Chapter 3 - Sword, Stats, and Rage
---
[ You have killed a Razorlop (Level 1) : +10 EXP ]
[ Level Up! ]
[ All Attributes +1 ]
[ Allotable Points +2 ]
Out of nowhere, a pale white light enveloped him. It wasn't warm like sunlight or hot like fire—this was different. It was hollow and weightless, yet it surged through his body like a shockwave of raw vitality. Energy pulsed in every vein, and a strange calm replaced the earlier terror. The very essence of that light seemed to stitch together the damage—physical and emotional—he'd taken just moments ago.
Evan blinked, dazed, a weird grin tugging at his lips.
"Holy crap... is this what leveling up feels like?" he muttered, half in awe, half in disbelief.
It was like downing five energy drinks and taking a bath in liquid confidence.
Startled by the sheer shift in how he felt—stronger, sharper, faster—he instinctively summoned his status window, hungry for answers.
---
[ Status ]
Name: Evan
Level: 1
EXP: 0/100 (0%)
Race: Human
Class: None
Titles: None
Health: 120/120
Energy: 90/90
Stamina: 140/140
Hunger: 45/100
Fatigue: 3/100
Strength: 8+
Agility: 7+
Vitality: 6+
Defense: 6+
Spirit: 4+
Allotable Points: 2
Skills: None
---
"I actually leveled up…" he murmured, watching the numbers like they were lottery results.
He tapped through the interface in his mind, tracing the increases. Each base stat had gone up by one point, and he could feel it. The extra Strength gave his muscles a low hum. Agility sharpened his balance. Even the subtle bump in Spirit gave his thoughts clarity—less fog, more focus.
It wasn't just a numbers game. Everything was connected. One boost lifted others. It was like tuning up an engine and finding your whole car running smoother. The realization was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.
Satisfied—well, as satisfied as one could be in a hut full of blood and trauma—he turned his gaze to the Razorlop's lifeless corpse.
So much blood.
Its twitchless body lay there, an oversized rabbit with predator eyes and razor teeth. A grotesque mix of fluffy and nightmare fuel. The system had called it a Level 1 monster. That meant there were likely stronger, meaner, hungrier things out there. The jungle was no longer just bugs and humidity—it was a monster-infested hellscape.
Evan shuddered.
The peaceful illusion of the Amazon was shattered like glass. It wasn't a paradise anymore—it was a dungeon. And he was the noob.
He sighed. "How long was I even unconscious?"
The thought struck like a slap. There had been no clock, no sun overhead, no "you've been offline for 14 hours" notification. Time had simply… vanished.
"Arghhh, what day even is it?!" he groaned, gripping his head.
But before he could spiral into an existential breakdown, something… darker bubbled up.
A flash of memory. Not a dream. A betrayal.
The rage surged up from deep inside, molten and sudden.
"That cunning bitch," he spat, eyes narrowing. "She had strength—more than I thought."
Her face was hazy, but the memory of her deceitful strike was clear enough. Someone had betrayed him. Someone strong, someone he had trusted. That blow had knocked him out and dumped him into this madness.
"Just don't let me find you again…" he growled under his breath, fists clenched tight. "Or I'll make you regret being born."
His jaw clenched. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. But slowly—deliberately—he calmed himself. Rage wouldn't feed him. Anger wouldn't keep him alive.
Focus. Survival first. Revenge… later.
He stepped cautiously toward the Razorlop's corpse, silent as a shadow. Who knew how many of these things were nearby? Noise meant death. He reached out for the bloodied spear still embedded in the creature—and paused.
Something tugged at the edge of his memory.
Wait. Didn't the system say it gave me equipment?
"Inventory," he whispered.
Pop.
A blue grid appeared, floating in midair like a video game menu. His eyes lit up. Two squares showed gear: a sword and a shield. The rest were empty—waiting to be filled.
His focus locked on the sword, and a wave of joy rushed through him.
Finally. Finally.
Ever since high school, he'd obsessed over swordsmanship. While others mocked him for swinging wooden blades in his backyard like some anime protagonist, he kept at it. They called it a waste of time. He called it training. And now?
Now it was paying off.
He grinned.
Without hesitation, he looked down at the spear in his hand. "Store."
Poof. It vanished, reappearing in a new slot in the inventory.
"Equip sword."
Another shimmer—and the blade was suddenly in his hand, solid and familiar. Perfect weight. Clean balance. Not some rusty machete, either. A proper short sword—clean edge, reliable grip.
A wave of familiarity coursed through him.
Yeah. This... this felt right.
As he adjusted his grip, the last of his fear melted away. With a blade in hand, he wasn't just a victim anymore. He was a player.
But then—rustle.
Something outside the hut.
His blood froze.
Heartbeat racing, he moved to the wall and pressed his back to it, just beside the entrance. Quiet. Ready. Alert.
If another Razorlop—or worse—dared step inside, they'd meet steel.
He raised his sword, body tense, breath held.
Come on, then.