Ethan paused, his finger hovering over the virtual attribute assignment menu. This was not a game—not anymore. He had to resist the urge to treat his choices casually, like he would in Ascension.
Back then, every player started with a balanced set of attributes, and the decision of where to invest points was mostly a question of maximizing efficiency, optimizing for dungeons, or flexing in PvP arenas. Dying was nothing more than a setback, a statistic logged in leaderboards, a minor loss to be quickly erased with a quest or a friend's help.
But in this world, death meant the real end. No respawns. No magical coins to resurrect. No friends to revive him. The faint thrill, the danger that came with permanent consequences, made his hands tremble slightly as he considered his options. He remembered the game's legends—even on the world server, only three players could boast of never dying, and Ethan was one of them. But that had been pixels and code, safely behind a glowing screen. Here, mistakes could be fatal.
He mulled over everything before finally making a decision. Ten attribute points, placed squarely on Strength. It was the simplest, most direct path. Even on Earth, he'd never had much strength—he'd been bottom of the chart in gym class, a constant source of minor ridicule. Here, as a cultivator, he was sure the discrepancy between his feeble body and his peers was even more glaring.
As he invested the points, the system responded promptly:
Strength: +10
Strength is now at 30 points
Instantly, he could feel the difference. His normally sluggish, heavy limbs seemed lighter. There was a tautness to his frame, a sense of hidden energy in his muscles. The fat around his belly and thighs seemed to burn a little, as if the mere act of breathing was now more efficient. He flexed his arms experimentally and felt the change ripple through every muscle. He even felt some long-standing aches—particularly a faint, constant pressure in his neck and upper back—simply melt away.
For years, that pain had made it nearly impossible to focus for long stretches, had been the cause of his drowsiness in earth's classrooms, had sabotaged his ability to concentrate. That stumbling block was gone, replaced by a subtle, pleasant hum of vitality.
A small, quiet pride bloomed in his chest. "If I had to run a hundred meters now, I could probably make it without collapsing," he thought with a lingering smile.
He looked back at the remaining attribute points and, without much hesitation, put all five points into Stamina. Experience had already demonstrated that endurance was key: twenty hours of cleaning had nearly broken him. More stamina meant longer and more effective practice, greater resilience, and—most importantly—a step toward earning respect.
Stamina: +5
Stamina is now at 25 points
The changes weren't as spectacular as with Strength, but immediately he felt different. The leaden fatigue that had crept in during his late-night cleaning session receded a little. He felt as if he could keep working for longer, and a strange energy pulsed in his legs. "If I had to scrub this library one more time, maybe I could do it in fifteen hours—or less," he mused, almost proud of the improvement.
Growl!
But hunger interrupted his thoughts. His stomach issued such a loud, demanding growl that he half-expected the system to issue a warning. He laughed at himself, suddenly realizing just how long it had been since he'd eaten. The last time he'd had real food was before boarding the carriage for the academy—a bland, unmemorable meal. Then, the journey itself had lasted ten hours, followed by the lengthy registration, and then a grueling twenty hours spent restoring the library. Thirty hours without food! His drive for attribute points had overshadowed basic needs, but now, the need was immediate and overwhelming.
"It's time to go to the Dining Hall," Ethan announced, setting out with a clear goal and a rumbling belly.
…..
The academy dining hall revealed yet another layer of this world's difference from his own. Its architecture was grand and ancient, with ornate support beams and wide, open spaces filled with long tables. Candles flickered in brass holders, casting golden patches of light on polished flagstones. Banners—tattered, but still proud—hung from the high ceilings. The hall was packed despite the late hour; cultivators, as Ethan reasoned, probably needed to eat at all manner of strange times to fuel their body's transformation.
He glanced at the system's clock: 10 p.m. On Earth, dining halls would be deserted at this hour, but here, they buzzed with activity. The sounds of raucous laughter, clattering dishes, and animated conversations filled the air. Ethan did his best to shrug off his "Earth logic," reminding himself yet again that he had to adapt to the customs, culture, and timetables of this new world.
A menu was posted near the entrance, beautifully inscribed on a large wooden plaque and illuminated by glowing stones set into the frame. Ethan approached, eyes bright with anticipation, only for his smile to freeze in place a moment later.
"Fuck…" he muttered under his breath, feeling all hope slide away. The entire menu was non-vegetarian. Roasted spirit beast with five-spice; marrow bone stew; crispy golden sparrow; blood-boiled mutton; glazed cloudfish with spirit herbs. There wasn't even a passing mention of vegetable-based food—no simple bun, no fresh greens, nothing even mildly suitable for a vegetarian.
A wave of nausea rolled up from his stomach, almost as strong as the hunger pawing at him.
Memories assaulted him—the one and only time, as a child, he'd been tricked into eating a morsel of meat. The taste, the texture, the immediate, overwhelming sensation of wrongness. He'd vomited then, and sworn never again. Even recently, during the journey, Jake had handed him meat. He hadn't wanted to eat it, but his hunger and gratitude had overridden principle. He'd forced it down out of politeness, enduring the taste and discomfort as a duty to his gracious host. But now, alone and in control of his own choices, the realization was crushing.
He scanned the menu again, desperate for any hint of a dish he could stomach. But no matter how he squinted or re-read the engraved lines, it was the same—flesh, flesh, and more flesh.
A loud, jeering voice cut across his despair: "Oh? If it isn't our supreme genius!"
The tone was dripping with mockery and contempt. Ethan stiffened, feeling the stares of dozens of other diners falling on him.
Turning, he recognized one of Ricky's followers, his lips curled into a smile designed less for warmth and more for spectacle.
Ethan met the man's gaze, straightened his aching back, and forced a brittle smile. "Here we go again," he thought. "Even in another world, some things never really change."
But this time, he resolved, he wouldn't let mockery define him. He was here to cultivate—not just his body, but his spirit, patience, and, if the System allowed, his dignity.