A cold shiver ran down Bittu's spine as his eyes fluttered open. Floating in the darkness before him, glowing letters blinked into existence.
[You have entered a dungeon.]
He ignored the prompt. His gaze wandered first.
The world around him was… wrong. The air hung heavy, damp with an ancient, musty scent that clung to his lungs. Walls stretched endlessly, lined with moss-covered stones and etched runes pulsing faintly like a heartbeat in the dark. Shadows pooled in the corners, thick as ink.
Under his feet, the ground was uneven—patches of grass growing between jagged stone, as if no soul had ever walked this path. If he stepped forward, he would be the first.
His body trembled. A lingering sensation from earlier still coursed through his veins—the echo of pain, the residue of power.
He looked down.
Tattered clothes.
Dried blood in ugly patterns.
And beneath, rotting muscle peeking through torn flesh.
"…I… survived."
Two words, but they carried the weight of seventeen years of torment—of everything ripped from him before he even turned twenty. His life was a painting in despair's palette: a canvas of loss, betrayal, and hollow victories. Not that he remembered it. Not anymore.
At least he hadn't turned into that thing. That was enough for now.
"...Ahhh…"
He tried to stand—only to collapse with a guttural cry. His muscles screamed, a tidal wave of agony flooding his senses. Every fiber of his being writhed like ten thousand ants feasting under his skin. It was a pain alien to anything he'd known, yet he gritted his teeth, forcing a smile that didn't belong on his face.
Dragging himself towards the edge of the stony path, he leaned against the cold, grassy wall. Every breath was a knife. Every heartbeat, a hammer.
He remembered nothing beyond choking in black water. Nothing about how he got here. Nothing about what he lost in the dark. And maybe that ignorance was mercy.
"Status."
The word slipped past his lips, and emerald light bloomed before his eyes. He hesitated, breath held like a fragile thread, before reading the verdict.
[Bittu Sah — Lv. 1]
[Race: Half-Human (Partial Zombie) ]
[Class: Jocker]
[Bloodline: None]
[Strength → E]
[Agility → F]
[Stamina → ∞]
[Constitution → E]
[Perception → G]
[Spirit → F]
[Unassigned stat: 0]
"…Sigh."
His chest sank.
"At least… I'm still sane. Still human…"
A lie he didn't believe. But sometimes lies are softer than the truth.
He stared at the glowing letters until they blurred. Somewhere deep inside, something hardened. Maybe struggle had burned out the fragility in his mind. Or maybe losing his memories gave him freedom.
Men die when their reason dies; Bittu lived because somewhere, in some lost corner of his soul, a reason still breathed.
Hope. A face he couldn't remember. A past that he could chase.
That was enough.
Time crawled. Notifications piled.
[Congratulations! You have gained a new skill: Unknown (Need further analysis).]
Class: Jocker (Unique)
Skill 1: Danger Intuition (passive)
Skill 2: Unknown (Need further analysis) (passive)
Rating: Unknown
[Description: A skill born from agony. It transforms physical and mental suffering into latent power, accelerating growth the deeper the pain. The more you endure, the stronger you become.]
[Your skill, Unknown (Need further analysis), imposes a forceful restriction on your race change.]
[Your skill is using the power of race change to fuel your own power. ]
[Stamina is resonating the highest with your new skill and your new race. ]
[Stamina has connected with your skill: Unknown (Need further analysis). ]
[You have unlocked your third skill. ]
Other messages followed, cascading like a river, but Bittu didn't get the chance to read them all.
Crackle.
The sound split the silence—dry, brittle, like bones grinding together. His head jerked toward it. Something shifted in the shadows.
Then, the earth moved.
A skeletal hand tore through the soil, pale fingers clawing at the air. One bone after another, a figure emerged, dragging itself from the grave as if the world had forgotten it centuries ago. Hollow sockets glowed faint green, and when it stood, its bones clinked like macabre wind chimes.
The skeleton turned. It saw him. And it ran.
'A skeleton? In a mid-level dungeon?'
Panic seared his thoughts. He tried to rise, but pain lashed him down like chains.
"Ugh… Arghhh!"
Every movement was torment. Ten thousand blades carved his flesh from within, but if he yielded, he was dead. He clenched his jaw, scouring the ground for weapons—his axe, his knife.
Nothing.
'Damn it… I left them.'
Hopeless? Maybe. But despair was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The skeleton lunged. Bittu met it head-on.
Crack!
His fist slammed into bone, and agony exploded up his arm. His vision whitened. But when the haze cleared, the skeleton's arm was fractured, thin cracks crawling like spiderwebs.
'What? So weak… for a mid-level—'
Another scream ripped his throat before the thought finished. The pain in his muscles was monstrous, eclipsing everything else. He barely registered the second blow until the skeleton's own arm shattered against him.
A grim laugh almost escaped—almost—before the agony drowned it.
Then, a sharp sting.
Pritch.
"Ahhhhhhhh!"
The jagged end of bone pierced his chest. Blood welled hot. His scream tore the dungeon's silence apart. His body buckled. He fell, crashing against the earth, pain consuming every nerve like fire on dry leaves.
And the skeleton raised its remaining limb. Again.
"Ahhhhhhhh!"
Bittu's scream tore through the silence as the skeleton's bony fist struck his stomach. It wasn't a killing blow—just another cruel jab in an endless cycle of agony. The creature couldn't kill him. Not yet. Not with that Unknown power pulsing beneath his skin, a gift, or was it a curse? that kept him alive by feeding on his pain, growing stronger with every torment.
But there was no strength in this. Only suffering.
An hour had passed. Or was it ten? Time stretched like taut wire, each second a lifetime of torment. The ground beneath him was slick with blood—his own—dark, viscous, and reeking of iron and decay. His body was no longer pale flesh, but a canvas of raw muscle and torn sinew, drenched in crimson. Only his face remained untouched, twisted in silent, endless scream.
He rolled away, desperate for relief. The skeleton was faster.
It struck again.
And again.
Unlike the slow, shambling zombies, this creature moved with eerie precision. Bittu, wracked with pain, could barely think, let alone escape. His mind frayed at the edges. All he could do was plead.
"Please… leave me…"
"I'll go. I'll leave this place…"
"Let me go…"
The skeleton didn't listen. It couldn't. Its hollow eyes, once empty, now gleamed with something disturbingly close to awareness. Blood—once clean bone—was stained red, as if it had waded through a massacre. It looked like a butcher who'd forgotten to wash his hands.
Pritch.
A bone plunged into his leg.
"Ahhhhhhhhh!"
"Please… please… spare me…"
"Help me… someone…"
His cries echoed into the void. No one came.
Ten hours bled into two more. Then seven. Then a week.
Bittu was unrecognizable. Skin gone. Flesh flayed. Every nerve alight with fire. Yet he lived. That Unknown skill held him together, forcing his body to endure, to thrive on pain. Each time the agony peaked, a notification flickered before his eyes:
[With your skill, you have strengthened your constitution despite suffering intense pain.]
At first, he clung to it—hope in the darkness. But the upgrade never came. Only the message. Again. Again. Again.
Five times it flashed. Five times it mocked him.
It wasn't a reward. It was a taunt.
His pleas turned inward, silenced by shredded vocal cords and a brain too broken to form words. His body refused to shut off the pain—his own skill forced him to feel everything. The irony was exquisite: a power meant to make him stronger was breaking him soul-deep.
Then, after a full day of torture, the attacks stopped.
The skeleton stood before a massive stone, its hand pressed against the surface. For half an hour, it worked in silence. Then, slowly, it turned.
Its skull tilted. Hollow eyes glowed with an unnatural blue light.
And then—impossibly—it laughed.
"…Keke…"
The sound scraped down Bittu's spine like nails on bone.
He wanted to run. But his body wouldn't move. Wouldn't obey.
The skeleton raised its arm. The bones had changed—reshaped. The humerus formed a crude handle, while the ulna and radius had been sharpened into twin prongs, honed against the rock into jagged, knife-like points.
Bittu stared, horror dawning.
It hadn't just been torturing him.
It had been learning.
Somehow, through relentless cruelty, the skeleton had awakened a skill of its own—a twisted gift born of suffering. It had become something more. Something worse. A psychopath clad in bone.
"…Keke… keke…"
It lunged.
The twin points pierced Bittu's arms with surgical precision—hitting nerves, maximizing pain, minimizing lethality. The agony was beyond screaming. It was beyond thought.
Another notification flashed.
[With your skill, you have strengthened your constitution despite suffering intense pain.]
A million ants crawled beneath his skin. His body burned. And the skeleton… it laughed.
Over the next day, the torture evolved. Each strike grew more refined, more sadistic. The creature studied his reactions, adjusted its technique, perfected its art. Bittu's world narrowed to pain, blood, and the hollow eyes that watched him with growing amusement.
His prayers went unanswered. The gods were silent. The world indifferent.
And in that silence, something inside him cracked.
Why?
Why me?
What did I do to deserve this?
Hatred surged—a black, all-consuming fire. He hated the skeleton. Hated the world. Hated the gods who let this happen. Hated himself for being weak. For surviving.
I will kill them all.
Every last one.
Even if they are gods… even if fate itself stands in my way…
"They… won't… be… spared…"
The words came out raw, forced through shattered lungs and a broken will.
And then—finally—a new notification appeared.
Not the same mocking message.
Something different.
Something awakened.