Items drop from monsters.
That was one of the first things people talked about once the system became public knowledge. Equipment. Potions. Rare artifacts. The idea that killing monsters could turn anyone into a walking arsenal fueled a lot of reckless behavior in the early days.
The truth was far less exciting.
Drop rates were abysmal. So low that for anyone without a gift directly related to item acquisition, it was barely worth acknowledging. Most monsters died and left behind nothing but bodies and mana residue that faded with time.
Apparently, one of the top ranked individuals, currently sitting at Rank 7 worldwide, possessed a gift called "100 Percent Drop Rate."
Every kill guaranteed loot.
The difference between us was so vast it felt unreal.
In the past two days alone, I had cleared dozens of monsters. Mutated beasts. Lesser demons. Rift spawned aberrations that roamed abandoned streets and forests alike. My contribution points had climbed steadily, my control over water magic improving with every encounter.
My loot amounted to exactly two things.
A crude machete with a chipped blade and questionable balance.
And a single recovery potion.
That was it.
I stared at the potion for a long moment before stuffing it back into my bag. It was better than nothing, but not by much. I had learned quickly that relying on drops was a mistake. Contribution points were far more reliable, even if they required patience.
By the second night, exhaustion had begun to creep in. Not physical fatigue alone, but mental strain. The constant awareness of danger. The need to evaluate every shadow and sound. The weight of knowing that one wrong decision could end everything.
Still, I pressed forward.
Because Gavin might still be alive.
The shelter he mentioned in his last message was exactly where he said it would be.
A reinforced community center on the southern edge of the city. Concrete walls reinforced with steel plating. Barricades hastily assembled from vehicles and debris. From a distance, it looked like it might have held.
Up close, it was clear that it had not.
The gates were torn open. Burn marks scarred the ground. The air reeked of death and decayed mana. Bones littered the entrance, some human, others unmistakably not.
I did not step inside.
I did not need to.
I felt it.
An overwhelming presence pressed down on the area like a suffocating fog. Cold. Calculated. Ancient in a way that had nothing to do with time and everything to do with intent.
The lich.
I caught only a glimpse of it.
A figure standing atop the remains of the shelter's central building. Its form was robed and skeletal, eyes burning with pale green light. It was not looking for prey. It was overseeing territory.
Even Mulligan stirred uneasily within me.
"That is not something you fight," his voice said quietly. "Even at my peak, I would not challenge a being like that without preparation, allies, and contingencies."
I did not argue.
The fact that Mulligan admitted hesitation told me everything I needed to know.
I backed away slowly, suppressing my mana as much as possible. The lich did not react. Either it did not notice me, or it did not care.
Both possibilities were terrifying.
I left the area immediately.
Gavin had mentioned a bunker.
Further south. Old infrastructure repurposed during early emergency planning. If the shelter had fallen, that bunker was my last lead.
I moved carefully through ruined streets and stretches of overgrown land, keeping my path indirect. Monsters roamed freely here, but I avoided unnecessary fights. Survival took priority over points.
Then I felt it.
A familiar mana signature. I... who wasn't familiar with mana before this.. felt the warmth of a friend.
Weak. Distorted. Wrong.
I stopped.
My heart began to pound as I followed the sensation down a cracked road lined with abandoned houses. Near the edge of a collapsed fence, I saw him.
Gavin.
Or what was left of him.
His body stood upright, movements jerky and unnatural. His uniform was torn and stained dark with old blood. One arm hung at an odd angle. His eyes were dull, glowing faintly with necrotic mana.
Reanimated.
A zombie.
I froze.
Memories hit me all at once. Late night dinners at his place. His mother nagging us about sleeping habits. The way he laughed when I failed at cooking for the third time in a row.
This thing wore his face.
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms.
I could kill it.
I knew I could.
But doing so would draw attention. And worse, it would anchor me here emotionally. Anger surged, but I forced it down, burying it beneath discipline and reason.
This was not the place.
This was not the time.
The lich ruled this region. That meant every undead was part of its domain. Killing Gavin's corpse might provoke something far worse than I could handle.
I took a slow breath.
Then another.
"I am sorry," I whispered.
The zombie did not react.
I turned away.
As I walked, my chest burned with restrained fury. Grief mixed with helplessness, twisting into something sharp and bitter.
I knew when I was outmatched.
And I knew when to retreat.
But retreat did not mean surrender.
"I will come back," I muttered under my breath. "When I am strong enough."
I tightened my grip on my pack straps.
"For now, I need to find my little sister."
And then, quietly, with resolve settling deep into my bones.
"And I need to use my next past life."
I did not get far before something else found me.
A Gnoll burst from the treeline ahead, standing nearly three meters tall. Its hyena like face twisted into a savage grin as it brandished a jagged spear. Mana rolled off its body in crude waves, wild and aggressive.
It charged.
I did not dodge.
I did not retreat.
I let everything I had been holding back flood to the surface.
Water erupted from the ground around the Gnoll, drawn violently from soil and air alike. Pressure built instantly, crushing inward. The Gnoll howled as its limbs were pinned, bones cracking under invisible force.
I stepped forward.
My control sharpened.
The water compressed further, turning into a dense sphere around its torso. The sound was sickening. Muscle collapsed. Organs ruptured. The howl cut off abruptly.
I did not stop.
I forced more mana in.
The sphere imploded.
What remained of the Gnoll collapsed into the dirt, unrecognizable.
Silence followed.
My breath came heavy as the anger finally drained away, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
[Contribution Points +37]
I stared at the remains for a long moment, then turned south once more.
Retreat did not make me weak.
It meant I would survive long enough to return.
Stronger.
Prepared.
And next time, I would not walk away.