James slid into his usual seat, the wood still warm from the bodies that had filled it all night. The roar of the tavern dulled to a background hum as his vision dimmed for a heartbeat.

  All right. Fine. You win.

  He mentally tugged on the notification sitting in the corner of his vision.

  A translucent panel unfolded.

  LEVEL UP!

  You have reached Level 9.

  New skill options available.

  Another window overlaid the first.

  Skill Selection Available

  Three lines shimmered into focus.

  Service Door (Active)

  Every good workplace has a back door. You have learned to recognize and reinforce invisible paths between places you know.

  You can create a temporary passage between your current position and a location you have personally visited and marked as a Service Point.

  ? Only willing allies may pass through.

  ? Range and number of active Service Points are limited.

  ? Each activation consumes mana and has a significant cooldown.

  Used well, a door in the right place can turn a retreat into a flanking maneuver or a late arrival into a timely rescue.

  Pattern Read (Active)

  You have spent a lifetime watching hands, feet and knives move, learning what comes next from the smallest twitch. On a battlefield, that habit becomes a weapon.

  Focus on a single enemy for a few moments to begin anticipating their rhythm.

  ? Mark one target within sight.

  ? After a brief observation period, gain a strong bonus to avoiding that target’s next major attack.

  ? If you successfully avoid the attack, you create a short opening that increases the chance for a critical hit against that target.

  Patterns are meant to be broken. Preferably over someone else’s face.

  Improvised Arsenal (Passive / Active)

  A kitchen teaches one truth: anything within reach can become a tool if you are desperate enough. Battlefields are not that different.

  You are practiced at turning whatever is at hand into something that hurts.

  ? Reduced penalties when fighting with improvised weapons or tools.

  ? When activated, one mundane object you hold is treated as a proper weapon for a short duration, gaining a modest boost to damage and durability.

  ? Thrown improvised weapons gain improved accuracy and a chance to briefly stagger lightly armored targets.

  Knives, pans, broken chair legs, loose bricks. If you can lift it, you can make it matter.

  James leaned back, letting the words settle.

  Okay. That is a lot of very shiny buttons.

  He flicked his gaze over Pattern Read first.

  Reading people’s movements, telegraphing blows…

  The faint weight of Nyinwym at his hip tugged at his mind, the sword’s presence like a quiet prickle at the edge of his awareness. Ever since Nyindnir had forged it, Combat Sense had changed the way he moved: a tightening of focus that nudged his feet and blade a half step ahead of danger, like his body already knew where to be before his thoughts caught up.

  With that running in the background, I am already halfway to what this is offering. Pattern Read is nice, but I do not need a second skill trying to do the same job and doing it worse. He dismissed Pattern Read with a mental nudge and looked at Improvised Arsenal.

  Less penalty for fighting with trash, turn random junk into real weapons…

  He glanced at the tables around them. Tankards. Plates. Chairs. A stool one bad decision away from becoming splinters.

  I mean, it fits. He could already picture himself braining something with a skillet that the system insisted on calling a mace. It even felt like the sort of skill the system wanted him to take.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  But between Nyinwyn and the way I already treat every room like a kitchen I am about to fight in, I am halfway to this one too. I already fight dirty with whatever I can reach, skill or no skill.

  Nice, but not necessary. Not when there is…

  He shifted his focus back to the first option. Service Door waited, neat and tempting.

  Shortcut between places I have already been. Marked Service Points. Limited, but still. Back doors between dungeons, kitchens, guildhalls… or in the middle of a fight if I am not an idiot about it.

  His heart gave a small, greedy jump.

  This is not just a combat trick. This is logistics. This is getting wounded people out and fresh supplies in. This is arriving late and still getting there in time to look like I planned it.

  He did not bother arguing with himself any further.

  “Yeah,” he murmured under his breath. “That one.”

  He confirmed the choice. The other two options dimmed and fell away. The Service Door description brightened, then folded itself down into the familiar corner of his status.

  A small notification flickered.

  Skill acquired: Service Door.

  “Did you seriously just notice that now?”

  James blinked and the menus faded. Mira was watching him from across the table, elbow propped near her drink, eyebrow tilted in that particular way that meant she had already drawn three conclusions and was waiting to see if he would catch up.

  He squinted back at her. “You too, huh? Did you get a level out of the dungeon?”

  “Of course I did,” she said. “What, did you think you were the only one in there working?”

  “I did not say that,” James protested. “I am just checking.”

  “I got one,” Gerrard said, raising a hand slightly as if he were back in a classroom.

  Eyes drifted to Vhara.

  She gave a small shrug. “Same.”

  James let out a low whistle. “So everyone leveled. Guess going into a dungeon really does pay off.”

  Mira lifted her mug a little. “I went up twice in there,” she said. “Once near the snake, once after the toad.”

  “I also gained two levels,” Gerrard said. There was a little shine in his eyes that had nothing to do with the lantern light. “It is, I must say, an extremely efficient method of study.”

  Vhara nodded, more thoughtful than pleased. “Among the orc clans,” she said, “warriors say the deeper the dungeon, the greater the strength you bring back. It seems they are not wrong.”

  “At which point,” Marty cut in from the end of the table, “I would like to formally state that I hate all of you and I am coming along next time.”

  He jabbed a finger toward James. “You cannot stop me. I will cling to the back of your coat if I have to.”

  Gerrard glanced at him over the rim of his cup. “Realistically speaking, it is probably healthier for you if you do not,” he said. “You scream when a rat runs across the street.”

  “That was one time,” Marty muttered.

  James turned to Gerrard. “Hang on. How did you get two levels? You did not even swing a staff. You just shouted and complained about everything.”

  “That is a gross oversimplification of my contribution,” Gerrard said loftily. Then he sighed. “But also, dungeon experience distribution is party based. Inside an active dungeon, the system spreads things out. As long as you are contributing, you do not have to deliver the killing blow yourself.”

  Mira nodded. “Exactly. Even with that, getting two levels inside a fresh dungeon is impressive. For all of us to do it…” She shook her head. “That is huge.”

  Marty leaned forward. “So if that is normal, why does it feel weird that all of you hit twice?”

  “Because it is weird,” Gerrard said. “Very weird. New dungeon, short clear, everyone gaining two levels even on the higher end of the curve? That is… unusual.”

  “Maybe the dungeon had some kind of hidden bonus,” Mira said. “We did clear it fast. No wipes, no retreats. Might be a speed clear thing.”

  “If it were, I would expect to see something in the notification,” Vhara said. “A title. A tag. Some mention.” She shook her head slowly. “The system does not hide rewards like that for no reason.”

  “True,” Gerrard admitted. He frowned into his drink. “And James’s food did not list any experience-boosting effect in the window when I checked it.”

  James paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. He let it drop back into the empty bowl and stared at the wood grain of the table for a moment.

  Experience…

  His mind flicked back to an old, almost forgotten window. A kitchen that was not this one. A day that felt like a lifetime ago.

  Chef. Gain double experience every time you cook for someone.

  Then past that, to the weight of the red Mishlin Sage coat on his shoulders, its gold trim catching the lamplight.

  Mishlin Sage set. Gain experience from every cooking-related action. Plus fifty percent bonus experience.

  He leaned back slowly.

  “Actually,” he said. “There might be something.”

  Four faces, and behind the bar an innkeeper who had suddenly found a very interesting glass to polish, turned toward him.

  “I have a title,” James went on. “Chef. The system says I get double experience whenever I cook for someone. And the Mishlin Sage set gives me experience from every cooking-related action. Plus fifty percent on top of that.”

  Gerrard stared at him for half a heartbeat, then burst out laughing. “Of course it does,” he said. “Of course you are quietly violating basic experience math while we sit here. It would not even surprise me if you have managed to convince the system that everything you do is food related.”

  Marty let out a low whistle. “Double plus fifty percent?” he said. “So what, you get like twice as much as we do?”

  “More,” Mira said, eyes gone a little wide. “If it stacks the obvious way, that is two and a half times what a normal person would earn.” She held up her fingers, ticking off the numbers. “Base. Double. Plus half again. You are gaining two point five times what the rest of us would.”

  Marty slapped his palm against the table. “That is it. I am definitely coming next time. I am not letting a walking experience glitch go into a dungeon without me.”

  James blinked. “Why are you all looking at me like that? I am still tired, if that helps.”

  Gerrard leaned forward, expression intent now instead of amused. “So in simple terms,” he said, “you are a mobile experience farm.”

  Vhara shook her head slowly. Even she looked a little rattled. “Do not get carried away,” she said. “The description clearly says it is cooking related. You cannot just breathe and gain that much experience.”

  James frowned. “What does that even mean, cooking related? I am not getting experience for existing near a frying pan.”

  “It means,” Mira said, tapping the table with one finger, “that as long as you can convince yourself that what you are doing is connected to cooking, it probably counts.”

  “And if it counts for you,” Gerrard added, “it probably counts more for us too when we eat whatever absurdity you turn it into. Even if we are not getting the full two and a half times, we are still riding your bonus.”

  Marty gave James a look that was half awe and half accusation. “Meeting you might actually be the luckiest thing that has ever happened to me,” he said. “And I once survived getting thrown out of a third story window into a manure cart.”

  Gerrard tilted his head. “If you had come into the dungeon with us, convincing you otherwise would have been much easier,” he said dryly. “Death tends to dampen enthusiasm.”

  James rubbed at his eyes, the weight of the day finally catching up now that the adrenaline and spice high had faded. His status window still hovered faintly at the edge of his thoughts, Service Door sitting there like a promise.

  Two and a half times experience as long as I can convince the system it is about food, he thought. More levels. More skills. More tools. All for doing what I was going to do anyway.

  He pushed his chair back.

  “In that case,” he said, “if I want to make even better food tomorrow, I need sleep. My Stamina bar is basically chewing on the floorboards at this point.”

  Gerrard snorted. “Only you would find a way to turn going to bed into a leveling strategy,” he said. “If you manage to gain a level in your sleep, I expect a full report in the morning.”

  “I will draw you a chart,” James said.

  He clapped Marty on the shoulder as he went past, nodded to Mira and Vhara, and wove his way through the crowded common room, the sound of talk and laughter trailing after him like steam. The stairs creaked under his feet as he climbed.

  By the time he reached his small room under the eaves, his eyes were already heavy. He let himself fall onto the bed without bothering to undress fully, boots thumping to the floor a heartbeat later.

  As he drifted, a last, drowsy thought floated up.

  Two and a half times, huh. Maybe I should make breakfast something special.

  Sleep took him before he could finish the plan.