God of Zero Cost

The heavy, unpaved dust of the Canaanite foothills dissolved into a smooth, instantaneous black.

Ethan unclasped the haptic visor, the pressurized seal releasing with a soft hiss against his cheekbones. The dry, salt-crusted air of Megiddo vanished, replaced by the cool, ozone-tinged draft of the internal climate control unit.

He didn't stand up immediately. He sat in the ergonomic mesh chair, his hands resting flat against the pristine white composite surface of his desk. Through the triple-glazed floor-to-ceiling window of the Jurong East Sky Pylon, the twilight skyline of Singapore stretched out like an expansive, glittering circuit board. At this altitude, the grinding, low-frequency hum of the industrial cargo transit drones down in the public corridors was reduced to a gentle, rhythmic vibration beneath his bare feet.

It was a world away from the soot-stained walls and damp concrete corridors of the old rental block.

A subtle chime sounded from the entryway gantry. Ethan pulled his headset down around his neck and stood up, his leg muscles tightening slightly. The intensive exercises he’d added to his routine were starting to show through his clothes; his frame felt heavier, denser, anchored firmly into the floor.

He walked into the kitchenette, where a warm, four-tier steel tingkat sat inside the delivery drop-chute, bearing the green stamp of Tingkat-Pod Co. Inside, the compartments stacked neatly: a generous portion of braised soy-chicken, thick yellow noodles, and fresh kailan vegetables. No filtered smog odor, no metallic ground-level crunch. No more sodium-packed instant noodles from Chinatown convenience stores. Down there, he had been eating to survive. Up here in the pylon, with a meal plan that took a bite out of his paycheck but gave him actual protein, he was feeding a body that finally had a future.

Carrying the steaming tingkat, Ethan stepped across the quiet living alcove toward the large panoramic glass pane of Unit 44-02.

The low, rhythmic thrum of the medical pod filled the corner of the room, its status indicators pulsing in a soft, steady green. Inside, his grandmother lay back against the contoured support gel, the automated transparent hood angled perfectly toward the sweeping horizon.

"The sky looks clear tonight," she said, her eyes tracking the distant, flickering amber lights of the Jurong Island flare-stacks through the triple-glazed glass. "You can see so far from up here, Ethan. It’s so quiet. No shouting from the corridor outside."

"And it's staying that way," Ethan said, a rare, loose smile breaking across his face. He picked up his tablet from the counter, tapping the screen to show his banking app, then held the glowing screen against the transparent viewing window of her pod.

His grandmother squinted at the numbers through the glass, her frail hand lifting slightly within the support gel. Her eyes traced the massive shift in Ethan's account balance.

"We are finally moving forward, ah boy," she whispered, her voice thick but clear. "You’ve done well. You’ve really done well." Letting out a long, slow breath that fogged the inside of the acrylic shield, her eyelids grew heavy as the pod's automated evening sedative cycle kicked in. The soft amber sleep-light filled the chamber, and her breathing settled into a deep, mechanical rhythm.

He sat down at the minimalist laminate table alone, the savory aroma of soy-chicken and garlic filling the space. He didn't pick up his chopsticks immediately. His eyes remained locked on the glowing tablet screen, running the cold math on the 50-year mortgage.

Six hundred downpayments left. At a flat servicing fee of $2,500 a month, he would be forced to fork out a staggering $1,500,000 over the course of his lifetime just to keep this square patch of elevated concrete from being reclaimed by the firm. If he relied solely on minimum monthly payments, he would be an old man before this flat truly belonged to them.

Ethan reached for his chopsticks, taking a slow, deliberate bite of the chicken. The meat was rich, real, and packed with the clean protein his training demanded. His frame felt heavier, anchoring firmly into the chair. He was no longer just eating to survive the day; he making sure his body could continue to earn money in the game.

He needed to get back to farming the hidden dungeon whilst it was still useful. His personal literal goldmine at the moment, before the rise of iron turned it into worthless scrap metal.

He swallowed the last of the kailan, planning how to clear his next dungeon run more efficiently.