I had five stat points—just enough to convert into an ability point. My eyes darted over the screen, a thread of hope tightening in my chest with every line. The endless Spells and Skills lists, glowing dimly against the dark, almost pulsed with a promise just out of reach, their words bleeding into each other as desperation blurred my vision. Each line felt like a lifeline, a slim chance that I might reach her, that there might be a way to at least contact her. Heart pounding, I skimmed through the descriptions, words blurring in my rush to find anything that might work.
With each search, disappointment grew heavier. Every category of spells and skills was just another dead end. There were no spells to bring her back or a secret path to reach her. My shoulders slumped as that flicker of hope dimmed with each swipe. And then I reached the Necromancy section.
The titles alone sent a cold prickle crawling over my skin—‘Raise Undead,’ ‘Drain Life,’ and ‘Dark Influence.’ Shadows seemed to coil from the screen, like the letters held a hidden pulse, dark ink spreading like tendrils across water. Each word was an invitation, whispering promises no one should answer. My fingers tensed, and a deep, instinctive shiver slithered down my spine, urging me to look away, even as my eyes stayed fixed.
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td width="601">
<h2 style="text-align: center">NECROMANCY</h2>
Grasp of the Grave
Channel the arcane arts to wield the power of necromancy and command the forces of death.
? Raise Undead: Summon skeletal warriors or spectral guardians to serve you. The number and strength of undead raised depends on your skill level and mana expenditure.
Cost: 3 Ability Points.
? Drain Life: Channel negative energy to siphon vitality from living beings, replenishing your own health. The potency of this drain increases with the level of mastery.
Cost: 3 Ability Points.
? Dark Influence: Infuse nearby shadows with necrotic energy, cloaking yourself and your allies from detection. The radius and duration of this concealment expand with skill levels.
Cost: 3 Ability Points.
Mana Cost: Varies based on the complexity and power of the necromantic spell.
Murmur of Death
When wielding necromantic power, you perceive an eerie whispering from the realm of spirits and the domain of death. Outsiders hear a faint, chilling murmur emanating from your vicinity, yet they cannot decipher the sinister utterances exchanged within your necromantic sphere.
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
With a shudder, I recoiled and let out a breath, exhaling. The hope that had felt so strong just a short while ago was gone, leaving me staring at the screen in silence, my chest hollow and aching. I needed to clear my head.
I sank into the armchair by the window, the leather cold and stiff. Outside, streetlights spilled over the cobbled streets in a faint, ghostly glow, each light pooling into puddles that deepened the shadows clinging between the stones. It was like the entire street held its breath, the silence pressing against the glass, waiting with me. My coffee sat cold on the table, abandoned. The weight of it all felt as unyielding as the leather pushing back, as I imagined anything beyond this hollow existence.
A surge of excitement hit me, like a jolt to the system, sharp and electric. I could almost feel it in my chest—a chance to step into the unknown, a life most people couldn’t even imagine, full of worlds and possibilities that made my pulse race. I could go places no one on Earth knew existed, pick up skills to make me look like something out of a comic book, and be more than just some guy wandering around, drifting between memories. The thrill was almost impossible to ignore—finally, a shot at living, at doing something that might make me feel alive again.
But doubt seeped in, and the excitement faded, replaced by something darker and more challenging to shake. What if it’s too much? What if I get out there and I’m just... lost? The thought of standing alone in some strange place, surrounded by people who didn’t speak my language and didn’t share my world, made my stomach twist. Out there, I’d be on my own. No backup, no safety net, just me and whatever skills I picked up. If things went south, I’d have no one to lean on, no one to help if things went sideways. And I knew better than most just how quickly things could go wrong.
And then there was the guilt, a constant presence haunting me, no matter what I thought about. Sophie should’ve been here for this. She would’ve been the first one to dive in, dragging me along, pointing out all the reasons this was worth it. But she wasn’t here. Her grave was. Just like my mom’s. Every time I thought about leaving, it hit me like a punch to the gut. I’d convinced myself that holding on was a way of honoring them, that staying kept them close somehow. But what was I really holding onto here?
A heavy silence settled around me as I thought it through, really thought it through. It was almost bitterly funny that I could distill everything tethering me to this world to two silent plots of Earth, marked by cold stone and fading memories. My mom’s grave, Sophie’s grave—small mounds of loss that somehow loomed like mountains over my life. That was it. And they weren’t here anymore, not really. Their lives, their voices—all of it had left this place long before I ever thought about leaving. I clung to memories, hoping they would keep me grounded. But all those memories had only kept me stuck, circling back to the same places and routines. I was stuck in a repetitive cycle of memories and routines I couldn’t escape.
The emptiness struck like a hollow gust through an abandoned house, filling the empty spaces with memories that only amplified the loneliness. I’d been grasping at shadows, pinning my hopes on fragments that vanished when I reached for them. What did I even have left here? No job—that was gone, thanks to Sophie’s father, who’d ensured that. And friends? Not really. We had a few couples we’d go out with, grab dinner, or catch a movie, but they were Sophie’s friends more than mine. Real friends, people who’d be there even now? I couldn’t think of a single one.
Family? That was a joke. My mom’s parents had tossed her out the second she got pregnant with me, and when she died, they didn’t want me either. I bounced around foster homes until I was old enough to care for myself. No one who felt like home, no one who’d miss me.
And there it was—the blunt reality that I’d ignored for too long. I had nothing here. Not really. All this time, I’d been acting like I was staying for something, holding on out of loyalty to a life that had moved on without me. But all I’d been doing was spinning in circles, clinging to memories that couldn’t change anything.
A deep breath loosened the tension, like an old rope slowly releasing in my chest. Each inhale seemed to clear out a bit more of the weight I hadn’t even known I was carrying. The air tasted fresher, cleaner, as if I’d exhaled years of stagnant regret in one breath. It’s time. For once, the decision wasn’t a risk. It felt like the first choice I’d made in a long time, something I wanted. The future was unknown, but I knew it had to be better than the miserable existence I was trapped in.
A strange calm, something I hadn’t felt in a long time, washed over me as I stood up and stretched. I didn’t have a plan and didn’t know what lay ahead on the other side, but for the first time, that didn’t worry me. Maybe stepping into the unknown was exactly what I needed. A life that was finally mine to shape, without all the shadows of the past trailing after me. I was ready to find out what might be waiting.
I turned my attention to the abilities list. If I was going to travel, understanding different languages would be essential. The thought of picking up languages on the fly and blending in without barriers felt like the first real, tangible step forward. I used my free stat points to gain an extra ability point, then unlocked the Local Adaptation ability. The thought of speaking without barriers in strange lands, of slipping into new worlds like water flowing between rocks, sent a jolt of confidence through me. For the first time, it felt like stepping forward wouldn’t mean stumbling blindly. One thing settled, I thought, feeling that steadying sense of purpose spread.
Curious, I tried converting another 5 stat points from my Vitality, hoping to gain an additional ability point. But nothing happened. I frowned, squinting at the screen, wondering if I’d missed something. Maybe it was because those points were already part of me—or the system only allowed conversions with free points, something I’d have to look into. There was a lot to learn, and I needed every advantage I could get.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
I shifted my focus to the Archive, eager to dig through anything useful. The world information section showed only Earth for now, but there was a general knowledge section—an entire library of notes and tips, like breadcrumbs left by others who’d traveled before me. I dove in, reading every line, every detail, piecing together what it might mean to navigate this life.
I kept scrolling, picking up bits and pieces, until I came across something that sparked a flicker of hope: the “Tips & Tricks” section. This wasn’t just casual advice; it felt like practical wisdom from those who’d been through it all, leaving behind hints for the next Traveler. I could almost picture their voices woven into the words, each tip a trace of their journey. My pulse quickened as I read the first lines, and then I found it—the perfect tip. I didn’t have to leap into the unknown right away; I could simply stand by the Gate, touch one of the portal stones, and read the world’s information. No blind leaps, no sudden plunges. A sigh slipped out, the tension easing a bit. Whoever left that tip got it. I could almost imagine them saying, “You’re not alone in this. We’ve been here, too.” This small guide felt like a lifeline, a way to start out safe—just what I hadn’t known I was looking for.
I released a held breath. Maybe I sounded overly cautious, even to myself, but walking blindly into some world full of gods-know-what wasn’t exactly appealing. This, though? This was a relief—a way to feel out the terrain before diving in. It was like having a safety net, something I didn’t realize I’d desperately hoped for.
As I kept reading, I uncovered more nuggets of wisdom. One tip bordered on genius: if I learned a skill the hard way—through real sweat and experience—I could convert it to an ability point later. I’d keep the knowledge but lose the ability to level it up. There was a warning that I’d never be able to learn it as a Skill again, but the sneakiness made me grin. I loved it. Just the idea of squeezing out every drop of advantage, bending the system a bit, made this whole adventure seem less daunting.
Then there was the trading advice—a masterclass in gaming the worlds for profit. The suggestion was to buy cheap, mass-produced items from tech worlds—knives, sturdy pots, bright fabrics, even wooden toys—and sell them for a fortune in undeveloped or mana worlds where everything’s handmade. Apparently, cookware and colorful fabrics were worth their weight in gold in those places. It worked both ways: buy handmade swords, bows, or other “rustic” gear in a no-tech world, then sell it as “authentic” or “vintage” in a tech one. I laughed, picturing some fancy collector’s face as they handed over a small fortune for a basic sword labeled ‘traditional craftsmanship.’ The idea of flipping worlds for a profit? Yeah, I could get behind that.
There was practical advice, too—the kind of stuff that’d save me a whole lot of trouble later. Things like always having transport options for different terrains, gear to survive in the wild, and a range of clothes for any weather. Oh, and apparently, tech didn’t work in mana worlds, so I’d need to plan around that. These tips were like having a seasoned Traveler whispering in my ear, nudging me toward survival instead of rookie mistakes. I soaked it all in.
Then there was a tip about carrying funds across worlds. No surprise, cash didn’t exactly transfer between realities, but small jewelry did the trick—rings, chains, pendants, that kind of stuff, preferably in silver and gold. And coins, too, but I’d have to rough them up and make them look worn so they’d pass as “foreign” currency. In tech-heavy worlds, I’d need to stick to jewelry, selling at small pawn shops to avoid any red flags. There was something thrillingly subversive about mastering multiversal finances, each trick a minor rebellion against the boundaries of worlds, each loophole a whispered secret between the realms. It felt like planning a heist from the inside out, meticulously mapping the gaps and fissures that only the truly daring would ever find. I could practically see myself haggling over some gold ring in a back-alley shop.
Every few lines, different Travelers kept circling back to the same advice: learn how to fight. Apparently, it wasn’t optional. I needed to get skilled with at least one weapon, learn some basic hand-to-hand combat, and, if I was smart, invest points in a defensive spell, a ranged attack, and at least one healing spell. I couldn’t help but smile. They’d practically written out the starter pack for me.
I started racking my brain for a general skill I could sacrifice and convert to an ability point. The problem was that I didn’t have many skills I was itching to part with. The only thing that came to mind was tennis. It wasn’t like I’d picked up a racket in years, and I didn’t exactly plan on wowing interdimensional aliens with my backhand. After a couple of quick calls, I booked a lesson at a tennis center for two days later. Not exactly the heroic training montage I’d pictured—there was no wind whipping through my hair, no epic soundtrack—but a point was a point. And if swinging a racket could set me up for the unknown, I’d take it.
To “farm” ability points, I looked for private courses or workshops that could teach me specific skills and abilities. And, of course, I gave myself a mental pat on the shoulder for using the correct jargon.
<ul>
<li>Making handmade pasta — I would like to learn this for myself; I love cooking.</li>
<li>Ceramic workshop — a strong contender.</li>
<li>Pencil sketching workshop — one more in the bag.</li>
<li>Macramé workshop for jewelry making — I will never need this skill.</li>
<li>How to make beer workshop — this I might need on my travels, worth checking out.</li>
<li>Painting on vinyl records workshop — one more point.</li>
<li>Flower weaving workshop — and another point.</li>
<li>Iron wire sculpture workshop — definitely another point.</li>
<li>Gift basket weaving — one more in stock.</li>
</ul>
Lining up all the options was oddly satisfying. I was actually planning my interdimensional future, one Macrame workshop at a time. A grin tugged at my mouth as I looked over my list: some skills I might use, others I’d probably never touch again. I made the calls and filled up my schedule for the next week. A small sense of pride crept in—I was really making this happen.
On my way to the tennis lesson the next day, I tried out the Identify spell on everything I passed—people, signs, anything that caught my eye. The results were, to say the least, underwhelming. Everyone appeared as “unintegrated human male” or “unintegrated human female.” Not exactly groundbreaking. Objects fared little better, labeling themselves as “Door,” “Stairs,” and “Street Sign.” Useful in a magical world? Maybe. Here? Just noise.
It was a different kind of challenge when I finally stepped onto the tennis court. Fifteen minutes in, I scored my first point against my opponent. And as soon as I did, the red light started blinking.
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td width="601">
You have learned the Skill [Playing Tennis]
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
Immediately, I clicked it with my mind, with the intention of giving it up.
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td width="601">
Are you sure you want to convert the Skill [Playing Tennis] into an Ability Point?
Y/N
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
Yes, please and thank you.
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td width="601">
You have 1 new Ability Point.
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
Yes! It worked! Bless you, anonymous Traveler.
The following week, I attended all the workshops and learned the Skills. The class description wasn’t kidding; learning skills was easy. I kept the pasta, beer, and pencil sketching since I liked it, but converted the rest.
With six more Ability points in the bag, I first purchased the skill [One of the Crowd].
Thinking about protection, I purchased the spells [Mana Dart] and [Mana Shield]. At first, I wanted to get the fireball spell but eventually realized that avoiding any potential fire hazards might be prudent.
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td width="601">
MANA DART
An offensive spell that conjures a dart of magical energy. Often used by battle mages and sorcerers, it delivers precise attacks, with the number and potency of darts increasing when the level of the spell rises.
Cost: 1 Ability Point.
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td width="601">
MANA SHIELD
A defensive spell surrounds the caster in a barrier of magical energy, offering protection against physical and magical attacks. Frequently used by wizards and sorcerers, it absorbs incoming damage, allowing the caster to withstand some blows. The shield’s strength increases with each level.
Cost: 1 Ability Point.
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
In addition, I invested another ability point into my Storage. Based on everything I read in the Archive and the books, I would need the space. Now, I had 512 cubic meters.
Many Travelers in the Archive recommended buying a healing spell. As I scrolled through the options, that advice stuck with me. Minor Heal stood out—a quick fix for injuries and common illnesses. It was what I needed, an actual safety net.
<table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<td width="601">
Minor Heal
Mends minor injuries and alleviates simple ailments, making it a staple for adventurers and healers in dangerous territories. It treats cuts, scrapes, broken bones, and common ailments like colds, providing quick, reliable relief. Though it doesn’t heal severe injuries or complex diseases, its everyday utility makes it a valuable spell. Its effectiveness grows slightly with each level.
Cost: 1 Ability Point.
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
Something in me resisted. I paused, staring at the spell description, and all my years of medical training flashed through my mind. The all-nighters, the crammed study sessions, the knowledge that was a part of me. My white coat wasn’t just clothing but proof of everything I’d worked for. Using a spell to heal would feel like bypassing all that, like throwing away years of experience. Could I really do that?
And yet, the pull was strong. I thought about the dangers out there, the risks that even medical knowledge couldn’t fully prepare me for. A quick heal would make an enormous difference.
In the end, I couldn’t take it—not yet. I’d rely on the skills I knew first, keep myself safe, and avoid injury. If I ever needed it, the spell would still be there. For now, I let the decision settle and moved on.
With that settled—for now, at least—I left the healing spell on the list and turned my focus to getting prepared to protect myself.