The mustard hit his shirt first—a big, bright yellow blotch right in the middle of the button-down he hadn't bothered to wash since last Friday. Ethan stared at it for half a second, sighed, then shrugged. "Whatever. Extra color."
He stood at a hotdog cart, the so-called crown jewel of his lunch break. The cart reeked of grease, onions, and the faint perfume of city smog. The vendor looked half-asleep. A pair of pigeons loitered nearby, casting Ethan the same judgmental stares his coworkers usually reserved for him.
He took an oversized bite, chewed twice, then shoved the rest in like a man speedrunning lunch. That's when fate—or maybe just his cursed luck—intervened.
The meat jammed in his throat like a cork in a cheap wine bottle. His eyes bulged. The soda can slipped from his hand, hissing as it sprayed fizz across his shoes.
He coughed. Nothing. He gagged. Nothing. His hands clawed at his neck.
The vendor blinked. "Uh… are you…?"
Ethan staggered sideways, wheezing, miming Heimlich me, you idiot. A couple slowed to watch. One girl raised her phone, recording. Fantastic. His death was about to trend on TikTok.
Oh, come on. Not like this.
His chest burned. Vision blurred. Knees cracked against the sidewalk with a tooth-rattling smack. He tried to drag in air around the blockage, but panic was all that came. Somewhere above, voices murmured: "Is he choking?" "Yeah, but… should we—"
Then black.
No last words. No dramatic montage. No heroic save. Just Ethan—the guy who once stapled his tie to a printer—dead by hotdog.
He braced for the void. Or maybe pearly gates. Instead, light carved itself into the darkness.
|System: ACTIVE|
Neon-blue letters glowed against the void. Static hummed faintly, like an old monitor sparking to life.
"…uh."
No pain. No blockage. No city. He felt fine. Too fine.
Then the darkness peeled away.
A canopy of leaves stretched above him, green and endless. Sunlight stabbed through gaps, warm against his skin. The smell of moss and pine filled his lungs. Birds chirped overhead, far too cheerful for someone freshly dead by fast food.
He sat up. His hands pressed into damp grass instead of concrete. Soil stained his slacks. His cheap dress shoes were soaked.
"What the…"
The panel still hovered, glowing, impossible. He reached for it, but his fingers passed through like mist. Another message appeared:
|Quest Assigned: Don't Die (0/1)|
Ethan squinted. "That's it? That's the quest?"
The words pulsed once, like a condescending yes.
"Don't die. Right. Guess I already flunked that once." He barked a short laugh. "And no retry counter? No health bar? What kind of budget system is this?"
He staggered to his feet. The forest stretched endlessly, trees rising like silent guards. A breeze rustled the underbrush—something moving, too close.
"Well," Ethan muttered, "either I respawned in Skyrim… or God's got a really twisted sense of humor."
He jabbed a finger at the floating panel. "Alright, System, quick question. Don't die… what happens if I do? Game over? Another hotdog stand? Or just—"
The panel blinked.
|Quest Ongoing|
"Cool," Ethan muttered. "Cryptic. Love it."
The sound in the brush grew louder. Something was out there. Hunting.
And suddenly, he wasn't laughing anymore.
🔹🔹🔹
The rustling in the brush deepened into a low growl. Ethan froze, fingers curling instinctively as if he had claws of his own. He didn't, of course. All he had were filthy office clothes, bad shoes, and the world's dumbest quest objective: Don't Die.
Leaves parted.
A wolf padded into view, hackles raised, saliva dripping from bared fangs. Its eyes locked onto him with the certainty only predators possess. To the wolf, dinner was just standing there, gawking like an idiot.
Ethan lifted his hands. "Okay, boy. Sit. Stay. Fetch… literally anything else."
The wolf snarled.
"Of course," Ethan muttered. "Tutorial monster. Because why would I get dropped somewhere safe?"
That was when it happened. A sound—faint at first, then swelling. Brass, beat, and… Salt-N-Pepa?
|BGM Boost: "Shoop" Activated|
"…you've got to be kidding me."
The music wasn't in the forest. It wasn't in the air. It was inside his head, pounding like he had a personal DJ wired into his brain. The bass rattled his ribs. Every verse throbbed like some absurd battle anthem.
The wolf lunged.
Ethan yelped, diving sideways. His cheap shoes slipped in the wet grass, and he tumbled, rolling hard. The wolf's jaws snapped shut on the empty space where his arm had been.
He scrambled up, heart hammering, music blaring. "Nope nope nope nope nope!"
The wolf paced in a slow circle, growling. Ethan grabbed a branch off the ground—jagged, half-rotten, barely even a stick. Still, it was something.
"Alright," he muttered, "first rule of not dying: look cooler than you feel." He raised the branch like a sword, legs shaking.
The wolf pounced.
Instinct took over. He swung. The branch cracked across the wolf's muzzle with a wet thwack. The beast yelped but didn't stop. Its weight slammed into him, knocking him flat.
The stench of its breath smothered him—blood, rot, meat. Jaws snapped an inch from his face.
"Ahhh, personal space!" Ethan jammed the branch between its teeth. Wood splintered, shards slicing his hand.
Adrenaline surged. He kicked once. Twice. His heel smashed into the wolf's ribs. Something cracked.
Without thinking, he seized a jagged splinter of wood and drove it sideways into the wolf's throat.
The creature convulsed, choking, gurgling. Hot blood sprayed across his chest—hotter than any coffee spill he'd ever suffered. The wolf collapsed in a twitching heap.
Silence. Then the chorus of Shoop blared cheerfully, utterly oblivious.
Ethan lay there panting, drenched in sticky gore. He blinked at the sky, then laughed—a wild, breathless, unhinged laugh.
"Oh my God. I just killed a wolf to Salt-N-Pepa." He smeared blood down his already-ruined shirt. "This is my life now. Fantastic."
The music cut out as abruptly as it began.
|Battle Complete. EXP +10|
Ethan pushed himself upright, staring first at the wolf's corpse, then at the glowing text. "EXP. I actually get EXP. Yep. Isekai protagonist confirmed—minus the handsome face and cool catchphrases."
His hands shook—whether from adrenaline or horror, he couldn't tell.
Then the smell hit him: coppery, thick, revolting. His stomach lurched. He rolled onto his side and vomited into the grass.
"Great," he rasped between dry heaves. "Hero of another world. Wolf-slayer. Chosen one. And I'm puking my guts out."
The System chimed.
|Quest Progress: Don't Die (Still 0/1)|
Ethan glared at the message, blood and vomit streaking his chin. "Oh, screw you."
🔹🔹🔹
The wolf's corpse still twitched now and then, little aftershocks of death that made Ethan edge back. His shirt clung to him, stiff with blood and puke. "I am not cut out for wilderness survival," he muttered. "Bear Grylls would've turned this thing into a sleeping bag and a protein shake by now."
Blue text hovered insistently in his vision:
|EXP +10| |Quest Progress: Don't Die (0/1)|
He waved a hand in front of his face. The panel followed like an over-attached app notification. "Okay, fine. Let's see what you've got."
He squinted, thinking, Menu? Status? Inventory?—like an idiot testing voice commands on a TV remote.
A soft ding.
Panels unfolded before him, neatly stacked and glowing:
|[Status] [Inventory] [Skills] [Quests]|
Ethan grinned despite himself. "Oh hell yes. Just like a game. Thank you, mysterious cosmic coding team."
His gaze snagged on Inventory. It pulsed faintly, like an unread message.
|[Inventory (1 New Item!)]|
He jabbed a finger forward. "Open Sesame."
The panel expanded. Inside was a glowing icon: folded clothing, sleek black with electric-blue threading. Glitter sparkled faintly along the shoulders and seams, like someone had dusted stardust over it.
A description blinked beneath:
|Starter Gear: Adaptive Combat Suit. A one-of-a-kind outfit gifted by the System.
Self-repairing
Self-cleaning
Grows stronger as you do[Equip]|
Ethan blinked. "Wait. Glitter?" He tilted his head, watching the shimmer ripple across the icon. "Who designed this, Elton John?"
Still… self-repairing, self-cleaning. The chance to never again reek of wolf guts was too good to ignore.
He tapped [Equip].
Light rushed around his body, tingling against his skin. His ruined shirt and slacks disintegrated into glowing fragments, replaced piece by piece with sleek black fabric traced with sharp blue lines that pulsed faintly like neon veins. The glitter caught the light whenever he moved—subtle but undeniable. It was as if some designer had mashed up "deadly assassin" with "Vegas showman" and called it good.
Ethan looked down. "...I look like Batman's tacky cousin." He flexed. The suit moved with him, snug but comfortable, like a breathable second skin.
To test it, he tore up a strip of bloody grass and rubbed it hard across his chest. The smear vanished instantly, absorbed like it had never existed. The blue lines flared briefly, almost smug.
"Self-cleaning." Ethan grinned. "You beautiful, sparkly bastard."
A puddle nearby caught his reflection. He crouched, peering. Same face: average, unremarkable, a crooked nose, hair that never cooperated. But now wrapped in sleek combat gear, glitter faintly gleaming, he looked… confusing. Not intimidating. Not heroic. Just—
"Huh." Ethan tilted his head at himself. "Like an action figure that got rejected at the factory, but someone kept anyway."
The System chimed:
|Starter Gear Equipped| |Passive Bonus: Minor Defense +5, Minor Style +∞|
"…wait, Style is a stat?" Ethan squinted. The number under Style looped into infinity. "Oh, that's not gonna bite me in the ass at all."
A low howl echoed through the trees. Ethan froze, head snapping toward the dark trunks.
More wolves.
His grip tightened. Heart pounded. "Alright," he muttered, tugging at the glittering suit. "Round two. And this time I don't even have a stick."
🔹🔹🔹
The howling didn't fade. It multiplied. One, two… four distinct voices echoing through the trees, circling like cruel laughter in the dark.
Ethan turned slowly, flexing his hands. The blue glow of his suit pulsed faintly, like it shared his nerves. "Okay. One wolf nearly turned me into an all-you-can-eat buffet. Four wolves? That's—yeah. That's called a buffet."
Yellow eyes glimmered in the brush. Shadows flitted, circling, testing. His heart hammered so hard it felt synced to the faint neon veins across his chest.
"Okay, System," he whispered. "This would be a really good time to hand me a gun. Or hell, even a pointy stick upgrade pack."
A ding.
|Skill Available: Synthesis Lv.1Combine materials with mana to create simple tools and weapons.[Activate?]|
Ethan's eyes widened. "Oh, now you tell me! Yes, activate! Activate harder than a teenage boy with internet access!"
Another ding.
|Synthesis: ACTIVE|
Blue light flared in his palms. Air rippled. His muscles seized as if they remembered wielding a weapon before his brain did. The glow condensed in a blink—solidifying into a jagged knife, more prison shank than fantasy blade.
One of the wolves lunged.
Ethan screamed and stabbed wildly. The blade sank into fur and flesh. The wolf yelped, its weight carrying them both to the ground in a tangle of claws, fangs, and glittering combat suit.
He twisted the knife hard. The animal went limp. Blood smeared across the glowing visor lines of his suit, crimson streaks slashed with neon blue.
Panting, Ethan shoved the corpse aside. "Oh my God. It worked. I just… shanked a wolf. Like some glittery convict."
The others prowled closer, snarls rattling in their throats.
Another ding.
|Durability Warning: Knife – Fragile.|
Ethan groaned. "Seriously? Even my conjured murder sticks are trash-tier?" He lifted the knife anyway, hands trembling. "Alright. Let's dance, Lassie rejects."
They lunged as one. Ethan ducked, rolled, slashed—blue sparks trailing every swipe. The forest roared with noise, his ragged breathing the loudest sound in his skull.
"God, I miss the music." He swung again, nearly losing his grip. "Hey, System—can I, uh, pick the BGM?"
|Query: Music Selection?|
His knife rang off a wolf's teeth. Ethan blinked. "What? Uh—hell. Play Dolly Parton. 9 to 5."
|Request Approved.|
The forest burst into bright piano keys and Dolly's chipper voice.
"…No way," Ethan wheezed, laughing hysterically even as another wolf lunged. "You're serious? I'm about to die to country pop?"
The ridiculous cheer clashed against the gore. Ethan sidestepped on instinct, driving his knife deep into a wolf's flank. The upbeat rhythm pounded in time with his frantic breaths.
"Working 9 to 5!" he shouted, boot connecting with another wolf's ribs, sending it sprawling. "What a way to make a killing!"
His knife shattered on the next strike, shards of glowing mana scattering. The last wolf leapt, jaws wide. Ethan grabbed a splinter mid-air and rammed it straight into its eye.
The beast collapsed thrashing, the forest ringing with snarls, cracking bone—and Dolly Parton's voice echoing like some surreal battle hymn.
And then silence. Only the piano fading as the track ended.
Ethan stood among a ring of corpses, chest heaving, suit streaked with gore but still pristine.
The System chimed.
|Battle Complete.EXP +40.Quest Progress: Don't Die (0/1).|
Ethan staggered, half-laughing, half-sobbing. "I just massacred wolves to Dolly Parton. I'm officially insane."
🔹🔹🔹
Ethan stood amid the carnage, chest heaving, Dolly Parton's final piano notes still echoing faintly through the trees. The air stank of blood and fur, sharp and metallic, yet his suit gleamed spotless as if mocking reality.
A shaky laugh slipped out. "So… four wolves down. Zero showers available. Ten out of ten Yelp review for this world." His voice cracked halfway through, sounding more delirious than witty.
The shattered knife dissolved into blue motes, vanishing from his hands. For the first time since waking here, the weight of his body hit him full force. His legs wobbled like rubber. Every muscle screamed with strain.
Adrenaline crash, his brain whispered in the tone of a smug documentary narrator. This is where the dumb animal dies because it thinks it's safe.
"Shut up, brain," Ethan muttered, staggering forward a few steps.
The System didn't help. Notifications popped across his vision like congratulatory spam:
|Skill Proficiency Increased: Synthesis Lv.1 → Lv.2||Loot Acquired: Wolf Pelts x4, Wolf Fangs x8||Inventory Updated.||Congratulations! You survived.|
"Congratulations? That's your bar?" Ethan slurred, clutching his head. "What's next, achievement unlocked: Didn't Piss Yourself?"
The trees tilted sideways. His vision blurred, the neon lines of his suit streaking like fireworks across his eyes.
He dropped to his knees. "No, no, no. Stay awake. You're the guy with the infinite Style stat. Glitter doesn't die in the dirt."
The ground rose to meet him anyway. In a puddle he glimpsed his reflection—wide eyes, face pale and dripping sweat, framed by a ridiculous glowing suit that refused to get dirty.
A final laugh bubbled up. "God, I look like an off-brand superhero… Mediocre Man."
Then his body gave out.
The last thing he heard was the cheery chime of the System:
|Quest Progress: Don't Die (0/1)… ongoing.|
Darkness swallowed the forest.