The Extra-dimensional Pioneer Of Fiction [Draft]

[California, ?????????]

The portal spat Arlo out with a graceless thud, depositing him face-first onto a dry dirt road. Dust and small pebbles scattered beneath him as he groaned, pushing himself upright. "Really?" he muttered, brushing grit off his jacket. "You'd think an Extra-dimensional portal of an all powerful system could handle a smoother landing. Guess five-star service isn't part of the package."

Standing up, he rotated his shoulder, wincing at the stiffness. The area around him stretched wide, dominated by tall, brittle grass that swayed in the faint breeze. The grass, golden-brown from what must have been an unrelenting sun, came up to his waist in some spots, creating an uneven sea of shifting blades. Scattered among the fields were twisted, leaf-bare trees that looked like they belonged on the set of a low-budget horror movie.

Their skeletal branches clawed at the sky, casting spindly shadows on the ground in the fading sunlight. It wasn't a forest, nor was it truly open plains—just the kind of lonely, unsettling middle ground where something could leap out at any moment.

Arlo activated his BrainLink, watching the holographic screen flicker to life. The map materialized with crisp precision, confirming his location: [Devil's Canyon Trail, California]. At least something's working as expected.

"Devil's Canyon Trail," he read aloud, zooming in on his location. The marker showed him somewhere in California, near what appeared to be a hiking path.

"At least I don't need to go begging an NPC for directions," he muttered, a small grin tugging at his lips. His fingers traced the dirt path displayed on the map. So far, it looked straightforward—no red danger zones flashing ominously, no inexplicable fog of war. Still, his instincts told him that simplicity in the System was always a trap.

His HUD clock blinked—5:33 PM. The sun was already dipping toward the horizon, its golden light shifting to deeper hues of orange and red. Arlo frowned as the shadows stretched across the uneven ground.

Memories of "The Purge" movie flickered through his mind. The first film, set in a gated community where all crime became legal for 12 hours. James Sandin's neighborhood, he recalled where the movie happen.

Arlo decide to use his divination, specifically the dowsing seeking rod method to find the location of James Sadin location. He knew that the dowsing seeking rod can metal or wood as a medium but he currently doe not have right now.

Arlo's eyes fell on a sturdy wooden stick half-buried in the dirt beside the road. He crouched, picking it up and testing its weight. It felt rough and jagged, but solid enough for what he had in mind.

"When in doubt, improvise," he said, holding it upright like a divining rod.

Closing his eyes, he whispered, "James Sadin's location," seven times

"James Sadin's location"

"James Sadin's location"

"James Sadin's location"

"James Sadin's location"

....

The wooden stick fell southwest, pointing toward a direction that matched his mini map. His MP decreased by 20

[MP: 165/185]

Magic with a mana cost. Typical RPG mechanics, he thought with a hint of sardonic humor.

Looking his map, he traced the southwest quadrant until a small settlement appeared—Village Green Farm. The name rang a bell. He vaguely remembered something about California suburbs and gated communities.

"Figures," he muttered. "Nothing suspicious about a place that sounds like a retirement home for Stepford wives." The marker on his map pulsed faintly, confirming his destination.

Arlo checked his inventory, retrieving the Pit Viper. He carefully concealed the weapon within his coat.

"Not the friendliest icebreaker," he muttered, "but better to have it and not need it." He started walking, shoes crunching against the gravelly dirt road as he kept an eye on the tall grass swaying on either side.

==================================================

[California, Devil's Canyon Trail]

Arlo adjusted his coat against the chilly breeze as he continued down the winding dirt path. The muted colors of the dying sun stretched long shadows across the ground, but his thoughts drowned out the view.

Arlo thought about the Movie The Purge it was made during 2013, This universe is basically that where America become so corrupt that rich people kills poor people because they want more money.

"So, let me get this straight," he said muttered to himself, his tone laced with disbelief. "A yearly murder holiday? That's their brilliant solution to crime and social unrest? Someone clearly got their policy degree from the Sith Academy."

He sighed, kicking a stray rock that clattered noisily across the gravel. The Purge, he thought, shaking his head. The premise felt absurd, almost laughable, if not for the grim reality he'd seen in this world. Entire towns ravaged, streets littered with bodies, families torn apart—all for the sake of a fabricated "cleansing" ritual. The NFFA had somehow managed to convince people that unbridled chaos was not just necessary but noble.

"Yeah, nothing screams 'stable society' like an annual murder spree," Arlo muttered, his voice tinged with dry humor. He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, his fingers brushing against the familiar weight of his Pit Viper pistol. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. His eyes flicked to the horizon, scanning for movement. Just in case

His mind wandered to how the NFFA had pulled this off but it was from a movie, now it is the reality. It wasn't just the propaganda—though the endless stream of government-sponsored ads and news reports declaring the Purge a "patriotic duty" certainly played their part. No, the real genius of the system was its psychology. By giving people a single night to vent their worst impulses, they'd convinced an entire nation to accept a new moral baseline.

"Classic cult tactic," he muttered. "Redefine the rules, then sell it as freedom."

The chilling part wasn't just that it worked. It was how willingly people embraced it. Arlo remembered the smiling faces in the NFFA broadcasts, families eagerly prepping for their Purge as if it were some twisted Thanksgiving tradition.

"Just add turkey and fireworks, and you've got yourself a national holiday," he said, his tone bitter. The thought made his stomach churn.

The dirt path gave way to cracked asphalt as Arlo approached what looked like an old crossroads. A faded road sign pointed west toward the edge of a forest and east toward a small settlement. His BrainLink interface flickered to life, confirming his location. The destination marker still pulsed faintly on the map, somewhere to the southwest. Arlo glanced at the time: 6:00 PM. Sunset was almost complete, and the shadows around him deepened

"This whole place is a powder keg," Arlo muttered, stepping cautiously as he scanned the area. If I don't keep moving, I'll end up as someone's pregame appetizer.

.....

After of 20 minutes of walking, Arlo's steps slowed as the faint outline of Village Green Farm came into view. The settlement was framed by rows of quaint houses, their white picket fences and neatly trimmed lawns almost surreal in the growing twilight. But the idyllic facade was shattered by the glaring red lights of security cameras perched on high poles, sweeping the perimeter like hawks hunting for prey. Arlo crouched low behind a bush, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scene.

"Of course, it couldn't just be a stroll into the suburbs," he muttered under his breath. His BrainLink flickered to life, overlaying a map of the area onto his HUD. Two guards patrolled the main entrance, their rifles slung casually over their shoulders. Both looked bored, but Arlo knew better than to underestimate them.

"Stealth mission it is," he said softly, glancing around for a way in.

The map showed a gap in the fence to the west, but it was at least a hundred yards away. Too far to sprint without drawing attention. He crouched lower, slipping into the shadows of a large oak tree. One step at a time, Arlo. 

The western fence came into view after a tense five-minute crawl. Arlo pressed himself against the trunk of another tree, waiting for the nearest guard to pass. His Danger Intuition hadn't flared, but the tension in his chest suggested it wasn't far off. When the coast was clear, he darted forward, slipping through the jagged gap in the fence.

Once inside, he kept low, weaving through rows of neatly parked cars and tool sheds. The air smelled faintly of gasoline and cut grass. The settlement was eerily quiet; most people had already retreated into their homes, shutters drawn and lights dimmed in preparation for what was coming.

"They're probably locking themselves in and pretending this is normal," he whispered bitterly.

By the time Arlo reached the main road leading north, his HUD clock read 6:30 PM. The last of the sunlight had vanished, leaving the streets bathed in a cold, pale moonlight. He pulled the makeshift wooden dowsing rod from his coat, gripping it tightly as he muttered the incantation. The rod tipped southwest, the movement slight but clear.

"Still a ways to go," Arlo sighed, adjusting his coat. He began walking again, keeping to the shadows where possible. His eyes scanned the darkened windows of the houses he passed, every creak and rustle of leaves making his pulse quicken. The whole area felt like the set of a horror movie—silent, foreboding, and waiting for something to go wrong. Then it did.

The sirens erupted without warning, their blaring wails shattering the fragile calm of the night.

Arlo flinched, his heart hammering in his chest. He glanced at his HUD: 7:00 PM. The Purge had begun.

"Great timing," he muttered, his voice thick with sarcasm.

Panic clawed at the edges of his thoughts, but he forced it back, closing his eyes and entered cogitation. His breathing steadied as the familiar mental clarity washed over him. The MP counter on his HUD ticked down steadily—164, 163, 162—but it bought him the calm he needed. Think. Don't freeze.

He darted off the road and into the trees, crouching low among the gnarled roots. The sirens faded, but the silence that followed was even worse. Shadows began to move in the streets—figures in grotesque masks, their shapes illuminated by the faint glow of flashlights and the occasional flicker of firelight. 

Some wore clown masks smeared with red paint, their jagged smiles grinning wide in the dark. Others had fashioned their own coverings from sackcloth and leather, their hollow eyes glinting behind the crude designs. They carried bats, machetes, chains, and the occasional firearm. The air buzzed with nervous energy, their laughter and low murmurs drifting ominously toward him.

Arlo held his breath, trying to stay as still as possible. But his luck, as usual, didn't hold. His shoe came down on a dry branch with a loud crack!.

The sound echoed through the trees, and several masked figures froze, their heads snapping in his direction.

"Brilliant, after putting status point in Luck would hopefully makes me lucky but no.... I am still unlucky" Arlo sigh under his breath, reaching for the Pit Viper tucked inside his coat. The cold weight of the pistol was oddly reassuring as he drew it, the familiar contours fitting perfectly in his hand. He flicked the safety off, his eyes scanning the shadows for movement.

The figures began to fan out, their weapons glinting in the moonlight.

One of them, a lanky man wearing a grotesque pig mask, pointed toward Arlo's position. "Over there!" he shouted, his voice muffled but clear.

Arlo sighed, his grip tightening on the pistol. "Well, Leeroy," he muttered, "guess you're rolling for initiative."

==================================================

Arlo's heart skipped a beat as his Danger Intuition flared up, a tingling sensation that set every nerve on edge. He stopped dead in his tracks, gripping the Pit Viper inside his coat as his eyes scanned the shadowy trees around him. The silence of the night was almost deafening, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze. Then, they appeared.

From the darkness emerged a group of six masked figures, their movements deliberate and unnervingly synchronized. Each mask was grotesque in its own way—splattered paint, stitched leather, and crude symbols etched into their surfaces. Their weapons glinted ominously under the moonlight: bats, machetes, and, most concerning of all, firearms.

"Stop right there!" Arlo's voice rang out, firm but laced with tension. He drew the Pit Viper and leveled it at the group. The mask-wearing purgers halted, tilting their heads like curious predators.

Arlo's stomach churned. His grip on the pistol tightened, but his hand trembled slightly. Jason Voorhees doesn't count, he reminded himself. That kill wasn't personal—Jason was a supernatural force, a monster of a slasher movie. These people were different. They were human. Twisted, maybe, but human.

His thoughts raced, every moral fiber of his being screaming at him to reconsider. They're brainwashed by the NFFA, manipulated into thinking this madness is normal. They probably have families, jobs—real lives. Killing them means becoming part of this nightmare.

Yet the logical part of his mind, sharpened by the reality of this world, cut through the hesitation. But if I don't stop them, I'm the one who won't make it out alive. He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. Survival wasn't about being righteous; it was about making choices you could live with.

"You don't have to do this!" Arlo called out, his voice cracking slightly as he tried to reason with them. "You're playing right into the NFFA's hands. They want you to think this is freedom, but it's just control!"

One of the purgers, a broad-shouldered man with a cracked porcelain mask, stepped forward, chuckling darkly.

"Big words for someone who's about to be fertilizer. You think that pea-shooter's gonna save you?" His companions laughed, the sound hollow and unhinged

Arlo's chest tightened as they began to advance again, their movements predatory. He steadied the pistol, forcing his hand to stop shaking. His gaze hardened as he muttered under his breath, "If I'm going to do this, I'll own it. No excuses. No turning into a monster."

With a deep breath, he prepared to pull the trigger, his resolve solidifying like iron. This is survival. Nothing more, nothing less.

.........

"I said stop!" Arlo shouted, his voice cutting through the cold night air. The Pit Viper in his hand glinted faintly under the pale moonlight.

The masked-purgers, however, didn't halt their advance. If anything, the sound of his voice seemed to embolden them. One of them, a tall figure with a wolf mask painted in crude, dripping streaks of red, stepped forward. He held a machete in one hand and gestured lazily toward Arlo with the other.

"This one's got a little bite," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "I'm gonna enjoy tearing him apart."

Arlo swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. They're not stopping. Of course they're not stopping. He used his Analysis to examine the best course of action.

[Analysis Activated]

[Processing data...]

The world around him seemed to slow as data flowed into his Mind

[Analysis Complete]

Situation Examined: 4 male, 2 female. Three armed with melee weapons; the other three carried firearms: a rifle, a shotgun, and a pistol.

Threat Level: High

Suggestion: Prioritize ranged threats to minimize risk

The cold logic of the assessment was both a blessing and a curse. It gave him a plan, but the weight of executing it fell squarely on his shoulders. Arlo exhaled through his nose, trying to steady his breathing. "Alright, Leeroy. This isn't a boss fight where you can reload if you mess up. They're coming, and if you hesitate, you're done.