The moment I stepped past the threshold of the Oakwood gate, it was like walking from a silent, suspense-filled horror film into a chaotic, cacophonous fantasy epic. The air, thick with the smells of life, was a stark contrast to the clean, sterile scent of the Veridian Labyrinth. Here, the aroma of fresh bread from a baker's oven mingled with the sharp tang of hot metal from a smithy, the earthy scent of livestock, and the ever-present, faint musk of hundreds of people living in close proximity. It was overwhelming, but it was the smell of civilization, and it was beautiful.
My wildman getup, which I had thought was a clever piece of camouflage, immediately earned me a wide berth. People averted their eyes, mothers pulled their children closer, and even a scruffy-looking dog with one ear gave a low growl before trotting away. I was a foreign object, a piece of the dangerous wilds that had breached the safety of the walls. The pity Milo the guard had shown me was clearly not a universal sentiment.
My 10 Charisma wasn't doing me any favors. I clutched my crude spear, the familiar weight a small comfort in this sea of strangers. My eyes, my greatest asset, darted everywhere, my brain working overtime to process the flood of new information. I was using [Analysis] almost subconsciously, my mind's eye a constant stream of pop-up windows.
[Sun-Baked Clay Brick]
[Rarity: Mundane]
[Description: A standard building material. Fired for durability.]
[Iron Hanging Lantern]
[Rarity: Common]
[Description: A simple lantern. Currently unlit. Requires oil.]
[Sack of Riverstone Potatoes]
[Rarity: Common]
[Description: A hardy root vegetable. A staple food in the region. Rich in starch.]
This was my guide, my encyclopedia, my lifeline. It cut through the noise, giving me hard data in a world of overwhelming sensory input. The main thoroughfare was a muddy street packed with people. I saw only humans at first, but then my eyes caught on figures that were distinctly… not.
Leaning against a wall, polishing a series of wicked-looking daggers, was a creature that made me do a double-take. It had the general build of a tall, lean human, but its skin was a mosaic of chitinous plates in shades of brown and green, like the carapace of a beetle. Two small, feathery antennae twitched atop its head, and its large, multi-faceted eyes seemed to take in everything at once.
"[Analysis]," I thought, my focus locking onto the creature.
Ding.
[Kaelen, the Gryllid Sell-sword]
[Level: 12]
[Race: Gryllid]
[Description: A member of the insectoid Gryllid race, known for their sharp senses, rigid honor codes, and skill in close-quarters combat. This one appears to be looking for work. Best not to stare.]
Level 12. My blood ran a little cold. This "sell-sword" could probably kill me before I even had time to scream. The description was a godsend, giving me not just data but also crucial social etiquette. Best not to stare. I immediately averted my gaze, my heart thumping. A whole new sentient race, and my system knew all about them. The [Transmigrator's Blessing] was proving to be more and more invaluable.
I continued my slow, awkward walk towards the town square, which the guards had mentioned. It was the heart of the town, a wide, open area where the mud of the street gave way to well-trodden cobblestones. Stalls and blankets were laid out, creating a vibrant, chaotic marketplace. The air here was even more potent, a mix of spices, roasting meat, cut flowers, and tanned leather.
This was where I needed to be. This was where my pocketful of monster parts would become food and shelter. I scanned the various merchants. A stout woman selling colorful bolts of cloth. A wiry old man with a cart full of clucking chickens. And then, a stall that seemed to be the hub of activity for adventurers and hunters. It was piled high with monster hides, teeth, claws, and strange alchemical ingredients shimmering in glass jars. Behind the counter stood another Gryllid, this one older, its carapace a dull, mottled gray. Its four arms moved with mesmerizing efficiency, sorting coins, weighing goods, and haggling with a pair of rough-looking human trappers.
This was my target. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for another social encounter. I approached the stall, waiting patiently for the trappers to finish their business. They sold a stack of [Shadow Weasel] pelts for a handful of copper coins and a few silver ones, then stomped off, grumbling about the low price.
The Gryllid merchant turned its large, compound eyes towards me. Its head tilted, the feathery antennae twitching in my direction. Its voice was a dry, chittering rasp, like dried leaves skittering across pavement, yet I understood it perfectly.
"You. Yes, you, the one dressed in last week's rabbit kill. You are stinking up the air near my stall. Are you buying, selling, or just practicing to be a statue?"
My face flushed. 10 Charisma, ladies and gentlemen.
I cleared my throat. "Selling," I managed, my voice still rough.
I laid my meager treasures on the worn wooden counter: the single [Lesser Slime Core] and the two [Tusked Hare Tusks]. They looked pitiful compared to the impressive fangs and claws already on display.
The Gryllid looked down, then back up at me. There was no readable expression on its insectoid face, but I felt a wave of sheer, unadulterated disdain wash over me.
"[Analysis]," I whispered with my mind, focusing on the merchant.
Ding.
[Xy'ktil, the Parts Trader]
[Level: 9]
[Race: Gryllid]
[Description: A notoriously shrewd merchant who specializes in monster components. He prides himself on buying low and selling high. Currently sees you as an easy mark.]
An easy mark. Forewarned is forearmed. Thanks, system.
Xy'ktil picked up one of the tusks with a delicate, two-fingered claw. "A Tusked Hare tusk. Barely a juvenile. The carving quality is poor. Worth, perhaps, one copper." He flicked it back onto the counter. Then he prodded the slime core. "And a Lesser Slime Core. Common as muck. The market is flooded with them. I will be generous and offer you three coppers for the lot."
Three coppers. My heart sank. That might not even be enough for a single meal. But then I remembered the [Analysis] I'd done on the core back in the forest. Value: Approx. 10 Coppers. This chitinous crook was trying to fleece me.
My 18 INT kicked in. I couldn't out-haggle him with charisma, but maybe I could with logic. I needed to show him I wasn't the ignorant wildman I appeared to be.
"One copper for the tusk?" I asked, keeping my voice steady. "But the enamel is flawless. There are no stress fractures. It's perfect for scrimshaw or inlay work. A craftsman would pay at least five for a piece this clean." I was pulling terms out of thin air, banking on them sounding plausible.
Xy'ktil's antennae twitched slightly. A sign of surprise?
I pressed my advantage, gesturing to the slime core. "And the core. You say the market is flooded, but this one has a high-purity elemental resonance." Another term I just invented. "You can see the mana swirls are consistent, with no impurities. Most cores this size are cloudy. This one is gem-quality. It's worth at least twelve coppers to any alchemist worth their salt, maybe fifteen."
The Gryllid was silent for a long moment, its multifaceted eyes fixed on me. The chittering sound it made when it finally spoke was a little less dismissive. "You have a surprisingly educated eye for a man who smells like a damp cave."
"I was a prospector," I said, sticking to my cover story. "We learned to appraise all kinds of materials."
"Hmph. A prospector who can't afford soap." He picked up the items again, examining them more closely this time. His four arms made him look like a master jeweler inspecting a diamond. "Your assessment of the tusk is… overly optimistic. But not entirely baseless. The core… its clarity is above average. Very well. My final offer. For the entire lot… twenty coppers."
From three to twenty. A massive jump. It was still probably less than they were worth, but it was far more than his initial offer. It was a victory.
"Twenty-five," I countered, feeling a surge of confidence.
"Twenty-two, and that is my final, final offer. Take it, or take your wares and let me attend to actual customers," he rasped, gesturing to a woman who had approached the stall.
"Done," I said immediately. Twenty-two coppers was a fortune to me.
He swept the items into a drawer with one hand and counted out the coins with another. They were heavier than I expected, simple copper disks stamped with the image of an oak tree on one side and a griffon on the other. I pocketed them, the metallic clink the most satisfying sound I had heard all day.
"A pleasure doing business with you," I said, trying to sound professional.
"The pleasure was minimal," Xy'ktil chittered back without looking at me, already focused on his next customer.
I walked away from the stall, a grin plastered on my face. I had done it. I had navigated my first social and economic challenge and come out on top. I felt like a master merchant, a wolf of Wall Street in a rabbit-pelt tunic. My twenty-two coppers felt like a million dollars.
My next stop was the Gilded Griffin, the inn the guards had pointed out. It was one of the largest buildings in the town square, a two-story structure of sturdy timber and plaster, with a large, intricately carved griffin hanging over the door. It looked clean and well-maintained, a beacon of comfort and safety.
Pushing the heavy wooden door open, I stepped inside. The common room was spacious and warm, a stark contrast to the chill morning air. A large, crackling fire roared in a stone hearth at one end of the room, casting a warm glow over the dozen or so patrons. The air smelled of roasting meat, ale, and woodsmoke. It smelled like sanctuary.
A few heads turned as I entered, my appearance once again drawing curious stares, but most people were absorbed in their own conversations, their meals, or their drinks. Behind a long, polished wooden bar stood a woman who I instantly knew had to be the proprietor. She was a stout, middle-aged human woman with a no-nonsense look on her face, her graying hair tied up in a tight bun. She was wiping down a tankard with a cloth, her movements efficient and practiced.
"[Analysis]."
Ding.
[Elara, the Innkeeper]
[Level: 8]
[Race: Human]
[Description: The owner and operator of the Gilded Griffin. She has a sharp tongue but a fair mind. Hates mud on her floors and trouble in her common room. Values paying customers above all else.]
Good to know. I scraped the worst of the mud from my foot-wrappings on the mat by the door before approaching the bar.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her eyes giving me a quick, appraising once-over. Her tone wasn't unkind, but it was clear she was sizing me up.
"I'd like a room," I said. "And a hot meal."
"A room is three silvers a week, or fifty coppers a night. Meals are extra," she stated flatly. "Paid in advance."
Fifty coppers a night. My entire fortune was twenty-two. My heart sank again. I was still effectively homeless.
"I… I don't have that much," I admitted, the confident feeling from the market evaporating. "I just got into town. I was hoping for something to eat, at least."
She sighed, placing the tankard down on the bar. It was the same kind of weary sigh I'd heard from the guard, Milo. The sigh of someone dealing with the constant stream of down-on-their-luck wanderers that a frontier town attracts.
"Look, lad," she said, her voice softening slightly. "This is an inn, not a charity. A bowl of stew and a loaf of bread will run you four coppers. Can you manage that?"
Four coppers. I could afford that. It would leave me with eighteen. "Yes. Yes, I can," I said, relief washing over me.
"Good. Find a table. I'll bring it over."
I paid her the four copper pieces, the transaction feeling far more significant than it was. I found a small, empty table in a corner, away from the main bustle of the room. I sat with my back to the wall, my spear resting on the floor beside me, and simply watched.
This was a microcosm of my new world. I saw a group of burly, bearded men who [Analysis] tagged as [Iron Hills Miners] (Level 6-7) laughing loudly and drinking ale. I saw the Gryllid sell-sword, Kaelen, from earlier, sitting alone and nursing a single drink, his multifaceted eyes scanning the room. I saw families, merchants, and travelers.
And then I saw her.
She was sitting at a table not far from mine, hunched over a thick, leather-bound book. She was the most unusual person I had seen yet. She was tall and impossibly slender, with skin the pale green of a new leaf in spring. Her long, white hair was woven with small, flowering vines, and her features were delicate and sharp, with high cheekbones and large, almond-shaped eyes the color of dark violets. She moved with a slow, deliberate grace, like a plant turning towards the sun.
"[Analysis]."
Ding.
[Lyra]
[Level: 4]
[Race: Sylphan]
[Description: A young scholar of the reclusive Sylphan race. Sylphans are a plant-like people, deeply connected to the natural flow of mana. Lyra is studying the fundamentals of Light Weaving, but is struggling with the theoretical principles. She is deeply frustrated.]
A Sylphan. A plant-person. And a scholar. She was my level, and struggling with her studies. I felt an immediate, bizarre kinship with this strange, green-skinned woman. It was the feeling of one student recognizing the frustration of another.
Elara arrived with my food, placing a steaming wooden bowl and a hunk of dark bread on my table. The stew was thick with vegetables and chunks of what I hoped was Ox-Beast meat. The smell was heavenly. I hadn't had a real, cooked meal in days. I ate ravenously, the hot food a balm to my soul. It was simple fare, but to me, it was a feast fit for a king.
As I was finishing the last of my bread, mopping up the gravy, a commotion erupted near the entrance.
"I told you, you've had enough, Jorun!" Elara's sharp voice cut through the din.
A massive, bear of a man, one of the Iron Hills Miners I'd analyzed earlier, was swaying on his feet, his face flushed with drink. "Jus' one more, Elara! For the road!" he slurred, slamming a heavy fist on the bar.
"The only road you're taking is the one to your room," she retorted, pointing a finger at him. "Now go sleep it off before you cause real trouble."
"Trouble?" the miner, Jorun, boomed. "I ain't trouble! I'm the life of the party!" He turned and stumbled, bumping into the table of the Gryllid sell-sword, Kaelen. Jorun's tankard slopped ale all over the Gryllid's meticulously polished daggers.
The common room went silent.
Kaelen looked down at the spilled ale, then slowly raised his multifaceted eyes to the drunken miner. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"This clumsy, soft-shelled mammal has soiled my blades. My honor demands satisfaction," a cold, clipped thought echoed in my mind. It wasn't a voice. It was pure, distilled intent, and it was terrifying. My [Transmigrator's Blessing] was giving me a front-row seat to a murder in the making.
"Hey! Watch it, bug-man!" Jorun slurred, oblivious to the danger he was in.
Kaelen's hand, a blur of motion, went to the hilt of one of his daggers. This was it. Someone was about to die.
"That's enough!"
A new voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the tension. One of the town guards, not Milo but the other one from the gate, had stepped into the inn. He was a stern-faced man in his forties, with a neatly trimmed beard and a level gaze. [Analysis] tagged him as [Captain Valerius] - wait, no, the name flickered. [Captain Marcus, Level 15]. My system was still getting the hang of names, it seemed.
"Jorun, you're done for the night," Marcus said, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Go. Now."
"Or what, Captain?" Jorun sneered, puffing out his chest. "You and what army?"
Captain Marcus didn't draw his sword. He simply raised his free hand, palm open, towards the belligerent miner. He muttered a single, sharp word that I couldn't quite catch. "Vinculum."
And then I saw it. For the first time, I saw real magic.
It wasn't a flashy explosion or a bolt of lightning. It was subtle, elegant, and utterly astounding. The air around Jorun seemed to shimmer and thicken. Faint, glowing blue lines, like ethereal threads of light, erupted from the floor and air around him, wrapping around his arms and legs in an instant. They constricted, and the giant miner, with all his drunken strength, was frozen in place, bound by ropes of pure energy. He struggled, his muscles bulging, but the magical bonds held him fast. He looked down at himself, his drunken haze instantly vanishing, replaced by shock and fear.
My jaw hung open. I wasn't just looking at the effect. Through some combination of my 18 INT and the nature of my [Analysis] skill, I was perceiving the structure of the spell. I could see the flow of mana being drawn from the ambient environment, channeled through the Captain's body, and then woven into a complex, interlocking pattern—a program—that resulted in the binding ropes. It was beautiful. It was logical. It was code.
My mind raced, the system feeding me the data I craved.
Ding.
[Spell Observed: Lesser Bind]
[Skill Tree: Control Magic]
[Tier: 1]
[Mana Cost: ~15 Mana Points]
[Components: Verbal ('Vinculum'), Somatic (Open Palm Gesture)]
[Description: A foundational Control Magic spell that weaves ambient mana into ethereal ropes to restrain a single target. The spell's strength and duration are dependent on the caster's [Control Magic] skill level and their core INT stat. The caster must maintain concentration to sustain the effect.]
[Analysis: The weave is a simple loop-and-knot structure. Efficient, but susceptible to mana-disrupting effects.]
It was all there. A skill tree. Tiers. Mana costs. Components. Even a technical analysis of its structure. My gamer brain lit up like a Christmas tree. This world's magic wasn't some unknowable, mystical force. It was a system. A hard-magic system with quantifiable rules, variables, and inputs. And if it had rules, it could be learned. It could be optimized.
Captain Marcus walked over to the bound miner. "I believe I told you to go to your room. Since you seem to have trouble with walking, I'll have my men escort you." He gestured to two other guards who had appeared at the door. They hauled the still-bound, now-docile Jorun out of the inn.
Marcus then turned to the Gryllid. "My apologies for the disturbance, Master Kaelen. The city watch will cover the cost of cleaning your equipment."
Kaelen gave a slight, formal bow of his head. "The Captain of the watch shows respect. My honor is satisfied. For now." He went back to his drink, the incident seemingly forgotten.
The tension in the room broke, and the buzz of conversation slowly returned. But I couldn't tear my eyes away from the spot where the spell had been cast. My mind was reeling.
I looked over at the Sylphan scholar, Lyra. Her frustration from earlier was gone, replaced by a look of rapt fascination. She was staring at Captain Marcus with wide, violet eyes, a faint, silvery-green aura flickering around her fingertips. She was trying to feel the residual mana, to understand the weave he had created.
This was my chance. I felt a compulsive urge, the need of one nerd to talk to another about something mind-blowingly cool. I stood up, my bowl empty, and walked over to her table.
"That was incredible, wasn't it?" I said, my voice full of genuine awe.
She looked up at me, startled. Her violet eyes were even more striking up close. "It… it was," she said, her voice soft and melodic, like wind chimes. "Captain Marcus is a Tier 3 Control Mage. His [Lesser Bind] is flawless."
"The weave," I said, unable to stop myself, the words tumbling out. "It was so efficient. A simple knot-construct, but he stabilized it by pulling the anchor points from both the floor and the ambient field. Most mages would just pull from the ambient field, which creates a slight mana decay and shortens the duration."
Lyra stared at me, her mouth slightly agape. The little vines in her hair seemed to perk up. "How… how could you know that? I could barely trace the primary threads. Are you a mage?"
"No, not at all," I said quickly, realizing I'd overstepped. "Just… an observer. I'm good with patterns." I tapped my temple. "It's all just patterns and logic, right? Inputs, processes, outputs."
Her eyes lit up with a fire I recognized instantly. It was the look of a passionate academic who had just found someone who spoke their language. "Yes! Exactly! Everyone here treats magic like it's some unknowable art, a gift from the gods. But it's a science! A discipline! It's the manipulation of cosmic law!"
She gestured to the open book on her table. It was filled with complex diagrams of intersecting lines and symbols that looked like a cross between musical notation and circuit diagrams. "[Analysis]," I thought.
Ding.
[Textbook: 'Fundamentals of Light Weaving, Vol. 1']
[Rarity: Uncommon]
[Description: A standard instructional text for novice Light Mages. Covers basic principles such as mana resonance, photon manipulation, and the creation of simple illumination constructs.]
"I'm trying to master the basic [Glow] cantrip," she said, pointing to a particularly dense diagram. "It's the simplest spell in Light Weaving, the foundation for everything else. But I can't get the mana flow to stabilize. The construct keeps collapsing before it can achieve full luminosity."
I leaned in to look at the diagram. To a normal person, it would be gibberish. But to me, with my 18 INT and my background in staring at code and spreadsheets, I saw something else. I saw a flowchart.
"Your input variable is the mana draw," I began, tracing the lines with my finger. "And your output is a stable photon emission. The diagram shows the conversion process. You're trying to create a continuous loop of mana, which energizes and emits photons as it flows."
"Correct," she nodded eagerly. "But my loop is unstable. It's like trying to build a bridge out of water."
I studied the diagram for a long moment. It was a looping sequence. A 'while' loop, in programming terms. While mana is supplied, emit light. The problem was, there was no regulator. The mana was being drawn in and dumped into the construct all at once, causing it to overload and collapse. It was a memory leak, but with magic.
"You're missing a buffer," I said.
"A what?"
"A buffer. A regulator. Look," I grabbed a napkin from a nearby table and my piece of charcoal from my pouch, the one I had used to start my fire. "Here's your mana source." I drew a circle. "And here's your light construct." I drew another circle. "You're trying to connect them with a straight pipe." I drew a line between them. "All the pressure from the source is hitting the construct at once. Boom." I scribbled an explosion shape over the second circle.
Lyra watched, mesmerized.
"What you need," I continued, my excitement growing, "is a buffer in between. A smaller, secondary construct. Think of it like a holding tank, or a capacitor." I drew a small square between the two circles. "You draw the mana into the buffer first. The buffer then releases the mana into the main construct at a steady, controlled rate. It smooths out the flow. It prevents the overload." I drew arrows showing the two-step process.
She stared at the crude drawing on the napkin, her violet eyes wide with revelation. "A… a mana capacitor… a resonant chamber to harmonize the flow before it enters the primary weave… Of course! It's so simple! Why didn't I see it?"
She closed her eyes. The faint, silvery-green aura around her hands brightened. She cupped her palms together, her brow furrowed in concentration. She whispered a series of soft, melodic words. I saw her mentally building the new construct I had described. First, the small "buffer" materialized in her cupped hands, a tiny, shimmering point of light. Then, she began to feed it into the main spell.
A sphere of soft, warm, white light bloomed between her palms. It started small, the size of a marble, but it grew steadily until it was the size of an apple. It didn't flicker. It didn't waver. It was a perfect, stable, beautiful globe of light, casting a gentle radiance on her face.
[Spell Observed: Glow (Cantrip)]
[Skill Tree: Light Weaving]
[Tier: 0]
[Mana Cost: ~2 Mana Points per minute]
[Description: The most basic Light Weaving spell. Creates a small, mobile source of light. A fundamental prerequisite for all higher-tier light spells.]
[Analysis: Lyra's modified weave incorporating a mana buffer is 30% more stable and 15% more mana-efficient than the standard textbook model.]
She opened her eyes and looked at the glowing sphere in her hands, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on her face. "I did it," she whispered. "It's stable."
She looked up at me, her eyes shining. "Thank you. I've been stuck on this for weeks. My name is Lyra."
"Alex," I said, a genuine smile on my face. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
"Alex," she repeated, testing the name. "You are not a mage, but you understand the language of magic better than any I have met. How?"
"Like I said," I shrugged, feeling a bit awkward under her intense gaze. "I'm just good with patterns."
This was the beginning of my first friendship in this new world. We talked for hours, sitting in that corner of the Gilded Griffin. I learned that Lyra had left her reclusive homeland, the forested isle of Sylphwood, to study at the great magical academies in the capital city far to the east. Oakwood was just a stop on her long journey. She was brilliant, with a deep theoretical knowledge of magic, but she struggled with the practical application, often overthinking the simple stuff.
I, in turn, told her a heavily edited version of my story. I was a prospector from a remote, isolated human settlement in the far north that was destroyed by a blizzard. I was the sole survivor, and my people had a different, more analytical approach to understanding the world. It was a flimsy story, but she accepted it without question, her mind more interested in my theories on mana flow than my personal history.
We were a perfect match. She had the raw knowledge of this world's rules, and I had the analytical, problem-solving mindset to apply that knowledge in new ways. It felt like I had found my first guildmate.
The next day, my money was running low. My eighteen coppers wouldn't last forever. I needed a sustainable source of income. My conversation with Lyra had sparked an idea. If magic was like programming, what was alchemy? Chemistry? Another system to be analyzed and optimized.
I remembered what Xy'ktil, the Gryllid merchant, had said: "worth at least twelve coppers to any alchemist worth their salt." That meant there was an alchemist in town. I asked Lyra about it.
"There is," she confirmed. "Master Valerius. He's a cranky old man, but he's the only certified alchemist in Oakwood. His shop is at the edge of town, near the southern wall. He's always looking for rare ingredients, but he's very particular."
"Particular how?" I asked.
"He believes alchemy is an art, a mystical communion with the essences of nature," she explained with a slight roll of her eyes. "He talks more about the 'soul' of a herb than its chemical properties. We… do not see eye-to-eye on methodology."
That sounded perfect. An artist who didn't understand the science behind his own art. It was a system ripe for optimization.
I found the shop easily enough. It was a crooked, three-story building leaning against the town wall, with a sign depicting a bubbling potion over a flame. A plume of green-tinged smoke curled from its chimney. The air around it smelled of a hundred different herbs, some pleasant, some foul.
I stepped inside. The shop was a cluttered wonderland of organised chaos. Shelves from floor to ceiling were crammed with jars of powders, dried herbs, pickled organs, and shimmering liquids. Bunches of strange plants hung from the rafters. In the center of the room was a large wooden table covered in alembics, beakers, mortars, and pestles. It was a laboratory, and I felt instantly at home.
Behind the table stood a man who could only be Master Valerius. He was old, with a wild mane of white hair that seemed to defy gravity and a long beard stained with various colors. He was hunched over a bubbling cauldron, peering at it through a pair of thick, magnifying spectacles.
"[Analysis]."
Ding.
[Valerius, the Town Alchemist]
[Level: 11]
[Race: Human]
[Title: Journeyman Alchemist]
[Description: A talented but stubbornly traditional alchemist. He relies on instinct and arcane rituals rather than precise measurements, leading to inconsistent results. Currently frustrated with a batch of failed Stamina Potions.]
Inconsistent results. The bane of any scientific process. This was my opening.
"Excuse me? Master Valerius?" I asked.
He looked up, his brow furrowed in annoyance. "What? Can't you see I'm in the middle of a delicate refinement? If you're here for a love potion or a cure for warts, come back tomorrow."
"Actually," I said, stepping forward. "I was told you might be interested in purchasing ingredients. But I also noticed the… energetic signature of your current concoction seems a bit unstable." I was throwing out more techno-babble, hoping it would stick.
He blinked, pushing his spectacles up his nose. "Energetic signature? What are you, a mage?"
"Just an observer," I said, using my new favorite line. "But I have a knack for seeing how things fit together. Or, in this case, how they don't."
I gestured towards the bubbling green liquid. "[Analysis]," I commanded in my mind.
Ding.
[Failed Stamina Potion (Volatile)]
[Rarity: Trash]
[Description: An attempt to create a potion to restore physical endurance. The core ingredient, Sunberry extract, has been improperly bonded with the stabilizing agent, Crag-Lizard Saliva. The catalytic enzyme in the saliva was denatured by excessive heat during the initial boiling phase. The resulting mixture is unstable and will cause severe stomach cramps if ingested.]
[Potential Effect: Minor Poison Damage, Status Effect: Nausea]
The system gave me the entire diagnostic report. The ingredients, the process, the error, and the result. It was a bug report for a potion.
"You're making a stamina potion, right?" I asked. "Using Sunberries as the active ingredient?"
Valerius's eyes widened slightly. "How did you…?"
"And Crag-Lizard Saliva as the stabilizer?" I continued. "The problem isn't your ingredients. It's your process. You're adding the saliva during the initial boil. But the enzymes that bond the essences together are sensitive to heat. You're boiling them to death before they can even do their job."
The old alchemist stared at me as if I'd just grown a second head. He looked from me to his cauldron, then back to me. He was speechless.
"You should try adding the saliva during the cooling phase," I suggested, trying to sound helpful rather than arrogant. "After the initial boil, let the mixture cool to just below simmering. Then introduce the saliva and stir counter-clockwise for three minutes to ensure an even distribution. It should create a stable molecular bond."
Valerius continued to stare, his mouth opening and closing silently. Finally, he found his voice. "Counter-clockwise? Why counter-clockwise?"
"It… uh… aligns with the natural mana spin of the enzymes," I improvised. The real reason was that stirring in a consistent direction would create a proper vortex for mixing, but 'mana spin' sounded more like something he would understand.
He grumbled, stroking his stained beard. "Preposterous. The ancient texts say nothing of 'molecular bonds' or 'heat-sensitive enzymes'. They speak of coaxing the spirit of the berry to embrace the essence of the lizard."
"Well," I said with a shrug. "Maybe the spirit of the lizard is a bit shy and doesn't like hot tubs."
Despite his grumbling, I could see the gears turning in his head. My explanation, while couched in unfamiliar terms, made a certain kind of sense. He was a craftsman who knew his materials. He knew Crag-Lizard Saliva was a delicate substance.
"Fine," he huffed, grabbing a fresh cauldron. "I will entertain your… bizarre theory. If only to prove you wrong, you strange, wild-looking boy."
For the next hour, I watched as Valerius followed my instructions to the letter. He was meticulous, his hands, though old, were steady. He prepared the Sunberry mash, brought it to a boil, and then, as instructed, let it cool. He checked the temperature with a practiced finger, and at just the right moment, he added the saliva, stirring with a steady, counter-clockwise motion.
The potion, which had been a murky, angry green before, slowly transformed. It clarified, turning a vibrant, healthy-looking amber color. A pleasant, fruity aroma replaced the previously acrid smell.
Valerius ladled a small amount into a vial and held it up to the light. He uncorked it, sniffed it, and then, to my surprise, took a small sip. His eyes went wide.
"It's… it's perfect," he breathed, a look of utter astonishment on his face. "The taste is clean, the energy is potent but stable… there's no volatile backlash." He looked at the vial, then at me. "By the twin suns, how?"
I saw my opportunity. This was the moment to pitch my business idea.
"Master Valerius," I began, choosing my words carefully. "You are a great artist. You understand the soul of your ingredients. I am… a technician. I understand systems and processes. Your art and my analysis could be a powerful combination."
"What are you proposing?" he asked, his voice full of suspicion, but also a new respect.
"A partnership," I said. "Let me work for you. I can help you analyze your recipes, optimize your procedures, eliminate waste, and create more consistent, potent potions. I can turn your art into a repeatable science. In return, you teach me the basics of alchemy, and give me a small percentage of the profits from any new or improved formulas we develop together."
He was a proud man. I could see the conflict in his eyes. But he was also a businessman, and an alchemist who wanted to create the best potions possible. He looked at the perfect Stamina Potion in his hand, then at the failed, sludgy mess in the other cauldron. The evidence was undeniable.
"Ten percent," he said after a long silence. "And you start by cleaning every cauldron in this shop. You'll learn the fundamentals from the ground up."
"Done," I said without hesitation, a huge grin spreading across my face.
And that's how I, Alex Vance, Level 3 Transmigrator, became the apprentice to the town alchemist of Oakwood.
My life found a new rhythm. My days were spent at Valerius's shop, a place that quickly became my favorite in the entire town. The work was hard. I scrubbed cauldrons until my hands were raw, ground ingredients with a heavy stone mortar and pestle that sorely tested my 10 STR, and meticulously cataloged the shop's vast inventory. But with every task, I was learning.
Valerius, true to his word, began to teach me. He was a gruff, impatient teacher, but his knowledge was immense. He taught me to identify hundreds of different herbs, minerals, and monster parts by sight, smell, and touch. My [Analysis] skill was a massive cheat code in this regard. I could learn in an hour what would take a normal apprentice weeks.
[Skill Gained: Alchemy (Common) - Lvl 1]
[Description: The basic art of combining reagents to create potions and other magical substances. Allows you to identify common ingredients and follow simple recipes.]
My first solo creation was a [Minor Healing Potion]. The recipe was simple: Pure Stream Water, three crushed [Crimson Petal] flowers, and a drop of my own blood as a "life-force catalyst." My first attempt was a failure. My second was a cloudy, weak mixture. But my third, guided by a new level of understanding and my own analysis of the process, was a success.
[Minor Healing Potion]
[Rarity: Common]
[Effect: Restores 25 HP over 10 seconds.]
[Quality: Standard]
Holding that vial of swirling red liquid was a feeling of immense power. This wasn't a looted item. I had created it. I had turned raw materials into a life-saving tool.
My partnership with Valerius bore fruit almost immediately. We tackled his most problematic recipes one by one. I would use [Analysis] to find the flaw—an incorrect temperature, a mistimed ingredient, an impure reagent—and then we would work together to refine the process. I would explain it in my 'systems and patterns' language, and he would translate that into his 'art and soul' worldview.
"The spirit of the Ghost Mushroom weeps if it's crushed too forcefully," he'd say.
"Right," I'd nod. "Forceful crushing ruptures the cell walls and damages the psychoactive compounds."
We created a more potent [Potion of Night Vision] (using Glimmerfern extract), a [Potion of Water Breathing] (using the air bladders of a fish called a Silver Gill), and a highly sought-after [Elixir of Focus] that temporarily boosted a person's INT stat by one point, which was a huge hit with Lyra and other traveling scholars.
Our profits soared. And true to his word, Valerius gave me my ten percent. My eighteen coppers soon became a few silver coins, and then my first gold piece—a heavy coin worth a hundred silvers. I was no longer a destitute wildman. I could afford my room at the Gilded Griffin indefinitely. I bought new, proper clothes—a simple linen shirt, sturdy leather breeches, and solid boots. I even bought a bar of soap. The transformation was so dramatic that Elara the innkeeper actually cracked a smile when she saw me.
My evenings were spent with Lyra. We became a fixture in our corner of the Gilded Griffin, our table littered with books, napkins covered in diagrams, and my ever-improving alchemical concoctions. I helped her deconstruct complex spell-weaves, treating them like debugging code. She, in turn, became my tutor for this world.
She taught me about history, about the rise and fall of empires, about the Sundering that shattered the original supercontinent into the archipelago of the present day. She told me of the pantheon of gods, of the Celestial Court and the Abyssal Lords, the forces of creation and destruction that governed the cosmos. She explained the political landscape, the tensions between the human kingdoms, the reclusive Gryllid hives, and her own Sylphan enclaves.
With every conversation, the world grew larger, more complex, and more terrifying. She told me of the Blighted Lands to the far north, a place twisted by a magical cataclysm, where undead legions marched and demonic creatures roamed free. She told me of the Cursed Isles, where shapeshifters and things that mimicked human form were said to originate. These weren't just monster-of-the-week stories; they were real, existential threats that shaped the very fabric of her world.
My skills continued to grow. My work in the lab, with its precise chopping and mixing, leveled up my [Alchemy] skill and also slowly improved my DEX. I reached Level 4 after brewing a particularly difficult potion. I put my five stat points into my main stats: two into VIT (16), two into INT (20), and one into DEX (17). My INT hitting 20 felt like a major milestone. My thoughts were lightning-fast, my memory almost perfect. I could recall entire pages of Valerius's books after reading them just once. My skill point went into leveling up my [Alchemy] skill to Level 2, unlocking more complex recipes.
I also spent some of my newfound wealth. I commissioned the town blacksmith, a brawny woman named Helga, to forge a proper dagger for me from a bar of steel. It was a simple, well-balanced weapon, a universe away from my crude flint knife.
[Steel Dagger]
[Rarity: Uncommon]
[Attack Power: 10-14]
[Description: A well-crafted steel dagger. Reliable and sharp. A proper adventurer's sidearm.]
I also bought a leather satchel and a belt with pouches, so I could carry my potions and tools without looking like a walking yard sale. I was beginning to look less like a victim and more like a proper resident of this world.
One evening, Lyra proposed something new. "Alex," she said, her violet eyes serious. "Your understanding of mana structure is phenomenal. But it's all theoretical for you. You perceive it, but you don't feel it. You've never tried to manipulate it yourself."
"I'm not a mage, Lyra," I reminded her. "I don't think I can use magic."
"We don't know that," she countered. "Every living being has a connection to mana. It's the life force of the world. For most, it's just a passive wellspring. For mages, it's a tool. But perhaps your… unique perception gives you a different kind of access."
She wanted to teach me how to feel mana. We went to a quiet spot behind the inn, near the town wall. The lavender sun was setting, and the Glimmerferns in the small garden were beginning to glow.
"Close your eyes," she instructed. "Clear your mind of everything. Don't think about systems or patterns. Just… be."
It was harder than it sounded. My mind was a constant buzz of analysis and information. But I tried. I focused on my breathing, on the cool evening air on my skin.
"Now," she said softly. "Reach out. Not with your hands, but with your consciousness. Feel the world around you. The earth beneath your feet, the air you breathe, the life in the plants. It's all connected by threads of energy. Can you feel them?"
I focused, pushing my senses outward. At first, there was nothing. But then, slowly, a new layer of reality began to resolve itself. It was faint, like a half-remembered dream. I could 'see' the Glimmerferns not just as plants, but as small, gentle vortexes of energy, drawing mana up from the soil. I could feel the life-force of the grass, the ancient, slumbering energy of the stone wall. And I could feel Lyra, a bright, steady beacon of silvery-green light beside me.
Most importantly, I could feel it inside myself. A small, warm pool of energy in the center of my chest. My own mana. My status screen didn't show a mana bar, but it was there. It was real.
"I… I can feel it," I whispered, my eyes still closed.
"Good," she said, her voice filled with excitement. "Now, try to draw on it. Just a little. Pull a single thread from that pool in your chest and guide it to your hand."
I focused on the warm pool. I mentally 'grabbed' a tiny strand of that energy and tried to pull it down my arm, to my fingertips. It was like trying to thread a needle with a rope of cooked spaghetti. The strand frayed, it dissipated, it refused to obey. It was a completely new type of motor control I had to learn.
After several minutes of intense, frustrating effort, I managed it. A tiny, faint spark, no bigger than a firefly, flickered into existence at the tip of my index finger. It sputtered for a second, then vanished.
But I had done it. I had cast magic.
A new window popped up in my mind, so surprising it made me gasp.
[New Skill Tree Unlocked: Mana Manipulation]
[You have learned the skill: Mana Thread (Basic) - Lvl 1]
[Mana Thread (Basic) - Lvl 1]
[Description: The most fundamental form of mana manipulation. Allows you to draw out a single thread of your own mana. The foundation for all internal magic casting. Currently, your thread is weak and unstable.]
I opened my eyes, staring at my fingertip in disbelief. I had a magic skill. It was the most basic, bottom-of-the-barrel skill imaginable, but it was a start. It was a path.
Lyra was beaming. "You did it! I knew you could!"
I felt a dizzying rush of potential. Alchemy, tool crafting, and now, my own fledgling magic. My toolkit for survival—and for success—was expanding every day.
Life settled into a comfortable, productive routine. I was earning money, learning, growing stronger. I felt safe within the walls of Oakwood. I had friends. I had a home. For the first time since I'd arrived in this world, I felt a sense of peace.
That peace was shattered a week later.
I was in the common room of the Gilded Griffin, enjoying a quiet dinner with Lyra, when the town's warning bell began to ring. It was a deep, frantic, clanging sound that spoke of imminent danger. The chatter in the inn died instantly. Patrons froze, their faces pale.
Captain Marcus burst into the inn, his face grim, his armor hastily buckled. "To the walls!" he bellowed. "All able-bodied militia members, to your posts! We have a breach on the western perimeter!"
A breach? Panic flared in my chest. The palisade wall, my symbol of safety, had been broken?
"What is it? Goblins? A beast?" Elara asked, her knuckles white as she gripped the bar.
"Worse," Marcus said, his voice low and grim. "It's a Grotesque."
A wave of fear washed through the common room. The name meant something to these people. Something terrible.
"Flesh… change… twist… consume… become…"
A horrifying, alien thought, filled with a sick, cancerous hunger, echoed in my mind. It was distant, but it was the most malevolent consciousness I had ever touched. It made the mindless hunger of the slime and the cold honor of the Gryllid seem benign. This was a consciousness of pure violation.
"What is a Grotesque?" I asked Lyra, my voice trembling slightly.
"A horror," she whispered, her face pale, the vines in her hair wilting. "A creature of the Cursed Isles. They are shapeshifters, but not in a natural way. They are… corruptions. They absorb their victims, stealing their flesh, their memories, their forms. They are chaos given flesh."
My blood ran cold. A monster that could absorb and mimic its victims. In a small, enclosed town, that was a nightmare scenario.
"I have to help," I said, my decision instant. This town, these people, had taken me in. Lyra, Valerius, Elara, even grumpy Xy'ktil. This was my home now. I couldn't just hide while it was threatened.
"Alex, no!" Lyra grabbed my arm. "You're not a warrior! It's a Level 20+ monster!"
Level 20. The number was so high it seemed fictional. But the thought I had brushed against… it felt that powerful. I would be killed instantly in a direct fight. But I wasn't a warrior. I was a technician. I was an analyst.
"I don't have to fight it head-on," I said, my mind already racing, my 20 INT processing possibilities. "But I can see things others can't. My [Analysis], my [Transmigrator's Blessing]… I might be able to find a weakness. I have to try."
I grabbed my spear and my satchel of potions. I had a dozen [Minor Healing Potions], a few [Elixirs of Focus], and three [Potions of Night Vision]. I also had my dagger at my belt. It wasn't much, but it was what I had.
"Be safe," Lyra whispered, her eyes full of fear.
"Always," I said, giving her what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
I ran out into the chaos of the town. People were screaming, running for their homes. The guards were rushing towards the western wall, their faces set and grim. I fell in behind them, my heart pounding a frantic tattoo against my ribs.
We arrived at the western wall to a scene of carnage. A section of the thick pine palisade, ten feet wide, had been simply… dissolved. The wood was melted and warped into a black, bubbling ichor that smoked and sizzled. In the breach stood the creature.
It was the most horrifying thing I had ever seen. It had no definite shape. It was a writhing, pulsating mass of flesh, a cancerous tumor the size of a wagon. Limbs—some human, some animal—erupted and were reabsorbed into its body. Faces, contorted in silent screams, swirled across its surface. It was a mockery of life itself.
"[Analysis]," I choked out, my mind reeling from the sight.
Ding. The system's response was different this time. It was laced with a static of its own, as if it struggled to process the creature.
[Corrupted Grotesque]
[Level: 22]
[Race: Aberration (Cursed)]
[Description: A being of pure chaotic evolution. It absorbs the biomass of its victims to grow and adapt. Its primary form is highly resistant to physical and magical damage due to its constant regeneration and shifting anatomy. It possesses no single weak point or vital organ in its amorphous state.]
[WARNING: Direct psychic contact is not advised. The creature's consciousness is a chaotic vortex of stolen identities and consuming hunger. Prolonged exposure may cause permanent damage to your psyche.]
No vital organs. Resistant to damage. And a psychic attack warning. This thing was a walking apocalypse.
Captain Marcus and his guards were holding it at the breach, their spears and swords looking like toothpicks against its bulk. A mage near the Captain hurled a [Firebolt] at the creature. The ball of flame struck it, and the monster shrieked—a sound that was a dozen voices screaming at once. But the burnt flesh simply healed over in seconds, closing the wound as if it had never been.
It was just as Lyra and the system had said. It was seemingly invincible.
But the description said it had no vital organ in its amorphous state. That implied it could have another state. A state where it was vulnerable.
I needed to get closer. I used my [Stealth] skill, my body sinking into the shadows of a nearby building. I crept along the edge of the battle, my eyes scanning the creature, my mind wide open, braving the psychic static to listen with my [Transmigrator's Blessing].
"More… must add more… the strong one… the one with the shiny hat… his form will be useful… his memories taste of steel and duty…"
It was talking about Captain Marcus. It wanted to absorb him.
The Grotesque lunged, a massive pseudopod of flesh lashing out. The guards scattered, but one wasn't fast enough. The pseudopod struck him, and he didn't just fall—he was absorbed. His body dissolved into the creature's mass with a wet, sickening sound, his face briefly appearing on its surface in a mask of terror before sinking away.
The monster swelled, growing slightly larger. It had just leveled up in front of my eyes.
I had to find the key. The lynchpin. How could I force it to change its state? What was its trigger?
I focused my [Analysis] skill, pushing it harder than ever before. I didn't look at the whole creature, but at the individual parts. The bubbling ichor it used to breach the wall.
[Corrosive Enzyme Secretion]
[Description: A powerful acid capable of dissolving organic and inorganic matter. The formula is unstable and requires the creature to divert a significant portion of its metabolic energy to produce.]
It took a lot of energy to produce the acid. What else took energy? The shapeshifting. The regeneration. It was burning through a massive amount of power. Like any system, it couldn't have infinite resources. It had to have a power source. A core.
Think, Alex, think! It absorbs biomass. That's its fuel. But where is the engine? Where is the CPU?
The faces swirling on its surface… they weren't random. They were its victims. It was holding their patterns, their memories. That took processing power. It had to have a nucleus, a central processing unit where it stored and controlled all this stolen data.
I scanned the writhing mass again, looking for a point of consistency. A place that didn't shift and change as much as the rest. And then I saw it. Deep within the translucent, pulsating flesh, near the center of the mass, was a faint, pulsing purple light. It was no bigger than my fist, and it was heavily obscured, but it was there. It was the only constant in the chaos.
"[Analysis]," I commanded, focusing all my mental might on that single point of light. The psychic static intensified, a scream of code and agony in my head, but I pushed through it.
Ding.
[Grotesque Prime Core]
[Rarity: Legendary]
[Description: The original nucleus of the Corrupted Grotesque. It is the seat of its consciousness and the source of its regenerative and adaptive abilities. To protect itself, the Core is shielded by the entirety of the creature's biomass. It cannot be damaged by conventional means while the creature is in its amorphous state.]
[Vulnerability Protocol: If the Core perceives a direct, overwhelming threat to its existence, it will initiate a defensive transformation. It will adopt the form of the strongest single being it has absorbed, consolidating its biomass into a stable, less regenerative form in order to utilize that being's specific combat skills. In this stable form, the Core becomes a tangible, physical organ located where the original being's heart would be. Destroying the Core in this state will destroy the entire creature.]
I had it. I had the cheat sheet. The boss mechanics laid bare.
It wouldn't shift unless it perceived a direct, overwhelming threat to the core itself. Not just to the fleshy mass. I had to hit it with something that could punch through dozens of feet of regenerating flesh and threaten the core directly.
A spear wouldn't do it. A sword wouldn't. A [Firebolt] wouldn't. I needed something with immense, focused, piercing power.
My eyes scanned the battlefield. The guards were falling back, their morale shattered. Captain Marcus was holding his ground, his magic forming shields of light that buckled and cracked under the creature's assault. They were losing.
I looked at my inventory. Potions. A dagger. A spear. Nothing. I was useless.
My mind raced back through everything I had learned. Alchemy. Magic. My own skills. What did I have that could deliver that kind of focused power?
And then, my gaze fell upon the blacksmith's shop, its forge still glowing faintly in the twilight. Helga, the smith, was cowering nearby, a huge smithing hammer in her hands.
The forge… the heat… metal…
My 20 INT, supercharged by the [Elixir of Focus] I had just downed without thinking, connected the dots in a blaze of inspiration so bright it almost hurt.
It was a crazy, stupid, probably suicidal idea. But it was the only one I had.
I sprinted towards the blacksmith, ignoring the shouts of the guards. "Helga!" I yelled. "I need your help! I need your forge!"
"Are you mad, boy?" she shouted back, her eyes wide with terror. "We need to run!"
"There's no running from that thing!" I said, pointing at the Grotesque. "I have a plan, but I need the hottest fire you can make! And I need a solid iron bar! A long one!"
I ran to Captain Marcus. "Captain! I have a plan! I think I know its weakness! But I need you to buy me five minutes! You have to draw all its attention!"
Marcus looked at me, a wild-eyed apprentice alchemist, and for a second, I saw utter disbelief in his eyes. But then he saw the desperate certainty on my face. He was a man drowning, and I had just thrown him a rock, but it was something to hold onto.
"Five minutes!" he roared, turning back to the fight. "Mages, focus your fire! Draw its rage! Archers, aim for the center mass! Do not let it advance!"
He plunged back into the fray, his spells flaring brighter than ever. The tide of battle shifted slightly as the remaining defenders rallied around their captain, focusing all their attacks on the creature, making it roar in fury.
I turned back to Helga. She had seen the Captain's response and now looked at me with a glimmer of hope. "What do you need, lad?"
"Get your forge as hot as it can go! Use the magic bellows if you have them! I need a bar of iron—no, steel. As long and straight as you've got. We're going to make a spear. A very, very special spear."
As she stoked the forge to a roaring, white-hot intensity, I ran to my own workshop at Valerius's. I grabbed what I needed: a jar of concentrated [Alkali Powder]—my old friend from the forest—and a flask of [Ignis Oil], a highly flammable alchemical substance Valerius used for starting difficult fires.
I returned to the forge. Helga had a five-foot steel bar glowing white-hot in the flames.
"Okay," I said, my heart hammering. "This is the crazy part. When you pull it out, I need to coat the tip in this." I held up the alkali powder. "Then we quench it in this." I held up the Ignis Oil.
Helga's eyes went wide. "Quench it in oil? That's not how you temper steel! It'll make it brittle! And that powder… what is it?"
"The powder is a desiccant," I explained quickly. "It will super-dry the flesh it touches. The oil is a catalyst. When the superheated tip hits the creature's wet, organic interior, the rapid, extreme temperature change combined with the chemical reaction should create a localized thermal explosion. It's a shaped charge. A mana-laced anti-bio-armor-piercing round." I was just making up words now, but the science felt sound.
It was a plan born of two worlds. Earth chemistry and this world's alchemy, combined by my gamer logic.
"Now!" I yelled.
Helga, trusting me with a faith I hadn't earned, heaved the glowing steel bar from the forge. I dumped the alkali powder on the tip, where it fused to the white-hot metal in a crusty white layer.
"Quench it!"
We plunged the glowing, coated tip into the cask of Ignis Oil. There was a violent FWOOSH as the oil ignited, but the quenching process was faster. The bar hissed and steamed, the metal groaning as it cooled rapidly. The tip was now a mottled, ugly black, coated in a fused white-and-black shell.
[Improvised Thermo-Chemical Spear]
[Rarity: Unique (Unstable)]
[Attack Power: ???]
[Description: A desperate, one-shot weapon created through a dangerous fusion of blacksmithing and alchemy. Designed to pierce dense, regenerative organic matter via a violent thermal-chemical reaction. Highly unstable. Has a 50% chance of detonating prematurely upon impact.]
[Warning: Do not stand near the pointy end.]
50% chance of failure. A coin flip. I loved my odds.
I grabbed the still-hot spear, wrapping the base in thick leather scraps. It was heavy, unwieldy. My 10 STR screamed in protest.
"Captain!" I roared, running back to the battle. "I'm ready! I need a path!"
The Grotesque was fully engaged with Marcus, its attention fixed on the powerful mage. It was now or never.
"On my mark!" Marcus yelled, his face slick with sweat. He began chanting, weaving a spell more complex than any I had seen. A huge, shimmering shield of golden light formed in front of him. "Archers, suppressing fire! Now, Alex, now! Go!"
The Grotesque reared back, smashing against Marcus's shield, which cracked and buckled. But it held. For that one moment, the creature's front was exposed.
I ran. My 17 DEX made my feet fly over the rubble-strewn ground. The world slowed down, my senses heightened by adrenaline and the last dregs of my focus elixir. I saw the pulsing purple light of the Core within the creature's mass. That was my target.
I didn't have the strength to throw it. I had to run it in myself. A suicide run.
I lowered the spear, couching it like a jouster's lance. The psychic static from the beast was a deafening roar in my head.
"TINY THING! FAST THING! IT BURNS! IT HURTS! CONSUME IT!"
A tentacle of flesh lashed out at me. I ducked, the appendage whipping over my head with a sound like a speeding truck. I didn't break stride.
Ten feet away. Five feet.
I put every ounce of my pathetic strength, every bit of my speed, every fiber of my being into one final, desperate push.
I slammed into the monster.
The tip of my improvised spear plunged into its soft, yielding flesh. For a horrifying second, nothing happened. The coin flip. Had I lost?
Then, the reaction started.
A brilliant, blinding white light erupted from the point of impact. There was no sound, but the shockwave threw me backward like a rag doll. The Grotesque's psychic scream was cut off, replaced by a blast of pure, white-hot agony that mercifully overloaded my senses and knocked me unconscious.
The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was a system notification, appearing in the blinding white light, its text a calm, reassuring green.
[Vulnerability Protocol Activated.]
[Critical Hit on Prime Core Confirmed.]
[EXP Gained: 25,000]
[LEVEL UP!]
[LEVEL UP!]
[LEVEL UP!]
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