[Reward Denied]
[Side Quest]
Reach Level 20
Reward: Trait of your choice
(The trait options will not be different than the ones previously available.)
Well, well, well. Isn't that interesting?
Not completely mad after all, am I?
I let out a breath, rolling my shoulders as the notification fades. No stat reductions, no divine punishment, no system-admin-induced aneurysm.
No penalties—none besides the level requirement doubling.
Good.
I was never against taking a trait outright. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, and all that.
I'm not some lunatic screaming fuck the gods just to make a point. If the system—the closest thing to a god I've ever interacted with—offers me free power, I'm not going to reject it on principle.
My decision wasn't about baseless pride or some delusion that I'm the big-dicked protagonist of a harem novel, destined to win no matter the odds.
No, no, no.
I would rather put a bullet in my own skull than let my brain rot to that level.
But still...
Isn't it true that I only delayed the inevitable?
What difference does it make to take a trait now or in a week or two when I supposedly reach Level 20?
Simple.
I hate gambling.
Why?
Because winning isn't guaranteed, of course. And what other purpose is there in life besides winning?
Constantly winning against yourself, against your past mistakes, against the creeping stagnation that gnaws at the soul.
The twin suns beat down through gaps in the canopy, casting overlapping shadows that dance as I move through the forest to clear my mind a bit.
Immediately, I find a goblin corpse looking like it was mauled by wolves. Unlucky guy. Its green skin is already turning ashen in the harsh daylight and its soul mist is already dissipating but I think it can be salvaged.
My flesh whip sharpens a bit and digs into the still-warm flesh of its chest since direct contact helps me gather the soul more easily (or what remains of it).
It's not the most engaging of tasks, more akin to using a dust pan to gather... well, mist, I suppose, so it's no wonder my thoughts keep wondering back to my earlier decision.
The kind and friendly system didn't ask me to make a calculated decision. It asked me to gamble. It wanted me to roll the dice on something that might shape my entire future.
If the three traits I was considering were similar, it wouldn't have been so bad.
But they fucking weren't.
One was based on adaptation, another on Fleshcrafting, and the last one on souls.
Not a single bit of overlap.
And that means one thing—
One of them is objectively better for me than the other two.
Which one?
I have no fucking clue.
It's a Shell Game all over again.
And I wasn't there when the cups were mixed.
... So what does one do when they can't find the ball?
You guess, of course.
Or—you cheat.
You shake the fucking cups until you hear the ball rattling. You do it again and again until you find the correct one, even if it takes some time.
And oh, would you look at that?
I have days before I supposedly hit Level 20.
What shall I do with my time? Maybe I should start experimenting. Who knows? Maybe I'll learn something.
Maybe—just maybe—I'll be able to morph tissue on my own.
Or perhaps... I'll learn to see souls just a little better.
Of course, I'm not blind to the possible consequences. Someone luckier—someone who chose their perfect trait from the start—might have a faster growth rate than me for a while.
But so what?
A good result doesn't always mean the decision leading to it was a good one.
And I, for one, am willing to sacrifice a bit of speed now to avoid cursing my past self months or years from now.
I glance over my current setup.
Goblin Shaman soul regathered? Check.
Five wolves, each filled with random souls, seeping mana at a steady rate? Check.
Red-haired girl aiming a flaming bow at me from a tree in the distance? Double check.
…Wait, what?
I barely have time to process before the arrow hits-
—and the ground erupts into fire.
Flames roar to life, a sudden whoosh of heat blanketing over me.
And then—
Everything burns.
------
(POV - Laclaire Noir)
I lower my bow, breath coming fast and sharp, as I drop from the tree. My instincts scream at me to run the other way—to flee—but I ignore them.
Instead, I sprint toward the monster.
The same monster I just shot.
The same monster currently engulfed in flames.
Madness. Absolute madness.
But I don't have a choice.
A spear hisses through the air, a blurred streak of metal cutting straight for my head. I jerk to the side, barely dodging it, and it slams into the tree in front of me. The impact sends a shockwave through the bark, splintering the wood, but I don't stop running.
I bite back a curse as I push my body harder, fire erupting from the soles of my feet, propelling me forward in bursts of speed. The sudden acceleration burns my legs, my muscles protesting the abuse, but I don't slow down.
I won't slow down.
Behind me, I hear the pounding of footsteps—three of them.
Annoying Bastards.
But I can be faster.
I twist in midair, twisting my torso without breaking stride, and pull back the string of my bow. Primal heat wells up in my chest, spiraling down my arms, igniting the arrow in my grip. The flame hungrily curls around the shaft, licking at my fingers, as I let it loose with a snarl.
The burning projectile screams through the forest, streaking towards the three silhouettes behind me.
One of them curses. Another dodges. The last one—
[Fire Manipulation Level 3 → Fire Manipulation Level 4]
The notification flashes at the edge of my vision.
I barely acknowledge it.
I can't afford to be distracted.
The flames trailing from my feet flicker for a split second, and my body wobbles mid-step. A mistake. I shouldn't have looked.
A blade whistles past my side, carving through the air where my ribs had been a heartbeat ago.
I snap my focus back to the path ahead.
Trees blur past in streaks of green and shadow. My lungs burn, my heartbeat thundering in my ears, but I can already see it through the trees.
The flesh monster.
Still burning.
It hasn't moved since the arrow struck. Just… standing there, wreathed in fire, like some demon out of legend.
If I can just reach it—if I can maneuver this right—I might just make it out of this alive.
No. Not might.
I will make it out.
Even if I have to burn this entire damned forest to the ground.