After the mind-blowing, slightly terrifying revelation that I could turn my apartment into a one-man puppet show for inanimate objects, I knew I had to get serious. If I was going to be the next great String Theorist (not the physics kind, the "make-your-opponent's-pants-fall-down-in-combat" kind), I needed gear. And by gear, I meant the bare minimum required to not smell bad.
A quick trip to a discount store netted me a week's supply of cheap t-shirts, shorts, and socks. The fashion sense of "Parallel World Ron" was officially dead; long live comfort and frugality. I also grabbed a toothbrush that promised "Minty Freshness That Can Stun a Lesser Goblin!" This world's marketing was something else.
With my life's possessions in a single duffel bag, I headed back to the academy. My holophone map led me to the dormitory building, and a quick scan of my new student ID granted me access to… wow.
The hallway for B-Rank and Special Admissions students was noticeably nicer than the standard ones I'd passed. Less industrial linoleum, more plush carpet. I found my room, Dorm 7B, and swiped my card.
The door hissed open.
"You have got to be kidding me," I whispered.
This wasn't a dorm. This was a studio apartment a billionaire would use for his least favorite child. It was huge. A plush, large bed sat in one corner, not a rickety bunk. A full-sized desk with a built-in holographic terminal. A private bathroom. A small kitchenette with an actual fridge. The walls weren't beige; they were a soothing slate grey.
"A private room… they said private room. They didn't say 'executive suite'!" I did a little spin in the middle of the room, my duffel bag swinging. "I could fit my entire old apartment in here! Twice! And still have room for a puppet show!"
This was all because of two words: **Unique Profession**. The sheer preferential treatment was absurd. I felt a twinge of guilt for all the other C-Rank students crammed into shared rooms down the hall. Then I jumped onto the bed. The guilt vanished. It was like lying on a cloud.
"Sorry, normies! The string life chooses you!" I said to the ceiling, before immediately feeling like a jerk.
After stowing my meager belongings—which took all of thirty seconds—I changed into gym clothes. The euphoria of the fancy dorm was replaced by a driving need. I had to train. I had to understand my limits.
The gym in the Practical Combat Pavilion was still mostly empty, just a few dedicated students and early-bird faculty. I found a quiet corner, away from the rock-skinned guy who was now doing squats with a motorcycle.
"Okay, Ron," I muttered to myself. "Time to get swole. String-swole."
I started simple. I focused and produced a single, glowing string from each finger, ten in total. I made them dance, weave intricate patterns, and practice tying knots at high speed. It was fun, like being a Spider-Man with severe crafting ADD.
Then I tried the sharp, invisible wires. I focused on creating five of them, thinner than a human hair, and had them slice precise patterns into a designated practice dummy made of dense foam. *Schink. Schink. Schink.* Tiny slits appeared across its torso. The control was intoxicating.
"This is amazing!" I grinned. "I'm a natural! Maybe I am a prodigy!"
I decided to go bigger. I turned to a stack of practice weights—a column of heavy, metal plates. I wanted to lift them using a net of strings. I imagined dozens of strong, cable-like strings erupting from my hands, wrapping around the weights, and hoisting them into the air.
I poured my will into it. The strings formed, thick and strong. They wrapped around the metal plates. I gritted my teeth and pulled.
The stack shuddered and rose a foot off the ground.
"Yes!" I hissed in triumph.
And that's when it hit me.
It was like someone pulled the plug on my soul. A wave of dizziness so intense I almost face-planted into the weight stack. My vision swam. My knees buckled. A cold, clammy sweat broke out all over my body. It wasn't just tiredness; it was a deep, fundamental emptiness. It felt like I'd just run a marathon after donating all my blood while taking a final exam.
The strings vanished instantly. The weights crashed down with an earth-shaking **BOOM** that echoed through the entire gym. Everyone stopped and stared. The rock-skinned guy dropped his motorcycle with a crash.
I was on my hands and knees, gasping for air like a fish out of water. My heart was hammering, but it felt weak and thready.
"You alright, kid?" a deep voice boomed. A massive man with a trainer's badge was looming over me, looking concerned.
"I'm… fine…" I wheezed, my voice a pathetic squeak. "Just… pushed… too hard."
"Looks like a major stamina drain," the trainer said, nodding knowingly. "Happens to the best of us. Especially with high-output powers. What's your profession, son? Telekinesis? Force Manifestation?"
I didn't have the breath to explain [String Theorist]. I just shook my head, still trying to remember how to breathe.
Stamina. Of course. It made perfect, horrible sense. In the games I used to play, powerful skills always had a high MP or Stamina cost. I'd just tried to cast an end-game spell at level one. My body's "mana bar" was a tiny, pathetic puddle, and I'd just splashed it all out at once.
The trainer helped me to a bench and handed me a bottle of water and a weird, gel-like energy pack. "Eat this. It's packed with fast-acting carbs and synthetic mana precursors. Tastes like chalk, but it'll help."
I slurped it down. It did taste like chalk. But within minutes, the world stopped spinning, and the crushing fatigue receded to a manageable level of utter exhaustion.
So that was my limit. My power was incredibly versatile, maybe even powerful… but it ran on a battery that died after five minutes of serious use.
I looked at my trembling hands. This changed everything. I couldn't just spam my abilities. I needed efficiency. Strategy. I needed to make every single string count.
I wasn't just training to be strong. I was training to be efficient. The path to becoming a great hunter wasn't about having the biggest power; it was about managing the tiniest, most crucial resource: my own energy. And right now, mine was running on empty.
"Well," I mumbled to myself, staggering toward my luxurious dorm to pass out for twelve hours. "At least I have a really nice bed to be exhausted in."