Jarek moved through the greenery, away from the bonfire. The grass was damp beneath his shoes, the air sharp and unsettlingly fresh—like the world had been reset overnight.


    He had questions. Too many.


    But standing around wasn’t going to get him answers. He needed to find a road, a sign, someone who could point him back to the city.


    Back to the boardroom. Back to Richard.


    Back to… reality.


    His chest tightened. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. What the hell was that blue screen?


    The moment the thought crossed his mind—


    A soft chime rang in his ears.


    A pulse of blue light flickered in front of him, and suddenly—


    [STATUS MENU]


    Name: Jarek


    Race: Human


    Class: None


    Level: 1


    HP: 100 / 100


    MP: 50 / 50


    Stamina: 60 / 100


    Strength: 5


    Agility: 6


    Endurance: 4


    Intelligence: 8


    Willpower: 7


    Luck: 3


    Jarek blinked.


    “What the f—”


    His voice caught in his throat.


    Stats. Numbers. Floating midair like something out of a game menu.


    Strength. Stamina. Luck?


    He scanned down the list again.


    Strength: 5. Endurance: 4. Luck: 3.


    “…These suck.”


    He stared at the screen, brow twitching.


    He’d played video games growing up—back before the 9-to-5 grind devoured his soul. Back when life had respawns, and power-ups.


    He knew what good stats looked like. These weren’t it.


    Level one? Are you kidding me?


    He sighed, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm.


    Maybe he’d expected a cheat skill. Some broken ability. Anything to make this make sense.


    But these numbers?


    These were loser stats.


    He swiped his hand through the screen, and it shimmered before dissolving like mist.


    His heartbeat was finally starting to settle.


    But his thoughts were still spinning.


    This wasn’t a dream. Wasn’t a joke.


    If anything, the status screen only made it more real.


    Now he had even more reason to find someone—anyone—who could explain what the hell was going on.


    He needed to get out of this clearing.


    The longer he stood there, the more exposed he felt.


    Like something was watching him.


    A chill crawled up the back of his neck. There was no sound but the wind through the grass and the low crackle of the dying bonfire behind him. Still, the feeling lingered.


    He looked around again—open field, endless green, mountains in the distance.


    No roads. No voices. Not even the rustle of an animal.


    He had never felt so alone.


    Come to think of it... he had never been this alone. Not in a place this wide, this empty.


    He’d never even gone camping.


    He started to panic.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    His breath quickened, and he broke into a run—boots crashing through the underbrush, kicking up leaves and dirt in his wake. The open fields had vanished behind him. Now the terrain dipped into something colder, darker, forgotten.


    The grass turned patchy. Roots jutted from the ground like twisted ribs. Dead trees loomed overhead, their bark split and blackened. The air changed—mustier, thick with rot and wet stone.


    He stumbled into a half-collapsed gully, the earth sloping down into what looked like the remains of a sunken ruin. Moss-covered bricks jutted from the hillside, half-swallowed by time. The bones of old wooden scaffolding clung to one wall, black with decay.


    This place felt… wrong.


    Low ceiling. Narrow walls. Just damp stone and silence.


    A place something might nest.


    Then he heard it—


    “Screeech!”


    The sound sliced through the air like metal tearing itself apart.


    Jarek skidded to a stop, breath caught in his throat. He spun around.


    And saw it.


    A rat.


    No, not a rat.


    A monster.


    Easily the size of a grown man—maybe bigger. Its matted fur clung to a twitching, wiry frame, wet and greasy like it had just clawed its way up from a sewer. Patches of skin showed beneath the fur—raw, pink, and twitching.


    Its snout was too long. Its yellowed teeth jutted out in uneven angles, cracked and jagged like it had spent its life chewing through stone and metal. Bits of something—bone? wood?—hung from its lower jaw.


    Its eyes locked onto him.


    Small. Red. Focused.


    Not curious.


    Hungry.


    That thing’s the size of a freaking person, Jarek thought, frozen. Of course the first thing I run into is a nightmare sewer rat.


    He took a single step back, hands raised on instinct—like maybe the universal sign for don’t murder me worked on mutated wildlife.


    The rat didn’t charge.


    Not yet.


    It just watched him, beady eyes twitching, yellowed teeth gnashing quietly like it was working something out.


    Was it sizing him up?


    Jarek wasn’t sure if he looked intimidating.


    He doubted it.


    He was unarmed, underslept, and currently dressed like someone who lost a fight with a clearance rack at a department store.


    He had never been in a real fight. Closest he’d come was elbowing a guy at a midnight Best Buy sale—then immediately apologizing.


    Maybe the rat was nervous. Maybe it was watching his movements like he was watching its.


    Maybe—


    It lunged.


    Jarek flinched back hard, instincts overriding any thoughts of strategy. He dove sideways—awkward, flailing, desperate.


    The rat''s claws sliced through empty air, close enough to make the hair on his arms stand up.


    He hit the ground shoulder-first, rolled through wet moss, came up gasping.


    Okay. Definitely not scared.


    If this was anything like a game, rats were supposed to be early-game trash mobs. Tutorial fodder. Something you killed to learn the controls.


    So maybe—just maybe—he had a shot.


    The rat lunged again.


    Jarek scrambled aside, barely missing the swipe aimed to open him from hip to ribs. His elbow clipped a stone. Something popped in his shoulder.


    Okay. Not tutorial-tier.


    What could he do?


    No weapon.


    No plan.


    No dodge button.


    He backed up, boots slipping on moss-slick stone. The rat circled low, twitching, tracking.


    “I don’t suppose we can talk this out,” Jarek muttered.


    The rat hissed—a sharp, wet sound like steam bursting from a pipe.


    It twitched.


    Then lunged.


    This time, Jarek moved—not because he was brave, just because dying face-first didn’t sound great.


    He dove sideways again, barely escaping the claws, but this time, mid-roll, something clicked.


    It always lunges.


    Big commitment. Fast. Then it has to reset—just for a second.


    He hit the ground and scrambled behind a chunk of broken stone, heart pounding.


    "Now what the hell do I do with it?"


    His eyes scanned the ruins—moss-covered stone, rusted beams, a chunk of collapsed scaffolding clinging to the wall like a broken ribcage.


    That.


    The rat screeched again. Jarek grabbed a half-buried metal pole—rusted, sharp, heavy—and ran.


    He ducked behind the scaffolding and slammed the pole against the frame, the clang echoing like a dinner bell.


    “COME ON!”


    The rat lunged, claws digging into the dirt.


    Jarek waited until the last second—then dove.


    The beast slammed into the scaffolding at full speed.


    CRACK.


    Wood shattered. The rusted beam punched through its shoulder, half-burying into muscle and bone.


    It shrieked—a horrible, high-pitched thing full of pain and rage.


    It wasn’t dead. Just stuck.


    Jarek ran forward, grabbed the sharpest rock he could find, and slammed it into the rat’s head.


    Once.


    Twice.


    Again.


    It thrashed. Teeth clipped his leg. Claws tore at the dirt.


    Another strike. Then another.


    CRACK.


    The rat jerked, spasmed—then went still.


    Panting, Jarek stumbled back, arms shaking, hands soaked in blood.


    The rock slipped from his grip with a dull thunk.


    “Holy shit.”


    “I killed it.”


    A chime echoed in his ears—subtle, but impossible to ignore.


    Then, just like before, faint blue text burned itself into the air, glowing soft and cold:


    [Level Up: 2]


    Stat Points Gained: +5


    Minor Wounds Healed.


    Vitality Restored.


    He stared at the screen, still catching his breath. His body already felt better—wounds sealed, pain gone, heart rate dropping to something almost normal.


    Okay. Five stat points.


    Strength was still low. That rat nearly folded him like a lawn chair.


    Maybe Intelligence would help? He still had no idea how magic worked here, or if it was even a thing. Then again, he’d never really played mage classes in games. Strength and dexterity—that was his style. Hit fast, hit hard, try not to die.


    Alright. Three into Strength. Two into Agility.


    The screen shimmered again and updated.


    [STATUS MENU]


    Name: Jarek


    Race: Human


    Class: None


    Level: 2


    HP: 100 / 100


    MP: 50 / 50


    Stamina: 60 / 100


    Strength: 8


    Agility: 8


    Endurance: 4


    Intelligence: 8


    Willpower: 7


    Luck: 3


    Nice. His stats actually went up.


    He rolled his shoulders, flexed a hand. Nothing felt wildly different. No glowing veins. No dramatic muscle bulge.


    He didn’t feel stronger.


    But the numbers had to mean something.


    They had to.


    Because if that rat was just the beginning… and worse things were waiting out there—


    He was going to need every single point.