It started nearly fifteen years ago.
Strange rifts appeared in the sky and on the ground. People called them many things—portals, gates—but soon one word spread everywhere: dungeons.
And from these dungeons came monsters. Demons, beasts, creatures that looked like they were born to destroy. Humanity fought back with everything it had—guns, tanks, missiles—but nothing worked. Weapons that once ruled the world were useless against them.
In just a few years, humanity was brought to its knees. Chaos ruled every continent. Cities were wiped out overnight. Humanity was close to extinction.
But in the middle of that despair, something changed. A few people awakened.
No one knew the reason. Some awakened after nearly being killed by a monster, their will to live forcing out hidden power. Others awakened when they saw loved ones die, or when pushed to the very edge of fear. What mattered was this: those who awakened gained a system. A strange interface appeared before them, showing their skills, their stats, and their potential.
These people became known as Hunters. And with them began a new dawn—the Hunter's Era.
Hunters gained skills that were divided into ranks:
G
F
E
D
C
B
A
A+
S
SS
SSS
UX
Above them all was something even more mysterious. During the great war against the first wave of dungeons, a handful of heroes awakened skills no one had ever seen before. These were called UV-rank skills.
People whispered that those heroes only awakened such power at the dire ending moments of battle, when death was certain. Even then, only a few ever managed to touch UV.
That's why awakening was so rare. Awakening even a D-rank skill was considered harder than winning the lottery. And for most people, it was impossible.
So in this world, one truth was clear:If you awakened, you could rise to glory.If you didn't, you were nothing.
Parkan and His Past
Parkan adjusted his collar in the cracked mirror of his tiny apartment. The reflection staring back at him wasn't impressive—dark circles under his eyes, a body that looked neither strong nor weak, and an expression that carried more exhaustion than youth.
"Awakening day…" he whispered, almost mocking himself.
For others, this day was glorious. A once-in-a-lifetime chance to step into greatness, to stand in front of the Awakening Stone and gamble on destiny. But for Parkan, it was nothing but a debt-ridden nightmare wrapped in his parents' last wish.
His parents had passed away ten years ago. The memory was carved into him like a scar he could never heal. A dungeon break had erupted right in front of his house. He remembered the sound—the shriek of monsters tearing through stone, the earth trembling, his mother's hand shoving him behind her as shadows spilled out of the portal.
And then… blood.
Both his parents had been killed right before his eyes. They had spent years saving every possible coin, collecting and sacrificing just to give him a chance to awaken when he came of age. He thought they were saving for the future—for a better life. He never realized they were buying his chance to stand in front of the stone one day.
Insurance money came after their deaths, but what was money compared to the silence of an empty home? He used some of it to survive. The rest… was swallowed by the enormous fees required just to stand in the awakening line.
Ten years of waiting. Ten years of loneliness. Ten years of living under the shadow of parents who gave their lives so he might have a chance.
But even after all that time, Parkan wasn't special. He wasn't one of those rare individuals who awakened through sheer willpower. He wasn't the kind who fought monsters barehanded and discovered hidden strength. No—he was ordinary. Painfully ordinary.
He struggled to make friends. Conversations ended awkwardly, parties were something he avoided, and the world outside his small apartment felt more distant every day.
And yet… here he was, tightening his cheap tie, spraying on the last drops of perfume from a nearly empty bottle.
"Mom… Dad…" he muttered, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll do it. I'll face the world today. For you."
He picked up the folder containing his ID and formal documents. His hands trembled slightly—not with excitement, but with fear.
Stepping outside, he hailed a taxi. The city blurred past the window, neon signs glowing above crowds of people who looked so alive, so driven. Parkan rested his forehead against the cool glass, his mind wandering.
He wasn't doing this because he believed he could become a hunter. He wasn't doing this because he felt special.
He was doing this because it was the last wish of his parents. The people who died before his eyes. The people whose dream he now carried, even if he wasn't strong enough to fulfill it.
The taxi stopped in front of the grand Awakening Center, its white walls towering like a fortress. A place where destinies were decided, and lives changed forever.
And Parkan, carrying only loneliness, debt, and a fragile hope, stepped out.
The Awakening Center wasn't like any other building in the city. It stood tall, polished, almost sacred—marble floors that reflected the light, glass walls shining like they belonged to a different world. People whispered that it was the gateway to destiny, a place where the weak walked in and sometimes came out strong enough to change the world.
Parkan stared up at it, his heart pounding. This was where his parents' savings, their sacrifices, and his entire future had been poured into.
He paid the taxi driver with trembling hands, clutching the receipt as though it was proof of how much this moment cost him.
"ID, please."
A guard at the gate scanned his documents, nodded, and waved him inside. Parkan followed the line of young men and women—all dressed sharply, all with eyes filled with hope and ambition. They chatted with each other, laughed nervously, and dreamed aloud of the skills they might awaken.
Parkan walked alone. His hands remained buried in his pockets, and he kept his gaze down. He didn't want to meet anyone's eyes. He didn't want them to see how unprepared he felt.
Inside, the process was strict. Before touching the stone, every candidate had to go through three preliminary tests.
First: Physical test.
A broad hall filled with weights, tracks, and obstacle courses. Hunters needed at least the bare minimum of strength and stamina. Parkan was called forward, and he did his best.
But "best" was a weak word. He struggled to lift even the lowest standard weight. His run time was laughably slow. When he tried the pull-up bar, he barely managed two before collapsing. The examiner scribbled something on his clipboard without a word, his expression flat.
Second: Mental test.
A quiet room. A single examiner across the table. The test was simple: answer scenarios designed to measure courage, quick thinking, and emotional stability.
The questions came fast. What do you do if a monster appears in front of you? What if your team is injured and you're the last one standing?
Parkan's answers… weren't answers. He stammered. He hesitated. He imagined the blood, the screams, his parents' last moments—and his throat closed up. At one point, the examiner simply sighed, set down his pen, and walked out of the room without finishing the session.
Humiliation burned through him, but he pushed forward.
Third: Knowledge test.
A hall filled with desks and glowing tablets. Questions appeared about monsters, dungeon structures, mana flow, and hunting basics.
Parkan stared at the screen blankly. None of it made sense. He guessed blindly, his confidence dropping with every passing minute. By the end, he knew he had failed again.
Still, all of that was just procedure. The real moment was yet to come.
At last, he was guided into the central chamber—the Awakening Altar.
Parkan's name was finally called. He stepped forward, every eye in the room drilling into him. His palms were slick with sweat as he reached for the Awakening Stone, the very object that decided who would rise as a hunter and who would remain nothing.
The crystal pulsed faintly as he pressed both hands against it. A surge of cold mana invaded his body, burning through his veins like fire and ice together. His jaw clenched, his body shook, and his vision blurred. He held on as long as he could, hoping—praying—that the stone would recognize him.
But when the glow faded, the verdict was clear.
"Unranked." The mage at the side announced with a bored tone, already turning to the next candidate.
The word cut deeper than any blade. A murmur spread across the hall. Some candidates smirked, others outright laughed.
Still, Parkan didn't move. His hands were trembling against the stone, his chest heaving. No. This can't be it… this can't be everything my life amounts to.
"Please," he said hoarsely, his voice breaking. "Let me try again."
The mage frowned. "No, sir. The result is final."
Parkan dropped to his knees, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. His voice cracked as he begged, "I'll do anything! Just once more. Please, I know I have something inside me—I can feel it!"
But before the mage could answer, a harsh laugh cut through the chamber.
"Pathetic.""Give it up, trash.""You think crying will change your fate? Go back to your mud hole."
The words hit harder than the mana's backlash. Candidates his age—and younger—were mocking him, sneering at his desperation. Some even shoved him aside when he didn't move fast enough.
"Get out of here," one of them spat. "You don't belong among hunters."
The mage sighed and waved his hand. "Remove him."
Two assistants pulled him away from the stone. His knees scraped against the cold floor as he was dragged out, the laughter echoing in his ears long after the door slammed shut.
And just like that, Parkan's hope shattered.
The heavy doors of the Awakening Center slammed behind him, but the laughter still rang in his ears. The echoes of "trash," "pathetic," "you don't belong" clung to him like chains.
He walked home in a daze, every step heavier than the last. The streets of the city thrummed with life, but he felt invisible, erased. Hunters strutted by with pride, talking of skills, dungeons, and rewards. Merchants boasted of items and gear. And there he was—just a boy who couldn't even awaken, whose parents had sacrificed everything for a dream that now mocked him.
As he pushed open the door to his small apartment, the silence inside swallowed him whole. Only the faint ticking of the old clock measured time. He sank to the floor, trembling. His eyes landed on the mirror.
The same mirror he had once stood before as a child, puffing his chest out and imagining glory. Now, it reflected a broken man—eyes red and swollen, face pale, body trembling.
His mind drifted to the past.
Ten years ago…
He remembered the last days of his parents. They had worked endlessly, his father guarding the outer districts, taking dangerous jobs just to scrape together money. His mother carried baskets, delivered goods, worked nights, all so the smallest savings could go toward his awakening.
They whispered to him about the stone. "One day, Parkan, you will touch it. You will awaken," his father had said, voice firm but kind. His mother had smiled, though her eyes carried exhaustion. "We are counting on you, my son. You'll be strong… for us."
And he had believed them.
He remembered watching them hide the small stack of coins each night, counting and recounting, arguing softly over every last penny, every last cent, every bit of their lives that went into buying him a chance.
And then… the dungeon. The screaming. The fire. Their deaths. Ten years of his parents' sacrifices… all gone.
He pressed his fists against the mirror, shaking, crying so hard it hurt.
"I'm sorry… Dad… I'm sorry… Mom…" His voice broke with every word. "You gave your lives, your savings, everything… and all I could do… was fail. I am nothing. I'm just… a burden… bad luck… a scum. You didn't raise me to be a failure… but that's all I am!"
Memories of his father counting coins, his mother smiling through exhaustion, the dungeon, their deaths—all mixed with the mocking voices from the Awakening Center. The laughter of the candidates, the cold refusal of the mage, the feeling of being dragged away from the stone… it all pressed on him like a crushing weight.
His knees gave way. He fell completely, tears soaking the floor. The mirror reflected not a boy ready to face the world, but a shadow of despair. For the first time, Parkan truly wondered if the world would be better without him.
Maybe… maybe it would be easier if I wasn't here at all.
And yet, somewhere deep in the pit of his heart, a flicker of something stubborn remained. A whisper of his parents' faith. They had believed he could rise. They had worked, suffered, and died for him. Could he really let it end here?
But the thought of facing the Awakening Center again… the thought of confronting the stone, the failure, the ridicule… it was unbearable.
For now, all he could do was sit before the mirror, his body shaking, his soul screaming, and his tears falling, as he whispered into the silence:
"I'm sorry… I'm sorry… I'm nothing… nothing at all."
The night was quiet, but inside Parkan's room, silence felt like a cage. He sat slumped against the wall, his back pressed to the cold plaster, his eyes locked on the broken reflection in the cracked mirror across the room.
His tears had dried, leaving red streaks across his cheeks, but his chest still ached as if invisible hands were crushing his heart.
Every word from the Awakening echoed mercilessly in his head.
"Unranked.""Pathetic.""Trash."
He clawed at his scalp, digging his nails into his skin as if he could scrape those voices out of his skull. But they clung tighter, louder, sharper—like knives carving into him.
"Why am I even alive?" he whispered, voice hoarse.
His gaze drifted across the room, searching desperately for something—anything—that proved his existence meant more than failure. But all he saw were memories turned to ghosts. His father's old jacket still hung in the corner, worn and patched, smelling faintly of smoke and leather. His mother's scarf rested neatly on the shelf, untouched for years.
They weren't comforts anymore. They were silent accusations.
A hollow laugh escaped his lips. It sounded more like a sob. "You gave me everything… and this is what I became. A burden. A curse."
His legs moved on their own, dragging him to the small drawer by his bedside. His fingers trembled as he slid it open. Inside, beneath a stack of old notebooks, lay a rusted dagger—his father's, once kept for emergencies.
He lifted it slowly. The blade was dull, but under the pale moonlight sneaking through his window, it gleamed with a cruel promise.
For a long moment, he just stared at it, the silence in the room stretching thin. The poisonous thought whispered again, louder this time:
If I end it here… no more pain. No more failure. No more shame.
His grip tightened. The steel bit into his palm. Sweat rolled down his temple as he raised the dagger. His whole body shook, his breath shallow and ragged.
And then—
A memory broke through the haze. His father's voice. Clear. Firm. Filled with pride.
"Parkan, no matter what happens, stand tall. Even if the world calls you worthless—never believe it. You are my son."
The dagger slipped from his hand, clattering to the wooden floor. Parkan collapsed with it, knees hitting the ground as he clutched his chest, sobs tearing out of him uncontrollably.
"I can't… I can't…" He pressed his forehead to the cold floorboards, whispering through clenched teeth. "Please… someone… anyone… save me…"
The room remained still. Silent. Empty.
The night was heavy, the kind of silence that pressed down like a weight. Parkan sat slumped against the wall, his chest burning from all the crying. His phone lay on the desk beside him, screen dark, just another reminder of the world he wished he could escape.
And then—it lit up.
A soft chime rang out, the notification tone he had heard a thousand times before. But this time, the message froze him cold.
Downloading: ⟟⏃⎅⋏⟒⍙⟒⍀⟟⏃⎅
His eyebrows furrowed. He hadn't tapped anything. No browser open, no app store, nothing. Yet the download bar sprinted across the screen—complete in less than 0.1 seconds.
Installation Successful.
His throat went dry. "What…? I didn't even press anything."
A new icon appeared on the home screen, black and pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat. At its center was a twisting red mark—an alien sigil that seemed to shift shapes each time he blinked.
Parkan's hand shook as he picked up the phone. He didn't remember opening anything, but his thumb hovered close to the strange symbol.
And then—before he could even touch it—the icon rippled and opened on its own.
The screen flared, words etching themselves across the glass in jagged lines, rearranging until they finally made sense.
[ Welcome, Player. ]
[ Scanning User Data… ]Name: Parkan Verus.Age: 25.Height: 175 cm.Current Heart Rate: 116 bpm.
He nearly dropped the phone. His chest tightened. How does it know this? His phone was an old model, good for messages and music—nothing more. No sensors, no smart-watch connection, no health tracker.
The screen pulsed again.
[ Status: Unranked. Potential: Dormant. ][ Permission Granted: Access to Marketplace. ]
The interface unfolded like a labyrinth. Item after item scrolled down:
Human Neurons – $0.0025 per cell
Kidney (Grade D) – $3,800
Liver (Grade C) – $15,000
Potion: Cellular Recovery – Locked
Mana Circulation Technique – $100,000
Parkan's eyes narrowed. "Neurons? Organs? What kind of… joke is this?"
The glow of the phone lingered long after the room had gone dark. Parkan sat hunched at his desk, staring at the strange icon pulsing faintly on the c screen. His fingers hovered over it again and again, but each time he pulled back, heart hammering.
This can't be real it must be some strange new tech whatever it cannot be real .
He dragged his chair closer, opened his old laptop, and began digging.
The first stop was obvious—the official app store. He typed the name exactly as it appeared, even copied the alien-looking string beneath it. The search bar spun… and returned nothing. Not an app. Not a trace.
Parkan frowned, refreshing again. Still blank."Okay… maybe it's one of those shady third-party things," he muttered.
He opened mirror sites, APK archives, even obscure developer forums. Still nothing. His screen stared back like a void.
A flicker of unease crawled up his neck. Every app leaves something behind. A version number. A certificate. A developer tag. This one left none.
He pulled up his phone's internal settings. Normally, there would be a trail—install date, source, update log. Instead, there was only… static. A blank space where information should have been. Even the developer field wasn't in letters, but a string of shifting, jagged symbols, like they were alive.
His hands trembled. "No… this doesn't make sense. How can you exist?"
He pushed further—tech databases, digital archives, security forums that specialized in hunting rogue software. He even dared peek into chatter spaces that always knew about weird leaks, shady hacks, hidden prototypes.
The result was the same everywhere. Blank. Nothing. It was as if the app didn't exist—not on the store, not in tech records, not even whispered about in deep-web chatter.
His gut twisted. A terrifying realization clawed at him. This app only exists on my phone.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the faint glow of the icon. The silence in his room felt heavier than ever. He thought of his parents again—of how he had begged forgiveness to their empty ghosts. Why me? Why now?
The phone buzzed suddenly. Parkan flinched so hard the chair almost toppled.
Words scrolled across the cracked screen:
[ Price Adjustment: Neurons – $1 per cell. ]
The letters pulsed slowly, tauntingly, like a heartbeat. Parkan's stomach lurched. He wanted to throw the phone against the wall, smash it, but his fingers refused to let go.
He whispered into the suffocating dark, "What do you want from me?"
The phone answered.
[ First Quest Generated. ]Objective: Survive Falling Stones.Time Limit: 3 Days.Penalty for Failure: Death.Reward: 1,000,000,000 Neurons + Potion of Neuroelasticity.
Parkan's breath caught. His pulse thundered in his ears.Death? It's a joke. A sick prank. It has to be.
His hand shook violently as he gripped the phone. Sweat smeared across the glass. He tried to back out, tried to swipe away the screen—but his thumb slipped.
Click.
A bright sigil flared where his finger landed.
[ Quest Accepted. ]
His eyes widened. "No—I didn't mean—!"
But it was too late.
The air in the room shifted, vibrating with a low hum that spread through the walls, the floor, his very bones. His vision warped, the desk and chair around him splintering into shards of light and shadow.
"No—wait! What's happening?!"
The world fractured like broken glass and collapsed into darkness.
-New World Loaded -Endless desert-
The screen flashed to parken's face
Quest: Survive Falling Stones
Objective: Survive Falling StonesDuration: 3 Days (72 Hours)Penalty per Hit: –250,000,000 NeuronsPenalty per Death: –25,000,000,000 NeuronsFailure Condition: Neurons reach 0 → DeathReward: Remaining neurons at the end of quest
Day 1 – Baptism by Stone
The countdown hammered in Parkan's chest.
10… 9… 8…
He clutched his knees, teeth chattering. Hunger gnawed at his stomach; thirst pressed against his throat. He had no food, no water. Only the knowledge that survival was mandatory.
1… 0.
DOOM!
The first stone slammed near him. He rolled instinctively, scraping against the floor. Pain seared his shoulder, a neuron burn warning flashing across his mind.
[ Hit Detected: –250,000,000 Neurons ]Neuron Balance: 999,750,000,000
His breaths came in short, sharp bursts. Breathe… just breathe… survive…
The next few stones came slower, giving him a brief window to catch his breath, sweat dripping from his brow, tongue dry. His stomach ached with hunger. Each heartbeat was a drum of fear.
DOOM! CHIK! CRASH!
He barely dodged. Another hit. Pain radiated through his ribs.
[ Hit Detected: –250,000,000 Neurons ]Neuron Balance: 999,500,000,000
Hour 6. He stumbled, knees bruised, palms raw. Stones fell at random intervals, some far, some near. He fell to the ground once, gasping for air, hyperventilating. Hunger clawed at him; thirst burned his throat. His body screamed, neurons dwindling, but he forced himself up.
Hour 12. Stones came heavier. His vision blurred from exhaustion, sweat stinging his eyes. He rolled, flipped, barely dodging a massive stone. One hit grazed his arm, burning through neurons like fire.
[ Death Detected: –25,000,000,000 Neurons ]Neuron Balance: 974,750,000,000
By the end of Day 1, Parkan's body was battered, but his mind clung to the smallest thread of hope.
Deaths: 9Neuron Balance: 927,500,000,000
"Tomorrow… I'll last longer… I have to survive…" he whispered, stomach hollow, throat raw, muscles trembling.
Day 2 – The Broken Dance
Hour 18. Hunger gnawed at him, thirst pressed, every breath a labor. Stones fell faster, irregularly.
DOOM-BOOM… doom-boom… CHIK-CRACK!
Parkan rolled, flipped, and dived, bruised elbows scraping, knees bleeding. His muscles screamed, but he began noticing subtle patterns in the chaos. A rhythm emerged. Light-heavy-light-heavy…
"Focus… anticipate… survive…" he muttered, gasping, sweat and blood mixing on his skin. His throat cracked as he swallowed air dry as sand.
He dodged one stone, then another, then a cluster. Each near-death burned neurons but taught him the storm's language. His breaths came in short, controlled bursts.
Hour 36. Stones came in rapid, unpredictable bursts. Hunger gnawed relentlessly. He sank to the ground for a moment, gasping, almost letting despair take him—but then a heavy stone crashed nearby. Instinct kicked in, and he rolled, barely grazing it.
By the end of Day 2:
Deaths: 23Neuron Balance: 158,000,000,000
"Tomorrow… the final storm… I must survive… I must feel it, become it…"
Day 3 – Symphony of Stone
Hour 49. The storm reached insanity. Stones of all sizes fell from every direction.
DOOM! Boom-boom! Chik! Crack-doom!
Parkan's body screamed in agony. Bruises, cuts, blood, sweat. Muscles burned, joints ached, lungs gasped for air. Hunger and thirst clawed at him. He dropped to one knee, chest heaving.
"I… I can't… I can't…"
And yet, something inside shifted. The chaos became rhythm. Every stone's DOOM… BOOM… CHIK… hit his senses. He rolled, flipped, and leapt with instinctive precision. Pain was now a guide—a signal to move better.
He dodged, barely grazing stones. His movements flowed, almost unnatural, yet natural.
Hour 60. Random bursts. He was exhausted beyond words, trembling, but still dancing between strikes. Breath ragged. Muscles screaming. Blood dripping. Hunger and thirst a constant torment.
"I… I'm not feeling the stones anymore… it's… excitement… a thrill…"
Every death now became a lesson. Each impact a cue. He adapted faster, predicting the rhythm. By now, his dodging was so precise that even multiple hits felt survivable.
Hour 72. The storm finally subsided. Parkan collapsed, every muscle screaming, lungs burning, dehydrated and starving—but alive. His body shook, blood dripping from cuts, bruises swelling with pain.
A notification flashed on the app screen:
Final Deaths on Day 3: 14Neuron Balance Remaining: 127,000,000,000
Quest CompleteDynamic Reward: 127,000,000,000 NeuronsSkill Acquired:High-Level Sense – E Rank(Can do better)
Parkan froze, staring at the glowing words. His chest heaved. He swallowed back a scream, but it erupted anyway:
"What do you mean, 'Can do better'?! You stupid thing! You watched me survive death after death for three days straight… and this is what you say?!"
He slammed his fists on the floor, teeth gritted, voice raw with anger and disbelief.
"I… I danced with death! I killed the pain! I survived the impossible! And you have the audacity to tell me I can do better?!"
His chest rose and fell violently, each breath ragged. Rage, pride, exhaustion, and pain collided in a storm as fierce as the one he had just endured.
The hunger, thirst, and relentless barrage of stones faded in comparison to the fire now blazing in him. He wasn't broken. He was alive. And he would prove that E rank wasn't the limit—it was just the beginning.
Neuron Balance Remaining: 127,000,000,000
The glowing text on the phone screen pulsed like a living heart.
[ Quest Complete. Dynamic Rewards Allocated. ][ Returning Player to Origin Point… ]
Before Parkan could process the words, the desert around him fractured—like glass shattering under invisible hands. The endless horizon split into countless shards of light, each piece collapsing inward. His battered body lifted off the sand, weightless, spinning in a storm of dissolving reality.
A deafening hum filled his ears. His ribs screamed in agony, every bruise flaring with pain as if the teleportation itself was ripping him apart.
"No… wait—!" he croaked, but his words were swallowed by the void.
The world inverted.
Light collapsed. Darkness surged. Then—
WHAM!
Parkan's body slammed against the wooden floor of his apartment. Dust rattled from the ceiling, his chair toppled, and the cracked mirror wobbled dangerously on its stand. His lungs seized—breathing felt like dragging glass down his throat.
He was home. The suffocating silence, the faint ticking clock, the stale air of a forgotten room.
And yet… he wasn't the same man who had left.
He pushed himself up on trembling arms, coughing violently, blood dribbling down his lips. His phone still glowed faintly, resting on the desk.
[ Reward Delivered: Potion of Neuroelasticity ×1 ][ Reward Delivered: 127,000,000,000 Neurons ]
Beside the phone, a small vial appeared with a quiet shimmer. Its glass was flawless, filled with a liquid that pulsed faintly like liquid silver and crimson veins intertwining within it. It radiated a warmth that called to his broken body.
Parkan stared at it, chest rising and falling violently. His lips were cracked, his throat desert-dry. For a moment, fear gripped him. Was it poison? Another trick?
But his body… his body knew the truth. Every nerve screamed for it. Every fiber of his being pulled toward the vial as if it contained life itself.
He staggered forward, knees buckling, and grabbed it with shaking hands. The glass was cool against his skin, but the liquid inside pulsed warmly, almost alive.
He uncorked it with his teeth and, without hesitation, poured it down his throat.
The effect was instant.
FWOOM!
A surge of heat erupted inside his skull, rushing down his spine and out into every limb. His vision exploded with colors he didn't have names for. His chest convulsed, and he collapsed back against the wall, eyes rolling as the potion invaded every neuron.
It was agony—and bliss.
His brain felt as though it were burning and freezing at the same time. Sparks shot across his mind, images flashing—his parents' faces, the desert storm, the stones, the laughter of the candidates. Every memory sharpened, etched deeper than ever before.
He clawed at the floor, screaming through gritted teeth, veins bulging at his temples. Yet even as pain consumed him, he felt… more. Faster. Sharper. A second heartbeat inside his mind.
Notifications flickered across his vision:
[ Neuronal Elasticity Enhanced ][ Synapse Efficiency +400% ][ Cognitive Reflex Speed Increased ][ Potential Awakening Threshold Reduced ]
The burning began to settle. His body sagged against the wall, sweat pouring down his face, but his mind… his mind was alive in ways it had never been.
Thoughts flowed faster. His senses stretched outward. He could hear the faint hum of the electric bulb above, feel the dust motes floating in the air, sense the tiny cracks in the floorboards pressing against his bare feet.
Parkan gasped, his chest heaving. His hands trembled, not from weakness, but from energy overflowing. He clenched his fist. It felt… real. Alive. Powerful.
He whispered hoarsely:"This… this is what it means to survive."
The phone pulsed again, as if mocking or congratulating him.
[ Player has consumed Potion of Neuroelasticity. ]
[ Neural Network now compatible with advanced skill integration. ]
[ New Marketplace Tab Unlocked. ]
The screen unfolded again, but this time it was different. The items weren't just organs and raw neurons anymore. New categories appeared—Techniques, Enhancements, Utilities.