Fyn couldn't think straight for a minute. Was that all it took? Picking flowers, and walking around, was that all he had to do? It couldn't be that simple, could it?
Or, Fyn thought, sitting up straighter, could this be his cheat? He was supposed to have a cheat, one that wouldn't be as good or powerful as he thought it was, but that might help him survive.
He had woken up with thoughts of his cheat. The fall from a great height had driven it from his head, but he remembered piecing it together in his dream. At the time, he had thought his class selection page was the cheat. Could he have been mistaken?
Licking his lips, Fyn considered it from every angle he could. He was missing something. If he had access to an unlimited number of classes, and could gain points for those classes by picking flowers, then his cheat was absolutely better and more powerful than he could imagine. That didn't feel right.
Looking at the pile of herbs, flowers, and branches he had gathered, Fyn estimated he had picked nearly fifty or more plants. Was it fifty plants for one improvement point? Or maybe it was random? Either way, Fyn doubted he could run around pulling every plant he saw out of the ground, and accumulate all the knowledge in the world.
The tutorial message had said his soul had been brought here as a form of balance. Becoming overwhelmingly strong, and educated, just by flower picking, broke a balance. It was more than a cheat. It was stacking the deck, then flipping the table and stabbing all the other players to death. Sure, technically, as the last player standing, you won, but it wasn't much of a game anymore.
The problem was, Fyn didn't know the rules of the game he was playing. It was difficult to tell if he was cheating, or rather, how he was cheating. He was almost certain, his class selection and class grid pages were the cheat. Fyn had seen Lucas's page and his differed from Fyn's.
So, was this random improvement point a natural occurring phenomenon? That seemed most likely. With a time will tell attitude, Fyn set the confusing subject aside and opened his status, intending to confirm if he had gotten an improvement point and if he could spend that point on his attributes.
Name: Fyn
Race: Human
Age:12
Class: Explorer
Level: 0
Experience: 13/100
Strength: .5
Agility: .5
Spirit: .5
He moved fast, determined to spend the point without second guessing himself. Fyn might have made it if he intended to increase his spirit. He didn't though because he had no idea what spirit did. So he failed to spend the point decisively on strength because before he could, he noticed his experience was now 13/100.
"How the hell did that happen?" Fyn said, his hand dropping into his lap. He hadn't killed any monsters or completed a quest. All he had done was walk around for a few hours. He had probably covered a few miles, walking back and forth, up and down, peering under leaves and bushes. Occasionally, he had flipped over a rock. That didn't feel like it should count towards a level up.
Unless, Fyn thought, a pit forming in his stomach, he earned experience because he was an Explorer who was exploring. That idea clicked in his brain, feeling so natural and certain, that he could not begin to deny or question it.
What was the difference between an Explorer and a Scout? You might say purpose. They both traveled the same areas, only for different reasons. It made sense that performing the actions of your class would earn experience. Maybe there were other ways to level up as well, but Fyn felt like he had tumbled onto the cornerstone of the system.
And it made him want to puke!
He had spent all morning exploring the east side of the clearing. Fyn had earned 13 experience for his efforts. He had a strong suspicion he would need to find new territory to earn more. It would break the balance if he received credit for exploring the same area twice. That meant, if he could cross the river, he could earn twenty to thirty experience in total.
Then, to level up, he would have to brave the woods. The woods with its wolves, and crows. The forest where girls with crossbows lurked behind every tree.
On the other hand, if he had chosen the Gatherer Class, he probably could have stayed in this cozy clearing, where the only danger he had seen was a particularly fat rabbit. As a Gatherer, he could have frolicked and picked, skipping through the flowers, turning cartwheels, leveling up as easy as breathing.
Should he try to switch? He would need a yellow improvement point for that. In a well-balanced world, Fyn didn't think an improvement point that could grant a skill, however crappy, was going to come from dandelions.
With a sigh, Fyn closed his status. Spreading his arms to the side, he fell onto his back. He grunted as the knife secured behind him at his waist made itself known. Fyn rolled over on his side, cushioning his head on his arm.
He could fall asleep like this. It would be easy with the warm sun shining down on him and the smell of clean grass beneath him. He was tired, mentally and physically, sleep would be good.
Only, he couldn't afford it. Fyn had to get up. He had to explore the forest and gather wood for shelter and tools. He needed to go farther than he intended and test his, "Explorers level up by exploring," theory.
It had to be done. There was no time for a nap. He couldn't read a book and munch on some popcorn while curled up on the couch. This wasn't like putting off laundry day because you were too lazy to start the machine. This was related to living.
It helped that he didn't have a book, or popcorn, or a couch. Any one of those things might have tempted Fyn into idleness. Lacking them, he found his feet with a sigh, and started trotting towards the south end of the clearing again.
To the east the trees were huge, towering hundreds of feet tall. There was a lot of lumber there, none of which met Fyn's needs. He headed down the river, keeping to where he could hear the rush of water, even if he couldn't see it.
He gathered dead wood, and green branches. When his arms were full, he carried them back to the edge of the clearing. Every so often he had to drag branches that were too long or thick, slowing him down. Each venture into the trees, he took a slightly different route, trying to make note of anything interesting he saw, even if it wasn't something he required immediately.
He spotted birds nests, and deer trails. Fyn marked areas where he could set traps for small game and found bushes that would bear edible fruits in the coming months. He hoped he wouldn't be around to see them ripen, but you could never tell.
He tried not to go too deep, always aware that there were things in these woods more dangerous than squirrels and poison ivy. Fyn tried to keep his trip short, no more than a few hundred yards from the clearings edge. However, as time went on, and nothing leaped out to eat his face, Fyn went farther, drawn on by curiosity and need.
Fyn kept at it until evening, pushing farther and becoming more comfortable in the woods. He was starting to believe things weren't as dangerous as he anticipated. And then Fyn saw the bones. Bones and puddles of blood.
The animals, six of them, Fyn judged from the body parts that could be seen, were mangled beyond recognition, flesh strewn about and gnawed on. The stench hit him then, hot and fetid. It filled the air, assaulting Fyn's nose, the smell of blood and offal.
His eyes watered, and hot saliva filled his mouth. Fyn backed away slowly, unable to pull his eyes from the scene. It wasn't that he hadn't seen worse. The corpses were animals, it was nothing like seeing Lucas pinned to that tree and yet, somehow this sickened him.
Not the waste or the violence. Shaking his head, Fyn realized it was his carelessness. He had been tramping about, picking flowers and hauling wood, muttering to himself about improvement points and stupid mistakes. He had traversed the woods and forgotten that he was in a forest of predators. Predators that he would have to confront if he wanted to leave, and ones he needed to stay away from for as long as possible.
Standing still, Fyn burned the image of the corpses into his mind. This was reality. He had put the blood wolves and three-eyed crows behind him. That was another mistake. He needed to be aware of his surroundings, this had to be a reminder.
Spitting out a mouthful of saliva, Fyn started to turn on his heel. Lucas came to mind again. It seemed to always come back to Lucas. Lucas had cracked the skulls. Bram had been upset by that, upset enough to kill.
No, that wasn't right. Bram had wanted to search Lucas, but Lucas wasn't willing. Maybe because what he had kept back was worth being killed for, or potentially because it was worth fighting to keep.
Out of the corner of his eye, Fyn could see three heads. Resembling deer, though the proportions were wrong, all three heads lay several feet away from the bodies they had belonged too. Lucas had cracked the skull, but these skulls were intact. Why had Lucas cracked the skull?
Not for the brain. That was a cheering thought. However violent this world was, people weren't scooping out wolf brains for a brain stew. Good to know.
There was a chance that there was a crystal in the skulls, though. Lucas had risked a lot for red ones, three of them, about the size of a finger.
There probably weren't red crystals in these skulls, Fyn thought, drawing his knife. The hilt, still too large, was wrapped in leather, but there was a metal end cap at the butt. Fyn wanted to call it a pommel, only it didn't have enough weight to serve that function.
Approaching the skull, Fyn knelt down and rolled it, so the top was facing up. Taking a deep breath, he raised his knife above his head with both hands and brought it down hard. The butt of the knife struck squarely.
And that was all it did. Fyn's hand slipped a little, jamming his little fingers into the dead thing, but there was no crack of bone or splatter of exposed brain.
"Wrong tool," Fyn muttered, clearing his throat, and rubbing his hands. Sheathing the knife, he looked around until he found a large rock.
Picking up the stone, he hammered at the skull. Each thud made Fyn wince, sure the sound would draw the rightful owner of the skull, a large animal who would be furious to see its leftovers being abused.
Committed, Fyn kept at it. When the skull broke, he was breathless, his arms almost too tired to lift. Any thought of breaking all three skulls or searching for the missing three left him. One was enough for now. Skulls were hard! There had to be a better way to do this.
Tossing the stone aside, Fyn drew his knife, and used it to remove the broken bits of bone. Once the brain was exposed, Fyn tightened his abs to keep his stomach in line and began to poke at the brain with the knife.
The knife went in quick, smooth, meeting no resistance at all. An inch and a half in, there was a click. Too shallow to be bone, Fyn knew he had found something. He didn't know what, but there was something hard buried in the creature's skull. Something that he couldn't quite dig out with his knife.
Wiping the blade on the ground, Fyn put it away. Bracing himself, Fyn's fingers went in to do what metal couldn't. He didn't think about the texture, he ignored the moisture, he told himself he felt nothing until he touched something smooth and hard.
Wrapping his fingers around it, Fyn yanked the object out, along with a healthy handful of brain. Gagging and scrambling backwards, Fyn shook his hand, throwing brain matter and blood. Gripping his hard won treasure, Fyn stood and sprinted north.
The passive skill Sense of Direction suddenly displayed its worth. Fyn didn't have to think to pick his way back to the clearing. His mind shutdown altogether, letting the skill guide his feet as he ran.
He pushed past bushes and twice he ran into trees, bouncing off and hardly letting it slow him down. Fyn didn't know why he had to run, there was nothing chasing him, nothing except for the memory of the way brains felt. A memory he sincerely wished he did not have.
Bursting into the clearing, Fyn made his way straight for the river. He didn't stop until he reached the bank. Squatting, Fyn thrust his fist into the water. Using a handful of sand, Fyn scrubbed the outside of his clenched fist thoroughly. Without looking down, he forced his fingers to open so he could scrub his palm and the object he held. It was only when he was positive everything was clean that Fyn drew out his hand to see what all his work had gotten him.
Sitting on his palm, wet and free of any flesh or blood, was a yellow crystal, around the size of a grown man's index finger. Yellow, not red, and the same pale yellow of a passive skill improvement point. Was that how it worked? Plants for white, animals for red and yellow?
Fyn thought it probably wasn't that simple. The white orb he had gotten had vanished when touched. It had nothing in common with this crystal.
He supposed the structure could have to do with the different ways the points were acquired. It only took one person to pick a plant. It might take a few people to hunt a large, dangerous animal. If only one point could be earned, it made sense that there had to be a way to distribute them between team members.
Fyn felt he had stumbled on to the right answer, or very nearly the right answer, with that idea. There was also the possibility of selling the crystals, or trading a crystal you didn't need for one you did. He knew there were at least three different kinds of improvement points, white, yellow, and red.
Except, Fyn thought, tapping the crystal against a smooth stone beside him, he didn't know that. He assumed it. He couldn't confirm his guesses until he figured out how to turn the crystal into a ball of light in his status.
Was he supposed to eat it? Break it? Drip blood onto it?
Holding the crystal in his right hand, Fyn squeezed it until his knuckles turned white. Staring at the back of his hand while it shook with effort, Fyn willed the crystal to disperse.
It didn't. Other than digging into the skin of his palm, the crystal remained stubbornly solid. Thinking he had gotten it all wrong, Fyn relaxed and stared at his fist for a while. He was ready to give up, when he noticed the blue mark on the back of his hand, the one he tapped to open his status, was blinking rhythmically.
Unclenching his fingers, Fyn left the crystal drop into his waiting left hand. The blinking stopped. Holding the crystal between two fingers, Fyn slowly brought his hands closer together. As the crystal neared his status mark, the blinking began again.
When the blue dot and yellow stone met, the crystal burst into motes of yellow light. The lights swirled briefly above the back of his hand, then rushed at his status mark to be absorbed.
Improvement point gained!