Chapter 2) The Laughing King
The next morning, I woke up to the stench of blood and rust.
My own blood. My own rusted pride.
I was curled behind a trash bin, ribs screaming with every breath. The sky above was a pale bruise, low-hanging clouds promising more rain.
> [Pain Threshold Reached.] [+1 Vitality.] [Emotion Registered: Hopelessness.] [+2 Willpower.]
At least the system was consistent in its cruelty.
I coughed. Everything hurt. My fists, my face, my everything. But even worse than the pain was the truth: I had no idea how this system worked. No skills to activate. No stats to manage. Just… occasional pop-ups when life kicked me in the teeth.
I needed answers.
I needed to test this thing.
So I did the only thing that made sense to someone with absolutely nothing left to lose.
I went to The Blistered Fang.
It was the roughest, ugliest bar in the lower district. I knew the name because my neighbor used to stagger home from there every Friday swearing vengeance on a man named "Big Mar." That seemed like the kind of place that could help me "fail upward."
I limped through the cracked streets. One eye swollen shut. My shirt crusted with blood. I must've looked like a dead man on his feet. Perfect.
The doors of The Blistered Fang creaked open, releasing the stench of sweat, spilled ale, and something that may have once been food. The place went quiet as I stepped inside.
Dozens of rough-looking men and women turned to me. Mercs, thugs, system-users with scars etched into their stats. Their systems probably had names like Bloodborn or Iron Law.
I stood tall, well, as tall as my battered body would allow, and shouted:
"I'M THE STRONGEST ONE HERE!"
Every eye locked on me.
I held my arms out wide, laughing like I owned the place.
"I run this damn bar now! So if any of you want to stay breathing, you'll listen when I, "
A chair hit me square in the face.
Hard.
I don't remember the next few seconds, just that I was suddenly airborne. Then the dirt and broken glass outside the bar bit into my back as I hit the ground.
The doors slammed shut.
Well.
That went poorly.
I wiped blood from my mouth and laughed again, coughing.
Apparently, the system doesn't reward stupidity. Good to know.
Still, I wasn't done.
I picked myself up, limped right back in, and screamed even louder this time:
"I SAID I'M THE ONE IN CHARGE! I'M YOUR KING NOW!"
That got a reaction.
Not laughter.
Not yet.
Instead, the room hushed.
A few low whispers drifted through the smoke and ale.
"Who the hell is this kid?"
"Is he cracked? Or just suicidal?"
"He's gotta have something up his sleeve…"
They were trying to make sense of it. Trying to figure out what kind of idiot walks into the lion's den twice.
That's when he stood up.
Marlo the Scar. Local enforcer. Warpath-class. Known for lifting a grown man with one hand and breaking his spine with the other.
He walked toward me with the calm of someone who already knew how this would end.
"Kid," he said. His voice was gravel soaked in venom. "You lost your damn mind or just looking to get it knocked loose?"
I stared at him. Tried not to show how my knees wanted to buckle.
"I'm here to prove a point," I said.
He blinked.
Then he laughed.
And punched me.
Hard.
His fist collided with my cheek like a freight train. I didn't even fall, I flew.
Hit the wall. Slid down it.
Then the room roared with laughter.
"Is this your king?" someone shouted.
"Make him kneel!"
"Break him in!"
Marlo grinned.
"Teach him what real power feels like."
And they did.
They beat me.
Not out of anger. Not for just laughter. But as a lesson.
Fists, boots, knees. Over and over.
I stopped fighting back after the second rib cracked. Just curled up and took it.
Pain blurred into numbness.
Thoughts faded.
The world turned to static.
But just before I passed out, I smiled.
Because I felt it.
The system waking up.
Whirring.
Watching.
Waiting.
---
I came to outside, lying in a heap of garbage and old boxes.
Rain fell softly, drenching my torn clothes. The world felt like it had collapsed inward, every muscle aching in ways I didn't know existed.
But even through the pain, I felt it: a spark.
Then,
> [Critical Condition Detected.] [+3 Strength] [+2 Endurance] [Stat Growth Accelerated: Severe Trauma Bonus Applied.] [Passive Skill Unlocked: "Bruised Resilience" Lv.1] [Effect: -10% Physical Damage Taken When Below 30% HP.]
A faint grin tugged at my lips.
It was working.
Slow. Inconsistent. But real.
Not flashy. Not noble. But mine.
This wasn't some cheat system handed to a chosen one.
This was a wounded beast. A parasite. A mirror of everything I was becoming.
And it fed on pain.
But there was still one thing missing.
I sat up, coughing blood, hoping, maybe this time, I'd get an actual skill. Something offensive. A weapon. A burst.
> [Ability Slot: Locked.] [Reason: Inadequate Emotional Catalyst.] [Note: Not enough has been lost.]
I stared at the screen, rain dripping down my nose.
"Not enough?" I whispered.
What else did it want?
How much more did I have to give?
But I already knew the answer.
Everything.
Every last piece of me.
This system wasn't here to help me climb. It was here to see if I could crawl.
And I would.
Because there was nothing left to fall from.
I leaned back against the wall and laughed softly. Not because anything was funny.
But because laughing was all I had left.