Alex boards the ne, dreading the long flight ahead. "Hey, 1337, can I only enter the Fantasy Realm from my room back home?"


    [<strong>Host can enter the Fantasy Realm from anywhere in the real world, provided it guarantees 100% privacy and that the host considers it a temporary sanctuary.</strong>]


    "So, a hotel room would count too?"


    [<strong>If the host ensures not to be disturbed and has no quick ess to his original dwelling, then yes. It’s more about intent than rules.</strong>]


    "Interesting… well, let’s rx for a bit and think about what to do once this mess is taken care of. I hate dealing with stuff like this, especially alone. This will be so depressing and awkward."


    After a grueling flight of more than half a day, Alex finally disembarks. Thanks to histe flight time, it''s now morning, and Alex can get straight to his tasks without needing to rest.


    He uses his smartphone to find a better ce to exchange his Euros into Rand, after begrudgingly swapping a few hundred Euros at the overpriced currency exchanges near the airport.


    Within a few minutes, Alex reaches the exchange shop, paying the driver a fair amount by wisely getting the price upfront before the ride.


    Exchanging his money is quick and straightforward. After a brief counting of bills, Alex walks out with his entire stash converted into Rand. The bank teller sternly warns him to keep that kind of money hidden, as it’s risky for someone like him to be seen with such arge amount in cash. Alex nods. He fully agrees and ns to stay low-key. “No bullshit, get there, deliver the money, if not toote, attend his funeral, and leave. You owe Thato that much, but you''re not a damn superhero who can change the world."


    As he exits the store, Alex sees the same driver raising his hand, offering to drive him again. About to agree, Alex stops. "Man, all this is making me paranoid... No need to risk it” he tells himself.


    "Thanks for waiting, but my hotel is close by. I just wanted to exchange a little cash forter," Alex says, pulling out a small tip he had prepared at the exchange for situations like this. The driver appears grateful but there is this vague feeling that he is also slightly disappointed.


    Alex pretends to walk toward arge hotel, ncing over his shoulder just in time to see the driver pull away. "Am I just imagining things? Well, it doesn''t hurt to be careful," he mutters to himself.


    [<strong>This system is not directly permitted to interfere with the Host''s daily life, only to guide in matters rted to the Fantasy Realm. However, this system has calcted a 61.57% probability that Host would have been a victim of an attempted robbery if he had entered that taxi. Since the Host asked whether he was imagining things or if his newly acquired basic skills and stat increases are rying him information, this system was allowed to answer.</strong>]


    "...REALLY??? Guess I wasn’t just being paranoid. Close call..." Alex thinks, relieved. "Also, 1337, despite all the jokes and criticisms, seems to be on my side, bending the rules juuuust a little."


    After taking a moment to collect himself, Alex finally spots an older driver in a beat-up taxi that looks far less suspicious. He approaches and asks if the driver can take him to Thato’s city.


    The guy just smiles at him and practically yells toward another driver parked about 50 meters away. "Suraav!"


    A tall, friendly-looking man who seems to be around 40 years oldes over. "Suraav, this man is asking for a ride to your hometown."


    Suraav sighs and responds, "Thapelo... I came here just for some airport fares. I wasn’t nning to drive back until this evening."


    Alex, realizing that Suraav lives in the same city as Thato but prefers to work near the airport, senses that he’s not too eager for the drive. However, noticing that Suraav seems honest and friendly—and might be able to give him more insight into the city—Alex decides to make a deal. "I really need to get there. A friend of mine passed away, and I don’t want to miss the funeral. How about I pay for a full day of your time? How does 500 Rand sound?"


    Suraav smiles and starts to reach for the money, but pauses. "...300 would be more than enough."


    Alex, genuinely impressed by the man''s honesty, says, "Just take it. Let’s go. You can tell me a bit about your town along the way."


    Suraav agrees with a smile, leads Alex to his car, and they begin their drive. The city is chaotic, packed with cars, turning what should have been a "1-hour drive," ording to Google Maps, into nearly two hours. Suraav, however, is in no rush. He’s content, having earned his day’s wages early and getting to head home ahead of schedule.


    As they drive, Alex learns more about the city. It’s a mid-sized ce with limited job opportunities beyond farming and factory work. Alex, growing curious, asks more about the factories. Suraav exins that idents are frequent, and it’s not even surprising to the locals anymore. "It’s cheaper to pay off families than to invest in better equipment or safety measures," he adds. "It’s a calcted risk working in those ces. People get hurt or die all the time."


    Alex feels a wave of shock. "In Europe or the US, that would lead towsuits and massive settlements for the families."


    "I don’t want to use stereotypes, but let me guess... the authorities get paid off?"


    Suraav nods grimly. "That’s how it is, how it’s always been, and how it’ll stay."


    Alex gulps. He’s aware corruption exists everywhere, even in the EU and the US, but there are regtions and watchdogs that make it harder to get away with those kinds of "risks." Here, poverty changes the dynamic. Instead of just exploiting workers or evading taxes, thesepanies are risking lives, with real people getting crippled or killed.


    Out of curiosity, Alex pulls out his phone and googles "factory idents, xxxxx." A name keeps popping up: "Gareth van der Merwe"—a famous phnthropist who supposedly provides jobs for many, cares for themunity, donates to orphanages, runs food kitchens, andpensates injured workers fairly. A real pir of themunity!


    Alex reads a few of the articles aloud to Suraav, who bursts outughing. "Van der Merwe, our local hero," he says, echoing the praise in the articles. Then, unexpectedly, he adds, "That''s what the public knows about him. In reality, he''s the worst of the worst. Owns nearly every factory and farm in the area, and employs half the city. His so-called ''charity'' is just a fraction of what he bleeds from our people. A true parasite.


    I… just don’t get close to him or even mention his name too loudly, my friend. I might not have the pleasure of driving you back if you ask about the wrong people."


    Alex feels a deep emptiness creeping in. Corruption, death, profit over human lives—he knows these things exist. Of course, he’s not blind to the world’s realities. But hearing about it from someone who has to live in that nightmare is different, like a p in the face.


    As they finally arrive in the city, Alex gives Suraav the address. "That’s an unusual ce for someone like you to go," Suraav says cautiously. "No offense, but you won’t find any white people around there. You sure you got the right address?"


    "Yeah… will I be okay?" Alex asks honestly.


    "Of course," Suraav replies. "As long as you don''t unt your money and have no bad intentions, you’ll be fine."


    "I’m just here to visit the family of a friend. A dead friend," Alex says earnestly.


    Suraav gives him a curious look. "Don’t worry. I think you’ll be alright."


    They pull up to the address, and before Alex steps out, Suraav hands him his number. "As long as you stay out of trouble, feel free to call me. I’d be happy to drive you back."


    Alex stands in front of a medium-sized house, its odd shape immediately catching his attention. It reminds him of the Weasley house from Harry Potter—like a t house that somehow grew into a three-story structure, precariously stacked. Alex can’t make out a uniform building material, either...


    He approaches the door, but can’t find any sign of a name or address. He spends nearly a minute looking around, feeling more and more suspicious with each passing second.


    "Shit, what am I doing... just ring the damn bell," he mutters to himself.


    He presses the doorbell, and after a moment, a young child, maybe five or six years old, opens the door. The kid looks at Alex as if he’s seen a ghost, rubs his eyes, and says something in Afrikaans: "Kan ek jou help?"


    Thankfully, Afrikaans is close enough to Dutch that Alex, though he can’t speak it, can at least understand a little. "Yes, help me, please. I’m looking for the family of Thato Khumalo. Thato Khumalo," he says slowly.


    The boy’s eyes widen, and without warning, he bursts into tears and runs away.


    "...Great, real sensitive, Alex... shit."


    A half-minuteter, a woman approaches the door. She looks weary and saddened, but also curious. Her youngest grandchild must have told her that a strange white man asked about her oldest son.


    “You knew my son?” she asks, her voice tinged with sadness.


    Relieved she speaks English, Alex replies, “Yes... I’m sorry for disturbing you, but your son, Thato, was a friend of mine. I can’t say much, but I owe him something... and I want to give it to you.”


    The woman narrows her eyes for a second, sizing him up, but then breaks into unexpectedughter. "Really? You knew my boy? Come in! Any friend of my son is wee!"


    If someone were to ask Alex what the hell had just happened, he wouldn’t have been able to answer.


    The scene inside the house was nothing short of chaotic. As he steps through the door, he is immediately overwhelmed by the sheer number of people living in this three-story building. He counts—10... 20... 30? In his home country, a house of this size might house three families at most. Here, however, it’s packed with people, all sharing the same space.


    Over the next few hours, Alex talks to the few who speak English, while trying to follow the conversations happening around him in Afrikaans. asionally, he joins in, throwing in a few Dutch words or phrases that seem to amuse them as they try to decipher his meaning.


    The family believes Alex met Thato during one of his many trips to Europe. It turns out that while Thato wasn’t a top marathon runner, he had some sess and had even worked as a coach. He traveled to Europe, including Germany, several times—until he lost his position a few years ago to someone with better connections.


    "Perfect, that’s a good excuse," Alex thinks.


    Now used to lying, because he can’t reveal anything about the Fantasy Realm, Alex weaves a story, mixing truth with fiction. He tells them Thato once helped him out when he was the victim of a robbery, even going so far as to im Thato had saved his life. He then says that, thanks to Thato, he finally got a decent job. When he heard about the ident, he felt obligated to help.


    Trying to wrap up the conversation and end the painfully awkward situation, Alex opens his suitcase. He pretends to pull something from it, but in reality, he’s using his inventory to retrieve arge sum of money—bundles upon bundles.


    "Please, listen to me," Alex begins, feeling the weight of the room’s attention. "I’ve been doing well financially, so this isn’t a huge deal for me... not that I’m bragging... ugh, I—I know about Thato’s siblings. Do me a favor: just ept this, and don’t question it."


    The room goes utterly silent. Every eye is on him, shocked as they watch Alexy out bundle after bundle of cash.@@novelbin@@


    "Sorry for the small bills… I was told thatrge 1,000 ZAR notes aren’t epted everywhere, so I made sure to get a bunch of 10, 20, 50, 100, and 200 notes instead," Alex exins, feeling awkward as heys out the bundles. "I kept a small amount to cover my taxi fare, but the rest is yours—around 190,000 Rand."


    Alex hates this. "I don’t have some damn white savior syndrome. I just want them to take the money so I can leave. Do people really enjoy this? Buying love and thanks from others? I get that there are people who genuinely want to help the poor, but some phnthropists, like the one I just heard about, are fake as hell. I’ll never understand the appeal. If I wanted to donate, I’d do it anonymously. I hate this attention, the gratitude, the shame... and especially the fact that they feel like they owe me something in return. I can tell they don’t want to ept this, but they barely have a choice."


    He sighs and finally says, "I’m just giving this to a good friend''s family. Please take it, don’t ask questions. I don’t ever expect anything in return. I just wanted to say goodbye to a friend and make sure he doesn’t have to worry about his family while in heaven. If you really want to give me something back, maybe just let me stay for the night, okay?"


    Thato’s mother is the first to break the silence, stepping forward and hugging Alex. Soon, the rest of the family joins in, thanking him profusely.


    Overwhelmed, Alex feels embarrassed and cringes, but he also sheds a few tears of his own as he watches the family—two or three dozen people—tearfully expressing their joy and relief.


    "Looks like I was able to help a little bit after all," he thinks. "Maybe this trip was worth it."


    The time at Thato’s home flies by. Alex stays there for several days, getting the privilege of sleeping in Thato’s old room—one of the rare single rooms in the house, which he got due to being one of the few providers.


    He spends his time talking to Thato’s family, eating traditional dishes that, despite his unhealthy eating habits, Alex enjoys very much. He ys with Thato’s siblings and the other children, telling them funny stories in broken Dutch and English, but mostly he works out like a madman. Running in the zing sun nearly causes him to copse on the first day, and at night, he runs while gazing at the stars. He also visits the Fantasy Realm for a few hours every night, even talking to some people deepening his knowledge about the economy there.


    Thato’s rtives and friends even invite him to join their local gym, which is really just a half-open shed filled with old, rusted fitness equipment and punching bags that look like they’ve been stitched up so many times the original material is barely visible. Despite feeling out of ce, Alex is epted. The rumor that he helped Thato’s family earns him the trust of the locals. Some people evenpliment his workouts, genuinely impressed—though Alex suspects it’s mostly because of his above-average stats and basic skills.


    Despite the strangeness of it all, he actually enjoys the experience.


    After a few days, the funeral finally takes ce. Alex gets to see the man who saved his life onest time, but then the mood surprises himpletely. Instead of the somber event he expected, it’s a huge celebration. Hundreds of people dance, sing, and eat; it’s like a massive street festival. Alex, having expected something much sadder, realizes how little he understands about different cultures. While there are tears, there’s even moreughter.


    After spending a few happy days with Thato''s family and attending the funeral, Alex finally decides it’s time to leave. “I never expected something like that… I don’t regreting here.”


    The day arrives when Alex is set to depart, but before he can say his goodbyes, the doorbell rings. Thato’s younger brother opens the door, but soones running back, looking a little scared.


    An older white man, followed by two tall and muscr bodyguards, enters the house...