The first thing I notice is the smell.
Rot. Mildew. Fear. Not metaphorical fear—actual, biological, hormone-soaked terror hanging in the air like dungeon incense. It clings to the back of the throat and drapes itself across your nerves like a wet, smothering blanket.
Welcome to the Training Grounds.
We're in a stone chamber barely the size of a classroom, lit by a single guttering torch and the existential dread of the twenty teenagers crammed inside. The walls are slick with condensation, the floor uneven, and everything smells like regret and stale sweat.
All of them look like NPCs waiting to get deleted. Most are curled up near the edges, hugging their knees like it might keep their stats from being noticed. One is already sobbing. Another is quietly praying to a god who, statistically speaking, isn't listening.
The heavy iron door we were shoved through slammed shut behind us with the kind of finality usually reserved for guillotines and marriage vows. No window. No latch. Just the sound of stone settling and fate taking a smoke break.
I stand near the center, arms crossed, absorbing the mood like a critic at a community theater production of Lord of the Flies. Because someone has to. Because I'm not just here to die—I'm here to beta-test the narrative engine.
"They said a hunting party would come after six chambers," a girl whispers. Her voice shakes like it's not used to being heard. She's pressed so tight against the wall, you'd think she was trying to merge with it.
"That's if we make it six chambers," says another. "Monsters spawn in the first. Sometimes the first minute."
Tam stands next to me, pale but still standing. His eyes dart between exits like he's running calculations with a single-digit stat sheet and zero optimism. He doesn't look like he belongs here. He looks like the kind of kid who raises his hand before asking to die.
"Kiriti..." he says quietly. "Are you scared?"
"Terrified," I reply, because I respect honesty.
Then, louder—projecting just enough for the rest of the meat bags to hear: "But I plan to live anyway."
Heads turn. Hope flutters in one or two. Annoyance flashes in a few more. I can see it in their eyes: Who does this guy think he is?
Spoiler alert: The plot twist.
Before I can introduce myself as the system's worst decision since implementing decimal-based morality, something screeches.
A door in the far wall slams open. Stone grinds. Chains rattle. Air rushes in, sharp with iron and hunger.
And a goblin charges in.
It's short, green, knife-wielding, and faster than anything with toenails that ugly should be. Its eyes glow faintly yellow. It lets out a high-pitched screech that turns several stat sheets worth of courage into piss-stained trousers.
It barrels toward the closest kid.
A scream.
The goblin leaps—claws first—and lands on a boy before he can even react. One savage slash across the throat. Blood sprays across the nearest wall like someone tried to summon Jackson Pollock with a pentagram.
His bracelet flares faintly as the goblin steps back, revealing the doomed boy's stat sheet to anyone paying attention:
STR: 1 (G)
AGI: 2 (G)
VIT: 1 (G)
INT: 1 (G)
LUCK: 1 (G)
TOTAL: 6 (G-Rank)
Probably led with LUCK. Didn't help.
"RUN!" someone yells. Predictably. A second later, they trip over their own feet and faceplant with all the grace of a dying fish.
Panic erupts. Screams echo. The crowd collapses inward. Several kids bolt for corners that don't offer protection, and one attempts to hide behind a torch bracket.
I don't move. Not yet. I'm watching. Calculating.
The goblin snarls and pivots. Its beady eyes scan the room, settle on Tam—the softest target, trembling, alone, practically gift-wrapped.
That's my cue.
I step forward. Not fast. Not slow. Measured. Intentional.
"Hey!" I shout, voice cutting through the panic. "You want someone to stab, try me."
The goblin pauses, mid-charge. Sniffing.
I tighten my grip on a jagged rock I palmed from the floor the moment we entered. It's crude, but I know how to sell the shot.
The goblin doesn't charge right away.
It paces. Snarling. Sniffing. Waiting for something—or maybe calculating. Which is bad. Because if the goblin is thinking, we're all outclassed.
I take a step to the left. Just enough to feel the air shift. Just enough to test something.
Yep. The goblin tracks me.
"That one's faster than it looks," I murmur. "AGI's above 5. Maybe 7. Low VIT, though. No bulk."
No one responds. A few kids glance at me, but mostly they're still panicking or crying or praying to discount gods. One even tries to bite off his bracelet, as if removing the rank will rewrite the script.
I scan the chamber: walls are uneven but curved slightly inward. Funnel design. Good for herding. The entrance tunnel was too smooth. Polished, even. And the guards who locked us in? They didn't make eye contact.
They knew what was coming.
"It's not just a dungeon," I say aloud. "It's a meat grinder."
Still no one responds. Whatever. I'm not here for applause.
I'm here for the cheat codes.
Another goblin drops in from the ceiling—a neat surprise mechanic. The crowd screams. It lands next to a boy scrambling backward and lunges.
I move.
Not fast. Not recklessly. Deliberately.
I angle my path, shove another panicking kid just slightly forward. The goblin grabs him instead.
I duck in low behind it. Rock raised.
I aim.
I strike.
It crunches.
The goblin screeches and slashes wildly. The kid it tackled is already bleeding. I grab its hair, yank it back, and drive the rock again—harder this time.
One. Two. Three hits. Then a wet thunk.
The goblin collapses.
System ping.
+1 AGI. Great. Just what I need—more speed for this twisted game.
MC Moment Triggered: "Protective Strike Amid Chaos"
+3 stat points (STR +1, INT +1, AGI +1)
The air is still thick with the scent of goblin blood, and the adrenaline rush lingers like an old friend refusing to leave. I glance at my companions; their expressions range from awe to sheer disbelief.
"Anyone else feel like we just pulled off a heist?" I quip, trying to keep the mood light as we survey the aftermath of our chaotic victory.
Tam nods, his eyes wide. "More like we stole our lives back."
"Exactly," I say, grinning. "And now we're going for round two."
I check my stats:
STR: 4 (G)
AGI: 5 (G)
VIT: 6 (G)
INT: 30,004 (B)
LCK: 9 (G)
TOTAL: 30,028 (B)
Time to rewrite this narrative further.
I blink as the faint glow pulses through my bracelet. The stats don't lie. And neither does my grin.
I stand up. Hands slightly trembling. Not from fear. From confirmation.
It worked.
No one else saw the popup. Perfect.
Tam is staring at me with a mix of awe and concern.
"You okay?" he asks.
"First kill," I say modestly. "Lucky shot."
Inside?
I am absolutely doing mental jazz hands.
I wipe the goblin blood off my hands, trying not to look too proud of myself. Tam says something—maybe "Thanks," maybe "How did you not die?" I nod vaguely. I'm busy.
Testing.
I take a breath and mutter under it: "I won't let anyone else get hurt."
Nothing. No ping. No glow. No stat gain. Not even a condescending beep.
Alright. Too low energy. I adjust posture. Pull my shoulders back, chin up, voice noble:
"No more blood will be shed. Not while I stand."
Still nothing. The bracelet remains cold and dark. The goblin juice hasn't even dried.
I frown. Add a hand-to-heart gesture. Slight tilt of the head. Inject just enough desperation to sound like I'm about to sacrifice myself for the sequel.
"You can all hide behind me! I'll hold the line!"
Still nothing.
But when I catch Tam looking at me with wide, hopeful eyes—something twitches in the air. The system almost pings. Almost. Like a sneeze that never comes. A stat-bait tease.
So it needs more than words. It needs witnesses. It needs drama.
Performative narrative moments.
Not sincerity.
Performance.
Intent doesn't matter. Theatrics do. The system is a sucker for genre.
Cue internal monologue:
"I'm getting paid in stats for method acting. If Daniel Day-Lewis saw this, he'd crawl into a volcano."
I glance at the others. Most of them aren't looking at me. One's crying into a boot. Another is whispering to a bracelet like it's going to cast Heal. A third is clutching a chunk of goblin ear like it's a lucky charm.
No matter.
This dungeon's not a tomb.
It's a theater.
And I just found out I'm the lead actor.