The system's roulette in my mind spun with a hypnotic glow, a kaleidoscope of colors representing possible destinies.
My eyes, or the consciousness that replaced them, narrowed, analyzing the patterns with the coldness of a professional gambler. The colors shimmered at different frequencies: White and Green blinked with an almost vulgar constancy, like common coins. Blue was rarer, a tempting flash. And Purple... Purple was an event. A sober, rare flash that promised real power.
The roulette slowed, the dance of lights grinding to a halt with an audible click that echoed through my very being.
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Rolling...
An Epic Item!
[Muramasa Katana]
|Rarity: Epic|
One of the Katanas forged by a Demonic Blacksmith; like all of them, this one is also cursed. The weapon is said to be capable of activating intense Psychopathy and Insanity, greatly increasing the wielder's physical strength and savagery.
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A low hiss escaped me. Materializing in the air beside the screen, hovering over the mirrored waters, the katana was a vision of deadly beauty. The blade seemed to drink the surrounding light, reflecting the purple sky in a dull, somber gray. The hilt was wrapped in an equally deep black, and the guard had an intricate, aggressive shape that suggested teeth or claws. I could feel its hunger, a subtle whisper at the periphery of my mind, a promise of absolute power in exchange for a piece of sanity.
That's good. I mean, it's a loaner sword. I'm not used to swords; knives and pistols are more my style. But there's always time to learn. My whole life has been a lesson in adapt or die. Learning to wield a cursed blade seemed like a natural next step. Though I'd like to avoid hitting full-blown psychosis from using a Katana and pulling an Ichigo-possessed-by-Zangetsu. Unnecessary drama.
Now, screw the analytical explanation. It was an epic item. It could've been worse, much worse, like a 500kg club I couldn't even lift. A weapon is a weapon. And a weapon with personality? That sounded like my kind of thing.
The roulette didn't wait. It spun again, the colors dancing once more.
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Rolling...
An Epic Ability!
[Psychokinesis]
|Rarity: Epic|
Possesses the cognitive capacity to influence, manipulate, and interact with matter and energy through pure mental effort, without the application of any physical force or electrical means.
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This time, there was no physical object. Instead, a wave of understanding flowed into me, as if a new sensory organ had blossomed in my mind. It was an instinctual knowledge, a feeling of latent power residing behind my eyes, ready to be shaped by will.
"Hmm," I let out, the sound laden with genuine interest. "Interesting. Actually, very interesting. This ability covers a broader range of mind-matter interactions beyond simply moving objects."
But then, the practical reality of the power asserted itself. "But it must still be difficult to use. The mind itself is complex. Thoughts aren't always lucid, and sometimes we can go too deep into visualizations and lose focus on what's needed."
The roulette spun for the last time. The white glow of the ticket dissolved into particles of light that were sucked into the vortex of colors on the screen. This time, the dance was faster, almost resigned, and stopped not with a triumphant click, but with a solid, metallic thud. The color that dominated was not the majestic purple, but a vibrant and stable Blue.
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Rolling...
A Rare Trait!
[Superhuman Physical Attributes]
|Rarity: Rare|
Physical attributes are increased by 3 times that of a normal human, and tend to increase with training. The limit is defined by the current condition of the body.
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A sudden warmth flooded my perception of a body. It wasn't a feeling of explosive power, but a foundation being solidified. It was as if every muscle, every tendon, every fiber of what would be my new body was being reinforced with flexible steel. The strength didn't come as a tide, but as a seed planted in fertile soil, ready to grow.
"Hmm." I assessed, pragmatically. "This already makes me stronger than the average untrained human, which allows me to handle several problems. Not all, unfortunately, but several is enough. Plus, it's evolutionary. That significantly increases its value."
The tickets were exhausted. The divine Gacha closed its doors. The black screen flickered one last time before dissolving into particles of light that merged with the mirrored sea.
"Well, my tickets are gone," I declared to the void. "So the next step would be to reincarnate, I suppose. There's nothing left for me here."
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Selecting world...
World Selected!
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The peace of the mirrored sea was shattered violently and abruptly. The smooth, solid surface beneath my feet became unstable, rippling like jelly. Suddenly, the water was no longer a mirror, but a real ocean. Deep, dark vortices opened around me, swirling with an inexorable force, and I was no longer standing on the water—I was sinking.
It wasn't a fall. It was a forced dive. The water, which before was merely a tactile illusion, was now cold and dense. It was strange, like diving headfirst into a dark, inexplicably deep pool, being pulled down by invisible weights. The light from the surface—that purple sky—faded rapidly, replaced by the greenish-blue darkness of the depths.
And then, absolute darkness. And pressure.
Not the pressure of water, but the physical pressure of being contained. Constriction. Suffocation. I was wrapped in something soft yet firm, warm and stifling. A smell of damp earth and rotting wood filled my nostrils—real nostrils!
Instinct, faster than thought, took over. This new body, imbued with Superhuman Attributes from its very first second of existence, reacted. My fist, driven by strength three times the norm, clenched and exploded upward.
It wasn't a push. It was a detonation.
Wood splintered with a sharp, dry crack. Compacted earth was thrown aside as if a grenade had detonated. The feeling of dirt in my mouth, in my eyes, was visceral and repugnant.
In a single motion, my small body shot upward, shattering the lid of a rotten coffin and meters of loose earth, emerging onto the surface.
I landed on my feet. Legs trembling, but firm, on the churned soil of my own grave. Fresh air—air so pure it almost hurt—filled my lungs for the first time.
The darkness of the night enveloped me, dotted with cold, distant stars. The smell of wet grass and decomposition was strong.
I looked down. The hole I had created was a raw gash in the landscape. Pieces of cheap wood scattered around.
The scent of damp soil, cut grass, and rotting wood saturated every particle of the air I breathed, a heavy, real aroma that confirmed a corporeal existence I had long since abandoned. My bare, cold feet felt every clump of earth, every fragment of the coffin I had shattered.
It was then that a sound, fragile and trembling, cut through the cemetery's quiet.
"C-come... how...?"
The voice was young, frayed by a tremor of pure terror. It didn't come from in front, but from behind. A whisper stolen by the night breeze.
My head turned, not with the superhuman speed I knew was latent in my new limbs, but with a slow, calculated deliberation. Each movement was a test, an exploration of the limits of this adolescent body I now inhabited—a body of about 13 years, thin, pale, but pulsing with a brutal potential beneath the skin.
There they were. Two figures frozen at the edge of the moonlight filtering through the ancient cemetery trees. Two youths, boys, seemingly my age. Their silhouettes were slender, not yet fully formed by adulthood.
But it was their clothes that first captured my attention. These were not outfits for wandering among gravestones at night. They wore fine wool coats, well-tailored trousers, polished leather boots—elegant, expensive clothes that screamed privilege and a comfortable life, utterly dissonant with the grim, funereal setting surrounding us.
And then, my eyes, already adapting to the gloom with an unnatural clarity, lowered to their hands. In each of them, gripped with nervous strength, they held shovels. Tools with wooden handles and cold metal blades. Gardener's shovels, caked with fresh soil, the same soil that now covered my feet and enveloped me like a macabre shroud.
The puzzle piece clicked into place with a silent, icy snap inside me. The cheap coffin. The shallow grave. The freshly turned earth. And now, two elegantly dressed youths, shovels in hand, witnessing my return from the dead.
My voice, when it emerged, didn't sound like that of a frightened teenager. It felt strange in this new vocal apparatus—deeper, raspy from disuse, and laden with a coldness that made the air around us seem to drop a few degrees. Each syllable was measured, sharp as a knife's edge.
"Ah..." I exhaled, the sound more a sigh laden with understanding than a word. My eyes scanned every detail of their dirty clothes, their pale faces, their trembling shovels.
"Was it you?"