The interface was clean. Suspiciously clean. Just a single window floating in a void of absolute black. No opening cinematic, no tutorial fairy to annoy him. Just the cold, hard data.
Renji stared at the floating text, a grin tugging at the corner of his metaphysical mouth.
[Select Difficulty]
Easy: +50% XP Gain. Stat Cap: 50. (Recommended for beginners) Normal: +0% XP Gain. Stat Cap: 75. (Standard experience) Hard: -20% XP Gain. Stat Cap: 99. (For veteran strategists) Hell: -99% XP Gain. Stat Cap: ∞ (Warning: Survival probability < 0.04%)
Most players would look at that XP penalty and rage-quit before the game even started. Negative ninety-nine percent. It was a joke. A slap in the face. It meant that while a Normal player was breezing through levels, a Hell Mode player would be scraping the bottom of the barrel for scraps.
But Renji didn't see a penalty. He saw the prize.
Infinite. Stat. Cap.
The others are thinking short-term, Renji thought, shaking his head. They want to survive the winter. They want to rush Level 20, look cool, and maybe buy a nice castle. But we have 80 years. If I hit a Level 99 cap at age 30, what do I do for the next 50 years? Stagnate?
No thanks. In a Battle Royale against 20 other reincarnators, stagnation was just a fancy word for "waiting to die."
He shifted his attention to the Class Selection.
[Class Selected: Druid] [Subclass: Circle of the Moon (Variant: Primal Sovereign)]
He'd spent three hours crunching the numbers on this. Wizards were RNG-dependent—if you didn't find the spell scrolls, you were useless. Paladins were stuck with annoying Oaths. But the Moon Druid?
It's the ultimate collection quest, he mused. I don't just click a button to turn into a bear. I have to hunt the bear. I have to study its muscles, its bones, and its biology. I have to earn the form.
It was the hardest path. And that's exactly why he wanted it.
He reached out and smashed his finger against [Hell Mode].
[System Notice] Are you sure? The "Reaper's Clause" is active. Current Hell Mode Players: 1 / 21
"Yeah, yeah. Let's go," he muttered. "Confirm."
The void shattered.
The first thing he felt wasn't magic. It was a headache.
A blinding, crushing pressure squeezed his entire body, like he was being forced through a garden hose. Then came the cold—a sharp, biting chill that felt like an ice bucket challenge gone wrong.
Renji tried to open his menu. Nothing. He tried to stand up. His legs felt like jelly. He tried to shout "Status!"
"Waaaaah!"
The noise that came out of his throat was pathetic. High-pitched, wet, and utterly undignified.
Oh, come on, Renji thought, fighting the urge to panic. This lag is terrible. Input delay on all limbs. Vision is blurry—rendering distance is maybe two feet, max.
Someone grabbed him. Large hands, rough like sandpaper. A towel—no, a rag—scraped against his skin. It felt like steel wool.
Texture settings are way too high, he noted grimly. Everything scratches.
"It's a boy," a deep voice rumbled. The chest vibrating against Renji's back felt solid. High Constitution. Probably a manual laborer.
"Is he... is he breathing right?" A woman's voice. Thin. Tired.
Renji felt himself being passed over. The woman's arms were frail. Through the thin swaddling cloth, he could feel the sharp edge of her collarbone. He squinted, trying to focus his useless baby eyes.
She looked... exhausted. Pale skin, dark circles under her eyes, and hair that hadn't seen a comb in days.
That's my spawn point? Renji analyzed, checking her condition. Malnourished. Signs of fatigue. If she's my primary food source, I'm in trouble. The loot drop rate for milk is going to be abysmal.
"He's beautiful, Garret," she whispered, touching his cheek.
Renji tried to pull away—personal space, lady—but his neck muscles were nonexistent. His head lolled to the side.
Ugh. Humiliating.
He closed his eyes. The sensory overload was giving him a migraine. He needed something familiar. He needed the UI.
System, he thought, putting every ounce of his willpower into the command. Initialize. Show me the damage.
A comforting blue chime rang in his skull.
[System Initialization Complete] [Welcome, Player 21]
Name: Caelum
Age: 0 Years
Level: 1 (0/10,000 XP)
STATS STR: 0.2
INT: 25.0 (Carryover)
WIS: 18.0 (Carryover)
LUCK: 5.0
Current Status: [Infant - Debuff: Movement Restricted]
[Exhaustion: Level 1]
Caelum—that was his name now—stared at the progress bar.
0/10,000 XP.
10,000 EXP for Level 1.
In a normal game, you hit Level 2 by killing three rats. Here, he'd probably have to massacre an entire ecosystem just to get his first skill point.
Okay, Caelum thought, feeling a spark of that familiar, obsessive grind take hold. The devs are sadists. I respect that.
He felt his mother shift him, bringing him close for feeding. He latched on instinctively. It was embarrassing, sure, but he wasn't going to starve to death out of pride. While he ate, he focused on his chest. It felt tight. The air in the hut was smoky and thick.
New Objective: Don't die of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
He focused on his diaphragm. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. He turned the simple act of breathing into a manual process.
[Skill Generated] You have performed a repetitive action with intent. [Respiration (Common)] Acquired.
Caelum checked the details.
[Respiration] - Lvl 1 (0/50 Mastery) Current XP Gain Rate: 0.001 per breath.
0.001 XP.
It was a number so small it was practically an insult. It would take a thousand breaths just to get 1 XP.
Caelum mentally cracked his knuckles.
Joke's on you, System, he thought, settling into a rhythm. I'm not going anywhere. I have nothing to do but lie here and breathe. I'm going to farm this stat until I pass out.
Inhale. +0.001.
Exhale. +0.001.
"He's so quiet," his mother whispered. "A good baby."
"Saving his strength," his father agreed.
You have no idea, Caelum thought, watching his XP bar move a microscopic fraction of a millimeter. I'm not sleeping. I'm power-leveling.