After looking at the two strange areas, I walked toward the quieter, central space. I wanted to find some kind of clue. There were still people standing around the strange inscription, but many had already left the protective shield and wandered off.
I wasn't interested in the inscription. Instead, I looked toward the buildings with sales counters. These shops reminded me of the little summer stands you'd see at the beach—three sides were made of wood, one side was half-closed, and the top was open for selling.
It didn't seem like I could go inside them. But when I stepped up to a random shop, I was surprised to see someone standing there—someone who looked just like me.
"Welcome to the Weapon Shop, sinner!" the man shouted.
As if it wasn't bad enough that I was in Hell, now this guy was rubbing it in my face. Sinner this, sinner that. 'If only I had a glass of raki right now,' I thought. That was the only alcohol I had ever really liked.
I was getting annoyed. But I also didn't want to make too much noise. Who knew what would happen if I made someone angry? Eight hours of torment sounded like a real thing here.
So I tried to act brave. "I want to buy a weapon to kill the Fallen. Do you have a catalog or something?"
As soon as I finished my sentence, three weapons appeared in mid-air. A wooden stick, a bow, and a short staff with a pale blue stone. They looked primitive—basic pieces of wood. Still, they floated in the air, glowing with light.
"100 gold each," the seller said. "Choose the one that matches your talent, sinner!"
"A hundred gold?" I shouted. "For these? They're just sticks! And what's with this currency?"
The words burst out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I lost my temper and yelled at him.
"Silence, sinner! This shop is now closed to you for a week!"
His eyes stared right into me. A second later, the whole stand vanished in front of me. It didn't just disappear—he made it vanish with a blink. I looked around. The shop was still there for everyone else. So he had banned just me.
Great. One shop down. I had to try the others. I told myself to be more careful this time. This wasn't a mall. The people behind the counters weren't normal workers. If I acted badly again, I could face worse.
I moved to the next shop.
"The Market welcomes you, Mr. Sinner!" a new man said.
His tone was calmer, almost friendly.
"Hello, sir. Can I ask what you sell here?"
"Of course!" he said with a smile. He waved his hand, and many bottles started floating in the air. Unlike the last shop, this place had a lot more products.
"Red liquid bottles restore your life force," he explained. "Blue ones restore your magic power!"
I looked closer. There were two sizes of each color. Just like in the games I used to play—small and large potions.
"The small ones cost 20 gold. Big ones are 35 gold!"
The price was high again, but this time, I held my tongue. I smiled politely and asked, "Can you tell me exactly how they work?"
"Of course!" he said again.
I was starting to notice a pattern. Whenever they gave a positive answer, they started with "Of course!"
"Small ones restore 10% of your stats. Big ones restore 20%."
Everything was measured in terms I could understand. After visiting two shops, I was sure: whoever created this place wanted us to survive—at least for now. We were still on the first floor of Hell, after all.
He kept explaining. "We also sell two types of bags here—small and large. You'll need them once your pockets get full."
That reminded me—I hadn't even looked at what I was wearing. I paused to check.
I was wearing loose, short-legged trousers made of simple cloth, and a long-sleeved, collarless cardigan. Everything looked basic, as if it was made just to cover the body. The pants had two side pockets, but that was it.
Then I noticed something else—everyone around me, no matter their gender, wore the same outfit.
"As for gold," the shopkeeper added, "if you want to change your money for easier use, just come back to me!"
He didn't seem to mind my questions. I liked him more than the last guy. So I asked something else.
"Are there other currencies besides gold? What's the order?"
"Of course!" he replied once more.
"The smallest is copper. 100 copper makes one silver. 100 silver makes one gold. 100 gold makes one pearl."
"I can't share more, sinner. Our shop's limit ends there."
That word again. Sinner. Every time someone called me that, I felt my anger grow. Okay, fine—I messed up in life and ended up in Hell. But did they have to remind me every five seconds?
I forced myself to stay calm and moved on. I still had three shops left to check, and time was ticking. If I wasted too much time, I could become the next target of whatever those eight hours of torment meant.
I guessed I had already spent two hours exploring. Half the crowd was gone now. The people who remained were mostly standing around the shops and the inscription.
I squeezed through the small buildings and checked the rest of the shops. After finishing the last one, I walked to a quiet spot. I needed time to think.
In total, there were five shops. Two were called Markets—they sold potions and bags. One shop sold three types of weapons: stick, bow, and staff. Another shop had armor: cloth, leather, and metal.
I didn't even ask about the leather or metal armor after I saw the price of the cloth one—it was 150 gold for a robe just slightly better than what I already wore. If I made one wrong comment, I could be banned again, so I kept quiet.
The last shop was the most interesting. It was called the Talent House.
Here, they sold skills—special abilities to help fight the Fallen. That's what the shopkeeper told me, anyway. They had three books: one for archery, one for martial arts, and one for sorcery.
Each cost 500 gold.
I didn't even look at them closely. I just ran away and found somewhere to sit down. That price was impossible. I had no gold. No weapons. No skills.
What kind of game was this? I was starting to see the trap. This whole place was designed to make us fight—but without help. Unless we somehow earned gold, we couldn't buy anything. And if we couldn't buy anything, we had to fight with bare hands.
Like those poor people I saw before—screaming, suffering, being destroyed.
I had no choice. No tools. No protection. Just fists and fear.