Right at the bottom of the "Current Skills" column on the system interface, there was a small question mark.
When Leo focused his attention on it, a new window popped up with a detailed explanation:
[Skills are divided into 6 tiers, ranked from E to S. Higher Role Levels increase the chance of obtaining high-tier skills upon leveling up.]
Despite acquiring One Man Army (Lv. B), Leo's physique hadn't undergone any drastic mutations. He hadn't hulked out into a three-meter-tall slab of muscle. He remained tall and lean.
But while his appearance was unchanged, Leo could feel the fundamental rewrite of his biology.
The skill description was literal. When it said "all physical capabilities," it meant all of them.
Leg strength akin to an Olympic sprinter. Lung capacity rivaling an elite marathon runner. Reaction speeds of a champion boxer. The raw power of a gold-medal weightlifter.
He was the definition of the ultimate all-rounder. No weaknesses. No blind spots.
If Leo were to compete in the Olympics right now, he would sweep the gold medals in every single event he entered.
Aside from the new skill, leveling "Priest" to Lv.2 had unlocked a new role: "Paladin."
Focusing on the role title revealed a brief description:
[Paladin: The Sword of God. Uphold chivalry, punish evil, promote good, and aid the weak.]
For Leo, roleplaying a "Paladin" was infinitely easier than playing a "Priest." Why? Because in 1920s America, a Chinese man didn't have to look far to find trouble.
Racists, thugs, and lowlifes spawned around him like mobs in a video game.
White, Black—it didn't matter. Discrimination against the Chinese was the one thing that united everyone. They all viewed him as livestock.
Since his arrival, Leo had encountered plenty of people looking for a fight. Every single one of them had been converted into "Paladin" XP.
Generally speaking, his first six months had been peaceful. He had a steady job, and his roleplay progress was smooth.
But recently, everything changed.
The owner of the cafe where Leo worked was a kind, elderly man.
He had spent his life savings to open the cafe, fulfilling a lifelong dream of becoming a barista.
In an era defined by racial hatred, the old man was colorblind. He was strict with himself but endlessly kind to others.
When Leo first transmigrated, he was penniless, lost, and facing the brutal reality of being Chinese in America. No one would hire him.
The old man did.
He not only gave Leo a job but helped him find a cheap, clean apartment in a good neighborhood.
More importantly, he paid Leo a white man's wage.
In 1920s America, the wage gap was an abyss. A Chinese worker typically earned a fraction of what a white worker made for the same labor.
The cafe was fully staffed at the time. The old man didn't need another hand. He hired Leo simply because he wanted to help a young man survive.
Thanks to his kindness, Leo had found his footing in this strange new world instead of freezing in an alley.
But a sudden calamity destroyed everything.
Two weeks ago, on a Friday night, a group of uninvited guests in luxury cars rolled into town and entered the cafe.
At first, they just ordered coffee.
But soon, the drugs kicked in. They became rowdy, screaming and causing a scene, driving away regular customers.
The old man, wanting to maintain order, politely asked them to settle down.
They didn't like that.
They beat him. They broke his bones. Then they turned on the cafe.
Tables, chairs, jars of expensive beans—everything was smashed.
Before they left, they lit a match.
They drove off laughing as the cafe—the old man's life's work—burned to the ground.
Leo wasn't on shift that night. He didn't see the bastards.
He arrived to find the old man weeping in the ashes, his dream reduced to charcoal.
Leo stared at the ruins in silence. Then, without a word, he went home and started packing.
The old man realized what Leo was planning. He tried to stop him.
Leo gently refused.
Men like the cafe owner shouldn't have guns pointed at them.
Bad men should have guns pointed at them.
Leo respected the old man's virtue. He liked his coffee. He liked the warm atmosphere of that little shop.
So... someone had to pay for ruining it.
Before leaving, Leo extracted two key pieces of information from the grieving owner:
The cars had San Francisco license plates. (The owner didn't catch the numbers).One of the men—around 25 years old—had a red skull tattoo on his neck.
And so, Leo left the starting town, bound for San Francisco.
Hunting the man with the red skull tattoo was the primary objective, but there were other reasons to head for the city.
San Francisco was the jewel of the West Coast. A massive population meant more opportunities—and more chances to roleplay.
Leo was getting addicted to the System.
In his past life, he was a shut-in writer. He'd never had a real job, never felt the thrill of living on the edge.
But roleplaying gave him a rush he'd never known. He craved the XP. He craved the next unlock.
But mostly, he craved power.
The 1920s. The "Roaring Twenties." America was basking in the glory of being the victor of the Great War.
Economy booming. Industrialization skyrocketing. Jazz music filling the air.
For white Americans, it was a golden age of hope and excess.
For Chinese Americans, it was hell.
Since the first wave of immigrants arrived, the Chinese had been the target of systemic, violent hatred from every layer of American society.
They were the absolute bottom of the social hierarchy. Even lower than other minorities.
The culmination of this hate was the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882.
By law, the Chinese were not Americans. Unlike other immigrants, they had no path to citizenship. They were permanent outsiders.
A Chinese man could be walking down the street, minding his own business, and get beaten, robbed, or killed for no reason other than his race.
Just like the four Irishmen earlier. They saw him as a bug. They felt entitled to crush him.
The image of the cafe owner weeping in the ruins flashed through Leo's mind.
If you aren't strong enough, you can't protect yourself. And you can't protect the people who matter.
Leo tilted his head, his gaze burning as he looked toward the horizon, toward San Francisco.
He was going there. The hunt was still on.
But first... a detour to "The Paradise."
He would pay a visit to this "Wolf Gang." He would find the man with the red tattoo on his neck.
And he would see if that man was the dog he was looking for.
Leo's eyes narrowed, sharp as the blade on his shoulder.