I woke up face-down in what once was a puddle of my own sweat, now dried, stuck to the stone floor like roadkill in summer. Everything hurt. My muscles were a choir of low, pissed-off groans. My ribs felt like they'd made out with a sledgehammer. Knuckles? Raw, cracked, probably left some skin behind on that makeshift pull-up bar from hell.
And still.
Alive.
No. More than alive.
Solid. Centered. The kind of bone-deep soreness that says you broke yourself just right and your body liked it. High Vitality doing what the caseworkers never could: fixing my shit without a lecture.
I groaned and rolled onto my back, bones popping like popcorn. The ceiling above me was still that sterile, System-sanitized gray, same prep room, same glowing arch across the room, still pulsing like an elevator button no one else was going to press.
No team. No backup. No inspirational speeches from glowing golden boys.
Just me.
No squad. No buffs. No team name with a ™ symbol.
Just me and that fucking tag I'm still crawling toward.
Kellek walked out. Now he can't even order a ration bar. Fuck that.
Ten levels. That's the deal. Survive 'em solo and they have to see me.
Not respect. Not reward. Just forced eye contact from a goddamn bureaucracy that would rather forget I was born.
I glanced up and, yep, there it was, that shitty little timer still hovering like a smug clock-puncher with a clipboard.
Forced Entry in: 19 Hours 02 Minutes.
Could've been worse. I could've woken up in a team-building seminar. Or prison again. Or taxes. Yeah, no, this was fine.
I leaned against the bench and wiped crusted blood and sweat from my beard. I dug into my inventory pouch and pulled out one of the ration bars. Three and a half left.
Status.
It flickered into view like a smug invoice, sterile lines, neat font, zero acknowledgment of the blood, bile, or broken bones it had taken to tick that Strength stat up. But I just looked at it.
STRENGHT 22
Twenty-two, hell yes.
That was mine. Not bought, not gifted. Every single point dug out of pain and fury with nothing but sweat and stubbornness. No Class bonuses. No "efficient builds." Just the grind.
My face twisted. Not quite a smile. Not the smug kind.
The kind you make when the chains dig deep enough that all you can do is laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's yours now. The pain, the choice, the outcome.
I didn't earn that Strength just from pushups and punishment. I felt it, somewhere in the marrow. That last squat hold. My lungs clawing for air. Vision tunneling. Every nerve screaming to quit.
And I didn't.
Not even when I should've.
Especially not then.
I stayed up.
Past the point of smart. Past the point of useful.
Held the line, teeth clenched, legs shaking, until the world tipped sideways.
No fanfare. No flash. Just a quiet shift, felt almost like the System flinched.
That was it.
No trumpet. No pop-up saying "Congratulations, Masochist of the Month."
Just the backend of the machine grumbling, Fine. You want this badly enough? Take it.
I felt Saint Coleman's blessing deep in my bones.
Also, the Root apparently resonated with it, worth an extra +2 STR.
From the part of me that looked the System dead in the eye and said, You don't get to decide when I fall.
One point carved from grit.
One from spite.
Two from whatever half-starved relic of a myth still lingers in the back of my Root.
Legs wobbled. But fine. They held.
Shoulders rolled. Dull ache. No sharp alarms. Better than yesterday.
The axe was still on the floor, right where I'd dropped it. I picked it up, felt the weight settle into my hand like it belonged there.
I was stronger.
Strong enough? Don't know.
Not the question anymore.
I looked at the archway.
Still pulsing. Still waiting.
I wasn't.
Time left on the clock didn't mean anything. I was done waiting.
My grip on the axe tightened. The blood in my ears beat steady and cool.
This wasn't blind rage. Not anymore.
This was deliberate. Focused.
Directed.
A blade of anger, finally honed.
"The System tried to ignore me," I said. Low. Firm.
"Tried to erase me."
They gave me space.
I took strength.
Now I was coming.
I slung the axe onto my shoulder and walked toward the archway. Still just a reinforced woodcutter's axe, a tool. Not a weapon. Not blessed. Not class-bound.
Just steel. Solid. Honest.
Still sharp enough to kill.
The prompt waited, clean and quiet:
Would you like to begin Challenge Encounter [Level 1]?
→ YES
→ NO
Beneath the prompt, that now-familiar little warning winked into existence:
Warning: Team formation incomplete. Early initiation is not recommended without a full party.
I snorted. Almost laughed.
Not recommended, huh?
Yeah, no shit. This whole thing was built for five glowing golden boys with class kits and group buffs. And here I was, a one-man funeral procession. Axe and attitude. By the System's logic, I shouldn't even be alive. Definitely shouldn't be standing here, about to walk solo into a multi-man killbox.
I stood in front of the arch. Let my shoulders square. Let the moment stretch.
The Yes option blinked, soft and patient, like it couldn't believe I was actually considering this.
I could.
I was.
I didn't hesitate.
I turned, raised one hand, and flipped the empty bleachers behind me the bird.
"Just me."
For half a second, the dumbest thought crossed my mind, that elf cleric from the Hub. The one with the Divine Backside Package™ and probably a full spec into Gluteal Enlightenment. If I'd smiled more, played nice, maybe I could've sweet-talked her into tagging along. Pocket healer, support buff, walking distraction.
Heh.
Sure. And maybe she'd let me pack her into my inventory while I was at it, settle her in next to my ration bars.
I chuckled.
Nope.
It was just me.
"And my axe," I said softly, quoting a dwarf who had friends.
Lucky bastard...
I hit [YES]
Light hit me like a truck from six angles at once. For a second, or an hour, there was nothing but brightness. Then the world snapped back in like a rubber band to the face. I stumbled. Caught myself with the axe. Blinked through the glare.
New room.
Big room.
Coliseum-sized, all smooth gray flagstone stretching out in every direction, etched with glowing blue lines like someone let a geometry nerd redesign a football field. The air felt heavy, too clean, too symmetrical. Like the System had been real proud of this one. Above me, the ceiling disappeared into darkness, broken only by a few glowing panels that cast sterile, surgical light on the arena floor.
Structures dotted the field.
Low barricades. Stone walls. Crates stacked in squads like cover fire drills. One raised platform in the corner, sniper perch, guaranteed. Across from it, a stone pillar for high ground. Trenches too. Shallow foxholes tucked behind metal barriers, all laid out like someone couldn't decide between a war game and a theme park.
It was a tactical wet dream.
I could see the ideal party layout in my head, the kind of bullshit that made developers high-five each other during design reviews. Tank out front, pinned behind the chest-high wall. Two damage dealers flanking. Rogue in the trench, knife in the dark. Healer tucked behind those crates, clutch-ready. Each piece of cover, every choke point, all lovingly handcrafted for five players to move like clockwork.
And here I was.
Party of one.
I exhaled. No fear. Just spite.
"Well. This is cozy," I muttered, voice thin in the echo chamber.
Across the arena, an iron gate sat locked tight, latticework bars, glowing red beyond them. Something was back there. Not moving yet. Probably waiting for a cue. Timer? Or just dramatic flair? Didn't matter. I had a moment. I'd take it.
Then, ding. Of course. Right on schedule.
A new window blinked to life in front of me, neat, blue-bordered.
The System wanted to help me.
It always does.
Right before it starts kicking.
[CHALLENGE ENCOUNTER: 5.1 – FORMATION INTEGRITY TEST]
Scenario Type: Cooperative Combat Trial – Role-Based Synergy Evaluation
Recommended Team Composition:
🛡️ 1x Tank (Frontline Durability)
⚔️ 2x DPS (Burst + Sustained)
🩹 1x Support Healer (AoE or Single-Target)
🧠 1x Tactical Specialist (Control, Debuff, or Ranged Finisher)
Note: Encounter difficulty is scaled for five (5) active participants with appropriate role coverage and synergy.
💡Tip: Healing rotations, aggro cycling, and ability synergy are critical to maintaining formation integrity! Don't forget to protect your backline! 😊
Reminder: This scenario is not recommended for solo Users. Proceeding alone may result in unoptimized performance and reduced survival expectancy.
⭐Good luck! ⭐
I laughed. Actually laughed.
Couldn't help it.
There I was, cracked, bloodstained, running on protein and spite, and the System was out here recommending healing rotations like we were prepping for a raid night.
Tank. DPS. Healer.
All I had was a grudge, an axe, and, according to many professionals, a personality disorder.
Role synergy, my ass.
Then, ding, another pop-up slid into place like the System realized it hadn't quite finished insulting me.
[📘 ENCOUNTER LAUNCH PROTOCOL – Formation Integrity Trial]
Please confirm that all assigned party roles are filled and positioned according to standardized combat configuration.
💡Tip: Group morale improves when everyone knows their place! ☺️
I blinked.
A smiley face.
Again.
Of course.
Just like last time, that perky little grin pasted onto my death sentence.
I just stared at it, cold, flat, like it had crawled out of the wall to personally piss in my rations. That slow-burn, behind-the-eyes kind of rage bubbled up, not explosive, just steady. Remember this, it said. Remember every insult. Every fake little wink. Stack it high.
"Party's all here," I muttered, voice low. Axe rising to my shoulder.
"Me, myself, and go fuck yourself."
My voice faded, and the arena went quiet again.
Nothing moved. No roar of enemies. No sudden spawn-flash. The System was still waiting... stalling, maybe. Probably holding out hope that four more golden boys would pop into formation and balance the encounter the way it was meant to be.
Tough luck.
It's just me.
I started moving, boots scraping on stone, eyes flicking over the terrain. If the fight wasn't starting yet, I'd start it my way. No buffs. No healer. No teammates to cover me while I bled out.
But I had something better: spite and scenery.
I jogged toward the crates stamped with a crisp white cross, like this was a charity tent instead of a killbox. The biggest one read: Healer Supplies – Reserved.
Reserved, huh?
I jammed my axe into the floor, ripped the lid off. Empty. Of course. The System probably didn't bother to spawn supplies because my "party" didn't qualify. Or maybe this was its idea of a joke.
Didn't matter. The box was solid wood, chest height, heavy but not too heavy. STR: 22 doing work. I dragged it into position midline, off-center, a fallback without boxing myself in.
Then another crate. Then a stone bench that looked heavier than it was. In a minute I had a rough crescent of cover — ugly, but enough to slow flanks, funnel pushes, maybe block line of sight.
The System wanted formation tactics?
Fine. Here's your fucking formation: me, some boxes, and a middle finger.
I rolled my shoulder and blew out a breath. The air smelled like dust and ozone, like a gym left to rot.
Fitting.
Because I wasn't here for a fight.
I was here for a demonstration.
Let the System log this. Let it choke on the footage.
My gaze snapped back to the gate across the arena.
Still sealed.
But glowing now, red light pulsing from behind the bars. Slow. Then faster. Like a heartbeat that realized it was about to be tested.
Maybe the System got tired of waiting.
Good.
So was I.
The System had formation tactics. I had an axe. Time to see which one splintered first.