Falling through that pink wooden door, Z-69 felt as if he were plunging into a space that didn’t belong to reality at all.

  The air here was cold and unmoving—so still that he could hear the beating of his own heart more clearly than anything else.

  Lumina clung tightly to his shoulder, her entire body curled up like a cat sensing a demon’s shadow.

  Before them unfolded a space that was… endless.

  No ceiling.

  No walls.

  No beginning and no end.

  Only rows of shelves stretching infinitely, like dark stripes carved into a torn-apart dream.

  Glass cases, display racks, wooden frames, metal boxes, storage crates— all mixed together as though they belonged to different eras entirely.

  Ancient, modern, far-future… everything jumbled, stacked, overlapping each other like a madman trying to organize weapons by intuition instead of logic.

  Z-69 glanced at a cracked wooden chest—from inside, he heard something breathing softly, like someone sleeping.

  Nearby was a long rifle glowing faint blue—but the rifle blinked at him.

  Farther away, a sword whispered faintly like a mischievous child.

  Lumina shrank back:

  “Z… those things… they’re looking at me.”

  Z-69 surveyed the invisible eyes drifting across him.

  “Not exactly looking,” he said calmly. “They are evaluating.”

  “Evaluating what?”

  “Whether we’re compatible.”

  A voice drifted toward them like a passing breeze:

  “At least you still know how to read a room.”

  The Faceless Merchant appeared from nowhere, hands in his pockets, strolling around like the owner of a convenience store giving customers a discount tour.

  He gestured grandly:

  “Welcome to the Outerworld Armory. This is where I keep all of my rare and one-of-a-kind weapons.”

  Z-69 looked around.

  “Looks like the armory of someone with a severe hoarding disorder.”

  “More than that.” the Faceless Merchant replied, tilting his head.

  “Some items here are quite adorable. Some are extremely dangerous. And some… if you stare at them too long, you’ll forget your own name.”

  Lumina yanked Z-69’s collar tight:

  “Stop looking around!”

  The Faceless Merchant laughed.

  “Alright, let me show you a few choices before we get to the main item.”

  He led them to a massive shelf.

  On it rested a three-meter-long great sword, its body as thick as the spine of some enormous metal beast.

  Its blade bore old burn marks, as if it had once cut through a small sun.

  “This one weighs around five hundred kilograms,” the Faceless Merchant said, patting the blade.

  “Its previous owner… lost an arm and an eye, but his swings were still poetry.”

  Z-69 tried to lift it.

  The sword didn’t budge.

  He nodded.

  “I am not that monster.”

  “Correct. Moving on.”

  The Faceless Merchant hopped to the next shelf, where a long metal spear glowed at the tip like a tiny star.

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  “This one suits you better. Once pierced in, it drains all biological energy nearby and pumps it straight into the owner’s heart. Very convenient. You’re always hungry, after all.”

  Z-69 examined it with consideration.

  “How much?”

  The Faceless Merchant smiled.

  “Normal price: a soul. Discount price: half a soul.”

  “A bit expensive.”

  “Indeed.”

  They skipped it.

  Next was a black whip lying inside a glass cage.

  It writhed like a living tentacle, breathing like a creature.

  Z-69 reached a hand near it—the whip instantly lunged forward, trying to coil around his wrist.

  “No.”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s slimy.”

  Lumina hissed:

  “Ew. Absolutely not.”

  The Faceless Merchant gazed at them as if watching a comedy show.

  “I swear most customers either scream or run away. You two judge my inventory like you’re grading dishes on a menu.”

  He led them to a silver gun engraved with strange patterns.

  “This one shoots incredibly well. Each bullet can explode twenty times. But…”

  The Faceless Merchant sighed.

  The gun suddenly… opened its mouth.

  “F***ing hell, don’t pat me like a damn dog, you idiot!”

  Lumina shrieked:

  “DO NOT BUY THAT ONE!!!!!”

  Z-69 nodded.

  “Agreed.”

  But as Z-69 turned away, he suddenly froze.

  A very light—very, very familiar—vibration brushed against his chest.

  The violet lightning inside his crystal trembled.

  Z-69 slowly turned his head toward the darkest corner of the armory.

  There stood an old glass case, bound in layers of sealing talismans now cracked apart.

  A fracture ran down the center of the case—shaped exactly like a lightning bolt.

  Lumina whispered:

  “Do you… hear that?”

  Z-69 didn’t respond.

  He stepped toward it.

  With each step, the lightning in his chest pulsed harder.

  The glass case swung open.

  Inside— A short blade.

  Not long.

  Not short.

  Perfectly balanced—too perfect to be coincidence.

  Its black-purple blade bore frozen lightning patterns, as if thunder itself had been carved into metal centuries ago.

  The hilt carried a burn mark—small but deep—like a bite left by memory.

  On the spine of the blade was a line of text… half-erased.

  Z-69 couldn’t read the whole thing.

  But the remaining characters—he knew.

  Knew in the way muscles remember strikes even when the mind forgets everything.

  He placed his hand on the hilt.

  The crystal in his chest flared.

  A soft whoom echoed, like someone lighting a sleeping storm.

  The short blade trembled, then exhaled—a metallic sigh, weary from ages of waiting.

  Violet light flashed across the blade.

  Lumina was knocked backward by the shockwave.

  The Faceless Merchant crossed his arms, unimpressed:

  “Everyone picks the wrong weapon the first three tries. But you… picked right from the very first second. How boring.”

  Z-69 gripped the short blade tightly.

  In that fleeting moment, he saw himself standing on a blazing battlefield—The sky torn apart by thunderlight.

  Metal shattering.

  Countless monsters falling—And his hand—this hand—holding this short blade, cutting through darkness like slicing open night itself.

  The memory vanished.

  Z-69 whispered:

  “I know how to use it.”

  “I know,” The Faceless Merchant replied.

  “What’s the price?” Z-69 asked.

  The Faceless Merchant inhaled deeply, like preparing to read a 20-page contract.

  “Normally: your entire fortune, plus one arm and one leg—literally.”

  “Not reasonable.”

  “Hence the special offer.”

  He pointed to Z-69’s forehead.

  “I will take one memory shard from you.”

  Z-69 narrowed his eyes.

  “Which memory?”

  “I choose. Don’t worry—I won’t take anything… important. Just a little fragment.”

  Lumina jumped in front of him:

  “He JUST woke up! His memory is like a cracked bowl already! Don’t—”

  The Faceless Merchant placed a hand on his chest, putting on an exaggeratedly dramatic expression:

  “I swear I am kind. I won’t take anything too vital. Perhaps you’ll just feel… mildly confused.”

  Z-69 stared at the short blade.

  It trembled like it wanted his hand again.

  He opened his palm.

  “It doesn’t matter. I have nothing to lose.”

  The Faceless Merchant’s mask lit up like a Christmas tree.

  His gloved hand touched Z-69’s forehead.

  A pulse of purple light drifted out of Z-69’s head, condensing into a small glowing orb.

  Z-69 swayed slightly, Lumina caught him, panicked.

  “Did you… forget something?!”

  Z-69 blinked.

  “…Something small. Doesn’t matter.”

  The Faceless Merchant dropped the memory orb into a tiny glass jar and pocketed it like candy.

  “Done. Transaction complete. Take good care of that short blade. It has waited for you a very long time.”

  Z-69 turned the hilt in his hand.

  The familiarity was terrifying.

  The Faceless Merchant suddenly clapped his hands.

  “Oh, almost forgot. My business card.”

  A white card floated down, printed with a smiling mask logo.

  “If you need me, just crush it. I’ll come. And send my regards to John. I miss him dearly.”

  Before Z-69 could speak, the Faceless Merchant—kicked both of them out.

  No spell.

  No ceremony.

  Just a simple, disrespectful, physical kick.

  They fell straight onto the garbage heap of Level Ten.

  Z-69 hit the ground on his back, Lumina’s face slammed into his chest.

  “…Did we just survive?” Lumina croaked.

  Z-69 stood up instantly.

  “Yes. Though it feels like being pickpocketed.”

  “Because you WERE pickpocketed.”

  Z-69 picked up the business card and read:

  “Faceless Trading Shop.”

  The short blade hummed in his hand, breathing with him.

  “Good,” he said softly. “I need this.”

  He walked through the alley.

  John stood waiting, leaning against a wall—face twisted like he wanted to slam his head into it.

  “I disappear for three hours. Where did you go? And what is THAT in your hand?!”

  Z-69 raised the short blade.

  “I don’t remember everything. But I think… I purchased it.”

  “Z-69 TRADED HIS MEMORY TO BUY IT!!” Lumina yelled via telepathy.

  “Oh—and the Faceless Merchant sends his regards,” Z-69 added calmly.

  John went pale.

  “WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?! YOU SOLD YOUR MEMORY TO THAT SCAM ARTIST?!”

  “DAMN IT, THAT FRAUD DARED APPROACH YOU WHEN I WASN’T AROUND—NEXT TIME I SEE HIM I’LL TURN HIM INTO SCRAP!”

  Z-69 shrugged.

  “At least now I have a weapon.”

  John dragged both metal hands through his hair and inhaled his cigarette like he wanted to suck his soul out.

  “I swear, I might have to chain you inside the safehouse every time I leave.”

  Z-69 exhaled lightly.

  “I don’t like chains.”

  “GOOD. THEN STOP BUYING THINGS WITH MEMORY.”

  Lumina tugged Z-69’s coat aggressively:

  “Next time you are NOT entering that store alone!”

  Z-69 looked at the short blade.

  Violet light reflected in his eyes.

  “I’ll try.”

  But deep inside, he already knew—Sooner or later, he would walk through that door again.