POTLS - Chapter 8: Life on The Run

If there was one skill Paul had mastered through his years growing up, it was running and hiding.

Raised by his aunt, he had grown up in poverty. He wasn't proud of his past, but he was glad it was behind him. Escaping after petty thefts had honed his awareness of his surroundings. Combined with dodging bullies, these experiences served him well as he left the football field.

Despite his efforts to throw off the hawks watching from the bleachers, Paul still felt uneasy after taking a roundabout route. He entered the school building, winding through hallways once filled with laughter and the clamor of students, then through the kitchen and into a restroom, where he waited for ten minutes before leaving.

He exited through the service door used for garbage trucks and cafeteria deliveries. The emptiness of the street greeted him.

After navigating for a while, he slipped into narrow alleys, eyes darting beneath his hood, maintaining his vigilance.

The world had changed, making the possibility of someone tracking him across rooftops non-zero. The rancid stench from waste in the corners made him hold his breath as he moved.

He headed north, drawing closer to the outskirts, that moral gray area inhabited by criminals and those just trying to survive day by day. Dreary square houses lined both sides of the concrete road. Newspaper fragments drifted through the air, discarded by the homeless. Headlines like "The Apocalypse Is Coming," "Government Failures in Managing Survivors," and "Rising Crime Rates" caught his eye, making the atmosphere even more somber than necessary.

Paul's footsteps slowed as he neared his destination, his mind becoming unnaturally alert. His eyes scanned from front to back, left to right.

Too quiet, he thought.

This area rarely had visitors—a place where no one considered "normal" would bother coming. Yet usually a few dejected faces could be seen lounging on the streets. Today, however, there was no one.

Street dwellers had the keenest sense for certain things: food, money, those carrying money or valuables, and dangerous individuals. Paul suspected it was the latter that had scared off even old fox Patrick.

He immediately ducked down, pressing himself against the wall to avoid being spotted from above.

Following the wall's edge, he turned at a right angle. After looking around once more, he crossed the street and ran straight into an abandoned building.

Beneath his feet, trash crunched alongside needles and glass shards from homemade drug paraphernalia. The stairs leading upward creaked with each step. He covered his nose to keep out the dust.

Pushing aside makeshift fabric dividers and plastic sheets that separated living areas for the building's inhabitants, he went directly to a window shoddily covered with wooden planks. Fortunately, no one was here today, or they'd gone out searching for food.

Through the gap between two rough rectangular boards, he squinted at the building opposite.

The room he had rented at a discounted rate after completing a job for the building's owner.

He silently thanked his caution for not rushing back to rest, avoiding a critical mistake.

Though he couldn't identify the men positioned on both sides of the hallway, he knew they belonged to The Crouching Tiger.

The hallway connected three rooms. Currently, the families in the two outer rooms were suffering collateral damage. Through the windows, Paul could see some men threatening and vandalizing. Both mothers trembled violently—one with her head bowed, the other sobbing uncontrollably.

Paul sighed deeply and left the abandoned building through a different exit.

He heightened his vigilance, though there was hardly room for more caution.

Gradually, he began to run, hoping no one would spot him.

By the time he left his neighborhood, evening had fallen. The sunset painted the sky in orange hues, reminding him of fried chicken he hadn't tasted in ages.

Exhausted, he chewed on an energy bar while finding his way toward downtown.

The bustle, vibrancy, and noise of the city welcomed him. The alleys teemed with life—people drinking before nightfall, restaurant owners berating employees, young couples experimenting with weed.

He didn't like this place. But it had raised him, so he accepted it.

Large screens mounted at intersections displayed information about the Portals.

The most attention-grabbing topic concerned A-Rankers and their challenges.

When the Portals appeared, "it" hadn't simply provided transportation tools. "It" had also issued global challenges. The first challenge had been to clear a D-rank Portal within two months. Naturally, humanity had failed—no Survivor had been capable of conquering a D-rank Portal that quickly.

The consequence was an invasion. One-way Portals opened across continents worldwide, releasing monsters. Humanity's first contact with aliens revealed creatures with tentacled heads and slimy, frog-like bodies. They moved on four legs, lacking arms. Their weapons resembled human firearms but were mounted on their heads and knees. Their modest height made their movements somewhat awkward.

As their non-threatening appearance suggested, the Tentorps—named later by the DPI—failed against humanity's counterattack. According to scientists, their failure stemmed from environmental factors. Autopsies revealed they needed water for movement and growth.

The System, seemingly applying a "Starter Pack" for humans, hadn't allowed the invasion to occur over oceans. After just one day, the Tentorps collectively retreated. Even their elite forms never appeared. Their bodies vanished when the invasion event ended, preventing further research.

"Its" mercy ended there. The next challenge jumped directly to an A-rank invasion.

High above, hidden among the clouds, progress bars stretched across the globe, gradually decreasing. Each time someone entered an A-rank Portal, the progress bar dropped a notch. Currently, only about one-third remained. Clearly, though no specific number was provided, this challenge offered far fewer opportunities, as A-rank Portals were much rarer than D-rank ones.

Extending the timeline was impossible because Survivors only had two weeks to a month between runs. Skipping a Portal resulted in the System automatically deducting one life. And that skipped turn still counted toward the overall progress.

Over 190 countries worldwide faced an approaching threat, as no A-rank Portal had yet been cleared.

With each rank increase, maps added another condition. It could be a speed debuff, reduced recovery ability, increased mana consumption for skills, hazardous environments gradually draining life—countless variables came into play. Rank A meant five conditions or map adjustments, making runs unreasonably difficult.

The government simultaneously pushed Survivors to try harder while remaining somewhat indifferent, unwilling to invest more resources. Scientists and high-rank Survivors warned against using Tentorps as a baseline for assessment. An invasion from an A-rank Portal equated to a global catastrophe—the apocalypse itself.

But money and resources were limited. The government implemented only basic defense measures like shelters and safe zones. The level of care for citizens varied by country, but where Paul lived, efforts seemed merely perfunctory.

In this city alone, three shelters existed, with capacity for only five to six thousand people, and food reserves hadn't even been transported and stored yet. Needless to say, these five thousand spots would hardly include ordinary citizens. Trading shelter access rights flourished on the black market. The Crouching Tiger guild participated enthusiastically in this trade.

The sound of the newscaster changing topics on a nearby screen jolted Paul back to awareness, and he continued walking.

He passed through crowds busy with their daily routines, deluding themselves that everything would be fine. He used the crowd as cover to reach his destination.

Beneath an old apartment building, he hid between two garbage bins.

He remained still as a statue, blending into the gathering darkness.

Street lights flickered on, along with lights from surrounding apartments.

Amid the stench, he smelled smoke from a nearby restaurant and the aroma of butter and milk wafting from the window of a girl making cake.

Paul remained motionless, imprisoning himself amid squalor.

Only as night approached did he stand. He swung himself onto the metal surface of the fire escape. Lunging upward, he jumped onto the ledge of an adjacent apartment. Then, flexing his muscles, he grabbed the ledge above and continued skillfully ascending, powered by strong arms and a fearlessness of heights.

When he reached the fifth floor, he knocked on a closed window.

From inside came a man's voice.

"Come in, I've unlocked the latch already."

Paul slipped his hand through, pulled the window up, and nimbly entered. The small, dilapidated apartment welcomed him with unexpected warmth.

Sitting with his back turned, surrounded by piles of paperwork, was the person Paul considered family.

His only true friend, Michael Sullivan.