"Ngh?"
The first thing Lexel felt was heat.
It wasn't the searing, tearing heat of a serrated blade ripping through his intestines, nor was it the cold, numbing heat of blood loss. It was gentle. Rhythmic.
He woke to the sound of crackling wood and the smell of pine resin.
His eyes snapped open, expecting the damp, mossy ceiling of the dungeon or the terrified face of a villager. Instead, he saw a canopy of rustling leaves framing a vast, starry sky. The moon hung high and indifferent, bathing the world in silver. To his left, a campfire danced, casting long, flickering shadows against the trees.
He shot up, gasping, his hand flying instantly to his stomach.
"My gut..."
He clawed at his clothes. The shredded fabric of his prisoner rags was stiff with dried blood—so much blood that it had turned the grey wool into a crusty black armor. But beneath the ruined cloth...
He froze.
The hole was gone.
The fist-sized cavity that had skewered his internal organs, the wound that had surely been fatal, had vanished. In its place was fresh, pink skin, tender but unbroken. There wasn't even a scar. It was as if the serrated blade had never touched him.
It was real. I know it was real.
The phantom sensation of tearing fibers and crunching bone lingered in his mind like a nightmare. He remembered the ruthlessness of the fight. He remembered the smell of the Dark Mantis's ichor. He remembered the way he had mangled the beast like a savage, ripping its limbs from its sockets with his bare hands.
He looked at his hands. They were stained with dried green blood and his own red vitality.
He sighed, falling back onto his elbows, the adrenaline crashing. "Shit. I thought I was done for."
He took a deep breath, letting the cool night air fill his lungs. He was alive. Against all logic, the System hadn't claimed him yet.
He looked around. He was in a small forest clearing, clearly miles away from Bevil Village. The trees here were thick and ancient, blocking out any view of the town. A neat, compact tent was pitched nearby, made of high-quality canvas.
He narrowed his eyes, which glowed like molten lava in the dim firelight.
I didn't walk here. I passed out in the village square.
Someone had dragged him. Someone had healed him.
He moved silently. His body was stiff, his muscles screaming from the sudden Level 10 evolution and the overexertion of his Strength stat, but he was functional. He rolled into a crouch, his movements predatory despite his exhaustion. He crept toward the tent, his breath held tight in his chest.
Friend or foe?
If they wanted him dead, he would be dead. But curiosity was a dangerous habit Lexel couldn't shake. He reached out, his finger carefully lifting the canvas flap to peek inside.
"And what do you think you're doing, Peeping Tom?"
Lexel froze. The voice came from behind him. It was casual, amused, and irritatingly familiar.
He spun around, his fists raising instinctively.
"It's you?"
Flinn stood at the edge of the clearing, holding an armful of dry firewood. He was still wearing the same oversized brown hoodie and the nondescript mask he had used to escape the jail cell earlier that day. He looked less like a savior and more like a bandit catching a victim in a trap.
"The name is Flinn," the thief said, walking past Lexel as if he weren't a threat at all. He tossed the wood onto the dying fire, sending a shower of orange sparks into the night air. "And you're welcome, by the way."
The flames roared back to life, illuminating the thief's masked face.
"You saved me?" Lexel asked, his voice rough from dehydration. He lowered his fists, but his muscles remained tense.
"Bingo!" Flinn sat down on a log, dusting off his hands. "And it wasn't cheap, mind you. I had to use one of my babies to fix you up."
"What?"
"Treasures... supplies... my retirement fund," Flinn sighed dramatically, picking up a stick to poke at the embers. "Look at you. No holes except the ones you were born with. That little red vial I used on you? That wasn't some cheap herbal remedy from a village general shop. That was a relic I stole from a high-merchant's caravan three years ago. It's worth more than your life is probably worth right now."
Lexel looked down at his healed stomach again. A potion that could regenerate missing organs in minutes? That wasn't just expensive; that was military-grade.
"Then why give it to me?" Lexel asked, his guard shooting back up. "You're a thief, Flinn. You left your cellmate—me—to rot in jail when you escaped. You ran away when the monster attacked. You could have just looted my corpse and taken whatever scraps I had."
Flinn stopped poking the fire. He stared into the flames for a long moment, the playful tone vanishing from his voice.
"I know, right?" Flinn muttered, sounding genuinely aggrieved. "I should have looted you. I stood over your body, calculating the profit margins. A dead hero is just a loot box with a backstory."
"So why didn't you?"
"Because," Flinn turned to look at him, his eyes visible through the mask holes, wide and frustrated. "I wasn't exactly the one who decided to save you."
"You... then who?" Lexel frowned, looking around the empty forest. "Was there a healer?"
"Fate," said Flinn.
"...Fate?"
Flinn nodded solemnly. "Fate. Or a curse. Or maybe the God of Thieves just hates me today. Take your pick."
~Seven Hours Ago - Bevil Village~
Flinn took a deep breath, pressing his back against the cold stone wall of the alleyway.
He listened.
The screaming had stopped. The heavy, thrumming buzz of the Dark Mantis's wings was gone. The village was silent, save for the crackling of small fires where the market stalls had been smashed.
Alright. It's nighttime. The beast should be gone. It hunts by sight.
He carefully crept out of the shadows. He had unlocked his cell the moment the guards were eaten, but he hadn't fled immediately. Flinn was a survivor. Survivors didn't run blindly; they waited for the predator to leave.
He emerged onto the main street and immediately pulled his mask up tighter. The metallic stench of blood was overwhelming. It hung in the air like a heavy fog.
Damn.
He stepped over a crushed fruit crate. Children, women, guards... none were spared.
He moved like a shadow toward the market square, intending to scavenge some travel rations before fleeing the region entirely. Anthierin's village was done for. There was no profit left here.
But near the fountain, he stopped dead.
He saw a familiar figure lying in a pool of mixed fluids—bright red human blood swirling with neon green slime. It was the 'Level 1' prisoner. Lexel.
Flinn shook his head. Poor bastard. Tried to be a hero, didn't you?
But then, Flinn saw what lay next to the body.
His blood ran cold.
Is that... the foreleg of a Dark Mantis?
Flinn crept closer, his boots squelching in the mud. He stared at the massive, serrated limb lying on the cobblestones. It hadn't been cut. There were no clean sword marks. The chitin at the joint was shattered, splintered, and twisted.
It had been ripped out. Physically torn from the socket by brute force.
Flinn looked up. A trail of green blood led away from the village, over the wall, and into the forest.
There is no mistaking it. He defeated it. A Level 1 prisoner killed a monster that eats Level 10 guards for breakfast? And he did it by... tearing it apart?
Flinn approached Lexel's motionless body with a newfound respect—and terror. He crouched down, hovering his hand over the warrior's chest.
[Skill: Scan]
Level: 10
HP: [CRITICAL - 1%]
Level 10?!
Flinn recoiled. I knew he wasn't level 1, but a level 10 beating a Dark Mantis? No way! What kind of monster is this guy?
Flinn's eyes darted to Lexel's waist. The man was wearing rags. Gauntlets. No armor. Just raw stats and insanity.
He's dying, Flinn realized. 1% HP. He has maybe two minutes left.
Flinn bit his lip. The thief in him was screaming to check the pockets. If this guy was strong enough to kill a Dark Mantis, maybe he had a hidden treasure? Maybe he had a rare skill book?
Flinn reached into his own inventory space. His hand brushed against a cold glass vial.
It was his emergency fund. He had stolen from a traveling alchemist years ago. He didn't know the exact name, but he knew it was powerful. It radiated aether. It was his "Get Out of Jail Free" card for when he inevitably screwed up a heist.
I could save him.
Flinn held the vial between two fingers, staring at the dark crimson liquid.
If I save him, a Level 10 monster-killer owes me a life debt. That could be useful. Maybe he can help me with...
But... Flinn looked at the expensive potion. This is worth at least 5000 G. Maybe 10,000 G to the right buyer. Is this guy's life worth 10,000 G?
He looked at Lexel's unconscious, bloodied face.
Nah. Too risky. Sorry, buddy. Survival of the fittest.
Flinn sighed and moved to put the potion back into his inventory space. He stood up to leave.
CRACK.
Above them, on the ruined roof of the guild, a loose piece of masonry finally gave way. A brick, dislodged during the battle, tumbled down.
It fell silently through the air.
THWACK.
It struck Flinn's elbow with perfect, impossible precision. It hit the "funny bone"—that bundle of nerves that turns the arm into electric jelly.
"AH!"
Flinn yelped. His arm spasmed uncontrollably. His fingers jerked open.
The priceless red vial slipped from his grasp.
Time seemed to slow down. Flinn watched with wide, horrified eyes as the bottle tumbled through the air.
No. No, no, no!
He lunged for it. He had 15 Dexterity. Catching a falling object should have been child's play for him. He was a master thief. He could snatch a coin from a falling purse before it hit the ground.
He dove, his hand outstretched.
SPLAT.
His boot slipped.
He had stepped directly onto a patch of slippery green mantis slime. His friction vanished. He face-planted into the mud, his hand closing on empty air.
SMASH.
The vial hit Lexel's stomach.
It didn't just break nearby; it shattered directly inside the gaping open wound.
The red liquid hissed as it touched the exposed organs. Magic flared—bright and potent. The glass shards were pushed out as the flesh began to knit together with terrifying speed. Steam rose from the wound as the potion worked its miracle.
Flinn lay in the mud, staring at the empty spot where his retirement fund used to be.
"A-ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME?!"
Flinn screamed at the empty sky, his voice cracking.
"HOW?! I have 15 DEX! How did I drop that?! This is bullshit!"
He scrambled to his knees, frantically trying to scoop up any spilled drops of the potion from Lexel's stomach, but it was too late. The body had absorbed it all. Lexel's breathing stabilized. The color returned to his cheeks.
Flinn sat there for five full minutes, pulling at his hair, lamenting the loss of a fortune.
Finally, he looked down at the unconscious warrior. The man who had cost him everything by simply lying there.
"You..." Flinn pointed a shaking finger at Lexel's sleeping face. "You are going to pay me back. Every. Single. G."
He grabbed Lexel by the shoulders, grunting with effort, and began dragging him toward the forest.
~Present Time~
"And that's how the story goes," Flinn said, his voice dripping with resentment as he poked the fire violently. "It was bizarre. It's like... the universe physically forced me to drop that potion on you. I slipped on fucking goo? Me? It shouldn't be possible!"
Lexel touched his stomach, feeling the smooth skin under his shirt.
He thought about the Skill Tree.
[LCK ++]
He remembered the moment in the cell. He had hesitated, thinking 2 Skill Points was a waste for a stat he couldn't see. But he had spent them anyway.
I guess that investment just paid out with interest.
"Well, I..." Lexel paused, a smirk forming on his lips. He looked at Flinn's frustrated posture. "I guess I'm just blessed."
"Blessed? You're expensive," Flinn grumbled. "You owe me for that potion. And for dragging your heavy ass three miles into these woods."
"Fine," Lexel said, settling back onto the log. "I pay my debts. I don't have the G on me now, but I'll get it."
"Good. I'm holding you to that," Flinn said. He reached into a bag and pulled out a waterskin, tossing it to Lexel. "So, for starters, since I just invested my life savings in your survival... entertain me."
Flinn leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with genuine curiosity through the mask.
"Tell me how the ACTUAL FUCK you killed a Dark Mantis with your bare hands? I saw the body, Lexel. You didn't just kill it. You dismantled it. You tore it apart like a roasted chicken."
Lexel caught the waterskin and took a long drink. The cool water soothed his parched throat. He wiped his mouth and looked into the fire, his golden eyes narrowing as he recalled the rhythm of the battle. The pebbles. The darkness. The snap of the limbs.
"Roasted chicken? No," Lexel corrected him, his voice low and vibrating with charisma. "That implies I cooked it."
He leaned forward, mirroring Flinn's posture.
"It was raw. It was brutal. It was more like... crab fine dining."
Flinn blinked, confused. "Crab?"
"Let me tell you a story," Lexel began, the flames dancing in his molten eyes. "About a little thing called Tempo."