Chapter 2: First Principles
The laughter chased him out of the building, a shrill, fading chorus of ignorance. Rocky walked through the double doors of the school's main entrance, the sounds of celebration and panic from within muffled by thick glass. The air outside was different. It tasted of ozone and potential, thrumming with the low-grade energy of a world freshly formatted.
The courtyard was chaos. Students who had received their classes were testing them. A boy with [Apprentice Warrior] clumsily swung a spectral longsword at a tree, yelping as bark chips flew. A girl with [Novice Pyromancer] focused intently on her palm, producing a sad, sputtering wisp of smoke before giving up with a frustrated cry. They were toddlers with godly tools, playing with the safety caps still on.
Rocky didn't spare them a glance. His destination wasn't the ad-hoc training grounds forming on the lawn. His destination was the edge of the 'Safe Zone.'
Genesis's mechanics, now the world's physics, dictated a 24-hour grace period. A shimmering, translucent dome of energy—visible only to those with a System Interface—encapsulated the school and its immediate surroundings. Beyond it, the data-streams of the world would begin to populate with entities. Monsters. Resources. Opportunities. Most of these new "players" would spend the grace period huddled inside, practicing their one or two basic skills, forming parties based on arbitrary social ties.
Rocky had no skills to practice. And he worked alone.
He walked to the very perimeter of the dome, where the shimmering energy wall met the unchanged asphalt of the street. On the other side, the world looked normal. A little quieter, perhaps. The usual hum of distant traffic was gone, replaced by an eerie, waiting silence. A stray newspaper, caught by a breeze, tumbled down the center line.
He opened his Status Screen. It was brutally minimalist.
Name: Rocky
Level: 1
Class: [None] // Title: [Jobless]
HP: 100/100 | Stamina: 100/100 | Mana: --/--
Strength: 5 | Agility: 5 | Vitality: 5 | Intelligence: 5 | Perception: 5
Skills: None
Abilities: None
Five in every stat. The absolute, pathetic baseline. A Class, even a basic one, came with an immediate +10 to primary attributes and +5 to others. A [Novice Warrior] would have 15 Strength right now. Rocky had the physical profile of a particularly unathletic librarian.
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. Perfect.
His gaze wasn't on his stats, but on the small, semi-transparent mini-map in the corner of his vision. It showed the Safe Zone as a blue circle. Just beyond its edge, about fifty meters down the street in the overgrown lot of a condemned gas station, a tiny, pulsing green dot blinked. A resource node. And not just any.
According to the infallible memory of Cheng Qianmo, God of All Professions, that specific coordinate, in the first hour of the assimilation, had a 95% chance to spawn a Level 1 Glowing Poisoncap Mushroom.
To anyone else, it was a useless, dangerous weed. It emitted a weak toxin that drained 1 HP per second if touched, and had a mere 5 HP. Its only loot was a single [Toxic Spore], a low-level alchemy reagent.
But Rocky knew three things they didn't.
First, it gave 50 experience points—ten times the norm for a Level 1 entity—to the first player to kill it.
Second, it was weak to fire damage, which no beginner possessed.
Third, and most importantly, if killed with a source of continuous flame before it could release its spores, it had a 0.5% chance to drop a \[Glowing Cap\], a quest item for a chain that wouldn't become available for months, rewarding a mid-tier poison immunity accessory.
Probability was a shackle for those who trusted the system. For him, it was a set of levers. A 0.5% chance was not a lottery ticket. It was a guarantee, given the right conditions.
He turned from the energy wall and walked back towards the school's maintenance shed. The door was locked. He glanced around, picked up a loose brick from a crumbling garden edge, and with a sharp, precise tap, broke the padlock's hasp. The noise was insignificant against the background of shouted skills and magical misfires.
Inside, it was dark and smelled of oil and cut grass. His eyes, adjusted to the gloom, swept the shelves. There. A red plastic gasoline can, half-full. And next to it, on a workbench, a cheap utility lighter and a bundle of shop rags.
He didn't have an inventory yet—that required a class skill or a spatial item. So he worked with his hands. He soaked one rag thoroughly, wringing it out slightly so it wouldn't drip everywhere. He wrapped a dry rag around the end of a broken hoe handle he found in a corner, then tied the soaked rag securely over it. A crude torch. The lighter was his spark.
Improvisation Successful.
Crude Tool Created: [Makeshift Torch].
Durability: 10/10. Effect: Applies [Burning] status (1 fire damage/sec) on contact.
A notification, plain and unbordered. The system acknowledging his action outside its skill framework. The first whisper of his anomalous path.
He walked back to the perimeter, the torch unlit in his hand. No one paid attention to the classless boy carrying junk. They were too engrossed in their own nascent power fantasies.
At the energy wall, he took a breath. The air crackled as he passed through. It felt like pushing through a wall of static electricity, and then he was outside. The Safe Zone's ambient hum vanished, replaced by a profound, watchful silence. The rules here were active. He was a valid target.
His Perception was only 5, but the legacy imprints sharpened his instincts. He moved not with a warrior's bravado, but with a scavenger's caution, sticking to the shadows of buildings, his footsteps silent on the cracked pavement. The mini-map showed no red dots—no hostiles—in his immediate path. The gas station lot was ahead, choked with tall, yellowed grass and litter.
He saw the mushroom immediately. It was exactly where the map said it would be, growing from a crack in the concrete foundation of the old pump island. It was small, its cap a sickly, bioluminescent green, pulsing softly. Toxic vapors, visible as a faint purple haze, wavered above it.
Rocky didn't approach directly. He circled downwind. At a distance of ten feet, he stopped, set the torch head on the ground, and flicked the lighter.
Click. Click. Fwoosh.
The gasoline-soaked rag caught instantly, orange flames greedily consuming it, heat washing over his face. He picked up the torch, the weight familiar and insignificant.
The Poisoncap, sensing the heat, pulsed faster. A cloud of faint purple spores began to puff from its gills.
No time for finesse. Rocky lunged, not at the mushroom, but at the base of its stem, jamming the burning rag directly onto it. The fire licked the damp, fleshy fungus.
-1 (Fire)
-1 (Fire)
The damage ticks were slow. The mushroom had 5 HP. This would take five seconds. A cloud of more intense spores billowed out, washing over him.
You are affected by [Minor Mycotoxic Mist].
\-1 HP/sec for 10 seconds.
A dull ache bloomed in his lungs. His HP ticked down: 99... 98... He ignored it. He held the torch steady, fire searing the base of the stem. The mushroom writhed, a pathetic, silent convulsion.
-1 (Fire)
-1 (Fire)
Target Eliminated: [Glowing Poisoncap Mushroom].
Experience gained: 50 XP.
A warm surge of energy flowed into him. His body tingled.
Level Up!
You are now Level 2.
Stat points available: 5. Skill points available: 0.
He dismissed the notifications without allocating the points. Not yet. His eyes were fixed on the smoldering, blackened remains of the mushroom. As the last of the flames died, something small and crystalline gleamed among the ash.
He knelt, swatting away the last of the toxic mist (HP: 94...93...), and picked it up. It was not a [Toxic Spore]. It was a perfect, tiny cap-shaped gem, glowing with a soft, internal green light.
Item Acquired: [Glowing Cap].
Type: Quest Item / Rare Alchemical Catalyst.
A preserved, perfect fruiting body of a Glowing Poisoncap. Its toxicity is inert, its luminescent properties amplified. A curious oddity.
He pocketed it. First objective, complete. The 50 XP had given him a head start. The item was a future investment. The cost: 10 HP and a few minutes of time.
He was about to rise when a low, guttural growl echoed from behind the gas station's kiosk.
Rocky froze, his hand tightening on the charred hoe handle. Slowly, he turned.
A creature stood in the shadow of the building. It looked like a large, mangy dog, but its eyes were pools of feral red light, and drool dripped from jaws lined with too many teeth. Patches of its fur were missing, showing grey, leathery hide beneath.
[Plague-Rot Hound - Level 3]
A mundane creature touched by the earliest waves of the Demonic Plague. Enhanced strength and aggression. Carrier of [Rotting Bite].
Level 3. A full two levels above him. Its stats would be superior in every way. A [Novice Warrior] in a party of three might take it on. Alone, with starting stats, it was a death sentence.
The Hound's muzzle wrinkled, sniffing the air. It smelled the burnt mushroom, the gasoline, and him. It took a step forward, muscles coiling under its patchy skin.
Run? His Agility was 5. The Hound's was likely 12 or higher. He wouldn't make it ten yards.
Fight? With a burnt stick? His mind, cool and prismatic, analyzed. Strength disparity: vast. No weapons. No skills. Environmental advantages? None. The legacy of a thousand battles provided no brute force solution. But the other legacy… the silent, chilling authority… it itched.
The Hound charged. It was a blur of matted fur and snapping jaws, covering the distance in two heartbeats.
Rocky didn't raise his stick. He didn't try to dodge. He dropped into a low crouch, not away from the beast, but towards it, placing the broken pump island between them for a half-second. The Hound skidded on the concrete, claws screeching, and lunged around the obstruction.
Its jaws, wide enough to clamp around his forearm, snapped shut on empty air where his shoulder had been a moment before. Rocky had sidestepped with minimal, efficient movement, his body reading the animal's trajectory before it finished it. The God of All Professions knew the flow of combat, even in a body this weak.
But knowing wasn't enough. The Hound whipped its head around, a backhanded swipe of its paw catching Rocky across the chest.
\-22 (Claw Strike)
White-hot pain lanced through him. He staggered back, the wind knocked out of him. His HP plummeted to 72. One more hit like that would cripple him. Two would kill him.
The Hound growled, savoring the scent of blood. It prepared to pounce and finish him.
Desperation was a luxury he couldn't afford. There was only calculation. The battle data was insufficient. He needed a variable. He needed a tool.
His eyes fell on the corpse of the Poisoncap. The thought wasn't a conscious one. It was an impulse from that deeper, colder well within him. An understanding of transition, of repurposing what was left behind.
As the Hound launched itself, Rocky did the only thing he could. He threw the charred, useless torch directly at the beast's face.
The Hound flinched, batting it aside with a paw.
In that split-second of distraction, Rocky's hand shot out, not towards the living monster, but towards the small, dead mushroom. He didn't know a spell. He had no necromantic skill. But he had the concept, the Sovereign's echoing will. He focused not on animating flesh, but on a simpler, more fundamental command: Move. Obey.
He poured his intent, his sheer, stubborn refusal to die here, into that command. A sharp, icy pain spiked behind his eyes. His Stamina bar flickered and dropped by 30 points.
The blackened, tiny mushroom corpse did not move.
But from the shadow it cast on the oil-stained concrete, something stirred.
A shape, sketched in darkness and faint violet energy, pulled itself free from the ground. It was small, barely the size of a terrier, a two-dimensional silhouette of a canine with glowing red pinpricks for eyes. It looked like a paper cutout of a nightmare.
Ability Manifested: [Shadow Fetch].
Mana Cost: N/A (Uses Stamina). Conjures a weak, temporary construct from the remnant death-energy of a recently slain entity. Duration: 60 seconds.
Construct: [Phantom Hound Pup - Level 1]
The shadow creature made no sound. It launched itself at the real Hound's back leg as the beast finished its pounce.
The Plague-Rot Hound yelped in surprise as insubstantial, cold jaws of shadow clamped onto its hamstring. No physical damage registered, but the creature spasmed, a \[Chill\] debuff appearing next to its health bar, slowing its movements.
It wasn't much. But it was a distraction. A half-second.
Rocky was already moving. Not away. Forward. While the Hound was twisted, snapping at the ephemeral pup on its leg, Rocky dove low, scooping up the broken-off metal hasp of the padlock he'd shattered earlier. It was a jagged, sharp piece of steel about four inches long.
The Hound shook off the shadow pup, which dissipated into motes of dark light. Its crimson eyes locked back on Rocky, burning with fury. It lunged again, mouth open for a killing bite.
Rocky didn't try to stab it. He waited for the jaws to come within inches of his face, the stench of rot overwhelming. Then he jammed the metal shard, horizontally, into the beast's gaping maw, wedging it between its upper and lower teeth.
The Hound choked, its bite arrested. It shook its head wildly, trying to dislodge the metal.
Now.
Rocky surged up inside its guard. He ignored the claws that raked his side (-15 HP). He ignored the pain. His hand, guided by the flawless muscle memory of a master rogue, a master brawler, a master of a dozen lethal arts, shot forward. Not with enough strength to pierce hide. But with perfect precision.
Two fingers, rigid, struck the Hound directly in the left red eye.
It wasn't about strength. It was about targeting a universal weakness. About applying force to the most vulnerable point.
The beast's eye burst in a wet, disgusting pop.
Critical Hit! Weak Point Exploited!
\-48 Damage
The Hound's shriek was a sound of pure, agonized animal terror. It stumbled back, blind on one side, thrashing.
Rocky didn't let up. He followed it, a relentless specter. He picked up the heavier, unbroken end of the hoe handle. As the Hound stumbled, he swung it like a baseball bat, not at its body, but at the back of its already-injured skull, right where the spine met the cranium.
\-12 Damage
Target Stunned!
The Hound collapsed, twitching.
Rocky stood over it, chest heaving, blood dripping from the gashes on his side and chest. His HP was at 45. His Stamina was nearly empty. The icy headache from manifesting the shadow throbbed behind his eyes.
He looked down at the whimpering, broken creature. The system prompt flashed, offering a final blow, the experience, the loot.
But another idea, cold and compelling, took hold. This creature had been touched by the Plague. It had strength. It had a form. And it was about to die.
The Sovereign's echo within him stirred again, stronger now, resonating with the proximity of death. This wasn't a mushroom's faint shadow. This was a true corpse-in-waiting. He knelt, placing a hand on the Hound's heaving flank, feeling the life rapidly fading from it.
He didn't know a raise dead spell. But he understood the principle. He wasn't casting a System-sanctioned skill. He was issuing a decree. He was the Jobless, the one outside the rules. He would not accept this energy's departure. He would command it to stay, to serve.
He poured his will into the dying beast, not with Stamina this time, but with something deeper—a sliver of that chilling, sovereign authority. The world around him seemed to grow still, the sounds of the distant Safe Zone fading. The only reality was the transition under his hand.
The Plague-Rot Hound gave one final shudder and went still.
Then, the flesh began to change. The mangy fur sloughed away like dust. The skin darkened, tightened, desiccated. The muscles withered and re-knit into cords of grey, fibrous tissue. The remaining good eye sank into its socket and was extinguished. A moment later, a single, steady pinprick of cold violet light ignited in each socket.
The body contorted, bones audibly cracking and resetting into a more efficient, predatory crouch. Where there had been a diseased animal, there now knelt a creature of bone, sinew, and chilling purpose.
Undead Minion Created: [Skeletal Hound - Level 3].
Bond Established. This entity is an extension of your will. It does not consume. It does not fear. It obeys.
Rocky stood, looking down at his creation. It waited, silently, for a command. The pain of his wounds was still there. The danger of the wider world was immense. But in the silence of the abandoned gas station, with the fading green glow of the [Glowing Cap] in his pocket and the loyal, unliving hound at his feet, Rocky felt the first, solid foundation of his new path settle into place.
He had no class. He had no sanctioned skills.
But he had knowledge. And now, he had a weapon.
"Up," he said, his voice quiet but clear.
The Skeletal Hound rose, its bones clicking softly. It turned its skull towards him, those twin violet lights unwavering.
Rocky looked past it, towards the deeper shadows beyond the gas station, where more green dots pulsed on his mini-map. More resources. More opportunities. More threats.
A hunter needed prey. A disaster hunter needed disasters.
He began to walk, moving deeper into the untamed world. The Skeletal Hound fell into step beside him, a silent, deadly shadow.
The first hunt was over. The second was about to begin.
[End of Chapter 2]