Grayson Stratham leaned his back against the rough bark of a crooked tree, chest heaving. The taste of his own blood still clung to his tongue, and the stink of goblin carcass lingered in the air.
But He enjoyed the silence. No snarling, no scampering. Just the distant calls of birds and the soft rustle of leaves above.
Grayson let himself slump to the dirt. Fifty-three years of age wasn't kind to the lungs, especially after sprinting and fighting as if he were thirty years younger. His chest burned. His knees trembled. Sweat stung his eyes.
Then, as if waiting for this moment of reprieve, the voice returned.
DING!
[Would you like to open your full Hollywood Status Panel?]
Grayson barked out a dry laugh. "About damn time."
He gave a mental nod, and the translucent screen shimmered into view before his eyes.
[Hollywood System :Status Panel]
Name: Grayson Stratham
Class: SSS-Rank Actor
Age: 53
Fame Points(FP): 7
Talent Traits: None
Prop Arsenal: None
Character Inheritance: None
The Unusual categories stared back at him like empty roles on a casting list. Only the "Fame Points" glowed faintly, seven points pulsing in gold.
"Seven points," he muttered. His mind flashed back to the goblins. Their wide eyes, the shivers that ran down their twisted faces as he delivered his improvised death scene. He had left an impression on the last one that ran, enough to convey his fame to others.
A new line of text scrolled beneath the panel.
[ Fame Points are earned through performances that leave lasting impressions on living beings. Accumulate points to unlock Talent Traits, Props, and more.]
"easy enough to understand" Grayson remarked.
The panel flickered again, revealing a new tab:
[Talent Trait Shop Unlocked]
Curiosity pried his eyes wider. He tapped the glowing text. Another screen unfolded, showing rows of greyed-out icons.
Talent Traits (Cost in Fame Points):
• Improvisation Mastery – 5 FP
• Stage Presence – 5 FP
• Voice of Conviction – 10 FP
• Emotional Recall – 15 FP
• Suspension of Disbelief – 20 FP
Each trait bore a short description: bending reality slightly through performance, shaking an opponent's will, or even forcing enemies to see what he wanted them to see.
Grayson whistled low. "So this is how I will build my craft huh?, what a cheat."
His actor's instincts told him something vital: this was not just about strength. This world would judge him based on how deeply he could make them believe. The system didn't care about how he did it, cheating or not, Acting, The performance, was all that mattered.
Before he could linger too long on the possibilities, a glowing notification blinked insistently at the corner of the panel.
[Newbie Package Reward Available!]
Grayson narrowed his eyes. "Newbie package?"
The button pulsed brighter, practically begging to be opened. With a grunt, he tapped it.
The screen burst with golden light, momentarily blinding him.
[Congratulations! You have received: Revitalization]
[An Actor must start at his peak!]
[Effect: Restores your body to its peak physical condition.]
Grayson barely had time to curse. "What th...?"
The light swallowed him whole.
Heat coursed through his veins like molten gold. His chest tightened, then loosened. His aching back straightened as if pulled by invisible strings. He gasped, clutching at his arms, watching as the sagging skin smoothed, wrinkles dissolved, and wiry grey hair darkened into a deep brown sheen.
His lungs expanded with ease, drawing in air like a man who'd never smoked a day in his life. Strength surged into his legs, steady and powerful. Even his vision sharpened, colours bursting brighter than he remembered.
He stumbled toward a shallow pool nearby, his reflection rippling in the water. A stranger stared back at him, or rather, a blast from the past.
The man in the reflection was twenty-three-year-old Grayson Stratham.
Sharp jawline. Strong shoulders. Eyes bright with restless ambition. Fluffy Red FULL hair. It was him, but not him. A younger self preserved in amber, suddenly resurrected.
Grayson touched his face, then clenched his hands into fists. No arthritis pain. No stiffness. Just raw vitality. Even the pain on his sides from the goblin attack earlier had disappeared.
"This…" His voice cracked. He let out a broken laugh, then another, until he was laughing loud enough to scare birds from their branches. "This is insane!"
He had wasted thirty years waiting for Hollywood to notice him, but now those years were erased in an instant.
For several long minutes, he just stood there, staring at his reflection. The disbelief dissolved slowly, replaced by acceptance and awe..
If he could turn back thirty years in the blink of an eye, then this was a gift. This wasn't a hallucination brought on by old age or exhaustion right?
He wasn't in Hollywood anymore.
"This is my stage now," he whispered to himself. "And the curtain has gone up. CAMERAS, LIGHTS, ACTION!!!"
A new determination burned in his chest. For years, Hollywood had chewed him up and spat him out. Age had reduced him to cameo roles, pity stares, and fading relevance. But here? Here, acting wasn't just art. It was life. IT WAS POWER. And he had been given a Fresh new debut.
Grayson rose to his feet, brushing dirt from his shirt. His body moved with fluid ease, a dancer's grace restored.
If there were goblins, there had to be people. And if there were people, there would be crowds. And where there were crowds… there would be stages.
"Time to find my audience."
He started walking. At first cautiously, then with more confidence. The forest that had once loomed threateningly now seemed smaller.
Hours passed beneath the shifting canopy of trees, The sun dipped lower, slanting rays of gold through the trees. His rejuvenated body carried him without faltering, though hunger gnawed faintly at his stomach.
Eventually, the trees thinned, giving way to a dirt path that wound into the horizon. Grayson followed it, brushing sweat from his brow.
Then he heard it: the creak of wheels, the clop of hooves.
A caravan rolled into view, a sturdy wagon drawn by two horses, laden with barrels and cloth bundles. Atop the driver's bench sat a grizzled man in a patched vest, reins loose in one hand. His eyes narrowed when he spotted Grayson stepping out of the treeline.
The driver slowed, suspicion plain in his gaze. "You lost, boy?" His voice was rough, edged with caution.
Boy. The word startled Grayson for half a heartbeat. Then he remembered, he looked twenty-three again.
He forced a smile, his actor's instinct slipping seamlessly into play. "Something like that. First time in these parts. Mind if I catch a ride to the nearest city?"
The merchant squinted, measuring him with a practiced eye. At last, he gave a grunt and jerked his chin toward the wagon bed. "Don't cause trouble, and we'll see about getting you there."
Grayson nodded gratefully and climbed aboard, settling among sacks of grain and crates of fruit. The wooden wheels groaned as the caravan lurched forward again.
To his relief, the man didn't question where he'd come from or why he was alone on the road; instead, his gaze lingered on the costume armour that had once been nothing more than a prop from a low-budget film set. In this world, though, it seemed to blend seamlessly with the fashions of wandering adventurers and mercenaries.
The merchant chuckled, scratching at his beard. "That tin suit of yours looks the part, I'll give you that," he said with a smirk, "Still, looks flashy enough. Maybe you'll scare off bandits before they test it, hahaha."
Grayson forced a polite smile, masking his relief. At least he wouldn't stand out as some strange outsider, though the jab about his "fake armour" stung almost as much as the goblin club had earlier.
As the forest faded behind them, Grayson caught sight of a faint skyline etched against the setting sun. Towers, walls, and distant rooftops glimmered in the fading light.
His chest tightened with anticipation.
The curtain had risen on a new stage. This time, Grayson Stratham swore, the spotlight was his.