: Shopping! (2)

Chapter 33: Shopping! (2)

The moment Lanz crossed into the gear store’s first aisle, he felt every single credit on that payout chit start whimpering for mercy.

Bright lights bounced off brushed metal racks, glass display cases, and price tags that looked more like ransom notes than numbers.

"God," he hissed under his breath, eyeing a kid about his age trying on an entire gleaming combat vest with a sales clerk fussing over him like he was royalty. "Bet his dad’s paying for that just so he’ll shut up about wanting a monster bike."

He made a beeline for the gloves section. It looked harmless enough: neat rows of gloves in every size, shape, and color.

Some with fancy carbon fiber knuckles, others with runic threads woven into the palms, overpriced but maybe practical.

He grabbed the cheapest black pair that didn’t look like it would fall apart after a single punch.

The first glove squeaked the second he flexed his hand. Loud and f*cking embarrassing, like he’d just squeezed a dog toy. Lanz side-eyed a guy two racks over who pretended not to hear it but totally did.

He yanked the glove off and tried the next pair, leather this time, sleek matte finish. Felt good until he tried to bend his fingers and immediately regretted every life choice that led to this moment.

It pinched so tight around his knuckles he felt like his blood flow was about to submit a resignation letter.

"Great," he muttered, wrestling the glove back off his hand. "Fifty credits to feel like I’m choking my own hand, love that! So practical."

He finally settled on a simple pair, with no squeak or finger tourniquet, black with decent grip. Wasn’t flashy, but if they lasted more than three dungeon dives, they’d be a bargain.

Next stop, boots!

Lanz dragged himself to the far end of the aisle, past rows of glossy mannequins modeling high-tier hunter shoes.

Some were laced with gold thread, others had built-in "sprint boosters" that probably worked about as well as the warranty said they did, which was not at all.

He plopped onto the little bench and tugged one fancy boot on. He stood, walked two steps, and immediately felt like he was dragging bricks tied to his ankles.

They squeaked with every other step, high-pitched enough that the mom and kid that he saw at the escalator actually looked back like a duck had wandered inside.

"Nope," he grunted, kicking the boots off with zero hesitation. "I’m not paying for a circus for my goddamn feet. They can breathe in a regular pair, thank you very much."

In the end, he found a plain pair that looked like something a security guard might wear, sturdy soles, decent traction, all black, exactly the vibe he wanted.

And guess what! They were cheap enough that he didn’t feel like crying.

He slipped them on, stomped around in a tiny test circle, then gave them an approving nod.

He grabbed a couple plain black shirts and pants from the basics rack while he was at it, tossing them over one arm like he owned the place.

He caught his reflection in the aisle mirror, hoodie pushed back, gloves in one hand, boots on his feet, arm stacked with folded black clothes. He looked... absolutely f*cking handsome.

"Solid black everything," he said under his breath, a tiny grin tugging at his mouth. "Motherf*ckers won’t be calling me ’Zero Drip’ anymore or a joke, which was lowkey hurtful. But who cares! They won’t be calling me that anymore... not until I trip over my own laces."

He snorted, turned, and headed for the helmet section, ready to look like a proper broke legend.

Lanz weaved his way into the helmet section, once he got there, he was greated with rows of helmets lined the shelves, sleek racing styles, clunky tank-like ones, some with ugly neon-like trims that looked like they belonged in a third-rate sci-fi flick.

Lanz dragged his finger down the price tags, lips twisting every time the numbers jumped into triple digits.

"Mm, yes, five hundred credits just so my skull can look like a disco ball," he deadpanned, tapping a glossy red piece that screamed midlife crisis.

He reached for one that’s tucked near the end, solid build, matte black shell, and reinforced visor, which was a plus.

He lifted it off its hook, hefted the weight, knocked his knuckles gently against the crown. The inner padding felt snug, and when he slipped it halfway on, he caught his reflection in the mirror on the aisle column.

The new gloves on his hands, boots tied up, the helmet snug against his mop of uncut hair, he didn’t look like a discount ninja. He looked... passable. Maybe?

Lanz grinned under the visor, muffled and stupid. "This one’ll crack less when I headbutt idiots," he mumbled, then slipped it off and tucked it under his arm like he was already halfway out the door.

He turned to leave, but a glint in the corner display case stopped him cold.

A mask rack.

Hunters-only high-tier models, all glass and dark metal, air vents and someting cool — that he didn’t know — was etched. A silent row of faces staring back at like they were judging him.

His eyes snagged on one in particular: sleek black, sharp lines, a subtle tooth-like underplate that looked vicious as hell. The price tag slapped him across the face the second he leaned in close enough to see it.

"Nope," he hissed. "That’s rent money and then some."

But he didn’t walk away right away. He tapped the glass with one finger, studying the reflection of that jagged grin that was more intimidating than the entirety of the racked helmets combined.

"Next time," Lanz muttered to the empty case, like he was making a promise to himself and the mask both. "Maybe."

He let out a small snort, shook himself off, and headed for the checkout with his helmet tucked tight to his side, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth the whole way.

The last thing Lanz grabbed — because priorities, obviously — was a three-pack of plain black boxers hanging by the impulse racks near checkout.

He held them up like he was inspecting fine jewelry, squinting at the tiny stitched tag like it might bite him.

"Black boxers," he muttered under his breath. "Truly the final piece of the Zero Drip puzzle. I won’t be roasting my self for wearing hole-y cartoon print anymore. This is development!"

The cashier barely blinked at him as he dumped his loot on the counter — gloves, boots, black shirts, black pants, that helmet tucked under his arm like a loyal pet, and the mighty boxers perched on top like a crown jewel.

Lanz patted the payout chit one last time, then slid it across the scanner. The little card beep that came after was so bright and final it made his ribs ache.

He watched the numbers drain away, digit by digit, while the cashier bagged everything up with the dead-eyed speed of someone who’d seen far richer hunters blow through ten times this amount on a single gear.

It felt less like spending and more like mourning — like each beep was a tiny funeral for a dream he didn’t even get to have.

As the final total blinked red on screen, the cashier paused, glanced at the payout chit, then at Lanz, then back at the chit like it might explode.

"You sure about this?" the guy asked, deadpan.

Lanz blinked. "I mean... yeah?"

"Just saying," the cashier said, holding up the boxers like they were sacred scrolls. "You could drop these and buy more shi— gear😭."

"Nope," Lanz said, dead serious. "I’ve made my choices. My ass deserves dignity."

The guy shrugged, bagged the last item, and muttered, "Respect."

A minute later, he stumbled out the sliding doors, plastic bags dangling off both wrists, the helmet box under one arm.

His reflection caught in the big polished wall of the lobby, not the aisle mirror like before. This was more grand, and was much more better at displaying his handsomeness.

He tilted his head at his own reflection, narrowed his eyes, then cracked up, loud enough that the two guys walking in behind him gave him a wide berth.

"Zero Drip?" Lanz snorted, shaking his bags for emphasis. "Eat sh*t, f*ckers. I’m basically a fashion icon now!"

End of Chapter 33.

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ALT SYSTEM — USER PROFILE: ZERO

Level: 11

EXP: 82 / 110

Next Reward: 10 Available Stat Points

Global System Tracking: DISABLED

World Rank Association: UNLINKED

Stats:

STR: 8 | AGI: 8 (Affinity) | VIT: 3 | DEX: 1 | INT: 7 | WIS: 0

[Available Stat Points: 3]

[Derived Stat — MANA: 35 / 35]

Skills:

[Crimson Slash Lv. 1]

[Phantom Stride Lv.1]

[Blade Control Lv.1]

[Parry Timing Lv.1]

[Reflex Sync Lv.1] (Passive Skill)

[Combat Awareness Lv.2] (Passive Skill)

[Skill Fusion Menu: Active]

[Dev Tree: Tier 0 Access Granted]

[Developer Node – Fusion Core Anchor: Active]

[Skill Slot Available — Unassigned]

Equipment:

Aged Blade Fragment (??? Rarity) (Bound)

Goblin Dagger

Spiked Boar Tusk Shard

Lightweight Chest Padding

Boots of Basic Mobility

Fingerless Gloves (Basic)

Starter Cloak: Faded Black

Training Ring (+1 VIT)