Lord Of Ashes

John carefully examined the items he'd retrieved from the small metal treasure chest. Despite being no larger than a fist, the chest had miraculously held a pair of police combat boots, a tactical waist pouch, a safety operation manual, and some Soul Points. While it defied logic, John had long stopped questioning the oddities of the Ashes World—it operated on its own set of rules, completely disconnected from science or reason.

"Alright, let's see what we've got here," John muttered, setting the items down one by one. First up were the combat boots: plain, black, and sturdy. Though they appeared ordinary at first glance, John was thrilled to have them. Before trying them on, however, he realized there was an important task to complete.

"I need to wash my feet first," he said with a sigh, glancing down at the grime covering his soles. Having spent hours wandering barefoot through the ruined corridors and stairwells of the Happiness Grove Apartments, his feet were filthy—caked in dirt, dust, and, disturbingly, goblin blood that left faint green stains.

John grabbed a precious bottle of mineral water, twisting the cap off with care. Normally, a single bottle wouldn't suffice for washing up, but he had no choice but to make it stretch. Rummaging through the closet, he found an old shirt, tore it into pieces, and dampened one of the rags with water. Slowly and methodically, he wiped away the dirt and blood.

Once the worst of the grime was gone, he used the remaining water to rinse his feet, then dried them with another scrap of cloth. Finally satisfied, he slipped on the combat boots, tying the laces tightly. Taking a few steps around the room, he smiled. The boots fit perfectly and felt surprisingly comfortable.

"I never thought having shoes to wear would make me so happy," he said, stomping lightly on the floor to test the soles.

But his moment of contentment didn't last long. "Now I need to find a watch," he murmured. "Not knowing the time is such a hassle." Without a reliable sense of time, John had found it difficult to keep track of how long he'd been in the Ashes World. Emotions only made it worse—when he was happy, time seemed to fly, and when he was stressed or scared, it dragged endlessly.

The truth was, John's sense of time was further complicated by his ability to stop it altogether. This unique power allowed him to complete tasks in a paused state, meaning much of what he accomplished didn't count toward the world's timeline. It was an odd quirk he had grown accustomed to, but it still made estimating the passage of time tricky.

"About thirty minutes to an hour," he guessed. "That's how long I've been here—if you don't count the pauses."

After pacing a bit in his new boots, John turned his attention to the waist pouch. It was a standard-issue tactical bag, likely meant to clip onto a police belt. But as he examined it, a realization struck him.

"Wait a second… I don't even have a belt," he said, frowning. The thought hadn't occurred to him earlier, but now it posed a frustrating obstacle. He tried various alternatives—hanging the pouch on his arm, looping it around his leg—but none of them worked. Without a belt, the pouch was unusable.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "Am I seriously going to be unable to use this thing just because I don't have a belt?"

John shook his head. "No way. If I don't have a belt, I'll just make one!" His mind buzzed with ideas. He could craft a makeshift belt using alchemy, a skill he'd recently learned, or he could scavenge one from the zombie-infested apartments next door. Both options had their challenges, but neither was impossible.

"Where there's a will, there's a way," John said, feeling a renewed sense of determination. He returned to the closet, pulled out another old shirt, and got to work. Using alchemy, he transformed the fabric into a crude but functional belt. It wasn't pretty, but it would do the job.

With the belt secured around his waist, John attached the tactical pouch. It fit perfectly, and he felt a small surge of satisfaction. "Problem solved," he said with a grin.

However, his makeshift belt came with a downside: it used up another piece of clothing from the already dwindling supply in the closet. John frowned as he realized just how few clothes were left. Old clothes were becoming a scarce resource, even rarer than the bottles of mineral water he relied on for washing and drinking.

"I'll have to start collecting more clothes during my scavenging runs," he noted. "Otherwise, I'll end up with nothing to wear."

John's concern wasn't just about modesty. During his encounters with zombies, their blood and decayed flesh often splattered onto his clothing, leaving it stained and reeking. If only a small amount got on him, he could tolerate it. But when a significant amount soaked his clothes, the stench became unbearable.

"It's worse than anything I've ever smelled," he said, wrinkling his nose at the memory. "Rotting meat, sewage, old garbage—it's all rolled into one."

The confined spaces of the apartments made the situation even worse. Without proper ventilation, the foul odors seemed to linger and intensify. Sometimes, the smell was so overpowering that it felt like a physical assault on his senses.

"It's a wonder I haven't vomited yet," John said. He attributed his resilience to his enhanced physique. If he were still an ordinary person, he was certain the stench would have overwhelmed him, leaving him vulnerable to a zombie attack.

Of course, outdoor encounters were less suffocating. The open air helped dissipate the smell, but the zombies in the Happiness Grove Apartments were another matter entirely. Trapped indoors with them, John had to endure the worst of it.

"It's just one more reason to be prepared," he said. From now on, in addition to essentials like food, water, and weapons, he would also prioritize finding clean clothes. Without them, he risked being forced to wear garments drenched in foul-smelling blood—a situation he was determined to avoid.

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