Somewhere between the stench of cooked bug and the chemical reek of burned ichor, John found the will to stagger across the chamber's squishy floor. The Brood's corpse raised little geysers of black, each one sending ripples through the carpet of shell and spawn. He wiped the back of his palm across his face, which only pushed the goop around, and limped toward the loot chest.

  The chest was old world, nothing like the crude coffers that dropped from goblin bosses. Its banding was silver, the lock a nested spiral of etched glass. For a moment, John hesitated, expecting a mimic. He cracked the lid with the edge of Moonfang. No teeth sprouted from inside, no acid bomb detonated. It was safe.

  Just a single object inside.

  A silver ring etched with the same glassy spiral as the lock. When he slipped it onto his finger it clicked into place with a tingle, as if matching to his pulse.

  A spatial ring. Finally.

  He sat, hard, on the least disgusting piece of stone he could find. For a while, he just stared at his hands, knuckles ridged with filth but steady. The exhaustion was enormous, but the adrenaline would not stop. He cycled through his status, watching the numbers flick up as the level notifications finally caught up with reality.

  John Hale

  Race: Human - Rank 1

  Class: Empty

  Level: 17 → 37

  Strength: 6 → 26

  Dexterity: 34 → 54

  Endurance: 34 → 54

  Vitality: 3 → 23

  Intelligence: 9 → 4

  Spirit: 31 → 51

  Unassigned Points: 110

  Titles:

  Obsessive Swordsman

  Absurd Rank Defier [UPGRADED]

  Point Hoarder

  Class Skills:

  Empty

  General Skills:

  Combat Intuition

  Elegant Swordsman

  Dodger

  John stared at the upgraded title. [Absurd Rank Defier] gave him a flat +20 to all stats. Twenty. That was insane. He'd killed something he had no business killing, and the world had noticed.

  Then his eyes dropped to [Point Hoarder].

  [-25 Intelligence]

  In the game, it had been a running joke among min-maxers. Save your points too long, and the system literally called you stupid for it. Most players avoided it like the plague.

  But John had earned it in every playthrough. Because [Point Hoarder] wasn't just an insult. It was one of the prerequisite requirements for the Mage Killer path. You had to prove you could resist the temptation of immediate power, that you understood delayed gratification even when it made you weaker in the short term.

  Even if it meant the game literally called you an idiot.

  He laughed, the sound echoing wet and hollow in the chamber. His Intelligence was 4. He was sure his parents would agree.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  "Worth it," he said to the empty room. "Totally worth it."

  One more piece of the puzzle.

  Because stats were only part of the equation. The real gatekeepers were the skill requirements. Rare skills that didn't unlock from leveling or training, but from doing specific, punishing achievements that forced you to play like a madman.

  [Basic Spell Resistance] was part of the foundation, the first real anti-magic skill, and the gatekeeper for everything after.

  [Untouched] was the other.

  Two opposites required for one door. One demanded you be hit. The other demanded you never were.

  And that was just the start. [Undecided], [Purist], [Denial]. It went on and on. A meme build for only the most stubborn.

  He dumped thirty points into Dexterity, and twenty points into Endurance.

  Forty points went into Spirit, it was the stat that turned a swordsman into something that made mages wake up screaming.

  And the remaining twenty? He shoved them into Intelligence.

  It jumped from 4 to 24. Still not great, still below his other stats, but at least he wouldn't be a complete moron.

  The changes hit him like a second wind. His thoughts sharpened, the fuzzy edges clearing. The exhaustion that had been dragging at him lifted slightly, his muscles feeling less like wet rope and more like coiled springs. And somewhere deep in his chest, he felt the Spirit increase like a second heartbeat, steady and powerful.

  He closed the screen and looked around.

  The quiet was unnerving. Even the brood spawn, devouring their mother in silence. He could hear his own heartbeat, heavy in the back of his ears.

  He checked the path back, what was left of it, half-collapsed, slick with ichor and still pulsing faintly, like the walls themselves were breathing. Somewhere behind that mess lay the entrance, and eventually, the outside world. How long had it been since Lia and Garren left? Hours? Days?

  Soon enough, others would come. But not yet. He still had time. Time to grow stronger.

  He circled the chamber once, scanning out of habit, and something prickled at the back of his neck. It was hard to tell what the Brood's final moments had stirred up. The grotto smelled worse by the minute, meat and fungus and ozone mingling into a film that clung to everything.

  He listened, really listened. Nothing moved at first, just the low fizz as pools of acid chewed through chitin and stone. The silence sank in, and then he caught it. A muffled, rhythmic ticking. He followed the sound, stepping past a heap of bled-out spawn, and found the source.

  Hidden in the wall near the altar, a fist-sized cyst pulsed behind a membrane thin and veined. The color was nothing he wanted to see up close. Milky, with dark worms coiling in the core. A Brood egg. In the game, it would have exploded if left untended, but here it just throbbed. John prodded it with Moonfang's tip. The membrane gave with a squeak, like a balloon full of snot. He gagged, then braced himself, and ran the blade straight through.

  The egg popped in a wet gunshot. Bits of larva and fluid splattered up his chest, rolling warm and runny down his front. At the heart of the ruined sac was a clump of tangled tissue. He found a core inside, a pearl of bone, wrapped in sinew.

  He sliced it in half, and a thin, glassy seed fell loose. It pulsed with faint, cold light, like a glow stick drained to its last hour. He wiped it off on his thigh and thought about inventory. The seed flickered, then slid into the ring's void, gone.

  He wiped the blade on a patch of dead bug, stood a little straighter, and kept moving.

  The tunnel sloped downward. Not sharply, but enough that John felt the shift in pressure, the walls beginning to change. The rough stone smoothed into something organic, not carved but grown. The walls were stippled with small protrusions, calcified bumps that clustered in irregular patterns. Some were dormant, sealed tight. Others showed hairline cracks, faint movement visible beneath translucent shells. The air smelled faintly of brine.

  The corridor broke into sharp turns. Left, right, then left again. Intentional, he realized. No straight sightlines, no easy retreat. His bare feet slapped wetly against the stone, leaving smears of muck behind. The air pressed close and heavy. Then came the sound, a clicking, brittle and out of place. He froze, pulse stuttering, and turned. Sword raised. Nothing moved. The tunnel lay empty, patient. He backed up a step, slow, every sense straining under the weight of unseen eyes.

  He pressed on. The next stretch of tunnel was a long, low crawl, stippled with barnacles. Every fourth or fifth was just a slick, empty pocket. Sniper eggs. The devs had loved their cheap shots.

  John kept Moonfang raised, brushing the tip along the roof as he shuffled. Halfway in, a shiver of movement caught him. Something waited just above the edge of his sight. He didn't look up. Instead, he pushed forward, quick and steady, counting his breaths, ready for the first sign of attack.

  A droplet patted his neck, cold and sticky. He gritted his teeth, felt the tension in his jaw, and pushed out a single, calm "Okay," as he crouch-walked the rest of the way.

  When the attack finally came, it wasn't a single dart. It was a volley, a fizzy mist of toxic needles spat in an arc. He remembered the dodge timing, edge-perfect, and angled his shoulder just so. He parried the lead projectile, watched the cloud split around him, then dropped flat to his belly as the second barrage needled the stone where his leg had been. Before the third wave, he was on his feet, driving Moonfang's tip into the next sniper vent. The blade went through with a clank, ripped out something soft, and the whole tunnel trembled.

  For a moment, everything held still. Then the barnacles deflated. Dozens of them. One by one, the pods around him slumped inward, expelling a sour mist that burned his throat. The needles stopped. The hissing quieted. He stayed crouched, half-expecting a follow-up. Nothing.

  He exhaled slowly. "Alright. Not so bad."

  He tightened his grip on Moonfang and started forward, deeper into the dark.