Lucy had been crawling blindly through the magical landfill for exactly three minutes, and he'd already tripped over a tire, a still-crunchy chicken leg, and what seemed to be a love letter written on goat skin.
"Well, at least no one's hitting me here. Or yelling at me. Or calling me a cripple..." he muttered while feeling around the ground. "That's progress. In my own way."
His head throbbed like a ceremonial drum, and his stomach roared with the fury of someone who had breakfasted on anxiety. Still, he kept moving. Not because he knew where he was going, but because staying still smelled like surrender… and rotten fish.
After a while, his fingers bumped into something rectangular, rough, and... warm. Lucy froze.
"Please don't be a body. Please don't be a body."
It wasn't a body. It was a backpack. Or what was left of one. It smelled like it had been blessed by the god of rotten cheese, but it held something valuable: a half-torn blanket, a bottle filled with suspicious water, and a cookie that may or may not have been alive.
Lucy eyed it with distrust. Then pocketed it. Survival had flexible rules.
"Congratulations, Lucy. First loot acquired. You're officially in broke-RPG mode!"
A noise caught his attention. Something dragging. Something that wasn't a rat. His body reacted before his brain did: he ducked behind a mountain of trash bags (which might have been a sleeping creature, but he wasn't going to check).
From the shadows, a figure emerged. Large. Hooded. With a glowing magical lantern hanging from their chest. Lucy held his breath.
"Another summoned one? A fashion-forward monster? Or the janitor of the underworld?"
The figure approached something lying on the ground: a heap of metallic junk. They inspected it, murmured something in a strange language, then slowly turned toward Lucy's hiding spot.
"...Shit."
"Who's there?" the figure asked, voice deep but not necessarily hostile.
Lucy considered his options:
Step out and politely introduce himself.
Throw the cookie and run.
Pretend to be part of the garbage.
He went with option three. It required the least movement.
The figure sighed and crouched down.
"I know you're there. I don't have time for games. Are you hurt?"
Lucy grunted from the depths of his corner.
"Define 'hurt.' Physically, emotionally, spiritually?"
The figure let out a soft chuckle. Not a villain's laugh. More like someone who'd seen too much and didn't get surprised anymore.
"Come out. I won't hurt you. You're a summoned one, right?"
Lucy raised an eyebrow.
"And what if I say no?"
"Then you're the most convincing summoned one I've ever seen. No one from this world talks like that. Come on, get up."
Lucy hesitated. But hunger, pain, and the promise of not dying pushed him to slowly rise.
The light revealed him: dusty, hair like a bird's nest, and a face still marked from the hit. He looked more like a monster than a hero.
The figure pulled down her hood. A woman in her forties, dark skin, bright eyes, and a scar running across her cheek like a permanent signature of chaos.
"Welcome," she said, "to the lowest level of the system. This is where the discarded end up."
Lucy blinked.
"Then I came to the right place."
"Yeah. You look like someone the system shoved off a cliff."
"Who are you?"
"You can call me Mira. And before you ask: yes, I was summoned too. A long time ago. No, I wasn't the hero. No, I didn't defeat the Demon King. And no, I don't have hidden magical powers I'm going to transfer to you with a kiss. All I have is experience... and a house with no roof."
Lucy frowned.
"Wait… so you're not one of those super-powerful grannies who look like beggars but then destroy castles with a raised eyebrow? You're not going to train me for a month and then mysteriously die the moment I start unlocking my true potential?"
Mira stared at him silently. Then threw an old shoe at his head.
"I'm not your damn cliché. And if you ever see me blowing up a castle, it's because someone paid me in whiskey."
Lucy shrugged.
"Fair. I had to ask."
"You want to stay alive?"
"Depends on how many more shoes you're planning to throw."
Mira sighed.
"Come on. I'll teach you how to survive. But if you're expecting a shonen training arc with yelling and inspirational speeches, you're in the wrong damn world."
For the first time in hours, Lucy smiled.
"Perfect. I hate yelling."
Mira looked at him for a few seconds, then clicked her tongue.
"Yeah. Maybe you're not completely broken yet."
She offered a hand. Lucy took it, feeling for the first time in days something close to… not trust, but possibility. A thin thread of humanity in the middle of this cliché hell.
"Are there more like me?"
"A few. Most die on impact. Or go insane. You got lucky."
"That was luck…?"
"You're alive. That's more than I can say for most."
Lucy nodded slowly.
"...I'm in."
Mira glanced at him as they walked.
"And you're blind, aren't you?"
Lucy froze.
"What?"
"Your eyes don't follow the light. You didn't react to my lantern. You move your hands like you read with your skin. I've seen enough cases like yours."
"Does that bother you?" Lucy asked, his tone neutral.
Mira paused, then looked at him curiously. "Does it bother you?"
Lucy gave a weak smile.
"Only when people treat me like I'm made of glass."
Mira snorted.
"Relax. There's no glass here. Just stone, bone, and a bit of bad luck wrapped in sarcasm."
"I like that combo."
"Then you'll fit in."
As the two walked off through the rubble, a small light blinked among the trash bags.
Floating silently, hidden behind a mountain of broken things, the guiding orb watched Lucy. Its once-bright surface now looked dim, as if something were infecting it. Or controlling it.
Inside, a purple light pulsed. Something not part of its programming. Something... alive.
From deep within, a voice whispered in a language not of this world.
The orb did not reply.It just watched.Waiting.